by Dan Abnett
He sat for a while, then he made another attempt to get up. He discovered that the immobility in his left side was partly due to the LEAF armature, which was designed to take up tension and kept locking out. Everything took a half-dozen attempts. The patience infuriated him, but patience was the only thing that worked. Each move, each motion, he repeated over and over again until he got it right. His movements were clumsy and woefully imprecise. He couldn't have found his mouth with a spoon. As for threading a needle, he wouldn't even have been able to pick the needle up.
Because it kept locking around his slack, wayward left arm, the LEAF became an asset. It was a rigid prop that he could depend on, a limb that would remain firm, no matter what, instead of suddenly giving out. He crawled along to the downspout of the guttering and then used the pipe to haul himself upright. It took a few thousand years. Continents shifted while they waited for him to get vertical. The uncontrollable sway and nod of his head became so maddening, he squealed a wordless blast of angry noise.
Then he was upright, leaning but upright, rain in his face, pain in his veins, and every bit as helpless as he had been when he'd woken up.
SEVENTEEN
He walked like a zombie, like some lumbering, spavined thing that retained only the most rudimentary brainstem connection between impulse and action. He felt his way with his numb left hand, using the LEAF as a prop and a balance, scraping its cuff frame along the wind breaks, then the wall, then a doorway. One hand to the wall, legs set wide, he steadied himself like a rating on a ship riding a deep swell. He felt his borrowed body overheating from the exertion. Sweat flushed his back and chest, and then chilled in the rain and wind.
Still no one had come to open the tank and lift him out of Nestor Bloom. Not Ayoob, not Cleesh, not Bari fucking Apfel.
The rain eased. The wind dropped. The light turned yellow and the day turned sour. Everything went quiet, except for the sound of water gurgling down the spouts or dripping off the eaves.
He tried the door. It took him three goes to get his right hand around the handle. The door opened.
There was a noise, sudden and piercing. It was a sort of un-noise, a sound so loud and penetrating it existed on the very edge of normal hearing. He felt it rather than heard it, a shrill bark. It made him jump so hard he flinched back wards and accidentally slammed the door again.
The sound made other things start. A flurry of large white blurds broke into the air and beat away overhead, across the roof slope.
The sound came again. Even though he was halfexpecting it this time, it made him jump again. He heaved back into the wall beside the doorway, involuntarily smacking the back of Bloom's skull against the weatherboarding. His right foot slid in the mire and he nearly went over. He shot out his left hand, grabbed the doorframe, and felt the LEAF lock up and hook him there.
Falk realised something. He didn't recognise the noise. It was simply a sharp, strangely modulated sound that was making him jump with its abruptness. But he was responding with greater trepidation and alarm than that. The recoil of his body did not match the simple curiosity of his mind. It was as though Bloom's body knew what the sound was. It was as though Bloom's muscle memory knew to be afraid.
The sound came a third time. Now Falk detected an odour of burning on the cold air. He pulled himself back, obeying the wary instinct of Bloom's body. He got himself into the doorway, using the alcove as cover.
He heard footsteps. Boots splashing through puddles at a jogging pace. Two figures, just shadows, flashed past the end of the alley, crossing the open yard of the weather station. It was the briefest glimpse, but Falk knew they were both carrying things, heavy objects.
Pipers. Hardbeam weapons.
He heard the noise again, this time accompanied by a slight blink of light from the direction the figures had gone in.
Now he knew what the sound was.
Weapons fire. M3A discharge.
He opened the door with a shaking right hand, got into the dark of the station's back hallway and shut the door after him.
Inside, the air was cool. He could smell stale, sooty burning, an aftertaste. He could smell burned blood and shit.
He started to lurch his way, steadying hand against the left-hand wall, into the base.
He got halfway down the back hall when he was tackled from behind. An arm locked around his throat. It felt like he'd been intercepted by a wardrobe.
"Not a word! Not a word!" a voice hissed in his right ear. Something else was in his right ear too. The cold snout of a PDW.
He let himself be dragged off the hall into a small dorm room that smelled of old socks and poor ventilation. The room was half-lit, untidy, a share unit cluttered with dirty clothes. There were clips of Shiona Kona decorating the wall above the left cot.
Bigmouse let go of his neck and pushed him away so he could look at him. The Colt stayed aimed at his face.
"Nes? Nes? Fuck!"
Falk blinked and swayed. He sat down heavily on one of the cots, banging the side of his head against a shelf on the way down.
"Oh, fuck! Nestor!" Bigmouse hissed, holstering his pistol. "Jesus, I didn't mean to hurt you! Jesus! Jesus fuck!"
He knelt down facing Falk, peering frantically at Bloom's face.
"What happened? Nes? What happened to you?" His voice was a strained whisper, desperate to make a noise, boxed in by terror. Falk hadn't seen Bigmouse act this way, and he knew Bloom hadn't, either. Stress was pumping Bigmouse towards a point of brittle disconnect.
Bigmouse reached up and grabbed Bloom's head, one rough hand either side of the jaw. Falk mewed and tried to resist, but Bigmouse twisted Bloom's skull, scrutinising it, trying to get it in the light.
"Oh shit, you're hit. You're hit, Bloom! Oh shit."
Falk tried to respond. Bigmouse wasn't letting go of his head. His thumbs were probing Bloom's cheek, under his right eye, causing pain to radiate back through his face.
"What happened?" Bigmouse asked. He wouldn't quit with the examination. "Shit, look at this! I got to get this patched! I've got to get you to field surgery!"
Falk made a sound.
"It's nasty, Bloom! It's right in under the eye! Listen, I'm going to get you out of this, okay? You okay? You wealthy? I'm going to get you out of this shit, okay? We're going to get out of this together and I'm going to get you to an extract and a medic. Okay? Okay, Nes?"
Falk managed another ugly sound and slapped Bigmouse's hands away.
"Stop touching me."
"It hurts, okay. I get that. I'm going to patch it."
"No."
"Fuck it, Nes! We're in shit here! Insurgents, Bloom! They've compromised the whole location! They were waiting for us! We walked right into it!"
"Who's left?" Falk asked. Each word was a husky effort. Bloom's tongue was too big for his palate.
"Fucked if I know! I don't know where Spierman went, or Cicero. They took off after Preben, Stabler and Martinz when the shooting started."
Spierman. Who the fuck was Spierman? The PO who'd debussed with Cicero?
"Is the boomer still on the ground?" Every word a struggle.
"Yeah. I dunno. I haven't been out front. The shooting, you know."
There would be aircrew on the Boreal. The medic Cicero was going to call in. Probably another fireteam too. Falk needed a medic.
"Stabler's dead," he said.
"What? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No. Martinz too, I think. Someone else."
Bigmouse rocked back on his heels.
"Fuck!" he said. "Oh fuck! Are you sure?"
"I saw," Falk said. He let himself settle back on the cot a little, his shoulderblades sliding against the wall, dislodging some of the swimsuit clips of Shiona Kona. "They took our weapons. Ammo."
"Shit."
"I need to get out of here," Falk said.
"I know. I'm going to get you out, Nes."
"I feel really weird," Falk said.
"It'll be okay."
"I
s there a link we can call on?" Falk asked.
Bigmouse shook his head.
"It's jammed. It's all jammed. Mil-secure is scorched."
"What about the weather station rig?"
"It's off."
"Can you turn it on again, Mouse?"
Bigmouse stared at him, shook his head.
"It's not secure. I light that up, they'll spot it like that."
He snapped his fingers. Falk could see how badly Bigmouse's hands were shaking.
"Stabler's really scorched?" Bigmouse asked.
"Yes."
"That's so fucked up," said Bigmouse. He was welling up behind his glares.
"We've got to do something," said Falk. He was getting sick of the effort it took to make Bloom's voice work, and sick of slurring like a stroke victim. His throat felt like it had been worked raw with steel wool. "I'm really messed up, Mouse. I need to get out of here."
"I know, Bloom."
"We can't wait. Maybe we should try the station rig?"
"No way."
"Least we should do is try to get a shout out. Operations may have no idea what's happening here."
"It's too fucking risky, Bloom!"
"We get a shout out, they can send people in. We could try the rig, send a shout, call in support and an extract."
"Fuck it, Bloom!"
Falk swallowed hard.
"Mouse, I need to get out of here. I need help. I don't feel right."
"You've been shot, Nes."
"I'm not feeling myself."
Bigmouse stared at him, then slipped off his glares and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his fatigue top.
"I told you," he said. "If we send using the rig, they'll spot it."
"So we use it fast, get out a signal, then move. Move to another building. Off the site, maybe."
Bigmouse hesitated. There was an indefinite noise from somewhere nearby, maybe a door bang. Bigmouse's PDW came out of his holster in a fast-draw clatter of fasteners and safety toggle. He went from zero to aiming it at the door in about a third of a second.
They froze, waiting. The dinner-gong pulse in Bloom's temple ticked out the drag of time. After eternity and extra time, Bigmouse lowered the weapon.
"We can't stay here," he whispered.
"We can't stay here," Falk agreed. The snake in his belly was back. "They're all over this place. If we stay put, they'll find us. We need to send a shout, call in help and get clear."
Bigmouse got up, holstered his weapon and hoisted Falk to his feet, unceremoniously. He got an arm looped under Falk's armpit. Falk tried not to flinch. The sudden movement had flared pain in his head and his hip.
"I'm pretty messed up," he rasped. "I don't know how much use I can be."
"S'okay," said Bigmouse. "It's all wealthy. I'll walk you."
Now he had Bloom propped against him, Bigmouse drew his PDW again.
"I could take that," said Falk.
"Get real."
"You've got the thumper," said Falk. The chunky launcher was still locked to Bigmouse's backplate.
"That hit turn you into a fucking retard?" Bigmouse asked. Of course. A thumper indoors. Gigantic sense.
They shuffled to the door like two guys in a three-legged race. Bigmouse cracked the door, looked out into the hall, then led the way, shouldering Falk along. He had his Colt sweeping.
They arrived at the station hub. Bigmouse's eFight kit was still open on one of the desks where he'd left it, diagnostic leads wired up through a console panel he'd lifted off. Bigmouse settled Falk on a wheelie stool, braced against the side of one of the monitor stations, then went to retrieve his kit.
"Hurry," said Falk. His head was starting to swim again. Bigmouse disconnected his kit, closed the pack and carried it over to the radio rig. It wouldn't take long for him to discover if it had been de-powered or disabled.
The side door opened, and a man they'd never seen before walked in carrying a PAP 20.
EIGHTEEN
He was in his mid-twenties, with short brown hair and a lean face that looked like it was used to working outdoors. He was wearing dirty, dark-hued litex weatherproofs and heavy-soled boots. Raindrops beaded him like sequins. The PAP was SOMD-issue. At the start of the day, it had been somebody else's property.
Falk knew that, a gut instinct. He absorbed all the details instantly: the look of the man, his manner, his bearing, the fact his gun was stolen, the wet-cold air smell the man brought in with him, the moment of confusion sparked by finding two men in a room he had expected to be empty.
The PAP came up fast. The only thing that slowed the man down was the fact he had two targets, one on either side of the hub. There was a nanosecond of hesitation as he made a choice of which one to hit first.
He chose Falk. He chose wrong.
The Colt PDW was still in Bigmouse's hand, and Bigmouse was wired as tight as a hair-spring mantrap. He leapt up, sending his open eFight kit flying into the air, tools scattering, and unloaded. The burst bracketed the intruder. Two or three rounds smacked into the wall on either side of him. Three or four more went through him: sternum, shoulder, forehead, chin. The chin impact made the most mess going in. The lower part of the man's face buckled. He was already hammering backwards, slammed by the kinetic force, arms flying up, whiplash cracking his neck. His hair rippled. His eyes defocused and almost crossed, his face contorted. He hit the wall behind him, slid down it, rolled onto his side. The PAP bounced off his thighs and clonked onto the floor.
Gunsmoke wreathed the silence, threading the yellow sunwash coming down through the skylights.
"Holy shit," said Bigmouse, not even quite sure of what he'd just done. He rose to his feet, lowering the Colt.
Stunned, Falk moved awkwardly and the wheelie stool skidded out from under him. He crashed sideways off the console he was wedged against, and ended up on his back. The stool overturned, castors spinning. Landing smacked the wind out of him.
"Stay down!" Bigmouse ordered. Grunting and trying to rise, Falk heard Bigmouse cross the room to the man he'd just killed. Through the kneehole under the desk, he watched Bigmouse check the man, search his pockets and pick up the PAP. Bigmouse didn't want to touch him. Falk could see his reluctance, like the man was radioactive.
The gunshots had not gone unnoticed. Someone else came running in through the doors at the other end of the room. Falk heard a shout. Under the desk, he saw Bigmouse pulling himself down into cover. From the far end of the room, another PAP lit off. It made a noise like a food processor churning something wet. The room shook with the concussion of the impacts. There was a sudden blizzard of dust and micro-debris – splinters of wood, shreds of fibre, powdered brick – from the wall and furniture around Bigmouse. Loose papers billowed into the air like blurds. A coffee mug shattered. A pen pot cracked and spun, shedding pens.
Bigmouse was pinned. He had the PAP, but he was trapped in the little box of cover provided by the metal frame desks. The unseen gunman fired again, and console screens fragmented.
Under the desks, Bigmouse looked desperately at Falk. Falk was two desk rows away. The second intruder wouldn't have even seen him.
Still on his back, pathetic, stricken, Falk reached out his right hand, grasping at Bigmouse, gesturing to him. It took Bigmouse a second to notice and understand. He was balled up in fear as the shots ripped in around him.
He got hold of his Colt and gave it a hard shove, sending it gliding across the hub floor on its slide like a curling stone. It travelled under the desks and finally came to rest just short of Falk, stopped by a coil of power cable.
Falk rolled over. It took two tries to raise enough momentum to turn Bloom's body, and he knocked his chin on the floor tiles on the way over. He got his fingers around the muzzle of the gun, picked it up, pulled it back. He rolled back onto his side, and put the weapon down on the floor so he could pick it up again by the grip.
It felt right in his hand. Bloom's hand knew the grip. His thumb toggled the safety off.
With shuddering, superhuman effort, Falk got himself up on one knee under the line of the desk. He had to pull out a drawer to brace himself with his slack left hand. The LEAF locked. The snake in his belly convulsed. He used the barrel of the PDW to prop his other hand as he lifted.
Then he swung up over the desk and fired.
Every single shot missed. The kick of the PDW was so hefty, he almost dropped it. The barrel rose and skied most of the rounds. His left leg started to give out.