by Rod Walker
There was silence on the earpiece again. I peered out the back viewports, watching the distant black speck of the following quadcopter. It didn’t seem to be drawing any closer, but it was following us.
“Nothing,” said Hobson. “Just static.”
“I recommend an immediate return, Security Director Tanner,” said Charles.
“Right,” said Tanner. “You heard the man, Hobson. Get us back to town. Now.”
“Acknowledged,” said Hobson. He started to swing the craft around, and I grabbed at one of the ceiling straps to keep my balance.
And as he did, I saw the distant glare of orange-yellow light through the viewport. We hadn’t gone all that far from Outpost Town yet, and if not for the trees it would have been visible. That meant sometimes I could see the lights from the buildings, but right now I only saw that harsh yellow-orange light from the direction of the settlement.
Like a really big fire.
“Tanner,” I said. “Look at that. I think Outpost is on fire.”
“What?” said Tanner.
“He’s right,” said Hobson, his voice grim. “I can see it from up here. We…”
A shrill alarm cut off his voice.
“Proximity alarm!” said Charles. “Assume crash positions!”
“Crash positions?” said Mr. Royale.
“That quad just fired a missile at us!” shouted Hobson. “I’m going evasive. Strap in!”
I scrambled into my seat along the wall, strapping myself in as the others hastened to follow suit. Even before I had the last strap buckled, Hobson threw the quadcopter down and to the left, my stomach jumping up to land somewhere next to my ears. The shrill alarm got louder, and as the quadcopter zigged and zagged, I saw a flare of fire through the rear viewports.
Hobson snarled. “Incoming! Hang on!
The quadcopter rolled as he jerked it to the right, and then… I don’t remember the next few minutes clearly.
There was a tremendous roar, accompanied by the shriek of tearing metal and the howl of flames. For a moment I thought that I was spinning, and then I realized the quadcopter was spinning, which I supposed meant that I was spinning with it.
The quadcopter was going down. Or, to put it more bluntly, crashing.
There was a horrible shriek of ripping metal and an overwhelming crunching sound, and I felt as if I had been smashed by a giant fist that slammed into my entire body.
Then everything went black.
Chapter 4: The Most Dangerous Game
I don’t think I was out for long.
The incessant beeping of some alarm or another woke me up.
I smelled smoke, and flickering yellow-orange light played across the walls. The electric lights had gone out, save for one that kept sputtering. Yellow-orange light… nothing in the quadcopter had that kind of glow. It looked a lot like a candle, come to think of it.
I smelled smoke too. Was something on fire?
That woke me up fast. Quadcopters had all sorts of flammable things in the engines, and if the fire got to the fuel cells, we were in a lot of trouble.
The memory of the missile and our crash came rushing back.
We were in a lot of trouble already.
I was still strapped into my seat along the wall, but I was lying on my back. That meant the quadcopter had landed on its side. My head felt fuzzy, but I didn’t think I had a concussion. I’d had a few concussions when I had been younger, thanks to tractor drone-related accidents, and those felt different. No, I just felt bruised and sore.
But what about the others?
I turned my head, alarmed, and then felt a hand close around my left shoulder.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” said Tanner. Sweat glittered on his broad face, and he was bleeding from a cut on his jaw and his temple, but he looked otherwise unhurt. “The others were conscious, so I got them out first. Thought I was going to have to cut you out of your restraints and carry you out.”
“The others?” I said, fumbling with the release on my straps. “Are they…”
Tanner grimaced. “Hobson didn’t make it. Branch went through the canopy and took his head off. A messy way to go.” He shook his head. “Me, Charles, and Ian had a few scratches, but nothing serious. Can you walk?”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing away the restraints and standing up. I was standing on the wall, which was the oddest feeling. “What are we going to do now?”
“We’re heading back to Outpost Town,” said Tanner, his voice decisive. “I think were only about fifteen kilometers away. We can do it on foot.” He looked around the wrecked quadcopter. “Not that we have a choice.”
“Fifteen kilometers of the Arborean jungle is… a lot,” I said, calculating the odds in my head. They weren’t good.
“Like I said, we don’t have a choice,” said Tanner. “There’s something going on at Outpost Town. We’re going to go back, find out what’s happening, and shut it down.”
I frowned. Paul Valier was there, and an EcoMin quadcopter had shot us down. That implied that someone in the Ecology Ministry had ordered our deaths, and probably that they had caused the fire or the explosion or whatever we had seen in the distance. Maybe Valier had been planning to kill us all the entire time. Except he couldn’t do that, could he? I mean, the Acadarchy was corrupt, but they didn’t go around shooting people and blowing stuff up as far as I’d ever heard. When they wanted to ruin someone, they used lawsuits and fines and armies of bureaucrats, not actual soldiers with actual guns.
But we were a long, long way from New Princeton, and maybe Valier thought he could get away with more on an alien planet.
“Come on,” said Tanner. “Get your pack, get your Avenger, get your sonic alarm, and let’s go.”
I was already wearing my sonic alarm on my left wrist. My pack had ended up on the far side of the cabin, but fortunately, my rifle was still locked in the gun rack. Once I had retrieved my pack and the Avenger, I followed Tanner out the shattered side door and into the jungles of Arborea.
The musty, alien smell of the jungle filled my nostrils, along with the odor of burning fuel and smoke. There was also the smell of human blood. I caught a glimpse of poor Hobson in the cockpit as we passed the quadcopter’s broken canopy, and I really wished that I hadn’t looked. At least his death had been almost instantaneous.
Charles and Mr. Royale waited nearby, both carrying rifles. Charles scanned the jungle constantly, his eyes sliding back and forth with smooth, practiced motions. Mr. Royale merely looked tense, though he held his Avenger competently enough. I wondered where he had learned to shoot. I was grateful that Charles had persuaded him to wear body armor instead of his customary white suit.
“Pilot Hobson?” said Charles.
Tanner shook his head.
“Should we take his body back?” said Mr. Royale.
“We can’t,” said Tanner. “The smell will draw every scavenger in the jungle soon enough, not just the tromosaurs. If we carry him with us, we won’t make it a kilometer.”
“We should go now,” said Charles. “If we move at once, the tromosaurs will likely be drawn to the smell of Hobson’s blood.”
“That’s harsh,” said Mr. Royale.
“It is, but it’s necessary,” said Tanner. “The jungle of Arborea does not forgive its mistakes.”
“Nor do the men who shot us down,” said Mr. Royale. “We had best move before the come to check on us.”
Yeah. In the chaos of the crash I had all but forgotten about that.
“Wonder why they haven’t come down and strafed us,” said Tanner, looking up at the gloomy canopy. “Just to be sure.”
Charles shook his head. “It takes time to safely navigate between the various layers of the canopy. They don’t want to crash alongside us.”
“But why didn’t they kill us?” said Mr. Royale.
Tanner snorted. “They just did their best to do it.”
“No,” said Mr. Royale. “That missile could have wiped us out. Yet it
was targeted at only one of our rotors. Look.”
I wasn’t an expert in demolitions, but I followed his pointing finger and saw that he was right. The quadcopter’s aft starboard rotor had been reduced to twisted metal and melted plastic. I realized that it had been a disabling shot, designed to force us down. With only three rotors left, poor Hobson had still been able to force a crash landing, even if it had gotten him killed in the process. The missile could just have easily hit the passenger cabin, killing us all, or the fuel cells, blasting the quadcopter to molten shreds.
“So why make us crash?” said Tanner. “Why not just kill us? They’re playing a dangerous game if they leave witnesses alive.”
Mr. Royale gave him a sharp look. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s stupid of them to leave witnesses alive,” said Tanner.
“Dangerous,” I said. “You said it was a dangerous game.”
“So?” said Tanner with a scowl. “We have more important things to think about.”
“Like getting away from here,” said Charles.
“Yes,” said Mr. Royale, though he still looked distracted. “I saw Valier reading something by that name on his tablet last night during the banquet.”
I heard the drone of quadcopter rotors coming from overhead.
“Right,” said Tanner. “We need to go. Charles, get…”
“Wait!” said Mr. Royale, a look of grim realization coming over his face. “Do we have any gas masks?”
“Gas masks?” said Tanner.
“They are attached to our packs, Board Member Royale,” said Charles, reaching back and pulling out his own mask.
“Put them on,” said Mr. Royale, fumbling for his own mask. “Do it! They’re not going to shoot us. They’re going to gas us first. Then they’ll shoot us.”
“Are you sure?” said Tanner.
“Entirely,” said Mr. Royale, putting on his mask. “I think we’ve been conned, all of us. I’ll explain if we live through the next five minutes.” I pulled on my own gas mask, following the example of the older men. It wasn’t a comfortable thing. The straps pulled at the back of my head, the edges dug into my face, and the goggles restricted by field of view.
“So you think they’ll gas us and then come down to kill us?” said Tanner, incredulous.
“Almost certainly,” said Mr. Royale. “But we’re going to disrupt their plans.”
“We should return to the quadcopter,” said Charles. “We can lie in wait for them and ambush them there.”
“I like the way you think, Senior Guide Charles,” said Mr. Royale.
“Then move,” said Tanner. “Ian, you and Spraycan go first. Charles and I will watch the doors. Go.”
We scrambled into the wreckage of the quadcopter, climbing over the torn door and into the passenger cabin. Charles and Tanner positioned themselves by the door, rifles ready. I peered out one of the viewports, my heart racing, my mind spinning. I could not figure out why the Ministry quadcopter would gas us. I mean, obviously, they would gas us so it would be easier to kill us or take us prisoner, but this seemed like a really inefficient way to go about killing people. If they had wanted to kill us, it would have been easier to shoot the quadcopter out of the sky. If they wanted to take us prisoner, it would have made more sense to arrest us before we left Outpost Town in a quadcopter.
So just what were they doing?
I started to ask Mr. Royale about that book of his, and then I heard the whine of motors overhead.
The quadcopter that shot us down glided overhead, circling over the wreck. Up close, I saw that it was a lot smaller than our wrecked craft. The Safari Company’s quadcopters had been designed to carry passengers, drones, and trophies from hunting kills. This quadcopter looked leaner and sleeker, with stubby wings holding weapons. It looked like a fighter, though it was big enough to hold maybe a dozen Ecology Ministry special operations troops.
The quadcopter circled over us twice more, scanning the wreckage, and then lifted up. A handful of small, shiny shapes fell from its belly and landed with dull clanks on the ground. They were canisters, and bright green warning labels covered their sides. I just had time to note the labels, and then a hissing sound filled my ears, the air over the canisters rippling.
I don’t know how he knew, but Mr. Royale had been right. They were trying to gas us.
The quadcopter rose up as the canisters kept leaking gas and soon was out of sight once more.
“Should we go?” I whispered.
“No,” said Tanner. “They’ll be watching. If they see us with masks, they’ll open fire or drop a bomb on our heads.” A hard edge entered his voice. “Let the idiots land, and let them think they’re taking helpless victims. We’ll have a surprise for them.
“Sound tactical thinking, Security Director Tanner,” said Charles.
“I’m glad you approve,” said Tanner.
We waited ten minutes, and nothing happened. Then the quadcopter flew overhead once more, and dropped low, no more than a dozen yards overhead, the roar of the rotors filling my ears. They were blowing away the gas, which meant they were getting ready to land.
The quadcopter hovered for maybe another five minutes, and then it rotated and slowly descended to the ground, the engines shutting off with a whine.
“Get ready,” breathed Tanner. “Don’t do anything until I say the word.”
I nodded and gripped my Avenger, checking it over one last time. The gun could switch between semi-automatic, burst mode, and full-automatic with a flick of a switch, though it wasn’t terribly accurate on full-auto and would empty out its ammo supply in about two seconds. I flicked the switch to semi-automatic, made sure the safety was off, and waited.
The door on the quadcopter opened, and I braced myself for a dozen Ecology Ministry Special Operations goons in body armor to rush out, carrying military-grade combination gun/laser rifles.
I did not expect to see a short, fat man in an expensive suit stroll out, smoking a cigar with one hand and holding a pistol incompetently in his other. After him came three larger men, both in suits, two of them carrying pistols. The third man carried a rocket launcher, swinging it back and forth as if he feared that tromosaurs would erupt from the jungle at any moment.
I stared at them in surprise for a moment, and then my brain caught up to my eyes.
That was Alexander Toulon, chairman of the Toulon Group, strolling through the jungle with a pistol and a cigar with his bodyguards.
For some reason, a multi-billionaire CEO had just shot us down.
Tanner reached up and tapped the side of his head, turning on his earpiece’s camera.
Toulon stopped a dozen yards from the wrecked helicopter, frowning. He lifted the cigar to his lips and took a long draw from it, blowing out a cloud of smoke. He was red-faced enough that it made him look like a tomato with a nicotine habit.
Then his red face spread into a delighted smile.
“That,” he said, “was awesome. It really was. I mean, I had doubts when Valier pitched it to us… but, man! Did you see that quadcopter go down?”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the bodyguards. “I was piloting.”
“Worth every credit,” said Toulon. “It’s the thrill of the hunt. The essence of precivilization, you know.” He took another draw on his cigar. “Also, the trophies.” He raised his pistol. “I’ll take the kill shots with this. I want to get pictures. You know, poses, that kind of thing.”
“Do you want to shoot them in the quadcopter, sir?” said the bodyguard with the rocket launcher. “Or shall we bring them out?”
I blinked, chilled. I had assumed they wanted to take us captive and were just going about it inefficiently. To hear Toulon and his goons talking about killing us was something else. I mean, if he wanted to kill us, why not just shoot down the quadcopter? Even if we had crashed, why not strafe the wreckage of our quadcopter a few times? And if he did want to kill us, why take pictures of it? He was a billionaire industrialist, he wasn’t a
hitman gathering evidence that he had fulfilled his contract.
“Nah,” said Toulon, taking another puff of his cigar. “Drag them out here. If I shoot them in the quadcopter, it will make for a terrible picture. I’ll shoot them out here,” he made a negligent gesture with his pistol, causing the bodyguards to take a prudent step back, “and then we’ll get the pictures.”
“Right,” said another bodyguard, and he gestured. The three men started forward, Toulon hanging back as he concentrated on his cigar.
“That’s it,” muttered Tanner. “All of you, leave Toulon to me. I want to ask him a few questions. Take out the others.” I nodded and took aim, sighting my Avenger on one of the approaching men. Tanner shifted, took a deep breath, and shouted.
“Now!” said Tanner. “Open up!”
He fired a single shot, and a half-second later the rest of us followed suit.
It happened fast, really fast, but at the time it felt like an agonized eternity. I had already sighted, my Avenger’s barrel resting on a piece of twisted metal about the height of my chest, the stock braced against my shoulder, the iron sights at the end of the gun centered on one of the bodyguards. I squeezed the trigger, and the rifle bucked in my hands, the end of the weapon flashing. I hit the bodyguard on Toulon’s right. I’m not sure where I hit him—either the upper chest or the right shoulder, but he staggered back. The expression of surprise on his face would have been comical under less grim circumstances. I fired again, and this time, he spun around and fell.
Charles and Mr. Royale opened fire as well. The second bodyguard went down, his white shirt turning red with blood, and Toulon let out an astonished squawk, spun around, and collapsed, dropping both his pistol and his cigar. The final bodyguard turned to run, and either Charles or Mr. Royale caught him in the back of the leg.
The man fell, and as he did, he squeezed the trigger on his rocket launcher.
Mr. Royale barked a word that I had never heard him use before, and for an instant I was sure the rocket would blast us all to bits. Fortunately, the bodyguard fell over as he squeezed the trigger, and the launcher jerked in his hand, so instead of pointing at us, it was pointing over his shoulder.
