Rising Sun

by David Macinnis Gill

Again he shakes his head, and something in me snaps. I charge toward him, fist raised, ready to beat an answer out of him. Then, quicker than I’ve ever seen her, Vienne steps in front of me and hip-throws me onto my back.

  “Oof!” I say, even though the armor absorbs the impact.

  Vienne plants a boot in my gut. “We are dalit, but we are still Regulators, and the Tenets forbid dissention in the ranks. Don’t shame us.”

  “I’m not the one who should be ashamed,” I say, but I don’t fight against her. “Get your foot off me.”

  But she doesn’t. Not until Aziz walks over and offers me his hand.

  “The harii are berserkers,” he explains as he pulls me to my feet. “They were once workers in this factory, chosen for their athleticism, but over time, they became like rabid animals, strong and agile, too fast for anyone to shoot.” He looks at Vienne with deep respect, overlooking, I reckon, the fact that I’d taken down two of the six. “Until tonight. The Razor will be angry that you’ve killed his pets.”

  “I feel just terrible for him,” Vienne says.

  “Sarcasm!” Mimi says.

  “Affirmative,” I reply. “You nailed that one.” Then to Aziz, I say, “That still doesn’t explain why—”

  I never get the chance to finish my sentence, because earsplitting feedback from a PA system cuts me off cold.

  “Aziz!” the Razor booms. “You have something that I want, and I have something you need. It is time to bargain if you are still alive!”

  Aziz picks up a fallen harii. He carries the body to the wall and, with no hesitation, tosses it over. Seconds later, we hear a thump as it hits the ground.

  “Am I still alive, Razor?” he yells down. “There is your answer!”

  Below, a cry goes up.

  Aziz spits over the edge. “And you have nothing I need!”

  “I wish he hadn’t done that,” Vienne tells me as the whole crew joins Aziz.

  “Why?”

  “My knife was still in his back.”

  “That was kind of heartless,” I say, looking down at the đibui gathered around the body.

  “I’m a soldier,” she says, “not a humanitarian.”

  “I didn’t know the two were mutually exclusive.”

  “Aziz!” the Razor booms over the PA. “That means nothing! Give me Charlotte du Save, and I will let you and your davos go free!”

  “No deal!” Aziz shouts down at him. “Why would I give her back to the man who kidnapped her?”

  “Kidnapper?” The Razor laughs. “You are misinformed! Call me thief. Call me beggar. But no one can call me kidnapper!”

  “If you’re not a kidnapper, then you won’t mind letting us go!” Aziz yells.

  “Of course!” the Razor replies. “First let me talk to Charlotte, and if she would like to leave with you, you all may pass in safety!”

  “No can do!” Aziz yells, and taps his earbud at the same time, receiving a message. “She’s tied up right now!”

  “Have it your way!” the Razor bellows. “May your gods have mercy on you, because my đibui will not!”

  A great cry goes up below, and in one mass, the wobblies charge the entrance, beating on the doors with every bit of rage they can muster.

  “That barricade won’t hold forever, Aziz,” I say.

  “They can’t get higher than the bottom floor, but it won’t matter,” he replies. “Our extraction vehicle just made contact. ETA is two minutes.”

  Sarge pumps the shotgun attachment on his armalite. “So all we have to do is keep those collywobbles pinned down, and we’re home free.”

  An explosion shakes the factory. Then a second, a third, and fourth. Smoke billows from the stairwells. Looks like the đibui have access to explosive material.

  Oh, joy. “Care to revise that theory, Sarge?”

  “Theories ain’t my bag, pretty boy,” he snarls. He throws his weapon to his shoulder and hoofs it to the west exits. “I deal in realities. Hey, Pinchie, you got the east doors, right?”

  “Right,” Pinch says, and checks her weapon. Her face is blanched. “Đibui. Harii. The Razor. Rain. Mud. Now they’re got explosives. I never signed up for this kuso. You two watch yourselves.”

  “Roger that,” Vienne says. “I’ll cover the north end. You get the south.”

  “What if they break through before we can exfil?” I say.

  Vienne shrugs. “Then we do what Mimi always told us—shoot until we’re out of ammo.”

  “Mimi never said that.”

  “Not to you, maybe.”

  I move to position, covering the south exit doors, then check to make sure Charlotte is holding up. Aziz is beside her, talking on his mic. I can’t hear him, and in the darkness, I can’t read his lips, but he seems pretty buggered.

  “Mimi, did you ever tell Vienne to shoot until we’re out of ammo?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “But you never said it to me.”

  “Affirmative,” she says. “She is a soldier, and you are not.”

  “No?” I say. “Then what am I?”

  “A cowboy,” she says.

  I feel my ears burn and my face flush. “Mimi—”

  Boom!

  A rumble shakes the stairwell, and the third-floor exit door expands and contracts, rattling in its hinges. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that the second-floor doors are gone.

  My door is next.

  “Chief!” I yell. “You’ve got about one minute till all hell breaks loose!”

  A star shines in the distance.

  No, not a star. It’s getting bigger by the second.

  “Regulators! Fall back!” Aziz calls to us. “Extraction is immediate!”

  But we’re not the only ones who can see the lights of the approaching velocicopter. Over the cacophony of explosions, the Razor roars over the PA. “You have one minute, or I will kill you all! Aziz! Answer me!”

  Aziz? I round on the chief. “He knows your name?”

  “He should,” Aziz says, the searchlight of the copter shining down in his face, forming a halo of light on his helmet. “He’s my brother.”

  Chapter 9

  Peligroso Factory

  ANNOS MARTIS 238. 2. 3. 23:09

  Blinding light bathes the roof as a velocicopter drops low for a landing on the roof.

  “Your what?” I yell over the chop of the copter’s rotor.

  “My brother! It’s a long story!”

  “We planned this mission to the last detail,” I say, “and you managed to leave that detail out!”

  “It didn’t seem relevant.” Aziz signals the copter to land. “We aren’t that close. Now get low or lose your head!”

  The downwash from the rotors forces me to squat, and I back off to Vienne’s position. “His brother?” I shout to her. “How can he keep a secret like that?”

  “The Tenets say we have to follow him,” Vienne yells. “Not trust him!”

  The copter’s skids hit the roof, and a cargo bay opens. I expect a greeting party, but the only personnel on board is the pilot.

  Now that’s hinky.

  Without waiting for orders, Sarge picks up Charlotte and steps to the bay. He sets her in the jump seat, then pulls a light mass grenade from his ammo belt as we move toward the copter.

  “That’s far enough!” he yells. “This flight’s full. You pikers have to take the next one! Course the next one’s never going to come!”

  “What’re you doing, Regulator?” Aziz yells.

  Sarge laughs and waves the grenade around. “Getting paid, Chief!”

  “You’re betraying us?” Pinch cries, her voice cracking. “After all we’ve been through?”

  “Sorry, Pinchie!” Sarge yells. “Love ya and all, but a jack’s gotta do what a jack’s gotta do!”

  Vienne raises her armalite. Takes aim at Sarge. “Drop the grenade!”

  “Shoot me.” Sarge puts a pistol to Charlotte’s head. “I shoot her.”

  Aziz makes a slashing motion, signal
ing Vienne to hold fire. Frustrated, she lowers her armalite and curses under her breath.

  “Thought you’d see it my way, Chief,” Sarge says, and signals the pilot to take off.

  “So you’re keeping the ransom for yourself,” I yell. “Is that it?”

  “There never was a ransom!” he yells. “’Cause there wasn’t a kidnapping. Till now!”

  It dawns on me as it dawns on the whole crew—Medici set us up. Instead of rescuing Charlotte, the Orthocrat has tricked us into doing a kidnapping for him.

  I shout, spit flying out of my mouth. “How much is Medici paying you to betray your own crew?”

  “Medici?” Sarge calls. “Ya got it wrong, you wank. My employer’s a man named Lyme. He’ll be the one ransoming the concubine back to Medici!” Sarge hits the switch to close the cargo bay. “Hey, Pinchie! There’s room enough to squeeze you in. You come with me and get rich, or stay here and let the wobblies massacre you.”

  Pinch surveys the situation: the wobblies are going to overrun us, and there’s no way we’re going to escape. She squints at me and Vienne, then at Aziz. “Like I said, I didn’t sign up for this.” She jumps into the cargo bay ahead of the door. “Sorry, Chief. See you in Valhalla.”

  With a rush of wind and rotors, the copter takes off.

  Not to be beaten so easily, Vienne aims at the pilot, training her laser sights on his temple. “The window is closing, Chief!”

  “Stand down, soldier!” Aziz shouts.

  “I have the shot!”

  “If you shoot the pilot,” Aziz says, “they all die.”

  She doesn’t take her eye off her scope. “They’re traitors. They deserve worse.”

  “Not Charlotte,” I say, and put a hand on Vienne’s left shoulder. “She’s an innocent. The Tenets forbid causing her harm.”

  Vienne growls and stands down. She knocks my hand off her shoulder. “I hate when you quote the Tenets at me.”

  Boom!

  Boom!

  Boom!

  Ka-boom!

  Here come the wobblies!

  The south fire-exit doors fly off, and Vienne and I lay down suppressing fire as we back away to the north exits.

  “What now, Chief?” I say over the roar of the wobblies’ screams.

  “Now we smack the đibui in the mouth!” Aziz pulls a rappelling rope from his pack. He breaks the skylight and drops the rope through. “And get the hell out of Dodge. Who wants to go first?”

  I grab the rope. “Me.”

  “Cowboy,” Mimi says. “I am detecting a rapid spike in cortisol in your blood system. It is not advisable for you to continue this behavior.”

  “Too late now,” I say as Aziz clips me to the rope and I get ready to rappel down. I’ve been afraid of heights since a space jump that ended badly a couple years ago. Compared to that, this should be nothing.

  “Go!” Aziz yells, and pushes me through the skylight.

  As my gut shoots into my throat, the floor below spins like a centrifuge, my boots strike the glass, and I race through the sunlight to the third floor.

  Then the second.

  Then first.

  Whump.

  My boots hit the floor, but momentum pushes me backward, and my butt slams into the concrete. Cobalt-colored glass rains down on the wobblies, and my armor solidifies to absorb the hit. They descend on me as I roll to my feet, taking the Regulator fighting stance. They slam on the brakes and begin forming a circle as the bravest of them raises a machete and runs at me.

  “Just one?” I say, and deliver a punch that separates his makeshift helmet from his head. “Who’s next?”

  “Dibs!” Vienne yells as she rappels down the cord face-first and opens fire, sending the pack scampering for cover. “Huzzah!”

  “Save some for me!” I yell.

  Her body is like an RPG homing on its target, blasting the đibui under unrelenting fire, popping a clip and jamming another in place without missing a beat. She raises the red-hot muzzle of the rifle at the remaining wobblies, who start running for the hills.

  “Freeze!” I shout, and start to fire.

  Fwip!

  Before I can get off a shot, a wobblie falls to his knees, a combat knife between his shoulder blades. He grunts, reaching back for the knife, then collapses, dead.

  I turn to Vienne, who is signaling Aziz to descend. “Thought you lost your combat knife?”

  “That one is yours,” she says, smirking when I reach for my boot. “Pinch taught me a trick or two.”

  With the đibui pushed back to the door, Aziz glides down the rope behind us. Vienne covers him, taking out three wobblies before they can fire a round.

  “What now?” I say, firing on the exit doors to keep the rest from swarming us.

  “Plan C,” Aziz says. “We’re going to hijack one of the Razor’s war trucks.”

  “You mean the ones with wicked nasty flamethrowers?” I ask as I retrieve my combat knife. “What’s the strategy?”

  “Chuck these outside,” Aziz says, plucking two Willie Pete grenades from his belt and dropping his visor. “And run like Shiva himself is on your heels.”

  “Willie Pete” is military slang for white phosphorus, which is made from an allotrope of phosphorus. Once thrown, it will produce a thick, noxious smoke cloud that burns like acid on the skin and can last for up five minutes. More than enough time for us to charge through and catch the wobblies by surprise. There’s only one hitch: the natural reaction of enemy combatants is to shoot into the cloud because they expect a frontal assault. Against the đibui’s firepower, we normally would do just that. But they have three flamethrowers, and symbiarmor doesn’t like heat. In hot enough temperatures, it will melt.

  “Your suit can withstand up to three hundred degrees centigrade,” Mimi says.

  “Can Vienne’s?” I ask.

  “Negative.”

  Which is why, instead of blasting through the smoke when we all toss the Willie Petes through the door, we crash through a nearby window and haul our butts to cover.

  With the đibui falling back and filling the fume cloud with gunfire, we skirt the perimeter, eyes locked on the three war trucks, and take cover behind a pile of discarded guanite ore. We squat run for a hundred meters or so, but soon my side is aching and my lungs are killing me.

  “You are out of shape,” Mimi says.

  I quell the urge to cough. “Says you.”

  “Negative. My source is the nanobots embedded in your hypothalamus.”

  “Tell the nanobots they can kiss my nanobutt.”

  “Impossible,” she says. “Nanobots have no lips, and according to data collected from females you’ve encountered, your butt is virtually nonexistent.”

  Aziz whistles and points to the war truck closest to us. It’s painted red. The second is painted white, and the Razor’s truck, bigger and more armored than the other two, is black.

  The red truck is undermanned, with only a driver and a wobblie controlling the flamethrower. The pilot light is lit, ready to go, and the stink of gasoline is strong in the air.

  “That’s our mark,” Aziz whispers. “Durango, you take the flamethrower, and I take the driver out.”

  “What about me?” Vienne asks.

  “Do what you do best, Sidewinder,” he whispers, and winks. “Rain hellfire on their asses.”

  She pulls an ammo clip from her belt. It’s marked with a red X. “I have just the thing.”

  On his mark, we hone in on our targets. Charging toward a mass of fifty đibui, she fires repeated bursts at her targets. Blam! The wobblies are blown off their feet as she nears the second war truck. The flamethrower swings around to meet her, and as I’m sprinting toward my own target, I see a jet of fire shoot toward her.

  “Vienne!” I yell, which is the wrong thing to do.

  My target swings his own flamethrower around and lines me up in his sights. I see the pilot light dance. In seconds, I’ll be a crispy critter.

  “Mimi, you’re sure about this s
uit?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “One hundred percent sure?”

  “Ninety-nine point percent sure,” she says. “Statistics always account for a margin of error.”

  “Good enough for me!” I shout out loud as the jet from the flamethrower baths my body in liquefied petrol. Heat coursing across my flesh, fire swaddling me like a blanket, I take two long strides and leap—

  Onto the war truck.

  Grab the flamethrower and shove it aside.

  Raise my fist, still burning like a torch.

  And punch a stunned and terrified wobblie in the chest.

  He flies off the truck bed and lands in the muck. Screaming. Rolling, the wet mud sucking the fire from his raggedy clothes.

  “Mimi!” I yell. “I’m on fire! Do something!”

  “Endeavoring,” she says.

  “Endeavor faster!” I yell as a bullet pings off my helmet.

  The driver. He’s out of the cab, raising a needle cannon, taking aim at my fiery head. I duck, using the truck to shield myself. The needles hit the vehicle’s steel body thwick-thwick-thwick as I slap my arms and legs, trying to kill the flames.

  “Die!” the driver screams, and raises his weapon again—just a second before Aziz slams into him, driving him to the ground and putting out his lights with a right cross to the chin.

  “Holy shite, Durango!” Aziz says, his eyes wide as hubcaps. “What have you done?”

  “Mimi! I’m on fire!”

  “Fire is under control,” she says. “The combustible fuel is burning off, and your armor is dissipating the heat at an acceptable rate.”

  “Then why are my feet so hot?” I ask. “Why do I still smell petrol?”

  Aziz answers the question for me. By pointing at the tank connected to the flamethrower.

  A tank that’s glowing red and expanding at a terrifying rate.

  “It’s going to blow!” I scream, and jump from the war truck.

  An instant later, the petrol tank explodes, sending a shock wave that throws us both ten meters in the air, propelling us like rag dolls tossed by a petulant child. We land hard in the sludge, and by the time we stop rolling, there’s a second explosion—the vehicle’s fuel tank—that blows the truck to smithereens.

  I raise my head from the muck, taking in the carnage. The dark night is lit by the flaming vehicle, and I can clearly see the two other trucks, with the Razor still standing on the roof of his vehicle, shouting orders over his PA. The đibui are running helter-skelter, firing into the air, shooting anything that move, including one another.