Rogue Battleship

by Jake Elwood

  No, this is real. There's a war on, and I'm missing it.

  Sitting up wasn't easy, but he managed it. He desperately wanted to lie back down, but he braced his palms against the ground and made himself remain sitting up until the dizziness and pain subsided.

  After a time he bent one leg, bracing himself to try standing.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. “Hang on, Champ. You don't want to get up.”

  Champ? I'll never complain about the informality of the Free Neorome Navy again. “What's wrong with me?”

  The hand rose from his shoulder and a man circled around to stand in front of Tom. He was young, hardly older than Tom himself, in a plaid shirt with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The gun on his hip marked him as a Prairie Dog. Was he a doctor before the invasion? Or is he some schmuck who read a first aid manual?

  “You took a blow to the head. Probably debris of some sort. Were you close to a missile strike?”

  Tom almost shook his head, stopping himself just in time. “No.” He thought back. “There was a high-powered rifle round.”

  “Whatever hit you was bigger than a bullet. Maybe a chunk of masonry?”

  “Maybe,” said Tom.

  “Anyway, it gave you a concussion. You'll most likely live, but you're not going to feel real good. Not without some time in a medical pod, or, barring that, three or four weeks of taking it easy.”

  Tom considered that. “Help me up,” he said at last.

  “That's not a good-”

  Tom reached up and grabbed a handful of the plaid shirt. He got his legs under him, tightened his grip, and started to pull.

  “All right, all right!” The man reached down, seized Tom's arms, and hauled him to his feet.

  The yard tilted and Tom's vision went gray around the edges. He clutched at the Prairie Dog's shoulders.

  “I told you. Want me to help you lie back down?”

  “I'm fine,” Tom lied.

  “It's your funeral. But I've got other patients. I'm going to need you to let go of me pretty soon.”

  Tom released his grip. The Prairie Dog, despite his words, didn't move. He stood with his hands poised by Tom's shoulders, ready to catch him.

  “It's … getting better,” Tom said.

  “It'll get better faster if you lie down, you damned fool.” The man stepped back, watching Tom warily. When Tom didn't wobble or collapse, the man shook his head in disgust and walked away.

  Beside the tent Tom found a silver-haired woman sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair. He recognized her from the Prairie Dog hideout, though he hadn't realized she was along on this mission. A battered carbine leaned against the back of the chair. Another chair sat in front of her, supporting her right foot, which was swathed in bandages.

  She held a data pad in her lap, and took notes as she talked with a local man. Several more civilians stood in a queue behind him, waiting their turn to speak to her. The man was describing Dawn Alliance troop movements and the aircraft he'd seen. He glanced at Tom, and his voice trailed off. “Are you all right, son?”

  “It's a field hospital,” said the woman in the chair. “He’s being cared for. Focus.”

  There were no other Prairie Dogs in sight. Tom walked to the crest of the ridge and leaned against the wall of the outpost building. A rattle above him made him tilt his head back.

  A young woman lowered herself over the edge of the roof, got her feet on the rungs of the same ladder Tom had climbed earlier, and descended quickly. She landed beside Tom, gave him a curt nod, and headed into the tent.

  Tom tried straightening up. There was no dizziness. There was pain, but it wasn’t excessive, so long as he didn’t move his head much. He didn’t feel healthy, exactly, but he no longer worried that he might collapse.

  What do I do now? Return to the front lines? I don’t know if I can make it all the way back to town. I don't want everyone else distracted, trying to take care of me.

  He looked around, frustrated. If I could at least see what was going on …. The ladder drew his attention. If I was up there, I could see the whole town.

  I have a concussion. Climbing a ladder would be really stupid.

  Still, it's only two stories. I can rest as soon as I get to the top.

  He started climbing before common sense could get in the way. His head swam before he was three rungs from the ground, so he squeezed his eyes shut and climbed by touch. On and on he went, the ladder seeming to tilt back and forth under his hands. Finally his reaching fingers failed to find a rung. He opened his eyes, breathed a sigh of relief, and clambered over a low parapet onto the roof.

  For a minute or two he sat and stared up at the sky, waiting to recover. Getting up here was bad enough. I'm not sure I can get back down.

  Well, that was a problem for later. He stretched a hand up, clutched the top of the parapet, and pulled himself to his feet.

  The rooftop was a flat rectangle maybe fifty paces on a side, covered in black tiles with a crosshatched texture. A cooling tower rose in the centre, a blocky rectangle maybe a meter high. The body that had lain there before was gone, he was relieved to see.

  Tom turned to take in the view. He could see the town, the streets mostly empty, stretching away in a meandering grid. The bulky shape of the factory loomed in the background, gray and ugly compared to the cheerful-looking houses around it.

  The laser rifle was still there on its pedestal. A water bottle lay discarded next to a rubber pad that a sniper might kneel on. Scattered food wrappers showed that this was a post that had been in use for quite some time. He remembered the body, wondered if that had been the sniper.

  The screen for the electronic scope flashed. Processing, said the display. A padlock symbol in one corner told him the rifle was still locked. Tom cursed the Dawn Alliance sniper for having the presence of mind to secure the weapon. She must have realized the Prairie Dogs were coming from her blind side, locked the gun, and headed for the ladder an instant before the rocket struck.

  He leaned down, put an eye to the optical scope, then frowned and straightened up. Processing? Processing what?

  It took a moment to spot the wire. It ran from a port in the rifle stock to a small hand-held computer on the roof beside the power pack. The little computer was obviously Prairie Dog technology. Tom could tell by the logo on the side, which said Speak and Learn More Than One Hundred Languages. Repurposed technology was the hallmark of the colonies.

  Sometimes, locked guns could be unlocked with a moderate amount of computing power and plenty of time. There was no telling how long this rifle would remain locked, and Tom shrugged, disappointed. No sniping for me.

  He leaned down, snugged the stock against his shoulder, and peered through the eyepiece of the optical scope. For an instant a pigeon filled his view, replaced a moment later by empty sky. Tom tilted the barrel down until he was looking into the streets of Greenport.

  He played the gun back and forth, scanning. A rising plume of smoke caught his attention, but the source was hidden behind a row of houses. He tracked to the right, working his way toward the factory.

  A pair of soldiers flashed past, a man and a woman in burgundy uniforms clutching blast rifles. They vanished behind a building before he could fire. Tom watched the corner where they’d just disappeared, his finger snug on the trigger. Wait a minute. The gun’s locked. I can’t shoot.

  Four Prairie dogs appeared, two two-person teams leapfrogging as they moved from building to building. By the look of it there was no actual enemy near them. They were just being cautious.

  He scanned a long boulevard, pausing when he saw faces in a window. It was a trio of children peeking over a windowsill. Tom ignored them and moved on. A flash of movement caught his eye and he tracked back, trying to spot the source.

  There. A woman stood in a doorway, mostly hidden, just her face appearing from time to time as she peeked out. Then, apparently deciding the coast was clear, she stepped into view. She wore the dark green uniform shirt o
f the Free Neorome Navy, with a brown vest over top. A bandolier ran from her left shoulder to her right hip, fat with cartridges. He remembered her from the Icicle. Her name was Sanchez, and she'd been one of the guards watching the prisoners.

  Two more figures joined her, and the three of them hurried up the street, heads swiveling as they looked for threats. Tom smiled as he recognized Garth Ham and Alice. She's all right. He hadn't realized he'd been worrying about her, but a weight rose from his shoulders and the laser rifle suddenly felt as light as air in his hands.

  He watched them make their way up the street, then scanned the rooftops above and ahead of them. If I spot a threat, what will I do? I've got no way to warn them.

  A chime sounded from the rooftop beside his knee, and Tom glanced down. The screen of the mini computer was full of flickering text. He flipped open the electronic scope and smiled.

  The gun was unlocked.

  He zoomed out, found the street he'd been watching, and zoomed in until he spotted Alice once again. Then he shifted his aim to the street ahead of her.

  Do what you need to do, Alice. Free the town. Take the factory. I'll watch over you from here and do my best to keep you safe.

  Chapter 18

  “There it is,” said Sanchez.

  Alice stuck her head out the door of a small warehouse, glanced quickly at the bulk of the factory across the street, and pulled her head back. “There it is,” she agreed.

  “What do you think?” said Sanchez.

  “I'm sure I saw movement on the third floor,” said Ham. “We'll take fire crossing the street.”

  Alice knelt, putting her head at a different level in case a sniper was lining up a shot. She took another quick glance and pulled back. “You to cover me while I go for the door.”

  “Not a great idea,” said Ham.

  I'll get your mommy out. I'll keep her safe. I promise. “You're probably right,” she told him. “But we have to do something.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she didn't give him the chance. Instead, she flung herself out the door, running in quick zig-zags toward the far side of the street.

  Behind her Ham swore. Sanchez opened up with her carbine, the shots almost drowning out the quieter sounds of Ham's blast rifle.

  Hurry up, Alice. They make excellent targets, leaning out of the doorway to cover you. The asphalt in front of her foot erupted as a high-powered bullet struck the street. Her instincts told her to dodge, but her momentum made it impossible. Bits of glass rained down around her as her companions shot at the third-story window above.

  She reached the wall of the factory, still running full-tilt. She twisted sideways, thumping hard against the wall with her shoulder. She rebounded, almost fell, then pressed herself against the wall.

  The door was to her left, five or six paces away. Alice put a hand on the butt of her pistol – then froze as the door swung open. A soldier stepped out, a heavy-set woman with a blast rifle leaning around the open door to take aim at Alice. Alice drew her pistol, knowing she was hopelessly too late.

  Three quick shots rang out from the warehouse doorway across the street. The woman jerked, turning. She wasn't quite as stocky as Alice had thought. She wore body armor and a helmet that gave her bulk. Unhurt by the fire she’d taken, she brought her rifle to her shoulder, lining up a shot at Sanchez.

  A bullet hit the soldier in the foot. She screamed, falling, and the next bullet tore up the asphalt in front of her face. There was a moment of silence as Sanchez took careful aim. The soldier moaned, one hand stretching toward her injured foot.

  Sanchez fired, blood erupted from the woman’s face, and the moaning stopped. The soldier jerked once and went still.

  Alice, the pistol finally in her hand, looked across the street at Sanchez and nodded her thanks.

  Sanchez and Ham left the doorway at almost the same instant, charging into the street, arms pumping. Running one at a time would only make it easier for the gunman up above to shoot both of them. But no further shots came. They reached the wall of the factory together, panting.

  “I guess you got him,” said Alice, gesturing at the window above.

  “Somebody did,” said Ham. “I think there's someone else out there. A sniper on our side.”

  “Whatever.” Alice pulled on the open door until it was flat against the outside wall, then peered around the doorjamb into the factory. The interior was hopelessly dark after the brightness of the street. She glanced at Ham and Sanchez, who stood poised on the far side of the doorway. Ham raised an eyebrow, and Alice shrugged.

  If I wanted guarantees, I wouldn't have joined the military. She took a deep breath, then sprang through the doorway.

  Open floor stretched in front of her, so she dove, going into an awkward roll and coming back up to her feet. The bulk of a large machine loomed on her right, and she threw herself down beside it.

  No incoming gunfire. No voices. Maybe the corpse in the doorway was the only one watching this door.

  “Looks clear,” said Sanchez from somewhere behind her.

  “I don't see anything either,” Ham said.

  That reassured Alice. Ham had a real knack for spotting things other people missed.

  Still, you never knew. She slid to one side, moving as quietly as she could. When in doubt, change your position. Don't be where the enemy thinks you are. She crouched, brought her breathing under control, and looked around.

  Her eyes adjusted until the room seemed gloomy rather than dark. Small windows high on the wall let in shafts of sunlight that glowed in the ambient dust. She was in a large open room, the floor crowded with machines the size of ground cars. She couldn't tell what any of the machinery did. Some part of the manufacturing process. Maybe we should take the opportunity to smash something.

  People, though, had to be her first concern. The people she was here to extract, and the people here who would kill her if they could.

  Waist-high conveyor belts linked many of the machines, making navigation in the room difficult. She crouched and crab-walked under a belt, then straightened up. “Spread out. Make sure the room is empty. And find out where the entry points are.”

  “Right,” said Sanchez. Scuffling and rustling sounds rose as she and Ham started moving.

  By the time she'd worked her way past two more machines Alice had a sense of the dimensions of the room. It was close to a hundred meters wide, almost the full width of the building, and maybe half as deep. The ceiling was far above, obscured by more conveyor belts and the jutting, articulated arms of robotic material handlers. Alice edged past a machine that looked like a standard fabricator, but with a giant hopper in the top. She looked it over curiously, wondering what it did, then ducked to pass under a fat pneumatic tube.

  Metal crashed against metal, and a set of double doors on the far wall flew open. Alice hadn't even seen the doors, obscured by shadows and the equipment in between. Now she saw a glowing rectangle with the silhouettes of three people. Flashes of red light appeared as they opened up with blast rifles, and the pneumatic tube just above Alice's head exploded. She dropped flat, cursing, feeling hot lines of pain in her scalp. She put a hand to the top of her head and found bits of plastic in her hair, shrapnel created by the shattering tube.

  Sanchez’s carbine fired, and the middle figure in the doorway spun around and fell. The other two leapt to either side, vanishing now that they were no longer backlit.

  “There's at least two of them,” said a man's excited voice. He had a strong Dawn Alliance accent.

  “Did we get the woman?”

  “I think so. Circle around. We'll get the other one in a crossfire.”

  Alice rose to her knees and one hand, the other hand holding her pistol. She started to crawl. Don't be where the enemy thinks you are.

  “I spotted the other one,” said the woman. “She's behind the strapping machine.” A couple of blast shots rang out, and the woman said, “I've got her pinned.”

  “I'll flank her,” said the m
an. His feet rustled against the floor. “Wait a minute. Did you hear that?”

  The sound seemed to come from every direction at once. Alice edged back from the nearest conveyor belt, wondering if it was about to start moving.

  When movement came, though, it was from above. A steel arm big enough to lift an elephant twitched, then rose and turned. The arm ended in a metal-fingered claw. Like a clumsy steel giant the claw smashed down, and metal screamed as a section of conveyor belt buckled and tore. A man's voice cried out, and for an awful moment Alice thought it was Ham.

  Then she caught a flash of burgundy as a soldiers scrambled frantically out of the path of the grasping robotic arm. Gunfire erupted, glass shattered, and Alice twisted her head around to see blast shot smashing into a control booth set high on one wall.

  A shape inside the booth moved, and the steel arm moved with it, slashing sideways until it slammed against another machine. The robotic arm went still, and Alice imagined the operator cowering back as shot after shot slammed into the booth.

  Maybe there's something I can do about that. She started to rise, then hesitated. What the hell. There's only two of them, and they're both busy. She rose to her full height, and spotted a flash of burgundy off to her right. It was the woman, trying to cover her friend, squatting behind a machine with a blast rifle at her shoulder, blazing away at the control booth up above.

  Alice rested her arm on a conveyor belt, taking careful aim. The man behind me better be cowering right now, because I'm awfully exposed. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and, ever so gently, squeezed the trigger.

  The woman in burgundy dropped from view. The machine beside her was splashed with blood.

  Their unknown ally in the control booth reacted immediately. Two steel arms moved at once, metal hands moving toward each other like a man clapping his hands to trap a fly. The man swore, and a badly-aimed shot hit the wall a meter from the booth.

  An instant before the metal hands came together, Sanchez let out a whoop. “Got him!”

  Alice lowered herself to one knee, just in case. She was pretty sure that was the last of them, though. Poor sap was so busy dodging the robots, he forgot to keep his head down.