“I can’t authorize the production of a weapon that might explode in the hands of the Ranger using it,” said Vincenzo. “Sorry.”
So am I, Lyla thought.
Conner pounded the table and felt it shiver under the force of the blow.
He had gone over the satellite feed for what seemed like the thirtieth time, gone over every last detail from every possible computer-generated angle. But he still couldn’t see the flaw in his plan.
Norman had done exactly what she was supposed to do. Exactly. But the Ursa had detected her approach. Why? What had Conner done that she hadn’t?
He forced himself to keep his eyes trained on the screen, to keep on tormenting himself. A hundred times more, if necessary. A thousand. He owed it to those who had died depending on him.
And then he saw it.
Conner pushed himself away from the table. He had sat there for so long that his eyes felt scoured with sand. But it was worth it.
He had been right.
His plan had been sound. It was just the execution that was flawed. It wasn’t me. He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, feeling as if the weight of the entire planet had been lifted from him. It wasn’t me.
Not that he was celebrating. How could he when Wilkins and two other Rangers had died trying to carry out his scheme? But he knew now that he could follow the same strategy and make it work. And if it did, that first squad wouldn’t have died for nothing.
He would ask for another shot.
But this time, he wasn’t going to let someone else lead the mission. He was going to do it himself.
Conner stood in front of Tariq Lennon’s desk and waited for a reaction to his proposal.
“A squad,” said Lennon.
“That’s right, sir,” Conner said.
“So you can attempt to execute your plan again. Except this time you’re going to be the one giving the orders.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
Lennon scowled. “Forget it.”
Conner bit the inside of his lip. “I’m telling you, sir, it will work this time.”
“It was supposed to work the last time, and we know how that turned out. You made a mistake, Raige. Accept it and move on.”
“There was a mistake, sir,” Conner said, “but it wasn’t mine. It was Prime Commander Wilkins’s.”
“I see,” said Lennon. “Let’s blame it on the Prime Commander.”
“Sir, if you’ll look at the satellite footage—”
“I have. And there’s nothing there that makes me want to change my mind.”
“Sir, I’ve analyzed what happened out there step by step. I know what went wrong, and if I’m in charge, I can make it go right.”
“You,” said Lennon, an unmistakable note of disdain in his voice. “A cadet. You can make it work where the head of the entire United Ranger Corps couldn’t.” He made a sound deep in his throat. “I’d heard you were full of yourself, Raige, but this … this goes beyond arrogance.”
“It’s not about me, sir,” Conner insisted. “It’s about getting rid of the Ursa. I can do it—if you give me the chance.”
Lennon shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. At least not on my watch. You’re dismissed, Cadet.”
Conner felt the anger building inside him, threatening to consume him. But it wasn’t going to do him or anyone else any good if he lashed out at Lennon. He clamped his teeth together as best he could and left the office.
As far as Lennon was concerned, Conner had gotten his chance and had blown it. It didn’t look like he would get another one.
At least not from Lennon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
By the time Conner entered the barracks, he already had made his decision.
As he went inside, he could feel the scrutiny of his fellow cadets. They had all heard about Wilkins’s mission and Conner’s part in it, and they all wanted to know what had happened in Lennon’s office.
But Blodge was the one who actually asked the question out loud. “Did you see Lennon?”
“I did,” Conner said.
“And what did he say?”
“He said he wouldn’t do it—not at all and certainly not with me in charge.”
“Did you tell him you had gone over it and you could make it work this time?”
Conner nodded. “It didn’t help.”
“But you killed an Ursa. Who else has done that?”
“Still.”
“That stinks,” said Blodge.
“It does,” Conner said. “Because now I’m going to do something my dad would have killed me for even considering.”
“What are you talking about?” Gold asked.
“Yeah,” said Cheng, “what?”
Conner scanned their faces. How could he ask them what he was about to ask? For only one reason: the survival of the colony.
“Lennon told me he wouldn’t authorize the mission. That’s not going to change. But there’s a lot more at stake here than the Rangers’ chain of command. We’re fighting a war against the Ursa, and we’re losing. The only way we can turn that around, I believe, the only way to get the command center behind us is to try what Wilkins tried. Except this time do it right.”
“But if Lennon—”
“We’re not going to ask Lennon’s permission,” Conner said. “We’re going to do it on our own.”
He let his words hang in the air as their meaning slowly sank in. Little by little, the expressions of his fellow cadets reflected their reactions.
A handful were horrified. But not everybody. Most of them looked like they might—just might—be ready to hear more.
“Just to be clear,” Conner said, “I’m talking about disregarding orders. That’s not a trivial offense.”
“Damned right it’s not,” said one cadet.
“Rangers have been court-martialed for less,” Conner continued. “We’ve seen it happen.”
No one spoke out against the idea. But then again, no one spoke for it.
“Who’s with me?” Conner asked hopefully.
“Me,” said Blodge, raising his hand.
“Me, too,” Gold said.
Conner looked around. No one else seemed ready to make the leap of faith he was asking of them.
That’s it, then, he thought. He looked at Blodge and Gold. Three of us. But with only three, he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. They’d be doomed before they started.
Conner’s heart sank. They had a chance to beat back the Ursa, and they weren’t willing to take it.
Then he heard another voice behind him: “I’m with you.”
Conner turned to see whose it was and found himself staring into the face of Lucas Kincaid. “I’m with you,” Kincaid repeated in case there was anyone who had mistaken his words or where they had come from.
Why? Conner asked himself. Why would Lucas Kincaid of all people decide to back him up?
“Because,” Kincaid said, as if he had heard Conner’s silent question, “we can’t sit around and wait for the Ursa to wipe us out one by one. I’ve heard Raige’s plan. It worked once. It’ll work again if it’s carried out right.”
“You saying Wilkins didn’t carry it out right?” one of the other cadets asked. “The Prime Commander?”
“Not as well as Raige will,” said Kincaid.
It couldn’t have been easy for him to make such a statement, but he had made it. Everyone respected Lucas. Because of that respect, they seemed more open now than they had been before. Conner would be damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage of it.
“Remember why you wanted to be a Ranger?” he asked, eyeing each cadet in turn. “It wasn’t just to wear the uniform, right? You wanted to do something for the colony. Well, now’s your chance. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
It wasn’t an easy step to take, not for any of them. It would involve repercussions—Conner had said so himself—even if they were successful. But to his mind, they didn’t have a choice.
/> He just hoped the others saw it the way he did.
Primus Rostropovich was in his sanctum, standing near the altar at which he prayed first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He regarded his augurs with a look of confidence but also disappointment. The disappointment was in them and in the people of Nova Prime, or at least that was what he intended to convey.
His disappointment with God he intended to keep buried deep within him. That was for another, more private, inner discussion. One that he hoped he could resolve to his satisfaction.
A dozen expectant faces were upturned toward him. The room was circular, and there were no chairs. Everyone was sitting cross-legged on thin carpets, looking up at him and waiting to hear his words of wisdom.
Words that will ring hollow unless I make every effort to convey my belief.
He stood before them, his fingers interlaced. “The attendance at this morning’s service was, to put it mildly, a disappointment. We had our few but faithful; that much is true. But I have been noticing a steady lessening of our ranks, and this is a bothersome development.”
“Maybe they’re being eaten.”
It was a sharp, angry comment from Augur Winton. One of the younger men in the order, he had a probing mind and was not afraid to ask difficult questions. Normally the Primus found that commendable; now, less so.
“Was that intended to be funny, Augur Winton?”
“No, Primus,” said Winton. “No, but I consider your attitude funny. We’re being ripped to pieces by the beasts. You want the people of this city to bow down and ask for God’s mercy and guidance, and yet we’re being eaten alive and God is nowhere to be found.”
“There’s another explanation for the dwindling congregants,” said Augur Theresa. “People are simply afraid to leave their homes. And who can blame them, especially when they’re being told to stay within. If that’s the case, there’s only one option: We have to take the word of God to them.”
“That”—the Primus smiled—“is exactly the sort of spirited attitude that I want to see from—”
“Are you out of your mind?” Winton was on his feet. It was a serious breach of protocol, standing up in the presence of the Primus in his own sanctum. It implied that the augur believed himself to be on a level of spirituality with the Primus himself, and that was blasphemous since the Primus was the holiest of holies.
It was obvious, though, that Winton didn’t give the slightest of damns. “Don’t you understand what’s happening? Don’t you see? These beasts have been unleashed upon us, and nothing is stopping them. Nothing. There’s only three possibilities: God doesn’t care, God wants it to happen, or there is no God. No matter which of those is the case, what the hell are we doing here?”
“Sit down, Winton,” the Primus warned him.
Instead, Winton ripped off his augur robes, exposing his simple street clothes. As he did so, he stared deep into the Primus’s eyes, which the Primus found more than a little disconcerting.
“You know,” said Winton, “I can see it. You have no more faith than I do anymore, just a greater taste for hypocrisy.” He dropped the robe to the floor. “If you think I’m going to go around from home to home trying to foster faith in the hearts of credulous individuals rather than tell them the truth—that we’re all doomed and damned—then you are insane. I am going to spend what may well be our last days providing emotional support and comfort to my wife and son. What you do with that time, I honestly don’t care.”
“Winton,” said Theresa, reaching out to him. “The Primus merely—”
But seconds later he was gone.
There was a deathly silence in the sanctum for long moments. All eyes were on the Primus, waiting to see what he would say.
As if Winton had never spoken, the Primus said, “Theresa, be so good as to work with Augur Parkin.” He nodded toward the stocky augur off to the side. “Put together a schedule. I want this visitation program implemented immediately.”
“Of course,” said Theresa, ever the most willing of Rostropovich’s flock, ever the most devoted to the augury and all it stood for.
The Primus bowed to the augurs, and they responded in kind. This was the traditional way of indicating that the meeting was over. As they filed out of the sanctum, the Primus turned his back to them. He didn’t want them to see that he was inwardly shaking with rage and mortification.
How dare he? How dare Winton speak to me that way!
But he knew his anger was misplaced, or at least the reason for it was. He wasn’t angry because Winton had addressed him in such a defiant manner. He was angry because it was as if Winton had ripped open the top of his head and exposed the thoughts in his head to public scrutiny. It made the Primus feel as if he had no safe place, not even in his own mind.
He abruptly became aware that someone was standing behind him. He turned and saw Theresa looking up at him. “I believe I’ve given you your assignment,” he said.
She averted her eyes and spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear her. “I wanted to thank you for providing a place for Marta here.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he said.
There had been no place to put Ranger Marta Lemov after her condition stabilized. After all, the medicenter needed her bed for those requiring immediate treatment and the Rangers’ infirmaries were full of the maimed and the dying.
Marta had expressed the desire to be taken home, but that had become problematic when the doctors learned that she had no one to care for her there. “You need someone to attend to you,” they had told her. “Otherwise …”
She had made it clear, in extremely florid style, that she didn’t give a damn about “otherwise.”
Theresa had brought the situation to the Primus’s attention, and the Primus had promised her that he would attend to it. What was more, he had been as good as his word. At one point, Marta had drifted into a deep sleep, even though she had no idea why. When she came to, she discovered that she’d been relocated.
Technically she’d had no reason to complain; her new facilities were far superior to where she’d been. Instead of being crammed into a single overlarge room with dozens of moaning patients, she had her own room in the Citadel. Small, to be sure, but very private.
Yet when she’d awakened and seen Theresa standing there, watching her with an assured and happy smile, she had let out a string of invective that had mortified the augur. So much so, in fact, that Theresa had not returned to Marta’s room since that first encounter.
Or so the Primus had heard.
Now Theresa was standing there thanking him for providing Marta with a room. But it was clear to the Primus that there was something else on Theresa’s mind, and he gave her leave to speak about it. No reason not to. Considering the rank disobedience that one augur had displayed this day, it seemed a wise course of action to reward those who had acted more reasonably.
“Go ahead,” he prodded.
“I … I was hoping you could speak to Marta.”
“Ranger Lemov? I rather thought that you were going to be attending to her. She is your family’s friend, after all.”
“But part of your flock as well. One who is severely grieving and won’t listen to me. I was hoping that perhaps you could reach her in a manner that I’m unable to. She …” Theresa hesitated. “She also grieves the loss of her Ranger friends. She’s convinced that those who have survived are helpless in the face of the Ursa.”
She’s not the only one who feels that way. With superb self-control, the Primus kept that sentiment carefully buried. “And you believe that I can somehow convince her otherwise?”
“I think,” Theresa said with total conviction, “that there is nothing you cannot do, Primus, when it comes to matters of faith.”
Oh, you poor, sad, pathetic wretch …
“Of course,” said the Primus. “I’ll see to it.”
* * *
As it turned out, Conner was right about Wilkins’s mistake.
Two hour
s into their patrol, he and his squad encountered an Ursa on O’Hara Street, not far from the jewelry store where Blodge had bought his girlfriend a necklace. The thing wheeled and roared and attacked them as soon as it spotted them; probably it had been denied a meal for too long.
Conner’s squad spread out across the thoroughfare just the way it was supposed to, surrounding the Ursa and then battering it with pulser bursts from all sides. But that wasn’t all they did. They also yelled at the tops of their lungs, yelled like banshees—exactly as Conner had planned it. The creature’s head tossed this way and that, fixing on one target after another. Its teeth gnashed.
And all the while, Conner looked for his opening.
It was the same thing he had done to Lucas in the war games—invite his enemy to focus on something else and then hit that enemy from behind. When he saw his chance, he didn’t hesitate. He got a running start, leaped onto the Ursa’s back, and took his shot.
Please, he thought, let this work.
Not just because his own life depended on it but because they needed a shred of hope. Until that point, it had all gone the Ursa’s way. The Rangers needed to turn that around.
At the last moment, the Ursa’s head swiveled, and Conner found himself looking down its maw. He fired at it point-blank, just as his aunt had fired at the monster that killed her, just as he had fired the last time he had faced one of the creatures.
As Conner rolled off the monster’s back because he knew better now than to hang on any longer than was absolutely necessary, he thought it again: Please.
Then he hit the ground, and rolled to his feet, and took aim again in case he hadn’t accomplished what he had hoped to accomplish.
But he had. The Ursa was folding before his eyes, its legs giving out beneath it. A moment later it hit the ground. Then Conner’s teammates approached it and poured on a barrage of pulser fire to finish it off.
But not all of them.
Even as Conner fired at the Ursa, celebrating his success, he noticed that two members of his squad were stretched out on the ground. The one lying face up with her chest torn open to the bone was McKinnon. The other one, whose head had been torn half off his body, was Bashar.
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