by Ben Weaver
Paul slowed to the airjeep, struggled for breath, looked disoriented, his senses probably overloading.
“Get in!” I hollered.
As he complied, Jing turned the airjeep around, and the bomb struck, maybe forty meters away, turning day into a nightmare of heaved earth and fire and shrapnel. As the burst came toward us, I felt Jing reaching into the bond, as I did, and together we turned that wall of death back in on itself, forming a bubble of life around our jeep. The force of the blast would have instantly killed Ms. Brooks, and might very well have penetrated our skins. As the debris cleared, I strained to glimpse Halitov and Breckinridge, then looked to Jing, who was already knifing out of the airjeep.
“What?” I called.
She didn’t answer and wove a path through the smoldering debris. I took off after her, and we came upon Halitov and Breckinridge lying near the airjeep, their skins glowing a dull green. A large piece of shrapnel jutted from Breckinridge’s blood-soaked calf, while another protruded from her shoulder. Halitov appeared dazed but uninjured as I pulled him to his feet. He took one look at Breckinridge, jerked himself away from me, and dropped to his knees before his unconscious girlfriend. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted, then glanced skyward. “Son of a bitch!”
“C’mon, let’s get her in,” Jing told me, digging her hands beneath Breckinridge’s arms. I went for the legs, and we carried her back toward the jeep, with an enraged Halitov swearing and following closely behind.
Another missile struck on the other side of the train as we laid Breckinridge across Ms. Brooks’s and the colonel’s laps. Thankfully, the blast wouldn’t reach us, but as Jing, Halitov, and I squeezed into the front seats, and Paul sat on the airjeep’s trunk and gripped the rear seats, a thunderclap rocked the ground. Jing got us out of there as the explosion tore up toward the airjeep’s belly. My neck snapped back as she punched to full power, and we sailed over the demolished train, thundering toward the station, with that last blast riding our wake.
“What happens when we get there?” I called back to Ms. Brooks. “Can you get us a ride out?”
“There’s a probe depot there! I thought we could send one to Vanguard One, bypass all this jamming, and let them know where we are.”
“You think that probe’ll make it through this air attack?” Halitov asked dubiously.
“Probably not, but right now, it’s the only chance we’ve got.”
Those words had barely left Ms. Brooks’s mouth when a pair of atmoattack jets swooped down, past us, zeroing in on the station.
“No, no, no,” yelled Halitov.
White-hot flashes erupted from below the wings of each fighter, and four missiles streaked toward the great station suspended between the trees. The fighters arced up, peeling away as the missiles penetrated the latticework of alloy and disappeared inside. A moment of silence, then literally hundreds of explosions erupted from within the station, some blasting up through the hemisphere’s apex, others gnawing their way out the bottom. Great stanchions affixed to the trees and helping to support the structure broke away, and with a horrible creaking the station broke free from two of its tethers and swung sideways to crash against the two trees still supporting it. As the teetering structure continued to explode, it shed debris onto a narrow, rectangular structure below, the maglev terminal, which succumbed to the falling stanchions, its entire entrance conduit now crushed, buried in metal, and impassable. A dense cloud of brown smoke swelled to blanket the scene.
“Jing, get us out of the city,” the colonel ordered.
“But, sir, we have to get her some help,” Halitov said, staring wide-eyed at Breckinridge.
“Get us out of here!” the colonel boomed. “Head northeast, into the mountains, toward Butanee.”
“Yes, sir,” Jing said gravely. She banked hard right, and we left the continuing destruction behind, diving toward the forest floor, skimming across leaf beds and streaking through suburbs, with some homes no more than Quonset huts erected in the shadows of enormous limbs.
The bombing, though growing fainter, continued, and while you could ignore it, consider it white noise, I was keenly aware of just how much devastation the alliances were wreaking and shocked that they had chosen to bomb civilian targets. Maybe that was their way of further demoralizing us. I could not imagine how many innocent colonists were losing their lives. Later I would read that the death count rose into the millions.
As we flew on, finally leaving the suburbs for Orokean’s unsettled limits, Halitov patched his tac into Breckinridge’s and reported that her skin was already addressing her wounds and compensating for her fever but that she’d still need a doc to remove the shrapnel. The colonel just nodded.
I stared out beyond the narrow windshield, the hills blurring into great shoulders of earth driving toward the horizon.
Nearly eight hours later, as Jing took us up a mountainside, she broke the silence. “Bug eyes for snipers,” she reminded me.
I rubbed my eyes, forced away the drowsiness, and kept my hand squarely on the big particle gun’s handles. Once more, I jockeyed for room against Halitov’s big elbow, which had become more than a minor nuisance.
“When we get up near that ridge, you can stop,” said the colonel. “We should see Butanee from there.”
Though I wanted to ask him if the conditioning facility was, in fact, located in Butanee, I didn’t. The rift between the Seventeen and the Wardens might now result in a major defeat, and that impending loss burned in the colonel’s eyes.
Breckinridge had regained consciousness, though she could barely move against the shrapnel. She kept apologizing for getting hit, and, finally, the colonel told her not to worry about it and assured her that we’d get help.
Jing set us down amid a loose row of dark green shrubs. Halitov, Paul, and I jogged up the ridgeline, toward the mountaintop, where from that vantage point we looked out, across a broad valley, toward a mottled and sprawling sea of treetops twinkling with the city’s lights.
“Looks clear so far,” said Halitov, reading databars in his HUV.
I read my own, then spotted dozens of Alliance airjeeps parked near a cluster of buildings near an outlying road. “No. Check frame two-five-nine, see them?”
“Where?” asked Halitov.
“I got them,” said Paul. “They moved in real quiet. No air strikes. They want to keep this place intact. They’ll take it with a ground force.”
“Probably. They didn’t hit the strike base,” I said, scanning the tarmac and accompanying buildings in the southeast. “The fighters are gone. Probably sent over to Orokean.”
“They’ve sent in a small recon force, probably platoon size. They’re looking for something,” Paul said.
“For what?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
“Is it here?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “The old man won’t tell me. But I think it is. Funny. Even though they drugged me, there’s something familiar about this place. Maybe the smell. I took that in unconsciously, but somehow I remember.”
“You guys talking about the conditioning facility?” asked Halitov.
Paul winked at me, tipped his head toward Halitov. “You should’ve cheated off this genius at the academy.”
“What the hell’s that mean?” the big guy asked.
“Nothing,” said Paul. “Let’s head back.”
While he ordered up a link to his father on a private channel and made a report, we returned to the ridgeline. I lingered behind and ordered my computer to zoom in past the airjeeps, toward a placard on one of the buildings: MILL #17A CANADA LUMBER COMPANY. Canada. What were the odds of me serving with the daughter of a man whose property concealed an ancient alien device that could help save my life? My encounter with Sergeant (now Lieutenant) Canada could not have been coincidental. The universe was trying to tell me something, and I had better be listening.
The others at the airjeep were ready to leave when I joined them, and my quizzical look drew Ha
litov’s explanation: “Colonel says we’re going down into the city. We can get Kristi to Raga Five Hospital there. Maybe send off that comm probe.”
I shifted over to the colonel, who was backhanding sweat off his brow. The humidity had increased, and the air felt thick and harder to breathe. “Sir, those airjeeps down there—”
“Paul told me all about them,” he snapped.
“It is there. And they’re looking for it.”
“Speculate all you want, Mr. St. Andrew. But right now, we’re getting Captain Breckinridge some medical attention and seeing what we can do about contacting Vanguard.”
“Sir, if the facility is that important, I don’t understand why it isn’t better defended…”
“If you think I’m going to admit anything to you, Mr. St. Andrew, you’re sadly mistaken. Now, saddle up, Captain.”
I repressed a snort and wriggled into the cockpit as Jing fired up the engines and skinned up, using infrared so she could see through the enveloping gloom.
We dusted off, and when we reached the first string of private residences, Jing commented on how the place had become a ghost town. Martial law, with its accompanying curfew, had probably been declared. The only people we saw were MPs, Colonial Wardens who confirmed our suspicions and volunteered to escort us to the hospital.
There, Breckinridge was rushed into surgery, with Halitov remaining at her side. Ms. Brooks and the colonel rode off to the nearest HQ, about a kilometer away, while Jing, Paul, and I waited anxiously in the hospital’s cafeteria.
“This is weird,” said Jing. “This city could get attacked at any moment, and here we are, conditioned officers, sitting around, talking about how bad the coffee is.”
“Don’t jinx us, all right?” Paul asked. “All comm’s still down. We’re literally and figuratively in the dark.”
Jing frowned. “You hear something?”
I pricked up my ears, heard a low and distant rumble coming from outside. We raced out of the cafeteria, through a pair of corridors, and into the street, where the night sky had come alive with fighters and dozens of crab carriers whose running lights flashed brilliantly, ominously.
“Well, they bombed Orokean back into the stone age, but for some reason, this place they want,” said Jing.
“Looks like an invasion force,” I sang gravely.
“Right on time,” added Paul, who shook his head at Jing. He skinned up and contacted his father.
Jing and I rushed back into the hospital as the attack alarms blared across the city. We dodged fleeing nurses and patients alike, and finally located Breckinridge’s doctor, who distractedly told us that the surgeons had removed the shrapnel, applied synthskin to her wounds, but still had her on two large-bore IVs. He ran off before we could ask any more questions.
“Oh, shit,” Jing said as we entered Breckinridge’s room. “Can we move her?”
“No choice,” said Halitov, holding Breckinridge’s hand.
The patient smiled stupidly at us. “These drugs…they’re good.”
“I’m sure they are,” I said, searching frantically around the room for a hover chair. “Screw it. We’ll roll her out on the gurney.”
“No, I saw a chair down the hall,” said Jing. “I’ll go get it.” With that, she blinked out.
“Scott, I’m sorry,” Breckinridge said.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I mean about me and Halitov. He’s good in bed.”
I grinned, looked at my friend. “Impossible.”
“Scott, I know you’re lonely,” said Breckinridge. “Why don’t you be with Jing? Our lives are too short, too fragile. You guys are meant for each other.”
I glanced away. “Maybe…”
Jing returned with the hover chair and was trying to steer the thing from its backseat control board. The little seat caromed off the door and buzzed straight toward me. I dodged out of its path while she struggled to hit the brakes.
“I thought you were a good pilot,” I said.
“Me too.” She finally got the thing to hover near Breckinridge’s bed, and we gingerly transferred our wounded friend to the seat.
“Look at this little gown they gave me,” said Breckinridge, clearly enjoying her drug-induced high. “I kinda like the way it fits.”
“Great. You can show it to all the Alliance Marines who’re going to be here any second,” I said. “You can give them a little fashion show before they cut you down.”
“Hey, Scott…” Halitov warned.
“Take it easy,” Jing told me, then activated the chair’s controls.
We followed the flood of humanity out the main doors and into the stairwell, where Jing haphazardly guided the chair down a flight of steps. On the main level, we spotted Paul, who told us his father had arranged for transfer back to Vanguard One via ATC. The colonel wanted us to meet him back at the HQ. We abandoned the hover chair, loaded Breckinridge into the airjeep, then piled inside. Jing fired up the thruster as a throng of nurses came running around one corner and spotted our jeep.
“Please,” cried one. “Busses ain’t running! You have to get us out of here!”
“Can’t do it,” Halitov said sharply, then turned to Jing. “Go.”
I stared at those nurses as the airjeep’s engine kicked dust into their eyes. Above them, a thousand crab carriers descended upon the city like multicolored stars, carrying with them thousands of troops.
“You know what’s going to happen here?” Paul asked. “It’s going to be another Gatewood-Callista. These locals won’t stand by and let Marines occupy their land. These people are going to fight.”
“And they’re going to lose,” I said.
“Hope your dad’s got a plan,” Halitov told Paul. “I really do.”
Paul returned a grave look. “Me too.”
We only had to travel a single kilometer, one thousand meters, .62 miles. We streaked down a city street, lined on both sides by office buildings and small businesses. After a few turns and a few minutes, we’d be there.
Unfortunately, Alliance Marines were already on the ground, and at least one squad had staked out positions along our route. We learned of their presence the hard way.
A low-level grenade, thankfully not a smart schrap one, thumped from a hidden soldier’s rifle and drilled into the airjeep’s hood.
“Grenade!” Jing cried.
I found myself hurtling backward through the air, my ears ringing from the explosion, my tactical computer warning me of the skin level drop, my field of view spinning from night sky to dusty street…then I hit the ground, rolled, came up, saw the burning airjeep, its front end gone. Jing, Paul, and Halitov had also been blown clear, and Halitov got up and ran toward the shattered vehicle.
It dawned on me that Breckinridge had not skinned up, that she had been too weak and too well medicated.
Snipers fired relentlessly upon us, but neither I nor Halitov acknowledged them. He was too intent on Breckinridge, I too intent on him. I leapt over the airjeep’s burning front end and arrived beside my friend as he cupped Breckinridge’s head in his hands. The blast had torn apart most of her left side, and she had quickly bled out. The sheen had faded from her eyes.
“Oh, no,” said Jing, charging up. “Kristi…”
Halitov looked at me, hands trembling, his own eyes glossed with tears, then…it all came out in a scream. He gingerly set down Breckinridge’s head, then spun and ran off toward the building behind us.
“This rifle squad is fucking dead,” said Paul, jogging off after Halitov.
Jing gave me a fiery look, then sprinted for the building’s stone wall. She darted up it, zeroing in on a sniper who stood near a fourth-story window. Halitov swore to the high heavens as he leapt straight up and into a second-story window, vanished a second, then blasted through that window and toward the street, only now he had an Alliance Marine in his grip and was choking the man to death. They hit the ground, tumbled, then Halitov swung the Marine by the neck, dragged him up, and crushe
d the soldier’s larynx.
Still in shock, I stood there, trembling, just looking at Breckinridge. Yes, our lives were too short, too fragile. I felt guilty for the way I had treated her. And I told myself that she had not failed in her duty, that her loyalty never shifted from her brother.
Abruptly, I drew two beads from Marines on the roof of a three-story bank. I ran at them, launched into a gozt, and blasted the first woman off her perch. She tumbled to the ground, rebounding several times before her skin faded. In the meantime, the second woman spun and leveled her rifle on me as I rose and started for her.
“I don’t have to kill you,” she said.
“That’s your job.”
“Don’t come any closer.”
I did.
She fired.
The bead struck my skin, rebounded, and I was on her, knocking the rifle from her grip and withdrawing my Ka-Bar. “You should’ve killed me,” I said, then closed my eyes and punched her with the blade.
Particle fire from the street suddenly blasted me away, the blade wrenching out of the woman. I staggered back, darted left, drove myself toward the edge of the bank’s roof. The first woman I had knocked off lay in the street, one of her legs clearly broken, her right arm twisted, her left arm working the rifle. I jumped off the roof, coming down at her with one knee bent, the knee that would end her life. I caught her head, and it was over.
“Everybody?” Paul called on the channel. “I’m over here on twentieth, on top of the blue building. Looks like fourteen squads. We’ll run it out, but we’ll keep to the limbs and rooftops. Meet me here, copy?”
“Copy,” I replied, then turned, spotted the building, and dashed off as Jing and Halitov checked in, and Halitov’s voice came ragged and in a tone as familiar as it was chilling, a tone that summoned up the time I had found him in his hotel room after he had tried to kill himself. Later on, he would say, “They killed my fuckin’ parents. They’re all going to die.” Now they had killed his girlfriend. I shuddered as I imagined the violence blazing within him.
Three beads of particle fire lashed out from somewhere behind and pummeled me to my stomach. I crawled forward, then found the bond and sprang toward the blue building, ascended the wall, and came up, over the top. I hopped down from the ledge and found Paul and Halitov hunkered down near a bundle of conduits. Above us hung the dense canopy, with still more businesses and residences affixed to the trunks, built within them, or perched on the limbs. The many shades of a green had deepened into hundreds of shadows. The distant thunder of crab carriers and grenades exploding and particle fire reverberating continued as the stench of our burning airjeep wafted up, across the roof.
