Fire

by Jim Heskett

  "You okay?" Yorick asked. He didn't dare look over, because he still had his pistol trained on the other side of the room. The soldado he’d shot was still breathing, even with multiple bullets in his upper torso.

  Yorick ejected the magazine and slid in a fresh one. The soldado’s eyes finally went blank, and his head lolled to the side.

  "I'm okay," she said.

  They advanced on the fallen soldados. Looking for signs of life, but Yorick saw none. Then, he noticed the surveillance cameras mounted in the corners.

  “Mierda,” Rosia said.

  Security in this room might have been light at first, but there would definitely be more coming now. No doubt about it.

  Rosia picked up a rifle from a dead soldado and used it to break the security cameras. Glass trickled to the floor. ”We need to hurry. This room is about to have visitors.”

  They cut through to the back room, toward the servers. Yorick didn't exactly understand what these things did or how they worked. But he knew he had to find the one server with the royal crest and insert the chip. The end of the chip had a rectangular opening, so there had to be a port that matched on the correct machine.

  They found it in the third row, in the middle rack. The only one with the royal crest. A set of interlocking triangles with a large letter N on the inside of the pattern.

  "This is it," he said. He removed the control chip from inside his boot and held it in an open palm.

  Rosia reached out and gave his arm a light squeeze. "Let's do it."

  He inserted the chip into the single rectangular port near the bottom of the machine. Both of them held their breath.

  And then, nothing happened. There was no alarm and no indicator something had changed. The server rack did not have a video screen. The pattern across the blinking lights didn’t change.

  Would this work? Had Camila successfully reprogrammed the chip? Would this open all the plantación gates and free the serfs?

  “What’s it doing?” she asked.

  Yorick shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen now.”

  They returned to the office area of the room, and Rosia pointed to the main vid screen on the wall. On that monitor, the text read:

  FILE COPY INITIATED ON SERVER A001. INSTALL PENDING

  Below that was a progress bar filling up from left to right. It currently read 7%.

  "We need to barricade the door," Rosia said as she glanced up at the broken security cameras. “We have to assume they’re coming.”

  They rushed over and locked the door from the inside, then moved a heavy file cabinet in front of it.

  "What happens now?" he asked. The progress bar had climbed to 11%. Slow and methodical. This would take a few minutes, at least.

  Rosia inserted a fresh magazine into her pistol and collected a nearby rifle. "Now, we defend the room."

  Yorick noted a window on the east side of the room. He approached it, and when he saw the world outside, his jaw dropped. Rosia joined him, and the color drained from her face. There were thousands in the streets. The king's soldados, Frenchies, sun worshipers, and White Flames, and even robots. Big gray machines, just like the ones at Wybert’s plantación. These might even have been the same ones. At least some of them. There were hundreds of the things, wielding rifles, attacking the king’s men. They stomped through the streets, over cars, over people. Bullets pinged off their metal surfaces, doing them no apparent harm.

  All of this had happened in the last fifteen minutes.

  Smoke turned the street level into a charcoal mess. Red and black explosions dotted the landscape. Yorick couldn't hear the shouts and screams, but he could see the blood in the streets.

  Yorick looked up at the video screen monitor. It read 16%.

  Something slammed against the door, rattling the file cabinet barricade. Shouts and gunshots, right outside this room.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Hamon crept along the hall. The secret staircase provided him access to the servant’s entry into the king’s private residence. Even so, he expected to find security nearby. Especially given all the activity outside.

  Eyes forward, feet light, limbs loose and ready to act.

  The king’s kitchen entrance was at the end, flanked by great golden lions on marble pedestals. The opulence of it all infuriated Hamon, and had since Wybert had discarded him and sent him here to serve at the pleasure of the king. And, the king’s pleasure had been a difficult occupation to endure. Less like pleasure, and more like abuse and pain.

  When Hamon wouldn’t cooperate, the king had banished him to Zan’s brothel to become his property. Hamon supposed the king figured a few weeks or months of working as a puta under Zan’s thumb would soften him and make him more receptive to the king’s whims. Or, maybe he thought it would break Hamon, which was probably also an acceptable result.

  But, what the king hadn’t realized was how Hamon used the brothel to make connections and learn about the coming revolution. How, when the king’s men and women would use Hamon’s body and then fall asleep in the bed, Hamon would rifle through their possessions to learn the king’s weaknesses. Or, how he would befriend an engineer in the king’s Operation Home project, and procure a way to attack the king from an angle no one expected.

  That’s how Hamon had come to own a keycard to the king’s servant entrance. And, he’d been biding his time until he could return to the capitol building and give the king what he deserved.

  Today was Hamon’s pleasure. Whatever happened with the revolution or with Hamon, the king would draw his last breath today, and he would know the face of his killer before he died.

  Hamon hadn’t been allowed the privilege of killing Lord Wybert. This would have to do.

  He skulked down the hall. They had turned off the lights, perhaps as a security measure. The long hall leading the king’s private apartment was bathed in the pale red glow of the emergency lights. And, their security precaution made it easier for Hamon to approach. He held tight to the wall, invisible.

  At the end of the hall stood four of the king’s private, elite soldados. Their eyes were forward, rifles across their chests. No night-vision goggles atop their heads, so they hadn’t seen Hamon’s approach. As expected, even the servant’s entrance was protected.

  A few doors were the only thing between Hamon and these four soldados. He thought perhaps he could rush them and kill all four in one strike. He had three knives strapped to his body and a pistol in his waistband. But, for this to work, he needed to ensure no one fired a single gunshot. Hamon had to assume the king had security controls inside his apartment, and he would be able to seal off the residence if he felt an attack was imminent.

  No, Hamon needed complete and total stealth. The king needed to remain ignorant, thinking himself safe until Hamon put the knife to his throat.

  He scooted forward and ducked into the small alcove created by a doorway. Ten meters away from the king’s door. Any closer and they might accidentally spot him.

  Hamon plotted his approach. He would fling two knives, hopefully taking out the outer two. Then, a rush, and slashes to the throats of the inner two.

  But, something happened. A loud boom echoed in the hall, and the building shifted. The hallway leaned a few degrees to the right, shaking as it settled back to flat. Someone had detonated a bomb or sent a rocket into the building.

  The soldados scattered and spread out, trying to regain their footing. One of them looked directly at Hamon, even in the dark. For a brief moment, their eyes met.

  Change of plan. Hamon rushed forward. He plucked two knives from their sheaths and raised them. Within two meters, all four guards had now noticed him.

  But it was too late for them. Hamon stabbed the closest soldado in the neck. He used his inertia to drive that soldado’s body into the other three, knocking them together. Pinned as their bodies tumbled toward the far wall, they couldn’t reach down to lift their weapons. Hamon pushed, keeping them off balance
. Another slash of the blade took out a second.

  Then Hamon felt searing pain across his shoulder. The one at the edge had managed to pull a serrated knife and reach across the others to gash Hamon’s arm. Warm blood flowed out from the slit in his shirt, cooling instantly under the chilled air blowing out of the overhead vents.

  Hamon flipped a blade and stabbed that one in the eye. Only one soldado remaining. That man was now nearest the door, and he pushed the bodies away, trying to clear room to raise his rifle. In the close quarters, the dead bodies were still upright, crowded together.

  Hamon didn’t have enough space to move. He couldn’t lift his arms. He pulled back, trying to gain distance so he could raise his knife again.

  But he didn’t have enough time. The soldado squeezed the trigger. His rifle had been pointed too high, and the bullets pinged harmlessly into the ceiling, but the damage had been done. The hallway filled with the quick ratatat of the shots.

  Hamon stabbed that man in the chest and then withdrew the knife. A pile of four bodies on the floor, all dead or in various stages of dying. One of them moaned, whimpering. Hamon bent over and cut his throat to end his misery.

  No time. Had to hurry. Hamon drew the keycard from his back pocket and pressed it against the panel. It blinked green, but the door did not open.

  Why hadn’t it worked?

  Then, Hamon noted another panel next to the keycard panel. Larger. This door required a second authentication for access.

  Handprint.

  He reached down and grabbed the arm of a soldado, this one still breathing. Hamon forced his palm against the panel. The red light blinked a few times, and then the door unlocked.

  Hamon slit the throat of the last still-breathing soldado.

  Now, no barriers left. Hamon raised his knife and opened the door into the king’s private apartment.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Yorick liberated the rifles from the dead soldados in the room. He and Rosia now had rifles, pistols, and a healthy collection of spare magazines for each. They positioned themselves at the desk at the north side of the room, to keep any incoming bullets away from the servers in the back. They moved desks to either side of the front door, to create a narrow entry space for anyone entering the room if they managed to breach the main barricade.

  Then, they toppled a metal shelf in front of their desk, to help provide another layer of cover. They each stacked their weapons with corresponding piles of ammunition, to allow for easy access. Also, close together but in separate piles, in case one of them fell, they would have quick and easy access to the other’s arsenal.

  Yorick and Rosia did this without speaking about it, but they each knew the implication. One or both of them could die. Yorick didn’t know which option was better.

  The forces outside the door banged and pushed. The file cabinet drawers fell open, papers spilling out.

  Yorick glanced over at the monitor on the other side of the room. The software progress bar had filled to 70%.

  There was no alternate exit out of this room. Besides, they couldn’t leave until the software install was complete, anyway. They had no choice but to face the coming soldados.

  Yorick and Rosia leaned over the desk, rifles pointed at the door. Sounded like as many as ten or fifteen people outside the room were trying to get in.

  Yorick wrapped his finger around the trigger. “I love you,”

  Without taking her eyes off the door, she said, “I love you, too. Whatever happens, I’m glad we tried.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that, so he closed one eye and looked down the rifle’s sight. Breaths in and out, trying to keep his body as still as possible so he could aim.

  “I’m sorry I killed your mother,” Rosia said.

  “Don’t be. That woman never cared about me. She never did anything for me besides give birth to me.”

  Rosia smiled a little. “I can thank her for that, at least.”

  The banging on the door grew louder and more powerful. Yorick gripped his rifle. No more time for talk. “Get ready.”

  The door bowed under the pressure. Someone was hitting it with something, repeatedly. The hinges at the edge cried, and the wood around it splintered. Creaking, the file cabinet shifted forward a couple centimeters.

  The door burst open. The file cabinet toppled over, crashing as it collided with the desk in front of it.

  Yorick paused a moment to make sure he wasn’t about to shoot Hamon. In the doorway stood a soldado, holding a large metal battering ram.

  Yorick shot him in the face. He toppled over, and a dozen soldados crowded the space behind him. There were so many in the hall, they were like one mass of writhing flesh and weapons.

  Rosia unleashed a stream of automatic rifle fire. She emitted a guttural roar as she did so, her weapon slashing left and right across the soldados.

  They returned fire immediately. A few of their bullets came close, puncturing the wood of the desk. Yorick pulled his body back, trying to keep as much of his frame as low as possible.

  He pressed the trigger until he couldn’t, then he slid in a fresh magazine and fired until that one also emptied. Yorick and Rosia took out at least a dozen in the hall before any of them could land a bullet on Yorick or Rosia. The bottleneck of the doorway made them much easier to hit. Bodies piled up in the slim space.

  Then, it stopped. Yorick glanced at the software update progress. 78%.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is that all of them? It can’t be over already.”

  A hand appeared in the hall. An object clutched in it. Yorick hoisted his rifle and tried to aim down the sight, but he wasn’t fast enough. The small, round object sailed into the room. It clanked on the floor, three meters in front of them. Pungent smoke poured out of the top.

  Yorick immediately felt his lungs burn. He turned to Rosia as she coughed, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  Hamon opened the door into the king's kitchen, and the bullet entered his chest immediately. It felt as if someone had punched him with a metal fist. He staggered back a step, unable to breathe. His eyes were unfocused, but he could see a figure standing five meters opposite him, on the other side of a large dining table.

  Hamon whipped a blade forward at lightning speed. He blinked and was able to see it lodged into the arm of a man standing in front of an oven. Skin darker than Hamon had ever seen in his life. When the figure’s eyes lowered to look at the knife, Hamon whipped another blade forward, aiming for his head.

  But, the man was too fast. He spun, dashing out of the kitchen. Hamon followed, the ache in his chest spreading as the wetness grew in diameter.

  He snatched the knife from the floor. Head swimming as he bent down to get it.

  Hamon approached the edge of the open doorway, out of the kitchen. A bullet cracked the doorframe, a few centimeters above his head. Hamon dropped down into a crouch and whipped a knife forward, blindly tossing it around the edge of the doorframe.

  He leaned out to see the man standing in front of a leather couch. Blade in his chest. The man sat back on the couch as his mouth opened and closed and blood streamed down the front of his shirt. A foreigner. Hamon had read about them but had never seen one in real life.

  The foreigner coughed, blood dribbling from the corner of his lips. The man looked up at Hamon, desperation in his eyes. But, it didn’t last. Within two seconds, the foreigner’s eyes closed and his arms went slack at his sides.

  "Stay away," the king said from some unseen location. Terror in his voice. "I have a gun.”

  Hamon collected his blades from the dead man and staggered forward. Breathing had become a challenge. When he forced his lungs to expand, it didn't feel as if he could draw in any air. He became instantly lightheaded. He lost himself in space, and he wasn’t sure if he was standing or sitting.

  But, out of the corner of his eye, he watched the king dart from a bathroom and turn into a hallway.

  Hamon gripped the knife. He stomped on the marble floo
r, across the room, toward the hallway.

  Wetness flooded the front of his shirt. He became dimly aware that he was growing faint. Drops of red dribbled from his wound and spotted the marble below him. He wanted to cough but knew it would hurt, so he forced his throat closed.

  No, not yet. It's not done.

  He raised the knife above his head and entered the hallway where King Nichol had disappeared. Hamon rounded the corner, into a bedroom. Another gunshot blasted in the room. Hamon felt the pinch in his right arm. He whisked the knife in the direction of the gun blast and heard the king yelp.

  Hamon looked down at his arm and saw a line of blood running from a hole in his forearm. The knife slipped from his grasp, so he dropped to one knee and used his other hand to grip it.

  Grand King Nichol was in a chair next to a bed, crying and whimpering. The blade jutted from his stomach. His eyes bugged out looking down at it, his feet scooting on the floor as if trying to back away from the injury.

  “No, no, no,” said the king. “This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.” Then, he looked up, and his face changed when he saw Hamon. “You?”

  As Hamon approached, he opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell the king all about his last few weeks living and working in the brothel. All about how when the patrons took advantage of him, he would escape it by thinking of how much pleasure he would get from carving up the king. How he would open him from stomach to chest and make sure Nichol was able to see his entrails spill out onto the floor.

  But Hamon found he couldn't speak. He could barely draw a breath. The bullet must've collapsed one of his lungs. Swaying on his feet, he spread his legs further apart to steady himself.

  And, Hamon realized he didn't need to speak. The terror and confusion on the king's face were all he needed. When he closed the distance between them, the king whimpered and cried and begged for his life. But, it brought Hamon no pleasure. In his fantasies, killing this wicked man gave him a sense of justice and a sense of pride. A sense that all of his life's suffering had not been in vain.