Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  It’s time for the parting. We are sitting ducks here at this farm and must get away quickly.

  After so many months together, the last of the Raptor Aces are about to go their separate ways. I don’t know how I feel about this, don’t know what to say. My emotions have been numbed ever since I arrived in this accursed land. So, I just begin speaking, hopeful that the right words will come to me.

  “My friends,” I say, “it’s been an honor to serve as your leader, but the time has come for us to part.”

  Sipren and Grushon glance at each other; Bel’s steely gaze remains fixed on me.

  “A small partisan band has its lair nearby,” I say. “It’s more of a bandit gang, actually, operating outside the main partisan organization. They have murdered not only my brother, but also the father of these two.”

  Grushon and Sipren mumble to each other in surprise. I gesture toward Trynka and Pomi. Trynka’s eyes blaze; she knows what I’m saying, even if she does not understand the exact words.

  “Trynka has been to the partisan hideout before,” I continue, “and she’s agreed to guide me there so that I may exact justice upon those criminals. Katella has pledged to accompany us.”

  I allow my words to sink in for a moment before continuing:

  “Since I cannot, in good conscience, ask the rest of you to join this mission, I release you from my command and wish you the best of luck on your journey home.”

  Absolute silence, as if the world has stopped in its tracks. Even the little breeze swirling around the farmyard has ceased. I prepare to dismiss the assembly when Beltran pipes up.

  “You won’t get rid of me so easily,” he says. “I’m going with you, Dye.”

  He looks toward Sipren and Grushon.

  “What about you two?”

  They shift uncomfortably and stare at the ground.

  “Either come with us and strike a blow for our Cause,” Bel says, “or head off on your own. Which is it?”

  I hold out my pistol and extra ammo clips toward the two.

  “You may have these,” I say. “Along with your grenades, you can defend yourselves until you can scavenge more weapons.”

  Sipren gazes off toward the distant West.

  “My family has already sacrificed much for the ‘Cause,’” he says. “Mother and little sister are slain. I wish to see Father before he dies from grief.”

  “We share your anguish,” Bel says, “but you cannot avenge their deaths without our help – or the death of an heroic national comrade who was murdered by those swine.”

  He fixes a penetrating gaze on the two.

  “Decide now,” Bel says, “all in, or all out.”

  Sipren and Grushon draw together in a conference. They soon come to a decision. Grushon speaks for both of them.

  “We’re in,” he says.

  Again, I am impressed by Bel’s leadership abilities. He’s persuaded two doubters to join our expedition and has made it seem like their own idea. But what he does next downright astonishes me.

  He jabs a finger at Trynka and lets loose a torrent of words in the slobe language. My jaw drops. Katella grips his machine pistol and steps closer to Trynka.

  “What did he say?” I whisper at Katella.

  “He said that he’ll kill them both if they betray us,” Katella replies.

  He yells at Beltran in the slobe language. Bel glares at him scornfully, then looks off in another direction.

  “What the hell was all that?” I ask.

  “I think you know what I told him,” Katella says.

  46. Along the Blood Trail

  Trynka knows the byways and forest trails well. We make good time, despite our injured comrade. Bel’s little cart is designed for rough service over narrow tracks, and it does not hinder us overmuch. The ride cannot be very comfortable for him, but he doesn’t complain.

  We rotate pushing duty, except for Katella who doesn’t seem inclined to assist Bel. I do not ask him to make the effort. My turn comes around, and I drop back to relieve Grushon.

  “Your jacket’s missing something, isn’t it Dye?” Bel asks by way of greeting.

  I look down to the bare spot where the NSP badge used to be.

  “No sense advertising who we are,” I say. “We stick out enough already, don’t you think?”

  “If the enemy catches us, they’ll cut our throats with or without the badge,” Bel says.

  “Thanks for the reassuring words,” I say. “Now let me ask you a question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure thing Dye, shoot.”

  But before I can open my mouth, he pipes up again.

  “You’re wondering how I learned to talk slobe, right?”

  “Something like that,” I say.

  Bel shifts uncomfortably as I begin pushing the cart. He must find the situation to be humiliating. I know I would in his place.

  “In the early years, there were slobe kids living with us at the State home,” Bel says. “Even after they got expelled, there were slobe-speaking workers around. I learned the language from them.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t you think it’s wise to know the enemy?” Bel answers.

  “Well, yes,” I say. “But why didn’t you tell anybody you could speak the lingo?”

  “I knew there’d be a war eventually,” Bel says, “and I didn’t want to be stuck with noncombat duty as an interpreter.”

  “You thought like that ... even as a little kid?”

  “Sure,” Bel replies, “didn’t you?”

  Why am I still surprised by anything Bel says or does? I should have deemed him to be unfathomable a long time ago. I opt for a change of subject.

  “Thanks for coming along,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Somebody has to pull your butt out of the fire when the time comes.”

  “You’re very good at that, Bel. There should be a special medal just for you – the ‘Saving Dytran’s Butt’ award.”

  Bel chuckles; he seems pleased by my backhanded compliment. Time to skate out on thin ice.

  “It wasn’t really necessary to threaten the slobes,” I say. “They understand the risks.”

  “Just so they know where they stand,” Bel says. “We’d be fools to trust them too much.”

  Our discussion is interrupted by a sharp command from Trynka. People are coming, she says. We melt into the trees and lay low while she deals with the passersby.

  From my position in the underbrush, I see her and Pomi approach a small group of men who are moving toward them along the trail. They talk for a while. Trynka shows them the pail of berries and mushrooms we’ve gathered as a cover for her presence here. She points the opposite direction from us toward some supposed berry patch.

  The men Trynka is speaking with have a cautious look about them; after all, enemy stragglers or bandits might be lurking about these woods. But the men also project strong confidence. They know this is their country again, purged of the detestable Mag.

  The little conference breaks up and the men depart. We get moving again.

  “Did you catch anything they said?” I ask Bel.

  “Yes. They said army patrols are combing these woods.”

  This is unpleasant, though hardly surprising information. I can only hope that our subterfuge continues to work for a while longer. Just until I make it to the partisan hideout.

  “Remember that ‘Ghostie’ blur I saw from the air our first day?” I ask. “The one you laughed at me about?”

  “What of it?”

  “It really exists, Bel. We’re headed for it now.”

  ***

  Our company is still divided along its fault line, as indicated by our uniforms. Bel wears his NSP badge on the left breast, as do Sipren and Grushon who are under his sway. Katella and I have discarded ours. If we can all just hang together long enough to “strike a blow for the Cause” as Bel put it!

  Trynka is really quite pretty when her face is not twisted into an angr
y snarl. I can see why Katella is falling for her. And she has a determined air that reminds me a lot of Gyn.

  Gyn! My chances of seeing her again are about as good as my flying off to visit the moon. Still, she is always in my thoughts as we march along this blood trail. I can hear her soft, melodious voice in my ear, feel her lips pressing against mine. I want to melt away with her into the deep forest.

  But then Ket pushes me hard from behind and I come out of my reverie. At such times, my lip smarts where she has bitten it.

  I am certain now that we will make it to our destination. My moment of revenge is no longer a distant fantasy. In my heart, I know that I will finally confront my enemy face to face.

  Does he know I’m coming? Has the savagery of his life endowed him with the intuition of a wild beast? What kind of man is this Omzbak?

  He’s a capable leader, no doubt. He’s survived nearly two years as our foe. Even our most vicious commandos could not defeat him and his followers. So what chance have we to overcome them?

  We seek justice, and that has to give us power, or else the entire world is upside down. Besides, the commando has already killed some of the partisans, and the band was never large to begin with.

  Another thought occurs: does Omzbak want to continue living in a peaceful world? From what I saw of him, he is not a young man; he had a previous life long before the war. Perhaps he knows that he cannot go back to it. The hate and violence he’s reveled in for so long might be too thick a morass for him to escape.

  My speculations end as a patrol of enemy soldiers appears.

  “Get down!” Trynka commands.

  We sprawl on the ground. Fronds of underbrush camouflage the cart. The soldiers are approaching in a cautious group, spread out on both sides of the trail. Helmets conceal part of their faces; what I can see of them is hard and cold.

  Their commander is a lean, tall man who looks to be carved out of a scythe handle. He wears an officer’s cap, and his face displays the typical slobe racial characteristics that we are taught to despise. These attributes are supposed to render him ‘inferior.’ I invite anyone who believes that to confront him, man to man.

  My earlier confidence vanishes into the trees. We cannot avoid detection, I am certain. These men, in their unhurried progress, will eventually find us. What then? Should we fight or surrender? Bel has taken off his machine pistol’s safety and has his finger on the trigger. Whatever I choose, Bel might start a battle that can have only one outcome.

  The enemy soldiers draw closer. It’s only a matter of time now. A feeling of immense sorrow comes over me. Oddly, I am not afraid to die, only regretful that I am departing this life before I can accomplish my aim. Trynka is whispering into Pomi’s ear. The little boy nods. Are they set to betray us?

  Suddenly Pomi cries out. The soldiers crouch into combat position, guns at the ready. Pomi cries out again. The leader yells something back. Trynka whispers a final command into the little boy’s ear. Pomi raises his hands over his head and begins walking through the underbrush toward the soldiers. He is weeping freely.

  The soldiers begin to relax at the sight of the little boy. Some of them break into grins and laughter. Their commander silences them with a sharp look. He lowers himself to Pomi’s level and take’s the boy’s arms in his big hands. He speaks to Pomi. The little boy shakes his head and utters monosyllables through his tears.

  The interrogation continues for another minute or two. Then the soldiers move on. Pomi is entrusted to the care of a squat, grizzled sergeant. As they depart, the boy chances a backward glance at us. Unbelievably, we have been spared.

  “What went on there?” I ask Katella

  “The kid’s a good liar,” Katella replies. “He said he was lost and that his whole family was killed by the Mag. He told them there was nobody else around here.”

  Trynka looks off the direction the soldiers went. She wipes a tear from her eye and mutters something.

  “He’ll be safer with them,” Katella translates.

  47. First Encounter with the Void

  Per usual, Trynka walks well ahead of us on the trail so as to sniff out potential dangers. Sipren is the ‘tail end boy’ for now, keeping an eye on the path we have already traversed. The rest of us hang together, humping along silently with our private thoughts. Grushon pushes the cart.

  Suddenly, Trynka rushes back to us and speaks hurriedly with Katella. Then she moves back up the trail.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “She wants us to capture the person coming our way,” Bel replies for Katella.

  Katella nods agreement but does not look Bel’s direction.

  “All right,” I say, “Katella, Grushon – take positions across the trail. Sipren stay with me.”

  I give Bel a stern look. “No shooting except on my order.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander,” Bel says.

  In moments we have our little surprise party organized. From my position crouched low in the underbrush, I hear Trynka’s voice getting closer, along with another, huskier, female voice. I can see Sipren’s head poking above the greenery, and I motion him to get lower.

  Trynka appears, walking beside a tall, rather gaunt woman. The woman carries a rifle slung over her shoulder. A revolver hangs from her belt along with a big stick grenade. I’m certain that I’ve seen her before – among the partisans who came to inspect the wreckage of Y-47. We’ve made first contact!

  Trynka stops walking and offers up her bucket to the partisan woman. Beside this fearsome warrior, Trynka appears to be only the merest wisp of a little girl, completely harmless and innocent. The woman reaches inside the bucket for a handful of berries.

  I signal my boys; we leap from concealment. Too late, the partisan realizes the situation and tries to resist. But we’ve already relieved her of her weapons. A hard right from Grushon knocks her flat.

  “Stay down there, bitch!” he snarls.

  She tries to move, and Grushon cocks back his leg to deliver a kick.

  “That’s enough!” I say.

  He looks up with pure savagery etched on his face. I’ve seen that expression before, when he was getting ready to jump me during the slobe diving incident.

  “Yes, sir,” he says, reluctantly.

  He steps away, allowing the partisan woman room to writhe back to full consciousness amid the carpet of spilled berries.

  “Check her for ammo,” I say.

  A rough search of her pockets and cartridge box reveals several clips of ammo for the rifle and thirty-six rounds for the revolver. Bel takes possession of the grenade. It’s a ‘potato masher’ style bomb with its explosive charge inside a thin metal canister – an offensive weapon that kills by percussion rather than shrapnel.

  “Better check her boots,” Bel says.

  We pull off her boots and a small, double-edged knife clatters to the ground accompanied by a curse from its former owner.

  “Same to you,” Bel says.

  “That’s a pretty little toy,” Grushon says, kicking the knife away.

  I examine the rifle. It’s one of ours, originally. Standard infantry issue, modified for sniper duty – extra machining on the moving parts, precision trigger, and a powerful little scope.

  At the factory, gun barrels of unusual straightness and accuracy are identified for development into sniper weapons; we have clearly obtained one of these. I speculate as to who the original owner might have been.

  “Shouldn’t that go to our best shot?” Bel asks.

  This can only mean me, ‘Eagle-eye,’ who topped every one of our shooting competitions.

  Yes, I like the feel of this rifle very much – excellent balance and workmanship. It has dignity, a respect for the skilled person wielding it. This elegant weapon has little in common with our submachine gun death sprayers.

  Still, I am reluctant to give mine up. Its brute killing power commands a respect of its own. Bel is right, though ... as usual. I hand my machine pistol to Sipren.
This leaves the revolver. Trynka eyes it hungrily, but I direct that it be given to Grushon. We all have stingers now.

  “Let’s interrogate the prisoner,” I say.

  ***

  She identifies herself only by her partisan alias of ‘Comrade 19’ and will not tell us her real name or where she comes from. Trynka is annoyed, but these details are unimportant to me. I prefer not to know much about Comrade 19. I only want to learn what she knows about Stilikan’s death. Did she play a role in it?

  But first, Trynka extracts details from the prisoner about her current circumstances. Beltran and Katella position themselves on opposite sides of me providing instant translation. Only rarely do they disagree on minor points.

  Since the “glorious army” has liberated this region, Comrade 19 has decided to leave the partisan band with hopes of resuming a normal life someplace where nobody knows her. A year ago she was gang raped by the Mag and left for dead. But she didn’t oblige them; instead, she made her way to Omzbak’s Avengers, where her brother was serving, in order to wreak havoc on the enemy and their collaborators.

  She is proud of her “patriotic service.” During her year with the partisans she helped to “glank” numerous enemies. This term, as it is explained to me, refers to what one does to eradicate vermin – including those who walk on two legs. Her biggest regret is that her brother was captured during one of their raids and subsequently executed.

  Now she wants this period of her life to be over. She desires to “feel human again.”

  I’m not concerned about her desires. I cut directly to the point:

  “What do you know about Stilikan?”

  Katella translates my question. At first Comrade 19 seems to not understand; then realization enters her eyes along with revulsion and terror.

  “Ah, the beautiful young pilot,” she says, “like a god, almost! I thought he was a gift from heaven. We could exchange him for our captured comrades, including my own precious brother.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” I demand through clenched teeth.

  She stares at me for a long moment. I can barely curb myself from slapping her down.

  “He looked much like you,” she says. “He could have been your brother ... he was your brother!”