The Core

by Jack Robuck

  The scorpion panicked, and began striking at everyone around it. It spun, striking a scarab mech repeatedly, to no effect. As the flaming liquid dripped down its shell and spread over its body, it began spinning madly and it raced over to a company of Troopers. It struck one, then another, and reached out its mouth, grabbing another in its jaws. It tossed him into the air and crushed him, armor and all, throwing his body into the kill zone wall nearby.

  From the top of the nearest scarab mech, long narrow doors popped up like auxiliary wings. A large artillery barrel rose from the opening on a thick hydraulic arm. The lift whined and clicked into position. The barrel swiveled and the scorpion exploded. Wet, charred shell hit the ground near Matthew.

  The Troopers panicked and ran for it. The Sunjumper soldiers and flamethrowers made chase. Matthew grabbed his rifle and sprinted for the other side of the street. He could see Glazier, Hollard and the soldiers firing around the distant corner. Fleet Regulars from the tower streamed past him, uninterested.

  He looked to his left as he neared the shattered building where the rebels waited. An armored flamethrower stopped and turned the dark bulbous eyes of his mask toward Matthew. Matthew froze. The flamethrower looked past him at the other rebels. Matthew could see his jaw moving. He was speaking into his COM system. Behind him in the fire and the black acrid smoke, Matthew saw other helmets turning in his direction. The Sunjumpers knew who they were. Who he was.

  He raised his rifle and fired. The round pinged off the flamethrower's conical chest plate. The man raised the tip of his weapon. Matthew felt heat through his sneakers as he pushed off the asphalt and sprinted for the rubble. The sweeping blast singed his clothing. He screamed, “Run!” to the others.

  They all looked back, and began to run, except Glazier, who stood beckoning for him. He nearly fell on the doctor with his full weight and Glazier grabbed him, raised his open palm, and slapped him.

  Matthew cowered, and stared up at the man, confused, and Glazier jumped on top of him, and began to beat him relentlessly.

  Matthew screamed, “Stop, stop!”

  The doctor yelled, “Put your arms down, you're on fire!”

  Matthew rolled over. The flamethrower was coming. Behind him were Sunjumpers with assault rifles, sprinting in their direction. Glazier pulled him up, pushed him in the right direction, and they ran.

  The flamethrower was heavier on his feet than they were, and he slowed the Sunjumpers down in the narrow gaps. They could feel the heat of flame jets hitting the walls and ground around them as they ran. The black smoke overhead darkened the sky. They ran, and ran, and ran.

  The alley opened onto a small, sheltered intersection. Hollard stopped and grabbed the wall, gasping for breath. The soldiers and the rebels all shuffled to a halt, leaning on the walls or kneeling. They tried to steady their weapons in the direction of their pursuers. None came. The rattle of gunfire and the screams of wounded men were soft in the distance.

  Matthew panted. He craned his chin up, and put his hands on his head, raising his elbows to open his lungs and let the air pour into them. Looking up, the blue sky stretched away in either direction, a stripe between the buildings. The black smoke was catching the wind, trailing off to the east away from the puffy white clouds. One of the corner buildings reached high into the sky, and ended in an octagonal belfry with high arched windows.

  Matthew heard the whine of old hinges, and he and the rebels jumped to raise their weapons. At the base of the towered building, a wide door was opening. From out of the darkness stepped a dark-skinned man in grey robes. He wore a long white scarf with both ends dangling in front of him, and he bore the white forehead blaze of the Salt People. He held an assault rifle, pointed down at the ground. He ducked his head at them calmly. After a silent moment, he beckoned them inside.

  The smell of old wood in the shadowed hallway calmed Matthew. It reminded him of the library aboard The Waverly; the long stacks of books and the shelves of artifacts, older than any other thing on board. The man led them through another door into a large central room with an arched ceiling.

  Along both long walls were tiered risers, elaborately carved with figures frozen in motion. Matthew saw men fighting animals, carving homes in the roots of impossibly large trees, trading, fighting wars and sailing, and all of them with a single white dot painted on their dark wooden foreheads.

  On the benches sat dozens of Salt People, all men. The man with the white scarf led them to the center of the room. The narrow alley between the stadium risers felt confining. The carved walls came up to chin level, and the thousands of single white dots looked like constellations in the dusky light filtering down from high octagonal grates. Hollard's men gathered close together away from the walls, and Matthew and his friends fought the urge to join them.

  All of the dark faces in the rows watched them without speaking. Some were young, some old with beards shot through with white hairs like lightning. Nearly all were armed. Matthew's eyes settled on one face with a long vertical scar. The man turned to meet his gaze. He looked through Matthew with a startling calm. Matthew felt an untouchable grace in the man's gaze, like the cool innocence of an infant, or the moral confidence of some wise animal, and he was forced to look away.

  The man in the white scarf drew his attention back to the front of the room. “My name is Talud. Our people heard you in the alley. Some of you wear the uniform of the rebellion against the Fleet.”

  Hollard stepped forward. “I'm Sergeant Hollard. My men and I are soldiers, yes. We are but a strike force; part of a larger group representing Rebel Command on this side of the ring.”

  Talud held up a hand. “We are aware of your base in the hospital, Sergeant. There's no need to obfuscate and embellish.” A distant explosion shook the building, bringing a haze of dust from the arched rafters. “Normally, we would never allow outsiders into one of our temples. As you know, we maintain strict neutrality between the political forces across the planet, and on the moons. We are businessmen, and we are the elect chosen of the Gods, and that is all we wish to be.”

  Hollard said, “Then what do you want?”

  A murmur rose among the seated observers. Talud said, “What we want, Sergeant, is peace. And that peace has been violated. Our neutrality has been violated. The Gods are showing us their displeasure, with these burning, long, hot days, with these interminable black nights, and with the recent crushing force of His wrath that cast all of us down, and toppled parts of the city, and caused the ocean itself to flood far up into the streets along the coastal district.

  “We have gathered here in this congress to discuss what must be done, and at this hour, at the moment of our gathering, you have appeared. What must we think of that?”

  The rebels looked at each other. Matthew's eyes were wide; he looked down at the dark tiled floor.

  Hollard spoke quietly, looking around the room at the seated men. “The rebellion has always respected your people. It continues to do so.”

  Talud clapped his hands. “That is not enough, Sergeant!”

  Hollard went on. “We believe the changes that you speak of are the fault of the Fleet. There are changes happening there, too. The Admiral is dead, and the Fleet ships have all crashed onto the planet's surface.”

  Whispering began. It rose to a loud chatter that echoed off the tile and wood paneling.

  Talud clapped again, and there was silence. “The world must return to peace.”

  Hollard said, “There can be no peace while the Fleet rules. You know what they've done to us. Do you think with the Admiral gone, they'll respect your neutrality?”

  The scarred man who Matthew noticed before stood up suddenly. All of the eyes in the room turned to him. “This man is right. The battle at the gates of the tower is only the beginning. If the Admiral is dead, and the Fleet is broken, they'll turn on each other for power, for control. The Admiral wanted to rule an empire. He needed us. But we've watched his dogs strangle the world from the reach of their chains. N
ow the chains are broken.”

  Hollard nodded. “The only way forward is to join with us.”

  Across the aisle, another of the Salt People rose to his feet. His face was wide, and a thick beard jutted out from his meaty jowls in a broad arc. He leaned heavily on his staff. “That's not the only way.” He pointed a ringed finger at Talud. “Your scout reported these men were being chased by the Sunjumpers. The same faction that won the battle. If these men are important enough to the Sunjumpers that they gave off fighting to chase them, they could be an important bargaining chip.”

  Matthew watched Hollard take a step back toward the side of the aisle where the man who supported the rebels stood. The wise old man said, “Are you suggesting we turn these men over in exchange?”

  The wide-faced man stuck his face out over the edge of the railing where he leaned with his cane. “Do you have a good reason not to?”

  “Only one. The Sunjumpers are the most brutal and violent menace on this planet. Their victory over the entire Fleet would mean all of the horrors we've witnessed visited on others would come crushing down on us. They won't respect our neutrality.

  “They'll take what we offer, and turn right around and destroy us. And they'll do the same to the entire planet; the farmers and herders of the plains, and the fishermen. They'll cut our sacred forests, and they'll turn the surface of the world into a single, unending work camp. And only then will we have peace. In slavery.”

  The gathered men nodded, chattering their agreement. Talud raised his hand to speak. “Sergeant Hollard. Your forces in this city have helped the people here in the past. Not just our people, but time and again, the whole civilian population. As you know, our facility on the ocean shore does not produce salt alone. It is also the only source of water to this city. Without it, this place will crisp to dust.”

  One of the rebel soldiers stepped forward and yelled, “Don't act like you care about the people here. Clean water is a byproduct of your corporation and the deals you've cut with the Admiral for years.”

  Hollard grabbed the man and threw him to the floor. Two other soldiers grabbed him by the shoulders. Hollard put his face inches from his subordinate's. “This isn't the time or the place, you damned idiot.”

  Talud began speaking before Hollard turned away. “That may be true. The path of the righteous is not always as clear, or as easy as we might pray.” Hollard turned around, and Talud focused his attention on the Sergeant. “But the fact remains. If we lose our...corporate facility...Gate City thirsts to death.”

  Hollard crossed his arms. “What are you proposing?”

  Talud looked to the seated men. His eyes glanced among the faces all along the tiered rows, and to the big-jowled man, finally settling on the man with the scar. Then he turned back to Hollard, and said, “Leave the hospital behind. Join us at the shore. Help us fortify it from attack and defend it. From there, we will assist you in all your efforts to destroy the Sunjumpers, and to neutralize the Fleet. But only after the facility is secure.”

  Hollard glanced at his men and his eyes passed over Matthew before he answered. “It's not my call.” He looked around the sanctuary, and held up his hands. “I will take this offer to my commander, Colonel Anderson. Only by his order can this arrangement go forward. But let me say this. I honestly believe that only through cooperation can any of us hope to remain free men in this city, or anywhere else, for much longer.”

  Talud put his hands together in front of his chest. He nodded acceptance of Hollard's words. “Very well.”

  Chapter 19

  In the evening fade, the window holes in the broken walls made Ella think of a hand, frozen in concrete, fingers reaching for the sky. She knelt at a window, her chin in her palm. She had been there for hours. The sun setting against the horizon looked like a long crooked filament in an old incandescent bulb warming the charcoal clouds.

  Out far, far in the distance, the stripe of the ocean was growing amber from aubergine. Every day she sat and watched its colors, its moods, changing like some of the lizards. She liked evenings when it rippled cobalt with twinkles of white foam the best.

  Why was she here? She had taken her great leap of faith. Faith in herself, nothing more. And she had not died, she had survived, and at the end of the journey were her friends, to find her, to rescue her, to nurse her back to health.

  Is this the end of the journey?

  There lay the ocean, a better concubine than she, and here she sat, day after day. She should get up right now, and walk out...

  “You're looking a bit thin, dear.” Stephen was rolling a cigarette. He leaned against a blown-out door frame. The whole top floor was like Luna, all walls and no roof, and she felt a little more at home here.

  She arched her eyebrows at him, fixing him in a stare until he smiled. He tamped down the cigarette on the door frame, and twisted the end. “I'm just saying. I think you were in the exact same position when we left. I should have stayed here and done an oil painting.”

  She let her mind wander back inside herself from out of the yearning distance. She could feel the gritty concrete dust and cracked tiles cutting into her knees and the tops of her feet, and her back had grown stiff hours ago. She rolled her eyes at him and shuffled to her feet, brushing off her layered dress and shawl. Stephen smiled and walked on, his steps crackling over the tile.

  He called out over his shoulder. “Food's up in the cafeteria. Just came out hot.”

  Ella clasped her hands over her pendant and stood, leaning. She felt without purpose, without motivation, and her first step was more an acceptance of the inevitable than a personal choice; a step to catch her from falling, instead of a positive action. But the idea of food, of warmth, and of the steam and clatter of pots and pans urged her on.

  The cafeteria was on the second level, above the infirmary. There was already a line forming at the serving table. In the kitchen, the old gas burning ovens still held heat, still served up food for the hospital's occupants long after the doctors, the patients, and even its roof had gone.

  Ella watched the people, some chatting with each other, some clutching a tray in line, exhausted. She saw Charlie and Sean eating hurriedly—starving, it seemed—wolfing down their food wordlessly. In a corner, against the wall near a table with an empty tray, Natalie slept propped up, clutching her pack and weapon. Ella wondered how she managed it, fighting and killing. Living among the soldiers.

  Ella didn't feel like waiting in line with the others. She clutched the handrail as she wound her way down the stairs to the infirmary. She stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching the nurses on their rounds. Many of the beds were empty, but some held heavily-bandaged soldiers. The dark-skinned man, Jimmy, was arguing with a doctor from the bed where he lay.

  “I don't give a damn. Healing and pain are two different things, aren't they?”

  The doctor put a hand on Jimmy's shoulder. “I'm sorry, sir. It's time to start weaning you off the opiates. We can talk about pain management, but all you need now is rest and fluids.”

  Jimmy pushed the woman's hand away. “What I don't need is somebody telling me how much fucking pain I'm in!”

  She replied, “What you don't need is a developing drug dependency.”

  Jimmy sat back, slamming his fist into the mattress. “Well maybe you should have thought of that before you put me on the shit, lady!”

  The doctor was still. “When you've calmed down, I'll come back and we can talk about a plan for moving forward.” Then she turned, and walked away. As she strode down the long hallway, her eyes met Ella's. She smiled weakly, and kept walking, past the doorway, and into the infirmary's offices. Ella padded after her.

  In the offices, the doctor leaned over a table with a green shaded lamp, putting her weight on both hands, two fingers gripping her glasses. When she noticed Ella, she stood up, put on her glasses and pressed her lips into a professional smile. “Can I help you?”

  Ella pursed her lips, and shook her head. “I don't think so. I j
ust...I thought, as I was standing there in the doorway...I wondered if there was anything I could do to help.”

  The doctor nodded, and rubbed her temples, brushing her hair back from her face. “You mean for the man with the gunshot wound to the abdomen?”

  Ella twisted her head down, her eyes focused on the green lamp, the way the light from the sides and the bottom melted into each other on the table, green and orange. “I meant, for anybody, I guess. You see, I don't really have anything to do, to help, here. I'm not even really sure why I'm here, and I'm starting to not feel so well either, but it isn't a wound or anything.”

  The doctor's smile spread, the corners of her mouth drawing up into fine but practiced wrinkles. “There's always something that can be done. Careful about doing for others as a distraction from yourself, though. It’s a dangerous temptation for a woman.”

  Ella blinked at her, confused. The doctor went around the table, picked up a plastic package from the counter and placed it on the table in front of her. “I'm Doctor Avery. Clara Avery. What's your name?”

  “Ella.”

  “Okay, Ella, take this out to that man and change his bandages. Wash, gauze, and wrap. Can you do that?”

  Ella raised her eyebrows, and nodded. She let go of the doorway and crossed to the table on quick feet. As she picked up the bandage, Dr. Avery looked up at her from over her glasses. “Don't let him walk all over you.”

  Ella stepped out of the office and stopped, the long row of beds before her. She hefted the package in front of her, and in its weight she felt the pull of duty, of a commitment to be fulfilled.

  She bandaged Jimmy, trying to be as gentle with his body as she was firm in response to his protestations. When she was done, she crossed her arms and looked at him and felt the corners of her mouth fold up into a smile. She tucked his blankets back in and threw out the packaging for the bandages.

  On her way back to Doctor Avery, a nurse called out to her, and she helped the young man feed a patient with a wound to the face. Looking at the man trying to swallow the soft, crushed food, her own hunger paled under the sympathy she felt for him. She stayed with the nurse, helping him turn patients, check bandages and change linens.