Knox's Irregulars

by J. Wesley Bush

  Randal scanned the room, spotting what looked to be a janitorial closet at the far end. "Over there, I think."

  Just then they heard a scuffling from behind the furnace. The furnace sat to their rear atop a concrete platform, shadowing everything in that corner of the room. Randal and Pyatt broke right and left, both training their weapons on the furnace and taking cover. "Move where we can see you!" Randal called out in Russian. At least that's what he hoped he had said.

  Out stepped a grandfatherly-looking gentleman in a lab coat. The man watched them impassively, holding a scalpel loosely at his side. He gave a small bow and asked in a caring voice, "May I help release you from the prison of this life?"

  Randal knew him instantly for what he was, an interrogator for the Scourge. Expression never shifting, the man unexpectedly charged, stabbing with the scalpel. Stomach twisting, Randal shot him down. Red wounds blossomed across the spotless white of the man's coat. Not a man — a monster.

  Fists beat against the closet door and they could hear voices calling from inside. The two of them sprinted to the door. Randal broke the lock with the rifle butt. Opening the door they met twelve faces, all blinking at the sudden intrusion of light into the pitch-black of the closet. Every face showed marks of abuse and the tell-tale signs of exhaustion and starvation.

  "Please, everyone remain calm, we're going to get you out of here," Randal said, trying to sound encouraging. "Is everyone able to follow me upstairs?"

  "M-most of us..." said a gaunt-faced older man. There were patches missing from the hair on his head, as if they'd been ripped out. "Those who can will help the others." A few heads nodded in agreement.

  "Randal!" came Ariane's voice across the headset. "Pieter's awake, but very groggy. Some soldiers just came in to investigate. I shot at them and they ran back out. I'm sure they're coming back!"

  Almost on top of her came Johnny's transmission. "Sod it, Knox! So much for being sneaky. I heard you all the way 'cross campus."

  "We got pounced. Talk to me, Johnny. Are we happy?"

  "Yeah, yeah. I got us transport, are you ready for me?"

  "Ariane, we're on our way up." He paused a tic. "Johnny, come to the back of the building now. You'll be coming in hot, so be ready."

  It was all a matter of timing. He hoped they could evacuate the scientists before the Abkhenazi tried their luck against the lone girl holding the front entrance.

  So many variables.

  CHAPTER 15

  If you gaze long into an abyss,

  the abyss will gaze back into you.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Lebedev froze as the guard yelled from below. "I am cleaning!" he called back, setting down the empty canister of explosive foam.

  Apparently, the guard was unconvinced. Likely the dead body on the ground had made him suspicious. Bullets spanged off the tank near Lebedev. He drew in a deep breath. In theory only an electric charge would detonate the scabbling foam, but it was still a little frightening to watch bullets strike next to it.

  "I say do not move!"

  "Nu ladno, I am staying," Lebedev said, easing a hand into his fanny pack. Activating the detonator, he slipped it out and slapped it onto the foam. He turned and dashed across the gantry, stooping to take up his pistol in passing. Autorifle slugs sparked on the metal grill beneath his feet.

  Ahead lay the narrow entryway to the MTP. The open door was solid metal; it looked like a bulkhead hatch on a no-frills spacecraft. Waves of heat and a hellish orange glow emanated from the building.

  He heard boots pounding on the staircase. His acquaintance, the guard, would be there shortly. A glance to the right revealed yet another trooper running the catwalk in his direction.

  Diving into the MTP, he was assaulted by the oppressive heat. Abkhenazi techs stared as he ran through the level, though none moved to stop him. He paused behind an open vat of molten benzkamen, holding back sneezes as the vapors filled his nose.

  Dropping the magazine into his palm, he worked the action of the pistol, ejecting the misfed round. Just as he was reloading the piece he heard a brusque voice questioning the workers.

  Lebedev popped from behind the vat, firing wildly at the two guards. They scattered, taking cover as their prey unexpectedly turned on them. Not squandering the opportunity, he ran out the opposite side of the MTP, squeezing off a couple more shots to keep them at bay.

  Exiting the room, he turned to dash down the catwalk, nearly running into a roving sentry. Apparently the noise of the factory had dampened the weapon retorts coming from the other side — the guard looked as shocked as he did.

  Both sprang back, raising their weapons quickdraw-style. Lebedev's light pistol trumped the guard's rifle and he fired first. Despite his best efforts his eyes closed, as they always did when he shot at people.

  He heard a scream, followed by a thump. Cracking his eyes he saw the guard laid out with a painful but nonfatal wound in the shoulder. Lebedev stepped over him and hopped the railing. He hugged the support beam and slid to the ground.

  "Doctor Lebedev, the charges are set," Miriam said over the headset.

  There was no sign of fresh pursuit as he ducked into the shadows. The guards were likely still looking for him several floors up. "Excellent, detka. Blow charge when ready and meet me at water tester."

  "Yessir!"

  If his young apprentice set the trumpet charge correctly, the area where he stood would soon be filled with flaming petrol. Taking a last look for guards, he made a break for the water tester. This was an automated contraption at the midpoint of the sluiceway running from the MTP to the wastewater pond.

  The flash of Miriam's charge caught his eye, and a second later the sound reaching him. A plume of flaming gas climbed forty meters into the sky. Lebedev ran faster, an absurd part of his mind self-conscious about how he ran even while trying to escape immolation. If only his knees wouldn't bang together the way they did.

  Small geysers of dirt kicked up nearby. It took him a second to realize people were shooting at him from the factory.

  With a trembling hand he took out the remote detonator, flicking up the safety cover with a thumb. Wincing, he pressed the red button at the center of the remote. From behind him the liquid hydrogen tank tore itself apart in a spectacular explosion. There was a moment to reflect that he wasn't nearly far enough away before the shock wave hit him.

  As if a giant child were having a tantrum, he was tossed like a plaything. He somersaulted in the air and came down hard on a shoulder, feeling something give. Lying on his back, wheezing for breath through the pain of cracked ribs, he watched his handiwork unfold.

  The liquid hydrogen burned hot enough to ignite the materials used in the factory's construction — pipes, catwalks and the rest caught fire. The burst apparently ruptured the vats inside, as lava-like liquid started oozing out of the building. Countless liters of refined petrol poured down the slope from the burst holding tank, feeding the conflagration.

  Lebedev wept, the quiet pride in his heart growing as the flames climbed into the night, thick clouds of oily smoke roiling.

  It was... beautiful.

  He realized he needed to join Miriam. Regretfully he picked himself up, turning from the scene and limping toward the water tester. He mentally added a broken collarbone to his list of injuries. Nearing the water tester, he spotted Miriam. She was waving excitedly. With his good arm he waved back. She did it again, yelling something. He frowned. It would be necessary to reprimand her — yelling wasn't very tactical.

  Then she raised a pistol in his direction. "Nyet, is me!"

  She fired several shots.

  A yelp sounded from behind him. Looking back he saw several guards running across the field toward them, their silhouettes flickering in the light of the inferno.

  At a shuffling run he reached the girl. "Into the channel, hurry!" he called, giving her a tug with his good arm. The two leaped feet-first into the sluiceway. It was shallow and the grade to the pond was steep
.

  With the destruction of the factory, the flow of wastewater was a residual trickle. The sluiceway was coated with centimeters of slick scum. They flew like luge riders, eventually splashing into the viscous water of the holding pond.

  Crawling from the pond, he spat out a mouthful of its contents, wondering vaguely how many different carcinogens he had just ingested. Miriam's watch cap was gone, her red curls matted to her head. "We should go. They'll be waiting for us."

  "After you, my dear," he said through gritted teeth. The slide had played murder on his injuries. "But walk slowly."

  ***

  Everyone ran to the main window as the factory blew itself apart. Although he'd been anticipating it, Nabil still flinched at the scope and suddenness of it all. The four Theocratic Guard troopers shouldered everyone aside, gaping at the disaster. The one with sergeant stripes shouted into his headset. Nabil sidled behind the sergeant, giving a go-ahead nod to Mafouz.

  Letting the blade slip from inside his sleeve, Nabil twisted it into a firm grip. With a bound he was on the trooper, one hand grabbing the collar, the other thrusting the blade. Made to stop fast-moving slugs, the trooper's ballistic weave did little to slow the blade as it slid between his ribs.

  The guard shuddered, death spasms ripping him from Nabil's grip.

  The guard nearest him reacted immediately, despite the confusion. Nabil's vision went white as the man's rifle butt glanced off his forehead, knocking him to the ground. A shot went off somewhere, but there was no time to think about it.

  He kicked blindly. His foot connected with the guard's rifle as it lowered for a killshot. Instinctively, Nabil flexed his knees, tightened his abdomen and kipped up to his feet. His vision still foggy, he thrust the shiv where he sensed the guard to be.

  The guard was quick; his torso twisted as the strike landed. The blade skittered along his armor uselessly. Reversing the twist, he came back with another buttstroke with the rifle. This one caught Nabil's jaw. Hard.

  He fell poleaxed to the ground. Knowing what was coming, he curled up in a defensive ball. A string of rifle shots rang through the room. Nabil shouted in anticipated pain.

  Strangely, he didn't seem to be hit. Rubbing his jaw, he blinked to bring the world back into focus.

  The guards lay dead nearby. Mafouz's enormous head loomed into view, staring down at him. "One got me too," he said in Russian, grimacing. A dark stain was spreading from down low on his left side. He was gutshot. Painful, but likely survivable for hours, an aloof part of Nabil's brain recollected.

  As he stood, trying to ignore the throbbing in his jaw, Nabil saw Mireault emerging from behind a workstation. "I-I'll disengage the emergency overrides," the man said, giving the dead guards a dazed look.

  The civilians were wisely keeping to the floor as Mireault stepped over the shift manager, appropriating his workstation. Entering a handful of codes in sequence was all it took to lockdown the control room, sealing the heavy blast doors. It was a delicious irony, Nabil thought. The building was a veritable fortress. With the barbarians inside the gates, the defenses worked equally well against the owners.

  "I won't need to override the safety protocols," Mireault called to them, reviewing the monitors on the station. "The devastation is total." Next he pointed out critical systems to Nabil and Mafouz, who obligingly shot them to pieces. Nabil menaced the Abkhenazi civilian workers while he sabotaged the place, but he didn't harm them. His strange reaction to killing the young guard at the university was still fresh in his mind.

  "That should be it," Mireault said, sounding a little out of breath.

  "If any of you follows us," Nabil roared at the civilians, "we will do to you as we have done to the guards!" Nabil pushed out through the fire door, followed by Mafouz and Mireault into the cramped stairwell. This too had conspired to help them, for there were latches only on the interior sides of the doors.

  Reaching the bground floor, Nabil waited for a huffing Mireault and a wounded Mafouz to catch up. Easing the door open, he sneaked a single look and then shut it. In his mind's eye he reviewed what he'd seen.

  The building was surrounded. Worse, one of the gigantic anti-aircraft crawlers was flashing around a floodlight. They wouldn't make it five meters before they were cut down.

  "Leave the rifles."

  "Huh?" Mafouz sounded skeptical.

  "We're surrounded; we can't fight through that many."

  "But we're as good as dead if we surrender," the big Abkhenazi protested.

  "Not so hasty, they might just imprison us," Mireault said softly.

  "Just trust me," Nabil told Mafouz, ignoring the collaborator. "Drop the gun and conceal your blade."

  Holding his breath and gritting teeth, Nabil drew the tip of his blade across his own forehead. Warm blood poured down his face. Scalp wounds bled like mad, but they didn't hurt much. And they always looked worse than they were. "Follow my lead."

  Pushing out the fire door, he held his hands high, yelling in Russian, "Oh my brothers, it is terrible! They are killing everyone!" He heard the other two add their laments to his own.

  Mafouz dropped to one knee, pressing a hand over his stomach. If he was exaggerating his injuries Nabil doubted it was by much. He looped an arm around Mafouz's shoulders. "My friend, he has been shot! Please, please... is there a doctor?"

  Soldiers bustled them away from the building, leading them to a man wearing the crossed dagger insignia of a Captain. He seemed much more concerned with crisis management than with wounded civilians, angrily directing that they be taken to the infirmary. They were herded into a light, wheeled transport. Behind followed a second vehicle carrying a quartet of guards.

  Midway through the drive across the compound, Mafouz casually bashed the driver and tossed him from the vehicle, while Nabil grabbed the controls to keep the thing on the road. Shots punctured the rear gate of the vehicle as their escorts caught on. Nabil slid into the driver's seat, weaving to throw off their aim.

  No one fired from the guard towers as he speeded out of the compound. Likely they were off vainly fighting the fire. The driver's rifle rested by his leg, butt on the floorboard. He handed it back to Mafouz, who started plinking away at their pursuers.

  The two trucks raced through the abandoned suburbs, exchanging poorly aimed shots. He couldn't blame Mafouz; firing from a moving vehicle was difficult.

  Suddenly, the rear end of the truck slid sideways, the whole thing bucking as a rear tire shredded itself, cored by an unlucky shot. By some miracle, Nabil kept it from rolling, bringing the vehicle to a sliding stop in the middle of the street.

  The other vehicle skidded to a halt about thirty meters behind, troops diving out and taking cover behind it.

  No plan survives first contact with the enemy, thought Nabil. But this one was turning into a real dog's breakfast.

  ***

  While Ariane and a shell-shocked Pieter ushered the scientists out the back, Randal and Pyatt held off the Abkhenazi probing the front. So far their response time was slower than he'd dared hope — the majority must be out playing hide-and-seek with the Headhunters.

  "We're loaded, Randal," came Ariane's voice across the headset.

  "Roger, we're moving." Firing a last burst from the autorifle he'd taken from a downed guard, Randal led Pyatt out the rear exit.

  Johnny and his stolen transport were waiting. The primitive internal combustion engine rumbled inside the thing, belching fumes which hung heavy in the freezing air. It was one of the three-axled, wheeled variety the Abkhenazi favored. The squinting, bewildered faces of the scientists peered out the back.

  He climbed up into the cloth-covered bed, finding a spot near Ariane. Pyatt teetered on the lift gate and then fell inside as Johnny took off without warning. The pilot charted his own course, tossing everyone around as he narrowly averted disaster several times, slaloming madly between buildings and obstacles.

  Randal found Ariane's hand. She squeezed back tightly as Johnny sideswiped a building,
the screech of it horrible inside the space.

  Round holes appeared in the cloth of the cover, spears of light shining in from the streetlamps. It took Randal a second to realize they were taking fire. "Everyone down!" He impelled Ariane to the floor, covering her body with his own. They clung to one another in the darkness.

  Someone grunted nearby. Randal heard the meaty thud as a round struck whomever it was. Sticky warmth made the floor slick, soaking through his fatigues. Selfishly, he hoped it wasn't one of his people.

  He lifted his head for a look and saw they were nearly clear of the campus. From there it was only a short trip to their destination, a skimmer Johnny had prepped several hours before the operation. Their pursuers were receding from view, the speeding truck leaving them far behind. It all looked to be working out nicely.

  When the mine first exploded, Randal wasn't sure what had happened.

  One moment the truck was bouncing across open field, the next it was hurtling uncontrolled through hedges, across the street and through a storefront. The journey bled off much of the truck's momentum, but everyone still ended up in a tangle of limbs at the front of the transport bed.

  No one moved for a time, molded together by the crash into a dazed, unthinking lump. Positioned near the back, Randal and Ariane were among the first to recover and tumble out of the truck. "I'll see to the injured," Ariane said, holding onto the bumper to steady herself. Randal felt a flash of admiration at her presence of mind.

  "I'll check on Johnny."

  Afraid of what he might find, he tore open the crumpled driver's door.

  The pilot lay slumped over the instrument panel. His forehead was one big bruise from the looks of it. Randal had to give him credit though; the controls were still gripped in his fists. After laying Johnny out next to the truck, Randal belatedly remembered to check on their pursuers.