by Michael Todd
They complied reluctantly but with fixed, determined expressions. Falstaff’s vehicle disappeared slowly into the water. The man looped himself onto the zip line in case the Stallion failed. Its mechanical legs strained and the machine made odd buzzing and gurgling noises, but so far, it seemed able to handle it.
“Wallace, I can’t promise the circuitry will hold up if water gets inside the body,” Jimmy said. “I mean, I didn’t expect us to have to do this—”
“We don’t have much choice,” he responded. He looped his rope around the hanging cord and stepped into the river.
The current was strong, but then again, so was he, and so was his exoskeleton. He knew instantly that he could do this. But what about some of the smaller soldiers, the ones who didn’t have cybernetic enhancements to help them? Peppy and Jimmy were two of the smallest, so at least he’d ordered them to stay close to him.
“Oh darn,” Peppy said as she almost lost her balance. Both she and Jimmy clung to their ropes and had to move slowly to advance at all. Wallace let them brace themselves against him for support when needed. The water was warm and fragrant, and its spray quickly soaked even the tops of their heads.
Thomas and Blancheau seemed a little more confident as their Stallion entered the water. Due to his injury, the Frenchman was not tied to the zip line.
They progressed about two-thirds of the way across the river without incident, although Wallace could tell that the women beside him were tiring. Falstaff picked up speed as the river grew shallower again, and suddenly, his Stallion emerged onto the far bank.
“Made it!” he said.
Wallace looked back. The last of the team now entered at the other end. So far, so good.
“Oh shit!” Thomas screamed and her eyes went wide.
The Stallion’s legs slipped on something beneath the surface. The vehicle careened to the side, borne in the direction of the current, and toppled into the water. Thomas clung to the zip line and stayed where she was, although she could only hold her own position as she had no footing.
Blancheau, wailing without words, disappeared not only under the surface but under the falling Stallion itself. One of his hands was all that was visible. It clawed and thrashed above the brown water, along with a series of bubbles.
“Get him out from under there!” Wallace barked.
Two men—both of them tall, thank God—who were immediately behind the Stallion waded toward it and tried to shift it so Blancheau could get free. They had no success whatsoever, especially since the strength of the current meant they could not commit their full abilities without themselves being washed away.
“Stay here,” Wallace said to Peppy and Jimmy. “Hold on.” He felt it then—that calm but not calm, hyper-focused intensity, the gear-shift into the mental state he entered when there was something that must be done and that only he could do.
His exoskeleton’s loud whirring was mostly inaudible beneath the sound of the river. Wallace released the rope and sloshed back to where the Stallion lay. His muscles screamed in pain but the machine that supported him did not fail, even against the current. Blancheau’s hand thrashed more weakly now.
“Back!” said the first of the two men who’d tried to help. He must have guessed what Wallace was about to do.
The sergeant did not stop to examine the situation or approach it with any particular strategy. He simply attacked. Groaning raggedly like an angry beast of prey, he brute-forced his way through the water, seized the metal hulk below the surface, and heaved it upward. It moved and the powerful mechanical apparatus on his legs provided the foundation for this almost-impossible act.
Shouting even more loudly, he hurled the entire vehicle up and out into the river. The current caught it, swept it twenty feet downstream, and deposited it firmly in a patch of mud below a swirling eddy.
The two men hurried forward, grabbed Blancheau quickly, and bore him to the surface. The Frenchman coughed. He was alive. Pale, delirious, agonized, and probably pissed off, but alive. One of them performed the Heimlich maneuver to the best of his ability with one arm, and the man spat up a stream of brown water.
“Give him here,” Wallace said. They obeyed, and he slung the man over a shoulder, still running on adrenaline, and stomped the rest of the way through the river. Emerging next to Falstaff and the other Stallion, he laid Blancheau on the ground. He hoped he hadn’t further injured his leg, but things could be worse.
Wallace turned back to the river. “Everyone okay?”
They all stared at him in amazement and maybe even fear. With slight embarrassment now that rational thought had returned, he realized that most of them had never seen the full range of capabilities of his exoskeleton. The only person who had was Chris during his fight against Bruce.
After a moment of silence, Jimmy said over the rushing of the current, “Hey, well then, I guess your legs aren’t useless after all!” She grinned as only a discipline-proof civilian could.
Chapter Sixteen
The remainder of the team was able to cross the river without serious incident. Unfortunately, however, there was no way to dislodge and recover the fallen Stallion without risking someone getting swept away and potentially drowned.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Wallace said. “We’ll see if we can bring a crew with a wrecker or something back later. But I have to prioritize lives over machines.”
“Eh, it’s okay,” she replied. “At least we still have the one. Besides, all the crap that’s happened to the poor things has given me a bunch of ideas for how to improve the model when we get back. They need to be lighter, for one thing…and to be able to handle water better…and their braking could stand some improvement…” She sighed and shook her head.
Private Thomas, meanwhile, was badly shaken and obviously very remorseful about having lost control of the Stallion and almost lost Blancheau in the process. Wallace wasn’t exactly pleased, but then again, he’d been the one who had assigned her to drive it even without assurance of her ability to do so. He said nothing to her for now. She knew she’d fucked up. Next time, she would do better.
Blancheau, meanwhile had gone almost totally silent and lapsed in and out of consciousness a couple of times. After the soldiers dried him off and Glassner examined him, they had loaded him carefully onto the one remaining Stallion where he now rode behind Falstaff, and they essentially simply hoped for the best. No one looked forward to what he’d have to say to Hall—or, for that matter, the government of France—once he returned to base.
“He’s not in good shape,” Glassner reported of the Assemblyman, “but he’ll live. We basically undid all the progress we made in healing his leg wound in the process of saving him from drowning. Obviously, it was a worthy sacrifice to make, but he might be at risk of infection. Plus, he swallowed a lot of water, and God knows what the Zoo puts in its rivers. I gave him some antibiotics, but we’ll have to get back to a proper infirmary to make sure he’s okay.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” Wallace said. “We will be back to base soon.”
That much, at least, was true. They made surprisingly good progress and there were no further incidents or attacks. By early afternoon, Private Thomas, whom Wallace had rotated to the front of the column so that scouting ahead would take her mind off her recent failure, had some extremely heartening news for them.
“The bridge!” she said. “I can see the drawbridge up ahead.”
Wallace pushed ahead to where Thomas and the two other soldiers on point had stopped. He held his hand up to bring the whole team to a halt for the moment.
Squinting, he could see that Thomas was correct—they’d made it. Almost. They could hear the sounds of the new stream flowing ahead. Thankfully, it wasn’t quite as loud as the river they’d just crossed, so at least it probably hadn’t increased in size. They could also see the bright yellow, construction-grade metal of the drawbridge through the gaps in the leaves and vines. Wallace was also fairly certain he could hear human voices in that direc
tion. Hall must have posted guards there.
“All right, everyone, stay here,” he said to his unit. “Defensive perimeter up and be smart. Guard Assemblyman Blancheau. Private Thomas, PFC Fernandez, and myself will go forward to inspect the bridge situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Blancheau, meanwhile, made wet, mumbling noises that sounded hopeful.
The three soldiers pushed through the vegetation and walked toward the river.
“Holy shit,” someone on the other side said.
“I’m Sergeant Wallace, leading the team that showed the ambassadors around,” he said. Almost a squad guarded the structure, which was raised. “We’ve lost several people and we have a wounded man. We need this drawbridge lowered immediately, and we’ll need support to get everyone back to the base as quickly as possible. Do you have vehicles?” He didn’t see any.
“Uh, no, sorry, Sergeant,” one of the grunts said. That figured.
“All right, fine. If possible, radio back to base and tell them everything I said. If that doesn’t work, send someone back to tell them in person. We have enough men to reinforce you in the meantime.”
One of the guys flipped the switch at the drawbridge’s command console. The big metallic structure hummed and buzzed and slowly, its yellow, black, and grey components clanked as they moved. The bridge began to lower.
“Thank God this is almost over,” Fernandez sighed.
Wallace went back and motioned the rest of the team to move forward. Falstaff brought the Stallion—and Blancheau— to the relatively open area beside the riverbank, and the rest of the troops fanned out around it, still defending their sides and rear as they waited to cross.
Aade Graf walked up. “Sergeant Wallace,” she said.
“Yes?” he replied.
“I apologize for doubting your abilities earlier, or for doubting your military in general,” she began. “The Zoo is a formidable opponent, and no one could be entirely prepared for everything it has produced. I am also very sorry that my request to see more of the Zoo led us into such dire straits—in particular, the death of Flemm and of several of your men. My government had specifically requested that I see as much of it as possible, but it should not have happened this way and with the dangers involved.”
Wallace frowned. He sensed that her remorse was sincere, although of course, she was aloof and stoic about it. She almost reminded him of himself in that regard. “I understand, Ambassador, and thank you,” was all he said for now.
“I will put in a good word for you when we return,” Graf went on. “However, I suppose that there is only so much I can do. Do you expect Director Hall will be angry with you?”
“Most likely, yes,” said Wallace. “But there’s nothing I can do.” He shook his head. “We tried our best, but the mission was largely a failure regardless. Nothing to do but go back and face the music. Maybe I’m too old for this shit.” He sighed.
The drawbridge finally clanked into place on the earth of the far bank with a vibrating thud.
“Move out,” Wallace said. “Falstaff, go first. Otherwise, keep the same formation we had prior to this point.”
The Stallions had no problem crossing the drawbridge on their way in, so he didn’t worry about that. As he, Graf, Thomas, and Fernandez crossed as part of the first group, the brown stream rushing and gurgling below them, Wallace saw and heard one of the men of the guard unit trying the radio.
“I repeat,” the guy said, “they have a wounded man and need immediate support to get back to base. Over.” Only crackled static greeted him. He sighed in disgust and removed his headset. Turning to Wallace, he said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant, but we have that fucking interference again, even on the trail.”
Wallace stepped past the threshold of the bridge. “It’s all right, Private, it never works. We’ll need someone to go on ahead, though, to—”
The radio beeped, and static flared up again. “What the hell?” the private who manned it said. “We have an incoming message.” He flipped a switch.
“Yessir,” a voice said, faintly through the interference, “…me and Flemm both…under that fucking hill… not much time…”
Peppy ran across the bridge and pushed through various men in her way. She stood at Wallace’s side as she strained to listen in.
“Jesus, it’s Gunnar,” Wallace said.
“He’s alive!” she gasped, her eyes wide. She looked around and her facial expression returned to its usual somber apathy. “For some reason,” she added.
“And Flemm is with him.” Wallace felt it return now—the intense focus and the internal preparation to take care of business. “We have to get them back.”
“Nooo!” a voice wailed. It sounded ragged and phlegmy, with a mixture of anger, pain, and fear. Looking back, Wallace saw that it was Blancheau. The French politico had seized Falstaff’s arm to stop him from manning the Stallion and strained back in his seat as he waved a hand furiously in Wallace’s direction. Falstaff sat frozen in discomfort and confusion. “No one will do anyzing!” He barked. “You are here to do as we say! I have had it with zis place. Take me back immediately!”
Wallace cleared his throat. “Monsieur Blancheau—” he began.
“Silence!” Blancheau snapped back. “Take me back right now or I will call for your termination! Your Director Hall put us in charge. Zis is an order!” He actually pounded his fist into the side of the Stallion. Jimmy flinched a little, presumably worried that his soft hand might slightly dent the metal.
Everything went quiet as everyone looked at Wallace. Everyone, including Graf. He remembered what she’d said earlier.
“My orders,” Wallace said, slowly, “were to bring you guys, the glorious foreign politicians, in and then bring you safely back out. All of you.” He raised his rifle and slammed in a fresh magazine. “And since Flemm is still out there, I intend to obey my orders.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I do not deserve zis!” Blancheau wailed as they gradually forced him into a lying position, trying to be as gentle as necessity and their patience allowed. They had stretched a bedroll over a rough framework of poles lashed together and mounted on a two-wheeled cart used to transport heavy loads, by hand, over rough terrain. Then, they’d used ropes and straps to make a pair of harnesses that Falstaff and one of the bigger, stronger guys in the bridge’s guard unit had put around their shoulders. These were attached to the makeshift stretcher with other lengths of rope.
“The wheels should help you move him down the trail without too much difficulty,” said the sergeant commanding the guard unit. “Rotate men if you need to, though, since…I mean, he looks pretty damn heavy.” He waved his hand at Blancheau.
“I’ll give him a sedative,” said Glassner. “It definitely seems like he could use one.”
“You people make terrible coffee!” the assemblyman ranted and waved a clenched fist weakly at everyone in general. “And your president is an idiot!”
“Oh, shut up,” said Aade Graf, her hands on her hips. She looked down with a disapproving expression at her fellow European politician. “These people have saved your life multiple times now, Herr Blancheau.”
The Frenchman only snorted as Glassner gave him a blue pill and a small cup of water. He downed it without complaint, presumably in the hope that it would make the bumpy ride back to the base less painful.
The man would have to make do with the hastily-assembled stretcher because Wallace had commandeered the last Stallion. Gunnar and Lord Flemm—if he really was a British aristocrat—might not have time for him to trek all the way back to the scorpions’ hill on foot.
“The mission is almost complete,” Wallace said to his men as he snatched up a few extra weapons, including the plasma flamethrower. “The edge of the Zoo is less than a mile up the road, and this, our main trail, has been relatively quiet lately, from what these men have said.” He gestured to the soldiers in the guard unit. Their sergeant, a man named Zinelli, nodded as he chewed on som
e tobacco.
“All you have to do is get Monsieur Blancheau and yourselves safely back to the wall, and you may consider yourselves released according to my orders.” He nodded to them as they turned away.
Wallace examined the Stallion briefly before he mounted it. A small but strong-looking stepping-rung was conveniently placed near the back “thigh” of the horse, along with a handle farther up the side of the “torso.” Simple enough. He grabbed the handle, stepped on the rung, and swung himself up and over to settle easily into the middle of the Stallion’s back area. Then he shifted forward, closer to the neck or head where the control console was located. It looked similar to a car or truck. He felt fairly rooted and secure, although Jimmy, who was not exactly a large person, had designed it seemingly with someone of average height and weight in mind. As a result, it seemed a little small for Wallace.
“Wait, you’re riding back there by yourself?” Fernandez asked and looked amazed at either Wallace’s bravery or his stupidity—or both, perhaps.
“No way,” Peppy said as she stepped forward and pushed past Fernandez. “No, he definitely is not.”
“What’s that you just said to your commanding officer, Private First-Class?” Wallace said and deliberately avoided her gaze as he powered up the engine. She didn’t answer, which compelled him to look at her. She had already placed a foot on the rung.
“With all due respect, sir,” she said, “I’m coming with you no matter what, so it would be pointless to try and order me to stay behind. You would be left with no choice but to have me court-martialed, sued in civilian court, battered with shovels by local hoodlums, and eventually, killed and left in a back alley somewhere in the worst neighborhood of Sabha, Libya.” She reached for the handle.
Wallace grabbed her hand instead. “You make a convincing case, Pérez,” he replied and pulled her up behind him. “I therefore order you to obey any further orders I give in the course of you assisting me in the rescue of Corporal Åkerlund and Crown Prince Flemm of Carfax Abbey or whatever it is.”