Rogue Battleship

by Jake Elwood

  “There's people in the factory,” said Tom. He described what he'd seen, from the fences to the frightened people staring out the windows.

  “Bastards,” said Sharpe. “They're forcing civilians to work in the factory.”

  “If we go in from the far side of town, it's the shortest route to the factory.”

  Sharpe shook her head. “I'm not risking my people. Not when we've got this lovely big gun.”

  “But the people in the factory-”

  Sharpe's face hardened. “It's better this this way. We'll smash the factory and kill a bunch of skilled workers.”

  Tom stared at her. “But they might be colonists!”

  “Then they’re traitors.” She stared at him, eyes brittle and uncompromising. “They deserve what they're about to get.”

  She turned away, talking to one of her lieutenants. Tom stared at the back of her head, his thoughts churning. Then he turned and climbed to the crest of the ridge. He leaned against the wall of the outpost and stared down at the town without seeing it.

  War is messy. People get hurt. You can't do nothing because you don't want to do any harm. Leaving the Dawn Alliance in charge comes with terrible consequences. They have to be driven out. It has to be done.

  We didn't put that mortar on a ridge above a town full of civilians. The Dawn Alliance did that. People who would do something like that have to be stopped. It's just that simple.

  And yet ….

  “Poor son of a bitch.”

  Tom glanced backwards. Garth Ham stood behind him, looking down at the corpse in the doorway. Ham had suffered more than anyone at the hands of the Dawn Alliance, but there was no bitterness in his expression as he looked at the remains of his enemy. There was only compassion. He met Tom's gaze and said, “Do you think we should bury him?”

  It was the compassion that decided Tom. He couldn't condemn it, couldn't reject it. “We don't have time,” he told Ham. “Gather the others. But do it quietly.” He gestured toward the town. “We've got work to do.”

  The ground raced past in an exhilarating blur, and Alice, unable to resist, let out a low whoop of delight. She straddled a hover bike, a bulky, low-slung motorcycle with repulsors that kept it just above the ground and a propeller at the back for propulsion. It was a fast machine, not particularly safe to ride, and she loved it.

  To her left and right she could see other vehicles, three more bikes and a pair of ground cars holding spacers from the Icicle. Each vehicle would target a different part of the fence around the town, roughly simultaneously. The first part of the plan was to evacuate as many civilians as possible.

  She leaned to one side and the bike turned. A rooftop stuck up from a low hollow to her right. She headed toward the building, reducing her speed as she drew close. Hover bikes were great at many things, but they were terrible for quick stops.

  In a depression surrounded by three low hills she found a farmhouse and a couple of outbuildings. She parked the bike, keeping the engine running as she stepped off. It was a United Worlds machine confiscated by the Dawn Alliance from a colonist. She and Bridger had managed to get the engine started, but she was afraid to turn it off.

  She drew her pistol as she approached the house, but she kept it pointing at the ground, and she waved her free hand at the windows. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  For all she knew the house contained a squad of trigger-happy DA soldiers patiently waiting for her to reach point-blank range. In spite of the danger, though, she felt unreasonably happy. The soft shadows of the twin suns felt right to her in a way that was difficult to explain. The temperature of the light was different here on Novograd. Being on a ship wasn't the same, nor was New Panama. Things looked different on Novograd. There was a smell to the air, a feel that she hadn't experienced since she'd left.

  Mortal danger or no, it was good to be home.

  The house was empty, the windows thickly filmed with dust. “Free Novograd” was scrawled on the front door in green paint. Alice looked at the graffiti, touched her temple in salute, and hurried back to her bike. It was nearly time for the fence breach.

  From even a short distance it was impossible to tell the town was under military occupation. The fence was invisible, and the buildings beyond looked entirely peaceful. A little too peaceful, in fact. She couldn't see a single person, and that was the most convincing indicator that war had come.

  She didn't see the fence until she was almost on top of it. The posts were tiny, taller than her head but as narrow as one of her fingers. A glint of sunlight on wire was all the warning she got. She cut the power to the fan and coasted forward, stopping the bike by running the nose into the wires. She hopped off, took a laser cutter from her tool belt, and stepped up to the fence.

  The wires were almost as fine as human hair, and spaced so far apart a skinny person might have wriggled between them. She wondered if that was a symptom of the material shortages she kept hearing about. She shrugged inwardly, dismissing the thought, and checked the time.

  Damn it. I'm almost a minute late. With quick strokes she cut every strand between two posts, watching the wire ends curl away. She knelt, making sure she'd cut the bottom strands. She didn't want frightened civilians tripping as they hurried out of Greenport. She wondered if she was setting off alarms by cutting the wires. Well, there were several other teams making simultaneous cuts, plus the looming threat of an attack. She figured the garrison probably wouldn't react.

  Still, she put a hand on the butt of her pistol as she hurried into the town.

  The first house she came to made her smile. It was a bungalow, small and cozy, with concrete walls rising to waist height and timber above that. It was painted a pastel blue, with bright green trim around the windows. The yard was full of vegetables, but there were flowers mixed in, and vines climbed the walls of the house and drooped from the eaves. It was everything she loved about the colonies, simple and homely, practicality mixed with a quiet, unobtrusive beauty.

  No one answered when she knocked on the door. She twisted the doorknob, found it locked, and shouted, “I'm coming in! You can open the door or I can kick it in.”

  In truth she wasn't sure the house was occupied. She was about to turn away and move to the next house when the lock rattled. The door opened a crack and a man peered out.

  “There's an attack coming,” Alice said. “You need to get out of town.” She pointed toward the breach she'd made. “There's a hole in the fence. You need to go now.”

  The door opened a bit wider, and the man stuck his head out. He looked left and right, then let the door swing open. Several children came forward, a little boy who wrapped his arms around the man's leg and an older boy and girl, perhaps nine or ten, who stared at Alice with wide, solemn eyes. The girl said, “Are you a Prairie Dog?”

  “I'm with the Free Neorome Navy.”

  The girl's forehead scrunched up. “What's that?”

  “I don't have time for a lesson in politics. You need to go.”

  The older boy said, “They shoot people who leave.”

  “Bombs are going to start falling,” Alice said. “And they can't shoot everyone. They're going to be much too busy to come after you. My friends and I will see to that.”

  The girl said, “But what if-”

  “Enough,” said the man. “She's right. We need to go.”

  The little boy said, “But what about mommy?”

  “We're evacuating the whole town,” said Alice. “Your mom will leave too.”

  “She's in the factory,” the boy said. “They won't let her leave.”

  A cold, slithering hand made an ugly fist in Alice's stomach. “The factory is my next stop.” She dropped into a squat and looked the boy in the eye. “I'll find your mommy. I'll get her out.”

  He stared at her, as grim and serious as a surgeon. “Do you promise?”

  Oh, God. How do I get myself into these positions? “I promise,” said Alice, knowing she could never guarantee it. “I'll get your mommy
out. I'll keep her safe.”

  “That's enough,” said the man. “Get your coats. Hurry!”

  The family retreated into the house, and Alice hurried to the next building. I don't have time to argue with every person in Greenport.

  The door to the next bungalow swung open as she approached. Five people came out, all of them teenagers. Three were black and two were white, but they were strangely similar, with haircuts so short they were nearly bald and sparkling contact lenses that made every eye a different vivid colour.

  “Are you from the United Worlds?” demanded a girl with one green eye and one blue.

  “No, stupid,” said the boy beside her. He had a sparse mustache and eyes that were two different shades of red. “She's from the resistance.”

  “I'm from Free Neorome,” Alice said.

  Before she could say another word a third teen spoke up. “Is it an invasion?”

  “Yes,” said Alice, because it was easier than giving a full explanation. “The town needs to be evacuated. The Navy is going to fire on the factory. Some of the shells might miss.”

  “We're on it!” said the first girl. And just like that, all five teens took off in different directions. They had the look of slackers who couldn't have organized an afternoon nap, but they reacted like they'd been rehearsing for this exact situation. Within thirty seconds they were banging on five different doors and shouting their message. “The bluecoats are here! They're going to blow up the town! Everyone's evacuating!”

  A gray-haired couple emerged from a nearby house, looking around for the source of the racket. The boy who had knocked on their door was already two houses away. They listened to his shouted warning, then looked at Alice. “Is it true?” the woman said.

  No, but I'll be damned if I'll waste your time and mine explaining it. “Yes. There's a cut in the fence over there.” Alice pointed, and the man and woman went back inside. They were out again in less than a minute, the man slinging a bag over one shoulder. “Thank you,” the woman said to Alice as they went past.

  “Hey, Mister, they're evacuating the town. Soldiers are coming.”

  Tom nodded to the girl who had spoken, a breathless child about ten years old. “Thank you.”

  “People are cutting through the fence.” She held up a pair of pliers almost as long as her arm. “If you follow me I’ll make a hole for you.”

  “That's all right,” Tom told her, then shook his head as she dashed past him. He turned to his two companions, Bridger and Elizabeth Larson. “Looks like word is getting around.”

  Bridger nodded. “At this rate the town will be empty in no time.”

  Larson, sweat glistening on her shaved head, gave Bridger’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. She released him to take her laser rifle in a two-handed grip, swinging to cover the corner behind them, then lowered the gun as a familiar figure came into view. “Ho, Katie.”

  “Ho, Liz.” A black woman in a Free Neorome uniform with a shotgun in her hands flashed her a grin, nodded to Bridger and Tom, then turned her attention to the rooftops and windows around them.

  O'Reilly came around the corner behind her with a couple of spacers on his heels. “How's it going for you?” said O'Reilly, then raised his eyebrows as a crowd of fleeing civilians passed between him and Tom. He crossed the street to join Tom and his companions. “Pretty good, by the look of it.”

  “So far, so good,” Tom agreed. “Everyone's clearing out without panicking.”

  “We had a bunch of idiots who refused to leave,” O'Reilly said. He held up the pistol in his hand. “I had to put three bullets in their ceiling before they took me seriously.”

  “Civilians,” said Tom.

  O'Reilly nodded. “Civilians,” he agreed. He gestured at the end of the factory building looming less than a block away. “Shall we move on to the factory?”

  Tom glanced around, gauging the flow of pedestrian traffic. A man and woman were shoving a heavily laden cart down the middle of the street. The cart, loaded with boxes and bags and piles of clothing, had repulsors, so he figured they might even manage to get it out of town. He thought about firing a shot into the repulsor machinery to encourage the two of them to hurry, then decided against it. They were actually making fairly decent time, although other refugees kept passing them.

  There were dozens of people in sight, with more appearing all the time, all of them hurrying toward the fence line. We've done enough. The evacuation has its own momentum now. He nodded to O'Reilly. “Let's head for the factory.”

  “About time,” said the woman with the shotgun. She marched along a storefront, reached the corner, and stuck her head around. “Looks clear.”

  She stepped around the corner – then jerked backward and sprawled on her back. The sound of the shot came an instant later, bouncing and echoing from the walls around them.

  O'Reilly reacted instantly, shoving his pistol into its holster and springing forward. He caught her wrist in both hands and heaved, dragging her around the corner. A second shot came, and O'Reilly flinched, but he wasn't hurt.

  Too late. Tom stared down at the woman. What was her name? Katie? A high-caliber bullet had taken her just above the heart. It was a devastating wound. There was no question that she was dead.

  “No!” One of the spacers behind O'Reilly lifted a blast rifle and took a step toward the corner.

  Tom stuck an arm out, grabbing the man around the chest. For a terrible moment they struggled, half a step from the corner, half a step from the sniper’s line of fire. Then Bridger grabbed a fistful of uniform shirt with each hand and hauled the man backward. “Enough! Don't make his day by giving him another easy kill.”

  The man slumped, and they let go of him. O'Reilly stared down at the body, then turned away and faced Tom. He looked as if he'd aged a decade in a minute or two. “What's the plan, Commodore?”

  Tom stared at him, his mind blank. We need the Prairie Dogs for this. They're good at this sort of thing. “The plan is, we shoot that asshole.” He dropped to hands and knees at the corner of the store, then stuck his head out just above ground level. He took in the scene in one quick glance, then pulled his head back. A bullet tore a chip from the corner of the building an instant after Tom's head moved out of the way.

  “I think I saw him,” said Tom. “He's in a window on the third floor of the factory.” He closed his eyes, picturing what he'd seen. “I could see his head and shoulders. That means he hasn't got much cover.”

  “He's pretty fast with that gun,” said Bridger. “Whoever tries for a shot will get his head blown off.”

  “He can't look everywhere at once,” said O'Reilly. “Let's see how many firing positions we can find.”

  “I'm taking this roof,” said Bridger. He holstered a pistol and slapped Larson’s arm. “Give me a boost.”

  She snorted. “Maybe after you lose a few kilos.” She slung her laser rifle across her back. “You boost. I shoot.”

  Bridger made a stirrup with laced fingers. Tom watched, his mind racing. The moment her head clears the edge of the roof she'll be vulnerable. But it's also the moment the sniper will be distracted.

  Katie’s discarded shotgun still lay in the street, next to a dark smear of blood. Across the street was a pharmacy, the front door ajar. Either the storekeeper had fled without bothering to lock up, or he’d left the door open in case people needed emergency medical supplies. How many steps would it take me to cross that street? Six? Five, if I’m really hopping? How long will that take?

  Adrenaline washed through his bloodstream as he made his decision. His arms and legs shook, and he took slow, deep breaths, oxygenating himself. Larson hooked her fingers over the edge of the roof, and Tom rose into a squat.

  Larson's head rose over the top of the roof, and Tom sprang around the corner.

  He ran.

  The pharmacy, which had looked so close, seemed as distant as the twin suns as he imagined the sniper spotting him, swinging the gun barrel over ….

  Tom
threw himself into a forward roll as the rifle cracked again. His palms hit the asphalt street, he tucked his chin in, and he rolled. He came up onto his feet and hurled himself against the pharmacy door. The door banged open as he tumbled through.

  For a moment he lay panting in the middle of a plank floor. It was a nice floor, thick slabs of hardwood, polished to a high shine. He pushed himself up, leaving a bloody handprint on the wood. He rose to one knee and looked at his palms, which were torn and bleeding. That was a bit scary, but I'm safe now.

  It was as if the gods heard him and decided to put him in his place. A bullet came through the wall beside him, peppering his face with splinters of wood. He let out a yelp and pressed himself flat against the floor. The hole in the wall let in a shaft of sunlight that passed frighteningly close to where his head had been.

  The next shot punched through the wall at knee height, exploding a can of protein powder and plowing a divot in the floor a finger’s breadth from Tom's right hand. He felt the floorboards jump, and he swore, rolling away as more bullets smashed through the wall.

  He was about to rise to his feet when the sniper shifted his aim, three fast shots coming through at waist height. Then came a momentary lull.

  He'll expect me to duck. He'll aim low. Tom stood, turning sideways to create the smallest profile possible. Sure enough, two more shots came, one just in front of his ankles, one just behind. A chunk of shelving bounced from his calf. He stood frozen, heart hammering in his chest, wondering where the next bullet would strike.

  A medicinal stink assaulted his nostrils as smashed jars and bottles leaked their contents onto the floor. A haze filled the air, a yellowish powder that smelled of talc and cinnamon. Sunlight shining through the holes in the wall made golden columns in the air. Tom held his breath, waiting for the next shot.

  It didn't come. He cocked his head, replaying the last moments in his mind. Did I hear return fire coming from nearby? Did somebody get the sniper?

  Only when he heard voices in the street did he move. He went to the front door of the pharmacy, carefully keeping his head back from the doorframe, and looked outside.