by C. Gockel
“You’re done,” said Hisha, walking back into the room, holding Oliver’s hand.
“Shixty,” the toddler gurgled, looking over his shoulder to the kitchen.
“Hush!” said Hisha.
“Shixty!” said Oliver.
From the kitchen came 6T9’s voice. “Does he need a nappy change?”
James’s voice floated from the other room. “I think that’s his name for you.”
“Are you sure? It sounds like he is saying a word Eliza finds too offensive for me to say,” the ‘bot replied.
Hisha picked up her child, her face crumpling in a way that foretold tears. “Hush, don’t say that, Ollie,” she murmured.
Noa took off the mask. Through the front door, she heard the sound of another hover outside. “That is Eliza,” said 6T9, passing down the hallway between the kitchen and the living room.
Exhaling in relief that Eliza had made it back, Noa tucked the mask away. She joined 6T9 and Hisha a few minutes later in the foyer just as Eliza burst in. The older woman immediately reached for 6T9. He pulled her into an embrace and Eliza leaned against him. Her breathing was labored.
Looking over Eliza’s shoulder, Noa saw—much to her disbelief—that the hover didn’t have a single nick. But her heart dropped in dismay. “You didn’t rendezvous with any of the Fleet members Manuel assigned to you?”
Eliza shook her head, still panting loudly.
“Check her for a cryssallis infection!” said 6T9, turning to Hisha.
“I’m fine,” Eliza said, turning to Noa. “They weren’t there! All of them … gone. I went into their homes and to their work places, and then I was stopped.”
Noa’s eyes widened.
Still trying to catch her breath, Eliza said, “I told the authorities … I have a grandchild … in the Fleet … wanted to visit him.”
Hisha snapped a breath tester over Eliza’s mouth. It blinked green after a few short seconds and Hisha pulled it away. “She’s clean.”
“I’m fine!” Eliza snapped, but she was still breathing deeply.
“Sweeping you off your feet!” 6T9 declared, putting a hand behind her back and another behind her knees.
“I’m fine!” Eliza said again, but this time more softly. 6T9 gathered her in his arms with such slow grace and gentleness, it looked like he was performing a dance.
Eliza took a deep breath and then turned to Noa. “I’m so sorry,” Eliza said. “Their houses were all vacant.” There were tears standing in her eyes.
Noa took Eliza’s hand. Her skin felt papery and thin. “I know you did your best, and if it had been anyone else, they would have been arrested.”
Behind Noa, James’s voice rumbled like a storm. “This isn’t good. If she went to their homes and was stopped … ”
“Their homes may have been under surveillance,” Noa finished, still holding the older woman’s hand. “Which could mean they followed Eliza back here.” She felt her heart rate pick up in her chest. The acrid taste of the treatment was replaced by adrenaline. She felt her senses sharpen the way they used to just before a piloting mission. It felt good, and she realized just how much the illness had been hurting her. She almost smiled.
“I didn’t mean to … ” Eliza protested.
Noa gently squeezed her hand. “There is nothing you could have done. But we will have to leave.”
Eyes wide, lip trembling, Hisha said, “We have to wait for Manuel.”
“Yes, we do,” Noa agreed.
“Really?” said James, peering between the blinds by the door. He didn’t turn when Hisha’s head whipped around and she aimed a glare at him.
“We need a crew,” Noa responded.
Hisha’s shoulders sank. She met Noa’s eyes, the death glare she’d shot at James completely gone. Dropping Eliza’s hand, Noa put a hand on her shoulder. “But be ready to move out.”
Nodding, Hisha tore out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Oliver at Noa’s feet.
“Mub out,” said Oliver, sucking on his knuckles again. Noa looked down at him. He barely came past her knees. He grinned up at her, chubby cheeks splitting in a lopsided, oblivious grin. The almost-smile on her face melted and her chest constricted. She had to get this adorable lump of uselessness aboard a spaceship while taking fire—and Eliza as well. If 6T9 malfunctioned …
“Blasted heap of a leaking fission reactor,” she muttered, and silently prayed that Manuel would bring her some Fleet personnel.
At her feet, Oliver giggled.
A few minutes after Eliza’s arrival, Noa heard the sound of Manuel’s hover. She peeked through the blinds on the second floor and saw he wasn’t alone in the craft. Her heart soared. Carl Sagan apparently caught her mood, because he hopped and gave a happy hiss. She reached out to him and he crawled up her arm and curled behind her neck. She scratched him behind the ears. “You’re coming with us, Buddy. The Ark is a tourist attraction now and has a snack shop aboard.” Her nose wrinkled. “And that means rats.” Carl Sagan bounced and hissed happily as she strode down the hallway to the stairs.
Moments later, downstairs, her heart sank, again.
Noa’s eyes swept down the line of men and women in Manuel’s foyer as the werfle sniffed at them. Putting her hands behind her back, she tried to hide her dismay. There were six of them, four men and two women; all wore hats or hairstyles that hid their neural interfaces. Noa reckoned that only two of them were Fleet—an old man and a young woman who looked all of sixteen years old. Noa could tell they were Fleet by the way they stood—or in the case of the woman, how she sat in a wheelchair—at attention. Gripping her wrist tighter, Noa went first to the man, Manuel beside her.
“This is Gunnery Sergeant Phil Leung,” Manuel said. The engineer’s voice was shaky. He knew he’d let her down—or that circumstances had let them down. Since Eliza’s targets had disappeared, Noa guessed that these were the only Fleet personnel he’d been able to find. She wished she could take him aside and tell him not to let his nervousness show in front of this motley crew. Normally, she would ethernet such information to her second-in-command—as soon as they were out of space and out of range of amplifiers, she would hook up a local ethernet on the Ark. In front of her, Leung snapped a neat salute and she gave him a tight nod. “Commander,” he said, “it’s an honor to serve with another veteran of Six.”
Scanning her data banks, she pulled up Leung’s file and, for the first time, felt hope. Leung had a potbelly that doubled his girth. His East Asian eyes were bright hazel flecked with orange, but bloodshot. His golden skin was marred by a bulbous red nose that spoke of too much drink, and his hair was thin and graying at the temples. He was out of shape, and possibly drank too liberally; but he was a veteran of the Io Company and had served in Six during the Asteroid War. She felt like singing Hallelujah. Gunny Leung’s platoon had been in the thick of it—cleaning up the pirate compounds after Noa and her pilots had blasted the pirates halfway to kingdom come. She gave him a curt nod instead of singing, but she knew he could see the slight smile on her lips. “Glad to have you aboard.”
Gunny’s eyes went to Carl Sagan. The werfle gave a happy hiss and leapt onto Gunny before Noa could stop him. Gunny smiled as the creature climbed to its favorite spot, behind his neck. “We goin’ someplace where there’ll be rats, Commander?” he asked, scratching the werfle behind the ears as it relocated on his broader shoulders. Noa didn’t answer that, but her lips turned up. Werfles weren’t as common as cats on starships … but they were just as appreciated.
“And this is Ensign June Chavez,” said Manuel, moving Noa down the line. Noa looked down at the woman in the wheelchair, sitting at attention. Chavez’s legs were cut off mid-thigh. Most people tended to look like blends of all the human races, and as a result, didn’t look like any race in particular. Chavez was the type of person who had distinct features of all the races. She had hair that was almost as tightly curled as Noa’s, but it was red. Her tan face was dotted with freckles, and she had generous fu
ll lips. Her eye shape suggested East Asian heritage, but they were a vivid green.
“Do you have prosthetics, Ensign?” Noa asked as she pulled up Chavez’s history. Chavez had lost her legs when she’d been caught in a landslide on System Ten’s fourth planet. She’d been helping some colonists evacuate a settlement at the time. No combat experience—but notes in her file said she’d served bravely and had volunteered to be among the last to lift out.
“Yes, Sir, in the hover, Sir,” said Chavez. “Temporary ones, but they work decently enough after they warm up, if they don’t get wet. I was waiting to rejoin the Fleet after surgery for the permanent ones.” The words tumbled out of her mouth so quickly it took a few seconds for Noa to catch it all.
“We had to hide them in case we were stopped,” Manuel said.
Noa exhaled in relief. “Go put them on,” Noa said. “Now.”
“Yes, Sir, right away,” said Chavez, wheeling herself quickly into the garage.
Noa’s eyes went to the other three men, and the one woman. They all looked terribly young. Behind her back, her fingers went to fidget with her rings and found them not there.
“These are rebellion sympathizers from my shop,” Manuel said. “They should do as crew.” His voice was gruff, and Noa heard him gulp. “This is Bo,” he said, indicating with his head to the tallest of the young people. He had typical Euro-Asian African looks—black wavy hair, green eyes, and he appeared to be in good shape, at least.
Giving a salute that looked sincere, but was obviously unpracticed, Bo broke into a lopsided grin. “I was on my way to join the Fleet when the time gate closed. I’m ready to get off this rock.” The grin got wider. “Really excited.” He bounced on his feet. Noa’s hands tightened behind her back and she made a mental note to not give him a firearm. Inside her head, her chronometer was ticking down fast. Noa’s eyes went to the other three sympathizers.
The girl looked quickly at the other two boys, and then blurted out, “We’re all augments. I have an artificial lung … please don’t leave us behind. Augments are disappearing.”
“We are all engineers,” said another, shifting nervously on his feet.
“Students,” said the girl, dropping her eyes. “Engineering students, ma’am … I mean, Sir.”
Behind her back, Noa’s nails bit into her wrist. “No one is being left behind.”
The chronometer in her head was almost at zero. She turned to Manuel. “What weapons do we have?”
“I couldn’t get to the facility we’re using as an armory. We’ve got what Gunny had in his basement.”
Noa didn’t sigh. The chronometer in her head ticked down to zero. James poked his head in from the garage. Yanking at the hard link he’d used to program the hover, he said, “We’re ready.”
Hisha appeared on the stairs. She’d tied a complicated-looking sling thing to her front. Oliver was passed out inside of it. Meeting Noa’s gaze, she stammered, “He won’t cry. I … I … sedated him, just as I promised.”
Noa nodded at her. “It was the right thing to do.” The doctor didn’t look mollified.
Noa glanced at the rain-spattered window. It was dark at least. “Time to move out.”
A few minutes later, the hover was set upon by Guard ships as soon as it left the Manuels’ townhome complex.
Fortunately, they weren’t in it.
15
James watched from the roof as the hover sped down residential streets, bright with the shine of lights on rain-slicked pavement. Sirens from the Luddeccean Guard’s hovers screamed behind and above it. He let out a breath of relief. They’d put pillow cases stuffed with hot water bottles into the vehicle and sent it on its way, hoping the vaguely body-shaped pockets of warmth would confuse any heat scanners—not that it had been necessary. The rain had picked up. It was pouring in rivulets off the roof, off the hovers he saw parked in the complex, and down his neck—the cool water would throw off heat scanners. He’d also programmed the vehicle to follow the streets instead of taking flight; Noa had suspected it would be shot down if it took to the air. On the streets, still busy with evening traffic, the Guard would hopefully be more restrained, and hopefully they’d get a little extra time to flee before the ruse was discovered.
“It worked.” The words from Noa were spoken directly into his mind. They were hard linked. Noa had dispensed with propriety the instant they hit the roof. Noa was beside him behind the wall of the home three doors down from the Manuels’ residence, crouching under the leaves of the neighbor’s rooftop garden. The rest of the “team” was with them. James’s eyes flicked in their direction. He knew they were there, but all that he could see were Chavez’s legs. They’d duct-taped plastic bags over her prosthetics—from where James sat, it looked as though someone had left a bag of garbage out. His gaze went to the roof of the Manuels’ home. They’d gotten out of the house just a few minutes before the Guards dropped men to the roof from a hover. The Guards on the Manuels’ roof were following the hover chase with binoculars, laughing amongst themselves. All that separated them from James and the team were leaves, darkness, and rain.
The link hummed with equal amounts of determination and focused fury from Noa. It was oddly reassuring. James wondered if the Fleet trained its officers to transmit such feelings.
Over the link, Noa spoke to him. “The Guards on the other roof—are they distracted by the chase?”
There was a reason they hadn’t moved farther. There were two more Guards on the next roof. James looked over the edge of the wall separating the rooftop garden they were in from the next.
“Yes,” he responded over the link and sent her an image of what he saw: two men, rifles slung on their backs, gazing through their binoculars.
Noa transmitted data on their weapons to him. They were sniper rifles. “With built-in transmitters,” Noa said. “We can’t steal them.”
One of the snipers said, “Did you see that MX? Just jumped 100 meters straight vertical.” He whistled. “Sweet machine.”
“Think they’ll ever sell those hovers to civilians? I sure want one,” said his companion.
“We got ‘em!” said the first sniper, springing a bit.
The second said, “Not yet.”
And then there was the crackle of a radio device that looked like it might have been transported straight from the 1990s on one of the men’s thighs. “Team S1, report!”
“We’re here,” said the first sniper. “All’s well. Almost in position.”
“Unprofessional,” Noa whispered into his mind. “Lucky us.”
Noa turned to Chavez, Manuel, and Leung and delivered some quick hand gestures. The three officers nodded.
Over the link, Noa said, “James, you and I are going to take them.”
She slipped a stunner from a holster on her thigh—a weapon from Gunny Leung’s “arsenal.” They also each had a pistol and a rifle, but they were too loud. A stunner pressed against a man’s side would be nearly silent.
“I’m allowed to use deadly force?” James said, taking out his own stunner, but eyeing the Guards on the Manuels’ roof standing outside of the back door.
“Of course,” Noa said into his mind, eyes on the two snipers. “Try not to let the sound of his body hitting the ground alert the others.”
“Understood,” James replied across the link. They didn’t just have to worry about the other Guard team hearing. 6T9 was programmed not to hurt humans and to offer assistance in the event of injury. Such programming would override any orders Eliza gave him.
“Now,” said Noa, yanking out the hard link between them.
She slipped over the wall between them and the two snipers. Her breathing was steady and even, her movements sure. James followed. Crouching low, they hugged the shadow of the wall that separated the rooftops.
From the hover chase blocks away, an explosion went off, briefly illuminating the rooftop. The snipers whistled and chuckled. As soon as the light subsided, Noa and James rushed forward. James put his
right hand around his target’s mouth. James was wearing a thin, stunner-resistant glove on that hand. Pressing the stunner to the man’s side, he hit the activate button. James heard a soft click as two twin prongs sprang from the stunner’s business end. He prepared for the man’s body to convulse. Nothing happened. Recovering from his mental shock, the man began to struggle.
James pictured the man flipping him over his shoulder, and the Guard being alerted to their presence in the resulting scuffle. He acted before any of that happened.
Noa restrained a grunt as she lowered the sniper’s body gently to the roof. In the periphery of her vision, she saw James do the same. She’d known he could do it. Chavez would have been an obvious choice, but her temporary limbs creaked. Leung was out of shape. Manuel was an engineer—he had the training, but not the experience.