Murder of Crows (Book One of The Icarus Trilogy) (2 page)

“I have to.”  Feldman held his gaze for only a few seconds and then looked back to his tray.  The giant had said his piece; he didn’t have any control over Jenkins’ actions.

Jenkins continued towards Warner.  A thousand thoughts and scenarios rushed through his mind, but he felt like he had to do something.  He had to acknowledge that Warner felt he was responsible.  The world seemed to slow down for him; time expanded and even the lazy chewing of Warner seemed to take minutes.  Jenkins reached the end of the table after an eternity and stood there close to the newborn soldier.

“What do you want?”  Warner didn’t even bother to stop eating.  He viciously cut into his synthetic steak which could have been cut easily by a spoon.  Jenkins tried to ignore it.

“I’m just… I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?  Sorry for what?”  Warner still hadn’t made eye contact with Jenkins.  It was starting to unnerve the new recruit.

“Because you… well, you didn’t make it.”  Jenkins could feel all eyes on him.

“Kid, sometimes we don’t make it.  If that’s all you wanted to say you can go sit back down.  I don’t need to hear your apologies.”  Warner picked up an orange and started peeling it.  He turned to Jenkins and popped a slice into his mouth, determined to act unaffected.  Jenkins looked slightly taken aback but soon regained his composure and nodded at Warner.

“So…we’re good, right?” Jenkins asked.  Warner’s eyes flashed with anger and he stood up.  He practically spit out the orange slice in his fury.

“Good?  No.  No, we’re
not
good.  Because of you I
died
. 
Again
.  I was finally starting to
earn
money and in a couple of games I might have been able to start making a profit and get off this fucking planet.  But now with all these resurrection costs I’m in even MORE
debt! 
You
are the reason I’m in the red.  I was fortunate enough to not owe these bloodsuckers and now the dream’s gone.  I’m probably never, EVER, going to have another chance.  We’re in prison, kid, and only the lucky buy their way out.  And you?  You’ve given me an awful case of bad luck.  Get the fuck back in your seat.” 

With each word Jenkins could feel years-worth of repressed rage pouring out of Warner.  He was angry at Jenkins, certainly, but even more he was just angry with his life.  As Warner plowed through his tirade there was little movement from the other soldiers.  They fully expected Warner to find some reason to kill Jenkins.

The rookie muscled through the speech with a quiet resolve.  When Warner finished talking and turned back to his tray Jenkins almost breathed a sigh of relief.  The young soldier almost made it through the exchange unscathed, but in yet another poor decision in a long chain of poor decisions he opened his mouth again.

“I’m sorry.”

Warner whipped around and threw a right hook into Jenkins’ jaw.  His form was off and he didn’t follow through with his hips but the message made itself known.  Jenkins staggered a bit from the initial hit and tried to regain his footing before Warner was able to follow up with a haymaker.

He didn’t regain his footing.  Warner connected with the blow and almost knocked Jenkins out.  Only years of scrapping in the dens of New Chicago saved him from that fate.  Jenkins threw up his forearms and blocked Warner’s next assault before pushing him off with his legs.  After claiming some room he threw himself back up to his feet just in time to see Warner running up to tackle him.  By that time Feldman and Cortes had gotten out of their seats to stop their temper tantrum and before Warner could connect with his tackle there were three other soldiers between them.  The fight was effectively ended, but Warner’s rage was hard to contain.

“You’re a sack of shit and I swear to God if I ever get traded to another team I’m going to hunt your ass down!”  Warner roared his threats and sounded almost unintelligible by the end of them; civility was clearly the last thing on his mind.  It seemed almost irretrievable until an authoritative baritone broke through the noise.

“Warner, back off.  It’s not his fault.”  Warner craned his neck to see the speaker and within even that short span of time he had calmed down noticeably.

“It IS his fault!  I was yelling at him to cover me before it happened!  That FUCKING rookie has my blood on his hands!”

A man looking to be in his late fifties broke through the crowd of warriors and walked deliberately to the side of the scrappers.  He was gruff, to say the least, and a fair amount of salt was mixed in with the pepper of his hair.  He walked right up to Warner, who no longer had to be restrained, and breathed out in a disappointed huff.

“Organize your support
before
you break cover.  It’s a simple idea.  You can’t blame the kid because someone took advantage of your incompetence.   Sit down.”

“But…”

“Just sit down and stop embarrassing everyone here.  The only reason this is a big deal is because you made it a big deal.  Eat your goddamned food; it’s gonna get more unappetizing by the minute.”  Warner looked like he wanted to say something but the words just wouldn’t come out right.  He looked at all of his teammates and shame flashed over his face.  The convict walked past them and sat back at his place at the table.  He was tempted to throw his tray on the ground but decided against it; it would accomplish nothing.  Instead the slave soldier lowered his head and went back to eating his cold food.  The old man looked at Warner for a moment, seeing if there was still a threat, but then turned his gaze to the rest of the Crows.

“What?  Is this a party?  If you’re done eating head back to your rooms.  All this standing-around nonsense is just that,” Carver stated, looking to stare down those who would object.  No one took him up on that offer and the soldiers shuffled back to their seats.  Soon enough they were grazing cattle just like before.  The old man turned to Jenkins and grunted.

“Alright, kid.  We’re going for a walk.”

-

Jenkins followed three steps behind the older man.  It was an odd feeling; Carver had done so much in his time with the Crows that
War World
had even aired a retrospective of his career.  Jenkins remembered watching a much more youthful Carver on the giant televisions in New Chicago; all heroics and symbol for all that was man.  He had been larger than life, but as Jenkins took in his surroundings he had to remind himself that he was just three steps behind the man.  His posture wasn’t as straight and his skin was weathered but the old man was still intimidating.  Those blue eyes of his hadn’t faded in the slightest.

They had walked out of the mess hall and down the dingy hallways to the training yard and up into the battlements.  From there they could see the charred and blasted landscape of Eris, their home asteroid covered in a perpetual haze of clouds and smoke.  It was hard to think that only half of the planet was covered in that warzone.  The other half was devoted to supporting the games; the rest of the planet held support cities and agricultural communities. 

As he looked out Jenkins wondered if he’d ever visit one of them.  Neither Jenkins nor Carver had said a word on their way to the battlements but after a few moments of gazing at the war-torn and pockmarked landscape Carver turned his head slightly to face Jenkins.  He still looked towards the horizon but it was clear that he was watching Jenkins out of his periphery.

“You didn’t owe him anything,” the veteran said in his gruff voice.  Jenkins looked back down and tried his best not pinch the bridge of his nose.  The young soldier could hear the distant din of gunfire and artillery and even after a month of training the noise was still unnerving.

“He died, sir.  I felt like I should say something.”

“It’s not the first time.  Warner’s died forty times now, or something like that.  Comes with the territory.”

“But-”

“But nothing.  That kind of man has to save face.  He has to be the top dog.  Thing is he just doesn’t have it in him so he has to have excuses.  You were his excuse and then you walked right up to him and owned up to it.”

“But-”

“Stop it.  It only encourages people like him.  He doesn’t need any more of that crap.  The only thing you should ever apologize for is friendly fire.  Everything else doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh…” Jenkins looked back up to the piles of dirt, rock and broken roads.  The Trade Union had done a decent job with this false planet.  It was hard for him to tell that he was on an asteroid that had been reconstructed into a serviceable colony for the ever-expanding human race.  It made him anxious to think about being a day’s space travel away from Earth.  The young Crow looked over at Carver and could see no discomfort in the veteran.  He looked like he belonged.

“Sir, I have a question.”  Carver’s eyes twitched at Jenkins’ statement.

“Don’t call me “Sir,” rookie.  That’s the second time and you’re not gonna like what happens after the third.”

“Um…ok.  I was just going to ask why you’re telling me all this.”  Carver broke his gaze and looked at his newest compatriot.  His gaze softened when he looked directly at Jenkins.

“I know all that out there seems scary, so I just wanted to give you a tip or two.  I have a bit of a soft spot for you new guys.”

“Because we remind you of when you were young?”  Jenkins laughed as he asked the question, but immediately regretted saying the words when the veteran’s eyes flickered with annoyance.  This was not a man anyone wanted to annoy.

“No, you child.  I’m not that old,” Carver said and resumed his gaze towards the endless hills of battlefields and seemed to sink into himself.  “Shit, who am I kidding?  I am that old,” he said before breathing out deeply and leaning up against the railing.

“It’s just …nobody deserves this,” the veteran said as he stared into the distance.   Jenkins thought it inappropriate to interrupt him, but his curiosity would not let him be.

“Sir, I mean, Carver…” Jenkins quickly corrected himself.  Luckily Carver’s mind was still absent.  “How do you keep doing it?  I mean, how have you been doing this for so long?”  Carver looked back up at Jenkins.  His blue, unfocused eyes betrayed a tortured view of the world.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

-

Roberts ran as fast as he could.  Even with the assistance of the power armor covering his entire body, which allowed the man to run faster for longer, his lungs burned from a mixture of exertion and smoke inhalation.  As long as he was moving he felt in control but the empty nature of his surroundings definitely put him on edge. He could see wreckage and trash throughout the steel meadow but none of it would help him if he ran into an enemy soldier.

The boy soldier breathed easier once he reached Cortes’ position.  The infantryman was laying down suppressive fire on a nest of the opposing team holding out in a ruined shack.  Cortes wasn’t trying to hit anyone with his automatic; he just spewed rounds into the derelict building in the hopes that Feldman would be able to rush them with his plasma sword.

Roberts rested for a moment to catch his breath.  With all of the desensitizing sights he had experienced he was not particularly interested in watching the coming display of violence, but he was safe hunched over near the infantryman.  The boy soldier watched as Feldman rushed up the ridge and rounded the corner of the building.  Roberts didn’t see what happened in the shack, but the flash of light and screams of pain were quite telling. 

An unfortunate soul fell out the back door in a panic soon afterwards.  Roberts trained his rifle on the frightened man but before he even touched the trigger another bright flash filled his scope.  Feldman was standing over the still-screaming soldier with the massive plasma sword still moored in the ground where he had cut the man in half.  It was a heavy thing; ninety kilos of machinery, batteries and shielding.  The not-so-inconspicuous fast food logo of McCoy’s was plastered over the side; the familiar yellow crescent was half-covered in the blood of the poor soldier.

The man was still trying to crawl away.  Shock had yet to set in and the slave soldier was obviously in denial about his predicament.  Feldman sighed, walked over to the man and brought his boot down on the soldier’s head with enough force to crush the helmet.  It was testament to how heavy Feldman was that Roberts could hear the sickening crunch from his position fifty meters away.  A gruesome death, certainly, but it was better than the alternative of bleeding out after the scarred tissue gave way.  Roberts turned to Cortes, who was currently scrounging around for a clip.

“You guys staying here?” Roberts inquired, straining his voice.  He didn’t feel like using the Comms system from so close.  Cortes shrugged and gestured to the giant walking towards them.

“Up to him.  Might head east to meet up with Carver and Warner.  They were calling in for support earlier.”  East was largely relative on War World.  There was no magnetic north on the asteroid construct; the instruments in their heads-up-display just used the nomenclature as a stand-in.  It made it easier to coordinate between the soldiers.  Roberts looked in the direction Cortes had suggested, but he knew Carver would be just fine even with Warner in attendance.  The newly-resurrected soldier was decent enough when he wasn’t being an idiot.

Jenkins was another story.  The last Roberts had heard over Comms was that he and Abrams were running around looking for the enemy.  Abrams had a habit of doing everything she needed to in order to survive.  She was hard-hearted and ruthless which made Roberts dislike her all the more.  That’s not to say he didn’t appreciate her; she was one of the best on the team.  He looked over to Cortes and Feldman, who had just arrived, and nodded to the north.

“I’m going to go check on Jenkins and Abrams.”  Feldman nodded in approval.  Cortes shrugged and then looked back at Roberts.

“Hey, weren’t you paired with Goldstein today?  Where is he?” the Spaniard asked, already guessing how the soldier had died.  Roberts looked back the way he’d come and pointed in the general direction of his drop point.

“The corpse is back that way.  Couple of the Boars hit us with grenades about five minutes in,” Roberts said while laughing in dismay.  “Goldstein didn’t even try to move, he just grabbed his crotch and told them to go fuck themselves.”