The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by Mike Gullickson

“Captain, are you on?” Raimey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How long until we get there?”

  “Five hours.”

  Cauwels spoke up. “Sir, I’ll hold as long as I can.”

  “Private—how far-reaching is this?” Raimey asked.

  “The whole country, sir. It started in Chicago ten days ago. MindCorp shut down everything. Civilians are running around the streets, there’s looting, fire. It’s like the end of the world.”

  Raimey’s mind raced. “Hang in there. I’ll be there soon.” But the only thing he was thinking of was Vanessa. If this started in Chicago, then for ten days she had been trapped in a war zone, and she worked at a place that built bionics. He felt his wife wither.

  The five hours felt like days, but at last the ship eased into port. The crew had already come into the cargo bay to ready John. Someone at the port was manning a crane, and as soon as the ship was docked, the crane rotated over and lowered a cable. Raimey was slowly hoisted up.

  From his vantage point in the air, he had a clear view of the destruction. Lifeless bodies were scattered from the dock all the way to the shoreline. Past the dock, buildings were on fire. The deep bellow of tank cannons echoed from the city. A team of fighter jets roared overhead. As soon as John was clear of the ship, the captain pulled sideways and out.

  Raimey was lowered down onto the dock. While he waited to be unhooked, a team of soldiers approached.

  “Private Cauwels?” Raimey asked expectantly. But when they got close, he could see that these weren’t softies. Or friendlies.

  “Help,” one pleaded weakly. His face was gaunt. He was starving, near death. The others were biologically dead. Their faces were rotting, their eyes muddy holes. A few had night vision, and even with their heads cantilevered to the side, the green glowed. Raimey heard a whirring. Up in the sky was a hover-rover. “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” the one bionic kept repeating.

  Then they attacked. Raimey had no choice. He pounded them into the ground.

  A voice came from above. “Is it clear?”

  Raimey looked up—it was the crane operator. He was climbing down.

  “Cauwels?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cauwels got to the ground and ran over to John. He used the handholds on Raimey’s back to climb onto him and unhook the crane cable.

  “Where’s everyone else?” Raimey asked. Cauwels was no older than twenty, but he looked solid. A farmboy.

  “There’s only eight of us.” Cauwels put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Across the port, seven armed soldiers appeared from behind a shipping crate and ran over. If anything, they looked even younger.

  “Where did you guys come from?”

  “Fort Benning.”

  “Sand Hill?”

  They nodded. The Army must have been funneling soldiers in from basic training. The bionic division had long ago nullified the need for soft soldier battalions, so this was a contingency move. A desperate one. Cauwels continued.

  “We got here two weeks ago. The bionic divisions were taking over the data nodes and we were filling in. After Cynthia took over the Minors, the soft divisions and armament divisions came in to try and to take back the data nodes.”

  Raimey looked up and down the skyline. “And all hell broke loose.”

  “Yeah. Only the old Tank Majors are unaffected.”

  Three gunships flew past them in formation.

  “What about them?” Raimey asked.

  “Friendly. We were supposed to get support, but it didn’t happen. Digital transmissions aren’t working. You got me on a portable radio. Last I heard, Grand Central Station is the staging point. But it’s nasty there. It’s where most of the fight is taking place.”

  “How far?”

  “Five miles.”

  “Then that’s where I’m going,” Raimey said.

  The soldiers looked around uneasily.

  “You can stay here.” Raimey walked to the front of the pier and passed two overrun machine gun nests. Brass was everywhere. Downrange, hundreds of Tank Minors were shredded, their electrostatic tissue flayed and splayed like crab meat. A few twitched.

  Raimey heard a noise behind him and turned. The soldiers had followed, stacked in the formation used by a Tank Major/six-man Minor team.

  “We were a week from culling,” Cauwels said.

  “Good thing. Stay behind me. I’ll do the work, you guys just pick off any threat I can’t see. Good?”

  The eight young men nodded. Cauwels spoke into the radio. “Ford, it’s Cauwels. We’re on our way to Grand Central and we have Tank Major John Raimey. I repeat, we have Tank Major John Raimey.”

  They moved west using the alleys. Raimey stomped through the piles of trash and crushed the dumpsters against the walls to make room. Dead civilians were everywhere. Here, in bunches, probably from a shelling; there, alone and face down, perhaps from errant fire. And the whole time, the thought that ticker-taped through Raimey’s head was that a corporation was responsible.

  On Park Avenue, more bodies were blown together like loose garbage. The bottom five stories of an apartment building had been totaled. Splayed out in front of it was a Tank Major, its chest armor open and jagged like the jaws of a snapping turtle. It had been shot with a cannon. It was dead.

  He saw three other giants lumped together with similar wounds. The Revos had hijacked some tanks. That’d be easy, Raimey thought. Two of them could rip open the armored hatch, and hand-to-hand combat with a softy was like strangling an old man on his deathbed.

  An Apache helicopter approached from the north and hovered above, targeting them with its chain gun. Cauwels waved up to it and got on the radio. He cycled through a few bands and got the pilot. “This is Private Cauwels.”

  “Is the Major friendly?” the pilot asked.

  “Yes. Where are you going?”

  “Grand Central.”

  “We are, too.”

  “I wouldn’t. It’s nearly overrun,” the pilot replied. He clicked off and flew on.

  They got to Central Park. It was deserted, like the rest of New York, except for the dead. They heard intense gunfire crackling south of them. Halfway through the park, they encountered a group of civilians huddled near the lake.

  “We’re friendlies,” Cauwels assured as they passed. One man held his dead wife in his lap. They all looked ill.

  As they got closer to Grand Central Station, it was clear that they were approaching the heart of the battle. The booms of tank shells and heavy caliber weapons ricocheted around downtown.

  Twenty stories above them, a tank shell exploded into a corner of a skyscraper. Cauwels and his team sprinted for cover as the debris crashed to the street below. Raimey blocked it with his arm.

  Two blocks later they came across the Apache. It was a streak of fire in the middle of the road. The tank shell that had hit the skyscraper had made short work of its assault.

  Beyond that, they saw the possessed Minors. It was like nothing they would have predicted. They weren’t a mass, like zombies; they were an ultra-coordinated strike force. They sniped from buildings circling Grand Central, and on the ground a thousand Revos bore down on the U.S. Army’s last stronghold while the pirated tanks shoveled lead down the pipe.

  “Holy shit,” Cauwels said.

  “Do you see what I’m seeing?” Raimey asked.

  Cauwels and the others had no clue.

  “None of them are looking in our direction.”

  “Because they’re being controlled?” Cauwels asked.

  “It’d be disorienting to have them look in other directions, wouldn’t it?” Raimey guessed. He continued. “If there are other Tank Majors, they’re pinned because of the tanks surrounding Grand Central. They can’t take a direct hit from something like that. I’m going after the tanks. If I can get rid of those, the rest of ’em are just mosquitos.”

  Cauwels and his men checked their rifles. “We’ll do what we can.”

&nb
sp; “Shoot at range—don’t get close,” Raimey said, and then his drive chains spun up in electric thunder and he charged into battle.

  He had four hydraulshocks remaining. There were six tanks that he could see. He had to hit hard and fast.

  The Revos may be strong, but they didn’t act like human soldiers. It was clear as he approached that they were in groups, and that some were in motion while others paused, like a turn-based strategy game. When in motion, they moved like a coordinated unit; when paused, they swayed back and forth in unison, a team of drunks debating collapse. None of them turned his way even though he was running so hard toward them that the asphalt beneath his feet was cracking like clay. He cleaved through two squads of Minors on the way to the nearest tank, and suddenly all eyes were on him. The other groups of Minors immediately collapsed around him like glue, grabbing at him, trying to pull him down.

  He ran directly at the tank. Its turret rotated toward him while piles of Minors tried to hold him back. Raimey kept his legs aimed at the tank and spun his upper body around and around. With his arms out, he was like a weed-whacker, chopping through the bionic sod. Ten yards from the tank, he locked his torso in place and reared his left hand back.

  WHA-WHAM!

  His fist punctured the rear engine compartment and the fuel exploded. The tank jumped away from John, immediately scrap, but the turret kept coming. John slammed his fist down on it, warping it.

  He didn’t wait—the tank was dead. In long sweeping arcs, he swept the crowding Revos away. Three got up on his back, out of reach. Cauwels and the others pulled up their rifles and slapped them down.

  By now, the other tanks had a bead on him. Raimey moved to the next one with surprising speed. He looked like a cannonball, out of control, like there was no way the massive, motive inertia could alter from its current path. But it could. Like a running back, Raimey cut back and forth, his feet tearing up the asphalt as the tank fired—and then he was within fifteen feet of it.

  He pinned himself against the front of the tank and ground along its side, allowing no space. He grabbed the barrel and, with a heave, bent it. The tank tried to move back, but Raimey slid quickly toward the engine.

  WHA-WHAM!

  The tank ground to a halt.

  Four left. Two were advancing toward him—firing into the desiccated hull of the destroyed tank, which Raimey now used as a shield—while the other two were retreating, but keeping their turrets trained on the hiding giant.

  From behind the tank, Raimey watched the two Abrams approach. A swarm of Revos clambered over them like parasites, kamikazi-ing toward him. The tanks pounded Raimey’s shield with shells, some punching through. The first wave of Revos hit, and Raimey crushed them down. And then he pushed.

  Full torque at one rpm, and he thrust the warped-out Abrams ahead of him as he accelerated quickly toward the sea of Revos. Raimey’s legs pumped faster and the mangled tank hit the wall of arms and legs, the gaunt shrunken faces, knocking them over and under and into the tank they were trying to protect.

  Raimey wasted no time. Revos piled on top of him, but he gave them no notice. When he saw the black eye of the turret, he did something that Majors never do: he sprawled to the ground. The shot rang over his head and he jumped up. He had five seconds before it could fire again. He circled to its back.

  WHA-WHAM!

  The tank spun away, encased in fire, and the Revos that had covered Raimey’s shoulders and back were torn apart by the force. The other tank retreated. Raimey scissored down with his fists, crushing through the Revos, leaving twitching limbs and vacant stares in his wake. He saw a flurry of flashes from far away and a Revo fell from his back. Cauwels and his team.

  Raimey had one hydraulshock left, and he didn’t want to waste it. He caught up to the retreating tank and climbed on top. From above he hammered his fists down, crushing the turret flat as a pancake, one hundred titanic blows of invincible eight-hundred-pound fists in less than a minute. He knelt down and pounded the turret through its chassis. It slowed to a crawl when the Minors inside were crushed within.

  That tank had been bait. BOOM! A shell hit John square in the chest, exploding, and he spun off the tank.

  ===

  “Raimey’s hit!” a soldier called out. The eight-man team had split up to dismantle the two remaining tanks that were firing at Raimey from range.

  “Shit.” Cauwels was chewing on plastique and wedging it in the bearing ring between the turret and the chassis. So far, no Revos had looked their way. They were focused on the giant. “Is he moving?”

  “No.”

  “Uh guys, the tank that just shot him is aiming at us,” another soldier said. He was covering them.

  “Do you see Terry?” Cauwels asked through gummed-up teeth. Terry was running the other team. The turret staring at them looked like a black hole.

  “Don’t see him. You better get off, man.”

  BANG! The tank turret popped off like a cork and Terry and the others jumped up and fired into the hull.

  Cauwels exhaled in relief and finished the C-4. He jumped down and ran toward John with his team. He popped the radio trigger with his thumb. Another BANG! The tank behind them exploded, and like roaches pouring from beneath a rotting log, four Minors jumped out and immediately attacked.

  “Shit!” Cauwels said. Two of the soldiers were immediately killed. Cauwels pulled up his rifle and shot from the hip. A bullet clipped his shoulder, another hit his thigh. The Minors sprinted toward him, dead and possessed. Terry and his team tried to intervene, firing at the Revos, but they were too far away.

  A Revo tackled Cauwels and grabbed his head. And suddenly Cauwels rose like an angel. He thought, This is how it ends . . . but instead of a tunnel of light, or a loved one welcoming him, he found himself looking directly into Raimey’s eyes. The giant’s nose and mouth dripped with blood.

  When the tank shell had hit his chest, it had penetrated his main armor, setting off the reactive safeguard underneath. His entire front had been blown out. Only a heat shield protected John’s human form from danger. Raimey ripped the Revo off of Cauwels and curb-stomped it.

  Terry and the others came over. Cauwels was unconscious. One of his eyes had been raked.

  The Revos were closing in, still a thousand or more. But with the tanks destroyed, the battle lines shifted; the area was clear for air support to move in. The thwapping of chopper blades filled the air, and then cannon fire. An Apache approached, lighting up the bionic mass. Other guns joined in as the shored-up forces of Grand Central emerged, firing on the Revos, driving them back. A barely functioning Tank Major ran interference, creating a gap between the softy forces and the nearest Revos, allowing the Army to mount machine guns and lay suppressive fire.

  “Get behind me,” Raimey said, and with Cauwels in hand, he sprinted toward Grand Central. The remaining soldiers followed as John cleared a path. Around them, Revos exploded from the Apache’s minigun. Revos fired from the surrounding buildings and the Apache answered in kind, showering the square in glass.

  Softies met Raimey at the barricade. Raimey handed Cauwels off and charged back into the fray, working alongside the other Tank Major. The Revos soon retreated. Raimey guessed they wanted to control the city, and if too many died, they wouldn’t be able to manage it.

  The injured Tank Major knelt motionless. An acrid green steam poured from his back. “My battery’s gone,” he said. Raimey dragged him back to the barricade where technicians greeted them. Then he went down into Grand Central Station.

  Soldiers ran past him up the stairs with weapons and supplies. They were refortifying the entrance and taking back the surrounding buildings.

  Raimey found one of the soldiers from the port in the Grand Central Hall. Spent brass littered the floor, as did glass and debris. The actual command was underground.

  “Did Cauwels make it?”

  “They’re working on him.”

  “But he’s alive?”

  “So far.”


  The soldier showed him the way.

  The infirmary was marked with a red splash of paint in the shape of a plus. Outside its doors, a young soldier, buzz cut, stocky, with sharp brown eyes, waited. When Raimey approached, the soldier saluted.

  “I’m Corporal Ford. Cauwels radioed in that you were coming.”

  “You guys are friends?”

  “Joined together.”

  “How is he?” Raimey asked.

  “He’s beat up, but he’s going to make it.”

  “I need to get to Chicago.”

  “Orders?”

  “Duty.”

  Ford didn’t ask more. Raimey outranked him handily. Ford glanced at Raimey’s wounds and battle chassis damage. “Let me get a tech and medic to check you out first.”

  The medic treated the burns on Raimey’s skin from the active armor, and the techs took the chest plate from the Tank Major whose battery had exploded, and modified it to fit Raimey. They reloaded his hydraulshocks.

  Ford showed John to the train. “Officially, I can’t let you take it, but no one’s around to argue with me. Chicago is ground zero anyway.”

  Raimey liked Ford. He was young, and it was clear that he was in charge only because higher ranks had died and left him with command, but he was handling it. “Why aren’t you a Minor?”

  Ford smiled. “Almost every soldier you see here was scheduled to become one. I was booked for culling next week,” Ford said. “But after this, I think I’m going to pass. I’ll radio ahead to the team in Chicago. They’ll be glad to have you.”

  “Good luck,” Raimey said.

  “You, too.”

  Raimey boarded the train, and minutes later it chugged west out of Grand Central Station.

  = = =

  Kove woke, staring at stars. Copper ran down this throat and when he shifted it was as if a hot iron had been shoved into his skull. He remembered.

  “Oh, Gaww. Gaww.” His voice was a ragged hole. He reached up with his hand, then stopped—his hands weren’t for consoling. He sat up, and the pendulum swing of ravaged tissue beneath his nose shocked his brain with white light. The dust from the Derik Building explosion crusted his open wounds. But it may have saved his life. He could feel the grit—it was like match points on his open nerves—but there was very little blood.