Columbia

by Chris Pourteau

  Stug dropped his deadman shield and unslung his rifle, training it on the smoking ruin of the corridor. The third explosion had effectively cut off access from the other end of the corridor. This route, at least, was secured. For the moment.

  “Move!” Stug shouted. Hatch and Trick resumed their duty as litter bearers, advancing up the stairs. “Hawkeye, get up to the next landing! Reconnoiter that door! And here,” he said, underhanding the last frag grenade he’d secured from the dead scout. “You might need this.”

  The spotter caught the pineapple Stug tossed, careful not to thumb the trigger. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said, clipping the grenade to his belt. He shook his head to clear his ears and headed up.

  Two more floors to go, then we’re on the roof, thought Stug.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” Hatch said, maneuvering around the railing.

  “I hate party crashers.”

  Stug stole his eyes from a final assessment of the corridor’s security to observe the QB. She was still out, her head lolling back and forth on the litter as her bearers climbed.

  Anne followed, lightly brushing Stug’s arm with her fingertips as she passed by.

  The big man’s eyes touched hers in return.

  We’re not giving up, they promised one another.

  Pusher and Bracer found Hawkeye on overwatch. He had the door to the second floor cracked an inch.

  “Status?” asked the sergeant.

  “Look down the stairs,” said Hawkeye, annoyed at having his attention drawn away from the door. “Um, ma’am.”

  Pusher glanced over the railing and found Stug’s eyes looking back over a rifle barrel. He lowered the gun. “About time,” he said, glancing down. He jerked his head at someone she couldn’t see and limped up the stairs.

  “Movement,” warned Hawkeye.

  The door at the far end of the second-floor corridor opened. A single porter with a transparent body shield, the kind they used to mask heat sigs against infrared, walked through. Hawkeye sighted and fired, his laser ricocheting harmlessly off the shield. The soldier flinched but continued forward, and others followed.

  “They’ve got shields,” said the spotter. “Best hurry up.”

  Stug joined him on the landing. An explosion pounded the roof above. “Bloody hell,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling, which was shaking with the aftereffect of the blast. “How about a break?”

  “Drones,” explained Bracer.

  “Those civilians are sitting ducks in that airbus,” said Pusher.

  “Go!” Hatch struggled with his footing, found it, and hauled Mary onto the landing. “You two get up there and protect those people.”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  Pusher led the way; Bracer followed. Hawkeye squeezed off round after round, but now there were four soldiers in the corridor: two with body shields and two behind them, firing laser rifles. All advancing with resolve.

  “This hallway’s getting shorter all the time,” the spotter growled.

  “I gave you that grenade for a reason,” replied Stug as Trick and Hatch began their final ascent to the roof.

  “Right,” said Hawkeye. Enemy fire compelled him to shut the door. He holstered his pistol and pulled the frag grenade from his belt.

  Stug picked up Anne and followed the litter up the stairs. “Don’t take all day,” he called down.

  Hawkeye nodded, thumbed the grenade’s trigger, cracked the door, and toss-rolled it down the corridor. An arc of light, a sear of heat, a gasp of pain. He slammed the door shut but not before his left arm went numb.

  “Lucky bastard shot,” Hawkeye gasped, bracing himself against the door.

  The blast rocked the corridor beyond. Hatch and Trick staggered on the stairs, then found their balance again. Mary moaned, a breathy sound of waking awareness and intense pain. Stug passed them as fast as he could with his injured ankle.

  Hawkeye opened the door an inch. The middle of the corridor was blackened with a star cluster of blast marks from floor to ceiling. The porters had hunkered down behind their shields, one of which was now cracked. Though shaken, most of the troopers seemed fine. They were assessing their situation, preparing to move forward again.

  Hawkeye slammed the door and glanced up the stairs. His friends were almost at the top. But Transport was closing in from below, and those drones harassing the people on the roof would make escape damned near impossible.

  Shit.

  They were trapped.

  “Stop! Stop, Sean!”

  Mary’s voice was haggard. Played out. Like a horse that’s been run to death.

  “We can’t, Mary.” Hatch tried to sound patient. Tried to sound sensitive to the misery she was suffering. But the explosions from the drones’ Gatling lasers on the roof forced him to raise his voice. “We have to keep moving!”

  “Please. Please, put me down,” she whispered. Her head lifted off the litter, her eyes finding his, demanding he obey her. “For the love of God. Please, just for a minute.”

  Hatch nodded at Trick, and they set her down on the landing just inside the access doorway. Beyond, flashes of laser fire peppered the roof, throwing up concrete and gravel.

  “Report, Pusher,” said Trick.

  “Amazingly, I only see two drones. So far. They’re concentrating on the airbus, and the salvagers have closed the door and turtled up inside. The hull’s thick enough for now, but if they take out an engine or—”

  “How do we get that thing to lift off and take out both drones too?” asked Hawkeye, joining them. He kept one eye and his pistol on the door below.

  “There’s that anti-aircraft gun on the roof,” said Bracer. “I can keep ’em occupied.”

  Trick nodded. “Pusher, get Bracer to that gun. Stug …”

  The big man turned and stared at him, Anne in his arms. Trick knew Stug didn’t really trust him anymore, not since he’d stolen command of B Company from Hatch. That’s how it had happened in Stug’s mind, at least. But they didn’t have time for that personal drama now.

  Trick infused his eyes with the power of command. “Sergeant, get that little girl on board the airbus. Then provide cover fire for the rest of us.”

  Stug glared a moment longer, then nodded.

  Pusher and Bracer looked at one another for confirmation of the timing, then charged onto the roof.

  Trick turned to Hawkeye. “Hold here while Hatch and I get the QB to the airbus. We’ll move as soon as Bracer takes out one of the drones.” As if to punctuate the captain’s orders, explosions pounded the roof.

  “Here,” said Hatch, standing up. He took the bandolier of frag grenades off his back and handed it to Hawkeye. “You’re gonna need these.”

  In the brief moment of quiet that followed, Mary spoke.

  “No.”

  It was the old, familiar voice of command. The voice of the QB. Its tone was that of a woman who expected to be obeyed.

  The swoop of the drones repositioning for another pass at the airbus rode the wind into the accessway.

  “What?” Hatch’s voice was at once incredulous and relieved. Reluctant to allow a delay. Glad to hear the woman he respected more than anyone else in the world speak with authority again.

  “Give the grenades to me,” she ordered.

  Hatch darted his eyes to Stug, who stared back over Anne’s shoulder. The sergeant held the girl’s small head to his chest, her hair stringy with sweat and concrete dust. Stug’s eyes softened as he looked at his friend.

  “Back up! They’re coming!” yelled Hawkeye, kneeling and aiming his pistol.

  “Sean—” Stug began, but Hatch cut him off.

  “I’m not giving up!” he said. “We’ve come this far. The goddamned bus is right there!” His finger pointed outside. His eyes were wet.

  “Sean.” Mary’s voice was quiet.

  Outside, it sounded like Bracer had made it to the anti-aircraft gun. Its thrrrit-thrrrit-thrrrit sizzled the air.

  “Sean, I’m not giving up. I’m winning,
” she smiled. An odd expression through the wet grime on her face. A fresh tear trickled from her right eye, washing a small trail through the dust and pain. “Leave those grenades with me. The porters will never reach the roof.”

  “Mary—”

  “Sean, we have to go,” said Stug quietly. Anne was fidgeting on his shoulder. She was trying to turn her head to see Mary.

  “You go!” said Hatch, his eyes blazing toward Stug.

  The big man had never seen those eyes so full of fury. Not in the bar. Not on the battlefield. For the first time, he felt fear when he looked in his friend’s eyes. As if Hatch was becoming unhinged. Unreliable. The death of them all, maybe.

  “Get that girl out of here!”

  “I’m not going without her,” said Anne. Now she was crying too. Fidgeting against Stug’s chest. Trying to get down. But the sergeant held her close.

  “I’m not leaving without you, my friend,” said Stug to Hatch. “And I’m not letting this little girl die.”

  “And I’m not letting Mary die!”

  The door below blew off its hinges. Instinct kicked in, and everyone dropped to their knees on the landing, away from the blast.

  “They’ll be up these stairs any second!” said Hawkeye. His useless left arm hanging at his side, he took careful aim at the doorway. He began firing before targets even appeared.

  “Sean, I’m already dead.” Mary worked hard to make herself heard. Her throat was hoarse. Her words were sadness spoken aloud.

  Hatch stared down at her, then moved to her side.

  “Sean—” Stug’s voice was impatient. Desperate to save Anne.

  “I’m sorry, Mary.” Tears were flowing freely down Hatch’s face. He didn’t care if Stug saw. He didn’t care if anyone saw. “I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t show that more. I’m sorry—”

  Hawkeye ducked as laser fire lanced up from the doorway below. A porter with a body shield had wedged himself into the opening. Another was adding his own fire, shooting over his comrade’s head.

  “No more time!” yelled the spotter.

  “Sean!” Stug again, insistent.

  “Show me now, Sean,” said Mary. “Give me those grenades. Save Stug. Save Anne. Save them all.”

  Hatch handed over the bandolier as if her gaze had cast a spell on him. Then he leaned over and kissed Mary on the lips. “I love you,” he said, his mouth a rictus of regret.

  “I know.” She smiled up at him. “Now go.”

  An explosion outside, the crushing screech of metal hitting the roof. It sounded like Bracer had taken down the first drone.

  “We have to go now!” shouted Stug. He wasn’t waiting any longer. “Hawkeye, take point!”

  The spotter pulled the trigger of his pistol three more times, but produced only two rounds of laser fire. One found the porter behind the shield-bearer. Hawkeye tossed the useless sidearm to the ground and leapt past Stug, who quick-passed him his own sidearm.

  Hatch rose, his hand trailing along Mary’s own.

  “But you said to always try!” shouted Anne as Stug moved to the door. Her eyes found Mary’s and focused there. “You said to never give up!”

  Mary’s smile remained. It held the confidence of someone who’d chosen her own path—who’d taken the best of what life had offered her. Never compromising. Never negotiating. Always insisting she’d live life on her own terms.

  “Do I look like I’m giving up?” she asked Anne. “Now go and keep Joseph in line. He needs all the help he can get.”

  “No, wait!”

  But as Anne kicked and fought against the sergeant, Stug followed Hawkeye out the door and headed for the airbus, bellowing at the salvagers inside, “Open the door! Open the damned door!” amid the chaos of laser fire.

  “We’ll never stop the fight,” promised Hatch. He stared into Mary’s eyes. I want to brand my memory with your bravery and beauty, he thought.

  “I sure as hell hope not. Make this count for something,” she said, reaching up to touch his cheek.

  Heavy boots tromped up the stairs. Hatch heard the scrape of a body shield against a railing. He drew his pistol and fired randomly below, and the porters hesitated.

  Hatch closed his eyes briefly, gathering his courage. Not the courage to face the Gatling lasers ripping the roof to shreds, but the courage to run. The courage to leave Mary—and his heart—behind.

  And then he leapt from the doorway, screaming a war cry of pain and loss and sorrow unbound.

  The porters ascended the stairs with cautious intent. They found a woman, dirty with dust and pale as death, strapped to a cot, her lower half covered by a blanket. Maybe she’s dead already, mused the officer leading them. Then she moved her hands beneath the blanket, and it slipped off.

  “Hold it!” said the officer, training his rifle on her. “Don’t move another muscle!”

  More Transport soldiers gained the landing. They could hear the Gatling fire of an Authority drone finding targets on the roof. Some of the men gasped when they saw the woman’s legs.

  “See, men?” said the officer. “TRACE left this rebel behind. They have no honor, no personal code of loyalty. No clarity of purpose like we do.”

  Mary turned her head toward the officer, raising an eyebrow. She held her hands palm down on her stomach. “I have something for you,” she said. She made sure her voice sounded weak. Abandoned and angry. “Come closer. I can’t move.”

  He didn’t see her thumbs jab inward.

  The officer motioned his men to surround her, then moved in closer, morbidly curious. “What could you possibly have for me before you die? Ready to sell out your rebel friends before shuffling off the coil of your wasted life?”

  Mary turned her hands over to reveal two metal balls with blinking red lights.

  “Muffin, anyone?”

  The doorway to the roof burst apart with flame and metal just as Hatch reached the airbus. The shock made him duck, and Stug offered a hand to pull him inside. The second drone, which had managed to evade Bracer’s deadly aim, tracked straight through the fireball of shrieking shrapnel. It choked on the debris sucked into its anti-gravs and began a fast descent to the hard ground of the square below.

  Hatch watched the flame and smoke climb. Then it arced downward again as gravity claimed the wood and concrete and metal. And the atoms of his best friend, his former lover, Mary Brenneman.

  Goodbye, Mary.

  Such small words for so massive a hole, growing like a dark sun, burning inside him.

  Through the gray haze, a body appeared. Pusher, limping stiffly, with Bracer’s arm draped around her neck. He looked unconscious. Hatch ran down the ramp to meet them and take him off her hands. Pusher fell momentarily to the ground, then yanked herself to her feet and hobbled up the ramp after them.

  “You hurt?” Hatch asked over his shoulder.

  “Not as badly as Bracer,” she grunted. “The explosion blew him off the gun.”

  Pusher made her way through the press of civilians crowded into the airbus. With everyone aboard, there were nearly a hundred souls packed into a space built for a quarter that number. She made her way to the pilot’s seat and fired up the engines. Damaged by the drone attack, they were anemic, but they were functional.

  Now if we can just get out of here without being shot down, she thought, flipping switches.

  No drones, no attack craft, no dropships.

  Transport seemed content to let them go. Or perhaps the Authority had simply run out of equipment and men to throw at them after stripping the City bare. Whatever the reason, the airbus was undisturbed as it hummed over the wide expanse of the Susquehanna below, and its occupants finally began to relax. The former homesteaders of Bedrock laughed nervously—the beginnings of a celebration. A celebration of life, if not victory.

  Then Pusher called her fellow commandos forward with a trembling voice. Hawkeye demurred, having found a tiny square of sitting room where he nursed his arm. And Bracer was still out. So only Hatch, Trick,
and Stug came into the cockpit.

  They found Pusher weeping and staring forward, as if willing what she was seeing to change.

  “Report, Sergeant,” said Trick. Her demeanor unnerved him. He’d only ever seen her cry once, in the aftermath of Gettysburg. When only she, of her entire squad, had survived.

  But then she heard him gasp and knew she didn’t need to report anything. The reality was clear through the windshield of the airbus.

  Little Gibraltar was a smoldering ruin. The morning sunlight, usually bent around the Umbrella and making the fortress invisible, showed the devastation in detail. Blackened trees. Gutted buildings. Smoke rising from everywhere, like a hundred tiny campfires set by ghost soldiers from a time long past.

  “How the hell did they find it?” wondered Trick aloud. He thought of the rest of B Company, of their two sister companies in Neville’s command. Of the men and women stationed at Little Gibraltar who’d supported their missions.

  “Neville probably left a comm channel open,” said Stug, his own grief expressed in anger. “Incompetent peacock bastard.” For some reason, the blowhard Garza, the sergeant he’d bumped heads with in the Slide, came to mind. And the considerate private, the bar’s waitress, who’d called him in to help a blacked-out Hatch get home to his bed. Both gone.

  Pusher wiped her eyes and glanced at the fuel gauge. The airbus had never been refueled after delivering its last payload of prisoners. They were running low.

  “Sir, what do we do?” she asked, angling the bus around the fort’s perimeter a second time. “There might be survivors down there.” But as they scanned the gutted fortress below, nothing moved. Most of the 18-millimeter machine guns mounted on the walls were gone, blown out of their mounts. Bodies were evident everywhere. But only charred remains.

  “Sergeant …”

  Hatch and Trick had spoken together.

  The captain of B Company looked to the AWOL lieutenant of Alpha Squad. Hatch blinked once and nodded.