Black Hawks From a Blue Sun

by F. Allen Farnham

  After catching his breath, he feels his way down the remaining levels until he splashes down onto the solid foundation.

  Draining water, concentrated by the funneling of the crater and the complex’s structure, pushes his feet out from under him and washes him toward the fuming pit. He falls into a tripod with one hand forward, flailing his rifle with the other hand. The weapon smacks into an encased cluster of wires, knocking the calcified deposits free, and the grip catches between individual cables.

  Thompson hangs onto the rifle and feels with his forward hand under the water for any handhold, lip, or raised surface. Finding one directly below his shoulder, he sets his handhold and pulls himself up enough to hook his toe on it. Wiggling his foot, he plants his toe hold and steps away from the pit like a horizontal mountain climber. He picks his way toward the outer edge of the foundation where the draw of water is not so strong, disentangles his rifle from the cables, and makes his way to the command refuge corridor.

  At the doorway, he yells, “REDLINE!”

  There is no reply.

  “REDLINE!” he shouts, again without reply.

  It’d be perfect if I start down this hallway and Argo blasts me in half. Yeah. That’d be great.

  Thompson dials his rifle output down to “signal” and points the barrel into the hallway, tapping the codeword in flashing light. He leans in and yells again for good measure before slogging through the shin-deep water. Every few steps he shouts the greeting to be safe.

  Water drips from the ceiling and runs down the seams of wall plates. Roaring from the pit and cascading water echo in the close corridor as his feet plunge in swift succession.

  By the time Thompson reaches the end of the hallway, the water has drained to ankle depth. He raps on the bulkhead with his armored fist.

  “REDLINE!”

  The Gun takes the bulkhead wheel, but it will not budge. He glances around the doorway, noting how the wetness extends to the ceiling.

  Did the refuge flood?

  The bulkhead wheel spins on its own and the door releases.

  “Blueshift,” Beckert’s voice calls through the gap.

  “You all right?” Thompson asks, stepping through the opening door into pitch blackness. He clicks his helmet lights on and scans the room.

  “We’re fine, but we lost power,” Argo answers from the far side of the chamber. He hikes a thumb at the mechanical room. “Permission to keep working on the generator?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Thompson affirms, lifting his faceplate. “Geek, show yourself.”

  Beckert steps from the shadows and clicks on his own lights. “Sir?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing that could have caused that, Major! The Lieutenant thinks it may have something to do with the reactor meltdown…” The Geek breaks off mid-sentence, staring at Thompson’s shoulder. “What’s that on you?”

  “Huh?” The Gun tries to see the spot where Beckert points, but his stiff neck armor will not permit it.

  “There’s some kind of haze on your armor,” Beckert explains.

  Thompson shrugs, paying it no mind.

  “What were you working on before…” The Gun rotates a hand in the air as he tries to come up with the words. “…before this happened.”

  “Sir, I was policing up portable supplies and organizing them in the General’s quarters. Shall I resume?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Geek about-faces and disappears into the long hallway of rooms.

  Thompson shoulders the bulkhead closed and locks it. He shines his lights over the ceiling, finding neither cracks nor leaks. The walls and flooring appear in equally good condition.

  Remarkable.

  The Gun slings his rifle and walks around the workstations to the mechanical room. Argo is easy to find due to his helmet lights. His labset is linked into the generator and the Brick reads data from it.

  “Thermal protect circuit tripped again,” the big man announces.

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Don’t see why not.” Argo thumbs his labset and sets it down. He grips the manual breaker for the generator and cycles the switch. The starter gears engage cleaner than before, and the machine hums with life again.

  The big man steps past Thompson on his way to the power console. With a couple of taps, Argo selects which breakers to close. The room brightens with restored light.

  “Well done, Brick.”

  Argo smiles modestly on his way back to the generator. He monitors the function in his labset. Thompson follows him.

  “Everything check out?” Thompson asks.

  “Yeah, fine so far.” Argo notices the Gun standing closer than usual. His brow furrows. “Something wrong?”

  Thompson backs up, aware of his proximity.

  “No, but…what I saw up there…thought I’d lost you both.”

  Argo grins with curiosity. “What did you see?”

  Thompson grins back. “I was over a kilometer away and the ground was shaking. The sky to the east was dominated by steam—you couldn’t see anything of the complex at all. And a jet of water over a hundred meters high… Must have been gigajoules of energy to make that jet. A terajoule, maybe.”

  “What about the enemy?” Argo asks, aiming the labset at the Gun.

  “It’s crowded. Tight search patterns in all directions, but Beckert was right. They’re avoiding this place.”

  “I can see why.” Argo holds his labset near the haze on the Gun’s shoulder. The device ticks frantically.

  “Gun, you’re glowing. Follow me.”

  Sensing Argo’s anxiety, Thompson looks down at his arms. The warm dry air of the refuge has almost completely dried his armor, leaving a wispy white residue. He hastens after his comrade.

  The Brick leads him out of the mechanical room and makes the first left into the head. White tile extends across the floors up to waist height along the walls. A white marble counter with four sinks extends from the wall opposite and a mirror runs the full length of the counter. Fluted-glass light fixtures aim down from above the mirror, shining on each sink with diffused light. In the brief moment Thompson can look, he sees his dark armor is pale with mineral deposits.

  “Over here,” Argo directs, pointing at a dual shower stall. His large hands take hold of the stainless steel divider and rip it from the wall like cardboard, creating a single stall with dual shower nozzles. He aims the nozzles at the center of the widened stall and runs water through both.

  “Hurry!”

  Thompson lowers his faceplate. His visor is hazy with opaque spots. He pauses to remove his rifle and points at the shower nozzles.

  “Is the shelter’s water radioactive?”

  “No, it’s an isolated system. Now c’mon, let’s go!”

  Thompson steps under the brisk jets and turns so the water can coat his armor evenly.

  “I’m going to find something to scrub with. Use your hands for now, and keep the water hot.”

  Thompson nods, rubbing his limbs intensely.

  Argo strides back to the marble counter top and throws open the cabinets below. He rummages past stacks of folded white towels, crates of dried out soap gel, bins of toothpaste tubes and toothbrushes, razors, combs, bottles of solidified shampoo, hand towels and face cloths, trimmers and clippers, evaporated disinfectant, and lotions. The last cabinet he checks contains a wheeled plastic bucket, sealed in transparent plastic. He grabs it and pulls it from the cabinet, his fingers gouging through the plastic wrapper.

  Inside the bucket, Argo finds an empty spray bottle, a mop with a telescoping handle, a stiff bristled brush, and a large sealed jar. He hefts the jar and turns it in his hands to read the generic label.

  Cleanser, General Purpose-Bathroom, G-19-8X. For removal of soap scum, mineral stains, and mildew. Safe on all non-porous ceramic and metallic surfaces. Do not combine with chlorine bleach, as toxic fumes may result. For regular cleaning, mix two parts cleanser with full mop bucket. For heavy cleaning, add two
parts cleanser to full spray bottle and allow to soak for several minutes.

  Argo rips the lid off the jar and twists open the spray bottle. He jams the open bottle neck into the cleanser powder and tilts it upright quickly, trapping a generous portion inside. The movement wafts a cloud of stinging, lemon-scented dust.

  He props the bottle under a faucet and opens the tap. Hot water fills the angled bottle until it spits out of the neck. Argo lifts the bottle. It is less than half full.

  “Maybe a little strong,” he grumbles, screwing the spray nozzle on. Armed with his astringent chemical, he takes the stiff bristled brush in hand and assaults his teammate with it. Thompson braces himself against the tiled wall to keep from being knocked down by Argo’s scouring.

  Multiple rounds of spraying, scuffing, and rinsing ensue until the labset confirms the Gun’s sanitation with unhurried ticks. Most of the armor’s light absorbing glaze is gone, exposing mottled patches of native gray. Thompson scowls at the loss of camouflage.

  “Did it get on your weapon optics?” Argo asks.

  Thompson hefts his rifle and peers through the scope. A hazy ring encircles the view, and a small dot loiters off center. He lowers the weapon, thinking about the spare optics he had in his rack—a rack that is either buried in muck at the bottom of a drowned tunnel or in the gullet of a scaly, dead animal…

  Argo reads his friend’s expression easily. “Let me have it, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Thompson passes the rifle over. Argo props the weapon beside him and grips his friend by the shoulder.

  “You’re going to get very sick.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Argo leans closer. “Nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. You may feel ok for a few days, but after that…”

  “All I need is a few days, Argo. Maybe less.”

  Argo cocks his head in confusion.

  “There’s a way off planet,” Thompson finishes.

  Argo’s stone face lifts with excitement. When Thompson fails to mirror the sentiment, the big man suddenly understands they are approaching their end of the mission. Understanding yields to acceptance and, ultimately, to determination.

  “We’ll get the kid home safe,” the big man says.

  Thompson nods sternly.

  “Doesn’t mean we have to go easy,” Argo concludes.

  “That’s right.” Thompson extends his hand. Argo clasps it firmly.

  “Ok,” the Brick says, releasing the Gun’s hand, “when do we leave?”

  “ASAP. The enemy is scattered right now and we have cover of darkness. Does Beckert have all the data from the memory core?”

  “He has all of the battle data. There was no way to squeeze anything else.”

  “Anything on Cadre One or Two?”

  Argo shakes his head. “Nothing. And Geek searched thoroughly.”

  Thompson drops his head in disappointment.

  “Actually, there was something,” Argo adds. Thompson looks up in rapt attention.

  “Not data,” the Brick explains, “but a clue to location. He said he found it at the tower and stored it in his HDI.”

  “That’s even better!” The elation drains when he recalls how carefully the blueskins are excavating the collapsed tower. “Did he leave it behind?”

  “No, he said he pulverized it after image capture.”

  Thompson bobs his head. “Good, good. Cadre Two…” Snapping back to the present, he reaches for his rifle.

  “Let me take this back. I can deal with it.” He looks the Brick over and finds him missing something.

  “Where’s your weapon?”

  “Mechanical room, charging.” Argo pivots a half turn, presenting his rack of equipment. “Take a fresh battery and leave me yours.”

  Thompson opens a compartment on Argo’s rack and removes a heavy module. Inside are rows of spare cells. He plucks out a fresh cell and exchanges it with the one in his rifle.

  “Thanks,” he says, returning the module to its compartment. “Get your gear and shut the power down, permanently. Then, collect Geek. We’re leaving via escape tunnel in five, got it?”

  “Got it.” The Brick hustles out of the restroom.

  Thompson opens the latches on his rifle and inspects the internal optics. As far as he can see, they are unmarred. Satisfied, he closes the rifle latches and marches into the main chamber.

  His eyes roam the protective walls. This shelter, with its familiar machinery and ancient bones, is a familial link to a lost history. He feels the attachment viscerally, and it tears him up that he must leave it behind.

  The Gun climbs up to General Noromi’s station and lifts the top of the console. Constellations of orange and green lights wink at him. With a sigh, he spins his rifle butt forward and smashes it repeatedly through the circuit boards. Smoke and ozone waft from the obliterated innards.

  The sacks of media records remain beside the general’s terminal, and Thompson collects them. As he slips the harness over his head, a tremendous clang from the mechanical room is followed by a shudder and fading screech. Chamber lighting and all of the terminals go dark. Ventilators and water pumps wind down, leaving the room eerily still.

  Such silence makes the tall operator edgy. Cinching the media sacks tight across his chest, he marches to the bulkhead and swings it open. Hovering whisper-quiet in front of him is a small robot. Rows of lenses are embedded in its spherical body. It sweeps a pink beam over him.

  The Gun leaps at the hovering thing and clubs it out of the air. The machine bounces off the metallic floor plates and splits open with a mild spark. He jumps on top of it, trampling it to bits.

  “ENEMY CONTACT,” he shouts into his radio. Adrenaline courses through him, igniting a passionless fury. He strides over the flattened robot and kneels at the intersection, sealing his faceplate. Pink beams, scattered by steam, shine down the corridor from the far end.

  Thompson links his visor wirelessly to the scope of his rifle and holds his weapon out past the corner. Haze on the scope lens and steam obscure any useful detail.

  Argo’s heavy footfalls approach, and the Brick crouches behind Thompson. The big man’s eyes are wide, his nostrils flared. Beckert pads silently next to him and waits, pistols raised. Both men seal their faceplates and await further instruction.

  “Smoke,” Thompson whispers.

  Argo takes a hand off his cannon and palms a grenade from his waist. He activates it and flings it down the corridor. The pink beams switch off abruptly. Sounds of heavy motors retreat from the hallway.

  The grenade pops and hisses, belching dense clouds into the hallway.

  “Geek, get to the escape tunnel,” Thompson orders. “Brick, trap this bulkhead, high yield.”

  The operators reply with a staccato, “Sir!” and move to their assignments. Thompson peers past the corner. Wavering heat outside the corridor glows dull orange in his visor. Silhouetted at the entrance, spindly, articulated arms reach in from the sides.

  Beckert unbars the escape hatch with a subdued clunk and guides it softly to its open extent. He jabs his pistols into the room beyond, sweeping for the enemy. Facing Thompson, he hand signals, clear.

  Argo adjusts a cylindrical device and tucks it just inside the bulkhead. He pulls the heavy door shut and turns the wheel as quietly as possible.

  “Brick, move,” Thompson orders.

  Argo hefts his cannon and dashes across the intersection.

  As the grenade hisses and spins near the far end of the corridor, the articulated arms venture in, followed by a squat body on treads. Pink beams radiate from the ends of the arms, concentrating on the hissing source of smoke.

  Thompson hops across the intersection and crouches at the opposite corner, still watching the intruding vehicle.

  One arm of the vehicle lowers toward the grenade, sweeping it repeatedly with the beam at close range before picking it up. The arm folds and hurls the grenade into the complex’s central pit.

  Thompson slides back from the corner and gra
bs the escape hatch. He steps over the threshold and swings the portal into place.

  “Brick, give me another trap on this door, high yield. Geek, get going.”

  “Aye, sir,” Beckert pipes and he sprints down the tubular tunnel.

  Argo’s big hands manipulate the detonator.

  “What’re we up against?” The big man places the explosive in the corner closest to the hatch. He looks toward the tunnel, but Thompson is already gone. Argo taps the activator, collects his cannon, and sprints after his comrades.