Hostage Run

by Andrew Klavan

  Above him, the slimy tentacles of the WarCraft monster wafted across the sky, close enough, it seemed, to reach down and grab him as they had in his nightmare. The giant WarCraft continued its long rise, the vast saucer shape blotting out the sky. The Cobra Guards kept watch and their living spears acted as eyes in the backs of their heads. All the same, the scene was so confusing that as a Boar Rick was able to move through the little crowd with a show of confidence and join the other Worker Boars around their cart. In the flashing darkness, he grabbed a canister off the cart and carried it to the blimp-like supply ship. He tossed it into the open bay and immediately climbed up into the bay after it.

  “Come on,” he shouted back at the others in a snorting pigvoice as he balanced himself atop the stack of canisters. “There’s room for a few more, hand them up!”

  Outside the air grew even darker as the lightning flashes grew brighter and steadier. The supply ship bucked and lifted under his cloven feet as if it were coming to life. One of the Boars outside handed him another canister. Rick grabbed it and helped shift it up into the bay. The moment it was onboard, he moved his clumsy piggy form across the top of the canister stack. He reached the end of the pile and slid down onto the bay floor. Now he was inside the belly of the ship. And there, a few steps away from him, was the door to the cockpit. He went to it quickly and pushed through.

  He stood on the threshold of the cockpit as the thunderous rumble outside grew louder and the flashes of lightning continued and the ship juddered and wobbled all around him. The cockpit, he saw, was cartoonishly simple. There was a swivel seat and a steering wheel like the wheel of a car. There was a broad windshield, and a flight deck with a monitor, and a few switches and knobs. Over the crashing noise of the rising WarCraft, Rick heard voices raised behind him.

  “It’s lifting off! Shut the cargo bay! Hurry!”

  Looking back over his shoulder, Rick saw two Boars grab hold of the bay doors and swing them shut. At the same moment, the door to the cockpit opened. Rick faced front and saw a Pilot Boar step in.

  The Pilot Boar was large and mean-looking. He had dead black eyes and a long curling snout with two sharp tusks showing. His hide was covered in thick, stiff, bristling hairs. At his waist he wore a belt. In the belt, he had some kind of pistol holstered.

  With all the noise outside, and with the ship beginning to roll and quake and rise, Rick was beginning to lose his concentration. He could feel his morphed shape about to slip. He tried to hold on, but his focus was collapsing.

  Rick sank back a little into the cargo bay and the Pilot Boar didn’t see him right away. The Pilot was working quickly to close the door before the lightning lifted the supply ship into the air and sent it soaring up to the WarCraft.

  Rick fought for another second to hold his shape, but how could he with the noise and the flashing darkness outside and the gigantic tentacles waving across the windshield?

  The Pilot Boar shut the door hard and pressed a large iron bolt through two metal loops, locking the door in place. He turned to approach the ship’s controls.

  And as he turned, he spotted Rick standing in the bay doorway.

  And as he spotted Rick, Rick’s Boar shape began to slip.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” said the Pilot Boar, confused by the sight of the blurred and shifting figure.

  Outside, the lightning flashed again—and now became a steady electric blast all around them, turning the windows white. The supply ship lifted unsteadily into the air.

  Rick made one last desperate attempt to hold on to his shape, to answer the Pilot in a gruff Boar voice. But it was no use. The next moment his morph slipped away and he turned back into himself.

  The Pilot Boar’s black eyes went wide. His hand went to the weapon at his side.

  “Intruder!” he whispered, startled.

  Caught, Rick had no choice. He drew his sword and rushed at him.

  29. DUEL

  THE FOREST ERUPTED with light and gunfire as the drone dove out of the night at Victor and Molly. Molly heard herself scream as the bullets whispered by her legs. The slugs peppered the ground all around her, throwing up clods of earth to her left and right. The near presence of death erased everything from her mind but fear.

  She ran blindly through the darkness. She heard the propeller of the small, deadly plane right behind her. She clutched Victor One’s hand as he ran ahead, as he pulled her along over the invisible path. They were moving so fast and it was so dark, she quickly lost any notion of where she was or where she was going. All she knew was that the drone’s spotlight was searching her out, and every time it touched her, every time it even came near her, there was a fresh barrage of hot lead.

  “This way!” Victor One shouted.

  He swerved suddenly, heading for the black shape of a large tree trunk rising to their left. Molly wasn’t ready for the quick movement. She tried to follow him, but she stepped on something—a rock she thought—and her ankle twisted. She lost her balance. The next thing she knew she was falling, unable to see, unable to recover. She hit the earth hard, her breath coughing out of her.

  “Molly!” she heard Victor One shout.

  The next moment, the drone shot out of the sky and its spotlight caught her where she lay. She looked up just in time to see the single white eye of the flying machine bearing down on her. She knew that in the next second, it would open fire again. In the second after that, she would be dead.

  A blast sounded right above her. She felt her heart seize in her chest. Was that it? Was she hit, was she wounded? Was she going to die? She saw a hot spark flash up out of the spotlight’s glare, as if something had struck the fuselage of the drone and ricocheted off it. A second later, the drone swerved. The spotlight tilted to the side and Molly was lying in darkness again as the machine flew past her.

  “Come on!” shouted Victor One.

  She looked up. The bodyguard was standing above her, a pistol gripped in his hand. He had fired on the drone, sent it reeling away before it could rake her with bullets. Now he was clutching her arm, hauling her to her feet.

  She leapt up. She looked around. She saw the drone soaring away above the swamp hedges in the near distance. It was already banking to the right, already turning, preparing to circle around and come back at them.

  “The tree!” shouted Victor One.

  He didn’t have to say it twice. She was clutching his hand again, flying through the dark again, her head filled with the sound of her own gasping breaths and the deadly whisper of the drone’s propeller.

  They reached the tree trunk, a looming black ruin of what had once been an ancient oak. Victor One stopped short beside it. Molly, following blindly, ran right into him. He caught her, held her shoulders in his two hands, pressed her against his chest as if to shield her from the drone with his body.

  Held in his grip, Molly turned her head and saw the drone giving chase. It had turned full around now, was heading back toward them. Its spotlight cut a swath through the darkness, searching them out.

  “It’s going to find us,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “I know,” said Victor One.

  And sure enough, the next moment, the spotlight swept over them. The drone steadied and headed their way.

  And still Victor One held Molly against him, as if he were just going to stand there, wait for the thing. As if he thought he was so tough the bullets would just bounce off him.

  “It’s going to shoot!” she cried out, terrified.

  “Hold still,” said Victor One, his voice firm. “Hold still until I tell you.”

  The spitting whisper of the drone’s propeller became a low, grinding hum. Molly saw the winged craft adjust its path and rocket toward them through the air. It was almost within range again, almost ready to open fire and cut them to pieces.

  “Now!” shouted Victor One—and in the same instant, he swung Molly around in a dizzying arc, putting the oak’s trunk between them and the drone.

  The d
rone let off a short burst of gunfire. Molly heard the bullets thud into the dead tree. But then the hunting machine must have realized its prey had ducked out of sight: it stopped shooting. Molly heard the aircraft let out a whine. She understood: Victor One had dodged so quickly it hadn’t had time to readjust its flight path. It was heading straight for the trunk.

  Molly said a quick prayer that the machine would crash. But no deal. The drone banked and swung to the right just in time. She saw the plane’s white belly as it swerved away from the tree trunk and cut off again through the darkness.

  “Stay here, stay covered,” Victor One told her.

  He let her go and stepped out from behind the tree.

  “What are you doing?” Molly shouted.

  But Victor One did not look back.

  Having passed the tree trunk, the drone was now retreating from them. Victor One lifted his pistol, gripping it in one hand while he held his arm steady with the other. He took careful aim at the retreating aircraft.

  And then he stood there like that, his legs spread, his body planted, the gun trained on the aircraft.

  “Shoot it,” said Molly. The words broke from her before she even thought to speak.

  “Too far,” said Victor One in an undertone. “I’ve only got fourteen shots left. They have to count.”

  “But it’s going to turn. It’s going to come back.”

  “I know. Just stay behind the tree, Molly.”

  She did. She hugged the trunk and pressed her cheek against the rough bark. She watched as the drone flew out over the swamp, began to bank, began to turn. Once again, its spotlight shot through the night, searching them out. Once again, the light grew brighter as the drone approached.

  Victor One stood where he was, out in the open, his gun leveled at the oncoming plane. It made Molly breathless to watch him. It was a kind of courage she had never seen before: a soldier’s courage. It was as if he was challenging the thing to a duel, face-to-face, his pistol against its machine gun. For her. To protect her.

  She watched as the drone swept toward him through the night. She held her breath. The light from the drone’s spotlight crept across the ground, closer to Victor One and closer. It found him. The glow touched his feet. It traveled up his legs.

  “Shoot it,” Molly said, but her voice was squeezed out between her gritted teeth, barely audible.

  The drone came closer. Victor One stayed still, his pistol trained on the oncoming spotlight.

  Shoot it! This time, Molly wasn’t sure whether she had spoken aloud or not. She was just willing Victor One to blow the thing out of the air.

  Then, at the very same instant, Victor One pulled the trigger, and the drone let loose a deadly barrage.

  The blast of the bodyguard’s Glock filled the forest. The patter of the drone’s answering fire made the earth shiver. There was an explosion of glass and the drone’s spotlight went out, drenching the forest in darkness. The drone coughed and wavered in the air.

  Molly was about to let out a cheer of triumph—but now, by starlight, she saw Victor One stagger backward in her direction.

  The drone—dark now with its spotlight gone—veered unsteadily to the right and missed the tree trunk by inches, flying past and out over the swamp again.

  And at the same time, Victor One was falling. He toppled down heavily at Molly’s feet. She stared through the night and saw the blood pouring from his forehead. The gore had already splashed down over the side of his face.

  She screamed in terror. “Victor!”

  But he didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

  Molly heard the drone retreating. Then the noise of the propeller changed. She turned in the direction of the sound. Now that its spotlight was gone, she could only just make out the pale shadow of the thing.

  But she could see that it was turning, circling around.

  Victor One lay motionless on the earth as the drone came back for Molly.

  30. WHEN PIGS FLY

  THERE IS A lot of praying in football. At least there was when Rick played. As the team’s quarterback, he had frequently led the other players in a prayer before a game. Some people—even some of the other players on the team—made fun of Rick’s prayers. They thought he was praying for victory, and they said that God didn’t care who won a football game; God had more important things to worry about. But Rick ignored the jokes. He never prayed for victory. He prayed for excellence. He prayed for a strong spirit in adversity and courage under attack. He prayed for help with sportsmanship in the midst of ferocious competition and for the health of both his team and the opposing players. In those days, when he still trusted God without question, he understood that God could use either victory or defeat to his good purposes.

  But once the prayers were over, once he was out on the field, once the kickoff happened and play began, the thought of winning—the desire to win—frequently overwhelmed him. Well, of course it did. He was playing a game, after all. Games are played to win, and he knew that the desire to win can bring out the best in you. You don’t strive for excellence with your whole heart if you don’t want to win with your whole heart. You don’t need a strong spirit in adversity if you don’t want victory so badly you’re willing to endure adversity. You don’t even need sportsmanship really if you don’t want to win—sportsmanship, after all, is about rising above the passions of the conflict to treat your opponent with fairness and respect; you can’t rise above the passions of the conflict if you don’t feel them. In the end, it is the desire to win that lifts you to better things than victory.

  But sometimes, too, the desire to win could become all-consuming. There were moments in the thick of a game when Rick felt as if he would rather die than let the “W” slip away from him, moments when the good intentions of his earlier prayers vanished and all that was left in his heart was the hunger to score. In moments like that, the ideas of excellence, of spirit and courage and sportsmanship, slipped from his mind. In moments like that, he wanted nothing more spiritual than the next touchdown.

  This was a moment like that.

  He had come back into the MindWar Realm for the best of reasons. He was risking his life and his mind to protect his country, to protect the lives of innocent people, to try to save his friends Mariel and Favian. As the lid of the glass portal box had been closing over him, he had prayed, just as he used to pray before a game, prayed that whether he lived or died, he would be able to stop the coming terrorist attack and rescue his friends.

  But Rick was a passionate guy. His heart could be overwhelmed with emotion quickly. Right now, all his prayers were forgotten. Right now, his only thought was: victory.

  With Mariel’s sword gripped in his white-knuckled hand, he raced across the cockpit at the huge Pilot Boar. The sporadic lightning outside had become a steady blast, and the supply craft was rising on it, flashing with it, rolling this way and that.

  As Rick attacked, the Pilot Boar reached for his pistol. But before he could draw it, the ship’s turbulent motion flung the pig back against the cockpit wall. The impact jolted his arm away from his holster. And now Rick was too close for him to draw. Instead, the Boar crouched and lifted his arms to fight off the intruder’s assault. His arms were huge, massively muscled, and bristly with stiff brown needles of fur. His snout was curled at the lips, making his tusks seem enormous. His beady eyes flashed black.

  Rick and the Pilot Boar came crashing together. Rick brought Mariel’s blade sweeping down at the creature’s head, but one of those big Boar arms came up and blocked Rick’s swing. The bristling forearm smacked into Rick’s wrist. Rick’s hand snapped open and the sword went flying, clanging against the wall before it dropped down and wedged itself behind the control panel.

  In the next instant Boar and Man were locked together, struggling for supremacy. The Boar was incredibly strong, a wild beast, full of power. But Rick’s rage for victory surged through him and gave him power to match power. For long seconds, the two combatants were frozen in their wrestling po
se, neither able to gain the upper hand.

  Then, outside, with a deafening electric crackle, the lightning bridge that linked the Golden City on the ground to the huge WarCraft darkening the sky above was amped up to full wattage. The supply ship shot up into the sky. The floor beneath the fighters dipped and slid and the Pilot Boar and Rick were thrown tumbling across the cockpit. They smashed into the wall and broke apart. Both fell to the floor and both tried to scramble to their feet immediately as the supply ship tipped and rollicked and flew. The heavy Pilot Boar crashed shoulder-first into the flight controls. Rick was thrown against the Pilot’s chair. Both fighters grabbed anything they could—the panel’s edge, the chair’s back—and dragged themselves upright.

  Now the Pilot Boar reached for his gun. He moved fast for such a big creature, his hand a blur. He drew the pistol. He pointed it at Rick’s chest. He pulled the trigger.

  But by then Rick had pushed himself off the chair. He had a moment—an instant—to focus his spirit. His body dissolved into moving atoms. Like Favian, he flashed across the cockpit. In an instant—less than an instant—he was in front of the startled Boar. He swung his arm at the Boar’s arm. He knocked the Boar’s hand aside. The pistol shot out a lancing purple flash of energy. Rick felt the heat of it as it sizzled past his side. Then he had the Pilot Boar’s wrist in his powerful grip. He twisted until the Boar grunted in pain. The gun dropped. But then, with his free hand, the Boar slugged Rick in the side of the head. It was a powerful blow that might have knocked a lesser man unconscious. But Rick was so wild to win, so full of competitive passion, that he barely felt the punch. He grabbed the Pilot Boar by his thick and furry throat and the two went spinning across the cockpit again, locked together in their death struggle.

  The supply ship was now sailing up off the surface of the Realm and shooting toward the WarCraft. The ship’s wraparound windshield was filled with lightning and sky—a sky now gone dark beneath the blossoming indigo clouds. As Rick and the Pilot Boar wrestled in the cockpit, the clouds surrounded the rocketing ship. The windshield was blotted with murky blue. The lightning bridge turned a muted gray. The craft wobbled and shuddered as if it might stall at any moment and plummet to the ground.