Black Hole Sun (12 page)

“I'm sorry,” I say because I can't think of anything else.

“Tch. Just look at me.” She moves into the mouth of the ice cavern. Her heavy breath freezes in the air. “Making a damned fool of myself. Over a boy. A Regulator, too.”

“No,” I say.

“Yes! A fool!” She breaks off an icicle and flings it at me. It shatters against my chest. “Better than a pair of mittens, I say. Look at my eyeball, he says.” She breaks off a handful of icicles and starts firing them, one after another. “Warm that up, Regulator. And that! And that!”

I let the ice explode against my chest. What happened? One second, she's trying to seduce me, and the next, she's chucking icicles at my head.

I move toward her. “Is this about the other girls who died?”

“Don't talk to me,” she barks. “Go!”

For a moment I watch her breath freeze in the blue light. See her wipe her nose with her sleeve. Count the number of times her chest heaves. I'm torn between trying to comfort her and getting away as fast as my feet will carry me.

“Take option b,” Mimi says.

But I don't listen. “Áine, I'm sorry for what I said. I—”

“Get away from me!” she screams, her eyes blotchy and red. “Get out! Just leave!”

Gladly, I think, ducking back through the air lock into the dark tunnel. Life would be so much simpler if all problems could be solved with an armalite.

Hell's Cross, Outpost Fisher Four
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 0. 00:00

Once when I was still a kid, before battle school, I went with Father to a corporate function. The staff told me I was going to a party and they dressed me in a formal suit that matched his, down to the ties and patterned hose. For three hours I stood by his side greeting other executives, unable to have a drink, food, or even go to the latrine, wondering when the party was going to start and being befuddled that we left before it ever started. That's how I feel about Áine's tour of the ice cave. I expected to see a strategic area, and it turned out to be a setting for a romantic interlude.

For hours afterward I walk the subterranean roads, learning the lay of the land and getting a good feel for our territory, while running the argument with Áine through my mind. Did I lead her on? I'm still asking myself hours after I return to quarters, when Maeve knocks on the door and calls out.

“Breakfast!”

“Breakfast!” It takes Jenkins less than three seconds to jump out of his cot, pull on his suit and boots, and make a mad, stumbling dash for the door. It takes him an additional six seconds and a flattened nose to realize that said door is closed and that the lock mechanism requires him to lift the handle, not pull on it. I know because he's disturbing my morning prayer, and because I'm timing him.

“Oy, Jenks!” groans Fuse, who rolls off his cot and hits the floor with a boney thump. “Give a jack a tinker's minute to shimmy on his skivvies, no? What's the rush?”

“My belly's empty, and this carking door's fig-jammed.”

“Lift,” Vienne says. She's sitting in the lotus position next to me in the corner of the room, our backs to the room. An altar is open before us, and our quarters are full of the sharp odor of burning incense. Twice each day she has prayer and meditation. In the morning I join her for the meditation. It calms me. Clears my mind. Helps me focus.

“Huh?” Jenkins says. I can hear him scratching his head.

“Lift the handle,” Vienne says. Her voice is like still water.

“Got it! Last one to the table's a rotter!”

“You lot coming along for breakfast?” Fuse says after he's dressed.

“Soon,” I answer.

“Right, then.”

He leaves. Air blows into the room, sending the incense
swirling toward the ceiling. My eyes stay with it, watching as it dissipates. A sure sign that I have lost concentration.

“You're uneasy,” Vienne says, eyes closed, hands resting on her crossed legs, fingers forming an O.

“Tired.”

“But there's something else?”

How can I tell her, I woke up last night and you weren't here, so I went to look for you and was shanghaied by a suzy who first tried to jump me, then wanted to slug me. And that now, as I feel you next to me, your head held just so, your eyes closed, your lips slightly parted, I have trouble holding my breath, much less holding my chi.

“Just tired,” I say.

“Ah.” She says, and lets my lie hang in the air, like burned incense.

But the moment is interrupted by the feral sound coming from the mouth of Spiner, his eyes wide in stark terror as he bangs on our open door. “Chief! Come quick!”

“What is it?” I call to him.

He falls to his knees, gasping, his breath spent from running. “Dræu! In the tunnels. Scouting party. Headed for. Crazy Town.”

Damn it! Too soon. The demolition crews haven't closed those tunnels yet. “Mimi, do a scan. Fast.” I haul Spiner to his feet. “How many are there?”

“Too many,” he says, gasping. “Chasing a tram.”

“A tram? Who took out a tram?”

Spiner shakes his head. “Don't know.”

“Lock down the Cross,” I tell him. “Keep everybody inside.”

“But—” he says.

“Don't argue! Keep everybody inside and arm them with anything you've got. This might be just a scouting party, but we can't take chances.”

There's a shout, and when I look over my shoulder, Áine is running toward me with a spanner wrench in hand.

“What do you think you're doing?” I say.

“Going with you,” she says, running past me. “I've got a score to settle, and now's as good a time as any to do it.”

Hell's Cross, Outpost Fisher Four
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 4. 0. 00:00

The corridor from Bedlam is the longest of the four from Hell's Cross. It leads to a rise, the same one we came down when we entered the Cross the first time. The miners have blocked the main route, strategically closing the tunnels and shafts using C-42. We pass through an open iron gate made of vertical shafts topped with sharp barbs. They look like spears. On the deck the wind picks up, blowing my hair in my face. I pull my cowling up and stuff my hair underneath.

“Watch for rust!' I call ahead because here, halfway across Bedlam, the steel beam supports and bare rebar of a crumbling viaduct are the only things to walk on. Who knows if the metal still has enough integrity to hold our weight? Vienne has point, but she's not the one I'm worried about. It's Jenkins, with his heavy boots and clumsy feet. “And watch your footing!”

My voice is lost in the wind, which both whistles and rumbles, an effect of the squat concrete buildings and the
cavern roof above us. To my left, the quick-pour construction is already failing. The buildings that once held, according to the dilapidated signs, the Orthocrats' Ministry of Weights and Balances is a crumbling pile of concrete and rebar, all sliding onto the rail bed.

Ahead, Vienne raises a hand, the signal for us to stop. I see why. The middle of viaduct has collapsed, and only a few planks tossed haphazardly across the span connect the two parts. We cross quickly, except for Jenkins, who seems to have other phobias beside darkness.

“I'm afraid of heights,” he says, his knees shaking as he takes baby steps up to the planking.

“Come on, you great git,” Fuse says, and tries to drag him across.

“No!” he says. “I'm not doing it.”

“Okay,” I say, and start walking away. “Stay here.”

After a few seconds he calls, “Wait!” Then charges past me, cheeks puffy with held breath, eyes locked on the far side.

“Piece of work, that one is,” Fuse says ruefully, and jogs ahead.

At the end of the viaduct, we enter a building made of marble, not concrete. High, buttressed ceilings, Doric columns, and a roof with a massive hole in the middle of it. Whoever built this mini palace wanted it to be special. We pass through a vestibule to a ballroom that is at least fifty meters across, but it's littered with fallen columns, huge
chunks of marble, and a thick layer of dust. In the middle is a dried-up fountain with a dais for a shattered statue. Only the ankles remain. Dirt-colored molds grow in every crack, corner, and crevice. Just being in here makes me feel like a relic.

Inside, the air is so still, I can hear everyone breathing, the sound of our footsteps echoes all around, and Mimi's voice when she says, “Alert! I'm picking up biosignatures approaching from twelve o'clock.”

Which means the far side of the room. There must be another entrance.

“Here they come! Spread out!” I whisper. “Take cover! Vienne, take the point. Check the far entrance.”

“Affirmative.” Crouching, she runs to the far side. Slips out of view. But I know she's safe because Mimi is tracking her.

With trained precision, the other Regulators move into position behind the columns. I move into position myself, near the fountain in the middle of the room, where a high circular basin gives good cover. Áine follows on my heels. I signal her to back out of the room. “Get back to the viaduct!” I whisper.

“No,” she protests. “I want to shoot the damned cannibal rooters myself!”

“You've got no weapon and no armor,” I say. “Just one stray bullet can take you out.”

She eyes the armalite on my back. “Lend me yours.”

“Not unless you'd like your arms blown off.”

Before Áine can argue, Vienne pings me to open a vid link. “I mark seven targets, chief. On foot. Carrying plasma weapons, metal plate armor. In pursuit of three targets. They're Dræu, confirmed.”

“The three targets they're pursuing?” I ask.

“A thin man, an older woman with a blue face, and a girl. The man and woman are running—strike that, crawling—for their lives. The girl is jogging backward. Laying down suppressing fire with an armalite. They're heading this way.”

Armalite? “Ebi Bramimonde?” I ask Mimi.

“And her mother,” Mimi adds.

“What're
they
doing here?

“Fleeing from the Dræu,” Mimi says.

“You think?”

“The evidence is as plain as the pimple on your cute little—”

Smart aleck. I grab Áine by the wrist. “Out! Now! This zone is about to get hot!”

“But—”

“No buts! Move!”

For a second, she considers arguing, but the look on my face must be carking fierce because she starts bubbling up and takes off for the exit.

“Hope I wasn't too harsh.”

“Bullet wounds are harsh, cowboy.”

True, but bullets don't have to answer for their actions.

“Vienne, fall back. Take a firing position so you can cover the friendlies. We'll take out the Dræu.”

The Bramimondes crash into the ballroom, the Dame's screams filling the space. She's pulling the man along but stumbling over him, out of her mind with fear, her chalk-painted face freakishly luminescent in the half darkness. Ebi follows them, expertly laying down suppressing fire in a figure-eight pattern. She steps behind the entryway, tosses a stun grenade at her pursuers, and calmly reloads a new clip of ammo.

“Hurry, Mother,” she says. “I cannot hold them much longer.”

“I
am
hurrying,” the Dame shrieks, now dragging the man by the arm. “Do I not look like I am hurrying? Is this the face of a woman talking a leisurely stroll on the Meridian Sea?”

“More like the face of an asphyxiated harpy,” Mimi says.

“Now be nice,” I say. “To the harpies.”

Once the stunner effect wears off, the Dræu mass like a pack of scavengers at the doorway shouting and screeching, their snoutlike faces streaked with blood and dirt, their body armor rattling. Our sights are trained on them, ready to make gut hash, when the Dræu taking point suddenly stops. He takes a sniff of air and shouts a word I can't understand.

Good time to act. “Vienne! Lay down smoke! Give the friendlies some cover.”

“Affirmative.” She chambers a smoke grenade and steps
out into the clear for launch. The grenade sails over Ebi's head and lands a few meters ahead of the pursuit. The ballroom fills with acid blue smoke, and we hear a scream as one of the Dræu takes a round from Ebi's armalite.

“Make that six pursuers now.” I press the aural link, wince from the prickling sensation behind my eye, and bark orders to Fuse. “Three friendlies passing by me, closing on your position. Meet and greet only. Do not fire.”

“Yes, chief. Meet and greet,” Fuse says.

“Jenkins,” I say. “Move up past me. Concentrate your fire on the entryways. Take out the Dræu.”

He passes us. Kneels behind a fallen column. “What entryway? I don't see nothing but smoke.”

“Shoot the smoke then.” If he gets lucky, he might hit something.

Fuse interrupts, “And Jenks? Don't shoot at the friendlies this time.”

“That wasn't my fault!” Jenkins protests. “I said I was sorry!”

I break the connection an instant before bullets shower the entryway. Jenkins lays down his own textbook figure-eight pattern. So much for his whining about low visibility.

The bullets find their targets, too. The screams of the Dræu ring out over the clatter of spent shells falling to the marble floor. The sound quickens my pulse and chills my blood.

“Get ready to move,” I tell Vienne.

“On your mark, chief.”

The fire from Jenkins's gun stops, which means that he's reloading. Hope he doesn't waste bullets, I think, and make a mental to note to have Fuse hide the rest of the ammo for when we really need it. The smoke clears. The noise dies. Crouched behind the empty fountain, I wait for the Dræu to show their hand.
Ponder and deliberate before you make a move
.

For a few moments it seems like the firefight is over. I instruct Fuse to help the Bramimondes to get their wounded man to safety, send Vienne and Jenkins back out to the viaduct, and then I move back to cover our exit. If we get lucky, we'll get through this extraction with no casualties while doing a little damage to the enemy.

Then the sound of a child's voice drifts up to me.

“Jenkins?” A sandy-haired girl appears in the vestibule. Dressed in a pair of floppy overalls with the cuffs rolled up. Calling for Jenkins to come out. “Are you playing hide-and-seek? I want to play, too.”

How did she get here? I turn and try to wave her away, but she takes that to mean come forward. She starts winding her way through the debris, coming toward me, calling out, even as I wave like a madman, not speaking for fear of drawing fire.

From the clearing smoke, I see the line of a laser site searching for a target. Be quiet, I think, trying to will the girl to be silent. Don't give away your position. For a few seconds
she is silent. Then the dot of a laser sight dances across her face.

“Ow,” she says, and covers her eyes. “That hurt me.”

Oh damn. Move! In the time it takes for the little girl to utter a sob, I'm jumping over a shattered column, only a few meters away from her, holding my breath and trying to get to her before the shooter pulls the trigger. I don't look. Don't look at the Dræu. Don't look at the kid.

My heart stops as I grab her and roll to protect her, my back hitting the floor and then sliding three meters, stopping only when my skull cracks into the wall. A cloud of dust rises around me.

I start to stand. See the laser sight on my chest. Then wrap the girl in my arms and turn away from the Dræu as he opens fire.

Brppt!
The three-burst rounds sting my back. Reflexively, my spine arches, and I let out a howling scream, even as Mimi solidifies the fabric, sending the bullet ricocheting in all directions. Shielded by my body, the little girl doesn't realize that I'm protecting her. My scream is terrible, and she scrambles back away from me.

No, you don't, kid.

With bullets still striking me, I scoop her up, pull her tight against my chest, arms pinned within mine. Carry her to the safety of the vestibule.

The bullets stop. The Dræu shooter is reloading. I have three point six seconds—the length of time it takes to drop a
spent clip, pull a full one from an ammo belt, and jam it into the magazine well. I scoop up the little girl and run through the vestibule. Outside, Jenkins and Vienne are taking position past the viaduct, and I know that there's no way I can make the length of bridge before the Dræu spot me.

Stairs.

To the right.

My boots clanking on the metal steps, I carry her down to the rail bed, where I spot a rusty door leading to the basement. I kick it open and slide the girl inside.

“Stay here,” I fuss at her. “And don't come out again. For anything.”

She's already on the brink of tears, and the gruffness in my voice sets her over the edge. “I-It's too dark. I'm ascared.”

“No, no, no,” I say. “Don't you start crying. Just hide. You can do that, no? All miners are good at hiding.”

She nods her pixie head, pretending to be brave, and I realize that it takes more bravery, more sheer guts, for that little girl to slide into a dark, scary space than it does for me to face the Dræu. I've a weapon and body armor. She's only got herself.

“Good girl,” I say, feeling as awkward as Jenkins trying to dance a waltz. “Don't worry. I'll be back soon.”

After closing the door, I take cover behind the debris on the rail bed. From here I can cover the basement door and keep the Dræu in my sights. Above me on the viaduct, my crew is holding their positions.

I reach Vienne on the aural vid. “Stay put. Cover the friendlies till they're safe.”

“Affirmative,” she replies.

I see that Ebi has stopped shooting. She and Fuse have hoisted the wounded man by the armpits and are half dragging him to cover near the tunnel.

Another burst of gunfire. The thin man squawks. Grabs his thigh. Blood pours down the leg of his trousers, and he stumbles forward, taking Ebi down with him.

“Jenkins!” I bark into the aural link. “Damn it! Don't shoot the friendlies!”

“It wasn't me!” he shouts back. “I ain't even reloaded yet. The gun's jammed.”

“The Dræu!” Vienne points at a figure emerging from the smoke.

He stands a head taller than the others, it seems, and he wears two bandoliers crisscrossed on his chest, his uniform a mix of CorpCom black ops and regular military issue, probably stolen from a dead man. His weapon is an armalite fitted with a laser scope. The same scope he's now using to sight Dame Bramimonde.

The Dame works to untangle herself from her bleeding companion, while Fuse and her daughter drag her by the arm, trying to get to shelter behind an abandoned rail truck. Only a few meters away. They'll never make it.

“I have the shot,” Vienne says.

But I've already raised my armalite, and I have the better
angle. I lay the crosshairs of my sights on the Dræu.

“May I help you aim?” Mimi asks.

“No thanks,” I say.

In the heartbeat of time before I squeeze off the round, I feel the caress of the stock against my cheek. I feel the recoil, a slight kick that my body absorbs reflexively. I open my sighting eye as the bullet enters the target's skull, three centimeters above the left temple. Then exits the opposite side of the brow.

The Dræu drops his battle rifle. A rivulet of blood trickles into his beard. He steps back, blinks, and jiggles his head, as if trying to shake something out of his ear.

“It's not a kill,” Vienne says. I can hear the disappointment in her voice.

Shake it off, Durango. “Stand ready.”

I train my sights on the Dræu. Waiting for his next move. The bullet, I guess, has only damaged the frontal lobe of the brain. Except for two holes in the sides of his head, he probably will live. We'll let him live, too, as long as he doesn't go for his weapon again.