Crimson Strike

by Peter Bostrom

  Someone with a nasally voice from the back of the group said, “But what if you can’t change them back?”

  Rand responded. “Then we can put a swift and merciful end to their pain. And for those who have been lost, we can certainly avenge their deaths.”

  The civilians began mumbling among themselves.

  “I don’t know,” the long-nosed woman said. “It sounds like we’d be in danger.”

  Harold finally came forward. “We’re always in danger,” he said. “Every single day. We’re in danger of being laid off and of starving because greedy executives are always trying to cut costs.”

  I glanced at Rand, who was now looking down at his feet.

  “We’re in danger of dying because the nearest government hospital is too damn far away for most of us.”

  I looked to Stanton, whose brow was knitted.

  “And we’re in danger of losing our self-respect because we’ve never had a chance to stand up for ourselves,” Harold said, finally.

  He waved his hand in the direction of the transports.

  “This is our chance to take a stand. This is our chance to make a difference.”

  I turned to Stanton and grinned. And, to my surprise, he grinned back.

  Harold took a step forward. “Let’s show these monsters—” he gestured from the fallen civilian to the factories, “—every last one of them—that we’re worth fighting for. That we’re worth dying for.”

  The crowd nodded.

  “So,” he said, turning to me, “What do we have to do to join this militia of yours?”

  We set up in front of Misenus housing project, where Harold lived, to use its wide open courtyard area for our military exercises. Stanton and I directed our team and the hopeful militia members to create different training stations. The biodome’s overhead lights continued dimming, and because several of the light fixtures around the project were broken, Rand drove a transport around, got up onto its roof, and fixed the lights so we could actually see what everyone was doing.

  Harold had left to recruit more militia members, and when he returned, we had close to thirty volunteers. They came in every possible shape and size, but because of their labor-intensive occupations on Triton, each of them was strong and followed orders with precision.

  Rand had his mini data pad out, but this time without all of his tapping and slapping and cursing. Instead, he was completely entranced, reading through the requirements and responsibilities for forming a militia. He took Stanton and me through the process of certifying the civilians as official militia members, which made me totally antsy. I was ready to move, to fight. To find and save Kovac. But to Rand, the systematic organization of an extra-governmental army was heaven.

  I let Panthra out of her cage to stretch her legs in the nearby, sparsely-wooded park for a bit as I devoured a whole case of Moon Pies to get my energy back up. I figured the farther I was from Lopez when I was chewing, the better. Otherwise, she might shoot me before I could train my very first batch of militia volunteers. Well, she might shoot me anyway—even without my noisy chewing—but I wasn’t about to take that chance right now.

  When I led Panthra back to her cage just a few minutes later, it was time for us to begin our training. Most of the stations we’d set up were educational—training them on Peacekeeper terminology, structure, and strategies. Only one station was practical: target practice with Peacekeeper-issued plasma weapons. That’s what I was in charge of.

  “You know,” said the lumpy-looking man after he’d blown off the rear tire of a broken-down transport, instead of the tall, upside-down waste disposal container we’d set up in the foreground as targets. “I’m not so sure we have what it takes to be a real militia.”

  He looked at the smoking back end of the vehicle and frowned. “We’re just factory workers.”

  Harold came up behind the lumpy man and patted him on the back. “If you can spend twelve hours operating a power drill, you can definitely fire a plasma gun.”

  “Harold’s right,” I said. “Nobody’s ever ‘just’ a factory worker, or a maintenance crew member, or a photographer for the Daily Bugle . . . or . . . whatever you do to earn money.”

  Several of the civilians at the firing range had stopped to listen in on our conversation, so I spoke a little louder. “And besides, ‘factory worker’ is just a job. It’s not who you are.”

  I looked at the lumpy man and then down the line at the others. “You’re all so much more than a job.” I was on fire. My voice rose with passion. I could practically hear the swelling of an orchestra in the background and I extended my arms to gather them all into the expanding, electric moment.

  “And with a little training and discipline, you can be even more than that!”

  They all nodded. “Think about it! A nobody orphan boy on a moisture farm can become a space warrior and save the galaxy! A skinny orphan boy in glasses can become a great wizard and save the world! A child whose parents were gunned down in front of him can grow up to wear a costume that strikes fear into the hearts of criminals and—wait, they’re all orphans, aren’t they? Huh.”

  Lopez was giving me the “wrap it up” signal. Yeah, better quit while I was ahead.

  “Anyway, so the point is: YOU CAN DO THIS!”

  They cheered.

  I was finally getting through to them, and it looked like they were finally starting to develop some confidence. The lumpy man went back to his plasma weapon, raising it again at the makeshift target. He took a deep breath, fired, and nailed the target, knocking it over. He looked over and gave me a crooked-toothed grin, and I smiled back.

  Stanton was busy educating a handful of civilians about basic military battle strategy. I saw him stop talking suddenly and tilt his head slightly. He held up a finger to the group, and then pressed the side of his helmet before turning around and cupping his ears to avoid the less-than-professional noises of our militia.

  I continued to supervise target practice distractedly, glancing over at Stanton every few seconds. Finally, he turned back around and strode purposefully back to me.

  “That was Captain Patel,” he said hesitantly. “She said . . . well, our forces have discovered localized Dominion activity.”

  I smiled. “That’s great news!”

  “I suppose so,” said Stanton, who was fidgeting with the cuffs of his fatigue sleeves. “Only, our militia is being ordered to mobilize and join Colonel Vaiega’s offensive campaign.”

  I looked back at our so-called militia, several of whom kept turning the plasma weapons over and over in their hands, examining them closely, instead of actually shooting them at our makeshift target range. My faint smile turned quickly upside down.

  “When are they expecting us to join the others?” I asked.

  Stanton swallowed, then said the word I was afraid to hear.

  “Immediately.”

  29

  I THOUGHT IT was weird that Captain Patel had spoken with Lieutenant Stanton privately and was making me wait to receive a full briefing and orders for the upcoming operation. I was pretty sure she felt threatened by me and I figured this communication had something to do with that—hopefully nothing more serious. But I’d been wrong before.

  Lopez emerged from one of the transports with a thick, circular device that was almost as dull and scratched as the transport itself. She set it on the ground in front of our militia, who had gathered near our makeshift shooting range. Lopez pressed a button, and as she stepped back, a large, dull blue translucent image of Captain Patel appeared. It was only a holographic image of her from the shoulders up, but it was at least twice her size in real life, which made her look even more intimidating than usual—especially to civilians who weren’t used to her tight bun, sharp eyebrows, and intense stare.

  “Members of the Misenus militia,” Patel began in her sharpest, most authoritative voice. “I am Captain Patel, commanding officer of Peacekeeper forces on Triton. It has been proposed that you be recognized as an official
, temporary militia unit, and once this operation has concluded, you will be disbanded.”

  She looked down and began to read her next statement. “In the event of desertion, you will be arrested, classified as an enemy combatant and tried for treason against the United Federation of Sol.”

  The civilians shifted uncomfortably and glanced at their neighbors, trying not to be nervous.

  “And,” Patel continued rapidly, trying to get through this mandatory speech as quickly as possible, “in the eventuality of your death during a sanctioned combat scenario, you will be publicly recognized as honorary members of the Peacekeeper forces, but you will not receive the death benefits afforded to enlisted soldiers.”

  Her image looked up at the gathering of militia members. “If you agree to these terms and conditions, say, ‘Aye.’”

  Harold responded loudly, and the others followed suit.

  “Very well,” Patel said, continuing as quickly as she could. “By the power vested in me by the United Federation of Sol, I officially enlist you as members of the Misenus militia.”

  Patel’s image looked up and she feigned a smile before she reached for something off-cam. Her image was replaced by a large street map of downtown Kalliste, but her voice continued to sound over the projector.

  “Now, the Dominion’s forces appear to be concentrated at this location.” The map highlighted a two-block area in red, which blinked off and on. “However, there was a single civilian report,” she continued, “of possible enemy activity here.” A drastically smaller area a dozen or so blocks away became highlighted in yellow and also began to blink.

  I bit my lip, dreading what our orders would be.

  “Under the direction of Colonel Vaiega—” There was a rumbling of recognition among the civilians. “—we will surround the primary Dominion location.” Dozens of green circles appeared around the blinking red area.

  Maybe we would be able to join the rest of the soldiers, after all. It was a large space they were fortifying, and they’d need all the help they could get, especially if they were making a coordinated strike. Even the secondary lines would be sure to get some serious action, if our previous battles were any indication.

  “We do not believe the secondary location to be a threat.” Two blue squares appeared next to the small, blinking yellow area on the map. “However, we are dispatching your militia unit—under the direction of Sergeant Walker—to ensure that the area is all clear.”

  Patel’s image reappeared, and this time, her face wasn’t as tight. She was exhausted from everything we’d been through, and it was starting to show. “Once you have performed a thorough examination of the area and the surrounding blocks—inside and outside of the buildings—you will await further instructions. Dismissed.”

  Great—not only had we been separated from the rest of the Peacekeeper’s main forces, but we had just clearly been assigned to a second-rate field of combat. Hell, since the location was based on a single civilian report of suspicious behavior, with my luck, all we’d find would be a senior citizen who’d wandered off after visiting the local buffet. And I was apparently in charge of this mission, which meant that if anything wasn’t done exactly by the book, Patel could nail me for improper leadership and have me court martialed. Or worse.

  The holovid faded, and Stanton stepped to the front of the group and divided them between our two transports. As they filed out, Rand handed each of them a plasma gun and a separate clip with the silver slugs, nodding at each militia member as they passed him.

  Once they’d all piled into the back of our two transports, I stepped up into the pilot’s seat of my vehicle and slammed the door so hard that I heard its large dent—the one I’d picked up from civilians throwing things at us earlier—pop back outward. I plugged the coordinates of our destination into the mapping system and stepped on the accelerator.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Winnifred asked loudly from the co-pilot’s seat.

  I shook my head and quickly pulled ahead of Stanton’s transport, which was still hauling Panthra in her cage. I saw her large, sad eyes looking at me through the bars as I passed, and promised myself that I’d demand a larger form of transportation for her next time. That is, if I hadn’t been demoted after failing this mission. Maybe I could just have Stanton take over the operation—he was the most by-the-book soldier I’d ever met. I’m sure he’d do a better job than me. I didn’t have much formal experience leading, and was beginning to have the sneaking suspicion that my rank advancement to sergeant was because of my celebrity, and not because of soldiering.

  My shaky transport barreled down the street as fast as its third-hand engine would take it. The terrible potholes that peppered the road grew even worse as I drove us toward our assigned coordinates. And by “worse,” I mean there was very little road that wasn’t a pothole. They got deeper and deeper, so I had to put all my attention into steering the noisy transport.

  After swerving to miss a kidney-shaped crater of a pothole, I pressed a button on the console just beside the steering column and hailed the other vehicle. “Hey, Stanton?” I yelled. “How’s your group doing?”

  I moved to the left-hand side of the street to avoid a row of child-sized potholes.

  “As my grandmum used to say,” Stanton replied, “they look like rats in a room full of robo-chairs.”

  I tapped a screen on the console and saw a live vid feed of the civilians sitting in the back of my transport, most of whom were fumbling nervously with their plasma guns.

  “Same here,” I said. “You know, I was thinking—maybe you should take command of this operation. I’m sure you’ve handled your fair share of jittery new recruits.”

  “And besides,” I said, jerking the steering column to the right to avoid a pothole big enough to hold a dragon’s hoard. “You’re always saying how irresponsible I am. Wouldn’t it be better for you to just take over and make sure it’s done right, instead of risking the whole thing going south?”

  There was a slight pause, then, “I’m sorry—I’m under strict orders for you to lead. I am merely here to ensure that a backup officer is present in case you are incapacitated. Stanton out.”

  Winnifred leaned over from the co-pilot’s seat and laid her hand gently on my forearm. “I wish you were not so troubled,” she said loudly over the roar of the engine. “I am sure you will prove yourself an extraordinary leader.”

  I shook my head as I dodged a small, broken-down transport that had been abandoned in the middle of the road.

  “Yeah—I might just turn out to be the best soldier in history at following false leads. And I’m pretty sure Patel’s sending us to this ‘secondary location’ just to keep us busy and out of the way of any real combat. When my best—m-my friend—is who knows where. A werewolf chew toy.” I choked a little and tried to pass it off as a cough.

  Winnifred squeezed my arm and said, “Things are not always what they seem, my warrior—what at first seems to be the most insignificant skirmish may turn out to be the most pivotal battle. Who knows? Perhaps the Red Dragon and his leftenant will be at this ‘secondary location,’ and the larger group will turn out to be a distraction.”

  The mapping system beeped three times, letting me know that we were nearing our destination. The road magically smoothed out as we passed into the upscale quadrant of town. Pot holes gave way to decorative medians peppered with multi-colored displays of synthetic flowers. I parked a couple blocks away from the indicated area, just in case, and looked carefully at my surroundings.

  There were several two to three-story office buildings with stores interspersed between them, but no sign of anything out of the ordinary. I pulled off to the side of the road, just behind a squat, high-end clothing store—Amphitrite’s Closet—and Stanton parked close behind me. The normally bustling and fashionable city center was eerily empty, but here and there were small signs of the civilians quietly hiding within—barricaded doors and covered windows.

  The street light on t
he corner was out, providing us with at least some cover in the dark of night.

  I pressed a button and hailed the other transport. “Stanton, this is Walker. How about you and I do a quick visual sweep before letting the rats out?”

  “I’m sorry?” Stanton responded, the confusion apparent in his voice. Then, “Oh, yes, I understand. Room full of robo-chairs. Roger that.”

  I looked at the vid feed of my militia passengers. Yes, they did look a little like bedraggled rats. Most of them were now hunching forward, clutching their weapons close to their chests. I flipped a comm switch on the console and spoke.

  “Okay, team—we’ve arrived. I want you all to take a deep breath and relax. We’re going to do a quick scan of our area. If the coast’s clear, then I’ll knock three times on the back door and you can join me. Oh—and make sure you’ve loaded your silver plasma slug clip, just in case.”

  Winnifred and I jumped out of our transport, and Stanton, Lopez, and Rand exited theirs. I pulled out my rod-sword and turned around in a circle, finding the most likely places for the enemy to take cover and making sure nobody was there.

  “See anything?” I asked Winnifred.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  I turned and made eye contact with the others. After exchanging nods, Winnifred and I rounded my transport and knocked three times on the back door.

  There was a long pause, and then the left-hand side of the double-door creaked open. The long-nosed woman stood in the doorway with wide eyes and a white-knuckled grip on her plasma gun. The dozen or so faces behind hers were almost identical masks of terror.

  “Look,” I said, “We’ve checked the most vulnerable points, and the coast is clear.”

  Their shoulders relaxed a bit and they didn’t look quite so much like they were about to collectively poop their pants. I opened the other double door and gestured outside with my sword.

  “See?” I said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  The long-nosed woman let out a nervous laugh. She crouched to hop off the back of the transport, but then froze, her eyes widening to twice their previous size. I didn’t think too much of it, but a fraction of a second later, I heard Panthra’s snarl.