The Rogue Wolf

by KT Belt

  “Threat, 12 o’clock,” the same corporal said. “Verify.”

  His tone was calm and even, but the callout warranted as much. Particle Motion Analysis, or PMA, scanners worked by tracking air molecules as they bounced off objects. They were notoriously difficult to read and prone to false positives, but they were a surefire way of detecting a cloaked individual.

  “Clear. Move out,” Miller said, and on they went.

  Carsono had never been to safe room S8C. He’d never been to any safe room. He hoped it was close. This section of the hall had offices lining either side. Their glass windows gave a rather pleasing view of almost the entire floor. Well, it would be pleasing any other day. Today, however, it made the team vulnerable. PMA scanners couldn’t see past solid structures, glass included. His eyes were peeled for any telltale distortion of a cloak field on the other side of the glass, but he saw none.

  The group bunched up at a door at the end of the hall, leaving them vulnerable again. The troopers didn’t show any apprehension, though—or, if they did, Carsono couldn’t detect it. In seconds, he was rushed through the door with calm professional haste.

  “Threat, 12 o’clock.”

  Miller paused for a moment. “Advance!” he called out. The troopers shuffled forward, and Carsono suspected they would have moved even faster if he wasn’t in the middle. “Drop your cloak, place your weapon on the floor, and put your hands in the air.”

  There was no response. If a pin dropped, it would’ve sounded like an earthquake. Carsono looked at where the troopers’ weapons were pointing. He didn’t see anything, though, not even the trademark distortion of a cloaking field. More than likely, the assassin was trying his best to stand still and not be seen.

  “Do it now, or we’ll open fire,” Miller said.

  Again, there was nothing.

  “All right, light him up!”

  Foster and Adams stood firm in their vigil of the rear. Miller and the corporal, however, laid a stream of fire that hit the opposite wall like a sledgehammer. Carsono wasn’t a boot trooper; he didn’t know every waking detail of the M12 rifle, nor did he care to learn. He knew enough to set his weapon to the indoor setting, but that was it. Sure, he went to target ranges to unwind and read eval reports of the weapon, but he was unprepared for its raw power. Only a buzzsaw could be more gruesome.

  Carsono saw something drop to the ground at the other end of the hall, but he couldn’t see much behind the two troopers unleashing hell.

  “Cease fire. Reload,” Miller called out.

  “Loaded, set,” the corporal said.

  “Loaded, set,” Miller said as well.

  Carsono took a deep breath. The scene was strangely calm in comparison to the last few seconds, but Miller and the corporal looked around the hall nervously. Carsono looked as well, for what he didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter anyway, since he still couldn’t see much from behind them.

  “Where’s the body? Where’s the body?” the corporal asked.

  “I don’t know,” Miller said. “Son of a bitch duped us with a shield generator.”

  Carsono’s eyes narrowed when he heard that. A shield projected into the shape of a man was all it took to set off a PMA scan. It had no way of telling if it was actually a person or not. He looked over one the trooper’s shoulders and was able to see the hardware on the ground.

  “Has to be here somewhere, bastard,” Miller added.

  Just then, his communicator cracked to life. “Squad report contact,” the voice on the other end said.

  “Sergeant Miller reporting. Negative contact. He used a shield to project a silhouette.”

  “Copy. Do you need any assistance?”

  Miller hesitated for a moment. “That’s a negative. We’ll be at the objective in under a minute.” Carsono gripped his M12 tight. He knew what that meant. They’d be running the rest of the way. Miller glanced at all the troopers and Carsono before he spoke. “Move out, double time. Go, go, go!”

  The corporal nodded. “Yes—”

  A loud noise thundered through the hall. To Carsono, it was like a bomb went off in his skull. He only faintly registered the pieces of the wall he was standing next to pelting him. There was smoke—well, more dust than smoke, now that he was able to consider it more clear-mindedly. His side hurt, and he realized he was lying on the floor. His gaze was listless. It was like being drunk, except the headache didn’t wait for the hangover.

  He looked at the wall that had showered him with debris. Still groggy, his eyes responded with all the verve of a crippled ocean liner. He could make out a distinct bullet hole with blood splattered all around it.

  Carsono groaned and, by reflex and as before, his hands flew over his body to make sure the blood wasn’t his. It was a fool’s errand, though. The corporal was lying dead right next to him, the front of his helmet ripped open from the impact.

  “Fire! Open fire!” one of the troopers yelled. He assumed it was Miller.

  Carsono’s gun lay next to him as well. He didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed it, head still spinning, and staggered to his feet before Sanchez tackled him to the ground and held him there.

  “Stay down, sir.”

  He would have none of it and growled, “Get the hell off me!” But Sanchez wouldn’t budge. Just like that, Carsono was reduced to being a spectator.

  Adams and Foster had moved to the front, but the remaining three troopers weren’t shooting down the hall. They raked its walls with weapon fire, any notion of reduced power mode for the M12s long forgotten. They weren’t as loud as the previous explosion had been, but it was enough. His daughter’s stereo could have been on full blast and he wouldn’t have heard it. He covered his ears as best he could. He was the only one there without hearing protection.

  “Loading!” Adams called out.

  Miller said the same a few seconds later, as did Foster, but not one of them stopped shooting. They each put another magazine into the wall before Miller called out a ceasefire. Just like that, there was silence. As before, it hung eerily in the hall as the dust slowly settled back to earth. Carsono breathed too shallowly to cough. His eyes were fixed on the wall now so riddled with bullets that you could practically walk through it. He waited. For what exactly, he didn’t know.

  “Did we get him? Did we get him?” Foster asked nervously.

  “Shit… The PMA is useless in this. I can’t tell,” Miller said.

  A voice reverberated through the air. “Let me give you a clue,” it said.

  Carsono thought he saw a distortion on the other side of the wall, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a bright flash and then that explosion of noise again. Miller reeled back before tumbling to the ground next to the admiral and Sanchez, a hole in the middle of his armored panel. Blood began to pool underneath him.

  “Fuck, it went right through the panel. What the hell is he armed wi—”

  That noise came again, and then Foster fell to the ground with a scream as he held what was left of his shoulder.

  Adams switched to the M12’s underslung grenade launcher and lobbed two shells into the wall. “Fall back to the next room! I’ll hold him off as long as I can. Go, go, go!” he yelled. He backed up his words by firing a long stream of bullets.

  Sanchez struggled to his feet before grabbing Carsono under his arms and pulling the admiral up. “We have to go, sir. Now!” he screamed.

  The trooper practically threw him toward the door they had entered the hall from. Both men darted into the next room, another explosion of sound marking the passing. Sanchez closed the door behind him. Carsono noted that he didn’t hear any return fire from the other side of it, just the groans and screams of Foster.

  Sanchez glanced at him. “Go—run. I’ll hold him here.”

  Carsono’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit,” he said firmly.

  He’d be damned if he was going to be chased through his own headquarters like a scared rabbit. He dropped to a knee and took aim at the door. Sanchez glanc
ed at him. He must have realized an argument would be a wasted effort, since he made none.

  His communicator beeped. “Squad report!”

  “This is Sanchez. The squad is dead,” he said, his voice rushed and edgy. “I have the admiral with me, but we’re pinned down. We need immediate Clairvoyant support.”

  Sanchez stopped his transmission at the sound of a gunshot on the other side of the door, but it hadn’t been aimed at them. They no longer heard Foster screaming. Carsono opened fire with Sanchez a half-step behind him. The glass that lined either side of the hall trembled and shook from the chaos. This wasn’t the most glorious place to have a last stand. He had always imagined his final battle would be on the bridge of a starship. By contrast, this was about as prestigious as drowning in a kiddie pool.

  Carsono gave himself one chance in three of surviving this. Whoever this guy was, he was good. In any case, a PMA scanner couldn’t see through a door. That didn’t really matter, though, since neither he nor Sanchez had one. He shifted his fire, hoping they would get lucky. Nothing came back at them, but that didn’t mean much, considering the luck of their decimated escort.

  The person on the other side of the communicator never stopped talking, even though Sanchez had put it down. “Clairvoyant support on its way! I say again, Clairvoyant support on its way!”

  Sanchez slapped a new magazine home. “We should fall back, sir,” he said. “I’ll cover you.”

  Carsono glanced at him. “You be right behind me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The admiral turned to run. Just when he did, that loud noise thundered through the hall, and the glass cracked and shattered. The concussion of the noise alone was enough to knock him to the ground. He turned, head foggy once again, and saw that Sanchez had been nearly ripped in half from the shot. The door had practically been blown off its hinges. It was slight, very slight, but Carsono’s aging eyes registered a curve in the doorframe that should have been perfectly straight.

  It didn’t take long for him to realize it was his cloaked pursuer. He frantically looked for something somewhere that could avail him. The best he could come up with was the slightly open door of the office next to him. He clutched his M12 close and ran into the next room just as automatic rifle fire tore into where he had just been.

  Carsono studied his new surroundings. They weren’t much better. He used a wooden desk for cover, but that was in no way adequate against the cannon his opposition was packing. It wouldn’t even be enough to stop an M12. The glass walls of the offices in this section made it impossible to move without being seen. He checked the remaining rounds for his weapon and then cursed under his breath. He cursed again when he realized he left the communicator both completely open and out of reach next to Sanchez’s corpse.

  He heard a distinct sigh that was not his own. “I didn’t think this job would be easy, but I have to hand it to you, old man. After it’s done, I’m going to have to ask my employer for a bonus.”

  Carsono’s eyes narrowed. Many, many people wanted him dead—that was never in doubt. But to attack him at Space Force Headquarters? It was a level of insanity beyond description. Someone had paid good money for the job. Whoever his assassin was, he must have talked a good game to be hired over a Clairvoyant. Unfortunately, it seemed like he could back up whatever he promised.

  “Oh yeah. You’re just wasting your time with hiding.” There was the soft twang of someone tapping on metal. “My own creation. Let me introduce you.”

  Carsono dropped to the ground and flattened himself till he was practically a stain on the carpet. The atom bomb of a bullet tore through the desk he was hiding behind, leaving a watermelon sized hole in its wake. The glass that hadn’t been shattered from the shot before now tumbled to the ground. Carsono even felt the pressure wave of the bullet passing over him. His hair ruffled, his clothes billowed, and he was sure blood would be coming out of his ears if his hands weren’t clasped to them. The second shot was just as violent as the first, but it missed him by a wider margin.

  He took a deep breath. He could sure use that Clairvoyant support, wherever it was. The admiral glanced through one of the holes in the desk but could see nothing, not even the distortion of a cloaking field. He swore under his breath. Shooting blindly hadn’t worked for the troopers; he doubted it would be any different for him.

  “Still with me, old man?”

  Carsono made no reply, though, if he had a grenade, several creative ways for answering the question came to mind. He instead perked his ears to attention. This guy had skill and incredible equipment, but he was a bit of a blabbermouth and getting overconfident.

  “Well, let’s be sure.”

  The admiral fell to the ground again, almost on instinct. He wasn’t, however, attacked by the cannon. This time, it was small arms fire, probably an M12. Whatever it was, it still ripped through the desk like paper. Wood chips and dust coated the ground like fresh snow fall. But Carsono paid no attention to it. The bullets still passed over him, leaving him relatively safe. Consequently, his attention was bent on trying to ascertain the directions the shots were coming from. He had a general idea at this point, but it was nothing he’d bet his life on.

  His opponent stopped firing. “Well, what do you say to that?”

  There was a calm silence as Carsono’s eyes narrowed. He’s just slightly to my right, he thought. Experience told him he’d only have one chance. His timing had to be perfect.

  “Guess I’ll just have to finish you off then,” the man said.

  Carsono figured that meant he’d use the cannon…or something bigger. It was now or never. He shot to his feet as fast as his aging legs could manage and then he mowed down everything in front of him. An M12 was recoilless in its operation, but he still felt a certain visceral thrill at handling the weapon he had long missed after all his years behind a desk. He swept his fire from side to side, but there was no way of knowing if he was accomplishing anything other than tearing up what remained of the offices. Just then, something cold and hard pressed against his skull.

  “Drop the shit,” that same voice said calmly.

  The admiral stood still for a moment. If this person wanted to just kill him, they would have done so by now. Even with that in mind, he didn’t have many options. He dropped the rifle and then slowly turned to face his attacker.

  The man had shut off his cloaking field for whatever reason. He was a bit taller than Carsono, which wasn’t saying much. A mask covered most of his face, leaving only his eyes as the most prominent feature. They stared out intensely and somewhat coldly. His hair was cut short in the same purposeful fashion as the buzz cut Phalanx troopers, and his skin was dark, on par with Lance’s.

  The man took a few steps back. His gun, an M12 as Carsono expected, was held firm. He had none of the nervousness or apprehension of an inexperienced killer. Another gun, more than the length of his torso, was slung across his back—obviously the cannon that had given everybody so much trouble.

  A second passed, maybe two, but it felt like days. No one said anything. Carsono doubted this person was having second thoughts about killing him. He also didn’t think this was some brief moment of quiet self-aggrandizement. After a while, he finally realized the purpose of the delay. He gave a small nod in acknowledgement.

  The communicator crackled and screamed something about support and holding on. Really, it was a surprise the device had managed to survive the onslaught.

  Carsono thought about that for a moment as he closed his eyes. He then took a deep breath. “Those who live by the sword,” he said simply as he opened his eyes again.

  The man nodded as well. Then he fired once into Carsono’s chest. The great leader and warrior tumbled backward to the ground in an undignified tangle. Another bullet was fired into his chest, followed by one to his forehead. The assassin took a moment to ensure the quality of his work before he activated his cloak and escaped down the hall.

  2

  One Day, Every Day
r />   Subject: Edge Age: 20 Status: Released

  The Clairvoyant knifed quietly and efficiently across the room. As always, there was no pause or waver in her actions, like every movement was preordained. She stopped briefly to watch the holonews report on the recent assassination of Admiral Carsono Wright. The extreme loss to the war effort caused everyone to buzz with nervous unease. The Clairvoyant continued about her routine, as unmoved as a boulder in rushing rapids.

  Unmoved was an apt description—nothing seemed to touch her. She either didn’t hear or didn’t acknowledge the whispers about her. She also didn’t seem to be aware that the membership of the gym had dropped by almost half in the few short weeks since she’d arrived. It didn’t seem to cross her as odd that there was a void around her that none dared enter. The Clairvoyant was blissfully naïve to think that those pretending she wasn’t there weren’t also plotting and scheming for her downfall. And today, finally, would be the day it happened.

  The group watched the Clairvoyant as she carried on with her exercises. She seemed completely oblivious of the mob as on and on she went about her business. She wasn’t bothering anyone directly, but she focused everything in the room on her just because she was in it.

  “She’s so weird,” a member of the mob muttered to herself as they assembled.

  “What is she going to do to us?” another asked, his voice trembling.

  “We’re just going to ask her to leave. There’s another gym three blocks down. She can go there,” someone else said.

  “Yeah,” another quipped from the back.

  “We should have called the police.”

  The group fell silent for a moment as they exchanged looks all around.

  “They were too scared to come,” someone replied.

  Carmen heard none of the conversation. She usually didn’t. She sighed anyway. Her exercise routine simply wasn’t strenuous enough to draw her complete attention.

  She hadn’t exercised at all for the first few weeks after she graduated. Mind and body were a team, though. The nightmares she experienced from time to time were a constant reminder of those lessons. Allowing half of that team to slowly atrophy made her uncomfortable. Her goal wasn’t outright physical strength, as no Clairvoyant had any real need for that. She did mess around with free weights sometimes, but her chief concerns were flexibility, joint strengthening, and aerobic efficiency, among other minutiae.