Machinations (33 page)

I curse, kicking the base of the stairwell's railing, venting my frustration. I can't think with all the anger and fear buzzing in my head.
Steady,
I think to myself, moving back to the door. I take a breath, peek out. “Okay. What's our contingency plan?” I ask Ulrich, because I don't remember devising one.

“Retreat,” Ulrich answers, sounding more disheartened than I've ever heard him.

“We can't,” I say. “That's not an option. If we fall back, it's over.”

“
Ja.
That is why no one is interested in the contingency plan.”

“I'll think of something.”

“Pray. That might suit us better.”

“Rhona!” I barely hear my name through the noise. I stare across the street, where I find a familiar person hunched behind the body of a car. He's pinned down by gunfire. What's he doing out here at all?

“Samuel?” I shout back, although I don't think he can actually hear me, except through comms, maybe. “Stay there!” I say, aligning my words with the appropriate hand gestures. “Don't move!”

To his credit, he proves a decent shot. Must've been all that training with Rankin. He deactivates several machines as he makes his way toward me, but they're overwhelming his position. More and more are identifying him as a threat to be eliminated. Self-preservation tells me to stay put, but my heart acts counterintuitively. I don't think, I just run out to meet him halfway, dodging gunfire as I go.

One machine gets a good shot off, catching Samuel in the arm or maybe the chest before I reach him. I don't know which. I don't know how serious. My mouth opens around his name, although the sound dies in my throat.

I throw myself in front of him, just as the predator goes for the kill.

My body clenches against the coming pain, but nothing happens.
The programming,
I think, half-hysterical,
the programming must still be in effect!
Just because it doesn't want to kill me, though, doesn't mean it won't try and capture me.

While this thought is just occurring to me, Samuel grabs my shoulder, flipping us over in time to fire at the still-attacking machine. Its chest explodes, showering us in metal and sparks. There's no permanent damage, though, only some superficial scrapes.

I don't waste any more time. “Come on, over there.” I drag myself and a grimacing Samuel toward the nearby tank, hell continuing to break loose around us.

“What were you thinking?” I demand, removing his helmet to better see his face. Half of the visor's broken off, anyway, and the rest of it isn't going to provide much protection against a bullet, either.

“I wasn't there last time,” he says.

“Samuel, what are you talking about?”

“At Anchorage. I wasn't at Anchorage and you died. Instead, I was miles”—he gestures wildly at the distance—“
miles
away, and absent in your life long before then. I know I probably couldn't have done anything to save you, but still…I don't want to make that mistake again, Rhon. Not when I can do something this time.”

“God, Samuel. Your guilt has impeccable timing.” My adrenaline's high, and I'm still upset over his recklessness. The emotion ends up channeled into a bear hug as I grab my careless, idiotic friend tight. “Are you okay?” I ask, looking at his arm, the sleeve dark with blood.

“I thought you were in trouble,” he says.

“Not what I asked. Besides, now we're both in trouble.”

“Yeah, but we're together. Oh! And I brought you a gun.”

I take the extra pistol, holding it aloft in my hands. “I guess I can forgive you, then. Not that it matters much at this point. It's doubtful we're going to live to see another day, let alone fight one.” He's quiet, pensive. “What? No brilliant, million-dollar idea when I need one?”

He looks at me, smiles in a way that dislodges the fear from my heart. “Rhon, I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker.” I give him a blank look. “
Star Trek.
You don't remember
Star Trek
?”

We both have to duck as a dying machine flails, releasing a stream of bullets.

The machines really start to swarm us now, the human defenses breaking. “We're sitting ducks here,” I tell him, looking all around, but I can't see anywhere else we can go. Except…

“I have an idea. Keep your head down.”

I lie back and slip beneath the tank. There's an access hatch at the bottom. It takes some jiggling at the locking mechanism, but the cold has done its job weakening it and I manage to pry it open. “Samuel, here!” I shout at him. As soon as I'm sure he's making his way, I wriggle up into the belly of the machine. It's more difficult for Samuel with his injured arm, but he manages to get inside, too. I close the hatch behind him.

We must trigger some automatic sensors because electric lights flicker on, filling the interior with a cool aquamarine. The lighting is uncertain as it clicks off and then back on, not the most prodigious start. After so many years of being inactive, though, I'm just happy to have any of the systems operational. In the meantime, the world outside shrinks to a muffled roar at the back of my head, like a television screen left on in another room. In the muted quiet, it feels like I'm partially deaf, so I clear my throat a couple of times to confirm otherwise.

“By the look of things, I'd say it's running on reserve power,” Samuel says, holding his shoulder tenderly as he gets some diagnostic information up and running on a previously blank screen. “Whoever was last in here had the foresight to at least leave a nice setup behind.”

“Maybe they planned on coming back,” I say.

“Yeah,” he agrees solemnly, neither of us venturing to guess what happened to them. It's not hard to figure out. “Anyway, I'm just surprised this thing still has any power and functionality at all.”

Something bangs against the hull outside, making me jump. “Is there any way we can get a visual of the outside?” I scan the board of blinking lights and wires, but can't make heads nor tails of any of it. It might as well be in another language. This just adds to my frustration. Why does technology always have to be so complicated? Why can't it just have a big, red button that says PUSH ME? That always seemed to work well enough in cartoons. And while we're at it, reality should adopt the policy of no one ever dying, too. That'd be swell.

“Let me see.” He runs his hands across the console, lightly, so as not to hit the wrong buttons. The blood running down his arm drips off his fingertips onto the controls.

“Samuel, your arm…”

“Got it!” One of the half-dozen screens crackles to life, displaying a colored version of the outside world, as seen through some exterior camera. He presses another button, and it cycles to another image, this time from a higher vantage point. The mountain sits neutral over the battle, and I want to scream,
“You were supposed to be on
our
side, you stupid hunk of rock!”

But then I think,
Maybe it still is.

While I try to attend to Samuel's arm, first by removing his sleeve, I ask him, “Can you get this thing moving?”

His confusion shows clearly. “I think so. But where would we go?”

“What about the weapons systems? Are they still active?”

He tries to pull his arm away from me after I touch a tender spot, but I yank it back in place. “Easy does it, Florence,” he says through gritted teeth. The name's lost on me. “It looks like everything is still in working order. We're lucky the tank wasn't destroyed like the others we've seen; it was just switched off when its occupants fled. That being said, I don't want to get your hopes up.”

I frown, thinking.

“The bullet's not in deep,” I tell him. “I'm pretty sure I can get it out safely, but it's going to hurt, and I need you conscious right now. I hate to ask you this, but think you can stick it out for a little while longer?”

Samuel nods and points to the first-aid kit on the tank wall, a luminescent blue, like a jellyfish. “Bandage me up. I'll be good to go, Commander.”

“It's weird when you call me that. Don't do that.” He smiles and I collect the scarce medical supplies left. “While I work on you, check and see what ammunition we've got to work with.”

Using his good arm, he types out some basic commands on the console. I hear the mounted turret screech as it swivels, the metal groaning after such a long sleep. “The good news is the turret works. The bad news is we don't have much ordnance left. And the worst news is I'm not sure what any of what we do have does, exactly. How to launch an armored offensive wasn't covered in my biology classes. Go figure.” He grimaces as I apply some disinfectant and begin wrapping the wound. I try to be gentler.

“Let's phone a friend,” I suggest. “My earpiece isn't working, so we'll have to try some other way.”

“Mine, either. The tank's probably got some natural firewall interfering with the signal.”

“How do we get around it? This thing has to have some kind of comm system, right? Can we patch into our channel?”

“Maybe.”

“Actually, I think I remember a way to do it. I had Zelda give me a beginner's course before we left. Move over, let me.” My hands are slippery with blood, making it difficult to handle the smooth surface of the console. The system is more intuitive than I anticipated. It's a simple matter of linking up to the frequency. It'd be almost impossible for someone who didn't know the number, such as the machines, but thankfully my short-term memory is solid. “Here goes nothing.” And by nothing, I mean
everything.

“This is Commander Long. Come in. Hello? Does anybody read me?”

“Rhona,” a familiar German voice wheezes on the other end. “
Gott sei dank!
Where are you?”

“Ulrich! I don't have time to explain. Just listen. Samuel and I are safe. We're in a tank in the middle of the battle. It's operational—”

“A tank?”

“We have some ammunition, but I need you to tell me what it all does. You were in the German army, right?”

“What are you planning on doing? One tank cannot take down a whole enemy force.”

“No, but one tank can take down a mountain, with the right ordnance.”

He grumbles in incomprehensible German before heaving a sigh. “Fine. Tell me what you have.” Samuel takes over then, listing them in the order of how much we have available, most to fewest. Some have strange names like kinetic-energy penetrator and sabot, while others like the canister shot and high-explosive shells sound much more promising.

“Use the KEPs on the machines directly,” Ulrich says. “They should be able to bypass their shielding. The machine gun will work as well for that task. For the mountain, use the shells or the guided missiles. Either should work sufficiently.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks, Ulrich. If you haven't already, give the order for our people to take cover, wherever they can. If this works, they're not going to want to be groundside.”

“What about you?” he asks. “And Samuel? What will you do?”

To be honest, I hadn't even considered our safety. “We should be okay in the tank,” I tell him. “Don't worry about us. Just make sure everyone else is ready.” I'm about to sign off when one last thought occurs to me. “And if something goes wrong—not that it will—but, you know. If it does. Look after Camus?” I swallow hard. My throat is tight and scratchy. “And make sure Rankin gets back to Hanna. Oh, and take care of yourself and your lady, too. Can you do that for me, Ulrich?”

“
Jawohl,
Commander.
Viel glück.
”

“Right back at'cha.” I click the comm off, praying it doesn't turn out to be the last time I get to speak with that rascally German, but fearing it will be.

A mutual understanding passes wordlessly between Samuel and me. This is it, the quiet seems to imply. Whatever happens, happens.

“You take the tank controls,” I tell Samuel. “I'll man the machine gun. I want to get close enough to kiss the mountain.”

We lurch forward, moving down the street at a slow but steady pace, barreling into machines that don't get out of the way fast enough, and then crunching over them. The sound is music to my ears, accompanied by the percussive
rat-tat-tat-tat
of the machine gun as I spend the last of the minor ammunition on whatever enemies have the misfortune of running into my crosshairs. The machines return fire, but it has hardly any effect on the tank's armor. Instead, our beast draws attention away from the human soldiers, and the machine phalanx pools back into the main street, right where I wanted them to begin with.

We're almost in perfect range when the treads break down.

In addition, alarms start to sound, alerting us to a possible hull breach, and there's a hissing noise like some kind of depressurization. The bottom hatch has gotten loose from running over one of the machines. I quickly reseal it, thankful it's not something more serious. But that still leaves the problem of our position.

“Do you think we can hit it from here?” Samuel asks over the loud pinging of bullets hitting the tank's shielding.

“We're about to find out.”

There's already a shell loaded into the turret, which feels somehow fitting. I'd call it a blast from the past if I was feeling cheeky. “Ready?” I turn to Samuel. He nods. I prepare my shot, lining up the large-caliber gun with the mountaintop. The recoil shudders through the vehicle, rattling my bones.

The missile appears to impact harmlessly into the side of the mountain, coughing up snow, just like before. I hold my breath, prepared to fire again.

But I don't need to. The mountain shivers, and a white curtain descends the slopes, picking up speed and mass. By the time it hits the drier areas toward the bottom, it's the very definition of a force of nature—a winter tsunami. Mud, trees, and anything else at the base are swept along, collected inside the swelling cloud of ice. The avalanche lumbers like a stampede toward the city.