Resurrection

by Jeffrey Burger

  “I kill you - I win. Veloria becomes mine - I win. I find and kill that little rabid brat of yours - I win.”

  “And how do you win if you die?” Steele needed the Synth to move the slug-thrower away from Alité’s temple, but he was so damn unmoving, it was maddening. Baiting seemed to be his only chance…

  “You get lucky and kill me, everyone here dies including you - I still win. And, well, I don’t really die per se, at least not in the way you humans experience it; I simply cease to be. But only for a moment. The benefit of being a machine - I will be repaired or rebuilt and only a nano-second will have passed for me, to be me once again. And so, I win. I cannot die.” As pleasant as it was supposed to be, his grin was evil, dark, foreboding, “And if you look around the room, at twenty or so of my royal guardsmen, I think you’ll see the chance of you actually being able to change this unfolding bit of history, is about as close to zero as is infinitely possible…”

  Gritting his teeth, Steele looked around, focusing on the guards, “There’s enough explosives under the palace grounds to make a crater a half mile wide and two-hundred feet deep. He’s willing to sacrifice all of you for his plan… I hope you’ve said goodbye to whomever it is you cherish… because no matter how it goes, none of you will survive this,” he snarled.

  The Synth threw his head back with laughter, “Survival is a great motivator, eh boys?” He motioned them toward Jack, “Put an end to this pain in my ass… Kill him.”

  “To much of a weak little bitch to do it yourself?” barked Steele. Move your fucking gun hand…

  The Synth held up his free hand to stall them, a pleasant calm washing over his face, “It just occurred to me, I wanted her to watch you die, but additionally, I want you to die knowing you couldn’t protect her…” he sneered, kicking the leg of her throne so it turned in his direction.

  For Steele, time slowed to a slideshow, all eyes shifting to the Synth as he moved the muzzle of the slug thrower from her temple to her body, her eyes overflowing with tears, Jack throwing the sides of the blue velvet coat back behind him to clear the pair of slug throwers holstered on his beltline in the center of his back.

  As his slug-throwers simultaneously cleared the top of their leather holsters, he could see the creep of the trigger on the Synth’s gun, the pressure required, and the mechanical sweep already calculated in his mind. He was going to be too late… “NnnnooooOOOOO!” he roared, the sound filling the acoustically perfect hall, a lion’s anger, swelling, booming, drowning out the report of the Synth’s slug-thrower, the flame reaching out and touching her clothing, nearly point blank, the slug punching her below her ribcage, passing through her, through the back of the chair and diving through the stage floor, a spattering of blood slung across the floor around the splintered hole. The anguish in her face and his inability to prevent it, drove him past his ability to reason, feel pain or feel remorse. From light to dark, the color disappeared from his eyes with a single blink, the whites and irises replaced with glossy black orbs.

  You are an Angel… remember to fly - do Angel things…

  He was more than just an Angel, he was a Guardian Angel, a warrior against evil, he knew that now. He could not pretend he knew or understood the intricacies of what it all meant; but in that moment in time, in that instant, he knew what his duty was, it was very clear to him…

  For some, he became the light. For others, he became the abyss of total darkness. He was everything the righteous sanctified, he was everything the evil feared. And he was enraged beyond measure; they had taken that which he treasured most in the entire universe.

  Rising above the floor on wingspan of nearly twenty feet, Steele was aware of the wings which graced him, but he could neither feel them nor move them physically, they simply did what he intended, what he needed. Solid yet translucent layers of feathers refracted light like mother of pearl, the colors subtle, everchanging. A simple thought, impulse or reaction was all that was required to move in any manner. He had simply never thought about flying before…

  Dear Lord, make me fast and accurate. Let my aim be true and my hands faster than those who seek to destroy me. Grant me victory over evil and those who wish to harm the innocent. I am your instrument, my life is in your hands…

  The pair of slug-throwers thrust before him at arms-length, barked their throaty PWOM! PWOM! almost sounding hollow, distant, disconnected as he fired, hitting exactly where he had intended. Striking the Synth twice in the chest and twice in the head, spun him, taking him off his feet, crimson splashes on his white ruffled shirt and blue velvet coat, red smears on the wall behind him. Please Chief, I pray you and Andrea have done your part…

  Ducking out of reflex as laser and blaster fire passed him from several angles, Steele’s wings folded, dipped him and reopened again, pirouetting mid-air, his slug-throwers, rotating like a turret, fireballs reaching out, firing over the crowd; two, three, four guards riddled with holes, dropping to the floor. Soaring up to the ceiling around the massive center chandelier, the light playing off his wings, he dove head-first, wings outstretched, guns blazing, strafing as he flashed over the crowd and stunned guards, killing three more who found no adequate cover. A wicked flip of his right wingtip smartly decapitated a guard who swung at him with a malfunctioning rifle, his body momentarily motionless before toppling over as his head spiraled through the air, a splash of red slop decorating the curtains behind him.

  Most of the banquet crowd had taken to the floor, hiding as best they could under tables and chairs, making target selection less problematic. Steele marveled at his ability to accurately hit whatever target he selected, exactly where he intended. As he swept along the curved wall at the end of the hall, turning tightly to come back toward the stage, a blaster hit to his left wing drove him into the wall, his wings skimming the surface before he rolled out of control, firing at the guards as he passed, crashing into tables and chairs, sending them scattering across the floor. Slow to recover, blaster and laser hits danced around him, his wings wrapping around him to protect him as he struggled to a knee, his back against the wall, his arms taking the form of an iron cross, firing simultaneously to his left and right, three or four more guards falling to the Angel’s slug-throwers. His wings encircling him like a barrier, he ejected the charge mags to the floor with a clatter, stuffing the muzzles into his beltline. Drawing a fresh pair of magazines from the carrier in the center of his back, he loaded them simultaneously, slapping them in to seat them.

  When his wings unfolded, Steele was already rising to his feet, firing both guns as guards converged from three sides. Leaping back into the air, the survivors that remained on their feet converged on empty space. Pirouetting, the feathers of his right wingtip sliced across a guard, through his armor at waist level, his intestines spilling out across his hands and weapon as he crumpled to his knees, four of his fellow guardsmen gunned down in a flurry of fiery slugs.

  Searing pain through his left thigh spun him as fire came from behind, the wings taking him on a spiraling climb, allowing him to return fire without obstruction as the guards mixed with the banquet crowd for cover. His precision unnerved one man who dropped his weapon and stood, his hands up.

  Baring his teeth in pain and anger, Steele hovered, shouting from above, “Earlier, I said; no matter how it goes, none of you will survive this. Remember that?” Movement in his peripheral vision flicked his attention away for a split second, a wounded guard crawling away. PWOM! A fan of crimson spread across the floor.

  “Remember that?” The man nodded and looked down at his discarded weapon, indecision on his face. Sweat stung Steele’s eyes, pain temporarily blurring his vision, PWOM! “I meant it…” The mostly headless figure dropped over, a splash of red and grey covering an entire table behind him. Scanning the room below him, he could find no more adversaries.

  “Your Majesty… Your Majesty!” came a raspy whisper from below him. A woman in a fine, deep green gown, still hiding, waved him down. “You are injured, let us
help you…”

  Steele descended, coming to alight gingerly on one leg, his left leg covered in blood and numb nearly hip-to-toes. Seeing both slug-throwers empty again, he dropped them on a table, his wings folding up against him.

  Across the hall on the garden side of the room, crashing glass preceded the doors blowing inward, flung wide, nearly off their hinges, the curtains torn down as guards poured into the room… Steele pulled the two remaining slug-throwers out of their shoulder holsters and balancing against an up-ended table, his wings wrapped around him and the table for support and protection, fired into the troops as they poured in through the bottleneck. He felt no fear, no pain, and no remorse. The handguns both ran dry in short order and he dropped them, snagging a blaster carbine off the floor, thumbing the switch to full auto and holding the trigger down as he moved laterally, his feet off the ground, dropping down for another carbine, releasing the first as it overheated and quit. By the time the second gun was empty, the pile of bodies in the doorway was substantial. Relative quiet had returned, except for the pulse pounding in his ears and the ringing of silence. People stirred, coming out from hiding, whispers and low tones flitting through the crowd.

  Letting the carbine slip from his weakened hands, he went back for his slug-throwers, reloading them at leisure with the two magazines given him by Sam. The last two. Lightheaded, he realized he’d been hit again, this time in the stomach. Wish I hadn’t noticed that… He gasped, starting to feel the pain. He pushed it off, he needed to get back to Alité… he shuddered, his heart heavy, broken.

  “Your Majesty,” pointed a man, indicating the stage, as Steele hobbled his way back to the center of the hall where it was clear of tables.

  “Well, well, well,” called the Synth, hands on hips, standing in the middle of the stage, covered in blood, part of his face missing, “what in hellion do we have here?” he indicated Steele.

  “You will address me as Your Majesty,” snapped Steele, with venom.

  “Oh,” he laughed, “I think not,” countered the Synth, grinning, his face a bizarre mix of steel and flesh, holding up a small remote in his bloody hand. “That is my distinction. You really thought you could kill me? No. And, as I promised, you will all die. But I will be back shortly…” He squeezed a button on the remote his eyes darting around expectantly.

  “Still here,” mocked Steele, the slug-throwers held out in a come and get me gesture.

  The Synth pushed another, then another with the same results, his disfigured face registering as much surprise as the damage would allow. “But…”

  Steele head ticked to one side, like a dog hearing a squeaky toy, “Problem?” He was firing even before he took flight, streaking across the length of the room toward the stage, the constant bark of the slug-throwers and flames reaching out, staggering the Synth across the stage into the back wall, the clatter of rounds hitting metal portions of his body. The guns registered empty before he reached the stage, the synth in a bloody heap on the floor, body and mechanical parts scattered about.

  Dropping over him, Steele grabbed him by the lapels and yanked him upright, still seeing activity in the Synth’s mechanical eyes, his body broken and mangled. “Who are you?” he hissed. “Who do you work for?”

  “You can’t kill me,” retorted the Synth, his voice mechanical, no longer sounding like his own.

  “Bet, me,” snapped Steele. Closing his eyes, he had to force himself to relax, his hand, trembling with anger, stilled on the metal forehead as he washed into another plane, his fingers slipping beneath the surface, pure energy dissolving the limitations of the physical plane. In a few brief moments he could see and hear the lines of code, the communication, and a vast network. He could touch it, manipulate it… and as fast as he had it, it was gone. Disconnected. Abandoned. Everything dissolving like so much mist and smoke. But the Synth was dead, permanently, he saw to that.

  ■ ■ ■

  Emerging from the palace’s Rotunda Room, the first members of the banquet group stepped past the bodies of the guards that had been moved clear, both from inside the hall and outside, in the garden. Shielding their eyes from the spotlights of the ships, and the Marines in full combat armor, they were followed by ten people carrying their King and Queen together, using tablecloths as a makeshift stretcher. Wrapped in his wings, the queen was barely visible, the top of her head under his chin. A procession of nearly three-hundred people, all dressed in banquet attire, sedately followed them out.

  Standing on a garden terrace closest to the Rotunda, the Chief adjusted the sling on his long-gun, flanked by Andrea and Sam. “I wish we could have done more,” he sighed.

  “Nobody blew up,” offered Sam. “I’d say that’s quite an accomplishment.”

  The Chief shrugged, “I guess.” He shook his head, “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s that?” asked Andrea.

  The Chief looked around, “Any of this… it’s… crazy…” he rubbed moisture from his eyes, “I just wanted a ride off that rock…”

  “And you met an Angel in the process,” added Andrea.

  Sam nodded, “It’s crazy alright. If I heard someone tell this story I’d never have believed it.”

  The Chief wiped his eyes again, “I hope they’re going to be…”

  Andrea touched his shoulder, “They’ll be fine, Chief…”

  He looked at her, trying to remember why it was that he originally disliked her, “How…?”

  She shrugged, “I just know. I can feel it…”

  ■ ■ ■

  Wrapped in his arms and his wings, the outside all but blocked out, Jack nuzzled Alité’s hair, “How’s the pain?”

  “S’ok,” she slurred. “Are you doing that?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Mmmm,” she replied drowsily, “your wings are so warm. How… What are you?”

  “I’ve been told, I’m a Guardian Angel. But tonight, I think I was a little bit Avenging Angel.”

  “I think you’ve always been an Angel… Are you still Jack, my husband? My King?”

  “Yes, always.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “Hmm,” he chuckled, pushing away that spike of fear. “Not today, Mrs. Steele, you’re stuck with me, us. Colton needs his mommy.”

  “I’m so sleepy,” she muttered.

  “Stay awake, baby, stay with me…”

  “Promise me you’ll never leave me… leave us again,” she requested, looking up at his face with lazy, rolling eyes.

  “I…”

  She managed a weak smile, “Lie to me, then…”

  “I will never leave you again, I promise. I will always be here to protect you.”

  Movement stopped for a moment, the makeshift stretcher changing hands, Marines in battle armor taking over, two on each side, hustling them into the Wronin’s rescue shuttle sitting on the grass in the garden. The smell of oil and hot metal reached Steele and he opened his eyes, looking up at the Marine’s battle armor and ceiling of the Dragonfly. “Hurry it up guys, I don’t want to lose her…”

  Carefully setting them down on an adaptive gel pad, the call for takeoff was immediately ordered. As the hull sealed, the antigravity lifting the ship, a Marine without his helmet leaned over, “She’s lost a lot of blood - we’re going to start her an IV, get her blood pressure back up. While we’re doing that, somebody wants to say hello, Admiral…”

  In a pilot’s jacket, much like Steele himself used to wear, the man dropped to one knee beside him and Jack recognized his own face, ten years younger, looking down at him - sending enough of a jolt up his back, to make him wince and see stars.

  Luke Steele smiled, “Hey big brother...”

  EPILOGUE

  WHISPERFIRE SYSTEM : RESURRECTION

  The door to the Captain’s ready room squealed in protest as it slid into the bulkhead, an ABS, Able Bodied Spaceman, stepping through, “Captain, Doc sent me - she’s awake.”

  The Captain didn’t look up from the reports display
ed on his old, battered, e-Pad, “She is huh? Well she’s had quite the nap, hasn’t she?” he grumbled gruffly, his voice sounding a little like gravel. He looked as rough as he sounded; an unruly mop of curly salt and pepper hair and a wild silver beard, a shining black marble in his left eye socket with a scar that went from his hairline down across his cheek. A big man, his rolled-up sleeves revealed only a portion of the tattoos that covered him from his neckline to his beltline. Captain Alph Kronich, of the transport freighter MareWind, rose from his desk with some effort, “Right, fine. We’re still twenty-five hours from the gate to Tranquil Echo and we have time to kill… so let’s go see what this young lady has to say for herself.” Moving his bulk around his desk, he glanced momentarily at the young ABS, “Has the good doctor developed an allergy to using the comm system?”

  “Comms’re down again, Captain…”

  “Gah! Again with this nonsense!” He waved his hand, “Off you go, tell the chief electrician I want this fixed before second watch comes on duty.”

  The ABS nodded his understanding, “He has the whole team working on the power fluctuations, sir.”

  Kronich shook his head, his long curls of hair bouncing like soft springs, “Maybe we need to spend some time in dock and give the old girl a good update or two. Lords know she could use it…” As he plodded past bridge security, he watched the ABS trot down the seemingly endless corridor to relay his message.

  The MareWind was a well-built ship, sturdy, a good design, and a real money-maker. But she was beginning to show her age - little things… This week it was the comms. Last month it was hydraulic pressure issues with the cargo pod claws on gantry ring seven, randomly letting go of cargo pods in flight. Good thing that didn’t happen in a gate transition, they would have been lost forever. As it was, it cost them nearly a full day of recovery time chasing down errant pods, recovering them and returning them to the ship. It was also a damn good thing they had room for the pods on other gantry rings - he dared not trust ring seven again until it was checked at the shipyard. For now, they weren’t at capacity and he could do without using that section. She was long overdue for a refit, maybe it was time. After this run, he told himself. Of course, he’d said that before… but this just might be the last straw.