by Weston Ochse
“And you just gave it access to your brain. Mason, how could you? It lured you. It tried to capture you. It probably read your thoughts.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Dammit, Mason, this was what Olivares talked to you about. You’re our leader. You can’t just go off doing things on your own. You can never tell when they’ll affect us.”
Fucking hell. First Olivares and now Ohirra, and they were both right. “You’re totally right. I felt a sort of assimilation happening. I was becoming part of a larger whole. I think the Master is using the fungees for their brain capacity.”
“But you said it spoke to you.”
“Remember, when I was a fungee I still had full brain function. All of my autonomous functions were still my own, including thinking. Do you think maybe the purpose of the fungees isn’t only to infect, but to gather so that they—we—could be used later by the Masters?”
“The real question is, did it get the mission parameters?”
I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think it works that way. I don’t think it got anything useful.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It stands to reason that if it knew, then it would also know my location and send Cray to stop us.” I got to my feet. “Stranz, any movement?”
“Nothing, sir,” he said, without turning. “Glad you’re back, sir.”
I walked over and slapped the back of his EXO. “Me too, Sergeant.” I spun to Ohirra. “I can hear your thoughts. Maybe it’s lying in wait. Maybe it knows our mission but not our location. All good ideas and all valid. But unless we’re going to hang out here to discuss them further, we need to Charlie Mike. Is that good for you?”
Ohirra nodded, clearly unhappy. She approached me in her EXO, making me aware of how much larger she was in her suit. “If you want to lead, then lead. That means don’t go anywhere we can’t follow.”
“You’re right. I got it. Now, are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Good,” I said, clapping my hands together. “So where are we?”
Sula gave a report. “In a 99 Cent Store off Sunset, east of the 101. We’re a mile and a half away from the Metro entrance. All three of us are at or around thirty-five percent power, and we have half of our ammunition left.” She reached down and picked a harmonic blade off the ground. “And here’s your sword.”
I found the sheath, slid the blade into it, and slung it across my back.
“Then let’s go.”
When I saw Sula hold out her arms for me to climb on, I shook my head.
“I’m on foot the rest of the way. This close to the hive, we need everyone ready.” I glanced at Ohirra. “Especially if the enemy knows we’re coming.”
Our land is everything to us... I will tell you one of the things we remember on our land. We remember that our grandfathers paid for it—with their lives.
John Wooden Leg, Cheyenne
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
IT WAS AS dark as I’d ever seen it outside. The moon was hidden by clouds. Except for the illuminated displays inside the EXO helmets, there wasn’t a single man-made light for miles. I turned back to the team. Even though they towered over me, I was still the boss, and as such, I felt the need to say a few words before the final push.
“So this is my Saint Crispin’s Day speech,” I began, gazing at each one in turn.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a word, Stranz asked, “Who’s St. Crispin?”
I paused; I actually had no idea. I just remembered the speech. I looked plaintively at Ohirra, who thankfully spoke up.
“Who St. Crispin was isn’t as important as the speech,” she said. I nodded for her to continue as she glanced at me. “King Henry V gave his men a speech on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt. England was outnumbered five to one. The French had thirty-six thousand troops while the English only numbered about eight thousand.”
“Jesus,” Stranz said. “Talk about walking into a slaughter.”
“Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred,” Sula murmured.
“Kipling,” I noted.
But Sula corrected me. “Tennyson,” she said.
Ohirra nodded. “‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ England didn’t fare so well there. Six hundred light cavalry were sent against more than twenty thousand Russians during the Crimean War.”
“So far this is a sucky speech,” Stranz said. “We know we’re outnumbered. You don’t have to rub it in.”
I couldn’t help a grin. Stranz was right. I needed to see if I could save it. “Shakespeare commemorated the speech in the play Henry V,” I said. “I saw the movie version and every time I see it again, the speech gives me chills. Sure, it talks about being outnumbered, but it also talks about pride. What was it the King said, Ohirra—the fewer the men, the greater the share of honor?”
She nodded. “It was the idea that the English didn’t need as many men as the French because they were intrinsically better. Don’t forget this was the first large-scale battle in which the English longbow was used. The French didn’t know what to do. The arrows crippled them.”
“The French lost something like ten thousand men while the English lost less than two hundred,” I added.
“Seriously?” Stranz seemed stunned.
Sula let out a low whistle.
“They had better weapons, just like we do,” I said.
“So what does St. Crispin’s Day have to do with it?” Stranz asked.
“It was used as a touch point, a date to mark their destined victory. I actually memorized this one stanza: He that shall live this day and see old age, will yearly on the vigil say to his neighbors that ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispin.’ Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ It’s the idea that they’d survive, and that everyone who wasn’t part of the battle would wish they had been.”
“And it worked?” Stranz asked.
“The English won pretty convincingly,” Ohirra commented.
“Then again, it could be the more advanced weapons they were using,” I said.
“How many Cray do you think there are?” Sula asked.
I shrugged. “Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”
“How do we know this isn’t more like the Charge of the Light Brigade?” Stranz asked.
I looked to Ohirra to answer that one and she immediately jumped in. “The Charge was against several battalions of artillery, and many thousands of rifles. It was really a hopeless gesture.”
Sula closed her eyes and spoke. “Cannon to right of them. Cannon to left of them. Cannon behind them. Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell. While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well.” When she opened her eyes again, she saw we were all staring at her. “One of the poems we had to memorize in English Lit. I also had to memorize ‘The Raven.’ Want to hear that?”
I chuckled. “No thanks. I just didn’t know I was in the midst of so many literary grunts.” I glanced at Stranz.
“Don’t look at me. I peaked at Green Eggs and Ham.”
“I will not eat them with the Cray. I will not eat them any day. I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam I am.”
Stranz grinned. “Hey, that’s good.”
Sula nodded and added, “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”
Stranz shook his head. “I’ve always thought that’s a stupid name for a raven. Never understood why there had to be a poem about it either.”
I stared at Stranz for a long moment, then broke into laughter. Sula joined. Stranz did too, even though he didn’t know why. Even Ohirra joined in. When I was done, I wiped tears from my eyes.
I surveyed my team of grunts. I couldn’t have been more proud. “You ready to go kill some Cray?”
All three grunts shouted, “Huah!”
I turned to head out the door and heard Stranz say, “Turned out to be a pretty good speech after all.”
I grinned as I slipped
into the Los Angeles night.
The suicide bomber’s imagination leads him to believe in a brilliant act of heroism, when in fact he is simply blowing himself up pointlessly and taking other people’s lives.
Salman Rushdie
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
STRANZ AND OHIRRA hugged the buildings on either side of the street about thirty meters forward of where Sula walked with me down the center of the road. Silence was a must. I’d ordered harmonic blades drawn. This close to the hive, we’d have every Cray in the area on us if we so much as capped off a single round.
I missed being able to check everyone’s status and observe what they were seeing through their feeds. This was old-school leadership—like being back in Iraq or Afghanistan, but with aliens instead of IEDs.
One thing was for sure. Whatever had taken over my brain hadn’t been able to divine the nature of our mission. I’m certain if it had, it would have sent the Cray to attack us. For all I knew, the Master didn’t even see us as intelligent, or any different from a dog or cat, or any other animal running around on Earth.
At Normandie, we turned north until we hit Hollywood Boulevard. We paused in the lee of a liquor store where they promised Checks cashed for free and a sale on six-packs of Corona! while Stranz scouted the area ahead. We only had a few blocks to go before we could enter the nearest Red Line station where Western crossed Hollywood. Although I didn’t relish going underground, it could possibly get us where we needed without us having to encounter the enemy.
Stranz had been gone five minutes when Ohirra came to me.
“We’ve got to go. Now!”
“What is it?”
“The Cray. They know we’re here. They’re headed our way.” How did they know? Then it hit me: they’d tracked us all the way through the eyes of the fungees. “How many?”
“Stranz said all of them.”
Sula was already running down the street towards the Metro station six blocks away.
Ohirra wanted to carry me, but I wouldn’t have it. I ordered her to run on ahead and get Sula inside with the nuke. If I didn’t make it, then I didn’t make it.
I poured on the speed, deciding to leave the blade sheathed on my back. The old running with scissors adage came to mind, except the blade was far worse than any pair of scissors I could imagine.
Far ahead, I saw Sula stop and bring her minigun to bear. She sawed the air with bullets, ripping back and forth.
Even further ahead, Stranz fired a phalanx of rockets.
Suddenly it was raining Cray. They fell, dead and dying, through the alien vine; some fell on cars, exploding what glass remained. Some fell on the pavement, cracking it where the vines hadn’t already broken it apart, their arms curled, wings torn.
I went temporarily blind as images flashed through my brain like shotgun blasts: Kilimanjaro where the Cray attacked and tore through our ranks, all claws and slashing; where they rose from the ground, pulling us into their clutches; where they tore through our encampment, even though I wasn’t there. Then Iraq, where pieces of my men fell around me after the roadside bomb went up, then Afghanistan where a group of children died when a man wearing an explosive vest ran up to an American officer.
I crashed into the side of a wrecked truck and sprawled painfully across the asphalt. I struggled back to my feet, slipped once, then kept running.
My grunts were pouring rounds and rockets into the sky, standing in a small circle at the top of the Metro station opening.
My face felt swollen and bloody from where I’d hit the ground. It figured I’d find a way to injure myself before enemy contact. I kept willing my grunts to head down into the station, but they remained in place.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and was able to dive for cover just as a Cray launched itself onto the hood of a car in front of me. Spikes jutted out from the knobs of its knees and elbows. It regarded me with a cluster of spider eyes in the center of its mantis-shaped head.
I came up against a man-thick alien vine and pulled myself behind it.
The Cray came at me, wings flared, four sets of claws reaching for me.
With the vine between me and the enemy, I pulled the blade from my back. I could feel it vibrating slightly in my two-handed grip.
The Cray had to circle around me, but I kept the thick vine between myself and it. It was obvious that it didn’t want to rip through the vine even though it could have done so easily. Maybe that was something it had been programmed not to do.
The Cray lunged right.
I swung sideways and felt the blade bite. The Cray fell back as ichor bled from the meter-wide wound, pieces of its stomach slipping to the ground.
I spun on my heel and ran. I only had a block to go. I could see more Cray coming through the canopy and landing on the roofs of buildings to either side of the street. I was down to a half-block when I saw Stranz and Sula head down into the Metro. The pile of Cray in front of them was twice as tall as they were.
Ohirra stayed and began to fire at the Cray nearest me.
I was fifty feet away when I saw a Cray descend and grab her. It started into the air, but let her go when she struck it in the face with a hammer blow from her EXO fist.
She pointed down the stairs, as if I needed to know where to go, then fired a burst into the Cray.
I passed her just as it fell.
She tried to sidestep, but it caught her and knocked her to the ground.
I was halfway down the stairs when I glanced back and saw another Cray land by Ohirra. It began to claw at her faceplate and chest. She didn’t move; either dead or knocked out. Without getting closer, I couldn’t tell. I dropped my sword, grabbed my 9mm pistols and fired both of them, sending rounds into the Cray’s side. Eighteen rounds later it fell out of view.
Suddenly Stranz was bounding past me. He grabbed Ohirra and pulled her from beneath the weight of the dead Cray. I snatched my blade from the ground and ran in front of him, down three flights of stairs into the darkness. I stumbled once, then found my balance at the bottom where Sula stood, her suit lighting up the vicinity.
While I waited for the others, I reloaded my pistol. I was almost done when an incredible explosion rocked me. Concrete dust fell, temporarily blinding me.
Stranz and Ohirra came clattering down the stairs. He had one of her arms around his neck and he was supporting her as best he could. Once they hit the floor, he let her go. I watched as she fell to her knees, but no farther.
“Is everyone all right?” I asked.
“Got the wind... knocked out of me,” Ohirra said.
“What was that explosion?”
“I had to close the front door,” Stranz said, “Or else we’d have Cray at our backs.”
“Stranz, check out everyone’s vitals and ammo status.”
“What are you going to do?”
I snapped on the flashlight I’d taken from the Chinook. “Going to check the tracks and see if they’re clear or not. I don’t know how much damage the alien vine has done below ground. For all I know, it’s as bad down here as it is up there. I’m hoping for otherwise, of course.”
I jumped down onto the tracks and headed west, saw where vines had penetrated the ceiling and walls and, even as I watched, were growing and moving like a thousand cilia in a long, dark throat.
I stared into the alien foliage, the world-eater, consumer of humanity. I heard it speak to me and I turned and marched back to the others.
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.
Joseph Heller, Catch-22
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
STRANZ, SULA AND Ohirra stood on the platform, conversing, and I stood in the darkness, my light off, watching them. I wondered what they’d think of me standing there. Would they know the truth of it? Would they appreciate the need to change our mission?
I stepped out of the darkness and strode to the platform.
Stranz reached down and helped me up.
I went to Sul
a and began to unstrap the nuke.
“What are you doing?” Ohirra asked.
“Removing the nuke.” I spoke as calmly as I could. I didn’t want to give anyone cause for concern. “There’s been a change in mission.”
I saw Ohirra glance at Stranz. The ensuing silence told me they were conspiring against me, probably devising some sort of treason. I’d seen their kind in Kosovo. Someone gives an order and they try and find ways to not do it, poking holes in the reason, thinking of alternatives. Didn’t they understand? An order is just that—an order. It’s not open for interpretation or conversation.
“I wasn’t aware you had communication, Mason,” Ohirra said.
I finished unstrapping the nuke, then set it on the platform. The mini-Faraday cage the OMBRA techs had designed doubled the nuke’s bulk, and once we got it out, it would be far easier to carry.
“Understandable,” I said.
I went to remove the access panel from the W84. It had four recessed pins. I knelt before it, unscrewed each one, then pulled it free and set it on the cold concrete. The display was dark, except for a single blinking red light that indicated that the power source was still functioning.
Ohirra touched my shoulder. “Mason, we shouldn’t take it out. There could be Cray in the area. One EMP and we lose the weapon.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” I said. What I really wanted to do was put my gun to her head and pull the fucking trigger, but I needed to remain calm. The voice had explained everything to me with irrefutable logic. All I needed to do was follow it and then everything would be right with the world.
I kept working, even as I felt their eyes on me. Both Dewhurst and I had gone through several hours of training prior to the start of mission. I, in turn, had provided Ohirra and Mal training as my backups. Mal wasn’t with us any longer, but Ohirra could surely see what I was doing.
“Why are you disarming the nuke?”
