Redemption Song

by Henry A. Burns

  “Silver Streak entering Earth atmosphere,” Red Clouds Paint the Sky reported. “Telemetry looks good,” he recited calmly. “Engines … on.”

  “Look at her go!” Black Rocks said from another station. “Frozen River, report. Frozen River, report,” he repeated when there was no response.

  “Spirits sing!” came the breathless and excited voice of the test pilot. “I swear I broke the light barrier for a moment,” laughed the Rynn pilot. “Instrumentation is nominal,” he started reporting in more controlled tones. “Everything is within expected parameters. Air speed … spirits … air speed is Mach 17 already,” he reported. “Permission to take it to Mach 20.”

  “Granted,” Franklin replied.

  “Thank you, control,” Frozen River replied. “Mach 18, 19 … 20,” he reported. “I am holding at 20.” The Rynn test pilot chittered. “Not even a … Spirits!”

  “Frozen River?” called Black Rocks. “Frozen River, report.”

  “I just passed ten stealth-enabled craft,” the test pilot reported. “Sending imagery.”

  “Put it on screen,” Franklin ordered. “Oh shit,” he exclaimed. “Get Knox Gulch on the horn now!” he barked. “Captain Kasumi, come in please.”

  “We’re kind of busy down here, Franklin,” Kasumi chirped.

  “You’re gonna be dead if you’re not careful.” He tapped a control. “You got some high-flying bombers heading your way.”

  “What?” exclaimed Kasumi. “There’s nothing on sensors.”

  “Nothing on ours either,” said Franklin. “This was seen by a Mark I eyeball.”

  “You have a bird up there?” came Commander Eisenstadt’s voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Franklin replied.

  “Launch, we have launch,” sang Night Storm. “High Flyer 1, we have launch,” she reported. “High Flyer 2, we have launch.”

  “High Flyer 1 intercepting,” reported a Rynn voice.

  “High Flyer 2 intercepting,” reported the pilot of the second shuttle a moment later.

  “Do we have anything to go after the bombers?” Eisenstadt demanded. “Anything at all?” Night Storm turned in her chair and shook her head. “Fuck!”

  Franklin listened in growing horror as the severity of the situation became clearer and clearer. “They’ll be slaughtered,” he all but screamed. “There’s nothing that can …” Franklin broke off. “Franklin to Frozen River.”

  “I hear you, Franklin,” the test pilot replied.

  “Frozen River …” Franklin licked dry lips. “Streak can hit Mach 30,” he said. “She’ll kick up one hell of a bow wave.”

  The pilot was quiet for a long time. “How close do I have to get?” the pilot asked finally.

  “Black Rocks?” Franklin asked quietly.

  “There’s no guarantee the ship will hold together,” the Rynn tech said quietly.

  “How close?” the test pilot repeated.

  Black Rocks’ crest flattened to his skull. “You need to be within thirty pedin,” he said in a bleak voice.

  “Thank you, control,” the test pilot replied. “Remember me,” Frozen River said.

  “Your name will never die,” Black Rocks replied. He, Red Clouds Paint the Sky, and Franklin all covered their eyes.

  “Silver Streak is turning,” came the pilot’s voice. “Mach 23, 25 … 27.” The pilot’s voice started to vibrate. “She’s starting to shake,” the pilot said. “Mach 29. Vibration holding steady. Mach 30,” the pilot sang in triumph. “She’s holding.” The pilot was quiet, then, “Enemy squadron in sight. They are maintaining formation,” he chirped. “Mach 32. Contact in 10 … 9 … 8 … 7 … 6 … 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … Contac …”

  “Fireball at 50,000 feet altitude, ten miles south,” sang Night Storm. She chirped to her Torque. “It was the bombers,” she said. “Something … something just ripped them apart.”

  Up in the Rynn mother craft, Franklin, Black Rocks, and Red Clouds Paint the Sky huddled together trying to give each other some comfort. After a while, Black Rocks raised his head and started to sing. It was a traditional Rynn funeral song. Like humans, Rynn found comfort in song. The song evoked the melancholy of loss and yet somehow seemed to convey a sense of pride—pride that somehow they themselves were worthy because they could count the deceased as a friend.

  Franklin cried as the song swept over him, and then his expression firmed. “We have to find him,” he said quietly. “We have to bring him home.”

  Black Rocks and Red Clouds Paint the Sky looked at each other, and their crests rose. “You are right, Core Brother,” Black Rocks said. He chirped, and a glowing orb appeared in front of him. A moment later, a similar orb appeared in front of both Red Clouds Paint the Sky and Franklin. Minute after long minute passed, and then suddenly Black Rocks’ crest rose fully. “Found him!”

  “Spirits, he’s in orbit!” Red Clouds Paint the Sky said a moment later. “Barely.”

  Even though the two remaining shuttles were down for maintenance, that didn’t mean they could not function. They wouldn’t be able to fight, and their speed was going to be limited, but they could fly. When the trio explained why they needed the shuttle, two maintenance techs volunteered to go along to make sure the shuttle stayed operational. Soon—though to the trio, it seemed an interminable wait—the shuttle was heading out toward the tumbling speedster.

  “There she is,” Franklin said. “Damn, tractor is offline.”

  “Give me a moment,” one tech said. He crawled into an access hatch. “Try now,” he said after a minute or so.

  “Targeting,” Franklin said. “Got it,” he added triumphantly.

  “Slowly,” said the other tech. “That ship looks beat up.” He looked curiously at the trio, but they were too intent on getting the little craft to safety to respond. Slowly, they used the tractor to bring the speedster closer and closer to the shuttle.

  “Opening access port,” one tech said. “Switching to docking tractor,” he chirped to his Torque, and the little ship was pulled into the docking bay. Franklin, Red Clouds Paint the Sky, and Black Rocks watched anxiously as it was gently lowered onto the docking bay floor.

  The ship was dented and blackened, and parts of the rear assembly seemed to have melted, but it was mostly intact. The access port to the pilot was so deformed that it could not be opened, but one tech ran over with a molecular torch—a device that could break the molecular bonds—and sliced through the hatchway. They pulled away the hatch to reveal the still and bruised body of Frozen River. A tech leaned over, and there was a faint hiss as he administered a dose of Omiset.

  Franklin leaned in and lifted the pilot’s body out of the craft. Without letting go, he carried the limp body from the shuttle bay into the small sick bay. He placed the pilot’s body on a round medical kip. “You were too fucking brave for your own good,” he said to the still body. He turned away. There was a moan, and Franklin turned back.

  “Spirits,” Frozen River said in a weak voice. He chittered tiredly. “You need to work on the inertial compensators,” the Rynn pilot croaked.

  “I’ll do that,” Franklin replied. “Core Brother.”

  The commander clenched his fist as the two air forces met. The forces were virtually even, as the larger Texas fleet was offset by Rynn technology. Around him, he could hear the chirps and mutters of the Rynn and humans coordinating the defense. He forced himself to sit back in his command chair and appear calm.

  “Commander, ground forces are coming over the New Mexico border,” one voice rang out.

  Kasumi Blunt, captain of the Seeker and leader of the Rynn’s Earth colony, looked closely at the glowing orb that floated just in front of her. “When your opponent moves, you have already moved,” she chirped. “Morning Mist?”

  “As the humans say, the board is green,” replied the voice of Kasumi’s core sister. “All personnel a
re in place.”

  Kasumi nodded. “Mel?”

  “The board is green,” Mel Blunt replied over the Torque. “Looks like approximately fifty M1s, a dozen towed Howitzers, and a couple dozen troop transports.”

  “There should be half dozen or so Apaches,” Kasumi said in a concerned voice.

  “Nothing … oh, there they are,” Morning Mist said triumphantly. “They’re hugging the ground,” she said. “Sending coordinates.”

  “Operation Feather Duster is go,” ordered Kasumi. “Go. Go. Go.”

  Cool Evening Breeze chittered in anticipation. “Wakey, wakey, Fuzzy Butt,” the little Rynn geologist said to her muscular human companion.

  “That’s Sergeant Fuzzy Butt to you, Corporal Feather Head,” said Hendriks. He and the Rynn exchanged grins. “Ready to go to work, partner?”

  “Ready when you are, partner,” Cool Evening Breeze replied. “Crystal, you ready?”

  “You know this is a stupid idea, don’t you?” Crystal Chandler said over the Torque. “Don’t worry, Dierdre and I will get the whole thing on tape,” she said. “But if either of you gets yourself killed, I will never forgive you.”

  “We love you too,” Cool Evening Breeze replied.

  The First Texas Heavy Infantry “Alamo” forces traveled along Highway 40. They had crossed over the Texas-Arizona border an hour earlier and had not yet run into any resistance. Leading the forces in his restructured Humvee was Colonel Travis Prescott, grandson to the current president of the Greater Texas Republic and designated heir to the presidency once the country was reunited—under his grandfather’s rule, of course.

  Right now, his immediate goal was to get to the California border. Once the Texas Air Force destroyed California’s military, he would race up 5 with Sacramento as his target. “Once Sacramento falls, the WSA falls,” his grandfather had predicted.

  His secondary goal was to capture as much alien technology as he could and destroy what he could not.

  “Sir, there is someone standing in the road,” his driver said, breaking into the colonel’s thoughts. Colonel Prescott looked. Sure enough, there were two figures standing in the road: one large, one tiny.

  “Signal the convoy to halt,” the colonel ordered. “And bring the Apaches forward.”

  The Humvee stopped just yards from the two figures. “Sir,” his driver said in a hushed voice. “I think that’s one of those bird people.”

  The colonel nodded in agreement and got out of the Humvee. He unholstered his sidearm and walked toward the two figures. “You are prisoners of war,” he said. “Any resistance will be met with lethal force.”

  The alien chittered in amusement. “Am I supposed to be impressed, Fuzzy Butt?” she asked the big man standing next to her.

  “I think you’re supposed to be frightened,” the big man replied. “Big bad Texan, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” the little alien chittered. She looked up when a number of helicopters flew over the stopped convoy and hovered overhead. “Isn’t that a bit much?” she complained to the colonel.

  “You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation,” the colonel said in annoyed tones. “You are my prisoner.” He grimaced angrily when both the human and the Rynn laughed. “Oh, fuck it.” He raised the gun and aimed it at the big human. He pulled the trigger. There was the usual explosive crack. What was not usual was that the big man did not fall.

  “Is that how Texans usually say hello?” the little alien chirped in annoyance. “It seems terribly unfriendly.”

  “Well, they are invaders,” the big man said with a grin. “By definition, that makes them the bad guys.”

  “You Earth people,” complained the little alien.

  “Oh, you know you love us,” the big man said.

  “Just some of you,” countered the little alien. She chittered. “Do you think we’ve wasted enough time?” There was a flash and the hovering helicopters suddenly started to wobble and then veered off. “That seems like a yes.”

  “Seems like,” agreed the big man. He looked at the colonel and then unholstered his own weapon and pointed it. “What was that you said? Oh yeah. You are prisoners of war. Any resistance will be met with lethal force.” He smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “To be perfectly honest, I kind of hope you resist.”

  “This is absurd,” the colonel retorted. “Do you honestly believe I am going to surrender my entire regiment to two maniacs?”

  “Why yes. Yes we do,” chirped Cool Evening Breeze. She chirped again, but there was no translation. Instead, the ground seemed to erupt as a hundred camouflaged soldiers stood up on both sides of the road—soldiers who did not fall when the Texans opened fire. The Texans fired until they ran out of ammunition, and not a single defender fell. Some of the Texas military even tried to use their now empty rifles as clubs, but they only bounced off an unseen barrier surrounding the defenders.

  Sergeant Hendriks walked over to the open-mouthed Colonel Prescott and placed his gun against the colonel’s temple. “Surrender or die,” he said conversationally. “I really don’t care one way or the other. But make no mistake: I will pull the trigger if you do not.”

  Colonel Prescott looked on as soldier after soldier was subdued by a seemingly invulnerable defender. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

  The air battle over Sacramento was entering its second hour. The missile barrage had ended, and all that remained was the dogfighting fighter jets. Even with Rynn technology, damage was heavy on the WSA forces. Rynn defensive shields could protect against smaller-caliber ordnance but could and did collapse under the continuous impact of the high-caliber, high-velocity rounds used by fighter aircraft.

  “If this keeps up much longer, we’re going to lose,” Eisenstadt grumbled.

  “David?” Kasumi chirped.

  “We’ve lost almost half of our fighter squadron,” the commander explained. “Even if we win this battle, we won’t have enough assets to stave off another incursion.” He rubbed his temples wearily. “Intel suggests Prescott has at least another hundred fighters in reserve. If only we had some surface-to-air support.” He shook himself. “Any word from Feather Duster?”

  “Nothing yet,” replied a communication specialist—a human—from his station. “That EMP pulse they shot off to disable the Apaches still hasn’t cleared up.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t use it against the fighters,” Kasumi said regretfully. “But it would have knocked out our own jets as well.” She flicked her crest. “Keep trying to reach them.”

  “Yes ma’am,” the tech replied and returned his attention to his station.

  “Crystal to Feather Duster. Crystal to Feather Duster.” Crystal Chandler slammed her fist on the console. “Dammit, if you two have snuck off for a little after-battle nookie, I swear I’m gonna skin the both of you.” She glared at the snickering Dierdre McIntosh. “It isn’t funny.”

  “Them sneaking off, no,” agreed Dierdre. “You sounding like a pissed-off housewife, yeah.” She raised her hands in surrender. “Look, the satellite images show that the fighting is over,” she said soothingly. “And apparently we won.”

  “It’ll take another minute or so before the ionization blocking communication fades enough to get through,” a Rynn tech said. “Maybe less,” he said hurriedly at the glare from Crystal.

  Crystal drummed impatiently on the workstation as she waited. “Still mad at Breeze?” Dierdre asked in amused tones.

  “She lied to me,” grumbled Crystal. “She made me think … grrr.”

  Dierdre laughed. “She didn’t exactly lie. She just stretched the truth a little.” She placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “She did tell you that most Rynn men found Hendriks’ … um … assets intimidating.” She giggled at Crystal’s blush. “Is he really as big as she claims?” she asked in honest curiosity.

&nb
sp; “Bigger,” grumbled Crystal. “Oh, who am I kidding?” she complained to the air. “What I really hate is that I’m always worrying about them.”

  “They do not fight as much since you joined their core,” the Rynn technician said in approving tones. “You give them a strong center.” He turned around. “Forgive me if I intrude, but without you, they are not a true core.” He turned back to his station. “I think the ionization levels should have dropped sufficiently.”

  Crystal looked at the technician for a moment, then moistened her lips. “Breeze? Hendriks?”

  “Hey, Crystal,” Cool Evening Breeze replied. “Fuzzy Butt sends his love.”

  “Yeah, well, you tell Fuzzy Butt …” She paused. “I never asked, but if he’s Fuzzy Butt, and you’re Feather Head …”

  “Or Lickin’ Chicken,” Cool Evening Breeze retorted with a chittering laugh. “Don’t laugh, but we sort of think of you as … Momma.”

  “Oh,” Crystal said quietly. She shook herself. “Come home.”

  “Right away, Momma,” Cool Evening Breeze replied.

  “We got more incoming,” Morning Mist chirped.

  “Now what?” Eisenstadt demanded.

  “It looks like another fighter squadron,” Morning Mist replied. “I count sixty—repeat, six zero—fighters.”

  “Oh fuck,” Eisenstadt snarled. “Prescott sent his reserves.” He shook his head. “ETA?”

  “Ten minutes,” Morning Mist replied. “Something funny about this squadron, though,” she continued.

  “Funny?”

  “The track is wrong,” Morning Mist replied. “Unless they went north a couple hundred miles before heading west,” she said. “I mean, it’s possible, but it doesn’t make sense.” She paused. “Wait, I’m getting a transmission.”

  “On speaker,” commanded Eisenstadt.

  “… peat, this is Gotham Squadron to WSA AirCom. Please reply,” came the voice.

  “Gotham Squadron?” the commander said in confusion. “This is Commander Eisenstadt, WSA Defense Force.”