Afterwar

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Ngombe needed only Hendrickson’s first syllable to confirm what she was seeing. “Incoming!” she yelled, and everyone who wasn’t mainlining adrenaline yet got there in a hot half-second. She had no time to wonder if they heard her or were strapped down, because tracers stitched in an arc ahead of her and she had to pull up, sharply, the prototype whirring and rattling as it took vertical strain. The cells whined in their sockets; Kelly tasted iron and salt and the brass-licking chill of Hooo boy we might gonna die tonight, sunset flashing across glass coated with UV and break-resistant tapfilm. This was when you found out if the tube of steel and plastic and thrust and lift you were in really liked you, or if she’d just been playing along.

  The prototype hummed under Kelly’s hands, tracers splashing too wide, gyro control and cloaking systems coming online like they were designed to. Easy-peasy, if the bastard in the seat to her right had any sense. “What we got, what we got?” What a time to find out if your copilot had his head screwed on straight. Lord.

  “Fuckit, propseekers!” Johnny Fed barked, and he already had the popfusers online. “Prepping, prepping, ready!”

  “Engage.” The world shrank to a single point—left hand on the yoke, fingers tight but not too tight, right hand snapping sideways to punch subsidiary control over to the Fed, since maybe he could handle it—and paradoxically expanded, horizon and ceiling distant smears, down becoming any way her feet were pointing. “Hot loaded, put it in the bucket, amen!”

  “Amen,” he echoed, and there was a yell from the back as the sled jerked aside, Kelly sensing more than seeing the pop-flare of a heat-seeking missile. Old ordnance, and not a problem for this baby, oh no, but there were newer ones locking onto the sled’s propulsion stream. Johnny Fed already had the countermeasures live, readouts flashing as one cell dropped to 30 percent capacity. Shit. Blown fuse? Cracked casing?

  Who the fuck cared, when they was still shootin’ at you? Jacking emergency power, the buffering under the cells taking a beating as propseekers detonated a critical distance too short, caught in an electromagnetic net. The specter showed a blurred profile, zipping little bumblebees jolting up and down underneath the prototype. She veered again, to the left this time, and they fell away in the backwash.

  The stupid motherfuckers were on the ground, shooting at her. “Oh hell no.” She bit down, her tongue poking where her missing canine should be. On the ground.

  Comms were lit up like a Christmas tree. She had to jag the sled aside again, hard, avoiding another streak of tracers coming from the wrong direction. “What the fuck?” she screamed.

  “—Cobra One,” Johnny Fed repeated into his headset. “This is Cobra One out of Grafton, Federal Armed Forces, we are friendly, repeat, we are friendly!”

  “Not to us you ain’t!” Crackle-squealing, the funny blur-static that meant jammers. “Got us a chickenshoot, motherfuckers!”

  The Fed popped over one channel, to the backup bounce instead of radio. “This is Cobra One out of Grafton, FAS. They’re jamming other channels. We are friendly, repeat, we are friendly.”

  “Well thank fucking God,” came the answer, crystal clear. The other sled, not quite as rakish as the prototype and bristling with armament, dropped down to parallel them, its underside glow a furious pink instead of blue. “This is Juliet Niner out of Malmstrom, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Heading to Casper, getting shot at.”

  “You loaded?” The shadow of the other sled pilot behind tapfilmed glass moved.

  Johnny Fed didn’t wait for Kelly’s nod. “Yessir, we are.”

  “Good. Come about with me, bearing—” A long string of numbers. “We gonna drop down and erase those Firster motherfuckers. Been chasing them for two days now.”

  Kelly added the coordinates to the bucket in her head, but she didn’t change course.

  Not yet.

  “Firsters?” The Fed sounded baffled, but only a little.

  “Yeah, comin’ south, for fucksake. You comin’?”

  “Hold on that.” Johnny Fed glanced at Kelly, who shrugged.

  Nothing else coming up on the specter, so they could peel off and head to Casper instead. “Captain?” she called over her shoulder. “We got time to kill a few fuckers?”

  “Man, I like this girl.” Simmons pried one of his big hands loose of his armrests to wipe at his forehead. Chuck, his leg still stretched out, was sweating too; between them, Spooky was a tiny big-eyed bookmark.

  Swann, tangled in a seat harness and jolted rudely out of the first good sleep he’d had in days—mostly courtesy of exhaustion—swore viciously. “What the fuck?”

  “Feds. Waitin’ on a reply, Cap.” The Fed’s fingers were already dancing, prepping and loading in case Swann said yes.

  “We got enough charge?” Swann wanted to know.

  “Yeah.” It would be close, really, but Kelly wanted to see what this baby could do. “Pop back, blow the shit out of ’em, get a thank-you and a citation.”

  “All right.” Swann coughed, rackingly. “What you need us to do?”

  “Not a goddamn thing ’cept sit tight.” Kelly toggled her own mic. “Juliet Niner, this is Cobra One. We hear you. Coming about; let’s light it up.”

  Spooky, clutching at the jar, pushed her shoulder as hard into Chuck’s as she could, and squeezed her eyes closed.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Someone Else’s Bad Luck

  They did have to glide the last half hour into Casper, but the Malmstrom boys had called ahead, so they were cleared for immediate come-down-and-shut-down. Hendrickson sagged and rubbed at his face once the charging cables were attached and Ngombe stretched, unbuckling. His eyes were grainy-hot. It was a different thing, to pop midgrade cannos from a sled and feel the explosions juddering below. The other pilot told him the motherfuckers had come over from northern Idaho. Now that the war was done, it was the Firsters who were the raiders, and the Federals bombing the shit out of small bands possessing insufficient support, ammo, and weapons.

  Shoe on the other foot, and all that. If he wasn’t so goddamn tired, Matt Hendrickson’d be savagely triumphant. How did the motherfuckers like it now?

  “I ain’t gettin’ back on this fuckin’ thing until I get some real sleep,” Simmons announced. “And Chuck ain’t either.”

  “Yeah, well, it’ll take a while to charge this motherfucker.” Swann stood at the hatch, gesturing them out. Heavy, silky, soaked evening air pushed into the sled. “Don’t get into any fucking trouble, all right? Be back at 0600.”

  “Yassir.”

  Next off was Sal. “I’ll keep an eye on them,” the Greek said, yawning. “Be nice to sleep on something horizontal.”

  “Grab some food that ain’t paste,” Swann told him. “I’m gettin’ tired of ration bars.”

  “Aye aye.” The black-haired man made it heavily down the surprisingly strong iron steps and caught up easily with the other two, Chuck’s crutch beating an exhausted tattoo on tarmac.

  Zampana laid the back of her hand against Spooky’s forehead, wrinkling her nose at the jar and its pale, distorted occupant. “You gonna sleep with that thing, Spook?”

  “No.” Spooky’s skinny throat worked once or twice. “Gonna go with him to the 3-D.” Her chin jerked in Hendrickson’s direction.

  “You not a bad copilot, man.” Ngombe clapped him on the shoulder, a good-natured, bruising punch, as she slid out of the cockpit. “Don’t have to tell you what to do.”

  “No ma’am,” Hendrickson mumbled. All he wanted was sleep, on a bed that wasn’t moving. And yes, something to eat that wasn’t a ration bar. The only thing stopping him from sleeping in this goddamn seat were those dual prospects, and the fact that he had to piss like a racehorse.

  “Good work.” Swann, warm and approving, shook her slim dark hand. “Good fucking work, raider. Be back at 0600.”

  “Yassir.” A gap-toothed smile, a bounce up on her toes, and she rocketed out of the hatch, already whistling.

  �
��Good God,” Spooky said softly. “She’s intense.”

  It was so unlike her a laugh came out sideways, taking Hendrickson by surprise. He hauled himself upright, almost clocking his aching head on an overhanging shelf of equipment, and eased, one joint at a time, out of the cockpit. Maybe they had hot water here. A bath would be nice. When was the last time he’d done anything other than grab an insufficient, tepid shower?

  Career prospects or not, he hated this fucking job.

  But Swann stood right in the middle of the sled, blocking his path. “You did a helluva job there, Matt. It’s Matthew, ain’t it?”

  “Yessir.” And Simmons, that asshole, would probably find a way to mock it. Johnny Fed was just fine, for fucksake.

  “Matthew,” Spooky said dreamily, stretching one arm, then the other. “He’s tired.”

  “We all are. You got another hour left in you, son? Spook here wants her goddamn pet 3-D’d, and you’re the one with the paperwork.”

  Spooky pushed herself up. She didn’t look ready to start yarking again, which was good. Hendrickson was getting around to thinking she didn’t need any looking after, X-Ray or not. “I want to know,” she said, and peered up into his face. “Please?”

  Shit. What could he say to that? Orders were orders. “Sure.” Why the fuck not? He was only ready to fall over from exhaustion, he’d only just almost gotten shot out of the sky again, he was only the odd man out in their tight little group. All Ngombe had to say was I was a raider, and they fell all over themselves making her feel right-at-fucking-home.

  But not him. Even Kellogg’s Kickers hadn’t been this insular. Spooky didn’t move, looking up at him like he hadn’t already agreed.

  “I gotta go brief on those fucking Firsters.” Swann patted Hendrickson’s shoulder, much more gently than was his wont. “Just get the damn thing dropped off and catch some rest. I want you two back here at 0630, all right? Take the extra half hour and get some hot chow, a good shower, and whatever else you need.”

  All Matt needed was sleep. He nodded, rubbed at his eyes again, and wished he could step sideways to get away from Spooky. She cradled that goddamn jar like a baby. “It’s all right,” she said. “You made it.”

  Whatever the fuck that meant. He decided asking would be stupid. “Let’s go find the 3-D so I can get some sleep.”

  Evening had given way to a cool, hay- and smoke-scented night. Most of Casper proper was dark, holding only flickers of campfires and jury-rigged lanterns. The slices glimmering with electricity were given over to the military; the MPs at the edge of the airfield called for a jeep and tried not to stare at Spooky and her cargo. Having to stand in the heat and bullshit with obviously uncomfortable soldiers was almost a relief, especially since they didn’t treat him like an encumbrance or a possible spy.

  The ride to Intel was bumpy and swerving, the jeepster driving with a candy hanging half out of his mouth and keeping up a steady string of obscenities laced with Pardon me, sirs. After the sled ride, though, it was pretty tame, and they were pulling up to a repurposed brownstone almost before Hendrickson had a chance to get nauseated.

  Inside, it was warm and bright and full of sleepy murmuring even at this hour. Chatter to be coded, decoded, and filed, flimsies arriving and hot-printed, coordination with civilian authorities to fine-tune, and as soon as Hendrickson’s clearance was discovered he and Spooky were whisked to a long cluttered room stacked with equipment, including a clunky old 3-D scanner that took up an entire four-foot counter. The nervous tech private responsible for it, rousted out of bed and brought on the double, eyed Spooky’s jar with some trepidation, but snapped a smart salute at Hendrickson and got to work.

  “You can go,” she told Matt, gazing at his cheek instead of into his eyes. “You’re tired.”

  “I’m also curious,” he half-lied, and immediately regretted it. She could probably fucking tell.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling.” She kept staring as the tech calibrated the 3-D, its humming electric noise just high enough to raise all the fine hairs on a man’s arms.

  “Great.” He watched the narrow-shouldered, tousle-haired tech visibly try to decide whether or not to open the jar and take the thing out to scan it, or try to aim the scanner past the glass. “Don’t open that, we don’t know what it’s floating in.”

  “I wasn’t gonna,” the private returned, his mouth set in a tight line of distaste. Despite that, he knew his stuff. “It’ll take about an hour if you want a fine enough scan to get fingerprints.”

  “We’ll come back.” Hendrickson glanced down at Spooky, who hadn’t moved, still looking at his cheek. “You should get some sleep.”

  “So should you.” She shook her head. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  “Fine.” But he hesitated. “What kind of bad feeling, Spook?”

  “Personal.” She tried a smile, a thin, pale expression. “Don’t worry. I can generally tell when it’s someone else’s bad luck.”

  He should have asked more. Any information X-Ray gave about the effects was to be passed along to higher-ups. At the same time…what had she said? He’s not gonna turn me in.

  Fuck it. His right eyelid had begun to twitch. “Fine. Don’t get into any trouble, okay?”

  She nodded assent, and it wasn’t until he was outside that he realized he’d unconsciously imitated Swann.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  No Spook Factor Needed

  It took forty-five minutes to get the prints. Spooky propped herself in a corner and slid down to sit, her legs straight out and her head tilted comfortably. She watched her boot toes, scuffed leather broken in and dark with grease, dirt, oil. Filthy with gravel along the bottoms, too. They were still too big for her, but a double pair of thick socks, plus hard use, helped. Her eyelids dropped halfway; she watched the tech’s legs move under the counter. He walked back and forth, his own kickers spit-shiny and a stain along one edge of his uniform trou cuff. Looked like mud. He’d probably get a Swann-size yelling from a CO during inspection.

  Peacetime was a bitch.

  She should have been able to nap. Raider sleep, soldier sleep, snatched wherever you found it. Her stomach still ached, her head full of an uncomfortable prickling. It wasn’t the same feeling that drove her into the house at the burning camp to drag Prink out.

  Poor Prink. Poor Minjae. Poor everyone.

  No, this was different. This was the sludgy, dozing roll of train wheels inside her skull, thockety-rockety, the big drafty metal box used for hauling stock or merchandise stuffed to the brim with human cargo. The fraying pavement roads couldn’t hold the kind of traffic rails could. Funny how transportation hadn’t changed since they laid the iron down coast-to-coast. When you wanted to move a lot, it was the railroad.

  Along with the rumble-rocking, the discomfort. A blowtorch in the stomach, thirst a red raging at the back of the throat, flesh and minds pressing through tissue-thin personal boundaries, the smell, dear God, the smell. On some of the early trains there were kids crying, until they figured out it did no good.

  Later transports had no shortstacks. The young, the old, the weak, they went to the bottles and baths first.

  Her burning, grainy eyes wouldn’t close. She watched the tech’s legs. Back and forth, checking the armatures and poking at the keyboard, watching the greenish, flickering screen and fine-tuning parameters. If she concentrated, she could hear what he was doing, what made the machine work, all his knowledge hers for the ride-along.

  If it weren’t for the nausea and the inside of her skull burning from being poured into someone else’s head, it might even have been useful.

  Why was she thinking about Gloria? She could still see it, whenever she blinked. Maybe she was still there, and everything else was a hallucination. Maybe she was still at Baylock, hallucinating after the fever, white-coated doctors and bustling well-fed staff moving among the bandaged scarecrows, hovering over her bed. The tests—What card is this? What card is this?

  Stupid-simple, all y
ou had to do was use their eyes to look at whatever painted plastic they were holding—and ignore how the distortion of looking through an alien mind turned your stomach inside out. It got easier the more you did it.

  It was no use. Gloria returned, memory python-wrapping her. The roll-call yard, the stage built of raw lumber. No scaffold, like there at Baylock or the other camps—troublemakers went right into the killing bottles, thank you, goodnight. Jar kaptains leering, the struggle for a few extra calories turning them into monsters; regular kampogs looking down on the politicals; the man shot right next to her in the quarry whose brains splattered all over her shoulder and face and…

  Survived. Made it out. Didn’t matter. It was that day in the quarry, folding over her again and again, impossible to escape.

  Straightening, her back a bar of pain from the lifting and hauling. The quarry was just a jumble of boulders and slightly smaller rocks, a pile at each end of a gluey sea of frozen mud. They were supposed to be paving it, but the overseers couldn’t decide which end they wanted all the rocks piled at first. On some days it was the north end, others it was the south, and the only constant was that you had to haul at top speed. She’d worked her way to the edge, the battered red wheelbarrow with its half-flat tire zigging and zagging drunkenly. As soon as she arrived on the far end, she realized why she’d fixated on this one particular rock.

  Suicide Alley was right there, the strip alongside the electrified fence. She could bolt, and if they didn’t shoot her before she reached the beaten-flat dust, she could throw herself on the wire. A little zap, a little muscle firing, a lot of burn, and she could be done. Electrocution wasn’t gentle, but at least the fence was quick. If she gripped it right, the muscle contractions would keep her there for long enough to overload her heart. Oh, they’d shoot her too, and the smell of roasting flesh would puff out in steam-smoke coils. Just two days ago—or was it three, time moved so strangely she couldn’t decide—another kampog had taken that way out, gone almost as soon as he touched the wires. A collection of bones, jitter-dancing on the current.