Redemption-After Earth

by Robert Greenberger

  Peering through the doorway, Kincaid was surprised to see the person was an old man, seemingly unharmed by the conflagration. He was wandering in circles, as if he was searching for something, looking increasingly confused. Kincaid took one step into the room, and the old man finally noticed him.

  “Have you seen my reader?” he asked Kincaid.

  “Sir, are you all right?” he asked the man, who looked anything but all right.

  “Absolutely,” the man said distractedly as he opened a drawer. “Thank you for asking.”

  “You do know this building is on fire? It’s unsafe, and you should come with me.”

  The man paused in his search and looked at Kincaid as if for the first time. Studying him from head to toe, the old man gaped. “What are you?”

  “Civilian Defense Corps, sir. I’m searching for survivors, and you look like one.”

  “Survivors of what? Are the Skrel attacking?” He was clearly addled, perhaps even mentally ill.

  “Not the Skrel; a fire. I need to get you out of the building.”

  “I need my reader; I have to finish my book before class,” the man complained. Kincaid realized his argument was not getting through to the poor man. He still wondered how he was totally unscathed by the fire, but that was a mystery for another time. The one wall crumbling made him feel as if he were inside a ticking bomb. He stepped forward decisively, grabbed the man’s left wrist, and hefted him into the air and across his shoulders in the traditional fireman’s carry. He tested the added weight and the floor held, and so he took one step and then another to make certain they could escape. The moment the old man was across his shoulders, he became remarkably placid, like a kitten slumping when its mother carried it by the nape.

  “McGirk, I have a survivor. An elderly man, physically unharmed. We’re coming down from the fifth floor.”

  “Acknowledged. Medical corps will be standing by. Stay safe, kid.”

  “No kidding.”

  The old man stayed quiet as Kincaid made his way slowly down the steps until finally, several agonizingly long minutes later, he emerged from the building. Two members of the medical team ran to him and eased him from Kincaid’s shoulders to a stretcher, where he was quickly checked over.

  Kincaid ripped off the mask and breathed in air that smelled of smoke.

  “Nice work, kid,” McGirk said as he walked over. “What’s his story?”

  “No idea,” Kincaid admitted. “Don’t know and frankly don’t care. The guy needs some help, and I’m too sore and tired to really think about it.”

  “You’re done. They got the fire under control, and the firefighters can check out the rest of the place. When are you next on?”

  Anderson thought a moment and answered, “Second shift.”

  “Get some sleep and come in late. Marquez can keep the peace until you show up.”

  “Nice work, Anderson,” she said, giving him a hug that lingered a bit longer than normal. He pretended he didn’t notice and thanked her.

  Collapsing into bed back at his apartment, Kincaid thought that this was why he had signed up: to protect the people, to use his body in productive ways. It was a good way to live.

  * * *

  The following day, he reported for work and was heartily congratulated and razzed by the others for his heroism. He shrugged it off in the locker room but inwardly felt very proud of upholding the Ranger ideals even if he was still a corpsman.

  On the street with Marquez, though, he felt he could really express those feelings. They’d been growing increasingly comfortable with each other, a true bond forming between them. Today he noticed she had done her hair a different way.

  “I like it down like that even though it’s not regulation,” he said.

  “Thanks, but there are few hair regulations. You keep thinking we live by the Ranger code, but we don’t. We are looser and have far more fun.”

  “Just what do you do for fun?”

  “Long-distance hiking. I really like getting out on the Falkor Desert, seeing what’s out there.”

  “You walk far enough, you’ll get to New Earth City,” Kincaid said.

  “No, I go looking for reptiles. I’m a secret herp.”

  “Herp?”

  “Herpetological, silly. Reptiles, snakes and things.”

  “Really? That sounds really … different.”

  “Says someone who has clearly never handled a snake,” she said. “Look, come over after shifting and I’ll let you have a feel.”

  She was blushing as she said that, but he was certainly interested enough to accept her invitation.

  It was a good way to live. Then why didn’t it feel like it? Anderson had grown comfortable with his life, and the year 997 AE had been a particularly satisfying one for him so far. He had the corps, he had friends, and his apartment was taking on his personality. Kayla was old enough to no longer be annoying but a loving sister and good friend. His parents continued to ask about a spouse, and his mother—still the city’s head physician—asked about grandchildren to occupy her during her impending retirement. But he was not interested. Not yet, anyway. He was twenty, in his physical prime, and creating new generations of Kincaids could wait.

  Over the last few weeks he and Marquez let things take their natural course, and a romance was developing. She introduced him to her snake, Merlin, then let him feel the reptile’s skin and compare it with her own far hotter flesh.

  Since that torrid night, the two were seeing each other both on shift and off duty. Now both were getting teased by the others, but all approved, even Alpuente, who seemed to have first dibs on Kincaid.

  It wasn’t all Nirvana, though. He felt a great deal of affection for her, but it was clearly secondary to his mission, and that caused problems. The previous night, he had stayed at her place, and after they had made love for the second time in a few hours, she straddled him, her hair tickling his nose.

  “Do you always do everything with military precision?”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. To be honest, you’re the finest lover I’ve had. You’re definitely a keeper, Andy.”

  He frowned at her. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

  She shook her head, but her eyes were no longer merry. “You are technically proficient, even creative, but you never feel fully committed to this … to us.”

  He propped himself up on his elbows and stared into her eyes. Was she trying to break things off? She had just said he was a keeper, so what was happening?

  “Andy, you have yet to let go of your dream. You’ve told me about being denied entrance to the Rangers, and I get how soul-crushing that must have been. But you have a good life, a good career. You have me. But that isn’t enough, is it?”

  Anderson Kincaid had no proper response to that question.

  Instead, he slid out from under her and hurriedly dressed, returning home to his place and his thoughts.

  * * *

  He was on second shift the following day, walking toward the huge outdoor market. Fresh produce and crops had been brought in hours earlier, and the place was teeming with people haggling, bargaining, and gossiping. In other words, another typical day in another typical week, and Kincaid was okay with that. He and Marquez could walk in comfortable silence and just soak in the local ambience.

  As he pondered a choice between green and leafy or juicy and succulent for his dinner, their radios crackled to life.

  “All corps, this is a priority alert. Ursa have been sighted in the city. Rangers are in pursuit, but we need to begin clearing the streets. The siren is about to go off, so be prepared for a panic.”

  Marquez thumbed a button that acknowledged the alert and quickened her pace toward the market. “That place is a zoo under normal conditions; this is not going to be easy,” she said. “What was it you said awhile back? Only a handful left from the last attack?”

  “A few, but we have no clue if they breed or not,” he said,
matching her pace.

  “I’m voting for not,” she said, and her next words were cut off by the siren coming to life. It was long and loud and had the desired effect of catching everyone’s attention. From the speakers nestled within various structures, a recorded voice announced, “This is not a drill. All citizens are instructed to remain inside or report to the nearest shelter.”

  Marquez understood the populace, and sure enough, people were moving in anything but an orderly manner. Some ran, some scooped up purchases, some continued to bargain. Awnings began collapsing, and goods for sale were being sealed in containers. People screamed in panic or shouted for loved ones. Everyone moved. Movement was good; all the corpsmen had to do was steer them to shelter.

  Kincaid thought about the Ranger response. This was what they prepared themselves for and what each one dreamed about: killing an Ursa and claiming a prize, having a story to tell, or being part of a legend. He longed once more to be fighting alongside them but knew that was never going to happen. Instead, he would have to herd the people and keep the streets clear so that the Rangers could do their jobs.

  Although it was not part of corps protocol, Kincaid maintained his own weapons training, making certain he could fire a pulser with either hand and be certain his target would fall dead. He was adept with various bladed weapons and had even dabbled in archery to perfect his eye-hand coordination. Aiming had to be precise, as it might mean the difference between life and death. In the case of the Ursa, it meant hitting their meat and not the smart metal that was bonded to their skeletons to give them a layer of protection. They were unearthly, hideous creatures, and in his mind’s eye he replayed the one that had nearly killed him almost two decades earlier.

  A Ranger had died to save his life, and he owed a debt for her sacrifice and her memory.

  Emergency shelters to protect people from sandstorms or lightning—and yes, Ursa attacks—dotted the city, marked with a glowing symbol that promised safety. Anderson windmilled his right arm while his prosthetic left arm directed citizens toward the nearest shelter. Marquez had jogged over to make certain it was open and powered. She then helped funnel the people through the dual doorways.

  People continued to make noise, adding to the siren’s wail, and Kincaid wished for earplugs but gritted his teeth, ignored the discord, and kept directing them toward a safe haven. The great mass continued to flow from the market toward the shelter.

  A roar, the sound of which brought back waking nightmares, pierced the panicky noises. An Ursa was close, and he hoped the Rangers were on its heels. He glanced over his shoulder and saw people fleeing in all directions away from the covered open-air market. The creature had to be in there.

  Kincaid rushed to the space between the twin doors and entered a code on the keypad. A panel smoothly slid open, and he withdrew three pulsers. Tucking one in his waist and tossing another to Marquez, he felt better about dealing with the imminent threat.

  A Ranger emerged from behind the shelter, out of breath and covered in dust. “Have you seen it?”

  “In the market, I think,” Kincaid replied.

  “Keep the people moving in there; we’ve got this,” he ordered somewhat needlessly. The comment bothered Kincaid, who took it as an insinuation that he wouldn’t do his job unless a Ranger directed him to.

  The Ranger sprinted toward the Ursa and, no doubt, his fellow Rangers. If Anderson recalled correctly, the rules stated that—when available—a minimum of eight Rangers were required to confront one of those beasts. People got out of the Ranger’s way and kept streaming toward the shelter. Marquez continued moving them through the doors while Kincaid surveyed the scene. They didn’t need to speak; each understood the other well enough by now that words were unnecessary.

  Kincaid watched as the cutlass-wielding Ranger dashed into the market, where sounds of destruction were competing with the siren. He wished there were an off switch for the alarm; by now, everyone had gotten the message.

  A body came flying through an opening in the market and crumpled to the ground. It appeared to be missing a leg, and blood pooled around the figure. Marquez gestured for him to keep his position.

  “Don’t go, Andy!”

  “There are civilians still inside.”

  She crossed over to him, eyes flaring. “It’s suicide! This is what the Rangers exist for. And you are not a Ranger. Let it go.”

  “But they’re not here and I am.”

  “Okay, Andy, so you live and breathe being a Ranger even though you’re not in uniform. What does the manual say about fighting the Ursa?”

  “Eight Rangers, no less.”

  “You are an army of one. How do you reconcile that?”

  He stared at her speechless.

  “I didn’t know you had a death wish.”

  “How can I face you tomorrow if I don’t go do this? How could I live a life with you if I knowingly let that monster kill the innocents?”

  “If there were an army of us, I’d have your back, but right now it’s just us. We can’t go in there and survive.”

  “Gin, I have to. I have to try or I couldn’t live with myself.”

  Kincaid ran toward the body, but as he drew closer, it was evident the person was dead. He focused his attention on the market itself, an ever-changing cluster of prefabricated stalls and stands where every food and drink imaginable could be found. As he neared, the corpsman could see the creature, which was huge and moved erratically. However the Skrel bioengineered those things, they were far from elegant creations designed for maximum carnage. The six limbs ended in razor-sharp talons, and the maw was stuffed with pointed teeth. He knew they were sightless, using their other senses, mainly that of smell, to locate and lock onto their prey. Right now it was rampaging and destroying in search of human life.

  He knew Virginia would do her job, protecting the perimeter while he went after the beast, but he had no idea if she’d still be there when the mission ended. A part of him was planning a future that included her, but with every step forward he was trampling that dream, risking the first tangible happiness he’d had in years.

  The deserted stalls appeared to frustrate it, and the Ursa tore through thin metal and wood and Plasticine as if they were all cotton-weight fabric. Behind it, Kincaid could spot two more Rangers in addition to the one who had charged toward it. That one could not be seen, and he hoped the man was not dead.

  He spied the Rangers deploying their cutlasses. Lightweight and versatile, cutlasses could quickly morph into a dozen or more shapes depending on need. Right now, all the Rangers’ weapons appeared to be in sickle formation, clearly intended to hobble as many of the creature’s legs as possible and bring it down. Of course, first they had to catch the thing.

  Then Kincaid saw another Ranger spring from hiding, his cutlass shaped like a needle, and fly toward the beast, ready to pierce its tough hide. The Ursa, though, must have smelled the man and reared up on its hind legs, the forward limbs shredding him in the air. Organs and blood spilled to the ground moments before the dead body followed. The Ursa roared not so much in triumph but because it could.

  Quickly, it turned around and charged toward the Rangers, who scattered out of its way. The creature chased the ones who ran to the left.

  This was Anderson’s chance. He rushed forward and grasped the fallen Ranger’s cutlass. Now that he was wielding it, there was little to differentiate the corpsman from the Ranger, and Kincaid recognized he had a debt to repay, first to the woman who had saved his life and then to his family’s legacy.

  He had to move carefully to avoid alerting the monster but also so that he wouldn’t slip on the messy pools of blood, viscera, and squashed fruit. The sickly-sweet smells made him want to gag, but he swallowed it down and kept approaching the beast as it continued its charge toward the Rangers. The other Rangers were out of sight; either they had run away or they were stealthily approaching it.

  The siren finally cut off, and Kincaid whispered thanks to the heavens, just
as his mother had taught him.

  He focused his hearing and heard the clatter of taloned paws moving the Ursa along, the cracking of worn wood, and the crackle of the cutlass in his hand.

  Then he heard a different sound, a low, plaintive resonance. Not human and most certainly not Ursa. It then struck him that livestock was also on display at the market, mostly as a petting zoo for the kids while the parents shopped. Demonstrations were put on to teach the children how the animals contributed to society. These were not happy noises, and he heard shuffling about. The animals were spooked, and that could only mean the Ursa had decided it was lunchtime.

  Kincaid crept closer, hands tightening and retightening their grip on the cutlass. He had never hefted one before and had no real clue how to make it alter its configuration. If the scythe shape was particularly sharp, that might be all he needed.

  An animal cried out, with others repeating the sound at a lower volume, and he knew the Ursa had slaughtered one, maybe a horse. He hoped to catch the Ursa unaware, preoccupied as it was with eating whatever poor animal had lost its life before its time.

  He worked close to the pens, and as he rounded one corner, he came upon the remains of more Rangers. One’s torso had been torn apart; another’s head was severed from the neck. The man’s head had rolled a few feet away, the look of shock on its face frozen in place, a sight Kincaid wanted to forget immediately. Instead, it seemed to find a place in his mind, right next to the image of the charging Ursa at the playground when he was a child.

  The Ursa paused in its consumption, suddenly aware of Kincaid’s presence. Sightless, it turned toward him but held its ground. Dim light reflected off the smart metal protruding in a haphazard pattern around its body. No way could a single shot from that distance take out the beast. Heck, pulsers were useless at point-blank range. Kincaid had to get closer but was having trouble making his feet move. Perhaps the Ursa would have to come his way; it was a terrifying thought.

  He knew that if it imprinted on him and his fear, it would hunt him down until one or the other was dead. Kincaid had other plans for his death—first and foremost being that it would not be for a long time—and so he did the only thing he could: shuffled backward, away from the creature, hoping it would stay to finish its meal. There were still Rangers operating and no doubt more coming. The Rangers’ main mission was to protect the world; his primary job was to protect the citizens here, right now.