by Ben Weaver
All five charged me.
I leapt above them, pivoted in a one-eighty, then came behind two, driving my blades down so hard that they penetrated the tops of their skulls and dug into their brains. They clanged heads and fell forward as I yanked free my K-bars.
Then, as the remaining three spun to face me, I dashed to their left, kicked up into a shoru, then slid by, arms and legs outstretched as I severed each of their jugulars. They dominoed to the deck, skins flickering as they clutched their necks and blood spurted between their fingers.
“Holy fuck,” said Halitov from somewhere behind me.
“Alert your staff sergeants,” I said evenly, not bothering to look at him. “The lock is secure.”
Rumors of how I and Halitov had “easily” taken out an entire squad spread through both platoons. I guess we should have policed up those bodies before allowing our people to pass through the lock. Then again, that kind of carnage did inspire fear. I reasoned I could use a little of that given Lan’s recent conspiring.
We humped for about fifteen hours through more of the freight tunnels, encountering only a few drifters who cheered at our entrance, then we finally reached the city limits of Metra, Ro’s main municipality, now a ghost town held under martial law, with citizens cowering in their apartments. The downtown district closely resembled big cities on an Earth of centuries past and had been built within a magnificent, circular chasm, two kilometers wide and about a kilometer high. Lights built into the rock helped to simulate daytime, as did a holographic sky operated by members of the artists’ guild, who created “weather” as they would a tableau on canvas. Presently, the holo shown a brilliant night sky that, after seeing the real vacuum, seemed exceedingly artificial to me. We kept close to the walls of buildings, darting forward in intervals, with Lan having volunteered to walk point. I had not spoken a word to her about what Chopra had told me. A right time had yet to present itself.
As we hustled across the intersection of L6 and G5 streets, I spotted the dilapidated old building where I had gone to elementary school. I remembered riding the train in from my family’s apartment in the narrow tunnels of suburbia. A new school had been constructed three streets down, the old one converted into miners’ low-income housing and obviously all but abandoned by the landlord. Even the Colonial Church of Christ’s diocese office next door had fallen into squalor.
“St. Andrew?” Halitov called on my private channel. His platoon continued its sweep several streets down to our east.
“Here.”
“Something’s wrong. Damn, I wish we had those EMPs. I’d drop one right now and not feel bad about it.”
“You send out a pulse wave, and there goes the life support system. Anyone without an e-suit is dead—and that’s most of the city and ’burbs, including my father. You do that, and trust me—I won’t be happy.”
“We’re gonna get ambushed. I know it. They got our tacs jammed up good. We’re just walking into a killing zone.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Only they’ll do the dying. You good?”
“Still on, though I don’t have enough magic to take out eight Marines. You’re a fuckin’ butcher, you bastard.”
I grimaced. “Just keep going. We’re only twenty blocks from the rest of the regiment.”
He started to say something, but a triplet of particle fire erupted on my chest. I rolled out of the next salvo to see an Alliance Marine leaning out of a fourth-story window across the street. “We’re taking fire,” I yelled to Halitov.
Perhaps twenty or thirty more Marines rolled to brace elbows on windowsills. So many beads shaved our paths that I ordered everyone into the office building behind us.
“Belay that order,” screamed Lan. “Douglas? Pariseau? String out along the avenue ahead. Holmes? Take your people down L-Eight. I’ll meet you there. We’ll see if we can catch them from behind.”
“Belay that order!” I shouted. “Everyone into the building. Now! Sergeant Lan? You’re relieved of duty. Fall back inside and wait for me.”
Her reply came in a whisper: “Fuck you.”
And as I retreated to the door behind me, Lan sprinted across the street and met up with Holmes’s people. They vanished behind the corner.
More particle fire chewed into the building around me as I swung open the door and ducked into a dark lobby to find Chopra and two other privates, Kim and Maz, with their backs pressed against the wall to my left.
“What’s she doing out there?” I asked the sergeant.
Chopra’s lip twisted. “Sir, it’s called mutiny, sir.”
14
“St. Andrew? Where are you, man? Can’t pick you up. I got two squads coming in on the fire zone from flanking positions.”
After a few heartbeats, Halitov’s words registered; I was still reeling from the fact that First Sergeant Mai Lan had organized and executed a mutiny right before my eyes. Grumbling was one thing—but mutiny? Did she have any idea what her punishment would be? Did she really think she could get away with it? Her foolishness stunned me as much as the act itself.
“Damn it, St. Andrew, are you there?”
“Rooslin,” I gasped. And he must have known something was wrong because I rarely used his first name. “I’m in trouble. We’re on G-Five. The V-Tah Office Building. But most of my platoon is on Biza Avenue, with another squad on L-Eight.”
“We’re coming to reinforce.”
“Lan’s taken over my platoon.”
“Say again?”
“My first sergeant has organized a mutiny.”
“A mutiny. Holy shit. Know what? You go out there and take out that fuckin’ bitch—or I will!”
“I’m thinking we got at least three squads out here posted in sniper positions. I’ll work on them first. Then I’ll go for her.” I craned my head to Chopra and the two privates. “Stay here until I call.”
“Sir, aye-aye, sir,” answered Chopra. “We’ll be ready.”
I swore under my breath as I headed outside. Only three people had remained loyal to me.
You’ll always be a gennyboy first, an officer second. The only way you’ll get respect is by earning it through what you do—and even then they’ll talk behind your back. I’m telling you this because you’re my brother. You have to hear it.
With my pulse raging in my head, I vowed to kill every Marine posted in the apartment buildings, not because it was my job or because they worked for the wrong side, but because I wanted to show Lan how lethal I could be. I ran into the middle of the street, set down my rifle, closed my eyes, and jumped straight up. I rose about four stories, then wrenched back into a reverse somersault to call even more attention to myself. I didn’t know if anyone had ever tried what I was about to do, but it was the only thing I could think of that had a chance of working.
Judging from the report of particle rifles, at least ten beads came my way. I felt each hit, realizing that the number stood even higher at twenty-one. The Marines posted in the buildings were so eager for a target that my appearance probably had them salivating. I stretched the bonds between particles, creating a subatomic wall around myself. As each bead struck that wall, it curved back toward the Marine who had unleashed it.
As I finished my revolution and dropped toward the street, all twenty-one Marines fell away from their windows. Once I hit the street, I scooped up my rifle, ran across the street, then bounded up the apartment building. At three stories high, I veered right, moving across the disorienting field of stone overlaid by a grid of permaglass windows. A Marine stuck out his head from a window off to my right. I swung my rifle, opened fire. The sparking stream caught him squarely in the back of the head. He fell forward onto the sill, writhing violently until the fire penetrated his skin and tore away half his head. Singed hair and flaming tissue plummeted to the street.
Spotting two more Marines posted in the second-story windows of another apartment building ahead, I sprinted all out, reached the edge of my building, then fired myself across the intersect
ion. Spectators on the ground would have seen a soldier flying sideways through the air and landing with bent knees between the tenement’s second and third stories.
The two Marines cocked their heads at my impact, and no, they weren’t expecting an attack from someone walking on the side of the building.
But I wasn’t expecting the third Marine, who had popped up from a window behind me. As I fired at the two in front, that third one cut loose a thick stream that jackhammered into the small of my back. I leaned toward the Marine behind me, continuing to fire at those in front, with one about to fall. I crouched a little, then sprang in a gozt, the bullet thrust, picturing myself as a missile spewing particle fire from its tail. I balanced the rifle between my legs, not missing a beat with my stream as I collided head-on with the third Marine. The rebound sent her tumbling toward the street and me blasting boots-first toward the remaining soldier ahead. The rifle slipped from my grip, spun away. The Marine turned his weapon on me, was about to fire, when I plowed into his head, dragging him over the sill, one leg dangling free. My momentum forced me past him, and he let out a scream as he finally dropped to the street, where he would join his comrade and probably bounce until his skin weakened and he broke bones.
I snagged a window frame, came to a muscle-pulling halt, then shot to my feet and hurried to the end of the building. Hunks of stone and shattered glass pinged off my skin as Marines posted in the building across the street homed in. Eleven muzzle flashes gave up their locations, and I unceremoniously manipulated the bond and turned their fire against them. Nine killed themselves. Two others managed to stumble back into the building and cease fire. “Chopra? Move out. Take the building on the northeast corner of L-Eight. Got at least two Marines in there.”
“Sir, aye-aye, sir!”
Thundering footfalls erupted from below. One of Halitov’s squads charged along the sidewalk. Three more Marines popped up on the roof of the next building. I charged them, cutting forty-five degrees across and leaping over window after window until I reached the corner of my building and dove across the alley and toward them. They traded fire with Halitov’s squad as I tumbled into my landing and withdrew K-bars. All three Marines lay on their bellies, firing furtively over the edge. I came up behind them, a phosphorescent reaper in camouflage. I slashed the first one’s throat. The second saw me, began to turn, and I was on him. One, two, three stabs. He fell onto his back, belching blood. The third one got off a few rounds before I leapt on her, released one of my blades, and used my free hand to choke her.
“Don’t kill me. Please.”
She was my age. Dark hair. Big brown eyes. Someone’s daughter.
I used to wonder what I looked like as I hovered over that young woman, her life balanced in my grip. Did I show compassion? Was I absolutely stoic? Did I know my duty?
It took me a long time to realize that at that moment I had become Halitov: rigid, flushed, possessed.
“Please, don’t do it….”
Grunting loudly, I slid my blade into her heart, turned it, yanked it out, stabbed again, turned the blade, yanked it out. Stabbed her again. Turned. Yanked. Stabbed. Stabbed. Stabbed. Stabbed until her chest and face were drenched in blood.
“St. Andrew? My squads are in,” announced Halitov. “Where are you?”
The K-bar fell out of my hand. I rolled onto my back and, panting, stared at the simulated heavens.
They say it can take years for the guilt to finally hit you. Mine comes in and out like the tide. There are good days and bad. I didn’t forget my sense of duty. And I’ll never forget the faces.
A thought shuddered me back. Lan still commanded my people. I gathered the blades and took off, monitoring the general frequency.
With a near-blinding rush of adrenaline, I came down the side of a building and found my dear first sergeant hunkered in a doorway, firing on a wide, single-story warehouse atop which a line of Marines had found excellent cover behind an alloy walkway so thick that even our accelerated rounds could not penetrate it. Meanwhile, Halitov had ordered his third squad behind the warehouse, while Lan and the others busied those behind the walkway.
I dropped behind Lan. She held her fire, craned her head, then jammed the rifle into my chest, our buzzing skins driving both of us into opposite walls.
She fired. The round ricocheted off my shoulder as I knocked the rifle up with my forearm, then kept coming, using the bond to neutralize our skins and bring my arm across her throat. Once I had her pinned, I found her tac. Her scream sent shivers through me as I tore off her hand, along with the band. Her skin faded. She gaped at the blood jetting from her stump, at the hand lying on the stone with the tac beside it, then at me.
“You’re relieved of command,” I said, then remembered my corpsman training. “We’ll stop that bleeding with GCX, then we have to rinse that hand in normal saline, bag it up, and get it back to the regiment.”
“You fuckin’ bastard. Look what you did!”
I de-skinned and leaned toward her, face to face, nothing between us, particle fire still gnawing at the walls outside. “You’re done.”
“St. Andrew?”
As I cocked my head toward Halitov, who had abruptly ducked into the doorway, I felt a punch to my abdomen, followed immediately by a cold, stinging sensation, like icicles slicing through my innards. My gaze averted.
First Sergeant Mai Lan’s K-bar stuck from the center of my chest. I assumed I was about to die and wished I been killed by someone I did not know, someone who did not hate me with those bloodshot eyes, someone who was merely following orders and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, someone who might, months, years, or decades later, feel a modicum of guilt over taking my life. But dying at the hand of the woman who had destroyed my first command seemed far too unfair and, for the time being, ruined my faith in the universe. I shrank into Halitov’s arms.
They patched me up pretty well at Metra Regional Medical Center. Fortunately for me, I had “chosen” to be stabbed just ten blocks from a major civilian hospital with some of the most advanced life-saving equipment on the moon.
Within seven standard days, we took back Ro from the alliances. No major surprise there. Our numbers had been nearly even, but Halitov and I had tipped the scales a little our way. Still, the real push came in the form of civilian rebels, some armed only with clubs, who tipped off our squads and occasionally took on Alliance Marines themselves. Several of the mining gangs even joined forces with a middle-class citizenry they had once terrorized. Our stratified community had finally discovered common ground. If only all of humanity could do the same…
Chopra, Kim, Maz, and Lan were the only members of my platoon not arrested and shipped off for court-martial. Even then, jabchatter had it that the mutineers would not be imprisoned but sentenced to serve manual labor jobs that supported the war effort. The colos needed every able-bodied person, malcontent or otherwise. Chopra, Kim, and Maz would be reassigned to another squad. Lan’s fate had already been decided. It seems that someone had shoved her out of the doorway and directly into the Marines’ line of fire. All sixteen pieces of her had been hauled away in a body bag.
The remainder of my platoon shuttled off, sans dramatic departure. They had no opportunity to spit on me and swear revenge, nor was I granted an opportunity to question them. I was interviewed once by a Guard Corps lawyer, as were Halitov and everyone else. And that was that. No time or money for a lengthy inquest.
They let me leave the hospital after two weeks and gave me a day’s leave, after which I was to report back to my regiment for reassignment. Halitov had been granted the same and had already gone off to Vosk, which we had also won back, to search for his parents. Back at the academy, he had rarely spoken of his family, and I learned only when he was leaving Ro that he had a sister a year older than us who was thinking about joining the Western Alliance Navy at about the time he had shipped out to South Point. He might now have a sister fighting for the other side.
I risked
a train ride back to my old apartment building, a modest, two-story affair lined up with a thousand others within an oval-shaped tunnel. The hydroponic lights had been shattered by particle fire, most of the grass had turned yellow, and the shrubs stooped in leafless decay. Despite the occasional pedestrian or ground car, the place appeared deserted and forlorn of all hope.
The steps to my second-story front door produced a squeaking that gave me pause. I walked up and down those steps several times, listening to my youth.
“Who’s out there?” came a familiar voice from behind the door.
“Dad?”
The door cracked open to reveal a tired-looking eye that abruptly grew wide. “Scott…”
My father rushed from behind the door and nearly knocked me off the landing with his embrace. “It was…I thought I’d never…”
“Take it easy, Dad. Let’s go inside.” I led him into the apartment, stunned as I got a better look at him: beard untrimmed, white hair thick and matted, tunic and slacks so wrinkled that he must have slept in them.
We crossed into the living room, now a murky, open space with furniture piled against the windows. I gagged over a nasty order emanating from the kitchen, and once there, I stared in horror at the piles of garbage stacked near the back door, at the dirty dishes towering up from the sink, at the food caked all over the stove. My father had always been anal retentive about keeping our home neat.
“They wouldn’t let us take out the trash. Turned off the water until just yesterday. It’ll take a while for the smell to get out of the bathrooms. Sorry you have to see it this way.” He reached out, touched my lieutenant’s star, and recoiled as though he had contaminated his finger. “You’re already commissioned? And Jarrett, too?”
I wasn’t ready to tell him about Jarrett. Maybe I should have. Waiting did not make a difference for either of us.
