Black Hawks From a Blue Sun

by F. Allen Farnham

  “There you are! Did you get it?”

  The camera turns right, showing Genia standing at floor-to-ceiling windows. The camera lifts toward the ceiling twice.

  “Yeah, right here,” a man’s voice says. The camera lowers on Genia again as she looks through the glass over a massive city at twilight. She gestures with a hand, and the cameraman approaches her.

  “Is it recording?” she asks, still looking out at the city.

  “Yeah, yeah it is.”

  Genia points out, her fingertip bending against the glass.

  “Can you get that?”

  The camera turns and looks through the glass. It focuses on a raging fire, covering several city blocks. Above the flames, a black cloud rises and drifts with the wind. Emergency vehicles, stuck in gridlocked traffic, are unable to get near it.

  “What happened?” the cameraman asks. The camera swings to Genia.

  “It fell from the sky,” she mutters, looking up at early evening stars. The camera follows her gaze to bright red streaks cutting the heavens. One points straight at them, rolling and throwing off hot fragments.

  “Jesus, Fred, here comes another one!”

  Fred zooms in on the glowing object, tracking it all the way down to a distant suburb. A tremendous fireball balloons from the impact. Seconds later, the floor and windows rattle savagely.

  “Whoa,” Genia says, steadying herself. The camera sways a moment then looks to the sky again. More of the red streamers head toward them, growing larger. Fred zooms in on a dense cluster, and though shaky, the plummeting fragments resemble parts of a wheel.

  “Oh, shit, Gen, it’s the orbital hub!” The fragments rip apart into smaller, glowing pieces. “I think they’re going to miss us…hit the ocean, maybe.”

  The camera turns back to Genia.

  “Did the uplink ever come back?” Fred asks.

  Genia shakes her head. “Satellites are gone. Airwaves are empty…it’s so strange.”

  The building lights go dark. Across the city, whole blocks darken in a successive pattern until emergency lights activate. Genia presses her hands against the glass, her head bowed.

  “I thought the end would be different.”

  “C’mon, Gen, let’s get outta here.”

  Genia swings around, her arms rubbery, her eyelids heavy.

  “Sure thing, Fred! Where to?” She gestures grandly toward the city streets, packed tight with unmoving vehicles. “We could hitch a ride with one of them!”

  Genia faces the window. Without the city glow, the sky is bright with stars and falling debris.

  “Lotta people dyin’ up there today.” She leans her forehead against the glass. “You know, I finally got that meeting with Senator Billings-s-s.” The woman pats the brown canvas bag looped over her shoulder. “Yup, got everything right here, s-so he can know everything I know. Guess he got stuck in traffic.”

  She throws her head back and laughs in a bizarrely inappropriate way. The camera lowers slightly, filming her chest and shoulder.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Fred hisses. “You high?”

  “Y-y-yup!” she answers giddily and produces a prescription bottle from her bag. She turns from the window and rattles the bottle at him. “Want some?”

  A flash behind her whites out the screen.

  “AAAAH, FUCK!” Fred yells. The camera falls and clatters against the floor, coming to rest on its side. Bright light sears the walls and flooring, blistering the paint. The camera tries to adjust to the intensity, focusing on an interior office window. Reflected there, a blue fireball swells like a furious god.

  Genia snatches the camera and aims it at her wobbly self. Her singeing hair and clothes throw off a smoky aura in the brilliant light.

  “Isss all my fault…” she slurs.

  “C’mon, Gen, we gotta go!” Fred grabs her by the jacket and hauls her over his shoulder. Genia’s arms drape with the camera still in her grip, swaying and filming Fred’s running legs.

  Violent tremors shake the floor, and Fred’s feet stagger across the hallway. A moment later, glass explodes and the camera swings wildly. A grating noise like tearing metal fabric is all the camera’s overwhelmed microphone can convey.

  The noise dies down, and Genia’s groans mingle with the sounds of falling glass and distant sirens. The camera rises from the debris strewn floor and once again sways, filming Fred’s gashed legs. He weaves between wrecked desks and office machines. Burning paper blows by.

  “Whe-re er we goin’?” Genia drones. A long line of saliva trails past the camera and soaks into the slashed fabric of Fred’s jeans.

  “Just hang on, Gen, ‘K?”

  Limping badly, Fred steps through the empty frame of a glass office wall. He pauses at a black metal door and lays Genia against an overturned desk.

  The camera lifts, watching Fred work on the heavy door. His face and ears are scorched deep red with flecks of black on his nose, cheeks, and forehead. His right hand seeps blood though cracked and peeling skin.

  “Whoa, Fred, heard o’ sunblock?” She sniggers.

  Fred turns in disbelief. One eye is seared shut with dark tears draining from it. The other has a halo of unmarked skin the size of the camera’s viewfinder. He turns back to the door and jams a card into a slot with his left hand. The door dings once and Fred shoves it open with his good arm. The words, “Media Archive” are painted in bold white letters upon the metal facing.

  “S-s-so, Fred, mankind kicked over the baddes-s-st anthill in the universe like a bratty kid, and got isself killed. How does this make you feel?”

  Another brilliant flash washes out the screen.

  Fred’s heavy grunts and scraping shoes are the only clues to what is happening until the screen dims. The camera looks up into Fred’s face as he drags Genia by the wrists into a small room with no windows, just cabinets and racks filled with small plastic cards. He pivots, searching about the small space when an omnipresent rumbling begins. Media records dance and vibrate until an incredible shock launches them from their cradles. Fred pitches forward, scrambling over the loose piles of plastic, and hauls the door shut. The screen goes completely dark.

  “Fred? Fred?”

  “I’m here, Gen.” Media records snap and crack under foot. His voice sounds closer when he confirms again, “I’m here.”

  Her breaths are short then gradually, they deepen. She sniffs.

  “C’mon, Gen, don’t give up.”

  The rumbling rises again, and Genia’s breathing quickens.

  “No, no, no…” Her voice is suddenly muffled.

  “I’ve gotcha. It’s all ri…”

  A shock more powerful than the last slams the chamber. A shower of plastic rains around the camera. The building itself groans desperately around them, disintegrating. Rumbling overwhelms the audio into noisy distortion. The room is slammed again, and again. Genia screams. The video ends.

  Beckert twitches with surprise to see Argo standing beside him.

  “The download is complete?” the Brick asks, more assumptive than questioning.

  Beckert gathers his wits, checking the display on Noromi’s terminal.

  “Uh…yes, sir. Download complete.” The Geek hurries to disconnect and store the smaller memory core.

  “Did you see?” Beckert asks.

  “This one, I did. The others I heard from the corridor. Now, if you’re finished, go search the back rooms. See if there’s anything we can salvage.”

  Beckert looks up, disappointed by Argo’s answer. He searches the big man’s face for a sign of sympathy, but finds only the familiar stoicism.

  “Lieutenant, we started the war…”

  “And?” Argo replies, already impatient.

  Beckert searches himself for words, coming up light.

  “It changes everything!”

  “Does it?” Argo leans in for emphasis. “Now that you know this, do you think the enemy won’t kill you on sight? Seeing how they destroyed our people, you think they w
on’t finish the job if they find Cadre One?”

  Argo stares harshly at the silent Geek.

  “Tell me, Sergeant, how does this change anything at all?”

  Beckert grimaces humbly.

  “This is the second time you’ve hesitated when ordered to action,” Argo continues. “I think I’m more interested in knowing why you’re still sitting there.”

  Beckert flies from the chair but Argo catches him by the arm and pulls him in close. The Brick glares severely.

  “I wonder if you’re able to maintain the Operator standard. Perhaps a more analytical role would suit you.”

  Beckert’s eyes stretch at the only things he truly fears: being unworthy of the charcoal grays, losing the faith of his peers, disappointing those who depend on him.

  “Sir, NO, SIR!” he roars in a deeper voice than he has ever dared. His eyes are shiny and hard like brown diamonds. Argo eases his glare and releases his captive.

  “Best prove it, then.”

  Beckert salutes rigidly and runs for the back rooms. The Brick watches him disappear down the long corridor of rooms before turning his attention to the console. Eight clean media records are lined up in a row, the last still in the reader. He takes them all into his large hands and shakes his head.

  This is bad, he thinks. He closes his fists with the intention of crushing them but frowns and opens his hands. He grunts, stores the records in his rack, and strides back to the corridor.

  Savage Grandeur

  Thompson climbs out of the exploded complex and slides like an ominous thought over the twilit landscape. Once over the crater’s rim, he follows the rising terrain west through a sparse forest to an outcropping of broken rock hollowed by ice, wind, and rain. Taking shelter beneath a slanted overhang, he nestles in and looks east.

  Steam from the command center billows thicker in the cooling air and drifts over the DC ruins, pushed out to sea by prevailing winds. Beyond the steam, hundreds of lights pore over the blasted city. The Gun props his rifle on a notched stone and peers through his scope.

  Heavy machines on wide tracks pull at the collapsed tower, lifting each fragment away. Companion aircraft hover above each machine, running their pink beams over every piece of removed debris. Their progress is slow and meticulous.

  Keep digging, you blue-skinned trash.

  Lifting his eye from the scope, the Gun contemplates the greater scene. For thousands of kilometers around the city, tiny lights skim over treetops and rubble. As Beckert mentioned, however, they are giving the steaming command center a wide berth.

  He swings his rifle south and looks over a wide plain as white as the complex’s interior. Cone-shaped vents cough their own clouds of steam, surrounded by pools glowing with heat. Twisted trunks of long-dead trees stand amid the calcified landscape like an orchard of skeletons.

  A distant rumble perks him up. He slides open his faceplate for a better listen and tracks the sound to the far side of the rocky outcropping. Far to the southwest, another column of steam rises toward the heavens, though far more compact and coherent. Brilliant jets of blue flame ride the pinnacle of the ascending column.

  Moving fast, Thompson props his rifle and zooms in with his scope. The craft is high in its climb and has leveled off, hidden behind its own exhaust plume. He smirks.

  That’s how we’ll get Beckert home…

  Thompson takes his eye away from the scope and looks above the craft to a cluster of bright reflections in orbit. Most appear like pinpoints of light, save an oblong reflection at the center. He zooms in, and a tremendous vessel displays in his scope with smooth, muscular curves.

  I remember you, he thinks, delighted. Might get a closer look, after all.

  He takes his eye from the scope and looks down the rising craft’s vapor trail, searching for its origin. Strong breezes have scattered and blown the base out to sea. Tree-covered hills block his view to the coast, making further search impossible, so he waits.

  Early stars pierce the dimming sky, accenting the faint ribbons of shimmering auroras. The last rays of setting sunlight catch the top of the craft’s vapor trail, painting it a fiery orange. Thompson raises his gaze to appreciate the beautiful display, when something bright rises from the horizon. He locks onto it immediately, recognizing the blue jets of another launch vehicle, and zooms in with his scope. The optics display direction and approximate distance.

  “Gotcha,” he says with a gleam.

  The craft thrusts east until the Gun is sure it is well over the ocean. It reclines sharply and powers skyward. Great clouds of vapor pile up behind the craft as it steadily accelerates. Many seconds later, roaring crackles roll over the tree-covered hills.

  The ground vibrates lightly, and Thompson shakes his head in awe of such incredible output from such a small craft. As the craft ascends, the vibration grows into an omnipresent rumble. The awe turns to disbelief, and the Gun looks around himself. The calcified plain to the south is awash in geyser fountains thirty meters high. To the east, the command center is completely hidden beneath a colossal disgorging of vapor. All the search craft are retreating from the area.

  The rumbling grows seismic, and loose stones tremble in his grotto. Thompson stares with alarm into the fuming crater.

  “Argo, Beckert, what have you done?”

  Surges of boiling water froth and splash near the broken dome of the complex. Thompson shrinks back into his shallow cave, pressing hard against the naked rock, and drops his faceplate in preparation. His visor displays great clouds of thermal energy from the complex and from the geyser field to the south.

  With a shocking thump, the churning cauldron spews forth a hundred-meter pillar of superheated water, and a sound louder than Thompson ever imagined batters him. The vaulted water spreads and falls, dousing the area in fat drops and lofted stones. Thick mists form everywhere the water lands.

  The rumbling fades abruptly, ending the magnificent fountain and leaving Thompson dazed by the spectacle.

  A thought strikes him like a bullet between the eyes.

  Argo and Beckert!

  Gripping his rifle tightly, he dashes from his shelter into the thick mists. Droplets condense on his visor and he has to repeatedly swipe his hand to clear them. Trees and embedded boulders appear from the fog fractions of meters before he collides with them, but concern for his team will not permit him to slow. He bounces off the obstacles he can not avoid, using his arms to push away and continue his pace.

  He sprints from the trees and high-steps over a softened field of tall grasses. His feet plunge into pools of water, splashing himself up to the waist. All around, he hears running water, but he does not see the stream before pitching face first into it. He presses himself up one-handed, the other arm raised to spare his rifle from submersion.

  The terrain makes a gentle turn upward, and the ground, though muddy, grows firmer with each step. A sound like a labored exhale comes from ahead, and Thompson follows it up to the crater rim. Peering over, he sees swirling vapor roiling from the pit. The entire complex is filled with impenetrable fog.

  Could this thing erupt again?

  The Gun stands gazing into the hellish maw.

  Doesn’t matter. This mission is over without them.

  With diminished regard for personal safety, Thompson flings himself down the crater slope toward the complex. Rivulets of water race him to the concrete dome and he splashes into a pond of warm water at its edge. Shifting stones roll underfoot, making him stumble and stagger through the chest-deep pool. He lifts his rifle high overhead to keep it from accidental immersion.

  His boots find the gritty, worn surface of the concrete dome, and he climbs up from the steaming pond. Water stands to the very edge, overflowing into the interior levels. He crouches at the rim and leans over the precipice, gazing into a total white-out.

  Disregarding the insanity of his action, he takes his rifle in both hands and hops off the edge, plummeting. His boots smash into a withered railing, flipping him onto hi
s back. He crashes through a section of flooring to the next level, and bounces off a weakened wall toward the upturned floor plates. He clutches blindly for a handhold, glancing off a floor joist, and slides over the edge. He slams chest first onto a protruding floor joist below. Flowing water makes the joist slick and his hand slips right across it.

  Falling upright, he bends his knees to cushion his next landing and lands astride a dilapidated partition. The wall folds beneath him, slowing his fall, and his feet land on sturdy plating. Thompson stays crouched a moment with arms out, waiting to see if the floor drops from beneath him.