by James Walker
“Why bother?” Liumei turned her exhausted eyes back to Ridley's body. “Everything I cared about is lost, and I am soon to follow. Whatever happens next is no concern of mine.”
“What is wrong with you?” Cena snarled. “You would condemn countless people to an agonizing death out of apathy? You're just as much of a selfish bitch as I always thought you were!”
“The vulgar outbursts of a peasant are of no interest to me,” Liumei replied. “My world is destroyed. Either kill me, or leave me in peace.”
The rebels glared at Liumei in frustration when Astral emerged from their ranks, her reactivated MINDs bobbing at her sides, and sat next to the despairing governor. Liumei looked up at Astral and stared in wonder at her third eye.
“You.” She reached out and stroked the side of Astral's face. “From Ridley's report. You're the one Spacy went to such lengths to recover.”
“I know this isn't what you really want,” Astral said quietly. “You hate yourself for what you're doing right now.”
Liumei let her hand fall away from Astral's face. “What?”
“But that's why you're doing it,” Astral said. “For as long as you can remember, you've despised yourself. You were raised among the Theran elite. You saw for yourself how they abused their power, how they took their privileges for granted; and you hated them for it. But you knew you were the same, and so your hatred poisoned you, and finally you turned it on yourself. That's why you act this way, like a pampered oligarch who only cares about your own pleasure. Because you convinced yourself that's who you are.”
Liumei recoiled from Astral. “What are you?”
“That's why you governed Chalice more leniently than your predecessors,” Astral went on. “There was still a part of you that believed in noblesse oblige. You never gave it much of a chance to blossom, but it still leaked out occasionally; and seeing how much kinder you were than their other rulers, the people grew to love you. The truth is, you know how futile your wealth and power are. Because they can give you everything except the only thing you really desire: salvation from the hatred keeping your soul trapped within itself.”
Even as Liumei tried to scramble away from her, Astral leaned forward and grabbed the governor's hands in her own. “There's still a chance,” she pleaded. “You can still grasp the honor you always longed for. Give the order to quarantine the city. Throw away the selfish aristocrat and become the true nobility you always admired.”
Slowly, Liumei's shock subsided into resignation. “All right,” she said at last. “After all, I have nothing to lose.”
“Good.” Pierson turned to the soldiers behind him, and ordered, “With the governor's protection, we should be safe from the city garrison. Fire the signal flare for retreat. Hopefully Sergeant Celeste will see it and fall back to the palace.”
Liumei stood on her private stage, surrounded by spotlights and cameras, flanked by the flags of the Theran Union and the Sarisan colonies. Her rebel escorts watched from just off-screen, concern etched on their faces. Liumei seemed barely able to stand, let alone summon the strength to make an impromptu declaration.
“Attention all P.S.A. forces, and people of Hongpan,” she began, her voice weak, yet edged with quiet determination. “This may sound strange, but I am only just now becoming cognizant of recent events. I have been informed that the Spacy officer, Commodore Bertrand Falsrain, usurped my position as governor and declared himself the new ruler of Chalice, even going so far as to destroy a Spacy fleet sent to depose him. Rest assured, this was done without my knowledge or consent. I have been told that I authorized the transfer of power, but I have no memory of this. I can only assume that Falsrain was using some form of mind-altering drug to control my actions. However, Falsrain has been killed by a surgical strike executed by special forces, and I have now regained the use of my faculties.
“I regret to say, however,” Liumei's voice faltered for a moment, “that this may be my final public appearance. For Falsrain was not only a usurper, but also a carrier for Messenger syndrome. I have contracted this disease, for which there is no known cure. Tragically, while Falsrain was at large, he seems to have made considerable progress in spreading this disease. It has already spread throughout Hongpan as well as Port Osgow.
“I therefore, under my authority as governor, declare a state of emergency and assume full executive power. I hereby order an immediate cessation of all traffic on the orbital elevator, as well as a full quarantine of Hongpan and Port Osgow. Hongpan's city garrison is to withdraw immediately from the palatial complex. Your new orders are to devote all efforts to maintaining order and preventing all access and egress from the city. All citizens are advised to stay in their homes, below ground if possible. Messenger syndrome is transferred via radiation waves. The more layers of dense matter between you and the rest of the city, the safer you will be.
“Looting and rioting will be met with extreme force. I authorize police and security forces to use any means necessary to maintain peace and order. This is a declaration of martial law. I repeat, any attempt to take advantage of the chaos will be met with extreme force.”
There was a long pause, then Liumei concluded, “That is all. I doubt that I shall see any of you again. And, since I will soon go where even the Union cannot follow, let me call upon my ancient heritage and say... may the heavens have mercy on us.”
Liumei flicked a switch on her podium, and the broadcast terminated. She slumped over the podium, her breathing ragged and irregular. Astral and the others came forward and helped her into a chair.
“There,” she gasped. “That's what you wanted, yes?”
“Yes,” Pierson said. “You can be proud, Governor. Your words just now will save many lives.”
“Perhaps.” Liumei met the rebels' gazes. “Heed these words, in exchange for having done as you wished. Peace is still far from your grasp. Many of the citizens remain enthralled by the Union's bread and circuses. If you take power, there are many who will oppose you. I tried to rule with a silken glove, but whoever replaces me will have to rule by the sword.”
Her eyes grew glassy. She seemed to be staring at something far away. She murmured, “Duibuqi, Ridley,” then the slow rise and fall of her chest ceased and she slumped in her seat.
Pierson caught Liumei before she fell and lowered her gently to the ground. “She's gone,” he said. “It didn't seem like her infection had advanced so far. I think she just lost the will to live.”
“Feels strange to say this about a Union big shot,” Tinubu said, “but I hope she finds peace in death. Losing everything you cared about and dying of Messenger syndrome seems punishment enough for anyone.”
“Rest in peace, Liumei Song. You died better than you lived.” Pierson sighed and turned to the others. “We've done all we can here. Time to execute the final phase of our mission, though I'm afraid we've only made things harder on ourselves by having the governor give that quarantine order.”
“Yeah,” Tinubu said. “Time to get the hell out of here.”
63
Back in the courtyard, Pierson and the others found that Celeste had rejoined her comrades, the fire angel shape of her battle-scarred Arrow-3 looming behind them. The noise of chaotic mobs echoed beyond the palace walls and columns of smoke rose above the city. The survivors of the SLIC attack force fingered their weapons nervously, conscious of their small group's vulnerability in the midst of so many hostile forces.
“Would you listen to that,” Tinubu said. “I don't think the good citizens of Hongpan are paying much heed to the governor's command to keep things orderly.”
“It sounds like they've turned the whole city into a battlefield,” Vic observed. “How are we going to get out of here now?”
“We'll have to take the underground tunnels,” Cena said. “But there aren't any access points here in the Golden Ward, and the P.S.A. has probably sealed all the exits. With so few of us left, I don't have much confidence that we could shoot our way out.”
“What good does that do us?” Tinubu replied. “We shot the damn thing up so it can't fly anymore.”
“Is it a small transport?” Celeste asked.
“Pretty small,” Tinubu said. “Why?”
Celeste pointed her thumb at her exosuit sitting behind her. “My Arrow-3 has a lot of thrust. The rest of you could board the transport, and I could carry it. The fuel consumption would be enormous, so we couldn't get very far, but we could at least get out of the Golden Ward.”
“In that case,” Vic suggested, “why not just fly over the northern wall and take refuge in the mountains?”
“The P.S.A. is probably deploying patrols to guard the outskirts even as we speak,” Pierson said. “We'd be spotted for sure.”
“But we could fly over the western wall and enter the inner ring,” Cena said. “From there, we could descend into Undercity and escape that way.”
Pierson swept his gaze across the tense faces around him. “Anyone got any better ideas?” he asked. “No? All right, then that's our plan. Sergeant Celeste, get your suit ready to go. The rest of us are boarding the transport out back.”
Celeste climbed into her exosuit while the rest of the rebels made their way to the rear of the compound. The crippled transport sat where they had left it, with no sign of any guards. They piled into the transport, which was just barely large enough to fit everyone.
Celeste's Arrow-3 appeared from around the corner and landed next to the transport. She first drew her sword and sliced off the transport's nose and tail in order to reduce its mass. Then she sheathed her blade, hovered over the transport, and gripped it firmly in her suit's hands, holding on so tightly that the outer plating crumpled between its fingers.
“Hang on tight, everyone,” her voice boomed over her suit's loudspeaker. “We're lifting off.”
A deafening roar issued forth from the Arrow-3 as its engines revved up to maximum power, crimson flames pouring out of the thruster wings on its shoulders. The suit and transport slowly rose into the air, over the wall of the palatial complex, and headed for the western edge of the Golden Ward. The glass facades of the skyscrapers to either side rumbled and cracked from the flames of Celeste's engines washing over them.
Soon, they reached the outer edge of the Golden Ward and passed through the framework of the containment dome. Only moments after they entered the inner ring, a missile fired from somewhere on the ground and blazed up at them. Celeste banked, but her maneuverability was hopelessly crippled by the weight of the transport, and she could do nothing to avoid the missile as it exploded near her flank, tearing her left wing to shreds.
The damaged suit and transport plummeted to the ground, smoke and flames billowing from the shattered left wing. The Arrow-3 weaved from side to side as Celeste fired her leg thrusters and manipulated her airfoils to compensate for the damage. They were only a few meters above the ground when her control finally slipped and her suit crashed into the side of a building, dropping the transport. The transport hit the ground with a crash and fell onto its side, but its impact was minimal compared with the Arrow-3, which hit the ground so hard that it flipped over and rolled several times before skidding to a halt, leaving a trail of smoldering debris in its wake.
*
As the transport tipped over, Vic grabbed Astral and held her tightly to his chest, turning his body in mid-air to take the brunt of the fall. Though the drop jarred him, neither he nor Astral sustained any serious injuries. Moaning forms were piled around him on the transport's side, which had now become its bottom.
“Status report,” Pierson's commanding voice rose above the pained groans.
Thanks to the short drop, most of the passengers had escaped serious injury. However, Cena was gripping her abdomen, her teeth gritted in pain.
“I think the impact opened my wound again,” she groaned.
“Simmons, see to Sergeant Northwood,” Pierson ordered the medic.
While Simmons tended to Cena, the other passengers clambered out of the transport. Pierson gestured to either side of the street and said, “Set up a defensive perimeter. It'll be at least a few minutes before we can go anywhere.”
Vic's gaze wandered to the smoldering wreckage of Celeste's exosuit. He jogged toward the downed suit with Astral following close behind. As they drew near, the canopy swung open and Celeste's slender form dropped out. She landed on her hands and knees and rolled onto her back, gripping her side in pain.
“She's still alive,” Vic called, “but she looks hurt.”
Vic and Astral ran to Celeste's side and knelt next to her. The left side of her pilot suit was torn to shreds, revealing a mess of ruined flesh beneath. Behind her transparent visor, her eyes were squeezed shut and her teeth were gritted in pain. Vic had received rudimentary first aid training during his brief instruction with the Greenwings, but he had no idea how to begin treating such a serious injury.
“She's hurt bad,” he shouted. “She needs immediate medical attention.”
Pierson relayed Vic's message, then shouted back, “Simmons says he'll be right there, as soon as he's finished treating Sergeant Northwood.”
Soon, Simmons climbed out of the transport, followed by an ashen-faced Cena, and came to where Celeste lay on the ground. Vic and Astral stood back as Simmons knelt to administer first aid. After a brief check for spinal injuries, he removed her helmet and began probing her wound.
“Not good,” he said. “The whole side of her ribcage is caved in. Given how tough augment bones are, the cockpit must have been half-crushed to do this to her. It would take major surgery to fix this.”
Vic felt sick. “Is she going to die?”
“I'll do what I can.” Simmons pulled a syringe out of his kit, arranged several solutions, and began administering a series of injections. “At least her central nervous system is undamaged. First, a coagulant to arrest some of the bleeding, then heavy doses of antibiotic and painkiller. Finally, some stasis solution to reduce her metabolic processes. By inducing artificial suspension, she might last long enough to get her to a proper trauma ward.”
As Simmons reached out to apply the last injection, Celeste's eyes sprang open and she grabbed his wrist, stopping him. With a groan of pain, she raised herself into a sitting position.
“No,” she gasped. “It will be hard enough to escape without having to carry me. I won't be a burden. I'll walk out of here on my own two feet, or not at all.”
“Are you insane?” Simmons exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how badly you're injured?”
Celeste managed a pained half-smile. “You haven't treated many augments before, have you, Doc?” She began pushing herself onto her feet.
“All right,” Simmons relented. “All right, but at least let me bandage you and apply some dermal covering, unless you want to be dropping entrails everywhere.”
“OK.” Celeste sat down again. “But make it quick.”
*
Once Simmons finished emergency treatment, Celeste got up and amazed everyone by managing to walk under her own power, albeit haltingly and without any kind of agility. The din of armed clashes sounded from all directions, sometimes disturbingly close by. They spotted a handful of looters a block away, but frightened them off with a few bursts from their rifles. After that, they saw no further sign of hostiles until the wounded were treated and ready to go.
“I've got a rough idea of where we are,” Cena said. “I think I know where we can access the Undercity from here.”
Pierson gestured for her to take point. “Lead the way, Sergeant.”
Cena led the group through the streets, which were deserted save for roaming packs of looters and rioters. They encountered no large mobs, and the small groups which they did encounter were easily frightened off with a few warning shots. As they drew near their destination, the staccato of rapid gunfire and pops of small explosives grew louder.
“Da
mn,” Cena snapped. “Sounds like they're fighting right on top of where we need to go.”
Moments before they arrived, the sounds of battle abruptly stopped. They drew near the end of a building and peered around the corner, where they saw a large plaza situated in front of the entrance to a subway station. Numerous corpses of P.S.A. troops and wrecked Agency equipment lay scattered about the plaza. Several P.S.A. agents were looting the bodies of the fallen for ammunition while a single Rampart stood guard in the center of the plaza, scanning for more enemies. The rebels withdrew behind the building to assess their options.
“Looks like the Pizza Force is having some internal disagreements,” Tinubu observed.
“Know any other entrances to the Undercity, Sergeant?” Pierson asked.
Cena bit her lip. “Yeah, but they're all pretty far away. We've been lucky so far not to run into any big mobs or hefty P.S.A. patrols. I don't think that luck will hold out.”
“That's true.” Pierson paused. “This is probably as good as it's going to get. Let's hit them hard and fast, while they're still cleaning up after their skirmish. Don't skimp on ammo. If we can break through here, we should be home free. Northwood, I'll leave the Rampart to you. Ready?” He looked each of his comrades in the eyes, then shouted, “Go!”
The rebels poured out from behind the building, weapons blazing. Cena took aim with her anti-armor rifle and and put three shots into the Rampart's cockpit, staggering from the weapon's immense recoil. After the third shot, the Rampart fell to the ground with a crash.
The P.S.A. soldiers fell back before the ferocity of the rebel onslaught. Their return fire was erratic, and they were unable to land any fatal blows through the rebels' combat armor. Several of the P.S.A. agents fell, and the rest retreated into the surrounding alleys. The skirmish lasted barely half a minute.