Hammer of Angels

by G T Almasi

  That’s my girl!

  “Fuckin’ outrageous!” It’s Falcon. “Scarlet, was that you?”

  I stalk into the hall on hooves of blazing coals. The mangled soldiers sprawl like smashed mannequins, but they’re still alive. Li’l Bertha begs for more ammo. My hand rams a pack up inside her. She howls and pulverizes the screaming troopers into Meat-Whiz.

  “Scarlet!”

  Black water pours into my eyes, and I go blind. The bawls of the dying troopers and their gushing blood fade away until I can’t hear or feel anything.

  “Scarlet?”

  Mom, Dad, and I sit in a circle. We all wear flowing white robes and leather sandals. My robe smells like damp earth and ancient bones. Mom glares at Dad. “I told you this would happen to her.”

  Dad pours his drink on the floor in the middle of our circle. It burns a hole through the carpet and floorboards. A long tentacle snaps out from the abyss, grabs my dad, and drags him down below. My mom cries out and plunges in after him. Sickening snaps and wails of agony erupt from the depths as their bodies are chewed and crushed. I scream and scream and scream until someone pulls me out of the room—

  —through Brando’s instant door and into the undercroft. My jacket is dripping with blood.

  “Hey, you’re awake!” Brando kneels down to check on me. “You all right?”

  My breath hiccups in shallow gasps, but I see in full color again. My hearing has returned, too. Brando helps me up.

  “Jeez,” he says, “you look terrible.”

  “Gosh—hic—thanks.”

  Falcon and Grey, who have already passed through the undercroft, lug something up the stairs to the church. It’s a blue plastic body bag.

  “Patrick! My dad, is he—”

  “He’s alive, Alix.” Patrick holds my hand. “The bag is the best way to keep him protected. Plus, it stabilizes his IV feed.”

  “How is he breathing through the bag?”

  Brando squints at me like, duh. “I left the bag unzipped over his face.”

  “Oh. Of course, sorry.”

  “The ventilator will work for an hour, but your dad’s really sick, Scarlet. I think he’s going into shock.”

  “How long will he last without a Med-Tech?”

  “Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

  “Is he awake?”

  “No, as soon as he was stable, I gave him a DOSE.”

  We race up the steps and return to the dusky church interior. Falcon and Grey set their burden down behind the altar. Grey checks my father and his bag to make sure everything is in place. Falcon, his rifle slung across his back, runs to the church’s north windows.

  Brando says, “I’ve induced the process that’ll start your dad’s breathing, but in his weakened condition I’m not sure how long it’ll take.”

  Grey walks toward us as he comms, “Linebacker to Coach. We’re ready to get in the game, but we have lousy field position.”

  “Roger that, Linebacker. Stand by for Playbook.” Coach, our Navy mission coordinator, must be a big football fan. All the codes he sent make us sound like fucking Howard Cosell. “Lousy field position” means we’re still in Carentan. Ideally, we would have transported my father out of town—good field position—to maintain our sneakiness quotient. But my dad’s poor condition means we have to cut some corners.

  Outside, a diesel engine roars to life, followed by an ominous mechanical rumble. Shouted orders ring from the dark streets around the church.

  Falcon backs away from the window. “GUYS! Watch out—”

  A storm of gunfire hammers through the windows. Breaking glass and zinging bullets fill the air and chop into the walls, benches, tapestries, and statues. They also arrow through the negative spaces we each leave behind as we hit the floor like cats falling off a table.

  Grey comms, “Scarlet, Falcon, return fire! Darwin, on me!” Grey propels himself across the floor in a fast infantryman’s crawl. Brando follows close behind.

  I dose Madrenaline until my toes tingle and then roll toward Falcon’s position. I clench my eyes shut against the flying splinters and chips of stone until I bump into the wall. Falcon’s fist clutches his sidearm, and his eyes are as big as baseballs.

  I call to him, “Get a spud ready,” as I prep one of the pineapple grenades Jacques gave us. Falcon fishes around in his jacket pocket and produces a German potato masher. He primes it and chucks it through the nearest window as I toss my pineapple outside.

  A man’s voice squeals something before it’s drowned out by one of the grenades going off. A second later, the other one explodes. I stick my pistol out the window. Li’l Bertha’s infrared shows me we’re surrounded by competitors, so I authorize her to automatically shoot everyone. My gun knows she only receives full fire control when I’m really in the shit, so she loads up her craziest ammo without even asking.

  Her whirling gyroscopes snap my hand from target to target. The best part about .50-caliber Explosive bullets is that every hit is a kill shot. Three SZ dummies disappear in shrieking clouds of meat chunklets. Then three more. Body parts sail across the pitiless sky like glow-in-the-dark slabs of beef.

  Falcon is so stunned by what happens to these hosers that he can only stare at Li’l Bertha with his trap half open.

  “C’mon, F-Bird.” I replace my pistol’s ammo pack. “Pass the Lord, praise the ammo, and let’s check the south side.”

  Brando is behind the altar, huddled over my father. He’s comming with our Navy pals, but the gunfire is so loud that I can’t hear what they’re saying. Grey joins me at the southern windows.

  Falcon, Grey tells us, using field signals to communicate, I want you and your rifle in the spire.

  F-Bird nods and dashes up the stairs of the central tower. Grey and I tuck ourselves behind a heavy pillar between a pair of blown-out windows. Heavy incoming suppression fire keeps us tightly pressed into our cover.

  A shadow moves behind Grey. Two black leather boots thump onto the floor. An SZ trooper has jumped through the window to flush us out! I point and fire Li’l Bertha at the intruder as Grey jabs his pistol past my head and looses a short burst at another attacker behind me. We both wince as the reports from our pistols pummel each other’s eardrums. The two soldiers crumble to the glass-strewn floor.

  “Okay, I’m on station,” comms Falcon. “They seem to be hanging back—oh, wait. I see.”

  “What?”

  I can almost hear Falcon gulp. “They’ve brought a tank.”

  Shit. That’s what the deep rumbling sound has been.

  “Darwin,” I comm, “where’s that duster?”

  Brando answers, “Playbook can’t land until we take out that armor.”

  “F-Bird, watch the tank and tell me if this does anything.” Staying low, I stick Li’l Bertha out the window. Her optics feed into my Eyes-Up display so I can aim her at the metal menace outside. I bang a few Explosive 50s at the thing.

  I zip my pistol back inside as the panzer’s machine gunner responds with a rattling shower of bullets that pound into the windowsill above my head. Bits of broken stonework rip hot slashes across my scalp.

  “Did that do anything?” I comm.

  “Not really,” Falcon replies. “You made some scrapes in the paint and shot out one of the lights.”

  Grey’s brow creases as he considers our next move. A bug-eyed girl dressed in a petite SZ uniform appears next to him. She holds her chin in her hand like the statue of that thinking guy. She pretends to be nodding along with Grey’s thought process. Then she snaps her fingers and disappears. A splinter of ice claws at my heart.

  Grey gives me a hard look. “Scarlet, stay with me, okay?” He can tell I zoned out just now. “I have an idea, but I need your help.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sure you’re operational?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  Grey switches to the team channel. “Falcon, cover us. We’re going after that armor. Darwin, stay with Big Bertha. Scarlet, follow me.�
� Grey leaps out the window. Then he activates his cloaking Mods and disappears.

  “Grey, I can’t see you. Where are you going?”

  “Meet me under the panzer!”

  I freshen my Madrenaline and bounce outside. Despite our desperate situation, I can’t help laughing about the crazy shit we Levels say to each other.

  45

  SAME EVENING, 9:23 P.M. CET

  CARENTAN, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  I race outside after Grey, rush at the tank, and slide under it like I’m stealing second base. Grey is already there. He rubs his hands around the bottom of the vehicle until he finds what he’s searching for.

  “Here! Red, rip this panel off.”

  Of course! It’s the escape hatch. Grey needs my help because part of what makes him so fast is that he isn’t weighed down with strength Mods. I feel around the metal door’s edge. The fingers on my synthetic right hand act as a wedge and pry one side open an inch. I stuff all my fingers into the gap and wrench the hatch door off its mount. Dim blue light glows from inside the armored menace.

  “Nice!” Grey calls. “Back inside with you. I’ll be right there.”

  I crawl out from under the panzer and crouch behind it. Screams resound from inside the heavy vehicle. I wait for a moment to make sure my fellow Level is okay. Falcon’s rifle bullets zing around us and keep the SZ infantry under cover. The access hatch on top of the tank flips open. Grey jumps out.

  He sees me, hollers, “RUN!” and charges toward the Cupcake.

  It’s gonna blow! I sprint after him. Grey dives through a blown-out window and lands inside on his feet. I’m in midflight through the same window when the SZ tank goes up like a steel geyser. The blast wave throws me off balance, and instead of landing next to Grey, I plow into him. We clatter to the floor in a heap.

  “Grey, how about a little fucking warning next time?”

  “How about you do what I fucking tell you to?”

  My partner interrupts us. “Sir, the helicopter?”

  Grey glares at me as he comms, “Falcon! How we looking, kid?”

  Falcon answers, “The tank is toast, and we’ve killed or disabled the infantry. But there are three military trucks coming from the next town over. I think it’s now or never for that dust-off.”

  “Roger that.” He switches channels. “Linebacker to Playbook. LZ is clear, and subject is ready for extraction.”

  A man’s voice with a southern twang responds, “Roger that, Linebacker. Playbook on approach, following your comm-signal.”

  I dash to Brando’s hiding place behind the altar. My partner has a nasty head injury. A streak of blood courses from his scalp, around his ear, and down his neck, where it soaks into his collar. When I notice it, he shakes me off.

  “Later,” he says.

  The two of us hoist Dad onto our shoulders and carry him toward the side exit. Brando is limping. Grey joins us and holds the door open. A loud bang resounds from the stairs down to the undercroft.

  “Heh,” grunts Brando. “Got ’em.”

  “That was a mine?”

  “Yeah. I set it in case anyone tried to sneak in through the cellar.”

  We lurch outside while Grey covers us. An unmarked black helicopter floats over the rooftops and quickly swoops toward the street in front of the Cupcake.

  “Shit!” Falcon comms from above. “I see a soldier—no, two—with a rocket launcher!”

  “Where?”

  He doesn’t answer. The three of us all look up as Falcon takes a running jump and flings himself off the church spire. The kid has lost his fucking mind! He sails over the spinning helicopter blades toward the far side of the street. F-Bird keeps his rifle’s stock pressed into his shoulder and unloads six shots so fast that it sounds like an automatic weapon.

  “Falcon!” I scream.

  He soars out of our line of sight, but the pilots see the whole thing, and since their comms are open, we hear their reactions.

  “Rocket launcher! Two Krauts with—”

  “Oh, my God, where’d that guy—”

  “Wait, they’re down.”

  “—come from?”

  They both yell, “Oh!”

  “Did he—”

  “Holy shit!”

  “—go through the roof of that house?”

  We look at each other, astounded. My mouth goes dry. “Grey,” I rasp, “you wanna go get him? Darwin and I can take care of this.”

  The color has drained out of Grey’s face. “Y-yeah. Okay, I’ll be right back.” He ducks under the descending chopper and runs to the house Falcon crashed into.

  The helicopter finally touches down. Smoke from our firefight swirls through its rotor wash. Brando and I lug our precious bundle forward as the chopper’s big side door slides open. Three Med-Techs reach out and guide their patient inside the evac. The helicopter’s interior is crammed with medical equipment, pressurized bottles, and electrical gear. There’s so much stuff in there, I’m surprised the Med-Techs fit.

  The Meddies gently deposit my dad on a low gurney mounted to the floor and zip open his blue body bag. Two of them hurriedly flip switches, twist valves, and connect tubes while the third Med-Tech slams the helicopter’s door shut. My partner hustles to the front and gives a thumbs-up sign. The pilots gun the engine and lift off. Their downdraft dumps my butt on the pavement.

  Big Bertha rises into the starry Norman night.

  I sit on the cobblestones, struggling to breathe around the end of the last nine years of my life. All my sweat has evaporated, and I’m desperately thirsty. Brando bustles over and helps me up. I wrap my arms around him and press my face against his chest. His jacket muffles my gasping sobs.

  “You did it, Alix.” Patrick strokes my hair. “You saved him.”

  Mommy?

  Yes, angel?

  “C’mon, Scarlet. We’ve gotta go.”

  When is Daddy coming home?

  My partner guides me to the car.

  Soon, baby. Soon.

  46

  NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, MARCH 12, 5:50 A.M. CET

  CHERBOURG, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  Saint Peter’s Heavenly Barge whispers through the early dawn gloom. The car’s lights are off, but my night vision reveals the deserted, neglected little road and the close-passing French countryside. I slouch behind the wheel. Dried blood in my hair crunches against the headrest. Earlier, Brando wrapped an entire roll of bandaging around my head to protect my lacerated scalp. I don’t even remember what hit me. Eventually the first-aid turban stopped soaking up Alix juice, so I took it off. But physical injuries are the least of my problems.

  I’m a fucking mess. My hallucinations and shaking hands are pretty bad, but I can handle those with my neuroinjector. However, even I don’t think it’s a good idea to pull missions if I’m passing out in the middle of them.

  Grey is required to report my fainting spells, but both he and Brando assured me that after dumping a jillion bucks into my development, the last thing ExOps wants to do is park my butt in some human resources hellhole. Of course, before any of this becomes relevant, we have to get home.

  “Are we there yet?” I grumble, even though I’m the one driving.

  “Not long now,” Brando responds from the seat next to me. My partner wears a bandage on the side of his head and has gingerly propped his injured left leg on the dashboard to keep it from swelling. He took a nasty hit when a statue’s severed arm flew across the church and landed on his calf.

  I glance at Grey in the rearview mirror. “How’s F-Bird?”

  “He’s asleep, finally.” Grey yawns. “I think his leg was keeping him awake.”

  I tilt my head from side to side to stretch my neck. “Lucky little fucker.”

  The kid’s stunt, which we’ve already dubbed the Outrageous Flight of the Falcon, eliminated two moving targets from what can only be described as a treacherously unstable firing position. Jumping over a helicopter. My God! It was the most incredible combat sniping
move any of us have ever seen.

  It also left a Falcon-size hole in the ceiling of someone’s unoccupied bedroom. The residents had all retreated to the cellar to hide from our ear-splitting firefight. F-Bird’s body crashed onto their bed and cracked the frame in half. He doesn’t have as deep a Madrenaline reservoir as I do, but he was hopped up enough to survive his rough landing with only a broken leg and a dense patchwork of bruises. He’s so black and blue that he reminds me of one of those circus freaks with a million tattoos all over them.

  But, he isn’t dead, which is the important thing. As he flew across the night sky, I was struck by how much I like having him as a sort of brother. While we carried Falcon to the Barge, I told him he was crazy.

  Between shallow, painful breaths Falcon murmured, “I couldn’t let them kill Big Bertha.”

  “F-Bird, you idiot, you could have been killed yourself!”

  “Yeah, uh-huh.” He grimaced. “Look who’s talking.”

  “That’s different. He’s my father.”

  As we loaded him into the car’s backseat, Falcon grasped my hand and said, “He’s my father, too, Scarlet.”

  A window flew open in my mind. Through it, I could see Falcon hasn’t had much of a life. Labs, training, tests, and blessedly unsuccessful brainwashing. The thing that stuck out most to me was a single word: lonely.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He is, Falcon.”

  We dragged ourselves into the Cadillac and lit out. After escaping from the area, we hunkered down for the night in a large pasture. The Barge spent the evening indignantly hidden under a fat haystack. Early this morning we received our exit orders: get to Cherbourg, get on a boat, and get out of Europe.

  Those orders were soon updated with a big piece of news. The chancellor accepted the President’s offer. For the sake of restoring order as soon as possible, he immediately initiated the Reich’s expulsion of its Jewish population. The far right’s response began that same hour.

  Elements of the Purity League and other proslavery groups attacked the Reichstag in Berlin. They also assaulted the trains and buses bringing the former slaves to the ports. They’ve even raided some of the transport ships.