by Peter David
“And when was the last time you saw a Skrel ship?” Marquez asked.
“It’s been a while,” Anderson admitted.
“And when was the last significant Ursa attack?”
“Nine fifty-one AE. The Skrel deposited a hundred on the ground; the Rangers took out eighty-eight of them,” he mechanically replied.
“You’re on my trivia team,” Alpuente said with a smile. “I might have gotten the year right but not the rest.”
“It’s that Ranger prep,” Marquez said. “You really wanted to be one of them, didn’t you?”
He merely said yes and drank his beer. He was happy with the corps and had made some valued friends. The last years had been good ones, and he was pleased with the work. They were happy with him. It all should have been good and this should be a joyous celebration, but like his phantom limb, being a Ranger still felt like a phantom career, the reality versus this substitute.
Kincaid threw himself into the conversation, drank one beer too many, and let Alpuente take him home for the night, unaware of the longing look Marquez shot him.
Flames had blackened the side of the honeycombed complex. Non-smart fabric materials were catching fire and adding to the heat and light. People were still being evacuated when Anderson finally showed up to assist. The call for reinforcements had gone out only ten minutes prior, so he thought he had made good time, but he recognized that every minute meant more property lost, more life endangered.
McGirk had arrived to take point, sweating in the heat, soaking his uniform beyond the fabric’s ability to keep him cool. He looked haggard as firefighters behind him were spraying foam directly on the flames.
Kincaid and Marquez had been pulled off their regular assignment to lend assistance to the firefighters. They first were handling crowd control, and thankfully, everyone followed orders without trouble. Then McGirk came toward them, pointing at Kincaid.
“Kincaid, the firefighters are shorthanded. You’re strong; I need you in there searching for stragglers,” McGirk said, shoving his right thumb in the direction of the burning building.
“I’m a little underdressed for that,” Kincaid began when a fireman shoved a rubbery yellow suit at him. Without hesitation or additional comment, Marquez helped him step into the one-piece outfit, which quickly fastened around him. He was handed a pair of orange fluorescent gloves that fit over the sleeves and then were molded around his wrists, adhering to the bodysuit. Finally, a cowl was applied, fastened, and finished with goggles and breathing apparatus. The oxygen had a metallic tang to it. He felt a little silly, but it was regulation and he was now insulated for brief periods so that he could enter the structure and see if people were trapped.
Marquez patted the side of his face, which Anderson found oddly affectionate until he realized the woman was merely activating the communicator built into the breathing mask.
“You hear me? Am I coming across clear?”
“Crystal.”
McGirk gave him a thumbs-up, adding, “Go find ’em, kid.”
Kincaid walked toward the building, seeking a safe entry point, and wound up climbing through the remains of a burned-out window. He half stumbled his way through, regained his footing, and paused to study his surroundings. The fire had pretty much charred the furniture and belongings so that there were dark heaps of what once had been useful materials. He saw no loss of life and walked into the next room. There was enough noise from the flames, the foam, and general shouting of orders that he decided against adding to the noise by calling out. Instead, he methodically worked his way from room to room, apartment to apartment, and floor to floor. It promised to be a long, tedious process.
The first two floors proved empty, just remnants of what once had been people’s homes and lives. Little had survived the heat and flame, which hungrily devoured what it could. He had never bothered to ask what had caused it, but whatever had happened had happened fast, long before the firefighters could arrive to stop the spread. The foam left a sticky residue everywhere, tinting the blackened furniture and walls a dull green.
As he climbed the emergency stairs up to the third floor, he heard something above—a wall, most likely—give way, crumbling with loud thuds that actually shook the stairs. He tightened his grip and continued upward, listening for any cries that might indicate an injury. His breathing seemed to grow louder in his ears with every step.
The first four apartments he checked were damaged and empty, but the fifth was where the structure fell apart. The rooms were almost pitch-black, with charcoal masquerading as furniture. The collapsed wall had divided a living room from a bedroom, leaving structural supports that had burned through. He suspected the fire might have started there or nearby, but he’d leave that to the trained investigators to confirm. He gingerly kicked at rubble, seeking evidence of a living being that might be trapped beneath. There was nothing remotely human, and after a few minutes he gave up.
Turning, he readied himself for the next apartment, his throat beginning to long for a cool drink, when he saw a figure dart by the doorway.
“Hey!” he called out, but there was no response.
He tried to move both quickly and cautiously, not wishing to cause walls or floors to crumble beneath him. The figure had made it to the end of the corridor and had entered the last room on the left. Skipping the ones in between, Kincaid stalked the person, wishing he had a pulser with him just in case.
Peering through the doorway, Kincaid was surprised to see the person was an old man, seemingly unharmed by the conflagration. He was wandering in circles, as if he was searching for something, looking increasingly confused. Kincaid took one step into the room, and the old man finally noticed him.
“Have you seen my reader?” he asked Kincaid.
“Sir, are you all right?” he asked the man, who looked anything but all right.
“Absolutely,” the man said distractedly as he opened a drawer. “Thank you for asking.”
“You do know this building is on fire? It’s unsafe, and you should come with me.”
The man paused in his search and looked at Kincaid as if for the first time. Studying him from head to toe, the old man gaped. “What are you?”
“Civilian Defense Corps, sir. I’m searching for survivors, and you look like one.”
“Survivors of what? Are the Skrel attacking?” He was clearly addled, perhaps even mentally ill.
“Not the Skrel; a fire. I need to get you out of the building.”
“I need my reader; I have to finish my book before class,” the man complained. Kincaid realized his argument was not getting through to the poor man. He still wondered how he was totally unscathed by the fire, but that was a mystery for another time. The one wall crumbling made him feel as if he were inside a ticking bomb. He stepped forward decisively, grabbed the man’s left wrist, and hefted him into the air and across his shoulders in the traditional fireman’s carry. He tested the added weight and the floor held, and so he took one step and then another to make certain they could escape. The moment the old man was across his shoulders, he became remarkably placid, like a kitten slumping when its mother carried it by the nape.
“McGirk, I have a survivor. An elderly man, physically unharmed. We’re coming down from the fifth floor.”
“Acknowledged. Medical corps will be standing by. Stay safe, kid.”
“No kidding.”
The old man stayed quiet as Kincaid made his way slowly down the steps until finally, several agonizingly long minutes later, he emerged from the building. Two members of the medical team ran to him and eased him from Kincaid’s shoulders to a stretcher, where he was quickly checked over.
Kincaid ripped off the mask and breathed in air that smelled of smoke.
“Nice work, kid,” McGirk said as he walked over. “What’s his story?”
“No idea,” Kincaid admitted. “Don’t know and frankly don’t care. The guy needs some help, and I’m too sore and tired to really think about it.”
Anderson thought a moment and answered, “Second shift.”
“Get some sleep and come in late. Marquez can keep the peace until you show up.”
“Nice work, Anderson,” she said, giving him a hug that lingered a bit longer than normal. He pretended he didn’t notice and thanked her.
Collapsing into bed back at his apartment, Kincaid thought that this was why he had signed up: to protect the people, to use his body in productive ways. It was a good way to live.
* * *
The following day, he reported for work and was heartily congratulated and razzed by the others for his heroism. He shrugged it off in the locker room but inwardly felt very proud of upholding the Ranger ideals even if he was still a corpsman.
On the street with Marquez, though, he felt he could really express those feelings. They’d been growing increasingly comfortable with each other, a true bond forming between them. Today he noticed she had done her hair a different way.
“I like it down like that even though it’s not regulation,” he said.
“Thanks, but there are few hair regulations. You keep thinking we live by the Ranger code, but we don’t. We are looser and have far more fun.”
“Just what do you do for fun?”
“Long-distance hiking. I really like getting out on the Falkor Desert, seeing what’s out there.”
“You walk far enough, you’ll get to New Earth City,” Kincaid said.
“No, I go looking for reptiles. I’m a secret herp.”
“Herp?”
“Herpetological, silly. Reptiles, snakes and things.”
“Really? That sounds really … different.”
“Says someone who has clearly never handled a snake,” she said. “Look, come over after shifting and I’ll let you have a feel.”
She was blushing as she said that, but he was certainly interested enough to accept her invitation.
It was a good way to live. Then why didn’t it feel like it? Anderson had grown comfortable with his life, and the year 997 AE had been a particularly satisfying one for him so far. He had the corps, he had friends, and his apartment was taking on his personality. Kayla was old enough to no longer be annoying but a loving sister and good friend. His parents continued to ask about a spouse, and his mother—still the city’s head physician—asked about grandchildren to occupy her during her impending retirement. But he was not interested. Not yet, anyway. He was twenty, in his physical prime, and creating new generations of Kincaids could wait.
Over the last few weeks he and Marquez let things take their natural course, and a romance was developing. She introduced him to her snake, Merlin, then let him feel the reptile’s skin and compare it with her own far hotter flesh.
Since that torrid night, the two were seeing each other both on shift and off duty. Now both were getting teased by the others, but all approved, even Alpuente, who seemed to have first dibs on Kincaid.
It wasn’t all Nirvana, though. He felt a great deal of affection for her, but it was clearly secondary to his mission, and that caused problems. The previous night, he had stayed at her place, and after they had made love for the second time in a few hours, she straddled him, her hair tickling his nose.
“Do you always do everything with military precision?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, not at all. To be honest, you’re the finest lover I’ve had. You’re definitely a keeper, Andy.”
He frowned at her. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”
She shook her head, but her eyes were no longer merry. “You are technically proficient, even creative, but you never feel fully committed to this … to us.”
He propped himself up on his elbows and stared into her eyes. Was she trying to break things off? She had just said he was a keeper, so what was happening?
“Andy, you have yet to let go of your dream. You’ve told me about being denied entrance to the Rangers, and I get how soul-crushing that must have been. But you have a good life, a good career. You have me. But that isn’t enough, is it?”
Anderson Kincaid had no proper response to that question.
Instead, he slid out from under her and hurriedly dressed, returning home to his place and his thoughts.
He was on second shift the following day, walking toward the huge outdoor market. Fresh produce and crops had been brought in hours earlier, and the place was teeming with people haggling, bargaining, and gossiping. In other words, another typical day in another typical week, and Kincaid was okay with that. He and Marquez could walk in comfortable silence and just soak in the local ambience.
As he pondered a choice between green and leafy or juicy and succulent for his dinner, their radios crackled to life.
“All corps, this is a priority alert. Ursa have been sighted in the city. Rangers are in pursuit, but we need to begin clearing the streets. The siren is about to go off, so be prepared for a panic.”
Marquez thumbed a button that acknowledged the alert and quickened her pace toward the market. “That place is a zoo under normal conditions; this is not going to be easy,” she said. “What was it you said a while back? Only a handful left from the last attack?”
“A few, but we have no clue if they breed or not,” he said, matching her pace.
“I’m voting for not,” she said, and her next words were cut off by the siren coming to life. It was long and loud and had the desired effect of catching everyone’s attention. From the speakers nestled within various structures, a recorded voice announced, “This is not a drill. All citizens are instructed to remain inside or report to the nearest shelter.”
Marquez understood the populace, and sure enough, people were moving in anything but an orderly manner. Some ran, some scooped up purchases, some continued to bargain. Awnings began collapsing, and goods for sale were being sealed in containers. People screamed in panic or shouted for loved ones. Everyone moved. Movement was good; all the corpsmen had to do was steer them to shelter.
Kincaid thought about the Ranger response. This was what they prepared themselves for and what each one dreamed about: killing an Ursa and claiming a prize, having a story to tell, or being part of a legend. He longed once more to be fighting alongside them but knew that was never going to happen. Instead, he would have to herd the people and keep the streets clear so that the Rangers could do their jobs.
Although it was not part of corps protocol, Kincaid maintained his own weapons training, making certain he could fire a pulser with either hand and be certain his target would fall dead. He was adept with various bladed weapons and had even dabbled in archery to perfect his eye-hand coordination. Aiming had to be precise, as it might mean the difference between life and death. In the case of the Ursa, it meant hitting their meat and not the smart metal that was bonded to their skeletons to give them a layer of protection. They were unearthly, hideous creatures, and in his mind’s eye he replayed the one that had nearly killed him almost two decades earlier.
A Ranger had died to save his life, and he owed a debt for her sacrifice and her memory.
Emergency shelters to protect people from sandstorms or lightning—and yes, Ursa attacks—dotted the city, marked with a glowing symbol that promised safety. Anderson windmilled his right arm while his prosthetic left arm directed citizens toward the nearest shelter. Marquez had jogged over to make certain it was open and powered. She then helped funnel the people through the dual doorways.
People continued to make noise, adding to the siren’s wail, and Kincaid wished for earplugs but gritted his teeth, ignored the discord, and kept directing them toward a safe haven. The great mass continued to flow from the market toward the shelter.
A roar, the sound of which brought back waking nightmares, pierced the panicky noises. An Ursa was close, and he hoped the Rangers were on its heels. He glanced over his shoulder
and saw people fleeing in all directions away from the covered open-air market. The creature had to be in there.
Kincaid rushed to the space between the twin doors and entered a code on the keypad. A panel smoothly slid open, and he withdrew three pulsers. Tucking one in his waist and tossing another to Marquez, he felt better about dealing with the imminent threat.
A Ranger emerged from behind the shelter, out of breath and covered in dust. “Have you seen it?”
“In the market, I think,” Kincaid replied.
“Keep the people moving in there; we’ve got this,” he ordered somewhat needlessly. The comment bothered Kincaid, who took it as an insinuation that he wouldn’t do his job unless a Ranger directed him to.
The Ranger sprinted toward the Ursa and, no doubt, his fellow Rangers. If Anderson recalled correctly, the rules stated that—when available—a minimum of eight Rangers were required to confront one of those beasts. People got out of the Ranger’s way and kept streaming toward the shelter. Marquez continued moving them through the doors while Kincaid surveyed the scene. They didn’t need to speak; each understood the other well enough by now that words were unnecessary.
Kincaid watched as the cutlass-wielding Ranger dashed into the market, where sounds of destruction were competing with the siren. He wished there were an off switch for the alarm; by now, everyone had gotten the message.
A body came flying through an opening in the market and crumpled to the ground. It appeared to be missing a leg, and blood pooled around the figure. Marquez gestured for him to keep his position.
“Don’t go, Andy!”
“There are civilians still inside.”
She crossed over to him, eyes flaring. “It’s suicide! This is what the Rangers exist for. And you are not a Ranger. Let it go.”
“But they’re not here and I am.”
“Okay, Andy, so you live and breathe being a Ranger even though you’re not in uniform. What does the manual say about fighting the Ursa?”