by Jacob Gowans
“The eagles have their hands full,” the bird reported. “Hawks are all over the place, outnumbering our birds at least three to one.”
“We can’t even spare one?”
“Do your job, Sheep Leader.”
I am not a leader! Brickert almost screamed back. For one brief instant, he wanted to chuck his com as far as possible and then just run—run from the battlefield and never look back. But he fought down the insanity and forced himself to focus for his team’s sake. He couldn’t help Natalia until he got Justice’s squad out of its jam. After taking the briefest of moments to collect his cool, Brickert checked the time.
0724.
Sammy would activate the kill code in thirty-six minutes. Then the nightmare would end. But in the meantime, how am I supposed to take out a tank?
* * * * *
Gunfire. Commander Byron was so tired of gunfire. He’d heard enough for three lifetimes. Twenty minutes, he told himself, assuming Sammy sends the signal out on time. Twenty minutes. He could stay alive for that long.
The Hybrids sent waves of revulsion through his gut. At some point in the last couple of years, he had started to think of Samuel as a second son. He guessed it probably began when he had ventured to Rio and found the tiny bunker Samuel had lived in for weeks, hiding from the CAG. Seeing Samuel’s face on these Hybrids filled him with a sense of rage such as he had rarely known.
All Commander Byron could do was send out wide hand blasts to keep the Hybrids in the elevator shaft, filling the space between him and them with an invisible wall. The ten Hybrids blasted, shot, and beat at his blasts with all their Anomaly Thirteen-filled fury, searching for cracks in Byron’s defense so they could push forward, blast up, attack their way out.
It didn’t take long for them to learn that when a few of them blasted together, they could push him backward. First they would jump blast, then hand blast, timing their jumps and blasts in unison. From there they quickly shoved him far enough back that they had room to climb out of the shaft. Byron waited until the Hybrids were grouped together, then he raised his left leg, aimed his heel at the group, and said, “Fire left rocket.”
His bionic foot erupted in flame and flew into the shaft, detonating in fire and smoke around the Hybrids. Some of them saved themselves with blasts, others died. Byron counted four among the dead. The clamps that had attached to his bionic foot now flared outward to form a stubby sort of paw but left him with a significant limp.
The remaining Hybrids forced him back again and gained footing on the white floor. The commander crouched and blasted at them high and low, retreating and keeping his blasts up to offer protection and offense at the same time. The Hybrids shielded and shot at him. His right hand itched for his syshée, but he didn’t dare—not with five guns pointing back at him.
I am not useless. I am not worthless. People are depending on me.
“System report,” he ordered the computer.
“All systems activated,” the computer responded. “Awaiting command.”
“Status of network report,” the commander said next.
“Network connected but inactive.”
This did not surprise Commander Byron. The network would not be active until Samuel or Jeffie stood next to the computer and held the standby button down. The standby button alerted the other station via a green light that the user had entered the kill code into the terminal and was ready to activate it. If the light was green, the network became active. If the light stayed red, the network was only connected.
Two Hybrids tried to flank him, one on each side. Byron gave up more ground, but was running out of room. His arms were stiff and his injured leg protested at each step. Come on, you old man. This is what you were born to do.
The anesthesia was starting to wear off, and he had no time to give himself more. Grin and bear it.
In his mind’s eye he saw a smiling, chubby face, sickly green-brown hair, back and arms covered in tattoos. Emily.
Byron couldn’t think of her right now. Need to focus. Too much on the line.
Bullets and shrapnel bounced off his shields, but the Hybrids were getting more and more creative in their efforts to work around them. Commander Byron struggled to keep up. Sweat poured down his face, and a stitch in his side was slowly turning into yet another ache.
One Hybrid moved too quickly on Byron’s left. The commander tried to turn but nearly stumbled on his stump of a foot. The Hybrid fired a jigger at Byron’s head, narrowly missing. A second Hybrid slipped around his right and shot Byron in the hip. Byron grunted and fell.
More shots came, this time from behind. One Hybrid took a bullet to the neck, the other in the shoulder. Byron got his shields up just in time to block two hand cannons. He raised his right foot. “Fire right rocket.”
The Hybrids scattered so fast that the rocket killed only one of them. Another, however, took a bullet in the stomach during the confusion. Next thing Byron knew, Albert was kneeling next to him. They blasted together, their shields forming an all but impenetrable wall of energy.
“You don’t look so good, Dad.” Black crusty blood covered Albert’s pale face and his left eye drooped.
“Worry about them, not me. How much time?”
“Five minutes.”
Byron winced from the sharp pain in his hip. Three hundred seconds. I can make it that long.
* * * * *
He’s weak. Bleeding. Tired.
The Queen saw the pile of dead bodies as she rode the elevator cable from the penthouse to the underground. Her body tingled as she flew through the air, her hair whipping her face. Sammy hadn’t activated the solution yet. She still had time to prevent disaster. Her weapon of choice was a new mini-blitzer, better than the prototype she’d used in her first encounter with Sammy at Baikonur. It used smaller superheated discs, which allowed her to carry more rounds per cartridge and heated up the discs at a faster rate. Her goal was to put one disc in both of Sammy’s eyes. First the left, then the right.
I will beat him. I will win. I will prove once and for all that I am the supreme being. I proved it to myself. I proved it to the fox. Now I will prove it to Samuel Berhane.
Once Sammy was dead, no one would dare rise up against her. Once he was dead and she saw the discs from the blitzer open up his skull, only then would it all be over. Down there was her destiny. Her power. Her freedom.
She had set herself on this path long ago. It had taken her to the school. To the prison. To the fox. And now to an elevator in the bowels of the earth.
To face Samuel Berhane.
* * * * *
It took Sheep Team over twenty minutes to reach the tank. Enemy sniper fire sent them running for cover until the geese could locate the snipers and take them out. Sneaking behind a low wall, Brickert’s team flanked the massive tank’s left side.
“We need to watch this beast and see if we can figure out any weaknesses,” Brickert said.
“Sir,” said one of his team. Brickert flinched at the word. “It’s almost 0800. If we wait just a few minutes …”
Sammy and Commander Byron will activate the kill code and take out most of the CAG forces.
“Copy that,” Brickert said. “Hold tight and wait, Sheep Team. Eyes out for enemy fire. Let’s see what happens at 0800.”
The tank continued to launch shells over the blockade at Horse Team. Brickert flinched each time, hoping that Justice’s team would be all right. Come on, Sammy. Come through for us.
He checked the time again. 0758. Ten seconds later a deep boom echoed from the west. It sounded like thunder but the sky was clear. It was immediately followed by a second boom and a third.
“What’s happening?” Brickert asked.
“The charges on the bridges just blew. All bridges leading into the city are down. Hawks are targeting the swimmers and boats in the Potomac. All eagles are heading to the river to protect the marchers.”
Brickert kept one eye on the clock. 0759.
Any second now �
��
The rest of his team sensed his anxiety. They were quiet and tense, waiting, hoping. The tank fired off two rapid rounds.
“Sheep Team!” one of the geese called over the com. “Horse Team is taking more casualties. Get that tank!”
0800.
Brickert breathed a sigh of relief and waited for signs of the kill code taking effect. The tank fired again, shouts came from the other side of the wall, more gunfire filled the air. In the distance Brickert heard the roaring of cruisers. A drop of sweat ran down his cheek.
“Sir,” one of Sheep Team said, “I don’t think—”
Brickert nodded. According to mission planning, if Sammy and Byron missed the 0800 kill code time, the next one wouldn’t be until 0815, then 0830, and so on every fifteen minutes. But for all Brickert knew, Sammy or Commander Byron’s team was dead or captured. No matter the case, one fact was apparent: it was up to Brickert and Sheep Team to save Horse Team and help the marchers get past the blockades.
* * * * *
The Queen landed on the body of 13F712072-Jane. Traitor. The Queen spat on her pale face. Beneath the dead girl were dozens more corpses. Blood and bits of Thirteen spattered the white walls, ceiling, and floor of what was otherwise a very boring white room. Two tall white columns stood erect in the room’s center, and along the junction of the back wall and floor was a long, coffin shaped rectangular projection, the only area in the room that bore no traces of the battle. Between them stood Sammy and his blonde whore. The Queen noted the sag in their stances, their labored breathing, the uncertainty in their eyes. A low laugh erupted from her gut.
“I respect you, Sammy,” she admitted. “Your performance against the parade I sent you has earned it, regardless of our previous meetings. You are a true warrior.”
The Queen saw how his muscles tensed. He was ready despite his fatigue. The girl … it was hard to tell. The Queen had never met this one before, she couldn’t read her quite as well. “I respect you so much that I will let you choose who dies first. You can watch her go, or I will spare you the horror and kill you first.”
Sammy did not answer. Perhaps he did not have the energy to spare. It made no difference. The Queen’s mini-blitzer stayed at her side in its holster. She didn’t want to reveal her blasting capabilities to Sammy. Not yet. She relished the moment when he realized what she had gained—that she had become his equal.
“If you won’t pick, then I’ll do it for you. I don’t care if you hurt while it happens, Sammy. I don’t care if it’s fast or slow. I just want you to die. You’re the last person in the world who has beaten me at anything. Once you are gone, I will transcend the world itself. Like the phoenix I’ve always known I am.”
The Queen moved first, a quick lateral step. She wanted to see how they would respond, how they coordinated their defense and attack. Her body vibrated with energy, her earlier injuries forgotten. This was reality. This was freedom and purpose. This was life in its most pure and refined state.
Sammy attacked first, charging at her only to use a jump blast over her while the girl shot three rounds at the Queen’s chest. Using her superior speed and perception, the Queen noted the specific angle of the gun, and threw herself to the right, giving herself plenty of distance before the gun was even fired. Any blasts Sammy might have fired at her back went wide. The Queen responded by ripping her mini-blitzer from its holster and firing.
The blonde girl tried to blast shield, but the disc went through the blast and took off two of her fingers. Gasping silently in shock, she clutched her cauterized hand. Sammy barreled into the Queen from behind, but she let the momentum flip her over and landed on her feet.
“If that’s the best you got,” she taunted, ignoring the dull sympathy pain pulsing in her own fingers, “it’s going to be a short fight.” Then she smirked at the girl. “Are you okay? Since I don’t know your name, I’ll call you Stubby. Is eight your new favorite number, Stubby?”
The girl attacked again, and the Queen imbibed her rage as though it were cool water. Sammy tried to blindside her, but the Queen dodged and fired at the blonde girl again. This time she missed, or thought she did until she saw a nasty cut along the girl’s cheek. This seemed to infuriate Sammy even more.
“Not so pretty now, is she?” the Queen asked. “Not like me.”
Sammy narrowed his eyes, but did not attack. Good, Sammy, get angry. The madder you are, the more I’m winning.
Unfortunately, she was wrong. Sammy and the girl seemed to draw strength from each other’s pain, and communicated more coherently without words, silent or otherwise. The Queen held off as long as she could without using her blasts until the two Fourteens worked her into a corner. At that point it became blast or die.
She wished that she could witness the shocked expressions on their faces as she flipped over them with a powerful jump blast. It would have been a feast for her spirit. But by the time she landed and faced them, they were already reacting, adjusting, maneuvering.
“Really, Sammy?” she called out. “You have nothing to say? I know I just shocked the hell out of you.”
Still he favored her with no words. She pushed them back with blasts, using her speed, skill, and intellect to keep her distance. But the Psions would have little of it. They pressed back, never letting her rest. So she changed her tactic to one of patience.
The Queen was fresh and they were not. Twice more she caught the girl with the blitzer discs, first across the left forearm, then deep in the right thigh. The girl could hardly walk after that, let alone fight. When Sammy’s friend became a liability, he could not move fast enough to protect her.
Seeing them struggle filled the Queen with glee, and she savagely beat Sammy across the room, deflecting his blasts aside like the weak, pathetic things they were. “I thought you’d be better than this! You have no one left to dive in front of you and save you. Remember the boy, Sammy? I do! I can still smell his guts splattering the inside of that cruiser like gelatin.”
Sammy’s face filled with rage.
“I’m going to do the same thing to your slut!” the Queen crowed. The girl was limping along, groaning and trying to get behind her. “Isn’t that right, Stubby?”
Without so much as a glance, the Queen whipped the gun behind her and shot the girl through the throat. The disc nearly took off Stubby’s head, but instead blood spurted through her windpipe as she grasped and clutched at it in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. The Queen laughed as she jump-blasted backwards, soaring over the scene like a hawk.
Enraged, Sammy shot after her like a bullet, hands outstretched, blast after blast after blast flying past her or bouncing so weakly off her own shields that she couldn’t even feel them. When he finally drew close enough, she feinted right and then sent a powerful blast into his right knee with her left foot. His joint buckled backward, and then the great Samuel Berhane fell. Seeing it was like watching a mighty redwood fall to the earth. Before he could recover, the Queen pulled the trigger on her blitzer and sent a disc through his stomach.
“NOW DO YOU SEE?” she screamed. Her chest heaved from the effort. She hadn’t realized how much energy twenty minutes of pure fighting could cost.
Sammy’s eyes darted left and right, searching for help, desperately looking for something to save him in the very last hour.
“Now do you realize, you stupid, worthless … nothing? Do you see just how insignificant you are compared to me? You were nothing but a product. An aberration! I am the Queen!”
Sammy stared at her, barely breathing. Now his eyes locked on hers. The Queen’s stomach lurched. Her airway was tight and restricted. Empathy, the fox had said. Her gift was empathy. Not a gift. A curse. She would beat it as she had beaten everything else.
“Say something, Sammy,” she said, choking back a sob of pity as she looked at his dying form. “SAY SOMETHING!”
But he said nothing.
The Queen swore and cursed at him, taunted him, but he remained silent as he lay on the gro
und, beaten, red pooling around him, tears dripping down his face. Queasy, emotionally and physically drained, and ready to be done with it all, she pointed the gun at his left eye as she had promised herself she would. “You weren’t worthy after all.”
And she fired.
13. Freedom
Tuesday, November 11, 2087
THE BATTLE WAS not winnable. All bridges crossing the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers had been wiped out, leaving only the north and east as viable routes to reach downtown D.C. However, the northern and eastern blockades remained intact, and most resistance teams had suffered heavy casualties trying to destroy them. Help would not come from NWG air support. The battle in the skies had rapidly turned in favor of the CAG due to their overwhelming number of cruisers. If Sammy or Byron had failed their mission, the resistance and NWG would need as many marchers as they could get to swarm the blockades. But the longer the CAG delayed the crowds, the longer the CAG could hold the city with their superior air support.
Brickert’s attention was on the tank. He and his team had come up with a plan. Squad C drew the tank’s attention by lobbing grenades while Brickert used several blasts to get on top of it. As he expected, the tank had an electrified hull, but Brickert used a hover blast to avoid electrocution. While hovering, he jammed his hand against the commander’s machine gun as it rotated toward him. When the machine gun fired, Brickert’s blasts jammed the barrel and sparks exploded from the sides. Thick black smoke erupted from the gun.
Using a canister of blue goo, Brickert made a ring of blue around the top hatch. After the goo set, he used two strong foot blasts to separate the entire hatch from the tank. The pops and sizzles told him that the damage to the hatch had short-circuited the electric current. Gunshots rang out when the hatch fell, but Brickert had his shields ready.
“All squads to me!”
The rest of his team climbed onto the hull and assisted him in clearing out the tank’s occupants. Once they were in control, Brickert called the geese on his com, “We have the tank. Where do you want us?”
