Thompson’s distant voice shouts from the bay, “Brick! Get out here!”
Argo opens his mouth to decline when the sound of sprinting reinforcements spills in from behind the blockades. Palming a sphere from his bandolier, Argo scowls and traces a quarter circle on the top of it. He closes his eyes, gauging their distance, and lobs the sphere into the intersection. He scoops Beckert, careful to support his head, and rushes into the bay.
His visor glows with hot spots of flame, savaged metal, tracers of fire, and bodies.
A punishing blast gusts from the entryway, sending the battered doors careening across the deck and shoving the Brick to the floor. He protects Beckert as much as he can from the fall.
Weapon fire sparks and scorches the deck plates around him, zeroing in fast. Argo jumps up with his bleeding cargo and skids behind a long baggage conveyor. Multiple soldiers lie on the deck, tongues hanging from open mouths, skulls burst open from Thompson’s rifle shots.
Bright lights from the high ceiling shine into the gray-white haze, creating a diffuse glow. Argo’s head swivels, searching through the bright fog for his comrade and the enemy. Neither is in sight, but the thunder and crack of combat rolls close by.
Transports form orderly rows along extensive lanes. Gleaming in their midst, and standing much taller, are two polished vessels. Angular, yet stylish lines suggest performance and refinement. Nacelles at the ends of thick wings waver with heat and energy. The ramp is down on the nearer one, scattered with prone figures.
The Brick pulls a compartment from his rack. He draws three cinch straps from the box and tightens them quickly around each of Beckert’s dribbling stumps. A heavy bullet slams into his shoulder, twisting him to the deck.
“Gun!” he shouts.
Rapid high caliber shots clang and ricochet against the heavy conveyor, tracing a line toward Beckert. Argo, still holding a cinch strap, yanks the Geek to him and lays over him. The bullets bash the Brick’s back, perforating compartments of his rack.
A black form rushes from the smoke with a short weapon, triggering into the haze, and the incoming shots abate. The black figure leaps behind the conveyor, landing on a pile of shot-up luggage. It is Thompson.
Argo stares at the deep scorches in Thompson’s armor and the notch in his left arm. His chest plate glows with absorbed heat. The Gun’s rifle hangs from his shoulder by the strap, and the tall operator cradles an alien weapon like a toy in his hands.
“Thanks,” Argo says breathlessly. “I need cover to operate…”
“Negative,” Thompson interrupts, staring at the ramp of the nearby vessel. As Thompson watches, blueskins tug and pull at bodies blocking the ramp. The Gun levels his small, captured weapon and snipes. Three figures collapse, the others flee.
“That’s Beckert’s ride,” Thompson says, “and it’s trying to leave without him.”
Argo peeks over the conveyor at the gleaming vessel. Two blueskin pilots are seated behind the wide windshield. One touches a button overhead and the ramp struggles up from the deck. Bodies drape over the rising edges, sliding off and bouncing limply on the deck.
Thompson tosses a bulky pistol to his comrade.
“Go now!”
Argo takes the pistol and vaults over the conveyor, leaving Beckert with great difficulty. Thompson leaps over the conveyor, triggering into the smoke and drawing fire while Argo trots to the closing ramp.
The Brick hunches and leans forward, pistol raised beside his head. Shots streak from the haze, smashing his legs, making him wobble and stagger. His visor tracks the incoming shots, highlighting where to aim, and he fires the pistol in answer. For such a small weapon, the output is devastating.
Suppressing the pain of his injuries, Argo catches the edge of the ramp and flips his bulk onto it. He ambles up into a luxurious passenger compartment appointed with plush couches, beverage taps, and misters in opulent hues. His boot treads sink into light-colored floor padding, leaving a mixed trail of soot and blood. He sweeps his pistol across the room, but finds no one.
Slipping his cannon strap from his shoulder, he lets the spent weapon drop to the padded floor, and he finds a corridor leading toward the front of the vessel. Flimsy doors attempt to block his rampage, and he barrels straight through them.
At the corridor’s end, a short staircase leads up to a closed bulkhead. He clears the staircase in one hop of his good leg. Keeping momentum, he slams his fist into the bulkhead with all of his might. The sturdy door caves under his powerful fist, curling at one edge. He slides his fingers under the edge and he rips the whole bulkhead aside.
Thin beam weapons flash at him from the cockpit, burning into his armor. Argo triggers the pistol twice, and the weapon explodes the pilots’ flesh with a sickening pop. Organs spill wetly to the floor.
Argo hurls the bulkhead down the short staircase and steps into the cramped cockpit. Both pilots drape over the side of their chairs, torsos gaping. Blue spray mars the windshield and controls. The Brick seizes the bodies one at a time and hurls them down the stairs.
Argo looks through the blood-spattered cockpit glass at a smoke-filled bay. Small fires lick up from baggage and machines, choking the air with smutty fumes. Civilians and soldiers alike mill about like zombies, all sense hammered out of them by repeated explosions.
Another blast to the right buckles the front landing strut of a transport, dropping the nose cone to the metal deck. The back of it pivots up like a see-saw, ripping a connected fuel hose in half. Frosty clouds of vapor gush from the severed hose.
“Gun,” Argo says via radio, “vessel is secure…”
There is no response but the periodic ping and crack of gun fire. Argo searches through the windscreen for a trace of his comrade. Even with the aid of his visor, he finds none.
“Gun, respond.”
Nothing.
The Brick flies from the cockpit, down the stairs, through the plush cabin. He crouches at the top of the ramp, and presses a button which lowers it. Wary of attack, he lowers himself flat and watches through the widening gap of the descending ramp.
Though he paid no mind to it on the way in, there is a dense group of bodies at the base of the ramp. Many of them are wriggling, trying to pull free from beneath a toppled train of baggage cars.
There is still no reply from Thompson, and Beckert lies unguarded, mangled, helpless. An icy sensation grips his chest.
The mission is over.
“No!” he growls. “Not yet!” He breathes as deeply as his stabbed lung will allow and hobbles down the ramp.
A shape emerges from the haze. Argo turns on it, pistol aimed, almost triggering but for the mottled gray of its exterior.
“Brick!” Thompson croaks. The Gun lopes stiffly to a halt in front of Argo, cradling what remains of Beckert. Dark fluid is splashed across the tall operator’s hands, forearms, feet, and face. Deep holes perforate his armor. Plates at his thigh, shoulder, neck, and elbow are missing entirely. He passes the Geek over and snatches the last two grenades from Argo’s waist.
“Get him interfaced,” the Gun rasps, “we have to leave now.”
“Interfaced?” Argo counters. “He’s barely alive!”
A barrage of weapon fire opens up from the entryway, pounding into Thompson’s back and slamming him face first into the ramp. Argo turns and races with Beckert into the ship, shots glancing and smashing the back of his legs.
Thompson presses up from the ramp, his back burning with searing pain. He tries to run, but his left leg accepts no weight. He looks down at it, finding a circular hole burned straight through the thigh.
He turns to the entryway, where fresh soldiers file through and fan out. All carry long, heavy rifles.
The Gun crushes his eyes shut and drags himself down to the pile of blueskins pinned by the overturned luggage train. All of them scream and bray at his approach, except one.
The Gun looks directly into the feminine eyes of the most regal blueskin he has ever seen, the one he saw stride with
out hurry across the hallway earlier. Her body guards lay atop her in a shredded pile, having shielded her from the blast. Now she is trapped beneath their massive frames.
She holds a wound at her shoulder with a delicate claw and holds his gaze with an expression of remorse and sadness. She shakes her head softly.
Thompson arms the grenades in his hands and flings them out at the advancing soldiers. Hoots and shouts precede ferocious detonations.
He grabs the elegant creature under the jaw and hauls her from under the shredded bodyguards. One handed, he lifts her in front of him and snakes an arm under her chin. He stands with his good leg, dragging her up with him. Using his free hand, he locks the knee joint of his perforated leg armor and stands on it like a stilt.
Dozens of soldiers run from the smog, long rifles leveled, saffron eyes glaring malevolently. Thompson slides his rifle from his shoulder, and grips it by the barrel. The bayonet extends just above his fist, smothered in congealing blood. He holds it to her throat in warning and backs his way up the ramp.
The soldiers slide closer, keeping their weapons poised, shouting at him in fury. Dozens more pour in through the entrances, bringing barricades and tripod-mounted weapons.
At the top of the ramp, Thompson strikes a button with his elbow, raising the ramp from the deck. He drags his captive into the luxurious passenger cabin and hurls her at the sofas. She staggers off balance, trips over a low table, and plows with her wounded shoulder into the cushions with a yelp. Her expressive eyes turn to the ceiling, and she pants in short breaths.
“You,” Thompson rasps, pointing at her, “stay here.” He drops his pointing finger to the floor.
She looks at him cautiously, conveys gentility with open claws, and presses herself into the soft couch.
Thompson shambles after Argo’s tracks, dragging the butt of his rifle and marking his own trail in black, red, and blue. He shuffles through the corridor, pausing at the exploded pilots. Sounds of compressed air hiss from the cockpit.
“Brick…” Thompson looks up from the pilots to the cockpit and sways on his good leg. “S-s-status.”
Argo perks up, peering over the short staircase. A tube plugged into his neck flows with bright red fluid.
“Geek is interfaced, stabilizing.” Argo looks down at his patient and the hissing of compressed air continues.
“Why didn’t you respond?” the Brick asks.
Thompson stiff legs his way over the corpses, tapping a blood-smeared fingertip against his smashed faceplate.
“Radio…knocked out,” he rasps.
The Gun steps onto the staircase, eye level with the cockpit floor. Beckert’s charred left arm lies amputated before him. The Geek himself is reclined against the center console between the pilot seats. One lanyard from his HDI connects to the console, another is plugged into Argo’s labset. Hardened foam covers Beckert’s leg stumps like the caps of giant mushrooms.
The tube at Argo’s neck runs down to a small pump and continues on to Beckert’s neck port. A counter on the pump ticks the cubic centimeters of transfused blood.
Argo holds a canister to the Geek’s arm stump and applies a large quantity of expanding foam. The foam hisses out and bonds to the exposed flesh. Before the foam hardens, Argo slaps a square of metallic mesh over it. He bends the mesh corners up against the broken armor plating and tack welds them in place.
“Get him home, Argo.” Thompson’s eyes flutter, and he falls backwards off the stairs.
Argo rises suddenly, staring down at his collapsed comrade. Thompson lies on his side over the exploded pilots.
“Gun!”
Torn between two patients, Argo stops the pump and disconnects the tube at his neck. He leaps off the staircase, thudding beside Thompson. Tearing at the Gun’s armor latches, he rips the ruined plating away. Thompson’s face, chest, and abdomen look like they have been repeatedly impaled by a hot poker. He is not breathing. There is no pulse.
Argo slides Thompson onto his back and begins heart massage. He ventilates his comrade with two firm breaths and resumes the massage.
A rumble deep within the vessel rises in pitch and smoothes into a constant hum.
“Engines up to temperature,” Beckert advises dreamily. “Nav calibrating.” The Geek’s blind eyes dart erratically. “All the wireless just shut down.”
Argo continues his efforts without reply.
“They’ve restored ship-wide control!” the Geek warns.
Argo still does not reply.
“Lieutenant, we have to go! Now!”
“Then take us out!” Argo yells.
Beckert’s broken teeth gnash. “I can’t see…You have to!”
With heartfelt agony, Argo leaves his dying friend and re-enters the cockpit. He takes one look at the cramped pilot seat and rips it savagely from the mount. The big man swivels and hurls the seat down the corridor, well past Thompson.
Settling into the cleared space, he wraps his large hands around the control wheel; but he pulls too hard and the craft leaps up, smashing against the bay ceiling. Argo steadies himself after the jarring collision, relaxing his grip. He turns the wheel, and the craft smoothly pivots. Weapon fire raps against the windshield from all directions.
When the craft comes around, Argo at last understands Beckert’s alarm. The large shutters of the bay are rolling toward each other. The Brick’s jaw clenches and he thrusts the craft forward, shoving smaller, parked transports aside. Between the narrowing shutters, the planet’s horizon looms larger than it should be. A faint aura of pinkish-orange lines the bottom edge of the bay opening. Fiery debris streaks past the closing shutters, dashing up and to the right.
“Why are we in atmosphere, Geek?”
“Explain later! Go, go!”
Argo throttles full, inundating the bay in flame, and the ship hurtles between the closing shutters.
Free of the hangar’s gravity, Argo drifts up from the floor. Still gripping the controls, his movement pitches the craft down radically, flipping end over end. The view rolls from planet to space like a slot machine.
“Geek! Help!”
Beckert battles through fatigue, sickness, his own dismemberment. Holding onto the console with his one hand, he presses his stuttering mind into the ship’s basic instrumentation. In his mind’s eye, the instrumentation assembles as a three-dimensional construct. The gimbals tumble wildly. Beckert extends his consciousness, momentarily overriding the controls.
“Let go of the stick!” Beckert shouts.
Argo releases the control wheel, and reaches overhead to brace himself against the low ceiling. In moments, the craft ends its sickening flips and levels out. Argo feels his gut drop inside him as gravity enhancement comes on-line. Thompson and the dead pilots flop to the deck.
Beckert gasps with discomfort, belching blood over his lower lip. “Brick, take over!”
Argo’s big hands seize the controls again. He hauls smoothly and the planetary horizon drops out of sight. Innumerable pinpoints of light speckle the dark sky, majestic and serene.
An impact rattles the vessel, then another. Argo cuts the wheel and the ship responds nimbly, jinking and banking with every flick of the stick. In other circumstances, he would be lost in admiration of the craft’s performance, but all of his concentration is pressed into keeping ahead of enemy fire.
“I need a heading!” Argo snarls. His beefy limbs snap the stick back and forth. Crackling bolts, tracers, and missiles streak by the windshield. One connects, shuddering the entire vessel.
Argo turns an anxious eye to the hemispherical Nav display. Below, the colossal ship is leveling out in the upper atmosphere. Long streaks of plasma and vaporized metal shine behind it. The giant ship’s escorts, surprisingly distant, have formed a wide parabola and rush to intercept the escaping team. Clouds of ordinance pour from the escorts, trying to claw the small vessel from the sky.
“Geek?”
Beckert’s head lolls with Argo’s sudden banks and turns.
&nb
sp; “I can’t keep up with your course changes!”
A formation of ships de-mask directly ahead. Long bow struts are fully extended, and a shimmering field undulates between the ships like the surface of a black and bottomless ocean.
Argo plunges the ship toward the planet. The demasked ships pursue, taking formation with the others and adding their own weapons to the fray. The shimmering fields merge into a wide dome, shepherding the small craft toward the planet.
“We don’t have to get home,” Argo shouts desperately, “JUST GET US OUT OF HERE!”
A punishing hit triggers an internal explosion, and the ship skids to the right. Argo pins the wheel to the left just to keep the ship flying straight. He aims for a thin gap between the descending dome and the planet’s atmosphere.
Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 31