by Gates, J.
At last, I’m able to fall asleep. When I open my eyes again, it’s dark out. The truck has come to a stop. It takes a few moments before I realize what’s happening. We’ve reached N-Hub 2. The battle is upon us.
~~~
The time between 5 am, when we arrive in N-Hub 2, and noon, when the official merger broadcast is to take place, is perhaps the most difficult part of the ordeal. We spend most of the time in our cramped squad truck, crunching on little packets of N-Chow and stirring only to relieve ourselves in an alleyway.
Through communication on the Protectorate’s encoded IC network, McCann learns that the rest of the teams are in place, except one. Apparently, one two-truck team was stopped for questioning at a checkpoint outside N-Hub 256. A gunfight broke out in which several squadmen were killed, and then the team broke south as their orders required. That was four hours ago, and they haven’t been heard from since. So our numbers are down from one hundred to eighty. The news seems to unnerve several of our team members, but not McCann. He sits in the driver’s seat, listening to music and drumming a syncopated dance rhythm on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to throw up from my mounting nerves.
I was with Ethan during every step of the planning process, and it’s hard to say whether it’s a blessing or a curse. The advantage is that, unlike most people on the team, I know exactly what’s going to happen today down to the most minute detail—everything up to our top-secret escape plan. The bad news is, I also know everything that might possibly go wrong, and as I sit there waiting, an endless array of potential disasters parade through my mind.
It seems like days pass before the alarm finally goes off on McCann’s IC, indicating that it’s 11:15 am. The minute the chirping sound stops, he checks his white pistol then slips it back into its holster and the rest of us follow suit.
“Who’s ready for glory?” McCann asks with his usual, wide-mouthed grin.
“I am,” I say. A few others answer, too.
“We all know what to do?” he asks, and everyone nods. “Good, then. History is waiting.”
We all get out. Two of the men open up the tailgate of the truck and take out a large, black trunk, then fall into line behind us, carrying it along.
We move single file down the street behind the Stock Exchange building, up to the back door. There are barricades set up outside and several squadmen in riot gear standing guard. I sense the tension from my team members, but McCann’s pace doesn’t falter as he approaches them, and his men follow him confidently.
As we pass, I catch a glimpse of Clair’s face behind one of the squadmen’s helmets.
At the door, the men are met with another surprise. The squad member running the IC that scans everyone’s fake cross implant is none other than General Ethan Greene. With each man that passes, the IC in his hand beeps and he gives a small nod of encouragement. When I pass, he speaks softly to me: “When we get inside, stay close to me,” he says.
And I pass through the barricade with the others. Seconds later, we’re in a small maintenance room—Ethan, Clair, McCann, me, and the eighteen other members of my unit. Someone opens the trunk and everyone pulls out their white machine gun, checks the chamber, checks the clip. On the wall is an imager: Jimmy Shaw sitting in the boardroom back at Headquarters, my father and Bernice Yao next to him.
“We thank God for this day of marvelous unity,” Jimmy says in his grand, booming voice. It’s amazing how phony he seems to me now. “Truly, a new era of abundance is dawning—Amen.”
My father takes the podium. “And with that, ladies and gentlemen of the Company, stockholders, employees, friends, the moment is at hand. We take you back to the Stock Exchange in N-Hub 2, where the merger will officially be final in . . . ”
A countdown begins on the screen. Ten, nine . . .
Ethan moves to the doorway now, and I follow him like a shadow. His IC beeps, and he looks down at the screen. The message reads: All clear. GO. —R
Ethan surges forward through the doorway, with nineteen soldiers a step behind him.
The sound of the loudspeaker system reverberates the countdown through the walls:
. . . eight, seven . . .
Down a long maintenance hallway to a set of double doors.
. . . six, five . . .
We pull the American-flag jerseys from the prison raid over our squad uniforms. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it might crack my ribs.
. . . four, three, two . . .
We’re through the double doors in an instant, barging into the vast, empty floor of the Stock Exchange. There are no more than five squadmen in the room, and Ethan’s shot three of them before I’m even through the door. I wound another, and McCann shoots the fifth, killing him instantly. None of them even have a chance to get a shot off.
In researching the raid, I saw pictures of the Stock Exchange as it used to be—filled with hundreds of computer monitors, packed with scores of traders. It’s a completely different scene now. Aside from the dead squadmen, there are only a few other people here, members of the imager crew, I guess, and a few high-credit-level VIP types, standing along one wall. They raise their hands in terrified surrender. The rest of the huge room is basically empty. Its only purpose now is to house a single large, outdated computer mainframe. A handsome young Asian man, who I recognize as Bernice Yao’s grandson, William, stands in a stiff-looking tuxedo in front of the computer, looking completely dumbfounded. Apparently he was supposed to be the onsite imager correspondent.
“What are you doing? What’s going on? Who are you?” he demands, but no one answers.
The cameraman who was filming him has already run away and joined the throng of prisoners against the far wall. Ethan wastes no time. He hurries past Yao’s grandson directly to the mainframe and plugs a data stick into it.
There are several imager screens around the room, and on one of them I see the scene cut back to the boardroom, where Jimmy Shaw has once again reclaimed the podium.
“Terribly sorry, folks. It appears we’ve run into some minor technical difficulties over at the Stock Exchange. Nothing to worry about, of course.”
But at the bottom of the screen, the ubiquitous stock ticker that was to bear the unified N-Corp/B&S stock price now reads:
DEMOCRACY FOREVER, OLIGARCHY NEVER. THE PROTECTORATE IS FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. THE PROTECTORATE IS FIGHTING FOR YOU.
SQUADMEN, LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS NOW AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED.
These words are being read by every person on earth. Even if we die now, we’ve won a stunning victory today.
~~~
“Come on!”
Five other soldiers and I follow Clair up a series of marble steps, then burst into the open air. A cool wind blasts me instantly, almost taking my breath away as I rush out toward the colonnade at the front of the building. Two squadmen are up here, shouting down to their comrades on the street below. One hears us coming and tries to draw on us, but Clair shoots him dead. The other, more wisely, throws down his gun and gets on his knees. And just like that, we’ve secured the third-floor balcony looking down on Wall Street. Each of us takes cover at the base of one of the columns.
Below us, a line of squadmen in riot gear is forming up.
“Fire!” Clair shouts, and the deafening report of our machine guns echoes among the skyscrapers. Civilian tie-men and women scream below and run in a frantic stampede, but they have little reason to fear. The Protectorate’s marksmen are extraordinarily accurate, and we’re not aiming for them. Within seconds, several squadmen have been wiped out and the rest have taken cover behind their vehicles. More squad trucks full of men, however, are arriving by the minute—just as Ethan anticipated.
I continually scan the sky for Ravers, but thank God, they don’t appear.
The squad force below seems to be stunned, awaiting ord
ers, which leaves us to amuse ourselves by shooting at the bullet-proof windows of their vehicles.
After perhaps ten minutes, the signal must come through from Blackwell to attack. The dozen or so squad trucks below have multiplied to no less than forty, and they open fire on our positions. We return fire. The whistle of passing bullets is surreal, as if the air around us has come alive and become deadly. The guy at the column next to me gets hit, and I start to go over to drag him back to safety. One glimpse of his gaping head wound, however, convinces me that he’s a lost cause.
Just when the fire from below becomes so heavy I’m thinking we might have to retreat, our artillery kicks in with five explosions in quick succession on the street below.
Knowing Ethan’s plan as I do, I can’t help but smile. Rebels with rocket-propelled grenade launchers must have made it to their assigned positions atop the adjacent buildings. Now, they drop a rain of thunder onto the crowd of squadmen that had amassed to attack us. I hazard a glance from my cover to see that the street below has been demolished, transformed into a hell of mangled vehicles, flickering flames and black smoke. There’s no time to gloat, though. The attack from above is our cue to retreat, and Clair is already holding the door open.
“Fall back!” she shouts. “Move, move, move, move!”
Down the steps, back into the echo chamber of the Stock Exchange. There were six of us when we went up; four come back down. We find Ethan standing where we left him, near the computer’s mainframe, still holding Yao’s grandson at gunpoint. The rest of the civilians have their hands bound by plastic zip-ties and are sitting on one side of the room in relative calm, guarded by ten or so rebels. Outside, the fusillade of rocket-propelled grenades continues, until Ethan speaks into his IC.
“B team, hold your fire. Begin phase two.”
Instantly, the explosions outside stop. “Leave them,” Ethan shouts to the men guarding the prisoners.
Yao tries to take a step toward them, but McCann sticks his gun barrel in his back. “Not you. You’re coming with us,” he says.
Ethan hurries to the front door of the Exchange. Over his shoulder, he shouts, “Fall in. We’re getting out of here.”
“Out the front door?” Clair asks, incredulous.
Ethan ignores the question. “Keep up a steady fire throughout the retreat,” he says. “You see a squad member, take him out, but be careful not to hit any civilians. If anyone gets separated from the group, continue south and rendezvous in Battery Park. ”
Without hesitation, Ethan pushes through the front doors, and we all follow outside. Some of the smoke from the grenade attack has dissipated now, and the carnage on the street is apparent. Hundreds of squadmen lie dead or dying, some of them crushed beneath the twisted remains of their blasted vehicles. A few straggling survivors open fire on us, only to be taken out. Others simply run or take ineffectual potshots from their covered positions.
Ahead, the great, gothic spire of Trinity Church rises before us. As we turn left down Broadway, heading south, I catch a glimpse of movement above and look up to see our air force in flight. Clair follows my gaze upward and gasps in wonder.
The same seven rebels who perpetrated the surprise attack with the rocket-propelled grenades have launched hang gliders from their rooftop positions and are now following us, covering our retreat from above. The wings of the gliders are red, white, and blue in a pattern of stars and stripes. Curious faces peer out the windows surrounding us and point upward at them, their eyes wide with amazement.
At Morris Street, our ranks swell with twenty or so rebels who were stationed there to cover our retreat. So far, resistance has been meager—half the enemies that came to oppose us have already been taken out by machine-gun fire or grenades dropped by our makeshift air force. But as we approach the intersection of Broadway and Battery Place, I can see the flashing lights of squad trucks ahead, forming a blockade. Worse, the chugging of helicopters becomes audible and grows steadily louder.
At the head of our column, however, Ethan doesn’t slow.
“Keep moving!” he shouts. “We have to break through their position.”
We weave through a gridlock of mostly abandoned cars as we approach the enemy, hoping to keep some measure of cover, but when they open fire, it seems like a wave of lead is washing over us. The men on both sides of me fall dead before they even get off a shot. Several others try to stop and take cover, but Ethan shouts, “Keep going!” and redoubles his pace, and the rest of us follow suit.
Several rocket-propelled grenades from our air force zip down on the blockade ahead of us, but one misses altogether, and the other two are only partial hits that don’t completely destroy their targets.
“C team! Now!” Ethan shouts into his IC. At first, it seems like nothing happens, then I see a dozen or so rebels stream out from behind a building ahead and to our right and open fire on the squad’s position from behind. Instantly, the enemy fire lessens considerably as the squadmen turn to face this new attack.
But we have another problem. Two helicopters race up on us from behind, their cannons thundering, blasting small craters in the street behind us. Two gliders get hit by fire from the choppers and come tumbling from the air to the street below.
Still, Ethan keeps up his relentless pace. I change my clip on the run and continue firing as we overtake the line of squad trucks and meet up with the C team on the other side. Ahead is the grassy expanse of Battery Park, and I race toward it on aching legs. The once-green park is now a wasteland of brown grass and dead trees, but I hardly see anything except the ground before me as I try to rush ahead at full speed without tripping and falling on my face.
Another glider flitters to the ground on my left, its wing aflame. One of the choppers races ahead of us then wheels around, ready to open fire and head off our escape, but one of our glider-borne soldiers slams it with a rocket-propelled grenade, a direct hit, and it drops out of the sky. We skirt the burning wreckage, running faster than ever now, as, from behind us, the gunshots of squadmen pursuing us on foot ring out.
Fortunately, our destination is just ahead: Castle Clinton, a former fortress from the War of 1812 and our rendezvous point, awaits. My legs are burning with exertion, my heart aches in my chest, and my legs are cramping, but my yearning for survival outweighs my need for rest. Above, there are three helicopters now strafing us with their machine guns, and a woman to my left takes a shot to her thigh that almost takes her whole leg off. Per Ethan’s orders, I don’t stop to help her. With a wound like that, she’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes anyway.
As we near the fort, a new barrage of rocket-propelled grenades erupts from atop its brick walls, and two of the pursuing choppers fall in flames. The third wheels around in retreat. A dozen or so rebels stationed on the rooftop of the fortress cover our retreat, their withering machine-gun fire causing the squadmen still pursuing us to fall back. Only one of our glider troops remains, and as I watch, he descends gracefully inside the walls of the fort.
In a matter of minutes, we are all assembled at the edge of the water, staring at a white, wooden ferryboat tied up at the breakwater.
“You’re kidding me, Ethan,” Grace growls, aghast. “You expect us to escape in that?”
I’m feeling the same way. Ethan never told me his plan after this point. We were to escape to the water, to the southern tip of Manhattan, that’s all I knew. But how we’re supposed to outpace a bunch of helicopters in a ferryboat, I can’t imagine.
“Get on the boat or stay here,” Ethan says dismissively. “Your choice” and he embarks, followed by McCann, who’s still holding William Yao at gunpoint. One by one, the men follow him across the gangplank. Grace groans and follows too, and in a matter of seconds we’ve pushed off from shore and are chugging into the open water. But the battle isn’t over. I can see three more helicopters already coming over the horizon, and in the d
istance, a squad boat approaches.
Ahead, I can see an island with a square structure of brown stone standing upon it, and I remember my dad, on our only visit to N-Hub 2 together, telling me that a statue of Lady Liberty used to stand there—until the Company had it melted down to reuse its valuable copper.
As we press out into the open water, I go to stand near Ethan and McCann at the stern of the boat. We’re all watching another wave of deadly squad choppers approach when Yao addresses me.
“You’re May Fields,” he says, a mixture of astonishment and disgust in his voice.
“That’s right,” I say.
“You’re one of them,” he says. I can’t tell from his tone if it’s a question or a statement.
“I am,” I say. And I can’t deny the pride I feel. I’m telling the truth; I am one of them. Somehow, I always was. And I always will be.
“You have to be the dumbest woman alive,” he mutters, shaking his head.
The choppers are making a pass at us, and Ethan and McCann engage them with their machine guns.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m dumb? Why’s that? Because I don’t want to live my life a slave?”
“No,” he says, grinning now. “Because your revolution is going to fail.”
The next second seems to happen in slow motion. Yao reaches into his jacket pocket and comes out with a small pistol. Ethan and McCann, distracted by the helicopter, don’t even notice as he levels the gun at the back of Ethan’s head. I’ve already set my machine gun down—there it is, sitting in a chair three feet away.
“The Company always wins, May,” Yao says, and his eyes flick from me to his target.