Analog SFF, October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Even so, most recent interrogatory's last three words each emphasized by slap: backhand, forehand, backhand. With two others holding onto upper arms, not only couldn't duck, couldn't even fall away from impacts.

  Once managed to get eyes focused again somewhere in inquisitor's direction, however, puffed, “I'm alone.”

  Wrong answer, apparently: Russian drew back hand again ... then paused. Expression changed.

  Had mind-commanded Maggie to go sit with Tasha; stay out of expected physical stuff. BC had obeyed, but as man continued to cuff older sister around, lips wrinkled nonstop; rumbling voce commentary grew increasingly less sotto.

  Abruptly sotnik turned to eye BC; then back to me, expression turning even nastier. Suddenly intention writ plain as day across Russian's face: Had decided to hurt, probably kill Maggie to “soften” up interrogee further.

  No doubt start on kids thereafter.

  Reaching for handgun, Russian began rotation toward Maggie—who, at my thought, bolted instantly. Mentally steered her streaking between other soldiers’ legs to provide short-term cover, then zigzagged her out across narrow clear area into woods proper—as rest of squad belatedly began leveling rifles.

  Kept BC behind trees, changing directions again and again, from one second to next, in response to where gunfire concentrated. Ultimately, once out of sight, had her circle clearing, then wait quietly behind trees in woods behind us, on opposite side from direction squad focusing barrage.

  Evil, would-be dog-killing sotnik, on other hand, got off no shots personally, because...

  Really, Posterity, had intended to go along with abuse; wait meekly for opportune moment. (At least briefly; imminent drastic local climate change mandated resolving situation PDQ.) Still, numerical odds at that point too steep even to consider resisting: Opposition composed of in excess of dozen and half obviously regular army troops.

  But sotnik's attempt on Maggie, together with sudden conviction that this would be only phase one of process leading to torturing children next, overrode impulse-control-challenged Special-Ops Girl's good intentions, expunged every hint of common sense.

  Or maybe still in grip of blind rage stemming from loss of Daddy—again ... !

  Whatever—even before fully realized was in motion, had breathed “Shazam,” slowed time, triggered combat computer at starkest level.

  Few species as vulnerable to unarmed attack as human male caught with pa ... er ... guard down. Plus, since supercilious sotnik had every confidence two burly, six-foot-plus, trained professionals would have no difficulty keeping one small girlchild out of trouble, was focusing attention exclusively on Maggie's flashing, broken-field-running progress into woods. Paying no attention at all to intended abusee.

  Bad luck for him.

  Hysterical-strength-driven leg lashed out. Toe hooked in around thigh, drove up into tenderest anatomy with enough force to fracture surrounding bones. In addition to crunch, impact produced satisfyingly strangled gasp.

  Simultaneously, reached up, grabbed hairy forearms attached to hands holding my upper arms; employed as fulcrum to pivot body over backward, launching other foot upward with even more force. Toe met sotnik's larynx coming down as Khranitel doubled over. Crushing-celery noise, icky grinding sensation through boot confirmed this Russian would not be factor in Yours Truly's impending death.

  Which now seemed assured, probably only seconds away: Going berserk amidst mob of trained, heavily armed men—for heaven's sake, what was Idiot Special-Ops Girl thinking!

  Okay, Posterity; wasn't.

  But no time to mourn strategic error; best could hope for was to concentrate on tactics, take as many with me as possible, hoping—ignoring thermonuke issue for the moment—some kids might get away, as well as to pay own Ferryman's Fee.

  With combat barely approaching waning milliseconds of first full second, two holding me had just enough time to notice small captive had exploded in their grasp before continued over-backward rotation, supported by their own arms, drove hysterical-strength-powered, upside-down boot toe into each captor's face—energy targeted on very backs of heads. Heard, felt both flanking Russians’ facial bones crunch, plus detected unmistakable bonus vertebral-snap from man on right as both began falling.

  Completed backflip, landing on (icky-toed) feet, already coiling to launch toward next-closest soldier. This one, attention focused over shoulder on Maggie as BC streaked into woods, held my katana blade-up in left fist, AK dangling idly from right.

  Drove knuckles of bladed right hand into back of Russian's left hand; paralyzed fingers instantly released katana, dropping grip into my left.

  Simultaneously, combat computer perceived man some ten feet away notice untoward developments. In time-slowed mode, had ample interval during which to watch eyes shift, track, widen, awareness begin to enter expression.

  Russian began shifting rifle my direction. Too far away, couldn't possibly have gotten there before targeting complete; so instead, using right hand, snatched shuriken from pouch and almost completely buried pointy flying star between eyes.

  Fellow from whom had retrieved katana barely had had time to react to losing sword; only just now turning back from woods with surprised, hurt expression. Since couldn't leave live, armed foe behind me, executed spinning leap as if delivering left back-fist, but instead guided katana to, through Russian's neck before flipping blade to dominant right hand; then moved on to next adversary.

  Thereafter, for two, three, possibly four whole seconds, bounded to, fro, dancing almost silently among squad like demented whirligig beetle in grip of phencyclidine frenzy, doing level best to wreak maximum havoc in minimum time: Katana hummed like weedeater on nitromethane—disarming, gutting, beheading, etc.; taking out probably half dozen more men before activities started to attract remaining troops’ belated notice; before soldiers began refocusing attention from attempted dog-shooting festivities, recognized peril, commenced traversing, leveling AKs.

  First of those whom combat computer identified as imminent threat clearly skilled with weapon: Didn't just turn; swung rifle crisply up over shoulder as rotated torso, brought down, bead drawn on spot barely behind hustling Plucky Special-Ops Girl as flashed about clearing, but well on way to catching up. Two-, three-tenths of a second more at most, would constitute problem.

  Had glanced wistfully at fallen enemies’ handguns at rampage's very outset. But weapons all trapped in awkwardly well-secured flap holsters; would have taken far too long to extract. And thus far, dispatched foes’ AKs had fallen inconveniently out of reach; under bodies, too far away, etc.

  So instead, hurled another shuriken with left hand as dealt with nearest opposition with katana. Barely in time to prevent soldier from getting off what evidence suggested would have been well-aimed shot, razor-tipped flying star half-buried self in adversary's forehead.

  But then, after attention had shifted to next most pressing threat, had to make special effort to avoid distraction of sudden, only half-perceived, obviously illusory afterimage of shuriken's leading point dead-centering somehow previously unnoticed, red-with-darker-center, half-inch-diameter, circular mole, or perhaps caste mark, between brows.

  Whatever!—if hadn't been so preoccupied, trying to be three places at once, cope with at least that many threats simultaneously, anarchical, detail-fixated corner of brain would have spent at least some time obsessing about how Intrepid Special-Ops Girl had managed to overlook so obvious a reference while targeting. But by that point, other soldiers, alerted and unambigously alarmed, well beyond katana-reach, were trying to bring additional AKs to bear; now clearly not ideal moment to squander multitasking capacity on trivia.

  Fortunately, however, at that moment spotted own silenced Glock tucked into belt of man with whom had dealt earlier—currently writhing on ground, screaming, clutching arm's fountaining stub. Reached him in single dive; retrieved weapon as passed just above.

  Landed rolling, in hopes of providing less convenient target, already bringing
weapon to bear on most pressingly imminent threat; squeezed off round. Experienced momentary flash of relief as soldier released grip on AK, began to topple; as well as twinge of sympathy for Tasha, now crouched alertly, following suicidal Special-Ops Girl with roundest possible eyes: Body would land right on top of her; rifle falling practically on head—details picked up only peripherally, as primary focus already had resumed triaging, targeting next most worrisome attackers.

  Likewise, though only in retrospect—and impression hardly reliable, given numbers of unmuffled AKs still blazing away into forest after Maggie—yet another tiny, otherwise unoccupied group of brain cells noted first shot's gerbil-cough seemed to have had curiously doubled tone quality, almost as if Glock had generated echo in little clearing. Also, if not fabricating impression from imaginary whole cloth, reflected sound seemed slightly deeper in tone.

  Now hardly the time for abstract contemplation of local acoustics, however: Other Khraniteli well on way to bringing weapons to bear—though many of those who finally had noticed peril found selves out of ammo, having spent whole magazines on unoffending trees, bushes (also, no doubt, flashing BC afterimages), now fumblingly in process of attempting to reload.

  Still, own sole advantage, if any element of situation could be so characterized, fact that remaining foes so closely bunched at this point, most couldn't get clear sightlines. So completed roll in crouch and, just as quickly as could get off rounds, began methodically targeting, shooting those on near side of clustered enemies; targeting, shooting, targeting, shooting, targetingshootingtargeting...

  As did so, however, found self fretting over whether, working in such haste, might be losing track of whom had already shot, who remained candidate. With mounting concern, noted occasional men dropping even as prepared to draw bead on them. Plus, despite generalized cacophony, still seemed to be hearing those doubled gerbil-coughs.

  But finally matters came to head: Four, five, six, maybe more surviving Khraniteli got selves spread out; began leveling AKs simultaneously. No possible way to get all before most would get off shots—and Glock's extractor slide suddenly locked back—empty!—informing Plucky Special-Ops Girl she had committed cardinal, no doubt fatal, fire-zone sin: lost track of rounds expended.

  Involuntarily, reptilian hindbrain flinched internally from crown to toenails. For single instant, as prepared to die, reflexes attempted to take over: convulse, compact whole body; raise arms in silly, self-consciously futile attempt to cover head; trying to shield torso behind raised leg. Even tried to squeeze eyes shut.

  But Candy Smith-Foster, Plucky Savior of Our People, Intrepid (etc., etc.—sigh), not reptile. Probably (judging by recent actions) nowhere near as evolved, smart as reptile. Instead, kept eyes open, focused on Glock. Kept moving purposefully. Fought down manic internal giggle as resolved that, like apocryphal reptilian primogenitor, no matter how many bullets found mark, wouldn't stop shooting ‘til sundown.

  So even as massed AKs drew down, right thumb already depressing magazine-ejector button while left hand snatched replacement from belt pouch. In time-slowed mode, single, unoccupied, idiot brain cell had time peripherally to mourn that Danya was missing this magazine change—absolutely fastest had ever performed, possibly fastest in entire history of semi-auto handgun: Empty mag had covered not quite half crouch-shortened distance to ground before Intrepid Apprentice Assassin Girl already sliding replacement into gun butt, preparing to slap home, release slide, resume firing—

  But at that precise moment there came absolutely deafening fusillade of characteristic ratchety, fully automatic AK gunfire; for maybe whole second, sounded as if pair of fully staffed armies had declared all-out war in little glade.

  During course of which, yet another unoccupied brain cell (with serious priority-ranking issues!) marveled sardonically: All this just to kill single, in-way-over-her-head kid...

  However, simply not possible so many guns could go off without somebody scoring. And indeed, with full attention focused on reloading Glock, felt multiple tapping sensations all over clothing, exposed skin—true scope of damage no doubt masked by raging epinephrine overdose.

  Noted, with gratitude, at least no pain thus far, so slapped home magazine anyway. Figured might as well keep shooting while still could. Wondered how long before end. Wondered when pain would begin.

  Wondered how much would hurt...

  Pressed release—

  And rage flared anew—wondered how many more could take with me ... !

  —slide snapped forward, charging chamber even as empty magazine hit ground, bounced.

  Looked up, scanning for more targets...

  And blinked in confusion. None visible.

  At which point additional datum slowly percolated through skull: Clearing had fallen silent.

  Looked around wildly—only to realize that, in addition to Yours Truly, no one but Tasha plus handful of older kids still standing (on knees, actually). As well as little Katia.

  All held smoking AKs.

  All wore ear-to-ear grins.

  Without consultation, combat computer disengaged with internally audible thump. Time's passage snapped back to customary pace.

  Noted, as hysterical strength abruptly throttled back to normal, was breathing hard, though nothing approaching desperate, convulsive panting that had followed previous metabolic burn-out attempts. Made sense: Battle intense, but probably hadn't spent six, seven full seconds operating above redline.

  Belatedly, then, occurred to your Humble Historiographer, might not be dying after all. Tried not to be obvious, as rose to feet, about patting anatomy here, there, checking for holes.

  Probably took as long as several more full seconds before realized: Multiple impacts felt during final volley had been muzzle blasts from kids’ AKs, redirected sideways at close range by muzzle brakes.

  Gazed round-eyed at carnage surrounding us. Experienced another twinge of nausea as realized how many bodies attributable to own efforts.

  Generally the messier ones...

  “Apparently,” murmured Danya, resting hand lightly on shoulder, “apart from a better appreciation of the concept of odds, I don't have that much more to teach you.”

  Jumped as if goosed—someday, someone really needed to tie a bell to that woman ... !

  At which point, fact of mentor's presence actually registered. Never mind astronomical level of improbability—

  Squealed, “Danni?” Dropped weaponry, fell into her arms, hugged breathless. “What are you doing here ... ?”

  For long moments, Momma Spook hugged me back just as hard with left arm (smoke still rising from favorite silenced Israeli sniper rifle cradled in right); then gently pushed away. “All right; maybe I do have something more to teach you.” Hint of smile gave lie to reproachful tone. “This is an active combat theater. Pick up your weapons. Prepare for the next engagement. We can small-talk while reloading.

  “Now,” she continued, suiting actions to words, smoothly popping out own magazine, beginning to refill from stash in backpack, “the first thing we need to do is get in while they're in disarray and get your father out. Then we need to destroy those missiles—”

  Brain reengaged with click—bringing with it momentary flash of grief, tear-clouded vision (instantly suppressed), restored sense of urgency. Interrupted Danya's situation-review minilecture by grabbing arm to focus attention—of course unnecessary, but too wound up at that moment to recall apprentice-level comportment. “Danni, I broke Daddy out last night. Then they caught us again, but not until he'd set timers on nine warheads.

  “Daddy should be safe; he's already on a plane to another gulag, someplace that sounded like—have you ever heard of Meyrin? We, on the other hand..."—glanced at watch—"...have 59 minutes and change to be at least 50 miles away from here if we don't want to glow in the dark. And, Danni—the Khraniteli don't know that!"

  Not easy to catch Danya by surprise. Stared round-eyed at me; actually made momentary, unproductive fish-mouths.r />
  Then, unexpectedly, handed off rifle to nearest kid, took me in both arms, held tenderly for long moments. Finally released, took back rifle.

  Turned back to children; voice deepened as said: “People, not long ago this woman"—really, Posterity, actually said woman!—"quite literally saved the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet. Today she's pretty much done it again.

  “You have been part of a pivotal moment in the history of our people. If we make it out of here, remember this day; remember what you did here. You should only tell your grandchildren...”

  Unexpectedly, mayhem mentor ground to halt. Could have been imagination, but thought I detected tiniest hint of quaver in voice. Simultaneously, seemed blink rate might have picked up briefly; even noticed possible extra sparkle in corner of eye.

  Danya?—didn't know Mossad agents even came with tear ducts.

  Kids, on other hand, listened in round-eyed silence. Turned, stared at me with expressions that thickest observer couldn't fail to recognize as naked admiration. Slowly, softly then, Katia began to clap. Still quietly, rest joined in. Finally, Danni, too.

  However, five seconds into tender display of approbation, Intrepid Special-Ops Girl also remembered what had happened here this day—and abruptly dropped to knees, fell forward onto hands, almost physically turned inside-out as empty stomach reacted, finally, to cumulative effects of all those killings by doing rib-cracking best to eject by-now purely imaginary contents, along with what felt like portions of most adjacent major organs; possibly even including, before completely done, toenails, socks....

  * * * *

  Only 48 minutes to go by the time we got back to truck. But...

  “Oh, dear,” said Danya mildly, eyeing two UAZs parked alongside six-by-six under trees at grove's edge. “There were three. This is not good.”

  Wondered how Khraniteli had found truck; Tasha and I had, after all, taken elaborately indirect route back, even spent fair amount of time on pavement. Couldn't have tracked us. Grumbled something to that effect.