Rising Sun

by David Macinnis Gill

  “Fossiker!” the Razor says as he turns back to us, just in time to see Pinch shed her cuffs. “How did you do that?

  Pinch holds up the key. “A gift from Krill.”

  She slips behind me. Starts working on my cuffs. But Razor plants a side kick in my gut, slamming us both into the wall.

  The shack shakes.

  Dust rains down on us. I’m surprised the roof doesn’t collapse along with it.

  Razor grabs the straight razor from the table. Waves it around. “I will ask you again. Where is the ransom?”

  He whips the razor open.

  The blade goes flying and embeds into the wall behind him.

  Pinch holds up a silver linchpin between her thumb and forefinger. “Looking for this?”

  Razor charges toward us, shoulder down.

  I sidestep, tripping him. Then swing with both cuffed hands, hammering him in the side of the head.

  Razor slams into the side of the shack, and his head explodes through the tarpaper. He puts both hands on the wall and yanks free of the hole, eyes opening and closing as he staggers backward.

  A rumble of thunder rattles the shack, and with the pinging of a million raindrops on the metal roof, the sky opens up outside. Great, I think. An escape through a muddy slum. Could things get any worse?

  “A little help?” I swing my hands around so that Pinch can uncuff me. “Help Sarge. I’ve got this.”

  “You sure?” she says.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, and raise my fists. “This piker is all mine.”

  As Pinch slips outside, Razor manages to stand. Shakes off the blow, rolling his shoulder, and before I can see it coming in the low light, he throws a vicious right cross to my mouth.

  My lip busts.

  Blood sprays his face as he follows with a punch to my kidney and a knee to my ribs.

  “Didn’t feel a thing,” I say, and spit the blood off my lip.

  “You’re wearing symbiarmor!” the Razor bellows, as if it’s the last thing he expected.

  “Dalit?” I say, holding my coat open. “Former Regulator? You were expecting, what, a silk robe?”

  “Do not mock me!” he roars.

  Razor grabs the table and swings it like a cricket bat down at my head. I throw a forearm up to block it, but the force knocks me backward onto the floor. I kip to my feet an instant before Razor pins me to the wall like a lab specimen. “I will hurt you for that!”

  Without blinking, I fire a knee into his crotch. I feel the flesh give . . . then it’s like my knee punched a steel girder. “Symbiarmor?” I say.

  Razor laughs. “You expected a silk robe?”

  I carking hate to be laughed at. Nothing buggers me off more.

  “May I point out that your assailant is not wearing gloves?” Mimi says.

  Righteous.

  I spit blood into Razor’s face. Grab his hand. Peel back the fingers until the joints pop.

  Razor growls and punches me in the ear. Now it’s a horrific wrestling match—Razor bigger and stronger but me quicker. The two of us locked arm to arm. Gouging and biting. Tearing hair and skin. Then falling backward, with me slamming the floor first. Razor ramming his elbow into my right eye socket. But me wrapping the handcuffs around his neck. Twisting the chain—cutting off his air and blood.

  He kicks and his arms flail. I lean back, away from the clawing hands, my hands and arms and shoulders quivering from exertion, until consciousness leaves the big man’s body. Exhausted and panting, I push him aside. I pull my legs out from under his dead weight and, struggling to catch my breath, get to my feet.

  The Razor slumps forward, eyes rolling into his head, and topples almost gently onto his side.

  I check his pulse. “Still alive.”

  “That’s more ’n I can say for you,” a female snarls. “Say hello to your maker, fossicker.”

  I turn to the voice, seeing three things simultaneously:

  In the fight, the sheets partitioning the room have fallen.

  Standing among those sheets is a female with a light blue face and dark blue hair—Charlotte. Holding a blaster.

  The blaster is firing a pulse of superheated plasma that can burn through symbiarmor. Maybe even mine.

  “It’s not very nice,” Aziz says, “to shoot the bloke come to rescue you.”

  Charlotte whips around. Aziz pops her elbow, then twists the blaster out of her hand.

  “Let go of me!” She punches him in the neck and screams before kicking his shins. Neither blow has any effect, but that doesn’t stop her.

  Aziz gently fends off her attacks, which grow more feeble. “Stop hitting me,” Aziz tells Charlotte, putting her in an arm lock, “and you’ll stop getting hurt.”

  “Stop twisting my arm,” she huffs, “and I’ll stop hitting you.”

  Aziz lets her go. Charlotte shrieks and takes another swing at him. Then, with one last cry, she charges the chief, hell-bent on clawing his eyes out of their sockets.

  Aziz catches her wrists. “Durango! Grab her!”

  “Grab?” I say. “Where?”

  “Anywhere that’s not tooth or claw!”

  The Tenets say that a Regulator is not allowed to touch a person of the opposite sex without permission. They also say that the chief’s commands must be obeyed. So I follow orders by grabbing Charlotte around the waist and picking her up. I expect to feel hip bones, but instead I feel a round little belly. Too round for the concubine of a rich Orthocrat, who would prefer her to be in peak physical condition.

  “Mimi, do a—”

  Charlotte starts screaming, “Get your hands off me!”

  “Shut her up!” Aziz barks, and leans down to check on the Razor.

  Easier said than done, I think, and clap a hand over her mouth.

  “Hold her still.” Aziz tears open a packet and slaps a cloth over her mouth and nose. “Just a few seconds.”

  Her eyes roll into the back of her head. She goes slack in my arms. Out like a light.

  “That’s chloroform,” I say, lifting her into my arms. “Was that necessary? I’m not comfortable with knocking an innocent out and toting her like a sack of guanite.”

  “My crew, my way, got it?” He steps up on me. Eyes locked on mine. Jaw clenched and nostrils flared. “Besides, guanite doesn’t bite.” He takes one last look back at Razor—he’s still out—and checks his watch. “Time for the exfil. Let’s move!”

  “What about the Razor?” I ask as Aziz opens the door for me.

  “If he knows what’s good for him,” Aziz says, “he’ll lick his wounds and live to fight another day. But knowing him, it’s never going to happen.”

  Outside on the patio, Sarge leans over the wall. He takes potshots at wobblies in the alleys below, while Pinch covers the stairs against a mad rush.

  “Your gear’s over there,” Pinch yells, directing me to a gear bag near Sarge.

  While carrying Charlotte, I grab my armalite, ammo belt, and combat knife, which I stuff into my boot.

  “What’s the situation?” Aziz barks.

  “Got the collywobbles pinned down,” Sarge says. “They’re scared dunnyless to show their faces.”

  “Not pinned enough, Chief,” Pinch says. “Check out the big hack on our three. A couple dozen personnel taking cover behind it. Probably massing for a charge.”

  “Roger that. Keep them planted into that spot.” Aziz looks to the hotel across the river. “Where’s the Sidewinder? She was supposed to cover our exfil.”

  I step outside with Charlotte in my arms. “Reckon she’s on her way to the extraction zone. She can’t stand missing the action.”

  Aziz scans the alleys with a pair of omnoculars. “That wasn’t my order.”

  “Did you specifically tell her to stay in position?” I say. “Vienne follows orders to the letter, but only to the letter.”

  Aziz rubs his chin. Pinches his bottom lip. “Durango, put the target down. Set up a position on the bottom of the stairs. We’ll cover you.”

&n
bsp; “Roger that,” I say, and place Charlotte on a pile of straw meant for a sleeping mat, out of the rain. The fabric of her gown drapes over her belly. Yep, definitely a bump. Aziz just used chloroform on the mother of an unborn child. Why didn’t I stop him? “Mimi, quick-scan the perimeter. How many heartbeats do you read?”

  “I detect over fifty heartbeats in the vicinity,” she replies.

  “Aziz,” I say, “your plan’s not going to work. Too many hostiles out there. Fifty at least. Plus, I think we’ve got a complication with Charlotte.”

  Aziz looks over the ledge. “Fifty hostiles? No farging way.”

  I step up on the wall. Spray the shacks with suppressing fire.

  Count to three.

  Then—

  The đibui return fire with at least fifty battle rifles, shotguns, and blasters, chasing me off the wall.

  “Fifty,” I say. “At as minimum.” Dust from the wall settles onto the patio, mixing with the rain to form slurry puddles. As I squat-walk out of the line of fire, my boots leave footprints behind me. Wunderbar. That means the wobblies will be able to track any escape we make.

  Sarge fires at the đibui. “Take that, you wankers!”

  They don’t bother to return fire. It’s a waste of ammo, and they know that time is on their side. Regulator armor is mostly bulletproof, but we’re not indestructible. We can be overrun.

  “We’re pinned, Chief,” Pinch says. “If we bust through, we put the target in danger.”

  Aziz shakes his head and mutters about Sidewinder not following orders. “Okay, Durango, you made your point. Got any bright ideas?”

  The rain blows sideways across the cobbled-together deck. I wipe it out of my face. Rain. Mud. And more mud, sluicing down the back side of the hill like a flume.

  Like a flume.

  I run to the aft side of the shack and lean over the wall. Here the hill is a steep drop to a salvage heap. Instead of steps, it’s covered only with tufts of sawgrass.

  It might work.

  “Would you like me to calculate the odds of your plan’s success?” Mimi asks.

  “Nega-carking-tive.”

  “Confirmed, however—”

  “You butt out.” No matter what the odds are, it’s our best chance.

  From the back wall of the shack, I rip a sheet of corrugated metal loose from the two nails holding it.

  Looks strong enough.

  “Affirmative,” Mimi says. “It is a six-aught-six-one aluminum alloy with a tensile strength of no more than one hundred twenty-four point two MPa.”

  “Did I ask for a metallurgy treatise?”

  “I anticipated your request.”

  “Just like the scan on Charlotte,” I say. “Since when do you anticipate?”

  “The predictive patterns of algorithmic functions and triangulation are one of my primary functions.”

  “So you’re saying I’m getting too predictable?”

  “Negative. I did not say that,” she says. “You did.”

  “Durango!” Aziz shouts, and comes around the shack. “What are you doing?”

  “Escaping!” I hold up the six-oh-six-one aluminum alloy with a tensile strength of no more than one hundred twenty-four point two MPa. “Grab some sheet metal and follow me!”

  “Follow you where?” he snaps. “I’m the chief of this davos! I’m the one you follow!”

  “We’re pinned down by fire,” I protest. “What difference does it make? My old chief never cared if one of her Regulators showed initiative. A good idea is a good idea.”

  “Your old chief,” Aziz says, “is dead.”

  “If we don’t get off this hill stat,” I say, biting back the bile rising in my throat, “we might be joining her in Valhalla.”

  Aziz pushes a palm against his forehead and stares at Charlotte, asleep on the straw mat. “Damn you, Stringfellow! Do the stunt. But if this goes fubar, the blames on you!”

  I set my piece of sheet metal in place on the wall. Aziz holds it steady while I pick up the girl.

  “Heewack!” I yell, and jump on, wrapping my arms around Charlotte. For a second, my weight holds the sheet in place. Then Aziz gives a shove, and off we go!

  “For the record,” Mimi says, “even living, I would not have described this as a good idea.”

  Whoosh!

  Down the steep hill we plummet!

  Like an insane carnival truck—

  bouncing over sawgrass—

  mud flying in my face . . . almost losing my hold on Charlotte—

  crashing toward the scrap heaps—

  leaning hard, hard, to my left to barely—

  miss it—

  then wham!

  We slam into a shack, taking it down with us. Burying me and Charlotte in blankets, trinkets, somebody’s leftover dinner slop. I throw my body over hers, protecting her, until finally we come to a stop.

  “Mimi,” I say. “Check her vitals.”

  “Strong,” she says. “The child’s as well.”

  “Righteous.” I leave her put and, a few seconds later, emerge from the wreckage. Covered in crap. Head draped with what I realize is somebody’s soiled drawers.

  “Gah!” I yell, and throw the shite off my face, only to be met with an all-too-familiar sight: the barrel of an automatic weapon.

  I knock the barrel away. “What did Mimi always tell us? ‘Don’t take aim if you’re not aiming to shoot!’”

  “Sorry.” Vienne pulls back her armalite. “I didn’t recognize your underwear.”

  “Come on,” I say. “You knew it had to be me.”

  “A fossiker crashing into a shack on a piece of sheet metal?” she says. “On second thought, yes, it did have to be you.” She smiles and pats me on the head. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  Screams and yelps drift down from the hill. Aziz and Sarge rip down toward us, spinning like drunken tops. They shoot past the shack and ram into the scrap heaps.

  “Carfarg it!” Sarge yells. “Who thought of this fossiker idea?”

  Seconds later, Pinch comes down the hill. She’s standing, riding her sheet like a surfboard. “Yeehaw!”

  “A susie after my own heart,” I say.

  Vienne whacks the back of my head.

  “Ow!” I say. “What was that?”

  “Pipe down.” Vienne narrows her eyes. “The chief’s talking to us.”

  “Sarge, grab the target and let’s bust it!” Aziz points to Charlotte, who is safe under a pile of clothes and blankets. “Keeping moving. Zigzag. Don’t give them a clear shot.”

  Sarge scoops up Charlotte before I can stop him. Don’t drop her, I think as we cut through the salvage heaps, then find a deserted alley until we reach a main path.

  Aziz sidles up to a shack. He leans out, taking a peek, then stops to listen.

  Dead silence.

  “Mimi,” I say, “do a perimeter scan.”

  But before she can answer, Aziz waves us forward. We step out on the path, expecting a straight shot to the extraction zone. Instead, we find a platoon-sized mass of wobblies waiting, licking their chops.

  Literally, licking their chops. Like we’re a meal.

  I don’t want to be a meal.

  “I think we zigged,” I say, thumbing the safety off my armalite and dropping my visor as I take point, “when we should’ve zagged.”

  Chapter 6

  The Warren

  ANNOS MARTIS 238. 2. 3. 18:29

  I open up with my armalite, spraying the đibui with a full clip of ammo. My aim is low—not trying to kill any of them. Just trying to force them back and provide cover.

  They return fire. Their bullets ping off my suit, and they start chanting something. I buy enough time for my crew to take cover behind the corner shack, which suits me fine.

  I pop the ammo clip and replace it with a new one, tapping it on my helmet to set the mechanism. “What now?” I ask Aziz when I join then.

  “We find another way to the EZ!” the chief yells. “Follow me!”<
br />
  But we’ve gone no more than fifty meters when the mud in front of us explodes.

  Gunfire.

  From above us, on a watchtower built around a rusted-out telemetry relay tower. The Razor stands atop the tower, straddling the railing, battle rifle on his hip, a bloody gash on his forehead.

  “Here! Pursue them, my brothers!” he booms through a makeshift megaphone. “Bring my love back to me!”

  His love? Does he mean Charlotte, the susie he kidnapped? “Wait a minute,” I say, and start doing some quick math.

  “Do not hurt yourself,” Mimi says.

  “Was that your attempt at humor?”

  “Sarcasm.”

  “Not bad.” I laugh. “For a rookie.”

  Shouts and caterwauling behind us. The đibui are coming. It’ll take less than ten seconds for them to sprint down that main path and turn the corner.

  We’re stuck.

  “Durango, delay the wobblies!” Aziz points to the tower. “Sidewinder, take him out!”

  A quick round is Vienne’s reply. She plants a bullet in the Razor’s chest. The force of the shot knocks him back over the railing.

  His finger convulses on the trigger, and the gun empties as he falls backward.

  I meet the horde at the corner. For a micron of time, the đibui are transfixed by the gunfire. Then, as if the Bishop himself had snapped his fingers, they charge—screaming—firing—whooping and overrunning my position.

  The Tenets forbid killing innocents, and while they’re armed to the teeth and willing to kill me or worse, they don’t look like soldiers. They just look starved.

  Down on one knee, I aim for the leaders.

  Pop-pop-pop! Pop-pop-pop! Pop-pop-pop!

  I fire three-round bursts over their heads.

  A warning.

  It’s the only one you’re going to get, I think.

  “Retreat! Get out of there!” Aziz swings Charlotte onto his broad shoulder. “Sarge! Cover Durango! Vienne! Take point! Let’s move!”

  Vienne sprints toward the hill, then cuts right down a wide alley, then left out of sight. I follow Aziz and Pinch, keeping an eye open for Sarge, who is laying down fire, then sprinting to cover.

  At the next position, I hang back, protecting Sarge’s retreat down the alley.

  “Pretty boy! What’re you doin’?” he yells as a đibui with a sawed-off shotgun rounds the corner of a shack and takes aim.