by Graham Brown
“I needed to keep an eye on you.”
James felt emotions roiling inside him—rage, pity, guilt—all of them surging uncontrollably. “I’ve destroyed everything,” he said, his own voice cracking.
“No,” Bethel said. “You’ve brought these people something.”
James shook his head. “Pain and death.”
“You’re wrong,” Bethel managed. “They have something they’ve never had. Hope.”
James looked away. He could barely listen. He was sick of people talking about hope. All it brought was misery when it was dashed.
“Hope won’t do them much good now,” he said. “The only thing keeping us safe is the storm. When it breaks…”
He didn’t have to finish.
“You can’t give up,” Bethel said. “You have to find a way.”
“There is no way,” he said.
“There must be. Find one.”
Bethel began coughing up blood, even as Kamahu and the medic came running.
“A leader,” Bethel said, before coughing again. “A leader…has to try, has to give everything in the effort...everything…he…has…”
As the last words came forth, Bethel seemed to relax. His eyes closed and his chest fell once more, never to rise again.
James moved the oxygen mask towards his face, but the medic stopped him.
James glanced up, but the medic just shook his head. “He’s gone.”
Bethel was gone. The armor and the heavy weapons were gone. As far as James could see, hope itself was gone.
He found he couldn’t move, couldn’t even lift his head. In the middle of the sprawling room, surrounded by hundreds of people, he had never felt more alone.
CHAPTER 44
Olympia City
Gault’s last surviving MRVs raced back into Olympia with the storm right on their heels.
They raced down the central boulevard, the same road they’d so arrogantly marched out on, made their way to the hangars and stomped inside.
Gault was already out of his machine as the last of them parked and the gaping hangar doors were shut tight against the howling wind. He looked around. The room was already coated in a fine layer of dust and it was painfully empty. Only five of the forty MRVs had returned.
“Seal everything,” he said to the maintenance crews as he marched for the corridor that would lead him to Cassini’s office.
He needn’t have bothered. Cassini met him in the hall with two adjutants at his side.
“What happened to the rest of your squadron?” Cassini demanded.
Gault didn’t feel like explaining. He kept marching. His mind was churning. By a narrow margin he’d avoided death, but the magnitude of his defeat would mean a similar fate when Lucien Rex learned what had happened. Failure was not tolerated among the forces of the Cartel.
Cassini quickly caught up with him. “Answer me Gault!”
“They’re gone,” Gault shouted, whirling on his so-called governor.
“What?”
Cassini’s mouth was agape and it made Gault wish he’d lied, but he couldn’t count on the other crews keeping their mouths shut.
“How?” Cassini demanded.
Gault had to think quickly. “A trap,” he said. “The whole thing was a trap. They were too well prepared, too well trained in their use of the machines. They must be more than just slaves.”
Cassini was more used to building lies than Gault and he saw through the tactic instantly.
“You failed,” he said, with surprising boldness. “If there was a trap, you walked yourself right into it and let the slaves catch you. We have to inform Lucien.”
To everyone’s surprise Gault lunged at Cassini, grabbing him by the throat and slammed him into the polished surface of the wall. The adjutants moved to assist Cassini but Gault pulled his sidearm and blasted them down without even looking their way.
As the men fell in pools of blood, Gault shoved the hot barrel of the pistol up underneath Cassini’s chin. “You should have brought guards with you, not pencil pushers like yourself.”
“If you kill me, Lucien will-”
Gault cut him off with a renewed shove of the pistol and Cassini’s teeth closed on his tongue, spurting blood, which was soon dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Lucien is thirty days from here,” Gault explained bluntly. “And getting further off every day. He can’t help you. And quite frankly, he doesn’t give a damn who kills who, as long as the job gets done.”
Cassini seemed to accept this, and as Gault released him, he sensed that the governor had been effectively neutered and surpassed.
“Now, listen to me and listen clearly,” Gault said. “I will finish these slaves off. And I will allow you to take some of the glory, but if you speak with Lucien beforehand, if you tell him what’s occurred…Well, at that point I’ll have nothing left to lose, will I? And I might be prone to doing something rash and even…violent. Do you get my meaning?”
“You’re insane,” Cassini mumbled.
“Who isn’t these days?”
“Alright,” Cassini said. “I’ll cover for you. But what do you propose to do?”
“Spread the word that we put down a slave rebellion and the other machines are standing guard over the damaged camp.”
“That should deal with the rumors,” Cassini said. “Then what?”
“Bring the rest of the units back to the city. Even those guarding the other camps.”
Cassini’s eyes all but bulged out of his head. “But the camps need to be watched or we risk another insurrection.”
“The storm will keep those slaves in place,” Gault said, secure in his mind. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll deal with them later. But this threat must be taken seriously.”
Cassini licked his lips, no doubt aware that he was now taking orders from his subordinate. “Fine,” he said at long last. “And what do you propose we do after the outlying units return?”
“We use them without concern for collateral damage.”
Cassini paused. Even if he didn’t quite understand, he knew enough not to ask any more questions. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll give the order.”
Gault nodded. He felt a wave of hope. He would get a second chance. And if he could end this slave rebellion with enough brutality and blame a few others for the defeat, he might just save his own neck.
CHAPTER 45
In a mechanics workshop connected to the main MRV hangar, a pair of journeymen technicians worked to repair the main hydraulic pump on one of the damaged MRVs. Other mechanics were crawling over the machines in the hangar working on the instruments of their own imprisonment.
With no one else in earshot the first mechanic spoke quietly. “Do you see the damage to those rigs?”
His assistant grunted an acknowledgement without looking up.
“What the hell do you think happened out there?”
“No idea. Not sure I want to know.”
“Come on, look at the burn marks. These are heavy plasma burns.”
The second mechanic kept his head down and kept working. He didn’t want to talk. A guy could get killed for talking.
“Notice something else,” the lead mechanic said. “This hangar bay is empty.”
“The other rigs are guarding the prisoners.”
“In this storm?” The lead mechanic shook his head. “Hell no. This was a battle. Those other rigs are gone and they’re not coming back.”
“Come on, can we just do our job?”
The lead mechanic kept up the chatter. “Something is going on here. I’m telling you. I hear things. And I’ve heard rumors that there might be a resistance forming up. We should-”
At that, the second mechanic grabbed him. “Look man, I have a family. I’m not doing this. I know what you’re thinking and I’m not gonna be a part of it. You do whatever you want. I won’t say a word, but don’t drag me into this.”
The first mechanic shook free. “Doing what?” he asked. �
��I was just pointing something out. Just talk.”
They went back to work, toiling in silence for a few minutes before the second mechanic finally spoke. “Of course,” he whispered. “If there was an uprising, it wouldn’t hurt if this hydraulic pump failed again in the next battle.”
The first mechanic grinned. “Or if Johnny misaligned the launch initiators in those missile pods.”
The second mechanic allowed a smile. “Hell,” he said. “The quality of Johnny’s work, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already.”
They laughed quietly. “Keep working,” the lead mechanic said, “I’m gonna make my rounds.”
CHAPTER 46
Out at the armory, the storm continued to gust in undiminished intensity even as dusk came on.
James listened to it from inside a semi-darkened supply room as the walls shook and rattled around him. With great effort, he cinched the straps on a suit of body armor until they were tight. With practiced hands, he connected a line from the camelback oxygen tank that fit the armor, to the helmet he would wear. A quick test of the flow told him it was working.
He was alone except for Kamahu.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” the big man asked.
“I have to,” James said quietly. “I have to try.”
“I was caught in a sand storm a month ago,” Kamahu said. “It wasn’t as bad as this one, and I only had to make it back to the caves from the far side of the work site. It almost killed me. What you’re trying to do…it’s suicide.”
Kamahu was probably right, but it was their only hope.
“If I can make it to Olympia, I can sneak into the city during the storm. Their scanners will be down. They’ll never see me. I can make contact with the people I told you about. Hopefully they’re ready to fight. Hopefully they can help.”
Kamahu looked around as the wind continued to rattle the structure. “I’ll go with you,” he said finally.
James smiled but shook his head. “No. You stay here. They need you. You’re their leader now.”
“What should I do with them?”
“Try to keep their spirits up. Keep them together. If I can find help we’ll come to your aid.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Fight to the end,” James said. “Don’t let them take you alive.”
Kamahu nodded and offered a hand. James shook it and felt his hand all but crushed in the big man’s grip.
After the hand shake ended, both men remained silent and Kamahu escorted James to the door and opened it for him.
James stepped through and stopped in his tracks. In the main hall, formed up like platoons of soldiers, stood hundreds of the former slaves. Men, women and children. Even the injured that could stand were there.
“Ten hut!” Kamahu shouted.
His voice was like a gunshot and the sound of the men and women snapping to attention and saluting was like a thunderclap that echoed off the walls.
James didn’t really understand it. In his mind, he’d done nothing but lead them on a foolish suicidal crusade. But they seemed to think differently. Perhaps a moment of freedom and a taste of pride were worth dying for.
James could only stare. He was proud of them. And he knew what he had to do. He would get them help or die trying.
He returned their salute and headed for the exit. Standing beside the door, he slid the helmet over his head and locked it into place. With the flick of a switch the oxygen began to flow.
He gave the thumbs up, and Kamahu pushed the door open against the blowing wind.
James nodded and stepped through, moving out into the swirling wind. Instantly he was buffeted by the gusts, which pushed him sideways and threatened to topple him over—the way his emotions had done for most of his life. But as he stood in the gale and considered what he now faced, James found his mind to be quiet. Despite the odds and the pain and exhaustion, there were no more questions.
He moved to one of the six wheel scouts and climbed on. The electrically powered vehicle had a theoretical chance of making it through the storm, since it’s engine didn’t need air to breathe. James tapped a button and turned the power on. A blue white headlight cast a well-defined beam out into the swirling dust. The power indicator registered 99%.
Ready to go, James glanced back toward the warehouse. Through his gold tinted visor, he saw the Kamahu standing there in the open doorway.
James cocked his head as if to say, What are you doing?
In response, Kamahu lifted the rifle he carried above his head. “Never give up!” he shouted. “Never give in!”
His voice boomed through the storm, louder than the banshee-like wind. The words had never carried more meaning.
James nodded once again, and then turned and drove out into the tempest.
CHAPTER 47
Gault paced the floorboards of Cassini’s office relentlessly and Cassini found himself growing tired just watching.
An aide came in with several reports.
“The camps are reporting in,” the aide told Cassini. “They indicate-”
“I don’t care about the camps,” Gault bellowed. “How long till this damned storm ends?”
Cassini wondered that too. It was the worst he’d seen since arriving. The satellite coverage showed a third of the planet obscured.
The aide scanned through the information he’d been given. “Not for at least twenty-four hours,” he said.
Gault shot him a dirty look.
“Maybe less.”
Gault ground his teeth. “It had better be less,” he growled.
Cassini didn’t like this news any better than Gault. “Twenty-four hours. Those slaves have had too much freedom already.”
As the aide left them, an intercom tone caught their attention. “Yes,” Cassini said.
“Governor,” a harsh voice said. “I think we have another problem.”
“As if we don’t have enough already, “ Cassini replied. “What’s wrong?”
“The small arms lockers have been tampered with,” the voice replied. “Their sensors indicate all weapons remain in racks, but a physical inspection revealed that the spare rifles and pistols have all been taken.”
Cassini looked up at Gault, who shook his head. His men hadn’t done it.
“You’re right,” Cassini said into the comm link. “That is a problem. Round up your men. It seems we have more than one insurrection to deal with.”
Out on the plains, James continued his journey, pushing on through the storm and the dead of night, piloting the small ATV through the storm.
He couldn’t take the main route to Olympia for the simple fact that it was the most direct route and would likely be guarded. Instead he was angling across the plateau, out into the barren wasteland of the planet, trying to cut the corner a bit.
It was slow going. After two hours, the headlight on the ATV began to dim. James switched it off and slowed down, but the batteries were dying fast. Thirty minutes later, the ATV ground unceremoniously to a halt.
James sat on it for a moment longer. He’d covered about half the distance or so it seemed. He’d have to do the rest on foot.
Climbing off the ATV, he stretched his legs, got his bearings and flicked on a small light on the right shoulder of the body armor. It illuminated no more than ten feet in front of him, just enough to keep him from tripping or tumbling down a canyon.
He adjusted the flow of oxygen and began walking. He’d need more now that he was on foot. And he needed to move quickly if he hoped to get to the outskirts of Olympia before dawn.
He began hiking and was soon sweating in the cold and dark. A heads up display on the helmet kept him on line, but he noticed his vision getting worse as the hike wore on. At first he thought his eyes were failing with exhaustion, but then he realized the visor of his helmet was slowly getting sand blasted.
The navigation pack failed shortly thereafter. Whatever signal it worked off of was being blocked by the storm. And the directional icons
and their little green lines came and went intermittently for a while before they vanished permanently, replaced by an annoying icon that read: No Signal.
He kept going, walking as straight as he could even as the wind and the sand pushed him around. Soon his legs grew heavy. He began to trip over small rocks. He noticed his feet seemed to have no feeling.
He turned the oxygen flow up to full, but almost immediately a yellow light on the tank lit up and a warning appeared on the heads up display inside his helmet.
O2 supply low.
Reaching for controls on his arm plate, James dialed down the flow to the lowest possible setting and pressed forward. The reduced oxygen supply only aggravated his weary state, and soon he was stumbling through the night like a drunk.
The uneven ground made the process more difficult. With increasing frequency, he tripped and fell, laid low by unseen rocks or simply blown over by the gusting wind.
Eventually, he put a boot down on some loose gravel and sprawled forward once again. His hands went out instinctively to break his fall, but there was nothing to grab. He tumbled forward down a steep slope, sliding and rolling, until he was tossed out at the bottom and rudely deposited onto the flat desert landscape again.
The warning indicator began to flash once again. Oxygen level critical.
James reached for the shut off valve to save the remaining supply but saw that the line from the tank to his helmet had been ripped out during the fall.
Oxygen depleted.
“Now you’ve done it, James,” he grunted to himself.
He switched a lever on the side of the helmet that opened tiny vents in the mouth guard for him to breath the surrounding air. They were filtered to some extent but in two breaths he could already sense the odd metallic taste of the Martian sand.
With great effort, he rose to his feet and began to trudge forward once again. He had to keep going; somehow he had to keep going.
Each step became agony. A battle between his will and his own aching muscles that would eventually be lost. The lack of oxygen and water were causing his legs to cramp. He wanted to fall, to lay down in the soft sand and die. Some part of his mind told him it was okay. He’d done enough.