D'Arc

by Robert Repino

  With the spent grenade launcher smoking at her feet, the girl fired a machine gun. It was impossibly loud in this cramped space, like a fist punching D’Arc in the chest. A soldier crawling on the deck crumpled instantly. Another dropped to the floor like a marionette with the strings cut. Sparks burst along the walls and the ceiling, knocking out one of the track lights. Disoriented, D’Arc tried to aim, only to have another man step in front of her. A bullet clipped the side of his head, bursting it apart in a red cloud. To avoid getting trapped, D’Arc moved forward to the next intersection in the hallway, firing as she advanced. Two soldiers frantically brushed past her. The girl hit one of them in the spine, dropping him flat on his nose.

  When D’Arc’s trigger clicked, she retreated deeper into the corridor. Just then, the little girl ran past the intersection, firing blindly but missing. Behind D’Arc, the remaining soldiers shouted and argued. The gunpowder hung in the air, so thick she wanted to spit it out. In the middle of reloading her weapon, she felt a hand on her arm. It was Lasky.

  “Is she in the airlock?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Out of breath and shaking, the boy gripped a wound on his shoulder. Blood seeped through his knuckles. Lasky opened a pocket on his jacket and pulled out a gauze bandage. The cloth turned red when he pressed it to his arm.

  “What happened?” D’Arc said. “Where did that girl come from?”

  “The armory. She was hiding inside one of the bunker busters. She popped out of the fuckin’ thing and slashed me with a knife.”

  The other soldiers were gone. D’Arc and Lasky crawled to the intersection. When she poked her head around the corner, she saw the girl swinging open the main door of the airlock. A woman entered from the docking tube, aiming a machine gun as she stepped over the dead bodies. She wore a black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants, with a bandolier slung over the shoulder.

  “What do you see?” Lasky whispered. “Is it the fish-heads?”

  “Worse. It’s Strator Braga. That girl must be her daughter Maddie.”

  One of the wounded guards moaned near the entrance of the airlock. Through the ringing in her ears, D’Arc could hear a dog whimpering. It had to be Church.

  “Do you know how many humans I killed in the war?” he said, letting out a wet cough. “I counted. It was twenty-sev—”

  A gunshot silenced him.

  More strators entered through the hatch. Duncan Huxley. Harold Pham. A woman with a black baseball cap whom D’Arc did not recognize.

  “There’s more coming,” D’Arc said.

  “We need to warn the bridge.”

  She helped him to stand. His pimpled forehead glistened with sweat, and his entire body shivered when he twisted his shoulder the wrong way.

  “First we have to go to the cellblock,” she said.

  “What for?”

  “I think they’re here for the prisoner.”

  Lasky snorted. “They can have him.” Gingerly, he lifted the gauze from his wound. Under the torn fabric, a bead of thick blood emerged from the cut. He covered it again.

  “Look at me, human,” D’Arc said.

  He did as he was told.

  “That prisoner down there is Sebastian. The Warrior. I am Sheba, the Mother. Foretold in the Book. Do you understand?”

  It registered in his blue eyes. His mouth dropped open.

  “They’re not taking him,” she said.

  Lasky bit his lip. She could tell that he had many questions. “Lead the way,” he said.

  On the bridge, the Klaxon kept ringing. The noise matched the throbbing in Falkirk’s head. He wiped his bloody nose on his arm, leaving a crimson streak in the fur. In the window, the horizon scrolled from right to left as the two conjoined ships spun in a circle.

  Transmissions from the Upheaval fell silent. Bulan tried to reach Lieutenant Church, but received no response. Ruiz took over one of the consoles and tried to access the security cameras. A wounded crew member sat in the captain’s chair while O’Neill reset his broken arm. The injured human handled it well, grunting only slightly. A few others applied bandages to their cuts and gashes. Falkirk thought that they were lucky before correcting himself—true luck would have allowed them to avoid the Upheaval altogether.

  “Captain,” Ruiz said. His computer screen was split into sections, each showing the view from a different camera. The upper left corner displayed the airlock. Falkirk saw a grainy black-and-white image of humans marching over dead bodies. Another camera feed showed two soldiers sprawled out in the hallway. Yet another showed the surviving security guards regrouping in the common area. Two of them appeared to be wounded.

  The invaders filed through the airlock, using the standard room-clearing procedures. Like they were running a drill. Suddenly Duncan Huxley’s face blocked the view. The man smiled, ran his hand through his Mohawk, and then lifted a can of spray paint. He waved goodbye as he blinded the camera. The last thing Falkirk saw was Huxley’s jangling necklace.

  “Put everything on lockdown,” Falkirk said. “Seal the compartments.”

  “Aye, sir. Already done.” Ruiz opened a window on the screen that displayed a three-dimensional view of the gondola. “Engineering, weapons, infirmary, living quarters. They’re all shut down.”

  Another camera angle showed three humans at the door to engineering. One of the strators tapped the keypad to gain entry, but the door would not open. Another knelt with a laptop computer and connected a wire to the keypad. The calmness with which they operated unnerved Falkirk. They resembled technicians checking the efficiency of a solar panel.

  Two women stepped into view. Falkirk recognized Braga right away, along with her daughter. The girl was covered in oil that glistened black onscreen. She confidently stood upright next to her mother, a strator in training. Braga must have spent years preparing the girl for a day like this, when they would finally reclaim what the animals had taken.

  “What are our options if they take engineering?” Falkirk asked.

  “We won’t have many. They could control all the power from there. Unlock most of the doors. But they still have to get to the bridge to navigate.”

  “So, they can shut off power to the bridge, and then force their way in.”

  “Exactly.”

  Falkirk pictured it—the Sons of Adam controlling both airships, ruling the skies over the city that God promised them. At that very moment, the strators in Hosanna may have been storming Tranquility with their loyal pilgrims cheering them on.

  “What if we tried to break free of the docking device?” Falkirk asked.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. Even if we released the cables, we’d risk tearing the gondola apart. Probably lose an engine. Or breach the balloon.”

  The Klaxon stopped, leaving the room chillingly quiet.

  “What if we—” Falkirk leaned in and lowered his voice. “What if we opened fire?”

  “We’re too close. An explosion at this range would destroy both ships.”

  Falkirk knew that. But at this point, scuttling the ships might be the best option.

  “Get a message to engineering. Let them know we’re sending help.”

  The speaker on Bulan’s desk let out a muffled sound. Someone on the other end was fiddling with the buttons. “Bridge,” a voice said. “Bridge, come in.”

  Bulan pointed at Falkirk to let him know he could speak. “This is the bridge. Go ahead.”

  “This is Sergeant Vance. We need assistance.”

  “I know. We’re sending it. What is the situation?”

  “A stowaway took us by surprise. Church is dead. The rest of us got split up.”

  “It’s the Sons of Adam. Some of them are headed your way. I want you to send as many people as you can spare to engineering. Use the staircase near the bow side. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”
>
  “Captain, they’re inside,” Ruiz said. On his monitor, the humans streamed into the hatch leading to the engine room. Another camera showed the crew members kneeling on the deck with their hands behind their heads. Though the image provided no sound, Falkirk could hear the shouting in his mind—the gentle human voices that could bark like dogs when they needed to.

  Falkirk turned to Ruiz. “Pick four people from the bridge. People with combat experience. Gather the rest of the guards and get to engineering.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I just ordered a man to his death, Falkirk thought. I asked him to choose his pallbearers.

  The Klaxon sounded again, like a child demanding a toy.

  “Turn that off!” Falkirk said. “We can see the Upheaval is right there!”

  “It’s not the Upheaval, sir,” O’Neill said. “There’s another aircraft coming in.”

  “What?”

  O’Neill’s monitor displayed a map of the area, with a line rotating from the center. With each revolution, the line blinked on a small dot, closing in from the south.

  “Is it a bird?” Falkirk asked.

  “Too big.”

  The line continued to spin, and yet the dot made virtually no progress.

  “Too slow to be a plane,” Falkirk said.

  “It’s coming in at three o’clock. We should be able to get a visual.”

  Ruiz was already at the window with his binoculars.

  “Well?” Falkirk said. “What do you see?”

  Ruiz lowered his binoculars. “I think it’s one of ours.”

  “One of our what?” Falkirk hurried to the window. Before Ruiz could offer him the binoculars, Falkirk spotted the vessel bouncing along the horizon, black as pitch, wings flapping madly. “There’s an escape hatch,” Falkirk said. “Under the stairs. Open it.”

  He pointed to the first two crew members he saw. They jumped up from their consoles and hurried to a red hatch beneath the steps. This exit led to the tiny airlock from which the crew could escape by parachute if necessary. The men flipped the latches that released the outer door, letting the air rush out. The mechanism lowered a set of metal stairs from the bottom of the ship. Falkirk felt the machinery rumble through the deck plates.

  At the window, Ruiz waved at the incoming flyer. “He sees us!”

  One of the crew members pressed his face against the glass portal on the hatch. Falkirk heard a thud on the gondola, followed by a scraping sound.

  “Contact,” the man said. “Closing the outer seal.”

  The two men pulled the latches into place. The mechanism retracted the staircase and sealed the outer door.

  “Open it,” Falkirk said.

  As soon as the hatch lifted, a leathery claw reached from the tunnel and gripped the floor. Then a furry head emerged, with goggles covering most of the face. A few people rose from their consoles to see this creature, a great mass of skin and hair. Despite the goggles and an oxygen mask, there was no mistaking Gaunt of Thicktree, the proudest family of the Great Cloud and Protectors of the Sacred Forest. Exhausted, the bat flopped onto the floor, spreading out like a rug, his hairy back rising and falling like a bellows.

  Gaunt’s passenger emerged from the airlock, a brown pit bull wearing wraparound sunglasses and an oxygen mask. The tank of compressed air clanged on the deck. Tearing the mask away to reveal her scarred face, the dog looked around the room until she found Falkirk.

  “Captain,” she said.

  “Chief.”

  Wawa took a moment to look around. “Yes, I’m here,” she said. “You can close your mouths now.” There was a smattering of nervous laughter at this. Wawa’s stubbornness was legendary, but she topped herself with this one.

  “Your mission is aborted,” she said. “The Sarcops have no intention of honoring their peace agreement. But I see we have other problems at the moment.”

  “Sons of Adam,” Falkirk said. “They’ve got the engine room. Ruiz is taking a team to stop them right now.”

  “Good. I’ll go with them.”

  “Chief, you’re the ranking officer here. If you want, I’ll go with Ruiz.”

  “No. You know how to fly the ship. I just kill things.”

  He watched her for some sign of a guilt trip, or some hidden plea to have sympathy for her. But her eyes betrayed nothing. She merely stated a fact, with no remorse.

  “Chief?” Ruiz said.

  “What is it?”

  The human seemed embarrassed to ask. “Should I save Braga for you?”

  Wawa eyed him, noting the rank on his epaulet. Then she smiled. “Thank you, Lieutenant. But if you have the chance to kill her, who am I to object?”

  As Wawa left with Ruiz and the others, Falkirk knew that this would be their last conversation. One or both of them would be dead. Only now, with the choices so clear, he no longer felt like a feather tossed around in the wind. He would choose how to die, after all these years of failing to live.

  CHAPTER 24

  Gladiators

  D’Arc made it to the cellblock first. Lasky limped behind her with one hand gripping the wound on his shoulder. At the end of the corridor, a steel door sealed the Old Man inside. D’Arc tried to spin the wheel mounted on the front, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Let me try,” Lasky said. He took a swipe card from his front pocket and inserted it into the slot beside the door. Nothing happened. He tapped a code into the keypad. Still nothing.

  Lasky shook his head. “It’s the security protocol. Everything’s locked.”

  D’Arc rapped on the door with her knuckles. “Mort(e)! Can you hear me?”

  She heard footsteps approaching. “D’Arc?” Through the door, Mort(e)’s voice sounded like a salvaged radio.

  “It’s me, Old Man.”

  “Old Man?” Lasky said.

  “Mort(e), where are the guards?”

  “They left. What’s happening?”

  “We’ve been boarded. It’s the strators. They—”

  Somewhere in the distance, humans were closing in on their position. Their boots slammed on the deck plates. She counted three runners.

  “Someone’s coming,” Lasky said.

  “Mort(e), stay where you are,” D’Arc said.

  “Sure. I’ll try.”

  D’Arc and Lasky took cover on opposite ends of an intersection. She took the left, he the right. The corridor curved up ahead, with another intersection about thirty feet away. The footsteps closed in. Three people emerged—a tall man, followed by Duncan Huxley and the girl Maddie. The man in front wore yellow goggles, and sported a thin goatee that appeared drawn onto his chin with a fine pencil. A perfect target. D’Arc pulled the trigger. A hole ruptured on the man’s neck, spraying blood onto the wall. Lasky hit the man in the chest, while another bullet went over his head and blew out one of the lights on the ceiling. D’Arc kept firing as the other humans retreated to the next intersection. Maddie fired from the left side of the corridor. She hung her machine gun around the corner and sprayed the room. Bullets whined and ricocheted from the metal surface, imprinting tiny craters on the door to Mort(e)’s cell.

  Through the noise, D’Arc made out Grace Braga’s voice buzzing in Maddie’s walkie-talkie. “Fall back! Wait for us! Fall back, Maddie!”

  D’Arc emptied her rifle and dropped it on the deck. She pulled out her sidearm and squeezed off a few shots. Maddie responded with another wild barrage. D’Arc listened for the sound of someone reloading. She placed her hand on the hilt of her sword and glanced at Lasky. He shook his head no. She nodded yes.

  Then she heard it, the hollow sound of an empty magazine. It was Maddie.

  D’Arc sprang to her feet and charged at Huxley, the pistol blazing in her left hand. She jumped over the dead man. Lasky fired, drowning out D’Arc’s howling. While Maddie reloaded, Huxley ducked b
ehind the corner. Her pistol emptied, D’Arc tossed it into the air. It threw off Huxley’s aim. He lifted his rifle as he pulled the trigger. A bullet whizzed by D’Arc’s cheek. In one clean movement, she unsheathed the sword and slashed him. The blade entered at the man’s collarbone and carved a red line across his ribs. His necklace dropped, the trophy bones spilling on the floor. A bullet from Lasky exploded in Huxley’s chest. D’Arc spun around to find Maddie aiming, her gun now loaded. With the tip of the sword, D’Arc knocked the weapon from the child’s hands, then smashed Maddie in the face with the pommel. Another swing grazed the child’s arm. Maddie yelped, but she wasn’t finished. She reached for the pistol on her belt.

  D’Arc raised her sword. “Don’t,” she said.

  D’Arc saw no fear, only disgust, a raw anger corked in the body of this skinny child, ready to burst. The cut on Maddie’s arm dripped blood onto her shoes.

  More footsteps approached. Lasky shouted D’Arc’s name. Sensing an opportunity, Maddie yanked the gun from its holster. The blade swung in a flash. D’Arc didn’t even feel herself do it. The gun clunked to the ground. Maddie clutched her neck. Two jets of blood burst from between her fingers. Her eyes blinking, the girl fell to one knee, then flopped onto the deck.

  D’Arc felt the silence closing in around her. She waited for her victims to move, to stand up and put themselves together again. But they lay stiffly in place. The girl’s hair covered her face as the blood pumped out. Underneath her, the walkie-talkie continued to speak. Grace’s voice told Maddie to stay where she was until help arrived. Nearby, Huxley clenched his teeth, the muscles unable to relax in death. D’Arc spent years imagining her pups in the moments before their murderer tossed their bodies away, still warm to the touch. She pictured them in grotesque poses, their tails stiff beside them. They appeared to be asleep until she noticed their faces stiff with fear.

  Lasky stood behind her. “I didn’t know the Mother could do all that.”

  A single drop of blood fell from D’Arc’s sword and splattered on the deck.

  “We need to go,” he said.

  “No. We need to get the Old Man.”