by Rajan Khanna
Using my elbows and knees, I try to keep the others away from me, keeping my hands close to my body.
“Let me get to the lock!” I say.
I fight, tackle, and shove my way to the front of the cage. You’d think that we’d have developed some camaraderie during our time in the cage, but the truth is, we all just want to be left alone. I push to the front, bruised and battered, but I reach the keys out and into the lock, and I manage to turn them. The door unlatches and swings open. I’m pushed out by the swell of excited prisoners behind me.
Okay, Diego. I got them out.
The other prisoners move to the door, and I have no choice but to follow them. The sounds of combat and fighting are still present, but they seem a little farther away now.
Everyone hesitates at the door, not sure what to do. I move to the front and, gathering up my courage, I look outside, ready to duck back in if I see something hostile.
The hallway is empty, save for one of the guards, who’s slumped on the ground in a bloody heap. His clothes are covered in his blood, so I don’t think about taking them, but his submachine gun is lying next to him. I pick it up quickly, throwing the strap around my shoulder, and I check the clip. Not full, but near enough.
“Stick close to me,” I say to my fellow prisoners, but some of them are already running down the corridor the other way. A few of them trail behind me. One guy named Roland. A blond man whose name begins with a D.
The corridor ahead turns right at a ninety-degree angle. I move to the corner and look ahead. Two dead bodies on the ground, but no rifles visible. Both are shot up, geared up for a fight, but one of them has a bright-green strip of cloth wrapped around one arm. Some kind of revolt?
I bend down to untie it.
“What are you doing?” Roland hisses.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
“We have to keep moving.”
“Just give me a second.” I almost have the green strip undone now. I can feel it coming loose.
“Fuck you,” Roland says. He grabs for a pistol in a holster on the other dead man. “Come on,” he says, but to Blond D, not to me. Then they run off down the hallway.
Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Ben?
I finally get the strip free, and then I tie it around my own arm, up near the top where it will be visible to anyone who sees me.
I just hope it doesn’t make me a target.
Once that’s done, I move to the end of the corridor and out the door into the yard.
And straight into a firefight.
* * *
I take shelter behind a large pile of mortar sacks and try to get a sense of what’s going on, the submachine gun ready in my hands. People fire at each other across the courtyard. Some of them are easily identifiable as Valhallans. The Valhallans are firing at a couple of people taking shelter behind some kind of lifting vehicle. Sparks spray off of the metal from the gunshots, and the whine of bullets fills the air. The air smells heavily of smoke and explosives and cordite.
I crane my head around to try to see the people pinned behind the big yellow rig, but I can’t see anything from my current angle. I inch my way around the pile of mortar bags to try to get a better look. I’m just nearing the edge when mortar flies everywhere as bullets strike the bags. A sharp spray of it hits my neck and when I put my hand up to it, it comes back wet and red.
I crouch down, then pop out and fire a couple of short bursts toward the Valhallans; that pressure helps give the pinned-down couple (because I can now tell there are only two) some space to shoot back themselves. As the larger one shoots, I see the bright-green bandana on its arm.
That’s enough for me. Now that I know that they’re ostensibly on my side, I pop off another couple of rounds against the Valhallans from my current position. As they’re reacting, I race around the pile of mortar bags to the other side, where I have a better drop on the Valhallans. As they’re taking fire from my green bandana brethren, I fire on them from the side. Two of them go down, leaving only three left.
Bullets rip up the mortar bags where I’m hiding, and I drop to the ground, worming my way to the other side as mortar sprinkles down on top of me. Three of them. Three of us. Only, they have better cover. If only I could . . .
I move around to the side closest to my allies (or who I think are my allies) and I wave to them, hoping to get their attention. I try to indicate, with a combination of raised fists and pointing, that they should wait for me. Then I move back, positioning myself squarely in the center of the pile of mortar bags, and I prepare myself. I check the clip to make sure I still have enough ammo (I do) and make sure the safety is off (it is) and the strap isn’t tangled (it’s not). Then, on the count of three, I stand up and haul myself atop the pile of mortar bags. It’s a dumb move—I won’t have any cover—but I will be high enough that I can get a better angle down onto the Valhallans. I hear gunfire as my allies start shooting, and the Valhallans start shooting back. Then I’ve reached the top of the pile of bags, and I’m firing down on the Valhallans, and a tall black woman goes down to my first burst. I move forward, trying to get a bead on the next one, trying not to be a stationary target, but the bags start to shift, and my footing starts to give way, and the whole front section of the pile starts to topple over.
And I go with it.
Bullets explode into dust all around me even as I fall through the air, the gun forgotten as my arms go up to try to brace my fall. I hit the ground, and I grunt. Or, rather, I hit the bags that have fallen. There’s no time to figure out if I’m hurt. Instead, I pull the rifle closer and start firing at the two remaining Valhallans. They’re standing up now, and any second they’re going to tear me into bloody meat. Then someone strides up behind them, a pistol outstretched, and fires three shots into the back of one Valhallan and two into the head of the other.
Breathing heavily, I get to my knees, my hands held above my head. My body feels battered but nothing feels broken, at least. The woman (because I can tell now that it is a woman) still has the pistol out. “I’m on your side,” I say, through my ringing ears.
The woman, who is wearing a worn baseball cap and a thin, gray scarf, tugs the scarf down. It takes me a moment to realize that I recognize her face. Rosie. Diego’s sister. Who I had last seen on Tamoanchan as we tried to kill the mutated Ferals the Cabal dropped on us.
“What the fuck?”
She lowers the pistol, then moves forward and grabs my hand and pulls me up.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m here with Malik,” she says. Her face is set. She doesn’t seem happy to see me, which I kinda get, but she doesn’t seem unhappy either, so that’s something.
“Mal? What’s Mal doing here?”
She looks around. “Give me a hand with Diego,” she says, before grabbing a rifle and a second clip off of one of the downed Valhallans.
I go back to where they had been taking cover and see Diego huddling behind the yellow vehicle, cradling his arm.
I bend down by him. “Are you hit?”
He looks up to Rosie. “What is he doing here?”
“Leave it,” she says. “He helped get us out.”
The surreality of them both being here hits me. “What the fuck is going on?” I ask. “Why are you here?”
“I told you,” Rosie says. “I’m here with Malik. He’s attacking the plant. I got word to Diego, and he helped us from the inside.”
My mind reels. Malik is attacking the plant. He was set up as head of Tamoanchan, or at least its “Protector,” and now he’s attacking Gastown’s helium plant.
I sit back on my heels. It’s a good move. Gastown and Valhalla, and the Cabal, know where the island is now. They’ll keep attacking. Taking the fight to them is the right thing to do.
“His people are here?” I ask.
“Our people are. His and Tamoanchan’s forces.” Rosie pulls out a roll of bandages. She kneels by Diego and looks at the
wound. “It just grazed you,” she says. “You got lucky.”
“I’m fine,” Diego says, trying to shake her off.
“Let me take care of it. Don’t want it to get infected.”
“It’s a good plan,” I say.
“It is,” she says.
She doesn’t ask me why I’m here. How I got here. Either Diego said something, or else she doesn’t care. A coin flip as to which one is true.
“So you’re taking the whole thing?”
She nods again. “Or else we’re taking it out.”
Also a good play. If they can’t hold and keep the plant, the best thing to do would be to take it away from the Valhallans. It would mean no more helium. Back to hydrogen for all the pretty ships. But at this point, I would take that over leaving it in its present hands.
“What happens when Gastown comes down to try to take it back?” I ask.
Rosie shrugs. “Then we hold it. We’ll have some advantage here. They can always bomb us, but then they lose the plant, too. Either way, we win. But if you ask me . . .” She stares me in the eyes. “We’ll take Gastown next.”
She says it with such conviction that I feel a thrill at the statement. Because despite the history between us, despite Mal wanting me dead, despite the bitterness I feel toward him, if anyone can take Gastown, now, it’s Malik.
“Good,” I say.
And I mean it. Because anything that can be done against them is smooth sky, but I’m also realizing that Mal, who just kinda fell into this whole situation, has already done a lot more than I’ve managed to do.
But I realize in that moment that Gastown is not my target. Gastown is the western outpost of Valhalla, yes, but the source of all of this shit, of all of this blood and tears and murder is in Valhalla. And we’re all running around trying to deal with the symptoms, as Miranda would say, and not the underlying disease. Until we do that, there can be no cure.
It’s one of the few times in my life that everything seems to fall into place. Thoughts and fears and plans and desires, fractured like broken glass, spinning and tumbling through a cloudy sea of doubt and pain and self-pity settle down, fitting back together, showing me a way forward. Showing me what I have to do.
It’s funny, this moment—some would say that I was led here for a reason. That some kind of force, God or Fate or whatever, made this happen. I don’t believe in any of that shit. But I do believe in opportunities, believe that when the dice roll comes up in your favor, that you seize on it. So that’s what I’m going to do.
I have to take the fight to Valhalla. And I know exactly how I’m going to do that.
I could join in the fight here, strike a blow, but I’m just one more pair of hands. And in the end, when Mal or his people realize that I’m here, I’ll go back into a cell where I can’t do anything. But if they tie up Gastown’s resources here, and that sends a shockwave back to Valhalla, well . . . now would be the time to strike.
I grab Rosie’s arm. She looks at me, her face hard. “He’ll be all right?”
She nods. “It’s only a scratch.”
“Good. I’m really sorry,” I say to both of them. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. For all the shit I’ve landed you in. For all the pain that I’ve caused.”
Rosie’s eyes widen, then narrow. She’s trying to figure out my angle. To try to see how I’m working them. Only I’m not. Maybe for the first time, I’m not.
“What are you doing?” Diego asks.
“Trying to set a wrong right,” I say.
I stand up.
“Ben—don’t even think about—”
“Good luck,” I say. “I hope you take it all. I hope you bloody them, and send them packing to whatever holes they came from in the first place.”
“Ben!”
“I have to go.”
Rosie catches my eye, then gives me a nod. “Good luck,” she says.
“Thanks.”
Then I run off, deeper into the plant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I was here last time, I wandered into an open area while looking for my ship. There, in this large storeroom, was a relic from the early days of the Sick. A Firestorm bomb. One of the weapons the government dropped on towns where the Bug was starting to spread, in an effort to contain it. Obviously, they failed at containing the Bug; but they did leave numerous areas of devastation across the country. I can remember flying over areas that had been hit. Even with regrowth you could see the craters and the burnt surroundings. Down on the ground, the few times I had seen the results, everything seemed melted like wax. When I asked, Dad explained to me how it happened.
I remember being horrified at first, then reaching some sort of understanding. By then I knew how terrible the Bug was. Burning down a whole town to stop it was a choice I could almost understand. Almost, because they failed in their attempt and it meant that the Bug still existed, and there were whole areas that we couldn’t forage in because they were wreckages of twisted steel and plastic and stone.
When I first found it, I almost took the Firestorm bomb. I didn’t. But if it’s still there, it will be perfect for my plans. How better to hurt Valhalla than to shove a Firestorm down their throat?
So I run for that storeroom, relying on my recent knowledge of the layout of the plant and my hazy memories of my previous trip to get me there. I run through hallways chaotic with firefights, hugging the walls and ducking into rooms so as not to be noticed. I want the plant taken down, but I can’t waste time joining in the fight. Besides, Mal’s people would just want to take me prisoner.
I head to the service tunnels that I took before with Atticus and Rosie. That’s what led us to the room with the explosives, and it should be out of the way of most of the fighting. I move as quickly as I can, practically running through each stretch of tunnel until I reach a door, and then pausing before heading into the space afterward.
Finally, I reach the door leading to the room with the Firestorm bomb. At least, it used to be. Last time I was here, I cleared them out of a lot plastic explosives, so it would make sense if they had moved things. Or put them under lock and key. Or maybe they had even used the Firestorm to bomb some place like they did back at Phoenix. That hadn’t been a Firestorm, but, then again, Phoenix hadn’t been a large settlement. I wouldn’t put it past them to drop those things somewhere else that threatened them, or even just offended their sensibilities.
Beyond the door is that large room where the Firestorm was. But that room had also contained guards. Now that the place was under attack . . .
Only one way to find out, Ben.
I pull open the door, and the room looks much the same as it did before—stacks of equipment and cases, in different configurations—and a Firestorm bomb, in a large square case, right where it was last time. Except, this time, there’s a group of Valhallans and guards right in front of it.
* * *
For a moment, they all stand there, heads turning toward me as I enter, necks craning around, and hands reaching for weapons.
But my gun is close at hand, so I snap it up and press down hard on the trigger, spraying the group standing in front of me. The Firestorm is right behind them, and I know the danger, but if I wait, if I hesitate, they will turn me into a bloody stain, and I can’t allow that.
Three of them go down, and the rest scatter, moving as far away from the bomb as they can—they know the danger they’re in with a crazy person shooting so close to it.
Two dart into the open, out of cover, and I take the opportunity to mow them down. I start moving forward. Toward the Firestorm. I take up position right next to it, above the bodies of the people I just dropped.
I’m hoping that they’re not as stupid as I am, that they’re more concerned with surviving this firefight. The thing is, I am, too. Maybe a few weeks ago I would have been content to go out in a giant fiery explosion, but not today. Not yet. There’s still too much to do.
As I take shelter behind the bomb’s case, a bo
x about a meter and a half on each of its sides, I see two things: that it’s raised on top of a kind of cart with wheels for transporting it, and that it’s not alone—there are two more bombs stacked next to it on the cart.
Mother. Fucker.
Bullets whizz over my head, but none close enough to hit the Firestorms. Or me.
I hope.
The bombs are big enough that it’s hard to see around them, hard to pin down where the Valhallans are. The room is filled with crates and piles of equipment and possibly explosives. I’d guess they’ve taken up positions behind these. But I think I know generally where they are, so I start to move the bombs, pushing the cart that they’re sitting on, trying to angle it so that it protects me from groups on both sides.
The bombs are heavy enough to be unwieldy, and I’m only one person, so I have to pump hard, pressing my feet down against the floor, using all of my weight to push the damn thing forward. Then it’s suddenly rolling and I’m lagging behind. Bullets rip up the floor next to my feet.
It’s tricky, keeping the cart moving and taking cover behind it, so I do a little shuffle-push combination, moving it and running alongside it in little bursts. All this momentum is starting to catch up with it, and I need to move faster to keep up.
Movement out of the corner of my eye, and a Valhallan appears, rounding the bomb with a long curved ax in his hand, ponytail streaming behind him. The ax is already coming down as I whirl and shoot, and despite the barrage that tears through him, he tumbles toward me, and I’m forced to stumble out of his way, back from all that blood. I practically run into the other Valhallan coming at me from the other side.
She holds a straight blade of some sort, and it’s all I can do to raise the submachine gun to try to deflect it. The blade slides against the black surface of the gun, and the tip jams into my chest and tears upward as I lift the gun.
Pain sears through me, and I gasp. That strike could have killed me. I bring up my knee and catch the woman in the midsection, slamming my forehead into her face.
I feel crunching. My whole head rings with the impact, but her hands fly up to her face and the blood splattered across it, and I jam the muzzle of the submachine gun into her midsection and fire a short burst.