by J. S. Bailey
He stared at the building beside him. It could have been a block of flats, certainly. Perhaps this person had lived there. Perhaps they had loved ones waiting for them anxiously inside.
What should I do, Gran? he thought.
He imagined her saying, You should do what is right.
Chumley gritted his teeth, checked his surroundings, and hurried up the stairwell leading straight off the street.
It took no time at all to find 2C; there must have only been six or eight flats in the whole building. He rapped on the door, and when nobody came, he used the key and let himself inside.
It felt cool inside the flat, by Molorthia Six standards. “Hello?” he called to the living area, where a small table and reclining chair sat in front of a screen. There wasn’t much in the way of clutter, and not too many places where scared people might hide, so he strode into the small bedroom and tore through the dresser in search of something that might fit him.
So sorry about this, he thought at the poor soul lying in the street below. I don’t think you’ll be needing these anymore. He tugged on trousers that were an inch too short in the leg, shoved his feet into shoes that made his toes feel like sardines, and pulled a shirt over his head that was tight enough to show his abs through them.
He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door and tried not to laugh. This was neither the place nor the time for laughter, but it escaped his lips anyway, and the sound of it chilled him.
He sobered up quickly and searched for supplies. A comm unit lay on the table. Pocketing it, he moved into the kitchen and stared at the array of items that may or may not benefit him in his present situation.
In his mind, he saw himself donning a metal colander on his head and strapping it in place under his chin using a curtain cord, then rushing out into the street brandishing a kitchen knife at the Verdants, but if that was his Green-related precognition kicking back in, he was going to ignore it. A person could do only so many ridiculous things and live.
Chumley rushed back into the bedroom and eyed a computer terminal sitting on a desk in the corner. Its screen was alight, and he hunched over and typed “how to contact the feds” into the search bar.
It took him to an important-looking page written in serious-looking font. Several options were listed, including Galaxy’s Most Wanted. He clicked on it and scrolled through an impressive list of criminals-at-large until he spotted “Ashi’ii Nydo, Nydo Base Corporation.”
He clicked Ashi’ii’s name and skimmed over her list of crimes. He would rather report the Verdants, but he felt time running short, so he clicked the option for Report.
The face of an extremely-cross human woman appeared on the screen. “Greetings, good citizen,” she said, as if reading from a script. “You have chosen to report on the activity of Ashi’ii Nydo of Leeprau. What is your name?”
Chumley wasn’t about to provide his real name, since it was somewhere on a Wanted list as well, though for theft and fraud, not environmental devastation. “Dalton,” he said quickly. “Dalton Kane.”
He heard clacking as she typed the information into her computer.
“What is your report?”
“Ashi’ii is on Molorthia Six. Her company has been lighting wildfires and looting the cities here.”
There came more clacking. She looked back at him and said, “How do you know?”
“Because I met her, and she introduced herself! Now her people and the Verdants are having it out in Richport, and lots of people are going to die if your lot don’t come and help put an end to things!”
“Is there an electronic address we can use to reach out to you for more information?”
“You don’t need more information! Just get your people out to Molorthia Six before anyone else dies!”
“It’s our policy to record the electronic address of each person who reports information about wanted criminals. It’s to weed out hoaxes.”
“I don’t have an electronic address right now!” he cried. At least, not one he was willing to give out. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have impersonated Pelstring Four governor Elroy Ghosh and drained half his bank accounts, but it had paid off some of Gran’s innumerable medical bills. It had been his last big crime before scampering off to Molorthia Six.
The woman on the screen squinted at him, and something in her expression suggested she didn’t believe a word he’d said. “I—I hear gunfire!” Chumley spluttered. “I’ve got to go!”
Cursing himself, the Haa’la, the Verdants, the Feds, and life in general, he scrambled out of the bedroom, went back to the kitchen, put a metal colander on his head, strapped it into place with a curtain cord, and armed himself with a kitchen knife. As he closed his fingers around the black, polymer handle, he remembered skipping into the kitchen of his boyhood home to show his mother the neat stone he’d found out in the garden, only to find her sprawled on the tiles gasping for breath as the life poured out of the great, ragged wounds in her chest.
His father had stood over her clutching a knife not too different from the one Chumley held now.
Chumley tilted it in the light, watched the blade gleam, and swallowed a large knot in his throat.
He was not his father, but he would kill with a knife to defend the innocent.
When a vision told you something, you shouldn’t ignore it.
Dalton was able to contact four other sheriffs before some of the people he sent off to set up barricades trickled back into view, covered in sweat and dust. “We blocked Apple Street with three buses,” reported a tall woman in a maroon Desert Van Lines uniform and cap. “Half a dozen people stayed inside the buses with flamethrowers, for when the creeps come by.”
That hadn’t been part of the plan, but Dalton dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Well done.”
A heavyset man jogged past the fanned-out Greens and halted beside Dalton with his hands on his knees. He wore a dingy, canvas backpack bulging with boomstones. “I parked. My truck. Across Juniper Alley.”
“Good,” Dalton said. “Good.” He made checkmarks next to both Apple Street and Juniper Alley on his map. Only sixteen more streets to go before the funnel was properly in place.
Over the next ten minutes, he checked off the barricades for Wax Street, Rock Street, Molorthia Avenue, Fisher Lane, and Circle Court. Each second that passed as he awaited news for each barricade lasted roughly ten years.
Errin’s voice startled him. “Any news yet?”
Dalton twitched and lifted his comm unit back to his mouth. “We’re still waiting on eleven barricades.”
As he said this, a teenage girl reached him, panting, and said, “We’ve blocked off Harrison Street.”
“Ten barricades,” Dalton said as he made the appropriate mark on his map. The girl had a bow and a quiver of archery arrows strapped to her back—probably the only thing she had on hand to defend herself with.
His heart ached. No child had any business being in a warzone—but he would not tell her to stand down.
“Half the Verdants have dispersed already,” Errin said. “It’s hard to see from where we are, but I think they’re fighting the miners. What should we do?”
Dalton closed his eyes and visualized the barricades that had already been placed. It wasn’t enough for his plan to work. “Give me five more minutes, and I’ll get back with you.”
Someone ran up to him and told him that six quads and eight tables had been dragged across Curry Street, with armed citizens crouching behind them like soldiers in a trench.
He marked another check on the map.
Another someone came to report that the barricade was in place along Turmeric Lane, and that they’d seen bodies on the ground in the distance.
He marked another check on the map.
Dalton watched with sadness as his people worked together. He recognized
most of them, but their names had begun to elude him, as if his mind was protecting itself against the losses to come.
After five minutes had come and gone and more reports came in, there remained two unguarded streets: Pear and Willow. He had no way of knowing if the barricades were there and those reporting them had been delayed in getting back, or if something had happened to them before they had the chance to place the barricades, but he could feel his time drying up like a puddle after a rare desert rainstorm. “I need people blocking off Pear and Willow Streets now!” he shouted into his bullhorn. Into his comm unit, he said, “Errin, you have my permission to attack the Verdants.”
“Acknowledged,” they said, and the comm went quiet.
He wondered if he’d ever see Carolyn’s aide alive again. Errin never thought of themself; only ever wanted what was best for the town and quietly did whatever was necessary to make sure Richport operated like a greased wheel.
And it wasn’t just Errin in danger. All of these people were in danger. He thought of all the people he saw on a daily basis—the postal workers, the retail employees, the families going for walks in the evening when the sun wasn’t so hot—and he imagined them lying broken in the sand, never to enjoy the tranquility of their little corner of the universe again.
Dalton wished he had some whiskey. Whiskey would make things better. It would make them seem better, at least.
The Greens who’d stayed with Dalton’s group sprang into sudden motion and swished out of sight up the street. Citizens screamed, and a burst of flame gushed across the street as someone fired their flamethrower on pure instinct.
“You lot need to stay with us!” Dalton shouted at the plants’ retreating backs. He felt both disappointed and relieved to see them go. “Oh, never mind, then.” He strode down the street after them and looked up at the buildings on either side, saluting the citizens perched atop them with their boomstones.
He contacted Cadu on his comm unit. “Cadu? Where are you?”
“Someone said we’re raining boomstones from the roofs, so I loaded up a cart with even more of them and started passing them up to people. Wait, I see you now.”
Dalton caught sight of a hand waving from the other side of the Curry Street barricade, and saw the top of Cadu’s coily black hair.
“Good,” said Dalton. “You can join them on the roofs when you’re done, if you like.”
“I just might do that.”
“Good luck, Cadu.” Dalton swallowed. “I just want to say . . . it’s been good working with you.”
“Was that a compliment? Should I be worried?”
Of course you should be bloody fecking worried, Dalton thought, but he said, “Stay safe,” and turned back toward the police station to arm himself.
A water pistol full of weed killer would have no effect on their current attackers. Dalton passed Gurmeet and Lennox, who were bickering off in a corner away from the speaker, their instruments abandoned on Cadu’s cluttered desk, and threw open the supply closet, which appeared much emptier than he remembered. He plucked an antique flamethrower off the bottom shelf, checked to make sure it had fuel, and slung it over his shoulder.
Gurmeet and Lennox fell silent and watched, solemnly, as Dalton went back outside.
A minute later they joined him, minus their instruments but with the boomstones they’d received earlier.
“We ran out of songs,” Gurmeet said miserably.
“It’s okay,” Dalton said. “You did good.”
“We did?”
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”
The men thought about this. Lennox cleared his throat and said, “You called the other sheriffs?”
“Some of them.” Dalton scanned the street, feeling proud and sad that his people were armed and ready. “They can’t send us any backup, though. They don’t have a way to get here in time to make any difference. They’re just going to arm themselves and be ready and waiting for in case we fail today.”
“What’s our objective, exactly?” Gurmeet asked. “Aside from winning, of course.”
“We kill the Verdants before they kill us.”
Dalton squared his shoulders, and Lennox squirmed. “I haven’t killed anyone before.”
“Well, you’ll have to bloody start. It’s either them or you.” Dalton marched past him and nodded at the other armed citizens, who returned expressions of grimness that made a yawning pit form in his stomach. Blaster fire from more than a kilometer away made him wince, though he did his best not to show it. He’d panicked at the sight of a plastic bag not too many days before; he would have to prove he was a man worthy of his position.
He lifted up his bullhorn again. “When I give the signal,” he said, feeling nauseated, “you all attack.”
Chapter 26
Chumley darted from parked vehicle to parked vehicle in human form, keeping his newfound kitchen knife pointed in front of him. He’d found a stray metal dustbin lid to use as a shield and was trying his darnedest to make his way toward the Verdant ships to work his wonders on them as well. Crossing long distances was much faster when you were a human, but it also made you an easier target.
He crouched down low and waited while a clump of Haa’la miners strode past, one wearing a veil covered in scorch marks. Blaster bolts took the lead miner in the chest, and they crumpled to the dusty street while their comrades shot back.
The Haa’la passed. Chumley emerged from his hiding spot behind a parked van and stared at the dead miner. Their own blaster lay on the ground beside them, and Chumley took it and slung the strap over his shoulder, feeling quite heroic to be armed with not one, but two weapons.
He rushed across the now-vacant street, squeezed himself between two buildings, and then saw them.
The four Verdant vessels had parked in a sort of diamond shape. A group of humans and Greens, led by Errin Inglewood, pummeled dozens of Verdants with everything they had. Blood oozed down Errin’s face, but Chumley wasn’t sure if it belonged to them or someone else.
He watched as a Green lifted a Verdant off the ground and tore them into shreds.
Chumley bent over and vomited, which surprised him because he wasn’t entirely sure how there could be anything in his stomach at this point. Between the heat and the gore, he was amazed he was even conscious.
A helmeted person in Verdant gear lifted a blaster and aimed it at Errin, who’d become momentarily distracted by the carnage. Without thinking, Chumley stepped out from the narrow alleyway and shot Errin’s would-be killer in the back, dropping them to the ground.
Errin lifted their gaze and met Chumley’s. They offered him a grim smile and dodged to the side when another Green lifted another Verdant off their feet.
Chumley didn’t let his focus linger enough to see the rest.
He shot a bolt at another Verdant and missed, then took a shot right in the dustbin lid, which electrified and caused him to drop it with an “Ow!”
He managed to squeeze off two more shots. The blaster clicked empty—it had run out of charge—and Chumley waved the kitchen knife feebly, like a mouse brandishing a toothpick at a cat. Two Verdants actually cocked their heads at him in apparent curiosity before taking aim at him.
It was at times like this when Chumley wished he could turn himself into a sparrow and sail away out of sight. He had to settle for turning himself into a hamster, which he did again without blinking an eye.
He didn’t know if anyone was chasing him. He resisted every rodent urge to scurry into a hole and stay there until the danger passed, and made straight for the open gangplank of the nearest ship.
He had work to do, and he’d do it if it was the last thing he did.
Hot blood ran down Errin’s face. Their veins buzzed with adrenaline; their senses ran on pure instinct. They only had about half a dozen small boomstones in their pack, and it felt woefully inadequate.
The Greens fighting with them were a force of nature all by themselves, and Errin wondered if it might be wiser to take a step back and let them do all the work.
So far, the Verdants hadn’t really moved toward Dalton’s barricade funnel, though quite a few of them were now dead and in pieces on the ground, which was just as good.
It was the “in pieces” part that made Errin’s stomach churn. These Greens appeared no different from the ones that had attacked the hotel and very nearly killed their sister Jeanette just a few days ago. The plants had the potential to turn on them at any moment, in which case Errin would be ready and waiting with weaponry of their own.
The battle went by in a blur. At one point they spotted Chumley Fanshaw wearing a metal colander like a helmet. He shot one of the enemy in the back, and Errin acknowledged him with a smile.
They lost sight of him as the minutes passed. Errin tossed a boomstone at a clump of Verdants, and shut their eyes against the sudden concussion. The humans and Greens had managed to force this part of the Verdants about twenty meters closer to the barricade funnel. It wasn’t a lot of progress, but Errin wasn’t about to complain. They’d only lost about ten humans so far, and all of the Greens were still intact, save for some scorched leaves.
But where had Chumley gone? Surely he hadn’t abandoned them after making an effort to help. He’d just saved Errin’s life, after all.
Just when Errin was starting to think they might be able to drive this remnant of the Verdants right where they needed to go, more of the bastards appeared from around a corner.
“Get them all!” Errin screamed, voice raw. Maybe they’d been screaming this whole time and hadn’t even realized it.
The Greens surged forward in front of the humans in one single mass, driving the Verdants back. The Verdants shot at the Greens, but it was like throwing sparks at a forest.
“Toward the funnel!” Errin cried at the Greens. “Send them toward the funnel!”
They couldn’t even see any Verdants now through the line of advancing Greens.
