Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions tbs-3

by Hugh Howey

  “Fight their joints,” Cat told her. Her voice was solid and unwavering, despite her condition.

  “What?” Molly looked around for something to wield as a weapon, or someone to help her, but it was just a sea of still bodies and blue bags.

  “You aren’t fighting them,” Cat said. “Just their joints. Pick a joint and fight it.”

  One of the guys rounded Cat’s table and swiped at Molly. She bobbed her head under the blow and circled away, all the while pondering what Cat was saying and trying to remember everything she’d learned in her Naval combat classes.

  The figure yelled something to the other two, keeping them at bay. He lashed out with a spinning kick meant to decapitate Molly. She fell into a crouch as his boot whizzed by, then lunged forward with her own foot. She caught him on the side of the knee as hard as she could and watched him wobble backward.

  Molly turned to see what the other two men were doing—

  “Forget them,” Cat said. “They’ll come one at a time.”

  “Why?” Molly yelled. She danced to the side as the enraged worker shot forward, his attacks angry and telegraphed. As he passed by—his fists attacking the space where she just was—she threw the ball of her knee into the side of the same leg she’d already attacked. The man roared and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Molly lined it up like a Galaxy Ball and kicked his knee as hard as she could with the steel toe of her flightboot. The man gurgled with pain, but a kick to his chin cut the sound off.

  “Why? Because they’re men,” Cat said. “They don’t prove themselves in groups.”

  Before Molly could work on the straps across Cat, one of the workers shoved Pete in the chest, pushing him away from the action. The figure came forward in a boxing stance, his hands high as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

  “What now?” Molly asked.

  “Can you wrestle?”

  The man bounced forward and his hand disappeared. Molly felt it crack her cheek, and she saw sparks. She jumped back, but two more swift jabs landed in a flurry, one to her nose and another to her ribs. The man hopped around and showboated with his fists while Molly held her nose, bent over, blood leaking through her fingers.

  “Get off your feet!” Cat yelled.

  Molly glanced over and saw Cat straining against her restraints, her arms tensed and popping with wiry muscles. She had her head turned to the side to follow the fighting. The man darted forward, his hands coming up in front of him to unleash another blistering combination—

  Molly dove at his waist and wrapped her arms around him. She brought one foot behind his heel and kept pressing forward, putting her weight and momentum into his thighs. The boxer waved his arms in the air, but couldn’t keep himself upright. They both went back and crashed into the floor, his head cracking the tiles loudly.

  “Elbows!” Cat yelled.

  Molly pulled herself up to the guy’s chest while he busied himself clutching the back of his head. She bent her arm in half, keeping her fists up by her shoulders. She twisted back at the waist, then unloaded with an elbow across his chin. The man’s eyes rolled back. She hit him with another, just to be sure, and his arms fell to the side, limp.

  “Enough!” Pete yelled.

  Molly stood up from her latest victim and turned around. Pete stood behind Cat’s table, a silver blade twinkling against the Callite’s neck.

  “Thought I told you to stay put,” Pete said. “Now get your arms behind your head before I spill what’s left of her blood.”

  Cat met Molly’s gaze and smiled. One of her eyes scissored shut in a Callite wink. “After he kills me, kick his ass,” Cat said.

  “Shut it,” Pete said. His arm tensed, and Molly could see the blade bite into Cat’s neck.

  Cat’s smile broadened.

  “Attack the joints,” she said. “Concentrate on the wrist with the knife.”

  “I said shut it!”

  The knife bit deeper and blue leaked out with force.

  “And don’t you come closer!” Pete yelled at Molly. “Get your hands behind your head!”

  Molly didn’t know who to listen to. She put her hands in the air, not willing to be responsible for Cat’s death. “I’m a sheriff’s deputy, Pete. Think about what you’re doing. Think about the next Pete.”

  The man at her feet groaned as he came to. Molly stepped away from him, which made Pete flinch. “Stay where you are,” he told her. “Hey, Mickie, you okay? I need you to check the others.”

  The man rolled over and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “What happened?” he groaned, his hand coming up to the back of his head.

  “You got your ass kicked by a chick, that’s what. Now get up and see how Ryan’s doing. He ain’t moved at all.”

  “Don’t let him up,” Cat told Molly. “You’ve got the numbers, now. Don’t lose them.”

  “Shut it!” Pete yelled. He pulled the knife away and held it over Cat’s chest, vertically. Molly watched as his other hand came up and gripped the hilt, both arms high over his head.

  “Do it!” Cat yelled. She screamed, a long, piercing scream that shivered through Molly’s bones.

  Molly watched in horror as the knife plunged down, the silver flash of steel disappearing in Cat’s chest up to the hilt. The man on the floor was on all-fours, groping for his senses. Molly threw her flightboot into his chin, making his search a little more difficult. As he collapsed into another silent heap, Molly dashed toward Cat, only she and Pete still standing.

  With much effort, Pete wrested the blade out of Cat’s chest, pulling a fountain of blue with it. Molly slid under the gurney, feet-first, and aimed for his knees, impacting with a solid crunch. Pete yelled and tumbled straight down on top of her, his weight forcing her flat. Molly tried to twist her hips out from underneath him, tried to push up on his shoulders, but he wouldn’t budge. He threw a forearm across her neck and leaned into it, squeezing her airway down.

  Molly gurgled and pushed at his shoulders. The knife came up, hovering behind Pete’s purple-glazed snarl. Molly’s body tensed in fear as it slid through the air and buried itself in her chest. It hit with a bang, with a sonic explosion, and Molly could smell spent gunpowder in the air.

  ••••

  Pete sagged down, his grotesque body limp with death. Molly tried to push him off, but her one arm was numb and useless. She shoved at him with her other one, grunting with effort, when his weight finally shifted. As Pete’s head rolled away, Molly saw Sheriff Browne’s on the other side, his face busted up, but the barest of smiles showing beneath his bloodstained mustache.

  That smile sealed up when he saw the knife sticking out of her chest. Molly opened her mouth to say something, but all she could do was gasp. The pain was like a tunnel of cold air rigged up inside her, a hollow ache that pulled on her senses. Browne knelt by her side and placed one hand on her chest, the knife between the crook of his thumb and finger. He grasped the hilt with his other hand and pulled and pushed at the same time, sliding the weapon out.

  Molly grunted from the pain and fought back the blackness swirling around her vision. The knife made a slick, sucking sound and came out coated with a purple mix of bloods. Her head fell back as Browne put pressure on the wound. She watched through heavy, slow-blinking lids as he tugged his bandana from around his neck and tucked it under his palm.

  “Can you hold this?” he asked.

  Molly nodded weakly, but she wasn’t sure if she could. Browne took both her hands and placed them over the bandage. He disappeared from her vision and staggered toward the tables. Over her throbbing pulse, Molly could hear leather straps flap back and metal buckles click together. She craned her neck to see what he was doing, but everywhere she looked, she saw with the tunnel vision of the half conscious. The world moved on the other side of a pinhole. Sheriff Browne flashed across the other side of that hole, moving from Cat’s gurney to another one further away.

  Cat slid from her table to Molly’s side, her face filling Molly’s vi
sion. Cat’s hands wrapped around Molly’s and pulled back the bandage. She put it back and helped apply pressure. “You’re gonna be fine,” she said. Cat looked up and scanned the room with a frown.

  “My Wadi,” Molly whispered.

  Cat looked over her shoulder. She patted Molly’s arm and moved away. Molly grunted and forced herself to one elbow, then struggled to sit up. She glanced back and wiggled toward one of the gurney’s legs, propping herself up to better see what was going on. She concentrated on pushing the blackness into the corners of her vision.

  She regretted her efforts immediately when she saw what Cat was doing.

  The Callite crouched over the Wadi with the blood-soaked knife. She had one of the creature’s arms splayed out—the blade resting against it, the palm of her hand flat against the dull side, as if about to apply pressure.

  Molly managed a weak “No” as Cat shoved down on the blade, severing the limb. The sight of it nearly finished what her own wound had started—Molly could feel her consciousness try and slip away, could feel the black surge toward the center of her vision. She tried to call out to Cat, but managed just hoarse whispers as the Callite wiped the blade on the animals stump and leg before pressing them back together.

  “What are you doing?” Molly croaked.

  She clutched the sticky bandana to her chest and leaned forward, moving to her knees. She crawled closer to Cat and the Wadi, limping along with one hand.

  “What have you done?”

  Cat shook her head. When she turned, Molly saw tears dripping out of the alien’s eyes. Her lids scissored shut rapidly, but not quick enough to keep up with the flow of sadness.

  “Shoulda seen it all along,” Cat muttered. She continued to hold the Wadi’s wound fast as she turned and surveyed the room. Molly crawled up next to her and looked down at the lifeless Wadi.

  “So flanking obvious,” Cat said.

  Molly fell to the side, resting on her hip; she turned and looked across the room. Sheriff Browne continued to move deeper through the sea of tables, leather straps swaying beneath the gurneys of those he’d already freed. Several Callites moved about as well, often clutching surfaces as if dizzy or weak. Molly saw more than a few straps hanging limp beneath bodies that did not stir at all.

  Molly shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Ain’t about votes,” Cat told her. “Weren’t never about votes.”

  Molly looked down at the rag in her hands, soaked purple with her blood and Cat’s. She glanced over at Pete’s still form, the sheen of purplish grease coating his skin and splotching his apron in long streams.

  “It’s a drug,” Molly said. “They’re making a drug!”

  “No. It’s worse than that. And I’m a flanking fool for just now seeing it.” Cat shook her head. “It’s no wonder the stuff reeks of death.”

  “What? What is it?” Molly asked.

  “This is what you’ve been looking for.” Cat held up the knife, which was coated in their combined blood. “This is Lok’s version of fusion fuel.”

  Molly sat in numbed silence, her wound and head throbbing. She heard Callites crying in the background amid the staccato of their desperate footsteps. She heard the mixture of relief and grief, both wailed in sadness, as loved ones took stock of who had made it and who had not. Her mind reeled with what Cat was saying. It didn’t even register when one of the Wadi’s arms twitched.

  “Look,” Cat said.

  A tail swished feebly, and Molly’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped and reached with both arms, forgetting her own wound. Cat passed the animal to her, saying something about being careful of its leg.

  Molly nodded and cradled the animal, holding it against her chest. She felt the tears well up as it nuzzled against her, stirring in a confused awakening. “I thought I lost her,” Molly cried. “Lost her before I even got a chance to name her.”

  Cat squeezed her shoulder and stood up. “I need to see to the others,” she said.

  Molly sniffled and nodded. The Wadi reached out and gripped her shirt with its tiny claws, holding itself close. Twin tongues flicked out, both of them wavering in the air.

  “It’s okay,” Molly told the Wadi.

  “Everything’s gonna be fine,” she lied.

  50

  Cole fidgeted in place, his body practically vibrating with anxious nerves. Ahead of him stood two other soldiers in white combat uniforms: a Callite, and a creature whose name and race he’d already forgotten. Behind him stood another human, and four other lines were arranged parallel to theirs—three to one side with four people each, and one to the other side with just three. Various races chattered amongst themselves up and down the lines, the pre-raid jitters reminding Cole of old Academy briefings before big simulator missions.

  The only members of the raid groups who seemed calm were the pilots. They sat perfectly still on the hyperdrive platforms, their arms curled around their shins and their heads up to watch the console operators. Cole felt small and lost with the incredible diversity of the races present and how much more experience they seemed to have. He peered past the crouching pilots where five other jump platforms had been arranged, each holding one of the cages Cole had designed.

  “You nervous?” the guy behind Cole asked.

  Cole turned and nodded. “Anxious, yeah. Mostly that my idea doesn’t get people killed.”

  “It’ll work,” the guy said.

  “I’m Cole.” He extended his hand.

  “I know. We met in orientation.” The man smiled. “Don’t worry, there was a lot going on and I’m pretty forgettable. I’m Larken, the translator.”

  “The guy who speaks Bern.”

  Larken laughed. “Well enough. I used to hang with the wrong crowd, I guess you could say.”

  Cole laughed. “Me too, a long time ago. Hey, at least we’re here now.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, good luck in there. I’ll be right behind you, so clear out fast.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Cole said. He considered passing the message up the line.

  “Listen up!” Mortimor yelled. He clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got coordinates coming in now, so get ready! Remember, you’ve got three seconds to get out of the way before the next guy comes through. That’s as much as we can risk with a moving target, but it’ll probably feel like a lifetime as hopped up as you all are. Now, those of you in line, get on the platform fast and get out of the way quick once you arrive. Hit your quadrants and hit them hard. Pilots and navigators, secure the cockpits as swiftly as possible. We’re sending you as close as we can to the forward midline of each ship, so it should give you a short run. If you end up in mechanical spaces, be judicious about what you cut through, we need these puppies operational.”

  He shifted his gaze to the back row. “Translators, stay alive. No heroics. Everyone’s redundant except for you.”

  The lights over the platforms went from red to amber.

  “Good luck!” Mortimor yelled. The tenor in his voice sent a wave of goosebumps down Cole’s arms. Mortimor jumped down from the platform and went to the back of the line next to Cole’s, completing its full complement of four—five, counting the seated pilot.

  Larken squeezed Cole’s shoulder, then patted it twice. “Good luck!”

  Cole grabbed his buckblade from its holster. He made sure he had it facing the right direction and that the safety was on. He looked over at Mortimor. “I didn’t know you were going.”

  “Ran out of people that speak Bern. Now pay attention.” Mortimor nodded toward the platforms.

  Cole looked.

  The light over the pilots went green. There was a loud beeping sound followed by a pop of displaced air, and the cages in the back of the room vanished.

  The pilots sitting on the platforms followed soon after, winking out of existence. The row of navigators jumped into position, taking the place of the pilots and falling to their butts. They wrapped their various species’ ver
sion of arms around their legs and fell still.

  Penny was the navigator in Mortimor’s line. He watched wisps of red hair spill out of her hood as she settled into place. Their eyes met right before her head went down—then she disappeared from the room.

  It was all happening so fast. Cole’s heart fluttered as he took a step forward. He chanced a glance to the side, at the neighboring line. Mortimor was looking straight ahead. He wished he’d known the old man was going; he would’ve switched places with someone to be in his group so he’d be able to keep an eye on him.

  The lines surged forward again, and he felt Larken’s hand on his back, pushing.

  Another pop of displaced air. Cole stood beside the console operator, right in front of the platform. Marx, the Callite plopping down ahead of him, looked up, and time slowed to a crawl. Cole watched the alien’s arms wrap around his shins, his scaly chin tuck down—and then he was gone.

  Cole jumped up to the platform and sat down as quick as he could. He spun around to face what he hoped would be an exit once he popped out of hyperspace. In the back of his mind, he counted:

  Three.

  He grabbed his shins and tucked his head, squeezing his sword as tight as he dared without crushing it.

  Two.

  The last thing that flashed through his mind, right before he popped out of the room, was the Bern Seer. He couldn’t help but recall the last conversation they’d had, and a sickening sensation clawed at his stomach as he wondered if this was all one colossal mistake—

  One…

  51

  Parsona settled in the clearing, her struts once again sagging under the weight of a full load of haggard survivors. Molly lifted her visor; she could hear the cargo bay’s loading ramp opening up behind her. She watched as Cat crawled out of the nav seat and over the control console to go and help the others. Molly unbuckled her own flight harness and spoke to her mother:

  “Once we get everything unloaded, I’ll be back and we can get out of here.”

  “Excellent,” her mom said. “Don’t forget the welding goggles.”