Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  “Tell her to answer my question!” I’m practically shrieking now.

  Katella grips my arm. “Calm down, Dye.”

  He fires a torrent of slobe words at the prisoner. She nods wearily. Then she grabs a handful of her thin, gray-streaked hair and practically shoves it in my face.

  “See this?” she says. “It used to be jet black – my pride and joy. Even the bastards who raped me could not harm it. But since that cursed day, it’s been like this.”

  She flings the tress defiantly back over her shoulder.

  “You aren’t the only one who’s suffered, young man. Not long ago, I could have charmed even you.”

  I realize for the first time that Comrade 19 is a fairly young woman, attractive once. Youth and beauty have been torn from her, though, leaving a terrible void.

  “It was Omzbak who butchered the pilot,” she says. “He had the devil inside him that day, and we were all too cowardly to oppose him.”

  She spits on the ground.

  “I’ll never forgive that swine for what he did! Three days later, my brother was hanged in a public square. He should have been back safe among us.”

  She turns on me, eyes flashing with hate.

  “Do you know how they hanged him? Very slowly, using piano wire.”

  I am unmoved by this grisly detail.

  “Who else ... who else helped to murder Stilikan?”

  “The deputy commander,” Comrade 19 says. “That goddam cobbler is as evil as Omzbak himself.”

  “Where is he?” My voice croaks; it seems to be coming from somebody else.

  “Where would he be?” Comrade 19 says. “Down there with Omzbak, of course. Those of us who still have a shred of humanity are leaving.”

  She locks her eyes onto mine. The hatred fades from them, replaced by animal cunning.

  “You want to kill him, don’t you?” she says.

  “Yes!”

  “I can help,” she says. “I’ll take you to that cursed place. We will avenge both of our dear brothers.”

  I am too astonished to maintain my harsh demeanor. I must look like I’ve been slapped by a dead fish.

  “Omzbak deserves to die,” she says. “He wants to die, I think. He is weary of befouling this world.”

  I mull the proposition over. Comrade 19 might be just the person we need, or she might betray us at the first opportunity. Her look becomes even more cunning, like a perverted fox.

  “He was a decent sort at one time,” she says, “until his family was massacred in one of your ‘punishment actions.’ Let’s send him off to join them.”

  She leans toward me and speaks in a low, ominous voice.

  “Do you want to know why Omzbak killed that pilot?” she asks.

  By breathing halts. I manage a jerky nod.

  “He said your brother looked like the commando leader who murdered his family.”

  “Ohhh.” My breath escapes in a prolonged groan.

  Everything falls together into a completed circle of evil. I finally understand ...

  The silence drags on. Trynka fills it.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you, ‘Comrade?’” she says. “I recognize you, despite your ugly hair.”

  Comrade 19 stares hard at Trynka. “No, child, I don’t. Should I?”

  “Then perhaps you recall invading our house and taking my father away,” Trynka says. “Perhaps you remember slapping my mother down. You were very brave that night.”

  Recognition dawns in Comrade 19’s eyes. “Why, you’re –”

  Then Trynka is upon her, stabbing the twin-edged knife deep into her heart. The blow is so violent that Comrade 19 falls backward, as if struck by a cannon ball. She is instantly dead, eyes staring upwards in shock.

  “Bitch!” Trynka shrieks.

  She stomps the inert body; Katella drags her away.

  “Bravo!” Bel cries. “One less of those scum we have to deal with.”

  48. Pause

  We pause a full day so as to encourage Bel’s recovery. He insists that he can “tough it out” as is, but I’m having none of it. There’s no telling what rigors lie ahead, and I want him as fit as possible.

  I would never admit this to anyone, but Bel’s incapacity has rattled me to the core. Up until now, I’ve always considered myself to be the man in charge, with Bel as a testy subordinate and threat to my position. But now I’m starting to appreciate his true worth. He is as important to me as my right arm.

  Trynka finds us a little cabin on the edge of some woods to hole up in. She explains that it was used by woodcutters, goatherds, or anybody else who might require a night’s lodging on the trail. But that was back when this was still a productive area. Now the cabin is abandoned, like so much else in this wasteland. The place is comfortable enough, though; it’s even got some blankets stashed away.

  We all need some down time before the coming ordeal, but there is another reason I’ve called a pause. On a deeper level of my consciousness, I’m hoping that something will occur to abort this crazy mission. I am experiencing increased feelings of dread. It was easy to get carried away about things earlier when it was just me, but now others are involved. Their lives hang by the thread of my obsession.

  If Comrade 19 is right, then a prolonged life might be more of a punishment for Omzbak than a quick death would be. And any death I bring him will be quick. Many nights I’ve lain awake with thoughts of torturing him the same way he tortured my brother – but in my heart, I know that I am incapable of that.

  Maybe I should just leave him alone in his tormented world to face the wrath of those he’s wronged. He would seem to have no lack of enemies, and even the authorities will want to be rid of him. They know he’s too much of a loose cannon to fit into this time of peace.

  But I can’t call off the mission; it has sunk its hooks too deeply into my mind. Justice must be served, whatever the cost.

  The others seem to have their own misgivings, judging by their somber looks and quiet demeanors. We still have plenty of high-nutrition combat rations, but we have all reduced our calorie intake, as if we are fasting to prepare ourselves for some esthetic venture.

  Sipren is a cause for concern. His mood swings could pose a danger to us. Toxic thoughts roil in his mind, and they burst out randomly. He asks unanswerable questions.

  “What about our guys killed in the fighting?” he’ll say. “What about our people slaughtered in the bombing raids?”

  What about them – will more violence bring them back? I can’t dispute with him, though. It’s too easy for me to talk. How would I feel if Mama were among the slain, or Gyn, or Ket? There are no answers, only more hate. I consider leaving Sipren behind, but he would be a worse threat to us if he were captured.

  How will it be, I wonder, to look into Omzbak’s eyes and pull the trigger? Will he know who I am and why I’m taking his life? I have a pilot’s perspective. You don’t know the enemy you are trying to kill. You shoot at him from a long distance, or he shoots at you.

  How will it be to kill somebody up close in cold blood – am I up to the task?

  Katella and Trynka spend all of their time together talking and gazing into each other’s faces. She already speaks a bit of our language, and Katella practices with her. He’s become a sort of combination boyfriend and language tutor.

  They also busy themselves with patrolling the area. We all take turns at this, except for Bel who stays indoors resting his injuries, on my express orders.

  Without his books to occupy him, Bel spends many hours staring up at the ceiling, as if he’s unraveling the mysteries of the universe in his mind. Late afternoon, when only the two of us are in the cabin, another of his astonishing remarks comes out of thin air.

  “You know, Dye,” he says, “I’ve come to regret killing that slobe boy with my airplane.”

  “Yes, me too,” I say. “His name was Piotra.”

  “That figures,” Dye says. “He was a fierce enemy, all right. How did you find o
ut his name?”

  “From his mother. She attacked me in the railway station when I went home on leave.”

  “Oh.”

  Moments of silence pass. No one intrudes on our intimacy.

  “I hated Piotra a long time because he destroyed my dreams,” Bel says, “but now I can appreciate his ... beauty. He had true honor and courage.”

  “We thought we were entitled to humiliate him because we were so ‘superior,’” I say. “He taught us otherwise, didn’t he?”

  Bel nods sadly. I gesture to the enemy world around us.

  “They have all taught us harsh lessons,” I say.

  A while later, Katella enters with Trynka. I should leave so as to take his place on watch, but I make it a point to be in the cabin whenever Katella is there. Another flare up between him and Bel is the very last thing we need.

  As usual, tense quiet maintains itself between them. Katella busies himself with cleaning his machine pistol. Bel lies on his back, gazing at the ceiling. Then he chooses to break the silence.

  “You’re very good at their language, Katella,” he says, “better than me. Not a trace of accent, either.”

  “Uh huh,” Katella says.

  He doesn’t look up from polishing the barrel of his submachine gun. His body stiffens, though. Trynka, who had been lounging nearby, draws closer to him.

  “I learned to speak it at the State home,” Bel says. “Where did you learn?”

  Katella’s hands stop their polishing routine; he looks up fiercely at Bel. Hairs bristle on the back of my neck as an alarm siren wails in my brain. Bel’s manner is not hostile, though, and his words carry no insinuation. He gazes at Katella with frank curiosity.

  “You must have figured it out by now,” Katella snaps. “I’ve got ‘racial inferiors’ in my family tree. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Bel studies him for a long moment, then shakes his head. A coiled spring in my chest abruptly relaxes.

  “I’ve always wondered what you had against me,” Bel says. “I thought it was because I’m poor and your family is well off.”

  “I don’t care about your background.” Katella gestures toward Trynka. “I care about other things.”

  “I can see that,” Bel says.

  Silence takes over. Bel shifts uncomfortably on his straw mat.

  “Dye, you have to let me get up,” he says. “If I lay here another minute, I’ll go stir crazy.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, “go take a little stroll.”

  He gets to his feet and tests his injured ankle. He seems pleased with the result.

  Katella watches Bel steadily, but the anger is gone from his eyes. Thank God he says nothing further. Bel, too, seems to want the matter dropped. He turns my direction.

  “Best if we carry no secrets to wherever it is we’re going,” he says, “right, Dye?”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I say. “You volunteered to help; that’s all that counts in my book.”

  A melancholy smile crosses Bel’s lips.

  “I’ve often told myself that I would have stopped Grushon and the others from hurting you,” he says. “But the truth is, I don’t really know what I would have done if Katella hadn’t spoke up.”

  “I ... appreciate your honesty,” I say.

  Bel walks out the door with a slight limp and disappears. Katella gives his gun a final buff, then sets it aside. I return to my brooding thoughts.

  Bel’s remark is actually comforting in it’s way. The infallible Beltran, always so sure of himself, has admitted to a moment of doubt. If he’d meant for the others to clobber me, he would have said so. But the answer he gave leaves a better option for me to hang onto.

  But what can it matter now? Compared to all the horrors we’ve endured at the front, what does a little ass kicking among friends amount to?

  A few minutes later, Sipren bursts in.

  “Somebody’s out there!” he says.

  “Stay here, Sipren,” I say, “and keep the girl with you.”

  I grab my rifle and dash outside, stooping low to take advantage of the natural cover. Katella follows in my wake.

  Grushon and Bel are crouched behind some bushes, looking off toward the north.

  “Did he see us?” I ask.

  “Don’t know,” Bel says, “we only just spotted him.”

  I make out a vague figure walking in the distance. Bel hands me his binoculars.

  I raise them to eye level. I catch a glimpse of a man passing through the underbrush. He carries a machine pistol. Clearly, he’s a partisan scout. Can I pick him off from this distance? Maybe, but the gunshot would alert the world of our presence.

  The man moves away and disappears. I have to assume that he’s spotted us. I’ve been expecting something like this.

  “Katella, Grushon,” I say, “go tell the others. We’re pulling out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They trot off toward the cabin. Bel looks at me quizzically.

  “What’s the plan, Dye?”

  “We need to be gone well before nightfall,” I say. “Omzbak will be paying a visit then, I think. Night raids are his style.”

  “Maybe we should stick around and prepare a welcome for him.”

  I shake my head emphatically.

  “He could outflank us from any direction,” I say. “A fight in the open where he can maneuver would be disastrous – especially in the dark.”

  “Good point, Dye.”

  “Let’s face it,” I say, “he’s better at this than we are, and he knows the terrain.”

  “What’s our next move, then?”

  “What do you think, Bel?”

  I give him time to churn this over. He doesn’t need much.

  “We infiltrate Omzbak’s hideout while he’s away.”

  “Exactly!” I say. “We set a trap for the SOB where he least expects it, in his own rat’s nest.”

  Bel strokes his chin thoughtfully.

  “I don’t think he has many people left,” I say. “Comrade 19 said they were all deserting. Why would she lie about that?”

  “She was a tough one, all right,” Bel says. “I’m thinking it’s too bad she isn’t coming with us.”

  “Yes ...”

  I feel extreme annoyance at myself. Trynka had mentioned a female partisan slapping her mother – I should have made the connection and protected Comrade 19 from her wrath. But how would that have worked? Trynka is so consumed by hate that she could never have cooperated with Comrade 19.

  Is she the only one motivated by hatred? There seems to be a broader lesson here, but I don’t have time to think it through right now.

  “It makes sense that Omzbak will use his whole force to attack us,” I say. “Or maybe he’ll just leave one or two behind.”

  “In the ‘blur?’”

  “Yes. Think on it, Bel – the war’s over here, their alertness will be low. If we play it right, they’ll never know what hit them.”

  Bel ponders for a while, squinting off into the distance with those hawk eyes of his.

  “Better to give him a double surprise, don’t you think?” he says. “Some of us go in, the rest stay outside.”

  The audacity of this plan is pure Bel. Divide our forces in the face of the enemy?

  “Yes, that might be just the thing,” I say. “I’ll infiltrate with Trynka and – ”

  “I’ll set the trap outside,” Bel says. “We’ll be the ones with the freedom to maneuver, then.”

  “We’d better leave that job to Katella,” I say, “somebody who can run like hell if necessary. You come inside with me.”

  Disappointment flashes across Bel’s face. He starts to say something, then keeps it to himself.

  “That would work best, right?” I say. “Besides ... I need you with me, Bel.”

  A knowing little smile replaces the chagrin on Bel’s face. It speaks volumes about our turbulent relationship.

  “All right,” he says, “count me
in.”

  Quiet settles over our discussion. The plan seems about as complete as we can make it at this point.

  ***

  When we return to the cabin, Trynka is gouging some letters into the dirt floor with a stick.

  “What the hell is she doing?” I say.

  “She wants to leave them a message,” Katella says.

  “Tell her to stop!”

  Katella speaks to her. A brief argument ensues, then Trynka begins rubbing out the marks. I’ve had time to reconsider my order, though.

  “No, tell her it’s all right,” I say.

  Katella speaks to her again.

  “Are you sure about that?” Bel says. “Won’t that tip them off?”

  “Perhaps,” I say, “and it might spook them a little, too. If the band is disintegrating already, maybe this will help speed things up.”

  Bel looks doubtful.

  “Let’s work on his mind,” I say. “He doesn’t know who we are, does he? He must have made lots of enemies.”

  “All right,” Bel says, unconvinced.

  Trynka is gouging the floor again.

  “Give me that stick,” I say. “I want to add my two farthings’ worth.”

  Under Katella’s guidance, I craft the final letters. Then I toss the stick aside.

  “There,” I say, “that should get the bastard thinking.”

  Four: The Darkness

  49. Eastern Debacle

  Editor’s note: The following introduction is taken from the papers of Field Marshal Angrift, former Army chief of staff. Shortly before his suicide, Angrift entrusted these papers to an aide with instructions to make them available to “all interested parties.”

  And now I depart this life in the only fashion that might redeem a shred of my personal honor. It is easy for me to go, and I leave my countrymen with a final admonition:

  DOWN WITH THE CRIMINALS WHO HAVE LED US TO THE ABYSS!

  Do not despise this sentiment just because it issues from one of the worst offenders. I freely admit guilt for my part in the debacle that is overtaking the Fatherland. Of all persons, I should have known that our course was moving toward disaster, but my head was turned by material rewards and a field marshal baton – and by the unquestioning faith in the Magleiter that has distorted so many of our minds.

  As bizarre as it sounds in the light of subsequent events, I once believed that the Magleiter was sent to us by God to restore the Fatherland’s greatness. I cannot forgive myself for this wicked error.