Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

by Matthew Taylor

  It had already been a month since Paul landed in the ruined capital of Jakarta and boarded an armored convoy through the devastated countryside to the Coit. The Commonwealth’s base of operations, he learned, was conspicuously positioned near Consortium oil fields, and far from the sea of human misery they were ostensibly there to help.

  Finally reaching the crest of the Coit, he paused at the berm to let the morning’s first lorries pass and looked at the company’s banner sagging lifelessly in the muggy air from a barkless tree trunk. A black, shielded eagle stitched onto an olive-gray background, an olive branch in one talon and arrows in the other. It stood in the outpost's command center—the Eagle’s Nest. Or “the Head,” as the men called it.

  The Head was the outermost end of their forested ridge, a two-mile-long peninsula separated from the next ridge by the expanse they called “the Minge.” The men referred to the peninsula as the Shaft—and the three-lane road running along its crest “the Vein.”

  “G’morning, One Eye,” Chris greeted the banner’s eagle with his usual disdain. “Huh? What's that? Yer gonna fuck us again t’day? Well, I’ll just go lube-up now. BRB.”

  Paul gave Chris a gentle push with his fist—a reminder to keep his voice down.

  “McNutsack could be around here anywhere,” Paul whispered to him. In fact, Paul could already make out the voice of Michael Newstock—McNutsack—the company’s supply and logistics officer, barking at the truck drivers for coming in too slow and departing too fast. In truth, Paul thought McNutsack had the hardest job in the company, and he didn’t really deserve the nick-name. Food, water, ammunition, parts, weapons, new recruits—in. Damaged equipment, spent materials, and men (injured, sick, and dying)—out. The stress of it all had left McNutsack with little patience or humor.

  To McNutsack, a devout and nationalistic man, the black eagle on the banner represented their sacred mission and the vigilance that he needed to protect the fragile bodies of the 250 or so soldiers sent here to defend their country and alleviate the suffering of the innocent. That meant protecting its food and water. It meant defending the peninsula, its launch pads, artillery, emplacements, and machine-gun nests. And it meant relentless maintenance of the tiers of trenches, fox holes, and pill boxes dug along the slopes. It meant truckloads of hats, helmets, belts, boots, fatigues, protective mesh, and clean socks. Crates of mosquito nets, tents and tarps, medicine and bandages, sporks, tin plates, guns, bullets, and spare parts. It meant a steady stream of water, sunscreen, insect repellant, fuel, and soupy biotein eggs.

  “Never rest,” the sigil whispered to him. And McNutsack never did.

  Most of Paul’s tasks had little to do with the humanitarian mission they had been sent to do. He and his comrades were mind-numbingly bored and bone tired most of the time—with a subtle undercurrent of anxiety as they waited for the terrifying violence that inevitably punctuated the monotony. That anxiety spiked for Paul, when just days after arriving at the Coit, he was designated a door gunner on a dragon-fire jump-jet, despite being a technical specialist—an enduring benefit of his Uncle Christian’s.

  Despite being the least experienced, not the smartest, not the most outgoing, and a native of a near-foreign province, Paul had emerged as the unstated leader of his posse, and they convened every morning to march up the hill to the meal area together. In that role, Paul bid Chris to pipe down with the color commentary, at least with McNutsack around, and led them to the cook’s trough for their allotment of biotein breakfast.

  They sat down together in their usual spot, and Paul turned on his wrist-plat to read over everyone’s daily assignments. He hadn’t gotten through the second task, however, when his wrist-plat blinked red and started chiming.

  [LIEUTENANT LANCASTER REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO FLIGHT STATION]

  Noticing Gajah’s wrist-plat blinking red like his own, he shoveled one more bite of his unsatisfying breakfast into his gob, grabbed his helmet, and started down a narrow footpath toward his designated launch pad, Gajah on his heels.

  Half way there, they met up with Charlie Turner racing down the trail from his tent. Paul offered him a puzzled look, but Charlie only shrugged.

  Paul loved Charlie best of all. They spent long hours together working on their aircraft and confided in each other about many of the same worries. Both had single mothers, abusive fathers, and siblings back home, and flying in the same airship meant that if death came for one of them, it most likely would come for them both. Despite Charlie’s introverted personality, he was always happy to see Paul in the morning, like he’d been looking forward to it since the end of their previous shift.

  Only seventeen and born to a Korean father and black mother, Charlie was raised in the ramshackle shell of eastern Detroit. Like many other mezclados, he had signed up for military service when Detroit descended into full-blown racial violence, and the black street militias killed his father. His options at home had been limited anyway, but there were a few opportunities to make ends meet for his mother and two sisters. Charlie needed steady money, and he needed to learn to fight if they were to survive. Leaving them was a calculated risk.

  With veterans virtually guaranteed residency in any township in the province they served—and lotteried soldiers benefitted to live in any province or territory, he made the same gamble Paul did to secure some modicum of long-term stability for his family. Like Paul, he didn’t expect to be shipped to the other side of the globe, risking his life for the far-flung empires of the Ellies. The deployment was a race against time to get his family to a township before marauders, ethnic militias, or drug gangs found an excuse to kill or enslave his mother and sisters. Since the day he’d left, Charlie worried himself sick over his family. If Charlie was aloof, Paul figured, it was because he had one foot planted on the Coit—here with his comrades—and one foot back home, where his family survived in a city often torn apart by hatred.

  They arrived at their dragon-fire jump-jet, dubbed “Jizz Spitter” (“Jizzy” for short) to add a little more phallus humor to their days. The camouflage netting over the jump-jet, “the Condom,” had already been removed by the ground crew, and Jizzy’s engines were grumbling.

  Anxiety rising in his chest, Paul instinctively sped up and hurriedly strapped-in behind his door cannon. Charlie did the same opposite him. In seconds, Paul’s stomach dropped as they lifted into the air, the safety of the landing pad shrinking to a speck. As they climbed into the low-lying fog, skimming the treetops, another three other dragon-fires pulled into formation alongside them. Two tiger-shark jump-jets, two bull-shark assault ships, and twenty-odd drones arrived minutes later.

  “Ready up,” the co-pilot announced flatly. “We’ve been directed to a civvie-shoot. Weapons hot. ETA two minutes.”

  The ship banked and accelerated, and Paul’s stomach dropped again. He found he couldn’t swallow and felt a sudden need to both piss and puke. Prepping the door gun, he watched the drones fan out and speed ahead of the manned airships.

  When they arrived at the target, the drones had already made fast work of a Caliphati outpost. Wrecked bodies of soldiers lay dead and dying throughout the small fort, reduced to mostly scorched rubble. He didn’t want to look, but he forced himself to squint in a panicky effort to survey any threats through the smoke and fog.

  No sign of civvies anywhere, he realized, but the thought flashed quickly, overtaken in an instant a mental reminder to find any remaining hostiles.

  The aerial drones circled overhead, as the bull-sharks touched down and disgorged their snake-eater ground attack vehicles and troops. Paul spied Gajah among them, leaping out of his ship to chase down the handful of fleeing defenders into the forest surrounding the fort. Paul scanned the area around his friend, poised to shield him with a hail of bullets.

  After a few minutes of chaos, the pilot’s voice crackled again. “All clear. Prep for landing.”

  The moment they landed and Paul disembarked, he realized something was very wrong. The smoldering hulks of t
he fort’s armored vehicles sat in straight lines, their camouflage tarps floating on the air like ashen spider webs. Most of the charred bodies were clustered at the entrance of the barracks or inside the rubble.

  They were sleeping. Paul realized. There’re no civilians. …And why would there be? We’re inside a fort.

  He then caught sight of Gajah, who looked at him in bewilderment, clearly having had the same revelation.

  “OK,” came a shout from behind him. Paul turned around to find his unit commander, George Fernandez. “Five minutes. Team One, perimeter. Team Two, sweep the buildings. I want computers and V-plats. Team Three, set incendiaries.” Paul stared at him, incredulous. Catching Paul’s gaze, the commander’s face flushed red. “Lanc-o-shyster are you not Team Three?” he shouted.

  Paul snapped out of his disbelieving haze and forced his legs and his sickened stomach to move. “Faster, Dipshit!” the commander screamed. “Lift off in ten, and I want this place cleaned and torched!”

  Paul scrambled to obey, running to his ship to fetch a box of incendiary pods. With each bomb he placed, though, he knew the forensic evidence would point back to the Expeds—to the Black Eagles, if the Caliphati investigators were any good. Nevertheless, he placed his last explosive and staggered back to his airship, bending over to hurl before climbing into his position for lift off.

  He, Charlie, and Gajah didn’t speak of what had happened that day in the week that followed, despite the eager questions from Mauricio, Chris, and Phil. Paul, however, had new recurring nightmares and bouts of nausea every time he climbed into his perch behind Jizzy’s door-cannon and every time they lifted off—regardless of the mission. He was increasingly consumed by a dark, existential dread every time he marched up the Coit, seeing none of the regality that McNutsack saw on the unit’s limp banner.

  Dig, swarm, attack, kill. Obey. Repeat.

  It didn’t help that their jobs were among the most dangerous in the company. The air crews were the ones to mount-up every time an Exped got into trouble, needed cover, or had to be evacuated. They were air support for one raid or another, invariably dodging missiles and ripping human beings apart from the sky. Jizzy had, at one point or another, come to the aid of virtually every man in the company. It took its toll. Life expectancy for the air corps was short, and that weighed heavily on all of them.

  Paul rued the day he signed up for the Ozarks Provincial Militia, even if he didn’t know he’d be swept up in the security lottery, pushed into the Expeditionary Force, and shipped out to this god-forsaken place.

  And for what? He impugned himself. Some fucked up sense of duty? Fear of getting chucked out of a township? The Wilds are nothing compared to this insane asylum. What’s wrong with me?

  He found a modicum of comfort in the periodic V-plat calls he had with his family, seeing his mother and sister finally feeling safe in the walled community, united with his extended family and Shay. They had jobs, more than enough to eat, clean places to sleep, and round-the-clock security. His mother seemed to be recovering from the loss of his father, and Shay treated her like a queen. Victoria was only a little more boy crazy than before they left Cali-Sur, and she was doing well on the Track.

  They were good about not saying “told you so,” when he inadvertently hinted at the misery of life on the Coit. Or that he was an idiot, though it kind of went without saying.

  This morning was much like every other, once the crew had come together and made its way up the hill to the Head for breakfast. Paul grudgingly pulled on his wrist-plat and brought up the day’s work plan.

  “Let’s see what the Coit has in store for us this morning,” he said to his mates, trying to sound less miserable than he felt. “After our lovely breakfast—” he made a sweeping arm gesture as if it were a banquette—“we have supply duty, followed by battle-station readiness check and perimeter patrol in sector seven. A delicious—and healthful—biotein lunch,” he quipped, holding up one finger for emphasis. “Dig-n-fill: fox holes in Tier 2, Section 32. Then—wait for it—a gourmet biotein dinner.” While complaining had no point, sarcasm was a different matter entirely.

  Paul read on silently, searching with dread for any aerial assignments.

  Nothing.

  He had tuned-out from the banter starting up among Gajah, Chris, Phil, and Mauricio and didn’t notice the arrival of Charlie, who snuck up on him, bent down next to his ear, and greeted him with a gurgling hack of phlegm. Paul nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “Jesuchristo, Charlie. I nearly shat myself!” he chided.

  Charlie laughed out loud, along with the others, prompting a reluctant chuckle from Paul, who could never help but smile when Charlie laughed, if only because it was so infrequent. Charlie generally shied away from the banter and nonsense traded among the other men, who often saw him as aloof, so his unexpected visit for breakfast, and his humorous gesture was a welcome change.

  This day could end up alright, Paul thought.

  Charlie plopped down on a fold-out stool next to Paul, still chuckling at Paul’s startle. But the laughter died away quickly when Paul’s wrist-plat flashed red again. His heart sank.

  [LIEUTENANT LANCASTER STAY IN PLACE. PRESENT YOURSELF TO SECURITY]

  “What-the—” He looked up at the group, noticing Charlie and Gajah’s wrist-plats blinking red as well. The rest stared in silence.

  Before a word could be said, three MPs approached the group. Sargent George Fernandez, the company commander, followed behind, awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact with his troops.

  “Paul Lancaster?” the largest MP demanded. Paul lifted his hand in response. “Charlie Turner?” Charlie acknowledged likewise. “Gajah—whatever your last name is—” Gajah lifted his chin. “You three get up and come with us. You’re under arrest.”

  “Arrest?” Mauricio exclaimed. A chill went up Paul’s back.

  “What the fuck for?” Chris added angrily.

  Paul shot a look at Sargent Fernandez, who appeared resigned and nodded for Paul to abide.

  “War crimes,” came the MP’s response. The chills reached Paul’s head, and his thoughts went cloudy, his vision blurred.

  Mauricio stood up in outrage, promoting two of the MPs to put their hands on the handles of their holstered side arms. The MP in charge gripped the shock-baton strapped to his belt, and signaled Fernandez to follow suit.

  Paul reached up and tugged Mauricio’s sleeve, bidding him to sit down and avoid a throttling. Paul then stood up slowly from his chair, as did Charlie and Gajah. Without a word, Paul held out his wrists in submission, and the MPs handcuffed the three and lead them away.

  Chapter 26: Troubles

  (Emily Goldbloom)

  Emily Goldbloom emerged from the Troy Township’s church with her cousin Victoria, feeling uneasy after their long conversations with Jasmine Goodwell. The late-afternoon sun was still blazing, a hot dry wind blowing through the canopies shading the township’s plaza and narrow streets. The blast of heat that hit her as she left the air-conditioned building nearly made her sick to her stomach. She squinted to re-accustom her eyes to the brightness, just as she had done earlier that morning.

  Emily had woken up late on her plasti-foam mattress in the small apartment she shared with her mother, father, and little brother Tim. Her father had already left for the work site with Dorian Lee and Shay. The morning sun beaming onto her face, she pressed her eyes shut and stretched, yawned, and rolled over to feel a surge of energy at the thought of the day ahead. She had the whole day off—a rare luxury.

  Lounge around a bit. Meet Vic and Jazz for coffee. See if she can help with Paul. She wasn’t thrilled about that part. Vic’ll prob’ly split off after that to hook up with some guy. Maybe I’ll stop over to see Aunt Nessa at the infirmary. Re-sync with Vic for dinner. Early night. Back to work bright and early tomorrow. That last part she affirmatively dreaded.

  She gave herself a quick sponge bath and slipped into a fresh cotton shirt and overalls. With so much of her time
spent at the worksite wearing dirty, sweaty coveralls, a clean outfit was still a treat. Refreshed, she dawdled around the apartment a bit until it was time to go get Victoria on the way to the township café. She braced herself for the heat and set off through the muggy and bustling streets, navigating the slivers of shade on the sidewalks.

  Emily glistened with sweat, her hair clinging to her forehead, when she arrived at her cousin’s flat two blocks away. Letting herself in, she found her cousin sprawled out on an armchair, though her bed was just a few feet away. The V-plat was still casting a Virtual Immersive Media Experience by the Church of Salvation and Heavenly Peace—termed the PetrolChurch by those in the know. Emily sighed and nudged her cousin to wake up. She had come to love Victoria like a sister, but she was sometimes annoyed at the way Victoria seemed to squander her gifts with laziness and distractions.

  “We’re gonna be late,” Emily muttered, exasperated.

  With Victoria starting to stir, Emily made her way to the kitchenette and put a few drought-oat rolls into the solar oven, thinking it better to curb their appetites before getting to the café, where food was more expensive. She spread some biotein jam on the warm rolls, poured two glasses of iced Cafecito, and brought breakfast to her cousin, who at least was now sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  Emily scooched her cousin over and squeezed in beside her on the armchair, knowing it was too small to accommodate them both. Victoria begrudgingly shifted and took a roll from the plate. They sat quietly for a few minutes, only the sound of their lips smacking punctuating the silence.

  “Alright?” Emily finally proposed. Victoria nodded, finally looking awake, got up, and headed to the small sink in the kitchenette, where she wiped her face with a damp cloth.

  “Ready,” Victoria affirmed.

  They arrived at the township’s one café to find Jasmine Goodwell waiting for them at a table just inside the front window. Emily felt an instinctive fondness for Jasmine since they day they met. She hadn’t had intimate friends since her family left their home in Paola over a year before, and just seeing Jasmine filled Emily with an excited anticipation, much like she felt for Victoria.