by P. R. Adams
Rimes walked back to the backpack and tenderly slid it over his shoulders. He pulled a coagulant canister from a hip pouch and sprayed his wounds, taking an extra moment with the damaged wrist. The wrist danced back and forth between numbness and fiery pain. Rimes flexed, working the wrist until the pain was constant. Electric jolts shot from his fingertips to his elbow. The pain drove any lingering fatigue away and brought on a level of lucidity that nothing else could.
Blinking away the pain, he dug a stim from a leg pouch and injected himself in the thigh. He closed his eyes until he could feel the telltale tingling sensation at the tips of his toes and fingers. He looked the bunker and the bodies over again, seeing everything now with superhuman clarity.
Pain and drugs. How could I possibly feel more alive and awake? How could I possibly feel at all in this hopeless time?
He pulled his helmet on and grabbed his carbine. He stopped by one of the sentry corpses, cut away some cloth, and then fashioned a crude bandage for his wrist. He listened to Talwar’s pathetic whimpers, then dashed for the stairwell, examining the darkness around him for threats before climbing out and jogging for the tower.
17
13 December, 2173. Plymouth Colony.
* * *
As he drew closer to the tower that had once been his home, Rimes could pick out details he hadn’t noticed before. Pale yellow light glowed through cracks in what was now a skeletal structure. In the moonlight, the exterior should have been gray. It was almost black, and there were dark streaks that climbed from sockets that had once been windows. Laughter. With his faceplate raised he caught the smell of charred wood and…other things on the wind. Bitter ash settled on his tongue. He spat, but he couldn’t shake the taste. Chills intermittently spiked through his chest, setting his mouth to trembling, even as his suit struggled to keep his temperature down.
Laughter floated down from the raised area where the tower and barracks were built.
“Jared? Calvin?” Rimes scanned the darkness, hoping he might spy his boys.
For just a moment, the fire-ravaged surroundings were replaced by the vibrant living facility he had left behind. Plants imported from Earth still blossomed. Children—his sons—still played within the quadrangle or on the soccer field some distance away. The air was thick with pollen and sweet garden aromas.
The laughter deepened—a man’s laugh—and the illusion was shattered. Only darkness and ash remained.
Rimes dropped to his belly and shook his head to clear any remnants of the dream.
Early in Fort Concord’s development, the living facilities had been a sticking point between him and the bean counters. The expectation had been that residential space would be tight and that the ERF soldiers would be packed in like sardines. Rimes had fought this on the grounds of the damage it would do to morale for an elite unit. In the end, the compromise was three large, multi-storied, dorm-like barracks for the junior enlisted and the tower for those with families, as well as the senior enlisted and officers. They were all wrapped around a shared quadrangle that could host get-togethers to help build morale and esprit de corps.
In the darkness, the barracks formed a black, block-shaped “C,” enclosing the quadrangle’s north, west, and south. The tower rose on the eastern side.
Now that he knew where to look, Rimes spotted the mercenary gun emplacements on the fourth floor of the north and south barracks’ eastern and western corners. That protected the quadrangle from entry.
Talwar’s earpiece had been hacked by the BAS software, allowing Rimes to spoof the commander’s identity. Any system scanning the post’s interior would detect Talwar’s signal, but Rimes knew better than to completely trust any software. He got to his feet slowly and began walking toward the tower, doing his best to appear confident, even cocky.
As he walked, Rimes loaded the grenade launcher, and his eyes rose to the tower’s top.
Rimes slowed and angled to the right, hoping to use the darkness to hide him from the laughing man. He risked a quick glance in the direction of the laughter and saw three men in heavy armor standing around the parade ground podium. They were probably too far away to notice him, but he kept his pace slow just to be safe.
Suddenly, an alarm flashed in his BAS display, and a siren activated, emitting a strange, warbling noise that rose and dropped and rose again, then cycled. Red lights flashed from the roofs of the temporary buildings the mercenaries had erected. The lights exposed Rimes to anyone alert for suspicious movement. He could only hope the mercenaries would react as if another attack was underway.
Rimes checked the BAS alarm. It was a timer; the proxy communications channel was down. He had one minute before the communications array and ammunitions depot blew. At a sprint, he could almost reach the tower, or he could drop and wait for the explosions to provide a distraction.
He ran.
Almost immediately, shouts went up. Gunfire nearly drowned out the siren. Rimes eschewed any semblance of a serpentine in favor of pushing his body harder than he ever had before. His arms pumped, one holding the grenade launcher, the other holding a second grenade. His legs pistoned him forward through the passing of bullets that were audible through the BAS.
At the tower’s east entry, Rimes leapt and twisted into a ball before turning so that his right shoulder took the impact as he slammed into the door. It gave easily, falling off its ruined hinges. Rimes fell with it, rolling to his feet four meters in.
He knew the tower well, even in the dark, even with everything charred black and covered in soot, even with ash drifting downward in choking, acrid air.
Tears filled his burning eyes. He wiped the salty liquid away.
A foyer surrounded him. There was a small lobby off to his right. The elevators were straight ahead on the right, the stairwell door opposite them.
Rimes pivoted on the ball of his right foot and ran into the lobby. There was a recreation room beyond. He leapt over the black outline of furniture, remembering a pool table, a ping-pong table, and smaller tables for cards. All were gone now.
At the north wall he stopped. There had been a large bay window there, but it had been blown out at some point, probably by the heat of the fire. Rimes brought the grenade launcher up and sighted on the barracks across the way. He relied as much on his stim-heightened senses as his BAS.
Movement.
Rimes fired and reloaded, closing the weapon before the round detonated. Screams continued after the explosion’s thunder died. Rimes slung the strap of the grenade launcher over his shoulder and sprinted back to the lobby. His heart pounded in his chest, warning him he was testing his limits. Despite the stims, he was feeling lightheaded from the blood loss. Kwon’s bloodthirsty presence shouldered aside any concerns.
Establishing new limits tonight.
At the doorway Rimes threw himself against the wall and scanned the dark. His pursuers were too close for the grenade launcher.
He shrugged off the backpack, pulled out his carbine, and then pressed himself flat against the wall. He waited, letting the pursuers run through the doorway. There were three of them—the men from the parade ground. Rimes opened fire, dropping them before they saw him.
He looked out the doorway again. There were more coming now, but he had time.
He pulled several small packets from the backpack, then pressed one against the wall he’d been standing against. Quick as he could, he estimated the distance he wanted, then activated the mine’s proximity sensor. He hooked the backpack carry handle and ran for the stairwell, dropping the backpack just outside the door. Hands free, he switched the carbine out for the grenade launcher again.
Beyond the stairwell and elevator, the foyer connected to a small bathroom, and to the left of that, a utility room. Rimes ran past those and the modest laundry room, skidding to a stop at the building’s nursery. It mirrored the recreation room’s layout, with a bay window looking to the south. The eastern edge of the southern barracks building was visible from the nursery’s op
en doorway.
Once again the grenade launcher came up. He saw movement just before he heard gunfire. Bullets crashed into the wall beside him. Kwon roared in defiance, and Rimes returned the roar.
He fired.
Even before reloading he knew that he’d hit. The explosion, the screams, they were satisfying in a cold, hate-filled way.
A faint pain in his left hip brought his attention back to the tower and the battle underway. He glanced down and grunted. A round had caught him. His armor took the worst of it, but he was bleeding from another wound.
Muttering a curse, he ran for the foyer. Despite the stims, he favored the wounded hip. He was halfway to the foyer when the charge he’d placed at the entry detonated.
Miscalculated. They’re coming up too fast. Means they’re on stims too.
Rimes reached the stairwell door, pausing only long enough to grab the backpack and to glance at the remains of those killed by the blast. They were lit by the last fires burning away flesh and uniform. Satisfaction rumbled deep in his guts. Kwon wanted trophies from the bodies.
Or maybe I do.
He stopped in the stairwell to rig another explosive, this one larger and of a different design. The space felt confined, the air smothering, full of death and ash.
Your imagination. Just imagination.
Rimes lowered his faceplate, then he shrugged the backpack onto his shoulder. The backpack seemed heavier. It held five more charges like the one that had just blown, three of them heavier. He couldn’t abandon the backpack.
Blood loss. Keep moving. For Molly.
He emptied the grenades from his pockets, setting them down next to the charge he’d rigged by the stairwell door. He tossed the grenade launcher out of sight behind the stairs and began his ascent.
Eighteen flights up, Rimes leaned against the rail for support, finally simply sliding until he was sitting on the concrete steps. He blinked and gasped, desperately sucking in air. His legs were jelly, his knees throbbing nubs of pain. The carbine he held felt like a stone slab. He set it down, just for a moment, just long enough to rest. He looked at his shredded, blood-soaked gloves. The hands within were cut and cracked. Flexing sent bolts of pain through his wrists and up his forearms.
Slowly, he twisted and looked up the stairwell shaft. He was closer to the top than the bottom. An explosion sounded deep below.
His pursuers had finally gained the stairwell.
Heat rose above the ball of flame. The incendiary charge would kill anyone caught in its immediate blast radius, armor or not. It would maim and incapacitate twice as far as that initial radius.
And the grenades…
Rimes leaned forward to cradle his head in his aching hands. He pushed up his faceplate and massaged his temples, hoping to buy even a moment of relief against the sense of weakness. Ash and the stench of the explosives filled his awareness, but they couldn’t drive away the other smells.
Burning flesh. His stomach twisted as chills washed over him. Molly!
Fighting back the nausea, Rimes managed to stand. He clutched the stairwell rail for support and stared at his battered, blood-streaked armor. It seemed so inadequate. He swung his carbine over a shoulder and climbed, reminding himself that his target, his mission, his goal was above. Below were failure and death.
One step. Two. Three.
Rimes paused to catch his breath. He should have been able to jog the stairs. He’d been jogging the stairs before. His stomach lurched; his heart protested.
A moment. Just another moment, and then I’ll move on.
The heat from below intensified. Explosions—deafening in the stairwell—boomed. More screams, this time weaker. Reinforcements who’d tried the stairs once the fires subsided, unaware of the grenades.
Rimes stopped and listened. Sweat stung his eyes. He blinked it away, then slid his faceplate back down.
Something was moving below, footsteps echoing in the stairwell.
Proxies.
Rimes looked up. The stairs seemed to rise up forever. He pulled the carbine from his shoulder; the weapon felt clumsy in his hands. He clenched his teeth against the pain. The sound of booted steps rose on the heat, closer, but he still had a lead. He needed to move, to get the air and blood pumping in his body, to rejuvenate himself with the purity of action. He dug another stim out and slammed it into his thigh, then he waited for the surge of energy and the tingling.
Come on, you bastards. Come and get it.
The stairs taunted him, moving at the last second, evading his steps. Growling, he charged upward but quickly stumbled and jammed his fingers and banged his shins against the concrete steps. Rimes welcomed the pain. It was fresh, alive, invigorating, counter to the uncertainty that had been spawned by lightheadedness.
He stood again and squeezed the railing with shaking hands, then he blew out a jagged breath. He charged again, this time finding his footing. His breathing became a slow, feeble rhythm, carrying him to the next landing and then the next. And then another.
The proxies were closing. It was a race, one he could have won before. He wasn’t so sure about it now.
He climbed, hand skipping over the rail, stopping every once in a while, pressing against the wall, catching his breath. He glanced down. The BAS display painted the world green and black. Light from the fires flared brightly one moment, threatening to wash the imagery out, then died down, plunging everything into darker green.
There.
Wisps of smoke curled in the wake of racing forms that rose from the depths. The nearest ones glanced up, located him. He climbed. He needed them to follow.
They accelerated, closing the gap.
Explosions roared below again, and Rimes stopped, wrapping his arms around the rail for support. The building, built to withstand Plymouth’s quakes, shook and threatened to collapse.
You’ve been through too much already, haven’t you? Hold it together. Just a little longer.
Below, the proxies stared up at him. He imagined he could see their eyes through their helmets.
Are you scared now? Do you feel the fear, knowing what’s coming?
Rimes lifted his faceplate and laughed until he nearly passed out. His throat burned from the acrid vapors, but his laughter echoed in the collapsing stairwell below. The proxies fell from sight, and their screams drowned out his laughter.
At the next landing he stopped. Three more flights of stairs, then the ceiling.
Somewhere in the fighting and destruction, he’d found a balance, a calm. Kwon’s voice had gone silent, leaving Rimes to manage the moment, but it felt like there was a welcome presence there still. The throbbing in his head relented, and his breathing eased. He took the next flight of stairs without trouble, stopping to check the carbine and flex his hands. Pain still flared, but it wasn’t as bad as before.
An explosion—throaty, angry—roared from the depths.
Were they carrying something?
Flame and heat jetted up through the coiling smoke that clung to the floors below. The tower shuddered and threatened to collapse again. He waited until the shaking passed, then continued up. When he reached the final step, he understood what was happening to him. They’d invaded, taken what wasn’t theirs, and in the process they’d driven out the last of him and left a void. They desired destruction, a war.
I’ll give you what you want.
Another explosion, and flames filled the stairwell below, this time staying rather than falling back. He closed his faceplate against the unbearable heat. Stairs or not, there was no exit that way. He had known the trip was one way, success or failure.
He stopped at the door, held his bloody hands out to sense what was beyond. No heat. No flames.
Long gone.
But they were beyond the door.
He clenched his shaking fist and clasped it to his chest to steady it.
So close now. No time for weakness and frailty. Just another few minutes, that’s all I’m asking of you. Just give me another few minut
es, damn it.
Suddenly, he remembered that he needed to check the roof exit. He searched along the wall, checking left, then right, finally spotting metal rungs. He lifted his faceplate and slung the carbine strap over his shoulder. With a grunt, he clambered up the rungs. His legs protested, his arms even more. He set his shoulder against the roof hatch and shoved it open.
When the outside air hit his face, he realized just how hellishly hot the stairwell had become. It was still black out, the sky lit more by the mercenaries’ red warning lights than the stars or moon.
He searched the sky, saw nothing. He was up against it now. Time was running out. He triggered his earpiece.
“Ready.”
“Inbound,” said Headey. “ETA, three minutes.”
“No rush.” No rush ever again.
He saw it then: The telltale flicker of lights approaching in the western distance. He descended the rungs slowly, readying himself.
Blinking, sucking in the suit’s recycled air, shaking away doubts and fears, he crossed to the doorway. He gripped the handle and set his shoulder against the door. He knew better than to seek courage from inside; he was spent. He twisted the handle and leaned against the door, feeling it shudder against him.
A hallway spread out before him, ghostly white. Rimes stared for a moment, then stepped to the closest door. He kicked it in and shouted.
“Any survivors, come out! We’re here to rescue you!”
He moved to the next door and repeated the process, his mind struggling to block out what he was seeing. Bodies, charred, twisted. Their near-skeletal faces stared at him, horrified, caught in incomprehensible agony.
He thought back to Sahara. The entity and its plasma that had flash-burned its targets.
Again and again he kicked in doors and shouted. There were no survivors.
Finally, he ran for the door to his own apartment, throwing himself against it with every bit of force he could summon. The door shattered, and he fell face first into a fine layer of ash. He spat and shoved himself up.