by Peter David
“Eight Rangers, no less.”
“You are an army of one. How do you reconcile that?”
He stared at her, speechless.
“I didn’t know you had a death wish.”
“How can I face you tomorrow if I don’t go do this? How could I live a life with you if I knowingly let that monster kill the innocents?”
“If there were an army of us, I’d have your back, but right now it’s just us. We can’t go in there and survive.”
“Gin, I have to. I have to try or I couldn’t live with myself.”
Kincaid ran toward the body, but as he drew closer, it was evident the person was dead. He focused his attention on the market itself, an ever-changing cluster of prefabricated stalls and stands where every food and drink imaginable could be found. As he neared, the corpsman could see the creature, which was huge and moved erratically. However the Skrel bioengineered those things, they were far from elegant creations designed for maximum carnage. The six limbs ended in razor-sharp talons, and the maw was stuffed with pointed teeth. He knew they were sightless, using their other senses, mainly that of smell, to locate and lock onto their prey. Right now it was rampaging and destroying in search of human life.
He knew Virginia would do her job, protecting the perimeter while he went after the beast, but he had no idea if she’d still be there when the mission ended. A part of him was planning a future that included her, but with every step forward he was trampling that dream, risking the first tangible happiness he’d had in years.
The deserted stalls appeared to frustrate it, and the Ursa tore through thin metal and wood and Plasticine as if they were all cotton-weight fabric. Behind it, Kincaid could spot two more Rangers in addition to the one who had charged toward it. That one could not be seen, and he hoped the man was not dead.
He spied the Rangers deploying their cutlasses. Lightweight and versatile, cutlasses could quickly morph into a dozen or more shapes depending on need. Right now, all the Rangers’ weapons appeared to be in sickle formation, clearly intended to hobble as many of the creature’s legs as possible and bring it down. Of course, first they had to catch the thing.
Then Kincaid saw another Ranger spring from hiding, his cutlass shaped like a needle, and fly toward the beast, ready to pierce its tough hide. The Ursa, though, must have smelled the man and reared up on its hind legs, the forward limbs shredding him in the air. Organs and blood spilled to the ground moments before the dead body followed. The Ursa roared not so much in triumph but because it could.
Quickly, it turned around and charged toward the Rangers, who scattered out of its way. The creature chased the ones who ran to the left.
This was Anderson’s chance. He rushed forward and grasped the fallen Ranger’s cutlass. Now that he was wielding it, there was little to differentiate the corpsman from the Ranger, and Kincaid recognized he had a debt to repay, first to the woman who had saved his life and then to his family’s legacy.
He had to move carefully to avoid alerting the monster but also so that he wouldn’t slip on the messy pools of blood, viscera, and squashed fruit. The sickly-sweet smells made him want to gag, but he swallowed it down and kept approaching the beast as it continued its charge toward the Rangers. The other Rangers were out of sight; either they had run away or they were stealthily approaching it.
The siren finally cut off, and Kincaid whispered thanks to the heavens, just as his mother had taught him.
He focused his hearing and heard the clatter of taloned paws moving the Ursa along, the cracking of worn wood, and the crackle of the cutlass in his hand.
Then he heard a different sound, a low, plaintive resonance. Not human and most certainly not Ursa. It then struck him that livestock was also on display at the market, mostly as a petting zoo for the kids while the parents shopped. Demonstrations were put on to teach the children how the animals contributed to society. These were not happy noises, and he heard shuffling about. The animals were spooked, and that could only mean the Ursa had decided it was lunchtime.
Kincaid crept closer, hands tightening and retightening their grip on the cutlass. He had never hefted one before and had no real clue how to make it alter its configuration. If the scythe shape was particularly sharp, that might be all he needed.
An animal cried out, with others repeating the sound at a lower volume, and he knew the Ursa had slaughtered one, maybe a horse. He hoped to catch the Ursa unaware, preoccupied as it was with eating whatever poor animal had lost its life before its time.
He worked close to the pens, and as he rounded one corner, he came upon the remains of more Rangers. One’s torso had been torn apart; another’s head was severed from the neck. The man’s head had rolled a few feet away, the look of shock on its face frozen in place, a sight Kincaid wanted to forget immediately. Instead, it seemed to find a place in his mind, right next to the image of the charging Ursa at the playground when he was a child.
The Ursa paused in its consumption, suddenly aware of Kincaid’s presence. Sightless, it turned toward him but held its ground. Dim light reflected off the smart metal protruding in a haphazard pattern around its body. No way could a single shot from that distance take out the beast. Heck, pulsers were useless at point-blank range. Kincaid had to get closer but was having trouble making his feet move. Perhaps the Ursa would have to come his way; it was a terrifying thought.
He knew that if it imprinted on him and his fear, it would hunt him down until one or the other was dead. Kincaid had other plans for his death—first and foremost being that it would not be for a long time—and so he did the only thing he could: shuffled backward, away from the creature, hoping it would stay to finish its meal. There were still Rangers operating and no doubt more coming. The Rangers’ main mission was to protect the world; his primary job was to protect the citizens here, right now.
To his surprise, the beast took a bite of intestine and proceeded to ignore him. He couldn’t fathom it. The things were supposedly killing machines. The only thing he could surmise was that the Ursa considered him too puny or weak to charge right now. On the one hand, he was relieved. On the other, he felt vaguely insulted.
Making no sudden movements, Kincaid headed toward the periphery of the market. He heard human sounds and stopped to listen: They were coming from underneath a collapsed fabric stand. Judiciously stepping over debris, he approached the mound of colorful fabrics and sundries. Individually, each bolt of cloth was light enough, but one atop the other, they created a weight that clearly had someone pinned beneath.
He kicked over a few bolts and called out, “Who’s there?”
“Miranda,” a whimpering voice replied.
“Hi, Miranda. I’m Anderson, and I’m here to free you. Are you hurt?”
“My arm,” she said, and gasped.
He knew about arm injuries and quickly began shoving the fabric out of the way. As he dug through at least a yard’s worth of cotton, wool, linen, and other materials, he encountered wooden and metallic shelving that had gotten tangled up with the bolts and was not loosening easily. He strained at a particularly stubborn bit of metal, and his right arm ached.
Kincaid rarely thought about what made his left arm unique, but he knew that it didn’t tire, didn’t ache, and was far more durable than his right arm. He tried never to rely on its superior strength—he insisted his doctors calibrate it to male norms—but he also knew it was never a precise process and the prosthetic arm remained somewhat stronger. Now he wanted super strength, the kind he remembered from stories he had heard as a child of strong men such as Samson and Superman. He now wanted to be as mighty as they were for real and save Miranda.
As he applied all the pressure he could muster, the metal began to crumple in his hand, which closed viselike. He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles in his neck, chest, and legs begin to strain. Still, he didn’t let go, and bit by bit the metal began to give in to the pressure. With a popping sound, it twisted and finally came free, nearly pulling Kincaid o
ff his feet. After regaining his footing, he reached within the opening he had created and continued to yank bits of metal and wood and cloth away. He managed to create an opening and paused to peer within.
Miranda had to be fifteen, if that, and was a redhead with long curls that flowed over her yellow dress, which was now bloody and torn. The arm she complained about was pinned beneath a sewing machine, and she was lying at an angle that prevented her from moving it herself.
“Hi,” he said to calm her.
She grunted and gave him a panicked look. “I can’t feel it,” she said.
That didn’t sound good at all. He renewed his efforts and managed to reach the machine from his side of the mess. Using the cutlass as a pry bar, he levered the machine high enough for her to move her entire body, taking the limp arm from underneath. She began moving toward the opening he’d created. He pulled her through and then stood her up. He gingerly reached for her to examine the arm, but she threw herself at him and gave him a one-armed hug.
He called in his find and asked for help so that he could continue his search. Once he closed the signal, he said, “Get out of here. There’s an Ursa by the animals, and I don’t want it finding you.”
“What about you?”
“This is my job. You go get that arm examined,” he said.
She wiped away tears with her good hand, hugged him a second time, and turned to make her way outside.
Within the next fifteen minutes, he found more dead bodies, crushed from machinery that had toppled on them, and the corpse of another Ranger. His entire body had long bloody rows carved into it by the Ursa’s talons.
With every step, his mind remained fixed on the Ursa’s noisy position. He kept his radio on low so that he could hear reports from elsewhere around Nova Prime City. It sounded like many Ursa had come simultaneously and were wreaking havoc everywhere, which might mean Ranger reinforcements would be delayed, especially if they didn’t know the Rangers at the market were among the dead.
He turned his back to the Ursa’s position and called in to the corps what he had discovered, insisting the information be relayed to the Rangers. They had to know he and Marquez were the only trained form of defense in this crowded part of the city. Of course, it didn’t feel crowded now as people huddled in shelters or hid within their homes.
As he turned back toward the Ursa, he saw Miranda standing in place. She was clearly in shock and hadn’t gone far. This was a complication he did not need.
“Go!” he said, waving his arms in the direction of the entrance.
“I’m scared,” she said, holding her injured arm.
“All the more reason to get out of here,” he said.
She hesitated.
With a growl all his own, Anderson grabbed the girl, picked her up, and began moving her out of the Ursa’s way. He didn’t have time to play games with her and couldn’t turn his back on the beast for too long. Sure enough, it took being moved just a few feet to shock her back to reality. Her eyes went wide; she let out a gurgling yelp and began running.
The Ursa roared, and Kincaid heard a thick wet sound as something hit the ground. Feeding time was over, the hunt was on, and they were the targets.
Then he heard the snarl, and it was closer.
Miranda was out of sight and presumably off to safety. That freed him to focus entirely on keeping the Ursa from hunting other humans. He looked left and right and noticed the roof. There were long sheets of pliable metal that helped shade the stalls. Fastened in place, they could provide support.
Powerful legs propelled him upward. He grasped an edge and pulled himself up. He then threw himself belly down on the roof, cutting his cheek in the process, and withdrew his pulser, taking aim. He fired a series of blasts that cracked in the air like fireworks, the bolts of energy filling the air between him and the charging Ursa.
Sure enough, it slowed the beast down as it emitted a noisy sniffing sound while its talons scraped the hard ground. Once it appeared to lock onto Kincaid’s scent, the creature sped up again. Anderson sighed at his plight, aimed, and fired again. Not that he could kill the creature with the pistol, or with both pistols if it came to that. He wasn’t even sure if the cutlass would be enough, but he needed to keep the Ursa occupied so that the Rangers had a chance to arrive.
His wrist gauntlet contained a small screen that usually flashed a variety of information; he orally commanded it to display a schematic of the market. He needed a plan other than blindly shooting at the Ursa until it leaped up and gored him. Bright red lines appeared on the black screen, and his eyes traced one pathway and then another. Below him, the Ursa snarled and roared, nearing his position and ready to leap up and meet him on the roof.
He saw a course of action and scrambled to the next slot in the roof to his right, leaning down and firing as he moved. The beast roared and followed, gathering enough momentum to leap off the ground and slash at him.
Kincaid kept moving in a diagonal path, leading the creature back toward the animal pens. It climbed neatly over the crushed booths, ignoring everything in its path, intent on reaching the annoying pulser and its owner. He hurried along until he reached the desired slot and then fired again.
The beast sped up, charging with abandon. As Kincaid ran, he fired a pattern of blasts not at the Ursa but at the roof in front of it. Without pausing, it leaped toward the roof, but it had the misfortune to land exactly where Kincaid’s pulser had done its work. The weakened floor buckled under the creature’s great weight, and suddenly it fell into a mound of rotting food and decomposing animal dung.
The beast expressed its displeasure with its loudest roar yet, and Kincaid covered his ears. Unfortunately, the pit was not deep, and once it collected its wits, the Ursa would climb back up. But at least it was preoccupied for a little while, giving Kincaid time to come up with a new plan.
“Kincaid here. Where are the Rangers?”
“Moser here,” came a voice he didn’t know. “They’re all over the city. Where are the ones dispatched to the market?”
“All dead. Where the hell are the reinforcements?”
“Coming.”
“Not fast enough. Please pass that along.”
“You okay?”
“For now.”
His fingers stroked the cutlass before pressing and squeezing random sections; sure enough, the device sprang to life as the strands of programmed metal altered at one end, curving and refashioning itself into a hook shape.
“Get me those reinforcements.”
“Roger that.”
The Ursa was not idle during the conversation. It regrouped and used its powerful legs to scramble out of the muck and back onto the ground, roaring with every step. Of course, now Kincaid could not only hear the beast but smell it, too; his nose wrinkled in revulsion.
The moment it settled on the ground, the Ursa tensed and leaped up, its short forearms grabbing the thin metal of the roof, its talons ripping into it. With an effort it made its way onto the roof, where Kincaid was already on his feet.
Now they were on the same level playing field, and the advantage had shifted from the corpsman to the foul-smelling creature. He started swinging the cutlass at the Ursa, connecting with legs, joints, clawed hands. But the Ursa continued plodding toward him. Realizing he wasn’t harming it at all, Kincaid turned and ran.
The Ursa charged.
Kincaid counted on the beast being too heavy for the wafer-thin metal roof. Sure enough, the roof creaked and groaned, adding to the Ursa’s bellowing tone. The beast had gone maybe another six feet before the roof began to buckle. Another few feet and the roof became wobbly. As the Ursa gained on Kincaid, the metal started coming free from its moorings.
What Kincaid did not count on was plunging to the ground with the Ursa.
Both fell with a loud crash, Kincaid’s right shoulder absorbing the impact. It took all his willpower not to cry out in pain as he landed atop the ruins of a shoe peddler’s stand. He scrambled to regain his f
ooting, taking a moment to come up with a strategy.
The Ursa, despite its ungainly shape, had a good sense of balance and was upright and snarling, once more locked onto Kincaid’s position.
A plan, however sketchy, was still a plan, and Kincaid ran to his right, down a relatively unscathed corridor of the market. His shoulder ached as he pumped his arms; he had to push past it. Within several strides he could hear the great creature coming after him, screaming at the top of its lungs. It wanted him badly.
He darted down side aisles, jumping over boxes and leaping into a forward roll to avoid a pillar barring his path. All along, the creature barreled forward, tearing through one thing after another, unrelenting in its pursuit.
Kincaid was running out of the market. He’d be exposed soon, and then the creature could home in on him and end it.
That was when he remembered the park and quickened his pace. He emerged from the dim shadows of the market and into bright sunlight. Blinking repeatedly as his eyes adjusted, he kept moving forward, crossing the street from the market to the park. Fortunately, it was deserted.
Lining the park were old trees. Kincaid darted toward one and leaped, grabbing one of its thick limbs. His right shoulder complained, but he worked past the pain as he swung himself up and over, landing on the limb. He scrambled to the next highest branch, climbing until he was a good fifteen feet off the ground, ideally too high for the Ursa to reach with a single jump. His shoulder let him know he would be paying for this once the adrenaline rush wore off. He looked forward to being alive to enjoy the pain.
He finally was safe enough to look behind him, and the damned thing was out of sight. It had shifted to camouflage mode, blending in with the serene park surroundings. Kincaid hoped more Rangers would arrive soon, wondering just how intelligent the beast was, doubting anyone could say with certainty.
His entire life seemed to take place in a park. It was in one similar to this that he had lost an arm, saw the Ranger sacrifice herself, and begun on a specific course. Despite Velan rejecting him for the Rangers, Kincaid now found himself fighting an Ursa one on one. He idly wondered what Velan would make of that considering that he would first note that the regs called for a squad of no fewer than eight. Going solo against the creature might appear to be suicidal, but Kincaid was determined not to begin and end his life in a park. He would survive this—he was not done with life yet.
