Burn

by Sarah Fine

  The scanner seems to be working normally. I put the bag containing the remaining chips in my pocket and head over to the Archers. Manuel has his head down. His olive skin is ashen. Kellan leans on the rear of the vehicle, his curly brown hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it. “He was a good kid, man. And the only one left in his family. We’re The Forty-Nine now,” Kellan says quietly. “It feels wrong.”

  Manuel nods, clutching a screwdriver so tightly that his hand is shaking. “We’ll end it here. When they come, we’ll be ready.”

  He raises his head and looks out at the crowd that’s moving through the lot; the patriarchs and matriarchs of The Fifty are heading for the underground bunkers.

  As they pass us by, I look around the crater, at the destroyed defense stations in the distance, at the five Archers that will have to make up for the loss. They look so small and powerless when I think of a bunch of Sicarii ships descending on us. “We need more firepower than this.”

  Race’s gaze traces the interior of the Archer, sliding over the unique controls for the cannons and the lens hanging over it. “Maybe we have more than we think we do. We just haven’t had time to figure it out.”

  By silent agreement, we climb into the vehicle, moving aside while Manuel makes sure the console is secure. Race and I eye the lens. It fits awkwardly over the hole cut into the vehicle’s roof, into a maneuverable carriage that has its own shock-absorbing system to keep it from cracking if the Archer hits a bump. The two autocannons are mounted on rails on either side, directly above the gunner’s pit, with its rotating chair and stick controls. As I imagine sitting beneath a giant piece of glass with those Sicarii ships flying overhead, I understand why Angus suggested we leave them out. Sure, the Archer is armored, but if one of the Sicarii lands a vertical hit on one of these lenses, the gunner below is going to be cut to ribbons or vaporized entirely. The driver, piloting from the reinforced cockpit, stands a slightly better chance of survival.

  “If people die because of this . . .” I say, running my finger along the underside of the lens.

  “Any ideas at all?” Race asks.

  I shrug. “No good ones.” Nothing worthy of my dad. If he were here, would he be disappointed in me? I know I am.

  Race sighs. “We don’t know when the attack will come. We need to select our combat teams.”

  He pushes past me and exits the Archer, standing on the sidewalk.

  “This is a volunteer force,” Race shouts, and everyone stops to listen. “We need five teams of two, and each of those teams needs to understand that this is a very dangerous mission. We will be defending the compound. We are greatly outnumbered. We’re operating powerful weapons we don’t fully understand. But the alternative is to allow the Sicarii to overrun the compound. They could take down the satellite shield. And if they do that, this planet will be theirs. The stakes could not be higher.”

  As he speaks, Angus and Congers approach. They’ve been controlling the procession headed down to the bunkers and communicating with the perimeter defense stations. Both look ready for war in their own way. Angus is all flame and ferocity, his massive frame tense and vibrating with violence. Congers, on the other hand, is absolutely still, ice to Angus’s fire. They listen quietly and watch the assembled group in front of them.

  “I’ll go,” says Graham. He stares at his dad as he steps forward.

  Race smiles and claps him on the shoulder, but Congers doesn’t move. His eyes don’t flicker with any emotion at all. Graham sags a little.

  I’m about to open my mouth and join his combat team when Sung says loudly, “I’ll ride with you. I know how to operate those guns.” He stands next to his fellow Core agent, shoulder to shoulder, and Graham straightens. His expression flickers with gratitude. Congers looks away, his gaze focusing on the distant horizon.

  Graham steps forward suddenly. “Dad,” he says quietly.

  Congers turns back to him. For the briefest moment, Congers’s chin trembles, but then he regains his tight control. He places his hand on Graham’s shoulder, squeezes, and then lets his son go.

  Graham’s eyes are painfully bright as his father walks away to stand next to Angus again.

  “We have one team, then,” says Race, looking at the two young agents with obvious pride.

  “I’m definitely going,” Manuel says loudly. “I want a chance to shoot one of those Sicarii out of the sky.” He lopes over to the sidewalk and stands next to Graham and Sung.

  Kellan joins him immediately. He looks at Angus, who nods. “I’ll drive you, man,” he says to Manuel. “We’ll do it for Leo.”

  “We have a second team,” Race announces.

  Figuring I’d better claim my spot, I start to move forward, but Christina suddenly emerges from the crowd, her hair pulled back, her face pale. There’s a smear of Leo’s blood on her shirt. The bottom drops out of my stomach. I assumed she was still with him, grieving but safe. Instead, she’s here, offering up her life. Her storm-blue eyes are on me, so focused, so determined. I grit my teeth as she stops in front of me.

  “We have a third—” begins Race.

  “I can’t,” I say to him, and then I turn to Christina. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me to.”

  Everybody’s watching, and I know that, but they fade away as she comes closer. “I’m good with those guns. You need me out there.” She reaches out to put her hand on my chest, but I flinch away. “You said we’d do this together.”

  I can barely speak over the lump in my throat. “No,” I whisper. “I can’t do this if you’re with me. I can’t be on a team with you.”

  She looks over at the other two teams, shoulder to shoulder, and then her gaze returns to me, questioning and hurt. And I want to tell her how much I’ve felt for her and for exactly how long, how I’d break if something happened to her, how I’d fall apart completely if it went down in front of me. I’ve already had to watch Leo die. I can’t do it again. But all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

  My mother appears at Christina’s shoulder right as my girlfriend’s eyes go shiny with anger and defiance. The sting of rejection is so plain on her face, her cheeks suffusing with pink. She’s looking at me like she wants to knee me in the balls. She doesn’t understand at all. I think my mom does, though. She links her arm with Christina’s. “You and I can be a team. I’ll drive and you shoot.”

  Awesome. One of the Archers will contain the two people I love most in the world. “We have our third team,” Race says, his eyes on me like he expects me to object. But how can I? I already know my mom’s a badass behind the wheel and that Christina is nearly unbeatable with those control sticks in her hands. But that means she’ll be sitting beneath that lens . . .

  The horror of the images in my head freezes me up, and at that moment, Rufus shoves his way through the crowd. “I’m going, too. No way am I going to miss out on the chance to help take down those alien bastards. I’ll drive. Who’s riding with me?”

  People seem so stunned that a patriarch of The Fifty has volunteered for what sounds like a suicide mission that everyone goes still. And in that quiet, Congers very calmly says, “I will.”

  Angus puts his hand on Congers’s arm. “You might be needed here, for your agents—”

  Congers stares him down. “Can I trust you to command my agents with respect, like you treat your own?”

  Angus lets him go. And in the way he’s looking at Congers, I see these two men have formed some sort of odd bond over the past two days, as they’ve perhaps realized that the differences between them aren’t so vast. “I will,” Angus says.

  Congers nods at him and goes to stand next to Rufus. He arches an eyebrow. “Is this going to work, Mr. Bishop?”

  Rufus folds his arms over his chest, resting them on his protruding belly. He looks straight ahead, not at Congers, as he says, “Only if you can shoot those guns at the right targ
et.”

  Congers suppresses a smile and nods. Now we have four teams.

  I’m standing in the open space between the Archers and the crowd, still shaken by the idea of the two women I love facing this danger when all I want to do is shout at them to get into those underground bunkers and stay put. It’s short-circuited me.

  “Tate,” Race says loudly. When my gaze snaps to his, he says, “I’ll drive.”

  I stare at the guy I used to think was my worst enemy. The severe, serious look on his face reminds me to focus. It reminds me I’m not helpless—and that I still have work to do. I stride over and stand next to him. “And I’ll shoot.”

  • • •

  We choose our vehicles and get ready. We could have hours or minutes or days or seconds, but the way the Sicarii was acting, an attack is imminent, so we prepare accordingly. I try to shift my attention to what lies ahead, and avoid looking at Christina as she climbs into the back of her Archer and slides into the gunner’s pit. A moment later, Mom leans into my vehicle and lays her warm hand on my cheek. “I’ll take care of her,” she says softly.

  “Who’ll take care of you?” I ask, my throat tight. “Your arm—”

  “My arm will be fine.” She moves her left shoulder carefully and gives me a tight smile. “And as for who’ll take care of me: Christina will.” Mom nudges my chin up. “She’s a good match for you, Tate. Whatever happens, I want you to know that’s what I believe.”

  I bend down and pull her into a hug. “Thanks. I hope she believes that, too.”

  “She does. That’s precisely the reason she’s so mad at you right now. And she’ll only forgive you if you make it to the other side of this, safe,” says my mother, pulling away.

  “I can understand that.”

  She takes my face in her hands. “I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you. And if your father were here, he’d be proud of you, too.”

  I swallow hard. “Don’t say that to me yet.”

  “Then I’ll say it to you later. Good luck.” She turns on her heel and climbs into the back of the Archer she’ll be driving, closing the rear door behind her.

  “You made the right decision,” says Race as he joins me at the back of our assigned vehicle. “About Christina.”

  “I think we both know it wasn’t my decision.” I glance at the locked door of her vehicle. She’s in there, probably firing up her control panel, flexing her fingers, getting ready. “It was hers.”

  “That wasn’t the decision I was talking about.” He heads to the front while I climb into the rear and settle myself in the circular area of the gunner’s pit, putting the scanner down next to me. I’m right beneath the lens. I peer up through it and see dark purple sky. The sun has just set, and now the Sicarii have the cover of darkness. It’ll be harder to see them coming. Through the smooth expanse of glass above me, the moon is a pinprick of light in the distance, looking much farther away than it actually is. I guess the lenses are definitely not meant to aid with sightings of the enemy.

  After I clip on the earpiece that will allow me to communicate with Race throughout whatever we’re about to face, I reach up and poke at the lens, and it rattles within its carriage. There are funny hooks protruding down beneath it, but I have no idea what’s supposed to be hanging from them. “Come on, Dad,” I whisper to myself. “What were you thinking?”

  Race’s voice crackles in my earpiece, interrupting my thoughts. “In case I don’t get to say it later, I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

  I let out a huff of quiet laughter. “So am I. I just wish it could have happened a lot sooner.” Like before my dad was killed.

  “Me too,” he says.

  “Do you have kids?” I ask. For some reason, I really need to know.

  He’s quiet for a few long seconds. “I do, actually. A son. He lives with my ex-wife in DC. He’s seven.”

  “See him much?”

  Another pause. “Not often enough. My job—”

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Try harder,” I say. “You’re more important to him than you think.” I busy myself looking at the circular view screen, letting my eyes adjust to the night vision. “That’s all.”

  “Duly noted,” he says quietly. “You know, Tate, I’ve—”

  BOOM.

  I stare down at my control panel in time to see an entire squad of scout ships zoom over the crater wall, their spiraling hatches opening to reveal the devastating glow within. The defense stations are firing their cannons, but every single shot misses, exploding on the grassy expanse of the crater floor or in the lake. My earpiece erupts with frantic cries that must be coming from Race’s communications console in the cockpit, everyone screaming to get the Archers moving, to protect the main compound. From outside, I hear Angus shouting at people to get below. The Archer jolts as Race stomps on the gas. We lurch forward and fly across the lot to engage the enemy.

  We’re not ready. We’re so not ready.

  But we’re all there is.

  I slide my arms into the cuffs and take hold of the control sticks. Closing my eyes and trying to breathe slowly, I remind myself not to force it. To let my father’s brilliant design do its work while I do mine. “How many are there?” I call out.

  “I’ve counted twelve—no, thirteen,” Race barks. “They’ll try to take out the remaining perimeter defense stations.” He’s somehow switched the radio to a two-way channel, because I hear nothing but him, nothing from the outside, and that’s good. “Hang on.”

  I do, watching my screen for any chance to lock onto the Sicarii ships. But they move so fast, and they seem to know that the five vehicles streaking in different directions beneath them are an actual threat. The Ellie-Sicarii must have warned them. The ships don’t hover or slow down, just streak overhead and fire. Explosions turn my screen white, and there are so many that it feels like a strobe to my eyes and brain, this hypnotic, dizzying horror. But I don’t look away, because I remember that Sung said the eye-tracking feature of the screen was the way to achieve target lock. As Race careens toward one of the defense stations on the south lawn, my persistence pays off, because one of the ships swoops low and glides toward the station, which fires frantically at the approaching ship with little effect—it merely spins out of the way.

  Until I fire my autocannon at it. The ship tilts on its side to avoid the impact, but the Fred Archer–designed artillery shell curves around and follows the movement, slamming into the underside of the obelisk and making it falter in the air.

  The next shot brings it down, and Race makes an abrupt, victorious shout before swerving around the flaming husk of the ship. About a quarter mile away, another Archer lets loose a barrage of artillery as it races toward another defense station, which is taking fire from above. The Archer swerves as the scout ship above it fires, leaving a small crater in the soft earth near the vehicle. Whoever’s driving that Archer takes evasive action again, making a sharp U-turn and heading back for the flaming wreckage of the scout ship I just downed.

  Whether it’s looking for cover in the smoke, or for the light from the flaming wreckage to interfere with the Sicarii targeting systems, I never get to find out. Because the ship above it fires again, landing a solid hit to the Archer’s armored left side, and the vehicle flies into the air, pirouetting under the night sky before landing brutally hard.

  “Are they okay?” calls Race as he brings our Archer around, headed for a spot between the two defense stations. “They’re not responding to radio calls.”

  I peer at the monitors. No one’s getting out of the vehicle. “The Archer seems okay, but I don’t know about the people inside. We need to go get them.”

  Race doesn’t argue. He makes the turn that sets us on a rescue mission in the middle of the battle. I’m firing on another Sicarii ship descending to take advantage o
f the unmoving Archer when movement on the ground catches my eye. But it’s not coming from the wrecked combat vehicle. “There’s a Sicarii survivor!” I shout.

  It’s a woman. She sprints away from the spaceship I shot down, seemingly unhurt. She’s wearing a slick sort of flight suit, the material glinting in the flames of her destroyed ship, and she’s headed straight for the damaged Archer, only a hundred yards away.

  “Can you shoot that thing from here?” Race asks.

  “Not unless we want to risk killing the people inside the Archer. Let me out.” I grab the scanner, my only sidearm. At least, that’s what I hope it is.

  Race makes a frustrated noise over the radio. “I can’t give the scout ships another stationary target.”

  “Then let me out and swing back for me.” Because even as I watch, the Sicarii has reached the Archer and pulled some sort of wand device from its belt, which it’s using to cut a hole in the back of the stalled vehicle. I have no idea what it plans to do if it gets through, but memories of what happened the last time a Sicarii commandeered an Archer pour adrenaline through me as Race lurches to a stop about twenty yards from where it’s all going down. The Sicarii finishes cutting through the door, having created a foot-wide hole. It shoves at the metal, which falls inward.

  Christina might be inside. She might be unconscious over her console, helpless and unaware.

  I hurl open the Archer’s rear door. The thunder of the battle is so loud that it vibrates inside my chest. As soon as I jump clear of the vehicle, Race roars away—just as another scout ship glides toward us. Without slowing, he fires at it with his hood cannon, insanely aggressive and ballsy, considering his big guns are lying still and quiet on the roof of his ride. Knowing that he’s holding the ship’s attention, I turn my focus to the Sicarii, who’s reaching through the hole in the rear door, trying to open it from the inside.

  “Hey!” I shout.