by G T Almasi
My vision clears. “All right, boys,” I say with more vigor than I feel. “Let’s flush out the rest of this shithole.”
Raj gently shakes his head, but comms on the team channel, “Tiger—south-side basement is secure. Can we assist you?”
“Negative, Raj. The north side is swept,” Tiger responds. “How are your hostages?”
“We lost some of them, sir.”
“How many?”
Raj meets Darwin’s eyes. Our big man raises an eyebrow as if to say, Your turn.
“Sir,” Darwin comms, “we lost about thirteen captives.”
“Thirteen?” Tiger replies. “One-three?”
Darwin grits his teeth together. “Yes, sir.”
“How the fuck did you let—” Tiger gathers himself. “Never mind—for now. All of you, rendezvous upstairs in the entrance hall!”
“Yes, sir.” Raj comms off, then says, “Darwin, wash off your partner before the others see her like that.”
“Right.” Patrick leads me to one of the large aluminum sinks. I hold my head under the spigot while Brando rinses my hair and face. Dark-red water swirls past my nose then into the drain.
“Gah!” I cry. “That’s fuckin’ cold! Warm the shit up a little, will ya?” While Darwin adjusts the water’s temperature, I continue spluttering and swearing.
Through the splashes I hear Raj’s low voice. “Well, she sounds better, at least.”
53
FOUR MINUTES LATER, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 3:16 P.M. CEST
THE REICHSTAG, BERLIN
“Let’s move it, people,” Tiger comms. “Scarlet, hurry the fuck up!”
Tiger is really upset about my baker’s dozen dead politicians, as am I. It’s one of the biggest screwups of my career. His cursing at me is perhaps uncalled for, but the big beast outranks me by eight Levels.
I simply comm, “Yessir.”
The giant Vindicator sends the surviving hostages—ninety from King’s side plus seventy-seven from mine—out the Reichstag’s front entrance to the Loyalist troops outside. Escorting them are Jade and Patrick. Tiger assigns King and Raj the task of mopping up whatever’s left of the interior defenses.
“You,” Tiger growls. He points a sausage-sized finger at me. “Follow.” Without another word he jounces toward the center of the building. I give Brando a parting glance, then run after Tiger the Grouch.
Tiger and I enter the Reichstag’s main meeting room. An expansive semicircle of chairs with little desks face a stage dominated by a row of tall leather thrones centered on a high lectern. Behind the thrones is a huge wooden eagle, scowling at the room. Dozens of dead soldiers with black armbands lie scattered around the room. A few have fallen flat on their backs in the main aisle, half a dozen are broken backward over chairs, while four sprawl on the stairs to the speaker’s platform.
Tiger bounds up these steps three at a time. I follow. We come upon a long row of slain suits. More dead politicos, crumpled against the rear wall. They’ve been shot in the backs of their heads.
I comm to Tiger, “Did we do this?”
“No, of course we didn’t fucking do this!” He leads me through a door into a sort of backstage lobby with twin staircases that span the height of the building. “Wolf had his lieutenants murder the cabinet members before personally taking Chancellor Honecker hostage. One of our snipers has eyes on Wolf right now, but he needs a closer look to make sure he hits Wolf and not Honecker.”
Our feet pound up the thick stone stairs. “Is that Falcon, sir?”
“Yes. He’s still on the dome.”
Kid must be freezing up there.
We zing past the top floor to emerge on the Reichstag’s roof. Above, the Great Dome solemnly bears witness as the battle of Berlin rages below. My ears are buffeted from all sides by a thunderous mélange of booming artillery, soaring aircraft, rattling small-arms fire, bellowed orders, shouts of rage, and cries of pain.
Centered in the Reichstag’s roof is the famous glass dome. The heavily decorated cake topper retains its Victorian Age styling, even though weapons fire has broken many of the windows. The remaining panes glint from bright gun flashes and reflect a flipped-around mosaic of the mountainous Volkshalle.
We’re at the rear side of the Reichstag. The building’s glass-covered vault shimmers between us and Unter den Linden, where we fought our way in.
“Falcon,” I comm. “You there?”
“I’m here, Scarlet,” his comm-voice says. “That you on top of the Reichstag?”
Tiger cuts in, “Affirmative, Falcon. Where are Wolf and Honecker?”
“Still on the roof, sir. Front of the building, near the outermost flagpole.”
“Do you have a shot?”
“Negative, sir, Wolf is moving around too much. The shot’s flight time is too long for me to know I’ll hit him and not his hostage.”
My eyes squint at the top of the Great Dome. Even with my vision at full magnification, I can barely see my sort-of half brother up there. At the tiny figure’s side something is wiggling.
I switch to Falcon’s private comm-channel. “F-Bird, are you waving at me?”
He comms, “Yep!”
Despite how dorky it feels, I wave at the dome’s peak. Mount Ego has a few holes in it—from artillery, presumably. One puncture, halfway to the top, has spawned a spiderweb of cracks and fissures.
Tiger glowers at me for playing peek-a-boo in the middle of a war zone. “Scarlet,” he comms. “Keep watch on the stairs. I’ll advance on Wolf to separate him from the chancellor.”
I open my mouth to protest. That kind of job is what Infiltrators like me are built for. Tiger narrows his eyes and scowls even more deeply at me.
Yapper.
Shut.
“Yes, sir,” I comm.
The hulking Vindicator unslings Medusa then proceeds to circle the mansion-sized skylight.
“Falcon,” I comm. “Be aware, Tiger is approaching the target.”
“I see him,” Falcon comms.
A sudden whirlwind of muzzle flashes catches my eye. It’s north of the Volkshalle—in and around the man-made lake called the Grand Basin. The water has been drained out of the rectangular pool. Neatly arranged in the bottom is a battery of four long-toothed anti-aircraft guns. Soldiers near the heavy pieces trade small-arms fire with a company of troopers stationed between the basin and the Nordbahnhof, the northern train station. The distance is too great for me to tell who’s fighting whom.
Two of the guns swing around to face this way. Their simultaneous volley illuminates the floor of the basin bright as day for a split second. Twin explosions erupt from the Great Dome’s far side.
“Shit!” It’s Falcon. “They’re shelling the dome.”
Wolf. The motherfucker knows Falcon is up there waiting to plug him. The desperate bastard wants to retain his last bargaining chip as long as possible.
The big hole with the cracks begins to crumble from the inside out. Monstrous slabs of concrete drop into the Volkshalle, exposing the Great Dome’s interior.
“Sh-i-it,” Falcon repeats. “Scarlet, I need that shot.”
“Where’s Tiger?”
“He’s fighting Wolf’s bodyguards.”
That shouldn’t take long.
The artillery in the basin blasts another salvo into the Great Dome. At least a tenth of the structure’s skin has fallen away. Another pair of flashes light up the basin. The shots continue to dissolve the dome’s surface.
“Tiger, Falcon is in jeopardy,” I comm. “Can I assist?”
“Affirmative,” Tiger answers. “Wolf’s position is heavily defended. Engage as you see fit.”
“Falcon, on me!” I patch him into my WhackNet, jump at the ornate skylight, then scale the gilt-covered frame. My arms and legs scrabble to the top. Beyond th
e crown is Wolf’s roughly shaped defensive position, defined by broken masonry, heavy doors, and heaped furniture. Squads of Gestapo douchebags line the inner perimeter. The lardasses to my left try to fend off Tiger with a fusillade of suppression fire. Directly ahead, a perspiring madman with a pistol holds a petrified geezer in front of him. I don’t need a scorecard to know it’s Wolf holding Honecker. The Gestapo scuts to my right alertly keeping an eye to the other side of the roof, ready for a pincers move. From the flanks, the position is nearly impregnable.
From above, however, it’s as open as a baby’s playpen. I unsheathe my pistols then take a running leap off the top of the glass-encrusted party hat. I squeeze Punx’s trigger. She fires a row of flesh-slashing depleted uranium disks at the right-side defenders. The nearest group of them drop like leaves in a hurricane while the rest look around to see who the heck is shooting at them.
Tiger’s stalled advance has all of Wolf’s attention, so the sum-bitch never sees me coming. I land directly between Wolf and Honecker then shove them apart. The chancellor stumbles forward, then falls on his hands and knees. Wolf performs a back-roll to quickly regain his feet. Li’l Bertha points herself at him as I scrunch myself into a low squat.
“Now, Falcon!”
Three shots leave three weapons. Wolf’s silver pistol bangs a 9mm bullet at my stomach, Li’l Bertha fires a .45-caliber slug at Wolf’s center mass, and my WhackNet connection to Falcon registers a round leaving his ROKES rifle. I vault over Wolf’s bullet, which passes between my calves then pangs into the roof near the chancellor. Li’l Bertha’s shot rips into Wolf’s leg seconds before a .50-caliber rocket slams into his head and carries away everything from his forehead to his jaw. The sudden impact sprays the man’s teeth into air like sweat off a prizefighter.
“Oh my God, Falcon!” My degrading vision Mod drops to black-and-white so I only witness the grisly final moment of Protocol 8 in high-contrast monochrome.
“Did I get him?”
The faceless apparition is so terrible I can’t answer. Wolf’s gray body collapses to the roof—gushing black liquid all over itself. White bits of cracked skull form a grisly halo around the Gestapo leader. Some of the ivory shards still have dark hair sticking out of them.
Finally I comm, “Yeah. You got ’im. Have a look.” I aim my pistol at the mess on the deck.
“Urgh! Outrageous.”
I look to the Great Dome’s summit. It’s still falling apart. “F-Bird, get outta there.”
“I’m on my way down. You’ve still got a few—”
I catch movement from my right. Li’l Bertha swings to my side to gun down the last of the Gestapo fruitcakes.
“Oh,” Falcon finishes his thought. “Never mind.”
My murderous entrance distracted the left-side guards enough for Tiger to rush forward and roast them all to a crisp with Medusa’s flamethrower. The stench, now that I notice it, is incredibly nauseating. Fortunately I haven’t eaten in forever. I only throw up in my mouth a little, then I’m fine.
Not so, the chancellor. Honecker crawls on all fours while violently tossing his cookies. There’s enough puke around him to sculpt a medium-sized dog.
Jeez, this needledick eats a lot of cabbage.
Tiger walks past his burning victims to help Chancellor Blowchunker stand up. Half-digested food dribbles across Honecker’s colorless chin while his beady eyes shine with the glossy sheen of impending shock.
I hold Honecker’s arm and gesture with my free hand to indicate our beautiful surroundings.
“Ein weiterer Tag im Paradies,” I say. Another day in Paradise.
—DARE: HIGHLORD—
2 OCT 1981
New York Times
EUROPEAN CIVIL WAR ENDS
Berlin liberated by Loyalist forces. Greater German Provinces regain sovereignty. Europe will revert to 1939 borders.
BERLIN—Over one hundred thousand Loyalist troops swept into Berlin last night and snuffed out the last elements of Gestapo chief Markus Wolf’s rebellion. Wolf himself was killed making a stand on top of the Reichstag. Chancellor Honecker is rumored to have played a part in Wolf’s termination, but the chancellor has not yet had time to speak with the press…
54
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2, 8:55 P.M. CEST
MEHRINGPLATZ, BERLIN, GREATER GERMANY
Dr. Herodotus leans into my field of vision. He holds one of those eye-examining instruments with an intensely bright light that beams into my pupil and gives me an instant migraine. I squint and move my head away.
“Sit still, Scarlet.”
“It hurts, Doc.”
“I know it does.” He switches to my other eye.
I pretend I’m being interrogated by pirates. No way do I tell them where the treasure is buried. Dr. H mumbles some notes into his commphone. All I catch is, “complete replacement.”
He’s already given my exterior a thorough exam, during which he identified a dozen places I need stitches, many of them on my head. Dr. H plugs one of his pinging machines into my dataport. The machine’s display scrolls a tall column of diagnostic information about my Mods and Enhances. All of my systems read, “Limits Exceeded.” My Overkaine reservoir notes the possibility of a leak in my neuroinjector because—golly—there’s no way anyone could burn through that much painkiller in one month.
The doctor mulls over my results. “Scarlet,” he says, “you need to be detoxified.”
“How long will that take?”
He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Much longer than I’ll get approval for.” Dr. H turns off the analysis machine then unplugs the lead from my hip. “But in your present condition, I can’t return you to fieldwork.”
I hop off the examination table and pull on my underwear. “What can you return me to?”
“Admin.”
“You mean filing and crap?”
“Your mother doesn’t seem to mind it.”
“She doesn’t do filing, Doc.” Pants. Sneakers. “She makes her floyds do it.”
“Whatever. Look, Scarlet, you’re a mess. If I had my way, I’d retire you.”
I freeze in the middle of lacing up my new Keds. “But,” I say slowly, “you won’t have your way, will you?”
“No, I won’t.” He plops into a little chair next to the exam table. “You represent a massive investment, and the people who paid for you will get their money’s worth, no matter what.”
“Damn, Doc. Since when are you such a party pooper?”
Dr. H leans forward. “I’m sorry, Alix.” He runs his fingers through his hair, which is thinner than I remember. “Leaving D.C. so abruptly, the boat, then the mad run south to Berlin. Maybe it’s taken more out of me than I thought.”
I slip into my bra, pull on my shirt, then sit on the table again. “How do my injuries compare with what you’ve seen on the other Levels?”
“Yours are extensive,” he says, “but they aren’t going to kill you.”
I think about Pericles and Krysta. “How many people did we lose?”
Dr. H has the numbers at his fingertips. “Ten percent dead, another ten percent permanently disabled, and about half of our remaining field assets require significant restoration.”
Now I think about Doska. Two artificial grabbers will have some positives, I guess, but if I only ever need one synthetic extremity, that’s just fine.
“How about me?”
“All of your joints need to be rebuilt. Your optics are ruined and have to be replaced; I’m surprised you can see at all. As for your chems—” He takes a moment to look me over. “—well, you’re using too many.”
“That’s not so bad, is it?”
“Those are the things we can fix. But you’ve experienced profound emotional and mental trauma. Your stress symptoms are the worst I’ve ever seen.”
<
br /> I wave my hand. “Bah.”
He continues remorselessly. “You’ve also suffered multiple concussions, any of which could lead to brain damage. All of your internal organs have been severely bruised. I almost don’t want to know how—”
“I jumped off a hundred-and-thirty-foot building.”
He blinks. “Why?”
“It was exploding.”
“How did you survive the fall?”
“I landed on a fat dude.” I scoot off the table. “Look, Doc, don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine.” I pat his shoulder. “Hey, I know. I’m your last patient tonight, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, c’mon, Patrick knows a good place for drinks.”
He frowns at me. “Scarlet, have you heard a single word I’ve said? Do you really think I’ll allow you to—”
“Oh, don’t worry Doc. I’ve got a whole month’s pay coming to me. I can totally afford to buy you thirty beers.”
The doctor stands still. I grab his arm then lead him down the hall to the elevator.
He doesn’t make it to thirty, but sometime after three liters I find out Dr. Herodotus has quite a good singing voice.
55
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 8:55 A.M. CEST
PRATERGARTEN, KASTANIENALLEE, BERLIN
Cleo leans back from her plate to light a cigarette. She blows a mouthful of smoke away from the table, then asks me, “How was your visit with Dr. Herodotus?”
“Goobf.” I swallow some of the scrambled eggs I’m eating. “He’s scheduled repairs for my Mods and assigned me light duty to give my Nerve Jet a rest.”
Mom intently studies the fresh bandages on my head, neck, and arms. She can look up my medical records anytime. Mom knows I know this, and so it’s a good bet I’m not bullshitting her. She turns to the rest of the table. “How about you boys?”
Patrick passes the coffeepot to Falcon. While Falcon refills his cup, he says, “I sprained an ankle sliding off the dome. It also gave me a friction burn on my a—” He glances at Cleo. “Uh, I mean my backside.”