by JCH Rigby
“Lucy Chang, just like it says.” She was still smiling as I looked at the slate, confirming the picture was her. The kid pulled at her hand again. “Wait, Molly, sweetheart. We have to wait.” Lucy said to her in mild exasperation.
“Thumbprint again, please.” I said trying to sound nonchalant.
Lucy hit the pad once more and the slate confirmed her ID. I was trying to think of something smart to ask her which might involve a phone number, when a fleeting glimpse of bright yellow over her shoulder caught my eye. My boredom vanished. The other side of the busy walkway—a man in a yellow jacket. A yellow jacket and very black hair.
I thrust the slate back at Lucy Chang any thoughts of chatting her up forgotten as I started to shove people aside, shouting into my comms set as I struggled forward through the crowd. My rifle came up into the shoulder and my hand went to the safety. The crowd of civilians around me parting like I was Moses when they saw my weapon being raised.
“Control. Scan over here. I’m onto him!”
My skin crawled with the unease that’s always there when you lose sight of the rest of the section. My comrades too far away to reach Yellow Jacket before he’d be gone. I flicked my comms set onto public address as my eyes continued to search.
“Gunman! Down!” It seemed the best way to get the message across.
Civilians dropped to the floor or dove behind tables. Across a sea of crouching figures, Yellow Jacket bent down, dragging dark shapes out from a bag. He came up wearing a facelet mask, and started to hurl handfuls of tiny spheres in all directions.
The riot gas billowed out and the crowd instantly became uncontrollable. Swelling like a wave they rose and spread out in panic, scattering tables and chairs in the rush to get away. A brief impression of Lucy Chang standing there, shouting, but I couldn’t see her kid, Molly, anywhere. My eyes streamed, and my lungs heaved. I struggled to retrieve my own face-shield from its pouch.
Far too slow. Yellow Jacket appeared out of the gases haze a big old combat shotgun coming up into the air before my hands were back on my rifle. I should have dropped him first. I dived to the ground, scrambling for cover behind the spindly little bushes. I was as good as out in the open.
Here it comes.
Chapter EIGHT
Armed, Loose, and Looking Different
The boom of the shotgun almost deafens me, pieces of pot and fragments of branches rain down around my head and shoulders. He must be a crap shot. I can’t believe I haven’t had my ass shot off. Why the hell isn’t one of the others firing back? I take a quick glance, but Yellow Jackets disappeared again. Where do I move to next?
Everything seems to have slowed down. Squinting around the now-half-bald bush, I can see Andy Norris and Harry Green flattened against walls, trying for a clear shot while the rest start to shepherd the civvies out of the way.
“Friendly forward units under fire! Moving to cover friendly forward units.” The Hoplite came screaming into the mall, its machine voice filling the section radio net, its dome-sight spinning, hunting for something to kill. Useless bloody thing—why couldn’t it take the obvious shot five seconds ago? Now it’s just an unpredictable hazard to everybody else.
The crowd isn’t badmouthing us anymore, everyone’s trying to get the hell away instead. I can’t see Sassy Bradley anywhere. To my left, Ann Holmes is trying to coax a terrified group out from behind some steps, and away to the protection of the mall. To my right, Ric Miller, the deputy section commander, has spotted the little blonde girl Molly wandering loose, and he’s struggling to reach her through the crush of civvies heading for the exits. I search for Molly’s mother without success, she’ll have to take her chances with the rest.
The noise is extreme. There’s an unreality about seeing firearms being used in a crowded shopping mall. I spot Yellow Jacket. It’s weird, as well as bloody scary. I’m hyper-aware of everything and everyone. It seems as if I can feel lines through the air, lines leading from everyone’s weapons toward Yellow Jacket. Lines from the shotgun he’s brandishing at me and the others. Lines from the Hoplite to bloody everywhere. Cross one of those lines and I’ll die.
And everything’s still in that dreamlike slow motion. Chips of concrete are spalling off the walls around Yellow Jacket where he’s taking fire from Andy and Harry, and clouds of gas are unraveling gracefully from everywhere the riot gas spheres landed.
“Lay down your firearm. Comply or face lethal force.” Comes the booming voice of the Hoplite’s external speakers. What the hell are we throwing at him if it’s not lethal force? “Lay down your firearm. You will be killed if you continue to resist.” The Hoplite doesn’t seem to have noticed we’ve already been trying quite hard to kill him.
Yellow Jacket cracks a couple of shots at the Hoplite. One of the big slugs whangs off its armor and hits a wall behind me.
At last the stupid flying bucket makes up its mind and opens fire on Yellow Jacket, or at any rate on the spot where he had been a second before. It comes forward to hang in the air ten feet over my head, I dare not move in case it decides I’m the threat.
Scores of coughing, crying people are climbing over each other, trying to get away from the dangerous open spaces. Somewhere the shotgun is still booming, but it sounds a little further away now. I can’t see who’s under fire. I come up into the aim, searching for a target. Dammit. The eye shields keep misting up.
There are still dozens of civilians in the area, sheltering under tables and chairs, and I can see at least five bodies. People are wedged into every doorway and every fold in the walls, sobbing and screaming with fear. The gas is clearing, although there’s still a grey cloud hanging just below the ceiling, and I realize the shotgun has stopped. Maybe the bloody Hoplite got him. Whatever the reason, the machine seems to have lost interest and shoved off somewhere else. Thank God for that, at least. Everyone holds still for a moment as an uneasy silence descends on the mall. It looks as if it’s all over. Across the terrace, Harry Green stands up.
A clattering roar rips through the silence, an autogun opens fire from an upper level in the mall near a travellator. Harry is flung backwards across the floor, leaving a trail of blood across the marble.
ASSAULT THE AMBUSH! WE'RE all slap in the killing zone. Speed and aggression are the only way out. Where’s that sodding Hoplite, now that it’s needed? I get some fire going back at the gun—in moments the block of caseless ammunition in my rifle is shrinking, but finally I’ve got a target. The menu tells me I’ve got thirty rounds left before I need to reload, and how many blocks I’ve got in each ammo pouch.
Ann and Sassy both break cover heading for the travellator nearest to the firing point. They’ve got a hell of a lot of bottle, but they were closest, and someone has to do it.
I catch a glimpse of Yellow Jacket at the bottom of the travellator, and I change my aim and start to squeeze off a round. Shit — too slow again. A child’s head appears in my sights, and I ease off the trigger. It’s the little blonde kid, Molly—she’s heading across the killing zone, her cries sounding like wales and tears streaming from red rimmed eyes. Shit, I thought Ric had her.
Yellow Jacket grabs her, lifts her up across his chest in one arm, catching sight of me he points the shotgun my way. Molly is screaming now. Everyone stops firing. Yellow Jacket blasts off at me one-handed, way off target, backing onto the travellator, crouching down to use the child as a human shield. The travellator carries the pair of them steadily upwards and away. Fantastic. Now he’s got a hostage, and we’ll need to follow before he holes up somewhere.
Ann and Sassy are at the bottom of the belt now using its metal sides for cover, pausing there for a second before Ann springs up to fire at the autogun. I hope the kid’s clear of this. Sassy sprints forward, dodging behind Ann, takes a quick look up the belt and then dives onto it, going up and out of my sight. Time to back them up.
There’s a lot of sobbing and shouting from the terrified civvies going on, I ignore it. In m
y head-set I can hear Andy giving a contact report. Good. The rest of the platoon is almost here. The company commander should send us some serious backup. Then, for a moment, there’s silence on the net. Either I’ve lost comms, or nobody’s talking. The mall must be full of power and data cabling. Maybe something’s interfering with our comms system.
Andy appears next to me; he’s pointing urgently at the travellator and he mouths, “Are you ready?” I can hear rounds from the autogun passing close over our heads. I wonder who’s the target. Those lines again—it has to be Ric Miller.
The autogun is somewhere above us, like Yellow Jacket is now, and our covers become useless. We’ve got to clear way out of the killing zone or we’re all dead.
The comms net comes to life again. Andy looks right in my eyes and I catch the end of what he’s been saying.
“…to move!”
We’re next. I take a deep breath.
“Move!” Shouts Andy
Together we dash headlong for the travellator, flinging ourselves onto on our bellies as we reach it. I don’t like it. We’re lying on the moving belt, being fed steadily toward the far end, with no way off. We can’t see anything over its high sides only the empty space at the far end. I’m convinced either Yellow Jacket or the still-invisible gun crew will appear at the top any second, if that happens we won’t have a chance. What’s happened to Ann and Sassy? My stomach’s churning and my guts feel loose.
Reload. I realize I should take the opportunity to swap ammo blocks, straight away I’m fumbling to get the fresh block out of my ammo pouch. We’re nearing the crown of the travellator, I’ve got my left hand half-trapped in the pouch and my right hand is busy holding the rifle off the travellator belt. I’ve got seven rounds left in the weapon and I’m about to assault a machine gun one-handed. I’m screwing this up.
Abruptly my hand comes free, dropping the near empty block out of my rifle and onto the travellator, slapping the fresh block into the rifles housing. One in the chamber gives me sixty-one rounds of caseless in the weapon. I come up into a crouch, slapping the offending pouch closed. The moving belt dumps us out in the middle of the mall’s next level, and I dive across the walkway to some cover. For a second, I don’t see where Andy goes. I notice my hand is bleeding a bit where I dragged it clear of the pouch.
The autogun has stopped firing. No sign of Sassy or Ann, or Yellow Jacket, or the child. What the hell?
ANDY COVERS ME. I head away from the travellator, going right, toward where I thought the autogun was, and yes, I’m petrified. Nothing. I spin around, facing back the other way. No gun, just a few more frightened civilians crouching against the low safety wall. I hold my hand out, palm toward them: Stay still. I squat down into the cover of a fold in the wall.
“Steve!” Andy is shouting for me. I look back and he’s pointing further along the mall, the other way, to where Ann is just visible in the doorway of a shop. This floor looks somehow crappier, kind of dingy and forgotten, more like street-level. At a quick glance, about half of the shops I can see are closed and shuttered. The lights on this floor are sparser, so there are a lot of deep patches of shadow. Ann is lurking in one of them.
Andy leans out cautiously and gives her the thumbs up. She waves back. Comms reception is still bad, I can barely hear her voice in my headset. My damn pouch flaps open again, and I fiddle with it for a second trying to secure it without success, then leave it alone. No time for that. I need to concentrate on making out what Ann is saying.
“Sassy’s in here. This must be where the autogun was. Angle of fire from here would be about right. Maybe they moved as we came up the slide. Can’t see the kid, and there’s no sign of anyone else.”
The six-round ammo block I dropped is flipping around at the end of the belt, catching on the metal trim but not bouncing high enough to bounce clear onto the mall floor. It catches my eye and I wonder if it’s worthwhile grabbing for it. In the unexpected silence, I can hear it going tick-tack-tick-tack as the belt endlessly bashes it into the floor’s lip. I wish it was in my bloody pouch instead.
Andy is back on the comms giving his orders. “Stay there. I’m coming in. Steve, go past Ann. Go firm a couple of doors further down the mall.”
It seems Yellow Jacket has gone, taking his autogun crew with him. Follow-up or clear out? Not my decision. Probably not Andy’s now, either. Screw the ammo block. Time to move and I head off at a cautious trot for the position Andy had identified.
SO,WHAT THE HELL happened to Yellow Jacket and little Molly—and whoever is working the autogun? I’ve finally got the pouch sorted out, and I’m in a pretty good fire position, so I take a moment to look around at things. From this doorway, I can see right over the wall at the other side of the walkway and down to the lower terrace.
Below us, the remaining two ’glasses of our platoon have arrived and dropped off the rest of the guys. They’re putting out local perimeter security and seeing to the wounded. The platoon commander’s Lancer has lifted off again, which means Junior Boss, our pet name for the ridiculously young deputy platoon commander, is on the ground here with the rest of us. The remainder of the platoon has mostly pushed the crowds back out of the way. I can see Ric coming across the floor at a run, heading for the travellator to join us. Lucy Chang is struggling to free herself from an older man in civilian clothes grasp. Screaming and shouting for Molly at the top of her voice. Up on this level of the mall there’s just us, spread along this higher walkway, wondering where all the bad guys have gone.
A 'GLASS FROM THE back-up platoon is waiting close in to drop off more troops, another two are circling a little way off. There’s a lot of engine noise and whop-whop-whop from the ‘glass’ blades. The glass’ are bobbing and dodging, chin-guns swiveling hunting for a target. The platoon commander’s departing Lancer dodges a Gallowglass and nearly tail-rotors the wall of the building above me. Best you keep an eye on your pilot, Boss. I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing. Probably distracted. There’s a lot of talk on the net; too much, I guess.
It’s not bright to stay in the same place too long, so I move from the shop doorway a little, and settle into a new spot alongside another scruffy planter with some more bushes in it. Good cover from view, even if I stand up. Good cover from fire if I stay low. I still don’t know where Yellow Jacket and his shotgun are, so I lay down on my belly.
I'M LYING FLAT ON THE the floor behind the planter, looking at nothing in particular and realizing I’m not contributing much. I can just hear the instructor back when I was a recruit: “In a fire fight you’re either firing, observing, or moving so you can do one or the other. If you’re not doing any one of those, you’re a useless bleeding passenger.”
I get my ass into gear and straighten up for a proper look. Straight away my eyes are drawn to a bundle wedged into the bushes in the planter. There’s a piece of shiny brown cloth in there. I prod at it cautiously with the end of my rifle, seeing something yellow. It’s a jacket, folded in on itself so only the brown lining shows, stuffed in here out of sight. Reflexively, I pull it out for a better look realizing as I’m doing it that stupid people do obvious things. Booby-trapped?
I’m luckier than I deserve. Instead of having my arm blown off, I uncover a black wig. But no combat shotgun. I get straight on the net to spread the word our man is on the loose, still armed, and looking different.
What the hell did he look like now? Then another thought occurs. How obvious was that yellow jacket and black wig? Why still wear them if you’re on the run? I have a quick chat with Andy, and he agrees. We’ve been suckered. They wanted us here.
Andy’s voice cuts through the babble on the net. “All stations, this is Two Five. It’s a bloody come-on. Back everyone off and move the ’glass out of here!”
Too late. A tremendous whooshing roar drowns out his warning, and the store window disintegrates alongside me. A volley of high velocity red streaks heralds the launching of anti-aircraft missiles bursts from the sh
op and across the mall and off the edge of the terrace, leaving balls of smoke in its wake, one smashes into Jonesy’s ‘glass.
I’m blown backwards across the floor. Glass and bits of wall and ceiling tiles and all kinds of crap are flying through the air toward me. I crash into something solid and I feel a rib give way. In a flash there’s an image of Andy, looking back in shock from the far side of the shop. There are flames everywhere, and my arms feel like they’re on fire where I threw them over my eyes. My ears are ringing, and I can’t hear anything else. I can taste thick, acrid smoke.
I drag myself up onto my knees, still taking a load of hits from the flying shit, just as the tilt-engine falls free from one stubby wing of a ’glass causing the flitter to disappear down out of sight, spiraling a trail of smoke and debris. I register a frozen snapshot of Dave Hart framed in the door, his mouth open in a scream as they drop from view on their way fifty stories down to the street. Above and further away, a pair of missiles hurtles upwards. The boss’s Lancer is going into an evasion maneuver, decoy flares popping from its pods. Too slow; the missiles hit it front and rear, and fling the burning wreckage up into a thrashing dance before dropping it onto the terrace edge.
Rotor blades spiral loose from the engines; one of them, spinning like a blade from a giant food mixer, is coming straight toward this upper level with a whirring noise. I throw myself flat as it passes by me and clangs into the far wall, thrashing around and around before clattering to a halt.
I shakily regain my feet. Probably a mistake. There are little fires everywhere. My hearing must be coming back as I can make out the crackle of the flames. Leaking fuel is spreading out in a pool around the café tables from the downed ‘glass. This is about to get worse.
