Offworld

by Robin Parrish

  The astronaut part of his brain wouldn't shut itself off, and he couldn't help noting the spectacular arrangement of small, spiky stalactites hanging from the cave's apex. It was something he was able to see now, for the first time, thanks to the tiny ball of light.

  The "tiny ball of light"? he thought. I'm following around a floating sphere of light and I'm thinking about it like it's a normal thing.

  I'm honkers. I'm insane and I'm dying. With only this dumb light here with me.

  Maybe I should name it.

  I'll call it George.

  Hefound this inexplicablyfunny, like an insidejoke only he understood and couldn't stop from grinning.

  So, where are we going now, George?

  of He pulled up mid-stride as he got his answer. Directly ahead him in the (lark, at less than ten paces away, was ... something.

  A great, swirling black mass about twenty feet across that looked kind of like . . . a black hole. His floating friend George zoomed into it and vanished.

  It was stationary, twirling in place just like a black hole, like a rift in space, or ... some kind of void.

  The void?!

  Despite everything that was happening, all of the chaos, one thought drowned out everything else: he'd seen the void during his missing time on Mars.

  For a second, it was all he knew, then with a rush the rest of the world tumbled hack at him and he remembered what was going on around him. Soldiers, radio, Terry at gunpoint.

  Mark Roston.

  It was a familiar name. Chris had never met the man, but he'd definitely heard the name.

  Though his arms were tied in front of him with a plastic zip-tie, and the muzzles of at least three rifles were aimed at his head, Chris knew the only thing he couldn't show was panic. For his sake. For his team's sake.

  "You have Terry? I'm surprised you haven't shot him yet, Colonel," Chris replied into the walkie being held in front of his face. "He's a pain in the butt."

  "Don't think I wasn't tempted," Roston's voice answered back. "His mouth doesn't stop moving, under any amount of threatening. I can't imagine how you lived with him for so long. But if I have to kill him, it'll be for a better reason than that."

  "Where are you right now?" Chris asked while eyeing the men and the vehicles.

  "Close enough that I could release Mr. Kessler back to you, if you were to give me your word that you will get as far away from Houston as you can, and stay there."

  The penny drops, Chris thought. Houston ...

  "If you're as smart as you seem to be," said Chris, "you know I'll never agree to that."

  "I'd've been disappointed if you had, because it would mean I'd misjudged you. Even with your list of accomplishments, Captain, your cunning is astonishing. The way you escaped from the bridge in Lake Charles, and then the oil refinery. That operation was conducted by my very best men."

  "Then you should think about getting yourself some new `very best'."

  Chris could imagine a smile on Roston's face when he said, "Maybe I should."

  "What's your part in all this, Colonel? Were you left behind, like we were ... or are you in on this-the disappearance of mankind?"

  "Disappearance," Roston echoed, thoughtful. "Is that what you call it?"

  "What would you call it?"

  "It's ... part of a process. A plan. My plan."

  Then it was you, Colonel. Somehow, someway ... you did this.

  "I don't suppose you'd care to fill me in on where the planet's population has gone?"

  "No need," Roston replied. "When I'm done, no explanation will be required."

  "Colonel, we've reached an impasse," said Chris. He chanced a quick glance back to where Owen stood as he added, "I think your only option here is to kill us."

  Owen, who was not cuffed or tied as Chris was, met his eyes with an affirmation of readiness. He made no movement whatsoever; Chris merely read it in his expression.

  "That wouldn't be my first choice," Roston said, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "I'd rather see you reconsider. You've earned an important place in history, and I don't want to see your biography end in tragedy."

  "What do you want?" Chris asked.

  "I want you to open yourself to the possibility that in spite of everything you've been through over the last few days ... I'm not the villain. Or even a villain at all. You need to consider that there's more happening than you're able to understand right now. And I'd like you to realize that trying to impede my mission is the wrong move." "

  ,why is that?"

  "We may be from different branches of the service, but I know all about you, Captain. I followed your career. I know you flew fire in the war, and I know that you disobeyed an order to take out civilian targets. As I'm sure you're aware, that particular footnote in your record is known to no one with clearance below Top Secret. NASA made sure of that. Personally, I'd have put it at the top of your astronaut bio and given you a medal to go with it.

  "But NASA covered it up so you could go to Mars, chosen ahead of astronauts with more tenure at NASA or time in space. That kind of thing can play with a man's head. I'm guessing you've questioned that decision a thousand times. Am I wrong?"

  Chris' expression never softened. He didn't want to answer the question, but finally he said, "No"

  "That's because the men who are asked to risk their lives on behalf of their country are never the ones who get to decide when, where, how, or most importantly, why their lives are risked. Any monkey in a suit and tie can declare war; only soldiers like you and I are able to wage it. I see a disconnect in this, and although they bury it under training and duty, the best soldiers in the world see the exact same discrepancy that I do.

  "How many people did you kill during the war, Captain?"

  Chris started, disarmed by such a pointed question. What was it to Roston, anyway, how many he'd killed in the war? "I don't know, a few. I shot down about fourteen enemy fighters from the cockpit, but most of them had 'chutes as far as I know. How many did you kill, Colonel?"

  "Thousands," came Roston's grave reply. `And if you get in my way, I'll add you and your people to that list. As much as I don't want to, so help me, I'll do it."

  Is this guy for real? He killed thousands in the war? He couldn't have.

  Chris stored the words away to analyze later. Right now he needed a plan. He strained his neck looking around, cautiously peering into the eyes of the three men surrounding him. They were all business and held their weapons like they knew exactly how to use them.

  But based on his gut impression of this Colonel Roston, Chris was willing to gamble that they were under orders not to kill.

  "Fair enough," he said, tossing one last look in Owen's direction. "But for all you seem to know about me, there is one thing you're wrong about."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm not the one your men should have tied up."

  Owen snatched the automatic rifle pointed at his chest at a point mid-barrel, and flipped it up, catching the soldier under the chin. He spun fast and cracked the next man in the head with the end of the same gun while grabbing the second rifle. He flipped both weapons around while completing his turn-in-place, until he faced the third man. He held up the two rifles and crisscrossed their bayonet blades beneath the man's chin. The two sharp weapons looked like a pair of scissors pressed against the soldier's neck.

  The soldiers around Chris were thrown off guard by Owen's sudden movement, and Chris saw his opportunity. He lunged forward into the man holding the radio, and the soldier's thumb slipped off the microphone button. Landing on top of him, Chris thrust his bound hands sideways and connected with the man's face.

  He rolled off. The rifle lay on the ground between him and the soldier, but rather than go for the handle, Chris brought his hands down over the bayonet knife and sliced through the zip-tie.

  "Drop the rifle," Owen ordered the man with his neck against the blades.

  The man did as he was told.

  Owen immediately turned
and fired a single shot at the soldier holding Trisha and Mae at bay. The bullet was dead-on, popping the man in the shoulder. He let out a yell and fell back, the rifle tumbling from his grasp.

  "Get his gun!" Owen shouted.

  The soldier reached for it where it had fallen at his side, but Trisha got her hands on it at the same time. He tugged hard, and she toppled to the ground but didn't lose her grip on the weapon.

  Mae surprised everyone by whipping out the switchblade she'd told Terry about at the lighthouse and jamming it into the soldier's calf. She left it there and jumped backward away from the fight. The new pain shocked the soldier enough to turn loose of the weapon for just a second, and that was all Trisha needed.

  She trained the rifle on him as she stood to her feet.

  "You two okay?" Chris shouted, pointing a gun of his own at the three men nearby on the ground. His arm was no longer in its immobilizer, which was wrapped tight around one of the soldier's necks. He was sweating and his face was tight and angry.

  "We're good," Trisha replied.

  "Report," squawked Roston's voice through the radio now abandoned on the ground. "What's happening?"

  Chris leveled the gun on the three men with his bad arm and snatched up the radio with his other hand. He held it to the masked mouth of the same man who had previously done the same for him.

  "Tell him we tried to escape, but you overpowered us," said Burke.

  The man looked at him but said nothing.

  Chris got a tighter grip on the rifle and pressed it into the man's chest, right over his heart, until it pierced straight through his camouflaged shirt and mashed against his flesh.

  "Say it! "he shouted.

  The man hesitated, but finally said into the radio, "We had a situation, Colonel, but its under control."

  Chris clipped the radio to his belt, then turned back to Trisha.

  "Search that one's pockets!" Chris ordered.

  "What are we looking for?" Trisha called back as she watched Mae scour through the soldier's pockets.

  "Keys," Chris called back.

  "Got 'em," Mae said, jingling the keys in front of her face.

  Chris turned to Owen. "Bring those three over here!"

  Minutes later, the seven soldiers were sitting in a circle on the ground, facing outward. Chris and Owen had used more of the zipties to bind them with their hands behind their backs, and they'd intertwined the ties so the men couldn't pull themselves apart from one another. Owen finished tying their feet and stood to join the others at one of the enemy jeeps.

  But Mae waited right behind him, and when he turned around, he nearly knocked her over.

  She stood her ground, her arms folded, a frown on her face. And though she was more than a foot shorter than Owen, she stared him down cold.

  Owen got the message. Loud and clear. He put his hands up and bowed his head, relenting.

  "This mean you don't hate me no more?" she asked.

  "I never hated you," he replied. "I suspected you might be involved in the cause of D-Day."

  She pursed her lips. `And now?"

  "I was wrong."

  Mae dropped her arms to her side, seemingly satisfied.

  "You're still a mystery, though," added Owen.

  "What'd you call me before? A flight?"

  "The fly in the ointment. You still are. Just maybe not in the way I thought."

  She offered him a patronizing smile, then turned to walk away.

  The two of them joined Chris and Trisha at the jeep, where Owen seated himself in the driver's seat and opened his laptop so all four of them could see.

  "Their radios are short range. Roston's not far," Chris said, his jaw clenched. "Where are we? Can you zoom in?"

  Owen complied by gradually, shot by shot, bringing the camera closer and closer to Beaumont, Texas. The town was tranquil with no movement of any kind. But something caught Chris' attention in the southern part of town.

  "There they are," he said, pointing at the image. Owen zoomed in more until they could see a line of black jeeps moving steadily southward on Highway 10 like a row of ants. There were more than Chris expected and moving slowly. As Chris and the others watched, the jeeps stopped altogether. The lead vehicles were astride a small bridge that ran just above an old railroad line.

  Who are these guys?

  "What're they doin'?" asked Mae.

  "Waiting," Chris replied.

  "For what?"

  "Them," responded Trisha, glancing back to the men sitting in a circle on the ground in the middle of the plaza.

  Owen nodded. "Roston thinks his men succeeded here. He's waiting for them to return, with us as prisoners."

  "Let's round 'em up, Beech. I want to throw them in the back of the second jeep."

  Mae was troubled by this turn in the conversation. "We ain't leaving?"

  Chris' eyes were ablaze as he shook his head no. "We're just getting started."

  "Chris..." Trisha chimed in, in a reluctant tone. "We're outmanned and outgunned. Leaving would be the safest option."

  "You heard him on the radio," Chris replied, angry and almost yelling. He nodded at the empty fairgrounds, a hollow place representative of the entire planet. "He did this. This man is the reason we came home to an empty planet."

  "He attacked us," added Owen. `And he'll do it again."

  "So the answer is to retaliate? Against a superior force?" Trisha said, incredulous. "Chris, this is crazy."

  "No," said Chris. "This is war."

  Traveling now in the two black jeeps they'd commandeered, Chris and the others followed the curve of westbound Highway 10 as it became southbound Highway 10. Two lanes expanded to three, and then four, making navigation around the abandoned vehicles increasingly easy. Noon was approaching, and the clear weather held, the sun's oppressive heat bringing out perspiration at the slightest provocation.

  Chris drove with Trisha and Mae in his jeep. Owen followed, having dispensed with the prisoners.

  Roston and his small army were less than a mile up the road, but Chris decided not to take a direct route. Surprise was the only advantage they had, and Chris didn't want to give it away. Instead, they turned east off 10 for several blocks until they hit North 11th Street, a two-lane thoroughfare. The road ran parallel to the highway and would bring them close enough to Roston to approach on foot.

  They parked at Central High School, just a few blocks from the highway, and right next to the east-west running railroad. It was the rail line that Chris decided would take them to Roston and his men.

  "Don't like this," Mae complained as everyone piled out of the vehicles.

  "Neither do I," Trisha singsonged softly.

  "First rule of being a soldier: you don't have to like it to do it," Chris replied as he took off his shoulder sling for the last time and tossed it aside. `Just remember what you're supposed to do, and you'll be fine."

  Mae's expression told him what she thought of her chances.

  Trisha and Owen joined him, and the three of them set off walking at a crisp pace down the railroad tracks, automatic rifles slung over shoulders or gripped in both hands. Chris still had the enemy walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

  Halfway there, Chris could see the outlines of Roston's jeeps on the bridge up ahead. There were a handful of men pacing back and forth over the bridge. Chris picked up the pace; they had to get in position before Roston decided to leave or send someone to check on the men, which by now he had to know were missing.

  A high-powered train was stopped at the station just ahead on the right, and Chris pointed the others to move behind it, blocking the enemy's view of them. From here, they could sneak closer to the bridge, undetected.

  When they were two hundred feet from the bridge, Chris directed them to stop next to a gap in the train cars.

  He turned to Owen. "Go do what you do."

  Owen left.

  Then he turned to Trisha, lowering his voice. "You all right? Physically, I mean?"

  She
nodded affirmative, but he could see how hard she was leaning against the train car for support. "I was just thinking about Roston. He called you `Captain' Wasn't that your rank when you left the Air Force?"

  Chris nodded. "No one's called me that in a long time."

  "Do you know him?"

  "No. I'd remember. He makes a lasting impression."

  "Does he know you? From the war, maybe?"

  Chris merely shook his head.

  "Hm" was her reply. "This plan, are we sure it's going to work?"

  "Not remotely," he replied, almost laughing at the very idea. He checked the ammunition in his gun in preparation for what was about to happen; then he took a deep breath. "I need you to cover me."

  She let out a long, slow breath of air, steeling herself.

  He crept carefully through the gap between railcars, and Trisha followed. She leaned against the car opposite of Chris, her back to the bridge. Chris faced the bridge, but stood back within the gap far enough that he wouldn't be seen. He dared to lean out just far enough to catch a glimpse of the activity atop the bridge.

  He pulled out the radio and turned it on.

  "Colonel," he said.

  There was a noticeable delay before Roston replied. "Burke?"

  "That's right," said Chris.

  `Are my men dead?"

  "They're fine. They're safe," replied Chris.

  As Chris peeked again around the railcar, he saw the silhouette of a man pacing the bridge. His build, visible against the bright blue sky, was a few inches shorter than most of the other soldiers. He held something small enough to be a radio in one hand, and he stopped walking, spun in place, and looked all around, silently pointing his men in varying directions.

  He knows we're here.

  Suddenly, the highway buzzed with activity, men scattering across the bridge top, scanning everywhere for signs of Chris and the others. Chris hoped Owen stayed out of sight.