by Eric Flint
I turned the corner to lay myself enough cover to withdraw, and something punched me in the stomach.
Years of training had given me the reflexes to throw my body to the side and evaluate my condition. The pain subsided quickly. It went from a lancing pain to a burning ache within seconds. I looked down and saw a darkened patch of burnt flesh. Fortunately for me, my vest and suit took most of the blow. The shot hit me just underneath the ribs on my right side, ironically where I kept my medical kit. It had saved my life, if in an unorthodox manner.
"I'm hit, but not bad," I announced.
"Oh my god! How's the suit?"
I pushed my gun around the corner and squeezed off several blind bursts to buy time while I checked myself out. The wound looked fully cauterized, so at least I probably wouldn't bleed out.
"I need out of here. Where—"
"Dex, we've got a problem," Benny said. "You have to get back here."
I rolled my eyes. "I've got real problems down here, Benny! Take a number and get in line."
I leaned out, fired until I emptied the gun, and took cover to reload. An Akagi gets almost sixty shots to the magazine, but that capacity doesn't mean as much as it sounds like. The pitter-patter of point explosions against the hatch continued with new vigor.
"No, I'm serious. You have to get to the boat—"
"That's the last place I need to go." I slapped a fresh magazine into the SMG and pulled a grenade off my vest. "Benny, I think I'm somewhere in . . ." I glanced up. The numbers swam before my eyes, a sure sign that I needed to take a breather before too long. I squinted until I could zero in on at least one of the numbers. "Block seven, frame eight. Can you get me to a dispensary?"
"Sure, Dex, but if you don't get back here right now I'll have to—"
"I don't care! Just find those directions!"
I twisted the primer on the grenade and leaned around the hatch, my SMG in one hand and the grenade in the other.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Chuck.
Pieces of debris and shrapnel flew past me a moment later. The sound of small arms fire halted. I took the chance to take off down the corridor and peeled off a few bursts behind me to discourage pursuit.
"Where am I going?" A few shots landed near me, but throwing another grenade made them think twice.
"Down!"
"Where?"
"Here!"
I pitched myself down another gap between staircases. I'd never been so glad the Gwendin built everything big in my life.
"Keep going. Two frames forward, then it's the second door on your right," Benny said.
I sprinted the rest of the way, taking quick hops over the hatches, and ducked inside the dispensary. I checked the room for any sign of the Gwendin, then engaged the door's internal lock before finally allowing myself to take a deep breath.
"Okay," I sighed, "I think I lost 'em, but not for long. It won't take them long to figure out my suit's torn. We've got maybe one chance to—"
"Dex, you have to scrub the mission."
I rummaged through several shelves of useless supplies before I found a trauma patch and wasted no time slapping it against the hole in my suit, incidentally sealing the gaping tear. The pain eased as the patch's computer diagnosed the burn and administered a painkiller. I didn't feel a hundred percent, but I called eighty-five good enough for my purposes.
"I'm not scrubbing anything. We need a way to disable this ship."
"Never mind that! We've got a problem."
"No kidding," I said. "You want to write me up a list? The engine room's a no-go. Look at schematics. I've got some demolition sticks and surge charges. Are there any systems I can overload to cause a cascade failure?"
"I don't know," Benny said in a quick, singsong voice. "The torpedo room and sickbay share some air vents, but you'd have to be a python to get there. Anyway, we've got bigger issues."
"What bigger issues? You keep going on and on, but I don't hear you—"
"The boat's gone," Benny said. "I'm sorry."
It took a second for the words to register in my mind, for them to make sense. My first instinct was to laugh, to tell Benny to stop joking. But there was no mirth in her voice. I couldn't hear the smirk on her lips.
"What do you mean, the boat is gone? Where did you go, Benny?" I asked. "What did you do with the boat?"
"I had to detach! They had crewmen coming for the boat. They came in the cargo bay and shot at me, and—"
"How?"
"I don't know. Found the spoof? How am I supposed to know?"
For exactly one moment the entire world, everything that I could see, touch, smell, taste, or hear, turned red. I smelled red, touched red, and tasted the raw sensuality of crimson. I felt dizzy after the moment passed and had to take a deep breath before I could process my situation.
On a warship all alone. Surrounded by the enemy. Damaged stealthsuit. Wounded. No way home. No rescue team to come get me. Benny apologized.
"Roast me on a stick and sell me on Fleet Day! How am I supposed to get home, Benny? How am I supposed to get home?"
"Dex—"
"I don't want to hear it!" I said. "This is not a game, do you hear me? You can't leave me here stranded. Now come back and—"
"Come back and what?" Benny asked. "No way I can get close enough to dock again. They're running full-spectrum scans. If I power up, they'll find me for sure and blow the boat to smithereens! You gotta find your own ticket off."
"Don't try to pull that on me. You think you can trick me into a job like this, then leave me high and dry? Think, Benny. Stop trying to get me killed, because one of these days it's gonna work. God, do you get your jollies watching me get in trouble?"
"I told you to come help me! I tried to tell you, and you wouldn't listen. It's all about you, isn't it? I know I'm the second banana in this team, but I did my part. Who got you to a sickbay even though she was trying to disengage from the hull with bad guys coming for her? If you—"
I shut the com off. A sinking feeling in my gut told me I should apologize, or at least made sure I asked Benny how to get to the engine room before cutting her off. That left me with a pretty big cat to skin, and not even one way to do it. I didn't want to abort the mission, but what options did I have? Getting myself off the ship in one piece without help would take enough luck that I didn't want to push it by trying for more. I wanted to go home, no questions asked. If Benny wanted to finish out the contract, then she could do it herself. Her one suggestion about the air ducts was hopeless. I could have never fit through.
But staring at the air duct and listening to the whir of the fans gave me an idea. I started by looking around the room for anything that could help me. Most of the medical supplies were useless. I found bottles of distilled acid, a pressurized oxygen canister, some diagnostic reagent packs, and innumerable bottles of chemicals whose contents I couldn't read.
Then I finally hit the jackpot in the form of three boxes full of particulate active carbon. Perfect for a wide variety of filters, but also serviceable for creative mayhem in the right hands. I tore them open and ripped the grille off the room's ventilation duct so I could pour the dust inside. The flow of air inside the duct started the carbon flowing, but just in case that didn't do the trick I pushed it along by stuffing the tube from the oxygen tank into the duct and twisting the release knob to full open. The final touch, a demolition stick with a four-minute timer, went in last. My improvised fuel-air explosive wouldn't disable the ship, not by a long shot, but I didn't care about finishing the mission. It was Benny's gig, and if she wanted it done so bad then she could do it herself. I set my suit back to internal atmosphere, replaced the grille as best I could, and ran.
It wouldn't take the crew long to realize that I'd done something to the air supply. I doubted they'd know exactly what, but the carbon dust would make them cough. For all I knew they'd think I laced the air with some kind of chemical agent, and then they'd get really mad.
I raced down the corridor to the outer hu
ll and a ticket off the ship. I stopped when I reached the boundary between blocks seven and two just long enough to look back and make sure nobody had followed me that far. The coast looked clear, and my suit's chronometer told me I had almost a minute left. I pulled the hatch closed behind me and kept running.
Two crewmen found me just after I exited the block, of course positioned between me and the outer hull. I knew I couldn't stop, not even long enough to buy myself a tactical retreat. The block's life support systems might blow out once my bomb blew, and the block would certainly become uninhabitable, but sooner or later the crew would figure out my fireworks had a lot more bark than bite.
The crewmen both raised pistols and fired a few shots at me. One came close enough that I could feel the heat of the particle column passing by my head through the suit, but I stood my ground. My weapon spat dozens of deadly packages. The grip became hot to the touch, even through my suit, but I continued firing.
My chronometer beeped to give me a ten-second warning, and I braced for the impact. The explosion that followed almost knocked me to my feet, but it gave me the chance to charge forward and close some distance in relative safety. I ran as fast as my legs would take me, praying the bomb distracted them enough to throw off their aim.
The noise from more point explosions battered my ears once I passed them, and I fired my weapon behind me as I ran. I didn't bother to aim or even look back; I just sprayed and prayed. My legs were starting to turn into jelly by the time I hit the end of the corridor and found a life pod. I twisted the hatch open, expended the last of my ammunition behind me as I stepped through the opening, closed the hatch, and pulled the lever to eject from the ship.
* * *
I'm not sure how long I floated in that life pod. I didn't care. For all I knew, the Implacable would find me within minutes and reduce me to my component atoms. It takes a lot more than disabling a distress beacon to hide oneself from a warship. I sprawled on the floor, waiting for the end, wishing I could have at least thought of some way to take Benny with me.
It took several minutes for me to realize that I hadn't died. To be honest, the news came as a bit of a disappointment. A small lance of pain shot through my gut every time I breathed in, and I felt a little nauseous. Pretty soon men would come looking for me. The ones I owed money, plus the new friends whose contract I'd broken. In the past I could've counted on Benny to think of a Plan B. Now I didn't even have that.
Bad. Worse. Worst. To be honest, hitting rock bottom didn't feel as bad as I thought it would. It even felt a little good, and then the entanglement-com on my wrist vibrated.
Benny.
A fresh wave of nausea hit me as I switched her back on.
"Dex? Are you there? Still alive? Can you hear me, Chief?"
"Yes. Would you shut up already?"
"One of these days you gotta tell me how you did it. It looks like something cooked off the torpedo room. I can see some fires inside. How'd you get in there?"
I sat up against the life pod's wall. "Torpedo room?" Realization dawned on me a moment later. I closed my eyes and laughed. "Benny, you wouldn't believe me even if I tried to explain it."
"Oh . . . Okay." Benny's sullen tone brought a smile to my face, but also a twist to my stomach.
"Have you collected our pay yet?" I asked before either feeling could get stronger.
"Yup. I just finished certifying the deposit."
"And our markers?"
"Settled. We're back in the black, Chief."
In the black. I'd dreamed of those words for longer than I cared to remember. I thought when I finally heard them I'd feel elated, on top of the world. Instead, it felt like a bit of a letdown.
"Hey, Dex . . . I'm sorry." Benny's voice sounded off. Flat, dull, not like her at all.
I opened my eyes and took off my helmet. "What are you talking about, Benny?"
"You were counting on me and everything, and then I couldn't get the job done when it counted the most. I guess you really don't need me after all."
"You're not an idiot, so don't act like one. I don't want you around any more than I want a few extra holes in my head, but I do need you."
"Don't patronize me! I know I messed up. I don't need your pity, okay?"
"No, I was wrong."
"Huh?"
"I was wrong," I said in a louder voice. "I'm sorry. I know you only did what you had to do. I . . ." I hesitated, because even though something's true doesn't mean it's not galling. "I shouldn't have said any of those things. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, but you didn't need me to blow up that ship." Benny's voice quavered. I wondered what she looked like, what she was thinking. I always thought of Benny as confident to the point of blissful arrogance, but at that moment I didn't know what to think.
"It was your idea," I said.
"Huh?" Benny asked.
"I took your idea for sabotaging the air vents and rigged a fuel-air device. I didn't think it'd blow the whole ship up, but . . ." I shrugged. "Anyway, it was your idea. I couldn't have done it without you. Thanks."
"Ummm . . . Okay. So, we're still friends?"
"Yes, Benny. We're still friends. Pick me up before I change my mind."
"Great!" I could almost see Benny grinning like an idiot. "Now that we're friends again, I've got this little job for you. I mean us."
"Another job?" I pressed the trauma patch on my abdomen and felt a shooting pain. At least she could have let me convalesce.
"Yeah, well . . . Remember when I said we were in the black?"
"Don't tell me—"
"It was only a little fib!"
"Little fib? What if I'd gone on thinking I was paid off?"
"The universe would have punished you for not making up with me, courtesy of Vidao's thugs. That's how karma works. Anyway, I got good news. I lined up a new job, one that'll definitely, certainly, no question about it, pay off our markers. You and me, Chief. Between the two of us, it's a total cakewalk."
"Benny, I am going to teach you a whole new meaning of pain when you pick me up."
"Looking forward to it, Chief."
* * *
The Art of Memory
Written by Barry N. Malzberg and Jack Dann
Illustrated by Karl Nordman
The car, a l958 DeSoto, last of its line, spins out, and hits the guardrail with terrific impact. Even before my head has gone through the windshield, I know that it is over. Done.
"And in that night I awoke to find myself in a dark and deserted place . . ."
That is Dante. Alighieri's the name. As I lay dead in the wastes of the car, arms broken to fit, the smell of blood a miasma in the air, my head aching, pounding, I think: How could this be? My heart is unmoving within me. From the carcass of the car faint thuds and hissings, the sounds of re-accommodation. I think of the Divine Comedy, nothing so divine about it, and of Dante, who was as much the fool as I had been. Dante had met his precious, prescient Beatrice when he was nine; by the time he turned eighteen she had spurned him, left him bereft of that "Which was the goal of all desire," and then in l290 had insulted him even more greatly by expiring.
Expiration.
Bereft, bereaved Dante. Bereaved me. I am done for.
"And in that black night I awoke to find myself in a dark and deserted place . . . "
Who will mourn me? Who do I leave bereaved?
My wife Janice will be so. She won't know where the checkbook is. She won't know the passwords to get into the laptop files. I tried to tell her . . . Lord knows how I tried.
It comes to me that this rictus planted on my face would look like a smile to any witness. There is much about which to smile. Death is not only absolute, it is painless and here I am, a pain-free fifty-seven-year-old pisher advertising executive newly dead. Ten minutes ago, well no. But now? Now, in the steam and huddle of the wrenched DeSoto I can face everything. Death is the great compressor, squeezing circumstance to manageability and compressed, I can feel my essence, congealing around the
ruined heart.
So I look around, considering it all. If I could breathe, I would have thought, "Breathing everything in." Can I smell? Indeterminate. I can remember smells. Memory without passion, without pain, is perhaps a sort of omniscience. One becomes little more than a witness to one's life and everything, then, is changed.
I peer from side to side, trying to understand the situation. If I could breathe I would have retained control, but I do not appear to be breathing.
A white and yellow ambulance with a hairline crack in the rear window roars along the highway, no siren, gumdrop red light rotating. The highway has been closed. Traffic is being redirected. In and out of their cars people are yammering on cell-phones. But I'm right here, still here, a presence, a part of the ghostly landscape rising from the blood spot on the highway, about four inches from the median. I'm here and I'm there as they strap me on a gurney and take me to the ambulance. In the ambulance I'm just an anonymous corpse. But here I am—