Highland said, “You are seriously proposing to start a war?”
It was fun to tell her, “The war has been going on here for fifty years. I just propose to escalate it.”
She was definitely insecure now, completely out of her comfort zones.
Alex said, “If we can tie them all up, they’ll prefer each other to you. That’s the survival strategy. And now it’s time to move.”
“But—” she sputtered in protest as he took her elbow and “suggested” she move. She was on her feet and walking before her brain shifted gears.
Alex said, “Elke, Jason, find us transport.”
The two strode faster and pulled ahead.
The building filled a block. Their route through it was circuitous, due to rubble from collapse. It also had a complicated floor plan, having been refitted several times since its original construction. Owners changed, uses changed, factions changed . . . he stepped over the remains of a block wall, then through a framed doorway in an extruded wall barely in evidence. At least they’d have cover, concealment and distraction if attacked here.
Ahead, Elke and Jason walked out into sunlight. The red glow resembled that of a perpetual sunset.
The rest of them reached the door a few moments later, to find the two had acquired a box van. A man hurried away, and Aramis was fairly sure he was pocketing a large wad of scrip as he did so. Likely some bullion was involved, too.
They clambered aboard through the side hatch of the cargo box, and the stench hit them. This was a trash hauler of some description. It smelled of rot, piss, moldy socks and putrefying something. He gagged, and sat Highland down on a seat. It was quite literally a wooden dining chair, old style, well-scarred, stuffed into the corner.
The one opposite was a dilapidated office chair, unpowered. Both might clean up as valuable antiques, if anyone bothered, and if any potential buyers would care.
They all gasped for breath. The box was enclosed, hot, humid and some of those fumes had to be toxic.
Bart said, “I will open the back enough to kick trash out.”
Alex said, “I’m not sure on doing that.”
Bart said, “I am. The vapors are not safe. I smell mercaptan, sulfides, some alkynes. It must go.”
Alkynes? Really? Or was he lying just to make sure they could clear some out, because it smelled that bad? Either way, Alex didn’t protest.
Aramis clutched at Highland’s chair as Jason took a corner fast. He didn’t complain because there must be a reason, but Highland almost slid off the chair into a bag of goo.
Bart and Shaman kicked and shoved stuff out, using boots and carbine muzzles. No one wanted to touch anything.
Then a round came through the box, up high, downward angle from the rear.
Alex shouted, “Unass and take cover!” as Aramis grabbed Highland’s arm and moved for the rear, or tried to. Jason braked hard, and he was pinned in place. Then braking stopped and he bounded toward the rear, tangling, dancing, and just avoiding a leaking puddle of diapers, canned peas and something really nasty.
Shot from high rear had to be the BuInt assholes on the Springblades. They were really pissing him off, and it was personal.
“Someone take Highland,” Aramis said, and grabbed the bag slung over Bart’s shoulder. “Keep the vehicle moving. I’m going up to delay those chasers. I’ll catch up on that.” He pointed at the bag.
“How?”
“I did go to the Mountain School.”
Highland said, “Thank you for that,” with a somber expression.
It took him a moment to figure out her meaning.
“Huh? Lady, I don’t plan to die. I’m going to tangle up at least one of them, and they’re more interested in pursuing you than me.” He clutched the bag and bailed out the side.
Aramis lit out at a sprint, amused and revolted that Highland thought he’d risk himself as a decoy for her. He had clear orders on what he was required to do, and deliberately hunting BuInt Paramils wasn’t on that list.
He was doing it for fun.
He realized it was cocky and potentially lethal, but it was necessary, and he was up to it. Yes, it was grandstanding, but the payoff would be huge.
Yes, those black dots were them, and if they could make small arms shots at this range . . . shit. They were Jason’s quality. Though it could have been luck. Or it could have been a piloted shot. Or massively processed.
The rest hustled off, and that feeling of being a bug on a plate hit him. No one here was a friendly, and faces poked out of windows as they realized he was alone.
So much for donning the gear here. He shouldered the bag and sprinted in a crouch. He turned the corner, found the door, yanked and it came off its hinges. He shrugged, shoved and kept moving. The stairs were nothing but debris-covered concrete, and he found the best way to ascend was to just move his feet flat and kick stuff out of the way. He heard glass tinkle and crunch and was glad for the armored soles on his boots.
The top landing was secure enough. There were no signs of occupation, and he’d hear anyone below. Time was short. He had to get on the roof, and luckily the hatch was half askew anyway. He paused just below to catch his rasping breath. He had time if he was fast, so he stepped into the harness, then yanked straps around until it fit, hoping he had it correct.
In the shotgun seat, with a shotgun, Elke realized Aramis was correct. It was getting violent, and almost certainly propagating. She wanted to fire a recon round, but unless someone else shot first, she was reluctant to draw attention to herself. They had no drones.
At the corner, Jason stopped again, shouted, “Now!” and the rest bailed out of the back with Highland and Jessie. As soon as they were clear, he drove off again.
Then someone did shoot, and she realized she couldn’t fire a recon round. The remaining shells were all cratering charges, because she hadn’t swapped cassettes.
No problem, then. That man over there was about to get a lesson in potshots. She raised the gun, got the arc, snapped the trigger. The report struck her earbuds and was dissipated, but was unfiltered as a shock wave against her face. As the recoil bit her shoulder, the charge blew a perfect ten centimeter hole through his midsection. He looked surprised as he sat down, slumped at an odd angle because his spine was gone, along with his heart, then collapsed in convulsions above the hole, while his lower two thirds remained limp and meatlike.
That would teach the fucker.
More shots sounded, and she grinned. Now she would get to teach lots of lessons. That was exciting.
Ahead of them a squad of irregulars deployed on the sidewalk. They must have been waiting for some kind of action, and as eager as she. Now, where were those tubes? There. She pulled one from her harness, slid it over the muzzle, and carefully fed the gun back through the window.
“Don’t start a war if you can’t take a joke,” she mumbled, chose her target, thumbed the selector and clicked the trigger.
Her chosen cartridge was an overpowered blank to act as a launcher and igniter. The large muzzle charge elevated the recoil to a sharp jab, but that meant it was working. If she’d called it right, they were eighteen meters away. The projectile arced deeply, being several times more massive than a standard shell. At fifteen meters, it fuzed.
She was quite proud of that piece of improvisation. The tail fuze hit a triple charge that ignited, split the case and dispersed in a cone.
The powder puffed before deflagrating, like a beautiful flower petaling open. The cloud was a dark gray with perfect twisting swirls, then a flash that coned and roiled so as to form a perfect base ring. It reached about three meters wide, imperfect due to the ground, the building, and four bodies inside the fireball, convulsing then screaming. One ran like a chopped chicken, his robe billowing into smoky flames. The others just rolled around in a tangled, darkening mess.
Jason said, “Pocket thermobaric?”
“Yes.”
“Damn, woman. That’s sexy.” He glanced and grinned between
steering around obstacles.
“I knew you’d care.”
She loaded a second one, and paused. Much as she’d like to torch a few, they were retreating. She didn’t want to waste ammunition.
However, that group over there, with what looked like a machine gun . . . she swung, snapped and felt the shoulder sting. This one upset her. The charge was a bit asymmetric and favored the lower arc. They all still burned, but thrashed around clutching and beating at their shins.
“Impact,” Jason said calmly, and someone thumped off the left quarter.
She saw others, and there were too many. His last turn had taken them out of sight of her previous targets, so the thickening crowd had nothing to judge the situation.
“We’re going to get swarmed,” she said.
“Yes. We need to get back to the others. We’ve done enough distraction. Hold on.”
Bart was probably a better limo driver, but Jason did just fine with heavy vehicles. He swung violently left, and the truck leaned crazily, but didn’t roll. There were multiple thumps of bodies being hit and thrown, and much more gunfire. One cracked through the open window, and punched a hole just above Jason’s head.
“Shit, that was from street level,” he said. He was observant.
“Stand by,” she replied, while digging in the front of her vest. Somewhere there . . . got it. She held it out the window, snapped loose the lanyard, snapped the lanyard free, and tossed.
“Faster,” she said.
He clenched and stomped and they accelerated at the best rate the lugging old vehicle could manage.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Distraction. Check behind.”
She couldn’t see much from where she sat, but she knew what it was doing. It was flammable gel with a surfactant to disperse it. It wouldn’t burn for long, but it would cover most of the width of the street while it did, and of course, lead to injuries and possible ignition of other items. The popping of ammunition cooking off seemed to suggest so.
“Very nice,” he said. “Revolting, even.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll slow at this corner. You bail out, cover me as I bail out, we’ll proceed across and down that alley.”
“Understood. I have an alley load ready.”
“Good. Hopefully we won’t need it.”
“Well, you hope so.” She most certainly wanted to use it. It might be unnecessary, or even a bad idea, but she hoped otherwise.
“Turning, braking,” he said.
She popped the door latch as he came out of the turn, and brake momentum threw the door forward to slam against its detents. She hopped out at a sprint, dug her heels in to slow, and swung in an arc checking for threats.
He jumped out, stumbled, cracked his chin on his knee, stumbled again, rolled and recovered. She charged out, snagged him by an elbow and guided him at a full combat run.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
In the alley, she sought a nice pile of debris and pulled him down next to it. She twisted and sat hard, put a hand under his thigh, and let him fall almost to the ground before snatching her arm out. He grunted and starred with glassy eyes. He had a bad abrasion on his right cheek, blood seeping around grit. There was bruising underneath.
“Will you be okay?”
“Yes, I can move now,” he said.
“We’re fine for a few seconds. The crashed truck is drawing attention.”
“How far do we have to go?”
“A few blocks, depending on where they took cover.”
“Then let’s at least walk. I want distance from our last known location.”
“Good.” She helped him to his feet and they started a brisk stride.
CHAPTER 24
JOY HIGHLAND SHOULD NOT BE IN THIS POSITION. Here she was, dependent on armed thugs who enjoyed violence, and considered her voters expendable.
What was frustrating, aggravating, irritating was that they had been, and were, right. Her own party had turned on her. Her choices were to be a martyr physically and politically, just politically if she wanted to throw herself in front of the train, or trust these contemptuous troglodytes to drag her through a developing nation hellhole, and hope their body count was low enough, and the headlines big enough, to give her the edge. They represented corporate excess, the uncooperation of outsiders, smug elitism, everything her platform stood against. And she was dependent upon them to save her life and her career.
Poor Jessie was cut off from all her resources, and that directly affected Joy’s campaign, too. They were going to take Jessie’s career down with her. Joy didn’t mind playing off against Ripple Creek. That’s what they were for. But her own party, Cruk that slimy fucker, planned to not only take them down, but kill them in the process, and make her a shill.
It couldn’t be Cruk. It had to be Lezt. She’d always suspected Champion’s flyer crash was no accident. If she won this, she’d have him taken behind the Mansion and shot. No, she’d arrange a flyer accident. Perhaps that scary, flaky Sykora could be persuaded to stage it.
She should not be wading through rubble and trash, pulled by the arm like a detainee or child, and cowering from rioting underclasses. She was their savior.
Gunfire made her flinch and whimper. Jessie tried to grip her hand, but she shook it off.
I will not show fear in front of rabble, she thought. Except she was. The German, Bart, pushed ahead with Marlow. That doctor they called Shaman was right behind. The others were somewhere. She wanted all six around her.
She realized she’d completely forgotten her gun. Had they anticipated that? Were they snickering at the politician who wanted to play soldier? Did they know she’d served slop in a mine and minced fish guts to pay for school promotions? Everyone focused on the fact she’d had to pay, rather than earning her schooling on scores, but she’d earned it as much as anyone, with real work.
Another shot jarred her senses, and she realized she had a blister on her left foot. The ball stung and felt wet where it had burst.
She growled and pushed faster. She’d be damned if she’d give up now.
Jason was right, Aramis thought. Once they were in trajectory, they had no way to maneuver. The first one sailed cleanly overhead, about ten degrees down from his view. He raised the web gun, angled it for a good lead, and waited.
A moment later the second came into view, higher up but at the same speed. He shifted, snapped the trigger, realized the slow speed weapon needed more lead, and tried to shift.
The figure hissed out of sight, and the third one arched over before he could make ready.
He sighed, snarled and grumbled, poked his pistol over the ledge and fired, stood, fired again, jumped right, fired again, just to keep their heads down if they’d decided to pause for him.
Two of them kept right on bounding across the roofs. He didn’t see the middle one, and from the spacing of the two remaining, he just might have gotten that one.
He took a wide arc toward the building’s edge, raising his carbine, slinging the web gun, then holstering his pistol. He kept a good point in case of threat, and eased up to the edge.
The shot had caught the man on one of his Springblades, and he’d tumbled over the side while the goo caught on the roof and guttering. It appeared he’d smacked into the wall, but was conscious if a bit disoriented. Hanging upside down by one foot couldn’t help.
The man had dropped any weapon he might have in hand, though appeared to have other stuff harnessed or packed. He was attempting to maneuver a foot into place, probably to try to bounce back up. He might even have a counter agent for the goo, but while hanging over the edge was not the time to use it.
His gyrations brought him eye to eye with Aramis, and he froze. Then he seemed to realize there were spectators below as well. Some of them pointed and cheered, or jeered, and a few small pebbles flew up to rattle against the wall.
“Help me up,” the man asked.
“I don’t think so.” Damm
it, why couldn’t he have just fallen and finished it?
“I’m out of the fight and I’m your prisoner.”
“I’m not a combatant and have no way to deal with prisoners.” He really was in an awkward legal position. He was a bodyguard, so armed, but not a combatant, so the Law of Armed Conflict only applied in certain ways. He couldn’t take a prisoner, but killing the man now would probably constitute a war crime.
That voice. Could he . . . ?
“Then just cut me free. I’ll take my chances.”
This . . . person . . . was probably one of the ones who’d had him tortured. His voice was familiar, but Aramis had been barely conscious. False memory? Real?
It wasn’t Aramis’s problem and he wasn’t going to shoot the man in cold blood. What the spectators below might do was not his concern.
He turned, located a window on the floor below, and jumped in a dizzying arc, praying the window was open or of breakable paning. The jets did cut in for just a moment, flattening his trajectory.
The window was gone, the frame was not. He crashed through and felt splinters, but it wasn’t critical and he slammed stingingly onto the balls of his feet, tumbled, rolled over his pack, came up with more abrasions and ran for the stairs. He did feel some of the splinters dragging on the fabric of his pants. They must have been heavy pieces to do that.
He went through the outside door fast, weapon ready, right into a group of six locals. He fired bursts right, forward and left, sprinted across the line of the alley, and heard the sound of rocks smacking into walls. They were trying to stone the guy to death ten meters in the air. It might have been kinder to shoot him. They most likely couldn’t touch the goo, but it would weaken in a few hours, if he hadn’t succumbed to cranial pressure by then.
When Diplomacy Fails . . .-eARC Page 31