Civil Blood_The Vampire Rights Trial that Changed a Nation

by Chris Hepler

  The boneless body drapes itself across Ebe's calf, and the F-prot whirls at the sensation. He sees the culprit, but just as he brings the gun around, the newcomer holds it at bay and stabs a tiny pistol under Ebe's chin.

  With a sudden crack, Ebe's helmet jerks. No bullet hole emerges from the top—it's tough enough to catch the round and to let it ricochet around in his skull. Ebe falls, and his killer falls with him. I clear out of the way on instinct, and only as he hits the tile do I take in the full view.

  It's Roland. I know his coat and his miniature gun even before he strips off his ski mask. He looks as if he did it to gasp for air because he's weak and supporting himself on all threes.

  I have a million questions, foremost, how the hell he got in here looking like he's about to rob a bank, but I remember he has some kind of spell to help with that. Never mind the most pressing thing: he looks like he's about to gush out a gallon of blood. I immediately go to him.

  "Holy shit, are you all right?"

  "No, but I sincerely hope you are. Grab the other two. They're not dead."

  I shoot a glance at Jessica, who is still supporting Morgan. It's up to me. I steal a look outside and, satisfied that no one is coming, throw both cops onto Morgan's cushion. I strip them of their weapons and buckle the restraints over them. It'll be tough to stand and move.

  Jessica puts Morgan down and dials up her stimweb. "Here," she says, taking Roland's hand. "I can help." He looks at her as though she's offering a dead fish, but he takes it anyway.

  "So," Jessica says conversationally as I work, "I guess I misjudged your loyalties."

  "If I were judging people for mistakes," answers Roland, "I'd start with myself for not bringing a tank battalion."

  "How'd you get in?"

  "Lured out their biomancers. They're in a Dumpster. I have a key card, a function, and a wicked hea… oof." He stops leaning on his hand. There's color in his cheeks again.

  "Now for Morgan, or we're never getting out of here." She puts a hand on the vipe and takes a long, cleansing breath as she begins to work. "And Roland, I'd appreciate your being up-front about what this rescue is going to cost us."

  "Jess," I warn, annoyed.

  "My price," Roland says, "is a five-minute conversation, starting sometime when we're not in the middle of a felony."

  I'm about to say "done," but I hesitate, wondering what it is that Roland knows. His eyes are on me, not Jessica or Morgan, and that says volumes. If he's here for me, that means—

  Cass's voice comes over the PA system. "This is a message to all you fucking cops," it says, and I know it's a bad idea as soon as the words hit my ears. "You want to fight someone, fight me. I'm the one killing your boys at the front desk."

  The gunfire echoes through the entire hospital, and I find myself watching Roland's face. Does a part of him die inside when he knows a vipe has killed, and he can't stop it?

  When he speaks, it's business. "Tell me he isn't part of your plan."

  "We're going to slip out in the chaos."

  "The chaos of a lockdown?"

  I don't need negativity. "I'm taking Ebe's armor. Unless you object?"

  "I'd prefer we take his house, but this will do." The moment in which I might have said a soft word to Roland disappears. Disappointment hits me, but focused and angry is just how I need him.

  "We need to get to Deborah," I say. "She was at a one-way door."

  "Agreed. Jessica, get Morgan on the gurney. We'll cover ahead and behind."

  A raspy voice startles me, and my mind pieces together the statement after it's done. It's Morgan, saying, "Can this guy get us out?"

  I have fears, which I promptly slap aside. I need to encase myself in Ebe's armor and hope the ballistic pants don't fall down while I'm running.

  "Yes, get on the bed already," I order. "Jess—mask."

  "Looking normal is our best bet," Jess warns.

  "Can't do it in mixed company." I thumb over at Roland, who is obviously not here to play doctor. The paralyzed men have uniforms but not a helmet like Ebe. I pick up the F-prot's rifle, and it beeps at me, a light turning red.

  "Biometric safety," Roland says. "F-prot special. It only works for him."

  "It's for show," I say and substitute my pistol for Ebe's in the holster. "Come on, we've been here way too long."

  We half-run, half-shuffle down the halls. I attempt to balance watching the rear with keeping up with the long-legged Roland. Jessica hustles as best as she can, pushing Morgan along until mercifully we reach the one-way door. It's still open—Ebe came from another direction.

  Realizing I'm now a friendly-fire incident waiting to happen, I click on my headset. "Deborah!" I shout, forgetting to use the call sign. "We've got him."

  "Who the hell is this?" asks Deborah, directing herself to Roland.

  "Inside man," says the hitmage, in the same tone as eat it. "Time to go."

  Deborah looks for confirmation from me, and I nod. "Nice to give me some warning," she grouses, and then we are on the move. The door, allowed to shut for the first time in minutes, clunks solidly, and the alarm shuts off.

  "Finally," says Jessica.

  "Your distraction seems to have worked," says Roland, "but it won't last."

  "You got a plan?" challenges Deborah. "'Cause if I saw you dragging Morgan out, I'd check credentials, uniform or not."

  "We need to get to the ground floor to get out. There's cameras in the elevators. Now, they might all be going for the front desk, but we must assume they aren't. First, we send a team up in the stairwell to scout and draw any fire. Then, a team with Morgan goes up in the elevator. We both make a beeline for… do you have a vehicle?"

  "Yeah," I say into the headset. "Ferrero, get ready. We don't know where we're coming out, but we're going for the first floor. Do you copy?"

  "Just tell me when to pull up."

  "Not yet." I glance to Roland's cold eyes. "I'm with you in the stairwell, right?" He nods.

  "Jess is going to need someone to cover her," says Deborah.

  I hold out my pistol. Deborah looks at it in fear.

  "Can you do this?" I ask.

  Deborah slides her camera phone into her pocket and gingerly takes the pistol. "I guess now is a bad time to say I hate guns—"

  "I hate funerals," I say. "Take it."

  "Avoid whomever you can," orders Roland, "and play innocent. Use the pistol when you have surprise. Give us a full minute to get their attention. Then, go."

  60 - BREUNIG

  My whole team hears the gunfire over the PA. I try to contact al-Ibrahim, but the ominous silence lets me draw the obvious conclusion.

  "Black One, this is Red One. Request permission to move to front desk."

  I speak up quickly. "Negative. Hold position."

  "Saying again. Red One is offering medical assistance to downed teammates," insists Olsen.

  I hesitate. The last I heard of Ebe, he hadn't even been going for the front desk. Had he gotten that far out of position? "Black and Red, I say again. Hold position until Briar Team has eyes on front desk. Identity of wounded unconfirmed." I switch channels to hear what the Greenbriar forces are doing. "Briar Team, this is—"

  "—holy fucking shit. We have fire. There's fire on the floor—"

  I hear gunfire. Another voice. "Officer down. Officer down—"

  "—he's got suppressing fire—"

  "—get us crashcarts. We need them on the first floor—"

  "Do not try to rescue wounded. Repeat, do not try. He can see you—"

  "—where the hell are those armored guys?"

  I want to stand there stunned, but I trained myself out of that long ago. "Briar Team, this is Black One. I am en route to front desk."

  "What did you say?" asks Kern incredulously.

  "I am en route to the front desk," I go cold. The more I take control, the calmer I get. "Me, not you. You are going to maintain a safe distance."

  "Well, seeing as you're my only escort, I'm sure as he
ll not staying here."

  "I understand that," I say carefully. "So, I think we'd better review something real fast." I show Kern a hand signal. "This means stop." Another. "This is find cover. Somewhere other than directly behind me. This last one is retreat."

  "Look, all that is undoubtedly useful," says Kern, "but—"

  I don't give him a chance. "We do not abandon each other. Not for love, not for money. I will get you out of here, but that means I need to coordinate both our teams, or else they will get overrun. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," says Kern.

  "Yes, what?"

  "Yes, I understand." He's irritable.

  "What's this?" I order, bringing my hand up.

  "Stop."

  I signal again. "Retreat," says Kern.

  "Now, we're talking." I trigger my channel switch. "Briar Team is engaging and needs direction. Black One is assisting. Cargo will maintain dispersement, and then Black One exfiltrates in a controlled manner."

  "We're going to support Briar Team?" asks Yarborough.

  "No. Black Three and Red One stay in position. You are mission-critical right where you are. Moving out." I head off before they chatter about how tactically unsound this can get. There are vipes who could be coming at us from any direction.

  What I need are the extra eyes of the security forces. If we continue on in a panicked mess, and there are many vipes, we will be divided and conquered. And I must assume many vipes, or we're all dead.

  I cover the halls and stairwell with my M12 as well as I can until we reach the ground floor. I hesitate at the sprinklers. To go through the stairwell door is to enter a rain of water, and I can smell why—there's smoke here, billowing and stinging to the eyes.

  "Briar Team, can we get Plant Operations to shut down the sprinklers?" I don't need visibility problems and weapon misfires at a time like this.

  "Negative, there is fire on the floor," comes an insistent voice. They aren't talking about gunfire. The vipe sons of bitches are arsonists, too.

  The hell with it. I signal for Kern to stop, cover my carbine with my body and run into the spray. Down a hallway, I spot Greenbriar security. Four of them, huddled against the wall, soldiers in a trench afraid of going over the top. I reach them in seconds. They've found a comfortable puddle in between the water sprays. Even through my armor, I feel heat coming from around a graceful bend in the hallway. It's not a genuine corner. Corners have concealment.

  "Are you the only cavalry?" grunts an officer.

  "Situation," I say.

  "They're dug in behind the front desk, lots of ammo and firebombs. There's three of ours down on the floor between us and them. Can you give us covering fire?"

  Great. I'm kitted out in full-body armor, true, but ballistic cloth doesn't make me Superman. A stray round to the head or the knee, a high-powered rifle round at a seam—these things are the marks of mistakes, not a well-executed plan.

  "What's that desk made of?"

  "Polycarbonates and flak sheets," says one. "We're supposed to be the ones behind it."

  "Jesus," I spit. "Okay, I'm going around to get a look, then coming right back. Stay behind cover. Fire to secure my retreat." They nod.

  I stick the M12 out as far as I dare and pull the trigger for a short burst, feeling it lurch. I yank on the trigger twice more, hurry out and see what's there. Glass glistens across the tile, lit by pools of fire beneath choking smoke. The fire hasn't spread to the walls—on the cold tile, nothing burns but its own fuel—but the downed officers are in that inferno and beyond hope. I keep sidestepping, keep shooting, then dive back as the officers shelter me with their pistols. My foot skids on glass and water, and I count myself lucky—

  Glass shatters, and released flame roars. This firebomb hits farther than the others, only a few feet away. The sprinklers' drops do nothing to the gasoline fire but send it spiking upward.

  I look back to see if Kern followed, but he hasn't. Good. He should be nowhere near this.

  "Did you see them?" asks the man next to me. "Did you see the vipes?"

  "No," I say. "I don't need to. Here's our plan."

  61 - INFINITY

  I pound up the stairs ahead of Roland. He's not at a hundred percent, but I'm not bringing that up. I flatten against the first-floor exit, trying to locate the distant gunfire by sound.

  "You hear anything?" Roland says. I hold a finger to my lips.

  "Shoes coming closer. And I smell smoke."

  I quietly step back and ready the carbine like a club. I don't want to kill, but if they come through that door with a gun, what I want will matter as much as a spit gob in the Pacific. The sound of the shoes pounds on my heart, and when at last they recede, I draw in a long, slow breath to celebrate the moment. I draw open the door gingerly, hoping not to be noticed.

  For my virtue, I get a face shield full of water and nostrils full of smoke.

  Instinctively, I back up, and Roland takes my place, attempting to cover both ends of the hallway while getting wetted down. He, too, retreats and lets the door clunk shut.

  "We need another exit," he says. "One without guards."

  I seize on an idea. "Second-floor windows."

  "Yes." We run up another flight and out into the hallway. The stench of smoke is bad here. It can't be helped. Morgan might handle a slog up two flights of stairs and a jump down—anything more is in question.

  We break for a corridor that goes north-south instead of east-west, hoping we'll hit windows sooner. I find the hall ends in a drab stretch of drywall, and I turn my wrath on an office door. It has a little touch-screen to punch in a code, but I kick right where the door lock bolts it to the frame. My boot and bones hold, and the door splinters and caves.

  Inside, there's an office with a window big enough to get through. I dump the rifle and grab the swivel chair in one motion. I smack the window. The glass busts, but the chair twists in my hands. I drop it.

  The window is shattered, yet it holds. The shards stick in place, adhered to each other.

  "What the fuck?"

  "Security laminate," says Roland, urgently looking it up and down. "They didn't want vipes getting out."

  "Can you get through it?"

  "We don't want to," he says. "Look." He points at a small, white plastic circle in the window. "Alarm. They'll converge here soon."

  "This just gets better and better." I snatch up the useless rifle and reach for my headset. "Alpha, we need to regroup." I get no sound. I fiddle with it. "Alpha? Bravo? Come in."

  "Did your mike get wet?" Roland says, pointing. I take off the helmet. The face shield has sluiced the water down to where the adjuster clips to my collar.

  "Fuck. Go." We turn and run back through the stench, clearing the hall just as the sprinklers come on for this level as well. Roland is coughing and panting by the time we make it to the stairwell. I wish for a windshield wiper on the helmet and look him over.

  "You going to be okay?"

  "I have to be."

  I take point. We hammer down the stairs. We burst into the first basement hallway, looking for Ulan, Deborah, and Morgan.

  No one is there.

  "Oh, peachy…" I say. We can't get out. We can't fight. We can't even stay together.

  "They gave us a minute," Roland says. "It's been two and a half."

  I have a sinking feeling. "Don't elevators stop on the floor with the fire?" I try to remember. I always thought I'd have to use that factoid to save my own life, not someone else's.

  "Jess would know. She might have looked for another way up."

  "We need to find her—"

  "We need an exit," he insists.

  "Yeah," I say. I know I can't give up, even when I'm beaten, but leading is pointless. Running I understand. "Let's go."

  62 - CASS

  I let the receptionist go. I'm here to fight hardasses. You don't get an honor guard to Valhalla because you blow away some kid on her internship. When they sacrifice enemies on your pyre like the Greeks did fo
r Achilles, it's warriors or maybe a princess or two to deny the enemy a chance at an alliance. I'm not getting a public funeral, but I might content myself with twenty-four hours of coverage on national news somewhere.

  I've raided the bodies for a vest and weapons and ammo. I'm waiting. Haribon in one hand, a cop's SIG-Sauer in the other. The last Molotov cocktail is out of the bag and near my lighter on the desk. It was getting wet from the sprinklers, but the gauze stuck into the neck of the bottle is so soaked in gas that it'll light when the time comes. I can smell the stink of everything: bitter smoke, sweat from my lip, and blood on the floor. The raining water is trouble—besides the distracting spray on my head, it's hard to hear above the splashing. And the hall is cloaked in smoke and fire, so watching for motion is difficult. What the guards haven't figured out is that they've got hard-soled shoes on, so I can hear them fine.

  It's that SWAT-armored fucker in his rubber-soled boots who I'm wary of. I lobbed that last cocktail far down the hall in the hopes of splashing him. It didn't. It's a good thing I'm only playing for a stalemate.

  Footsteps. I hunker down behind the desk and aim at the faux-corner of the lobby where I know they'll be coming, only to hear the steps come to an abrupt halt.

  No uniforms come around the corner. They're just out of sight. It's not good. I've got basic training, range time, and paintball games to draw on for experiences. They probably have the same, plus actual gunfights.

  Suddenly, another alarm whoops, different from the one Infinity's team set off. I nearly fire off a shot in anticipation. They're masking their approach or maybe their retreat. My eyes narrow the world down to tunnel vision, ready for anything to come around that one brick curve.

  What I see is a hand.

  It flashes out there for half a second, and I pull the trigger. The Haribon bucks, but there's no way of telling if the bullet hits its target. The hand disappears, and only after it's gone do I realize it waved at me. I'm being toyed with, and I fell for it.