B-spine

by Cam Winstanley

  “But what’s that got to do with water, Earl?”

  “The first time a corporation came to buy my land, they brought a contract and a case of money and I saw them off my land with harsh language,” he says. “Two months later, I caught them drilling test bores and I saw them off with a hunting rifle. Last time they came, they tried to take the compound with a mercwar unit and it took a fifty cal mounted on my son’s station wagon to see them off. How do you think they’re coming next time, Kirsty?”

  “You’re prepared to fight for water rights?”

  “You said as much the other day, it’s always to do with water. You’ve pinned your hopes on your filter fish, I’ve pinned my hopes on my land. When the District supply gets foul, people will come to you. When the foodfuel farm supply gets foul, I expect the companies to come looking for land with water under it. And I’ve got thousands of acres of that.”

  “But even if some of the soldiers stay, even if you’ve got some tanks, you can’t fight a whole corporation. No one can do that.”

  He stares at her for a good while before she realizes why. “Honey,” he says, finally, “that’s just about the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. If I can’t fight a corporation with tanks, why the hell are you going back to Toronto? I know Cold War force-multiplying tactics, I’ve got two ZSU self-propelled anti-aircraft systems as umbrella coverage. What have you got?”

  She pats Scoot and stares at the prairie before looking back at the old man. “A tank commander in a stetson giving advice to a Hub girl thinking she can ride a horse…” she says. “I guess neither of us are in a position to hand out sensible advice, are we?”

  Saturday 15 March

  07:27 am

  BISHOP CAN’T GET back to the Citadel because no one can. Mobilizing men to attack Kirsty and rolling the bear’s tractor trailer units through the Hub had been enough activity to alert Bostov. The long open link road back to the Citadel is blocked already with charred wrecks from command-detonated mines while three airships have been brought down by ground fire. For once, Bishop feels safer in the Hub.

  He travels by utivan to the nearest factory compound, the RESC girl looking shocked and still carrying the SAW she’d fired until it had melted. He asks her name and she says Stein. He tells her she did good and she nods and stares off into the distance and that’s the sum total of their conversation.

  He showers until he can’t taste blood any more then sits in the compounds sub-level comms room listening in on the District-wide sweep for Kirsty Powell and the arrival of the mercwar units. It’s just before midnight when he sees a live visual feed of Crash The Pad’s base suddenly exploding into the night. He nods in approval then sleeps a dreamless, exhausted sleep in the off-shift bunk room.

  When he wakes, it’s to shouting and sirens. RESC Stein is standing over his bunk. “Security breach” she says, simply.

  “Who? Not Crash The Pad still?” He’s still sleepy and unsure where he knows her from. “Where? At the Citadel?”

  “Here,” she says. “District 45, main compound.”

  His head clears. He remembers her. He sits up and listens. “I don’t hear gunfire.”

  “It’s not people,” she says. “It’s dogs.”

  Bishop swings off the bunk and walks into the comms room already buzzing with activity. He hears someone requesting reinforcements from the Citadel – like that’ll help them now. He hears a PD street patrol saying that the street’s quiet and clear. Of course it is – they’re already inside.

  On the main wall screen there’s a building schematic, each floor in plan view. He sees security cameras and guards as colored icons. He sees a red cross by the front entrance.

  Bishop paces to the comms chief sitting at the end of a row of workstations that runs right down the wall. “What’s that?” he asks. The man jumps at his touch, pinpricks of sweat beading on gray skin. “The red cross,” says Bishop, “what’s that?”

  “Man… man down,” stammers the comms chief.

  “Show me visuals.” The comms chief stares at his screen like he’s forgotten how it works. Panic does that to people. Bishops bangs the back of the chair and the man flinches again. “Minicam… entrance… visuals. Can… you… do…?” he shouts.

  “I can.” Bishop looks three bays down. She’s young, low-ranking RESC, plaits sticking out from under her uniform cap. She moves the building schematic to one side of the main screen and brings up the minicam feed. Larger than life, there’s a dead guard slumped against an exterior wall patterned with spurts and bloody palm prints. Pale hands are stiffening around a gaping neck wound.

  “Track-back?” she asks and does it anyway, rewinding until the guard’s still alive and freeze-framing the moment metal teeth sank into him. Bishop sees dogs like he’s never seen before. Six legs and payloads strapped to their chests. He knows he’s in the shit.

  “You’re my new comms chief,” he says, pointing at her. “Who are you?”

  “Peck,” she tells him. “Mandy Peck.”

  “Okay Peck Mandy Peck, you know this building and I don’t. How long to run from here to that red cross?”

  “Four flights of steps, eight sets of doors. Two minutes maybe?”

  Two minutes might be enough to save them all, maybe. He thinks he can do this. “Listen up!” he shouts. “Peck Mandy Peck says we’ve got two minutes to live. A bioweapon strike’s breached the perimeter and in all probability is targeted either at me or this comms center. Either way you’re already fucked, so let’s see if we can’t deal with this. Now who’s scanning internal minicams?”

  The guy next to Mandy: “Here, sir. Llars. I’m tracking a pair of dogs on the first floor.”

  Bishop: “They’re your responsibility, Llars. Vector guards to stop them. Who’s briefed for bioweapons?”

  Girl on the far side: “Rucknow, over here.”

  Bishop: “What can you tell me?”

  Rucknow: “Doberman-based, grafted limbs give them enhanced redundancy so they’ll keep coming even when damaged. You see the payload? They’re an explosives delivery system, no doubt. Gotta be Bostov.”

  Bishop: “What’s guiding them?”

  Rucknow: “Could be a trail – an odor smeared on the floor or a set of visual markers. Or it could be a beacon – a single strong olfactory source or a high-frequency sound emission.”

  Bishop: “Suggested counter measures?”

  Rucknow: “Broadband jamming should intercept detonation kill-codes. And I might be able to tweak the minicam mics to search for high frequencies.”

  Bishop: “What if they’re working off a smell?”

  Rucknow: “Sorry sir. No way of detecting that.”

  Bishop: “Work the sound angle. You two next to Rucknow, work the jamming. Yeah, you, go…”

  “Name’s Batts, sir. There’s a dog in the first floor cafeteria.”

  Bishop: “Heading?”

  Batts: “Nowhere. It’s just sitting there.”

  Bishop: “Shoot it. In the head, not the payload. Peck Mandy Peck – how are we doing?”

  Peck: “A minute from the initial strike. I’ve got all internal doors locked and blast doors are closing. The dogs seem to be avoiding any further physical attacks…”

  A fire alarm wails as red crosses spring up on the schematic. Llars turns. “Just lost visuals in the main corridor, sub-level one. The dogs just burned up when guards machine-gunned them.”

  “Batts here. Got another stationary dog in sub-level one. It’s sitting still right on a meeting table.”

  Bishop: “Keep it contained, shoot if it moves but avoid that payload. Didn’t I already say that? Rucknow, beacons or trails would need someone to lay them down, right?”

  Rucknow: “Yes sir.”

  Bishop: “You. Guy next to Batts…”

  “Macintyre, sir.”

  Bishop: “Punch up visitor logs for the last four weeks. Highlight anything out of the ordinary.”

  Macintyre: “Such as?”

  Bishop:
“Out-of-Hub billing addresses, regular staff reporting sick, unexpected replacement crews, anything. Keep going until you find something.”

  Macintyre: “That might take hours.”

  Bishop: “It might only take seconds, so start looking. Peck Mandy Peck…”

  Peck: “Two minutes ten. Shots fired on sub-levels one and two, targets hit but moving. Man down on sub-level three. Guards in cafeteria confirm an explosive payload but it’s rigged with anti-tamper wires. They’re dragging the dead dog into the walk-in freezer to try and minimize blast.”

  Bishop: “So we’re knocking some down but others are still inbound. Rucknow?”

  “They’re not homing in on a sound source. I’m scanning canine aural bands and there’s nothing.”

  “So they’re following a scent?”

  “That’s my best guess.”

  Bishop: “Batts, we’ve got dogs in the cafeteria, the meeting room and heading for here. What’s the location common denominator?”

  Batts: “Food, maybe?”

  Bishop: “New job – think harder. What’s attracting them? Macintyre?”

  “Running visitor background checks now, sir.”

  “Peck Mandy Peck?”

  “Fire raging in sub-level one. Dog bled out on sub-level two. Guards mauled by another on sub-level three. Noises reported in venting on sub-level four. Sir…?”

  “Yes, Mandy?”

  “That’s this level.”

  “I know it is.”

  Bishop nods to RESC Stein and the pair face the doorway with pistols drawn. “That Fed we hit yesterday, Stein. You know the back story to that?”

  “No sir. We were scrambled to the assault without being given any intel.”

  “Name of Powell,” says Bishop. “She looked like a Fed but was Bostov without a doubt. I think she was told to break deep cover to act as bait. I think Bostov told her to do whatever she could to draw me out of Citadel for a hit like this one.”

  “Guess they want you bad.” Stein raises her sidearm at the doorway.

  He shakes his head. “You know what pisses me off though? That my admin assistant saw it and I didn’t. I missed it completely.”

  “Three minutes.” Mandy calls the time.

  Macintyre turns to Bishop. “Found something. A new utilities subcontractor – Deerford Agribusiness. They only made three deliveries to the compound then missed the next three, so we terminated their contract.”

  “Three minutes thirty,” says Mandy.

  “Got something here!” says Batts. “The dogs are all stopping in rooms containing water coolers.”

  But Batts goes unnoticed because no one’s listening any more. Instead, they’re pushing swivel chairs back and stepping away from the panting dog that limps out of the darkness and stares at the comms room personnel through red-rimmed eyes. Its tongue bounces, ropy saliva dropping carelessly to the polished floor as it hops forward, gingerly holding one grafted leg high so the bullet-smashed paw doesn’t drag.

  The dog confirm Batts’ finding as it limps towards the water cooler in the corner where each stacked replacement bottle bears a Deerford Agribusiness logo. It slumps down exhausted and doesn’t even bother to look up as Bishop gingerly stretches out to put the pistol to its head. There’s a single shot and the lockdog dies resting.

  “Everyone out now,” says Bishop, calmly but firmly, motioning to the door while the room rings to the gun blast. Deep down, he’s grudgingly impressed by the perfection of the water cooler ruse. Bostov using a front company to deliver it to the gate, M4 personnel sowing the seeds of their own destruction by placing the beacon scent deep inside the building. But as Batts and Macintyre and pretty little Mandy Peck take off their headsets and hurry out, he’s annoyed his side hadn’t thought of something so wonderfully simple.

  Llars and Rucknow and Stein leave and Bishop’s the last to turn and run for the stairwell. He makes a dozen footfalls then feels a pure white jolt. It’s a moment of clarity, total confirmation that he should have stuck to his plan and run the whole operation from the safety of the Citadel.

  It’s a moment of intense failure, the stabbing pain that his predecessor Nicky Guerro must have felt as the kid in Texas put a chromed revolver to his head.

  It’s the moment the pressure wave of superheated gasses passes through him, expanding from the lockdog’s explosive harness in an unstoppable bubble that blows through the building at eleven thousand feet a second.

  Wednesday 19 March

  12:14 am

  MONTY COX STANDS on hay bales in Earl Shrieb’s barn and looks down on what’s left of Crash The Pad and, for once, the old man struggles for words. “Couple of days back,” he starts, “Crash The Pad had a hundred and fifty three people in Toronto. Since then, I’ve been waiting for everyone to arrive because I’ve got an announcement that affects you all. Only now…” he swallows hard and sighs. “Only now, I’m thinking this may be it.”

  He looks around slowly. “We’ve got eleven critically wounded here and five buried in the Shrieb family plot and then there’s fifty seven of you here. By that reckoning, we lost nigh on a hundred people breaking out of Toronto…”

  He makes it sound like a tragedy but to anyone in that barn, it seems like a miracle. They all lived through a night so intense, few thought anyone would survive. A night when every mercwar outfit based near the Great Lakes converged on their base, when counting on free hits was no longer an option because they were outnumbered five, six, seven to one. A night when neither the Mercwar Union nor their fancy laminate armor could save them, since Meat4 Power squads were blocking all the roads and executing anyone wearing the Crash The Pad logo, regardless of whether they’d surrendered or not.

  Most in Earl Shrieb’s barn had made it out by Amtrak early in the evening, when Monty had realized that fighting anything but a rear-guard action against such odds was pointless. Off-duty crew who’d tried to fight their way to the base had caught it the worst, caught between opposing mercwar units and Meat4 Power troops happy to wipe them out. And those who’d been holed up in their base… Well, no one had heard from them again. Just before they were overrun, the plan called for them to crawl out through the storm drains after setting timers to napalm charges in the basement. Only opposing mercwar units had made an assault mixed with non-Union Meat4 Power troops and the charges had blown early, throwing blazing debris out of blast ports in the roof and no one had gotten out alive.

  Everyone knows the story of that night by now, more or less. They’ve had a few days to mill around Earl Shrieb’s farm and compare stories. But Monty tells it again and makes sure to mention who got killed when and where, because he needs his crew to know the details. “What’s the point of raking through all this?” he says. “Because today’s important. Today’s decision time.”

  Crash The Pad have been quiet until now. “What’s to decide, Monty?” shouts Shane Cooper. “We retool. We regroup. We re-arm. We fight for the Pad.” A murmur of agreement ripples through the cold barn.

  “But Shane, it ain’t that simple,” says Monty.

  “Sure it is,” says Max Dubois. “You need cash to buy the base back? We’ve all got a month of fat M4 bonuses we don’t need, right guys?” This time there’s a roar of approval as Crash The Pad find their voice. “You need operating costs? We’ll just work for free for a while.”

  Monty stands through a minute or shouting and hollering as everyone sees a way out of their sorry state and roars their enthusiasm but it doesn’t change Monty’s sorrowful expression. He raises his hands and holds them there until the shouting dies down.

  “A little perspective…” he says. “M4 paid out fifty six million dollars in personal bonuses to you. Sure that’s a lot of cash, only MercNet rates the buy-back value of our base at two hundred and fifty million. And that’s not counting refitting or replacing the three APCs that burned up at a cost of four million each…”

  “You got M4 bonuses too, chief,” says Max Dubois.

  “I did,”
he nods. “But I’ve got to meet maybe a hundred sets of bereavement payments. And I’ve got to consider buying a hundred and fifty sets of mercwar armor at a few hundred thousand each…” Monty looks around at downturned, sullen faces.

  “You see why this is decision time?” he says. “Crash The Pad’s current inventory is what we brought with us. That’s thirty six sets of mercwar armor, most of it so badly shot up it’s unusable. That’s twenty eight M-81 rifles with depleted ammo loads and the Union will be wanting those back soon enough. Don’t you see? You fought our opponents to a standstill but the cost was Crash The Pad itself. Even if I could afford to refit – which I can’t – I’m not sure I’d want to. Because right now, we’ve got so many of our guys missing in action that it’s tearing me up inside.”

  No one’s shouting any more. Anyone who’d worked out they were screwed – which is most of them – had been holding onto the hope that maybe Monty had a plan. It’s that dream he’s just shattered.

  “So the first option,” he says, his voice cracking a little, “is that we disband now and everyone lives on the bonuses we all made in Denver. I’m old enough to retire and happy to do so. The rest of you can sign to other outfits if you want.” There aren’t any takers.

  “Option two,” he continues. “My good friend Earl Shrieb sees bad times ahead. He needs strong hands to keep this place together.”

  “We’re fighters, Monty” says Kate Eales, “not cowboys ’n’ girls.”

  “Believe me, Earl’s looking for both. Y’all should consider this one seriously because Earl’s one of the good guys and because I’ve only got one more suggestion.” Again, the barn is silent.