By Other Means (Defending The Future)

by James Chambers

  Again, I raised my hand. “I don’t know what happened, but I know that Kendel’s will dictates all of his worldly possessions and his bank balance be transferred to you.” I beckoned at the cockpit of Seraphim’s Strike and the pilot opened the loading door, exposing six Angels in dress uniforms carrying Kendel’s coffin.

  Despite her indifferent words, her face was stricken at the sight of the thing. I reached forward and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what happened to make him leave, but I know you were in his thoughts. I know he left you everything he had. I know he did not want to be buried where he fell. I know it is not much, but this is the only closure you will ever have, and it will be the closest thing to a home he will ever know.”

  She squirreled that answer away for some future date to be integrated into the incomplete mental picture she had of an estranged father. I opened the pocket of my dress uniform and handed her the print-out statement of Kendel’s bank account. She saw the number, and went pale.

  The robot ran the genetic test, transferred the monies minus the taxes, accessed the personal effects, and set the quarantine status on the sealed coffin. Then the Angels loaded the thing into the back of Miss Aline’s flier.

  She looked up at me with tears in her eyes.

  “What kind of man was my father?”

  “He was kind to me when he didn’t have to be. He was a good man when being an ass was easier. He saved my life many times. He died laying right next to me.”

  “Captain Rook, we will have no leniency for your young command. You have committed an act of war against Kaliningrad 5 and there will be an accounting.”

  I stood proudly in front of the Mercenary Tribunal on the planetoid of Haven. They tried it all; focusing light on me while keeping everything else in shadow, sitting high above me in a ring, making me feel surrounded. Still, I had no fear. “Sirs, I understand your position, but strip away all clouding issues and emotion from the case and you have these facts: The Radiation Angels entered the system and were detected and engaged diplomatically by a lawful agent of Kaliningrad. We negotiated a meeting under a flag of truce—verified by records you already have in your possession—and as soon as the craft landed they opened fire.”

  A shadowy figure leaned forward, “Why were there drums of Aeroline aboard?”

  The lying, it turned out, was the easy part. “Because the craft in question leaked like a sieve. We could not be sure the negotiations would end peacefully and we would be allowed to buy fuel.”

  Another shadowy authority figure shifted in his seat. “And why were you not aboard the craft?”

  I shrugged, “Because they were going to shoot me, sir.”

  Back to the first. “But why did they open fire?”

  “I am not privy to the command structure or orders given by Kaliningrad military officers.”

  The leader, the one on the highest chair in the center of the U-shaped room, cleared his throat. “Did you steal anything from Kaliningrad 5, Captain Rook?”

  A dozen retorts flitted through my mind, but I settled on the truth for once. “We stole nothing. We did, however pick up the body of one of our own, fallen in battle during a legally contracted combat operation.”

  The third, who did not like me for some reason, leapt upon that. “Then you admit to piracy, Captain?”

  I set steel to my voice. “No, sir, for by the time we collected the body, the Kaliningrad military had already blown up my dropship. They committed an act of war, making Sergeant Kendel’s body legally obtained spoils.”

  The silence left behind those words was deafening.

  On the hot ground, under a bright sun, it seemed silly, overdramatic even. Yet there was only answer to Kendel’s daughter.

  “I risked execution to get his body back.”

  But then she shook her head slowly, “I’m sorry Captain, but I have to ask why?”

  Walter Kendel had been a companion, a comrade, and a friend. Most of all, he was the one man in the universe that seemed as lost and alone, without a single family contact, as was I, myself. Someone out there, probably hundreds of someones, owed this dignity to him. I paid for us all.

  What I said was, “Because I took a soldier’s oath, Miss.”

  And as we lifted off, for all the Angels in the deadliest Heaven of all, that alone was enough.

  THE CHILDREN’S CRUSADE

  A Chronicle of the 142nd Starborne

  Patrick Thomas

  Shoot me in the fracking head,” screamed James Oak. His body armor was ripped off and the flesh beneath was raw and bloody. “Do it now, soldier!”

  “Sir, I don’t think I can….” Former Private Sam Radwin was about as shaken as any combatant could be. Out of the ten soldiers in his unit, he was the only one to escape their last battle unscathed. In fact, only he and Oak survived. True, all their opponents were dead, but they had been that way to begin with.

  “You can stop with the damn sir. We were stripped of our ranks. You took the vow, same as the rest of us,” Oak said. Radwin knew was right. They had all sworn that if the damned deaders infected anyone, the survivors would not allow a fellow soldier to become one of the walking dead.

  “But maybe there is something we can do. We get you back up to Kyklopes and maybe…”

  “Have me infect the rest of the damn sky station? I’ve lived my life as a Host soldier, a member of the Sway. I may be heading out, but I’m not taking any friendlies with me.”

  “But, sir, you have about a day before the reaper virus kicks in fully,” Radwin said.

  “The thirty hours is just a guideline. For some it happens sooner and some it happens later. I have no desire to sit by and let my mind and body be turned into that of a zombie. An honorable death is far better and suicide is not honorable if there is another option.”

  Sam Radwin was immobile staring at the muzzle of his jaegorr rifle, the idea of killing a former superior officer sticking in his craw.

  “If you insist on calling me sir, then consider it an order,” Oak said. Radwin didn’t move. “I would consider it a personal favor if you would end me before I become something that I despise. I am a practicing Christian. My life has not always been the finest, but I followed orders and did the best I could with what life handed me. I don’t want to end up on the other side and be denied my well-earned eternal furlough because I had to put a bullet in my own head.”

  Radwin looked up and met Oak’s eyes. “I’ll do it,” he whispered.

  “Thank you.”

  “Before…is there anyone you want me to relay a message to?” Radwin asked.

  Oak shook his head. “The soldiers I served with will understand. And my family died in the conflagration when Earth was destroyed. Hopefully, I will be able to tell them myself shortly.”

  Oak, wounded and battered, dragged himself to his feet and stood at attention, bringing his hand up into a salute. Radwin matched him, breaking off the salute first to bring up his jaegorr rifle. Oak didn’t blink, didn’t flinch as the muzzle flashed and a bullet tore threw his brainpan and out the other side. The now-dead soldier fell to the ground and even though his skull had assumed the consistency of somewhat chopped meat, Radwin put another round into him, severing his spinal cord at the neck. That way there was no chance of his body rising to harm others. Radwin moved to tend to the rest of his ten-man unit. Although “man” was not entirely accurate as four of his fellow soldiers were women. The difference in gender didn’t make them any more or any less dead. Radwin put a pair of bullets, aimed at head and spine, into all eight. It felt wrong to Radwin not to bury them, but he couldn’t risk it. The time it would take to bury his fallen comrades would only expose him to more danger, making him a target for the walking dead. He still had the mission and the nine deaths did not absolve him of his commitment. Before he could return to Kyklopes sky station he needed to find and rescue ten people. Each of t he unit did. With the rest gone, Radwin’s responsibility increased to a full hundred survivors.

&
nbsp; Using sterilized gloves he removed a dog tag from each and put them in a buttoned pocket and bowed his head in a silent prayer, unsure if anyone was actually listening.

  The town they had just been through did not have a single survivor of the reaper’s plague. The nine deaths had been for naught. Even worst from a practical standpoint was the fact that the long-range radio that was used to contact Kyklopes was broken in the battle. His personal radio had a good range planetside, but wasn’t powerful enough for the signal to be picked up in orbit. So now the mission was not only a find-and-rescue, but to locate a method to contact evac when the time came. To move more quickly the unit had commandeered an all- terrain vehicle, but that had run out of fuel. Radwin located an old-fashion bicycle. It was sturdy enough to be used off road and it had a rack to store some of his equipment. He took two jaegorrs, three sidearms, eighteen grenades and all the remaining ammunition. The grenades and ammo went in a pack which he placed in a basket on the front. The two addition sidearms were secured by utility straps to his armored vest and the jaegorrs strapped on his back. He was alone, but he knew he would need more rather than less firepower. He still had his GPS to guide him to the next city. Every five miles or so he would stop, find a sheltered spot, and try his headset radio.

  “This is Sam Radwin of the 142nd Starborne. I am on a search-and-rescue mission. If any uninfected humans can hear this signal, please respond.” He had repeated this nine times without a reply, but the tenth time was the charm.

  “Sam Radwin of the 142nd Starborne, this is Tristan Harriman of the Town of Whisky Creek. Can you hear me?”

  “Tristan, I can hear you. What is your location and how many of you are there?” an excited Sam Radwin said.

  “Ninety-eight. One adult and ninety-seven children.”

  Sam Radwin’s jaw actually dropped. The idea of one adult keeping that many children safe was amazing given the circumstances.

  “Where in Whisky Creek are you located?”

  “We are in Zimmen’s Concrete and Building Supplies. How far from Whiskey Creek are you?”

  Radwin plotted a course on his GPS. “I estimate my time of arrival in three and a half hours.”

  It was closer to four when his bicycle cruised in sight of the town line. Unfortunately, like many of the towns, Whiskey Creek was infested by the walking dead simply mulling around, waiting for one of the living to present themselves as a fresh food source. Radwin crept in to do recon from an overlooking hill.

  It wasn’t hard to spot the concrete factory if for no other reason it was the one building in town that had been fortified. It looked like a mini-fortress. In fact, several concrete slabs, each easily ten feet high by two feet thick, had been laid out in a pattern around the building. The building was exposed on all sides, which was good for keeping watch for deaders. It was a problem for Radwin as it left anyone approaching the building a wide-open target for the deaders to hone in on.

  The undead were attracted to loud sounds and rapid moments. Fortunately their own speed was somewhat limited. The older the animated corpse, the slower the reflexes. There were minimal zombies between him and the concrete factory. He could wait for dark, but that would leave him even more vulnerable. He had infrared goggles, but without a heat signature zombies didn’t exactly show up brightly. He imagined that he would glow much like a firefly in the dark to them.

  The longer he delayed, the greater the risk of discovery. Sam Radwin decided it was best to get it over with. Hitting his ear radio he announced, “Tristan, I’m on a hill overlooking town on the east side. I’m going to be coming in toward you. Where is the best point of entry to the factory?”

  “Radwin, stay where you are. We will come to get you,” a girl’s voice came over the radio.

  “How exactly will you do that?” Radwin asked, then spun at the sound of a twig snapping behind him. A dozen deaders were coming up the rear hillside right for him. He could shoot, but that would only draw the rest of the lumbering dead toward his position. A strategic withdrawal was a safer solution. “Too late. The deaders are coming for me. I’m going to be coming in hot on a bicycle from the east side of town. Get ready to let me in. I should be there in moments.”

  Radwin’s prediction might not have been wrong if the rapid, downward motion had not attracted the attention of every zombie in his line of sight. Like a swarm of giant angry hornets, they turned and ran, converging on his path. In a motorized transport he might have beaten them, but on a two-wheeled bicycle, the race was lost before it began. He pulled a grenade out and threw it far behind and to the side of him with the hope the explosion would take out some of his pursuers and that the noise and light show would distract the deaders from him.

  It both worked and it didn’t. It distracted the ones already aware of his descent into town, but alerted any that might have been ignorant of the literal meals on wheels. Sam Radwin cursed, surprised that the back of his mind was hoping that none of the children could hear his words over the open com-link.

  “Radwin, we’re coming to get you. If you move toward your right you will see a rolling bunker. Get on top as quickly as you can,” the girl’s voice said over the radio.

  “A what?” Radwin said, too busy laying down fire to keep the reanimated from getting close enough to harm or infect him to easily look away.

  Within moments he spotted a cement monstrosity moving toward him with slow precision. It was long and tall, coming to a wedge at the front. Within seconds, Radwin saw a boy, who might have been all of twelve, climb out a hatch in the top of the pile of cement. He threw a rope to the soldier. It had a knot tied every foot or so to make climbing easier. With a rush born of desperation, Radwin threw the ammo pack from the basket over his shoulder and ran forward. He grabbed the rope and started climbing, using his feet to walk up the side of the rolling cement bunker, pulling on each knot until he reached the top. Once Radwin hauled himself onto the roof, the boy pulled the rope up behind him, but it was too late. A dead woman in a tattered blue dress had gotten a hold of it and was yanking it back down. Radwin had already put his jaegorrs’ straps around his shoulders to make the climb so he drew a sidearm and put three bullets in her head. It took the third one to make her let go.

  “Thanks for the save, kid,” Radwin said.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Radwin…but I suppose I should address you by your rank.”

  Radwin took a deep breath and tried to smile. The soldier didn’t want to have to explain how Major Benedict had called the entire sky station to account for abandoning the people on the planet below to the plague of deaders that had overrun them. To punish them for their inactions in standing up against a morally bankrupt decision to cut ties to the planet and hide in the station, Benedict took it over, stripped every member of Kyklopes of their standing, regardless of rank and sent them in teams of ten around the planet to rescue any survivors. Any squad that rescued one hundred colonists would be reinstated into the Host, although not necessarily at the rank previously held. It was something that shamed him, made him sick to his stomach and certainly not something he wanted to explain to a boy who actually appeared to be looking up at him in admiration. “My rank is a complicated matter at the moment. Sam is just fine. Why don’t you take me to Tristan and we’ll figure out a way to get everybody out of here?”

  The boy’s right hand rose up pushing long strands of dark hair out of his eyes back over his head as he smiled. “I’m Tristan.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. I assumed I had been talking to the adult you had mentioned,” the soldier said.

  “Mr. Poole is in charge of everything, but I handle most of the day-to-day operations. Climb inside and we’ll take you to meet him.”

  Inside the transport Radwin was introduced to five more children but the bunker itself had his full attention. Although the material was called cement, it was several generations removed from the material it was named for. Made up of polymers that were more durable and many times lighter than it’s nam
esake, the modern cement had been a godsend on the colonized worlds. Cheap, easy to make and even easier to pour into molds, it was the perfect material for buildings and in this case, a mobile bunker. The entire thing was a triumph of simplistic engineering. The bunker was twice the size of the tallest deader with walls at least ten inches thick near the top and close to two feet thick near the bottom. It was designed so it would be almost impossible to tip over yet somehow rolled easily.

  “This is very impressive. How does it move?” Radwin asked.

  “We used the tech from the palettes that carry the cement compounds around the factory. They were designed to carry five times the bunker’s weight and move easily enough for us to push it. They pivot, which lets us move any way we need to,” Tristan said. “And the plexus windows are small, yet thick enough to keep out the deaders and let us see where we’re going.” Radwin added his strength to that of the children and found it about as hard to push as the ATV that had run out of gas before the deaders had wipes out his squad.

  The engineering feat became even more impressive when they got closer to the factory and the back wall of the moving bunker opened up and fit precisely into a docking bay, like a piece into a puzzle. It effectively locked into place so it couldn’t be pulled out. Ahead of them was a high corridor too narrow for the adult soldier to move straight ahead without turning. He was forced to sidestep, dragging his pack behind him as he looked up at a number of children standing guard on cement ledges four feet overhead. They were holding what were effectively long metal spears. The choke point continued for some way. Any zombie who managed to get through the docking bay would be easy pickings with virtually no danger to the children, who could stand atop and stab downward with their metal spears.

  When they reached the end of the cement maze, they were rewarded not with cheese but by a thick door rolling open. As with an airlock, the opposite door was not open. A voice over loudspeakers said, “Please strip down.”