by Devin Hanson
The skimmer exploded in a black ball of smoke, licked through with tongues of orange flame. Leila flinched away from the explosion and abruptly remembered where she was. She might be relatively safe from gunfire, but the upper edge of the hull breach was two meters below her feet. The air she was breathing was going to quickly get contaminated by atmosphere.
She needed a mask. Except she was on the roof of the restaurant’s upper level, with no way of getting down. And as soon as she did, she would be descending into carbon dioxide. A single breath of that, and she would be dead.
Fear locked her muscles and she trembled. Intellectually, she knew there was no other option. She had to go down into the lower levels. But knowledge that there were masks to be found somewhere below her couldn’t overcome her terror of the atmosphere and the continuing rattle of gunfire.
With the skimmer providing air support destroyed, the marines on the ground had been fought to a standstill. There were enough extras with masks and guns that the marines were forced to take cover among the wreckage. The newly constructed fortifications were working against the extras now, and from their positions of cover, the marines were able to keep the extras from spreading out and flanking them.
The glaring sunlight streaming through the gaping breach was eclipsed by something massive, and a dirigible crept forward to come to a stop a few meters from the habitat hull. The side of the dirigible’s gondola folded outward, forming a bridge between the gondola and the habitat, and grapples dug firmly into the hull, locking the dirigible in place.
Leila gasped as marines in powered armor suits ran heavily across the bridge and took up firing positions flanking the extras. The chatter of small-caliber rifle rounds was drowned out by the roaring thunder of the heavy machine guns carried by the men in armor. The cover the extras were hiding behind was chewed apart; steel was shredded and composite synthetics shattered.
Then, behind the powered armor, more squads of marines sprinted out of the dirigible and added the weight of their rifles to the bludgeoning force of the machine guns. The morale of the extras disintegrated once more. The few that tried to hold their ground were slaughtered.
The battle was over. With the heavy armor in play, the weapons of the extras were meaningless. The Basement was breached and life support was limited to the emergency masks. With the lifts shut down, the only way out was through the sufferance of the marines.
Leila realized she was panting and her heartbeat thumped in her ears. She was starting to feel light-headed, with a pressure building behind her eyes like the prelude to a migraine. All the symptoms of carbon dioxide poisoning. The air she was breathing was starting to mingle with the atmosphere.
She backed away from the edge and stood up as high as she could. The ceiling of the Basement was a little over a meter above the top of the restaurant roof; enough clearance for maintenance access to the vents but not much more. With her cheek pressed against the expanded synthetics of the ceiling, the air seemed a little easier to breathe and the dizziness started to ease a little.
Time had run out. She had to climb down a level and locate a mask or she was going to pass out and suffocate before anyone even knew she was there. Maybe now that the majority of the shooting had stopped the marines wouldn’t kill her on sight.
The best place to climb down was around by the edge of the roof that overlooked the restaurant balcony seating. It was a three-meter drop, but if she hung by her finger tips it shouldn’t be too bad. Keeping her head as high as she could, Leila made her way through the clutter of vents and machinery on top of the roof.
Half of the balcony had been ripped away by the initial breach explosion and the ragged ruin of the balcony terminated above the dirigible bridge. Leila hesitated. Once she dropped down, she would only have the breath in her lungs. She could search through the restaurant and hope to find a mask and not run into any extras, or she could make a run for the marine dirigible and throw herself on their mercy.
Like as not, the marines would just shoot her on sight but there was a possibility they wouldn’t shoot a girl with her hands in the air. On the other hand, being amid the extras and wearing a mask would be just as likely to lead to her death once the marines found her.
There was no good option, but she had to act. Every moment she delayed now shortened the time she would be able to hold her breath. She just wished she there was a choice available to her that wasn’t awful.
Dennison turned, wide-eyed, with Tabitha’s warning still in his ear. “Hull breach!” he shouted. “Masks, we need—”
The floor jumped as an explosion rocked through the Basement. Dennison staggered and barely kept his balance. Billowing dust rolled into the hallway. Dennison took one leaping stride and shoved Alana back into the nearest doorway and slammed the door shut as the dust swept over him. His throat locked up automatically halfway through an exhale. At least Alana was safe for the moment, assuming he had gotten the door shut in time.
“The nearest emergency locker is at the junction of five-A and three-B,” Tabitha said helpfully.
Dennison snapped a hand out at Bryson and jerked it forward toward the end of the hallway. Tabitha’s instructions put the locker on the far side of the hallway that the extras had control of. His chest ached with the need to breathe but taking a breath to find out if atmosphere was contaminating the air could very well kill him on the spot.
Through the ringing in his ears, Dennison heard the shrieking whine of the carbon dioxide alarms. Bryson spared a glance back at the door Alana was behind, then jerked a nod at Dennison. His gun came up and he fell into step with Dennison.
The rolling clouds of dust cut visibility down to a bare handful of meters. Somewhere in the murk in front of them, the extras were waiting for them. Dennison pictured the layout of hallways in his head, mapping the route to the locker.
An extra stumbled out of the dust in front of him and Dennison snapped off a shot reflexively. The muffled shot was all but inaudible and the man pirouetted about and went down. Bryson got ahead of him as Dennison paused to put a round through the man’s head.
A hoarse cry of warning came from the hallway ahead and Dennison heard the metallic tic-tic-tic of Bryson’s suppressed pistol firing in rapid succession. The crash of a shotgun hammered at Dennison’s shocked hearing and he broke into a dash toward the noise.
There was an agonized cry that Dennison recognized as Bryson’s voice, cut off abruptly by another shotgun blast.
Dennison clenched his teeth against the cry that rose in his own throat. He almost stumbled over the sprawled figure of a man still clutching a makeshift riot shield. The white bursts of monomol round impacts peppered the rim of the shield. Dennison’s lungs burned for air and his diaphragm spasmed as it tried to pull a breath in through his clenched teeth.
He very badly wanted to go running after Bryson. Damn these extras! He wanted to kill every last one of them, tear the whole habitat from the sky and send the whole cursed population to their fiery deaths. Alana was depending on him, though, and he couldn’t let Bryson’s sacrifice be wasted.
His head was spinning as he ran past the doorway out into the main restaurant floor. He caught a glimpse of the clustered figures just outside the door, then he was gone, reeling off the walls and breaking into a shambling run.
Dennison counted the intersections as he went by and lurched up five-A. There! He saw the marker cherries glowing through the drifting dust. Frantically he clawed the locker open and yanked a mask out. Blackness crowded the edges of his vision, and he fit a bottle into the mask by automated reflex.
The hiss of clean air flowing through the mask was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He jammed the mask onto his face without messing with the straps and took a deep, sobbing breath. Dennison leaned weakly against the wall, just breathing. His pounding heart eased back to a more normal rate and the sick dizziness faded away.
Awkwardly, Dennison pulled the straps over his head, unwilling to take the mask away for even
a second. He pushed the bottle of air into the belt and got it situated about his waist. He was set, now, but he needed to get masks back to the others.
How many did he need? Six? He swallowed and smashed a fist into the locker. No, only five now. They were bulky to carry, and he had to spend a moment connecting bottles to masks. Then he gathered them up by the straps in one fist. The belts and bottles dangled and clanked against each other, but there wasn’t any other way to carry so many and still have a hand free for his gun.
Speaking of guns. Now that blood wasn’t pounding in his ears, he could hear the chatter of automatic rifles. The marines! They must have blown a breach into the wall of the habitat. Dennison started running back down the hallway with the bottles knocking against each other at every step.
Hopefully the others were still conscious. He hadn’t been gone for more than two minutes so far, and if the others had the presence of mind to hunker down and wait, they should be able to hold their breath for that long. If nobody else had survived, then at least he had plenty of air for Alana and himself.
He slowed as he neared the doorway. The dust was beginning to settle a little, and he could see the vague outline of figures in the doorway and in the hall. A woman staggered toward him out of the dust, her face dark and her eyes straining open.
“Air!” she gasped, her eyes locked on the masks dangling from Dennison’s hand.
Dennison shot her in the neck. The monomol round ripped out the flesh around her spine and she flopped over, geysering blue blood onto the walls from both carotid arteries.
Through the dust, Dennison saw the heads turn toward the wet gushing and drew up into a one-handed firing stance. The men that came staggering toward him had faces twisted in rage and fear, the veins in their foreheads standing proud, their faces dark with carbon dioxide poisoning. For Dennison, time seemed to slow, and he lined up his shots calmly, like he was tagging targets on the range back on Cross Station.
The monomol rounds did devastating damage and one by one the figures blocking the hallway dropped to the ground. Blue blood pooled across the floor, and Dennison sprinted forward as the path cleared. He caught a glimpse through the door as he passed of the battle still raging outside.
If he knew anything about the marines, that battle wouldn’t be going on much longer. Tabitha would send the marines their way and this whole ordeal would be over in only a few more minutes. Dennison turned the last corner and drew up short.
There were bodies scattered on the floor, far too many to belong only to the ainlif he had left behind. He spotted Ferguson propped against a wall, one arm missing from the shoulder, the raw wound glistening blue. Farrell was dead as well, a messy shotgun wound in his side, and floor of the hallway was crowded with their kills.
Further down the hallway, he saw figures moving, indistinct in the drifting dust. There were people still alive! He had masks, everything was not lost yet. First, though, he needed to get a mask to Alana. The other ainlif could wait. They would understand.
Motion from the door where he had pushed Alana brought Dennison’s gun snapping up. Why was she coming out?
Alana stepped from the doorway, a mask fitted over her face. Her eyes lifted to his, and he saw hope flare on her face. Then a shotgun extended from the door and prodded her in the side of the head.
“Stay where you are, ainlif,” a man’s voice called out, muffled by a rebreather mask. “One step and I splatter her head all over the walls.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
There is nothing in the Matriarch Manifesto that limits the pool of potential candidates to female children of the existing matriarchs. The Venusian Habitat Charter that governs the common folk even has a provision in it for how a woman could apply for participation in the Challenge.
It is the almost mythical status of the matriarchs among the people of the mega-habs that squashes nearly all impulse to take the Challenge. Rumors that the Challenge is rigged to fail, that anyone who succeeds is quietly disappeared, that only the very rich can afford the yearly treatments, dissuade the few that would otherwise think themselves worthy of the challenge.
In fact, the Manifesto mandates that a matriarch cannot be refused her treatments by a qualified genetic center, and payments to the centers are gratuities, not fees. A few times a decade, a young common woman ignores the rumors and applies for the Challenge. To date, none have succeeded.
Cynthia listened to the rolling gunfire and tried to make a decision on what the right course of action would be. With the marines so close, it would be a simple matter to make her position known and have them come to her rescue. The temptation to put her fate in someone else’s hands dug at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go of the control she had finally wrested free for herself.
She was armed. She had a mask on, with an extra bottle of air. There was no rush. Living as long as she had, she had long ago learned the value of being patient. A few more minutes wouldn’t change the outcome.
Or would it?
She had her freedom now, but that could change in a moment if a new group of extras came by. It was inevitable. Someone would eventually remember the emergency locker on this floor and come for the masks. When they did, they couldn’t help but notice the blood and the bodies.
Her gaze lingered on a blood spatter on a wall. It still glistened wetly. On the bottom, where it fell beneath the layer of carbon dioxide, it was a vibrant blue. Halfway up, the blue shaded to a dark purple and finally red where the carbon dioxide hadn’t yet mingled with the air.
It was a reminder, as if she needed one, that safety was a relative thing, and that time was passing.
“What are we waiting for?” Jackson asked. The worry in his voice was ladled on thick, despite the muffling from his mask.
Cynthia squashed her first reflexive response. Jackson was young, and he had never worked with a matriarch before. He lacked the automatic respect she was used to, but that wasn’t his fault. “Patience, Harding,” she said quietly. “Remember your credo.”
“Fasten, foresight, and focus,” he muttered. The rebellious look on his face faded as he tilted his head to listen.
The roar of a heavy cannon was abruptly cut off by a shuddering explosion and a shockwave pulsed through the air, stirring the dust again.
“We must be cautious,” Cynthia warned. It wasn’t necessary. Jackson’s urgency to escape their current position seemed to have evaporated.
“They will be coming for the masks,” he said. “We need to be in a position to move when that happens.”
“What do you suggest?” On her own habitat, in familiar surroundings, she would not have hesitated to make the decision herself, but this wasn’t New Galway, and Jackson might have insight that would not have occurred to her.
He paused for a moment, face distant with thought. “There’s a room by the back door that leads out onto the balcony seating. We wait there, out of sight.”
She nodded. “Does it have a window?”
Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s go see.” Without another word, Cynthia led the way.
The room Jackson had mentioned was a serving room. The room was full of beverage dispensers, trays of glasses turned upside down, rolls of napkins, plates and eating utensils, and all the other paraphernalia that went into managing the service of a restaurant. There was no window looking out into the balcony seating.
“This will do perfectly,” Cynthia announced. She took a moment to crack the double-hinged door leading out onto the balcony and peered through. Through the settling haze of dust, she saw the gaping hole ripped through the side of habitat and saw the dirigible anchoring itself into place. The balcony was ripped off where the breach had been blasted, only a short distance away. She pulled back, easing the door shut so it didn’t flap back and forth and joined Jackson in the serving room.
“Is it safe?” he asked.
The inanity of the question made Cynthia smile despite herself. “
No.”
A fresh crescendo of gunfire exploded, seemingly right outside their room and Jackson flinched. Cynthia covered her ears with her hands as best she could, but it was a futile effort. The gunfire was so loud she could feel each shot in her chest. The abuse to her ears was painful, and it only got worse as the marines disembarking from the dirigible moved further into the Basement.
The gunfire was so loud, she hardly heard the shouting that erupted down the hall. The extras had discovered the bodies. Reluctantly she pulled her hands away from her ears. The urgency in the shouts was apparent, and she heard Wharton’s bellowing voice drown out the others.
“Without the matriarch, we will have no protection!” he roared.
The response was garbled, drowned out by a fresh salvo of gunfire.
“Then go!” Wharton screamed. “I’ll find her, and deal with it myself!”
Cynthia grabbed Jackson’s shoulder and pried one of his hands away from the side of his head. “We need to go!” she cried. The gunfire had moved further into the Basement, softening somewhat with distance. The marines were sweeping through the extras, pushing them back to the far side of the club floor and driving them into the lower floor of the restaurant.
Jackson nodded, his eyes wide with fear, but he moved without hesitation. Cynthia pulled the door open and stuck her head out. Wharton stood looking into the storage room where she and Jackson had killed the extras that had come looking for them. Other than the extra crew chief, the hallway was deserted.
She flicked her wrist at Jackson and he slipped by her and out the door onto the balcony. The motion must have caught Wharton’s eye, because he spun toward Cynthia as she stepped out into the hallway. For a moment she looked into his eyes and saw the despair and rage that lurked within. Then she was out the back door and running.