by Devin Hanson
“Matriaaarch!” Wharton howled.
“Run, Jackson!” Cynthia cried.
Jackson jumped as she crashed through the door and broke into an awkward lope. The balcony had been set with tables and chairs as closely as possible to maximize the number of people who could be sat there, and the explosion had scattered the furniture. The once carefully organized arrangement of tables and chairs was a nearly impassable snarl.
Cynthia couldn’t pick her way through the tangled furniture any faster than a slow jog. She hadn’t made it more than a dozen meters when the door to the balcony slammed open behind her.
“Stop, Matriarch! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Reluctantly, Cynthia came to a stop and turned around. Wharton stood in the doorway, a stolen rifle raised to his shoulder. If it had been a shotgun in his hands, Cynthia would have risked it. At that distance, the makeshift rounds in the hastily fabricated shotguns wouldn’t have killing power. She would have risked a flesh wound or two and made good her escape.
Not so the rifle. There was no way she could run from that weapon. Even hiding behind an upturned table would be futile. There would be no way the flimsy plastic tables would stop a rifle round.
“I trusted you, Matriarch!” Wharton screamed. “I thought you understood!”
Cynthia spread her hands, her eyes locked on the rifle. The shotgun in her hands was useless. If only she had thought ahead and laid a trap for Wharton when he came through the door. Foresight, she thought to herself a little bitterly. Strangely, she felt calm. It was as if all the fear and anxiety over the last several days had drained away her capacity to feel the terror the situation warranted.
“I do understand,” Cynthia shook her head. “I sympathize with your plight, I do, but I can’t be party to your blackmail. We told you that in our first meeting.”
Wharton took a step toward her. “You knew,” he accused. “You knew the marines would come through the hull! It was all a ruse, wasn’t it? From the very beginning!”
Actually, that the marines would blast a breach in the hull hadn’t occurred to her. She needed to keep Wharton talking, though. Every second he spent talking was another second she could use to figure out a way to escape.
“I’ve never heard of the tactic they employed,” she answered truthfully. “But even had you known it, what could have been done to prevent it?”
“I could have had more of my people prepared with masks!” he cried brokenly. “I lost scores of people from the atmosphere! Do you understand what that means to an extra? Every day we work in fear of exposure. We see our friends and crewmates die one by one as the years go by. It’s the greatest fear we have, and those marines, those murderers, slaughtered us!”
“I’m sorry about that, Wharton. Truly, I am.” She fought to keep the derision from her voice, knowing it would do nothing to aid her case if Wharton caught on how she truly felt. “But do you really think killing more people will solve your problems? Lay down your arms, and I promise you will have a fair trial.”
Wharton’s mask was fogging a little as the tears pooled in his eyes. “You’re our only hope, now!” he cried. “Without you, we will have nothing. Nueva Angela will die.”
“You’re wrong.” Cynthia shook her head. “The moment you abducted matriarchs, you had nothing. The further you push down this course, the more you doom yourself and your habitat.”
It was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say. Wharton’s grief sharpened into fury. “It is you, Matriarch, and your power-corrupt sisters that are the cause of our suffering!” He pulled his rifle back tight to his shoulder. “I may be dead, but at least I can take one of you with me!”
Cynthia felt a cold wash of fear sweep through her stomach. Her arms prickled with the expectation of her death. Was this it? After all the years she had lived, was this how she would die? She might be in the final moments of her life, but she would die as she had lived: with her head held high and without fear. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to meet Wharton’s eyes.
She didn’t have the moisture in her mouth to spit, and the mask covered her face, but she made the gesture anyway. “Kill me, then. And be damned to you.”
Cynthia read the intent in Wharton’s eyes, and suddenly her fear was gone. She might be dying tens of thousands of years before her time, but she had lived a life that would be considered miraculous by any other standard. She had made countless breakthroughs in the field of aquaponics and had improved the lives and millions of people. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and centuries of life to be proud of.
Death was a moment away, and then something dropped out of the air and crashed into Wharton’s back. He had already taken up most of the tension on the trigger, but the impact jogged his aim. Cynthia heard the crack of the rifle shot and felt an impact hit her high on the chest at the same moment. A sudden explosion of pain made her cry out. She twisted under the punch of the bullet and fell back against an overturned table.
She scrambled to push herself upright again, but there was something wrong with her left arm. Blue blood was splashed over the table, making it slippery and adding to her difficulty. Muffling shouting came from where Wharton had been standing. She couldn’t see him from where she had fallen. The partial glimpse she had seen suggested Wharton had been tackled by a young woman, if the girl’s braid had been any indication.
There was a sharp burst of gunfire. Cynthia finally found her balance and pulled herself upright with her good arm. Jackson sprinted by, his shotgun cradled to his chest.
“No! Wait, Jackson!” Cynthia tried to find her feet and lurched upright, leaning on the back of a chair for support.
Jackson ignored her and vaulted a table before slamming to a stop and jerking his shotgun up to his shoulder. “Wharton!” he screamed. “Drop the gun!”
Wharton was kneeling over the girl who had tackled him, still fighting for control of his weapon. He punched down and Cynthia heard the girl cry out then choke on her next breath. Wharton ripped the rifle free and staggered upright.
“That you, Harding?” Wharton demanded. “I recognize you, even with your mask. What the hell are you doing?” The rifle came up, centered squarely on Jackson’s chest. “Did you turn traitor, boy?”
“The matriarchs aren’t what’s wrong with Nueva Angela,” Jackson protested. The shotgun in his hands shook, but he didn’t lower it. “My mother had at least three children,” he continued. “I know other women who had had even more in the maternity wards. Our overpopulation is our own fault!”
Wharton shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand, boy. You’re not old enough to know what it means to have a family. Now drop your gun, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“I’m sorry, Wharton,” Jackson said.
The boom of the shotgun crashed at the same moment as the crack of the rifle.
Cynthia gasped. Her head was swimming. Pain stabbed at her shoulder with every movement. She was already low on blood from her earlier wounds, and now she felt her awareness fading. She lost her grip on the chair she was leaning on and fell to the floor. Her head bounced against the ground, but she hardly felt it.
Hands rolled her onto her back and she looked up into Leila’s face. Had it been Leila that had saved her from Wharton? Cynthia wanted to reach up and touch her daughter’s face, but her arms weren’t cooperating.
“Help me with her,” Leila said urgently.
“I’m trying,” Jackson replied, somewhere out of sight. His voice was tight with pain.
The world tilted and Cynthia groaned as a fresh wave of pain rolled through her. Her vision pulsed black, but she stubbornly hung on to consciousness. There was something she needed to tell Leila. It was urgent, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Leila wasn’t looking at her, though; Leila was looking behind herself, walking backwards. That was strange. Leila should be moving away if she was walking, right?
Cynthia closed her eyes. It was too much effort to keep holding them open, and she felt so tired.
> “We need help!” Jackson shouted. He sounded far away and his voice was strangely pitched, like he was speaking through a long tube. “We have a wounded matriarch! Help us!”
That was nice of him, Cynthia thought. Young men should help their elders.
Then a jolt hit her as she bumped into a table, and Cynthia felt blackness swirl up and swallow her whole.
Dennison stared at Alana, shock turning into raw, snarling anger. The figures further down the hallway came closer and he recognized Evan, the mask over his face smeared with blood. An extra stood behind him, a shotgun trained on him. Evan seemed barely able to stay on his feet and he swayed drunkenly as the extra prodded him in the back. His clothes were shredded by makeshift shotgun pellets and the ablative armor he wore underneath was dull and cracked in places. Blood leaked from the cracks, blue in the poisonous atmosphere.
“That’s far enough.” The extra behind Evan caught the ainlif by his collar and shoved Evan to his knees, before standing back and leveling the shotgun at Evan’s head.
“It’s over, Ainlif!” the man holding a gun on Alana cried. “Throw down your weapons. You’ll join the bitch as our prisoners.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Sorrel,” the man holding a gun on Evan said. “These guys are killers, all of them.”
“We got the guns, Weston. Stop whining for once and grow a pair!”
There was a commotion behind Dennison and he turned to see the hallway blocked by another pair of extras. Both of them had shotguns. Cursing bitterly, Dennison tossed his monomol pistol to the ground. There were too many of them on both sides, and there was no way he could even try to shoot it out with a gun held to Alana’s head.
“There, see?” Sorrel said, peeking around the door jamb. “The big, bad ainlif is just a man. He knows when he’s beat.” He stepped the rest of the way out of the door and took up position behind Alana. “Now we just gotta march this bitch outside and tell those marines to piss off.”
“Better hurry,” one of the newcomers said anxiously. “We’re falling back into the restaurant. Those bastards are unkillable in their powered armor.”
“No sweat,” Sorrel assured him confidently. “Wharton said the marines will cave when presented with the matriarchs at gunpoint. We just gotta let them know we ain’t screwing around.”
“Your plan is going to fail,” Alana shook her head. “The marines will have orders to shoot me if necessary.”
“This isn’t how you want it to go,” Dennison said urgently. “I don’t know what Wharton has told you, but none of you will live past putting a gun to a matriarch’s head in front of a marine.”
“Who asked you?” Sorrel sneered. “Vic, cuff this piece of shit. You, Ainlif, hands behind your back or I’ll shoot your precious matriarch right here, right now.”
Dennison complied. He couldn’t stop measuring the distance to Sorrel, but no matter how he played it in his mind, his mother wound up dead. The most he could do would be to play for time and hope the marines were good shots. The plastic zip tie cuffs went on tight enough to make his hands smart, but Dennison hardly even noticed.
Roughly, Vic grabbed Dennison’s elbow and hauled him around. “March,” the extra ordered. “You try and run and, well, you know what happens.”
“Yes,” Dennison bit off angrily, “I get the idea.”
The walk to the doors exiting out onto the club floor was over before Dennison could think of a way out. The rattle of gunfire from outside trailed away to nothing and in the following silence, he could hear the heavy tread of the powered armor.
It seemed like all the extra survivors had retreated into the offices and back rooms. The hallways were lined with haggard men and women in masks. The faces he passed had nothing but defeat written on them. Even the passing of a matriarch and the two ainlif did nothing to alleviate their knowledge of impending doom.
If only the people leading the extras had as much sense.
“Anyone know where Wharton is?” Sorrel demanded.
“He’s on the third floor, looking for the other matriarch,” someone responded.
“Damn. There’s no time.”
“Are you certain this is the course Wharton ordered?” Alana asked, her words dripping with condescension.
“Our orders are clear,” Sorrel snapped. “If nothing else, you will die today, Matriarch.”
“Is that what the rest of you want?” Dennison demanded, raising his voice so it carried up and down the hallway. Faces turned toward him, listening. “Wharton has forced you down a path that no sane person would follow. It is not too late! While you still breathe, there is hope. Don’t let these madmen force you to your own destruction!”
A sudden impact to the back of his head sent stars shooting through Dennison’s vision. He fell forward, stunned, and crashed face-first into the floor. He tasted blood from his bitten tongue. Pain followed with sickening intensity, coiling about his guts and making him nauseous. He groaned and tried to get his feet under him, and only succeeded in writhing helplessly.
Rough hands dragged him upright and Sorrel’s face swam into view. “Your life is useful, to an extent, Ainlif. But we only need the matriarch. Don’t make me kill you early.”
Dennison spat in Sorrel’s face and blood-flecked spittle splashed on the inside of his faceplate. He had forgotten about the mask.
Sorrel laughed nastily and drove a fist into Dennison’s gut. “Send this piece of shit out first. Maybe the marines will gun him down for us.”
Several pairs of hands grabbed Dennison by his arms and propelled him forward. He looked up in time to see a pair of double doors surge toward him, then he crashed into them and through. Dennison lost his balance again, his head still swimming from the blow. This time when he fell, he managed to twist his shoulder and turn the face plant into a tumbling roll.
Silence greeted him. Dennison got himself turned upright and made it to his knees. The marines were waiting for him. Two suits of power armor formed a triangle with the door at the third point. Their heavy machine guns trailed tendrils of smoke from the barrels, and the armor was streaked and splotched with impacts. Behind the power armor, a dozen marines stood in positions of cover, their rifles trained on the doorway.
“I am Dennison Romaine,” he called hoarsely. “Ainlif of Alana Romaine!”
“They know who you are,” Tabitha said quietly in his ear. “I’m patching you through to the marine commander.” The AI’s voice was replaced with a man’s baritone, tight with forced calm. “Ainlif, this is Commander Talbot. What news of the matriarchs?”
“The extras have Alana behind me in the corridor,” Dennison rasped. His head was spinning and he struggled to force his thoughts into some semblance of his usual calm rationality. “They plan to use her as a hostage.”
“Understood, Ainlif,” Talbot said grimly. “We will do all we can to preserve her life. Have you news of Cynthia Everard?”
“No.” Dennison swallowed. “Wait. Yes. She was being held on the third floor of the restaurant? I think.”
“Understood. I’m sending units that way now. Hang in there, Ainlif.”
The doors behind Dennison had swung open when he fell through them and he could see the shadowed figures of the extras watching him. There was motion, then Alana Romaine was led out with Sorrel holding her at gunpoint. Evan was pushed out next, and half a dozen extras followed, spreading out and training shotguns on the captives.
“Who is your leader?” Sorrel shouted. “Step out so we can talk!”
A hard-faced man with greying hair but carrying himself with the upright posture of someone who exercised hard daily, stepped out from behind a barricade. Dennison saw the gleam of ablative armoring beneath his crisp uniform.
“I am Horizon Marine Commander Sergey Talbot,” he called back. “Who are you, and by what right do you threaten the life of a Matriarch of the Council?”
“I am Abel Sorrel, and we have the right of all free men to overthrow tyrants who threaten our
survival!”
“I was under the impression a Remer Wharton was the leader here. Bring him out so we may talk.”
“Wharton is busy. I’ve got the gun on your precious matriarch, so you will deal with me!”
“You take responsibility for the actions of the extras of Nueva Angela?”
Sorrel blanched and swallowed. The flat, emotionless question seemed to have punched through the man’s delusion at last. “Damn right, I do,” he fired back, but Dennison could hear the doubt that had crept into his voice.
“Very well. As you are the de facto leader here, I will offer you this chance once. Release Matriarch Alana Romaine and the ainlif you hold hostage immediately.”
“In exchange for what?”
“You don’t seem to understand the nature of the situation,” Talbot said. “You do not get to make demands. You are a terrorist, and under the Manifesto, your life, and the lives of all your co-conspirators, are forfeit.”
“Then… then… why should we comply? Why hand over our bargaining chips!?”
“This is not a bargaining session,” Talbot said flatly. “You have no leverage here.”
“I told you that, you god damn idiots,” Alana growled.
“I don’t believe you,” Sorrel cried, his voice ratcheting up an octave. “You would not endanger the life of a matriarch!”
“Are you refusing to turn over your hostages?” Talbot asked.
Dennison shifted his weight, getting his feet under him and preparing to dive across the intervening distance to his mother and shield her bodily if he had to. Damn Sorrel and his pig-headed obliviousness.
“Wait!” Sorrel cried, sudden panic making his voice crack. “I’ll kill her! I swear I will!”
“I believe you,” Talbot said seriously.
Dennison saw the deliberate shift of the commander’s heel and read it as a pre-arranged signal. He kicked off the ground and flung himself at Alana. The thunder of a sudden volley of gunfire roared all around him and he crashed into his mother, bearing her to the ground and twisting around to put his body between her and the extras.
