Department 9 Page 10

  He mused in the cesspit of his vocabulary for the foulest way to describe the crater-faced dwarfish hag-witch, the Revered Asshole, In’Nalla.

  Darant had just opened his mouth to begin his volley of abuse when his wrist slate pinged and started the twenty-second countdown.

  He flipped the locks off the firing handle studs, re-sighted his target, and made some final adjustments to compensate for atmospheric conditions.

  15…14…13…

  “You might want to step back,” he told Hubert as he pulled his goggles over his eyes. “Things are about to get exciting.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 19: Tavistock Fitzwilliam

  Fitz crept forward, almost to the open ground before the north wall, heedless of the REEDs’ ability to shoot him, so long as he got a good view of the entertainment.

  Darant was positioned in a clearing that had been quietly finished off the night before, and from there, he spat plasma from the barrel of his SG-7 like a dragon who’d learned the trick of indirect fire.

  Strictly speaking, the gun was streaming pre-plasma that whipped itself into a high-energy state just before splashing against the firing ports of the defensive tower and quickly spreading through every gap it could find. Fitz’s glasses flickered as they progressively darkened to shield his eyes from the beastly brightness. Anyone watching the plasma show directly would burn their retinas as surely as if they were staring at the sun.

  Just as well, really. Fitz was relying on that.

  He activated the second countdown. Twenty seconds, and he would be off in a light show of his own. Not so bright, but ten times as dangerous. For him.

  Darant panned his plasma squirter right, dropping fire over the top of the wall butting up against the tower. But it was the tower’s roof that Fitz examined now, tapping his glasses to select infrared view.

  The former Militia gunner—and now a member of his marines, Fitz reminded himself—had kept the plasma away from the tower roof, but the glasses showed patches with temperatures up to 400º Kelvin. Fitz looked down at his boots. He’d have to jump like a desert lizard, but it wasn’t his feet that were most vulnerable to the heat.

  Much too soon, the arc of plasma fell away and died, leaving a scorched black gouge in the ground.

  The countdown in his glasses said there were still 11 seconds to go.

  He’d just have to be early for once in his life.

  Fitz broke cover and ran for the wall. Waddling would have been a better description with the heavy contraption strapped to his back.

  Without the covering fire from the plasma, he felt horribly exposed, but small arms fire lashed the wall from the trees, pitting the armored structure and, hopefully, encouraging the REEDs to keep their heads down.

  He couldn’t bear it. Earlier than planned, he thumbed the launch button on the right handle, and pushed forward the directional control on his left.

  Three clusters of rocket nozzles deployed over the backs of his calves, and the jetpack sent him arcing into the air.

  “You see, Commander Slinh?” he shouted. “There was no need to be so protective of your little toy. I do know how to use one of these.”

  He sailed over the top of the tower, tossing a handful of micro drones at the upper level, programmed with pre-instructions to sneak inside the firing ports.

  He cut off the thrust and missed his intended landing completely and passed right over the tower roof, dropping instead into the interior of the camp. It was a dreary open area of cobblestones, with a speaker’s dais and weather-hardened PA columns.

  Crap!

  He landed well and sprang into a bounding series of moon leaps by tapping the thrust button. Once he had enough distance for another try, he shuffled around to face the tower.

  Bullets deflected off the ground at his feet in a spray of stone chips.

  “About time you woke up,” he declared, quick drawing his F-Cannon and firing the exotic handgun at the upper levels of the tower.

  Ten meters along his firing trajectory, the ‘blinder’ round bloomed into a rounded rectangle about three meters high, two across, and one deep. The interior of this zone filled with smoke and particles with confusing motion, reflective properties, and EM-radiation.

  It was as if someone had drawn a blind over the air.

  Fitz took two side steps and then hit the thrust once more, boosting up and onto the tower. He remembered to grab the cigar from his jacket pocket and clamp it between his teeth so he would look good in front of the rebels.

  This time he came down astride the center of the slightly domed roof, landing as gently as a kitten on a ton of extra-plump cushions.

  He waved to the rebels still in the trees with one hand, and with the other, he keyed his glasses to show view panels feeding from the drones inside the tower.

  They showed an upper floor, blackened and smoky, but devoid of flames or corpses. Far from the emptiness he was hoping for, three REEDs in breathing gear were beginning to assemble a crew-served gun that would shred any rebel attack force into bird food.

  Unless, that was, he could persuade the REEDs to hand that gun over to him…

  He guessed he had about a minute before the REEDs opened fire.

  Fitz pushed an outstretched palm toward the rebels waiting in the trees. Stay back!

  Then he carefully shrugged off the jetpack, still laden with fuel.

  Bullets flew over his head.

  Instinctively, he ducked, and started sliding off the roof. He pressed down with his hands and feet, praying for grip.

  His prayers were answered. He arrested his slide, but the jet pack went over like a snow sled, tumbling fifty feet and landing with a hollow metallic thud on the inside of the re-education camp.

  “No!”

  He risked a look over the edge. The thrust nozzles were bent, and fuel was leaking onto the pavement.

  Beneath the thunderous roar of battle, he thought he heard engines starting up. A lot of them, but they were hidden from view.

  More rounds came his way, and he ducked again, but they were firing high. Probably couldn’t get an angle on him from the ground, which left the broken jetpack as his main concern.

  Slinh wasn’t going to be happy about that. They didn’t make Orion Era jetpacks anymore, and Fitz had argued with the old Gliesan for hours back in Krunacao before the commander agreed to part with her prized antique.

  Can’t be helped. Better give her a fantastic victory to take her mind off things.

  Luckily, Fitz’s cigar was unharmed, and taking care to keep as low a profile as he could, he activated it and took a puff before clambering onto the north side of the roof.

  “Now, let’s see about that gun.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 20: Lily Hjon

  Hooking up with Fitz again was proving damned entertaining.

  In her position up a tree, Lily had her HC2 blaster’s scope set to ‘reaction mode,’ giving her a field of view across the northeast tower and thirty feet of adjoining wall. Any movement the system couldn’t discount as a natural phenomenon would be vividly highlighted and firing solutions would be prepared.

  Only one unnatural phenomenon was registering: Captain Fitz, or in his new persona as a cigar-chomping revolutionary leader, the Trucker.

  As she watched his exploits play out, she wondered if Vortex of Chaos might be a better name for the man.

  First, he’d used a rocket pack to ascend the gently domed roof—a freaking rocket pack! He’d almost slid off the roof, but he’d still managed to wave at the RevRec rebels and flash them his trademark grin. In his stained red boiler overalls and trucker hat, he looked like a maintenance worker come to clear a blockage in the drains, but the RevRec fighters adored him.

  All through his performance, Lily had been scanning for threats with her Hunndrin & Rax targeting system, but had found none. A few rounds from the interior of the camp had sought Fitz out, but he was now on the reverse side of the sloping roof, and the fire couldn’t
reach him. Maybe the REEDs really had abandoned the north wall and rushed to the sounds of battle to the south.

  Amateurs!

  Lily’s heart pounded with excitement at what Fitz did next.

  Leaning over the top of the tower, he fired two rounds through the armored wall. At least, that’s how it appeared to Lily. She saw a bizarre green muzzle flash at the business end of Fitz’s hand cannon and then…nothing came out.

  He’d fired point-blank at the wall, but there was no sign of impact, nor of scorching of the target.

  But Fitz clearly thought he’d done something impressive, because when he stuck his head up to face the rebels, his grin doubled, and he blew a triumphant smoke ring before giving a thumbs up.

  Had he somehow shot someone inside the tower?

  She sensed sudden and violent motion hurtling through the trees.

  It was Enthree. She must have read the thumbs up as Go! Go! Go!

  And, sister, she certainly went.

  The Muryani charged out of the trees like a startled spider. A big one.

  It was likely a sight no one in this world had seen before, and that probably saved Enthree’s life, because it took three seconds before the astonished defenders—who had been hiding in the north wall all this time—came to their senses and began filling Lily’s scope with movement alerts.

  She fired first, unleashing a trio of bolts at one of the horizontal firing ports 178.2 yards away.

  Hunndrin & Rax had named their HC2 blaster rifle the Penetrator, but the bolts seared against the firing port without finding a way through. Only Sward could have sent all three bolts through the slit, but she hoped her fire gave the REED on the other side of the port something to think about for a few seconds.

  Already, she was unleashing bolts against other ports, settling for near misses in return for a higher firing rate.

  Around her, the rebels in the trees opened up with a fusillade of bolts and bullets, but the REEDs were determined. Defensive fire flew out, and it was concentrated on the Muryani sprinting across the open ground.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 21: Yat Darant

  “I’m gonna need that ammo in a minute, bud,” Darant warned the goat happily munching his leaves on top of tank-3. “Or do we run for it? Looks like you and me and the nice, tattooed lady have been designated the rearguard, because where the fuck did everyone go?”

  The plasma feed was reporting fifteen percent remaining. When that went dry, it would take him around one hundred seconds to swap it out for tank-3. If anything came at them out of that camp, they would be totally defenseless until the swap was complete.

  “Is this a goddamned joke?” he screamed at the empty trees. “Cause I ain’t laughing.”

  Fitz was leaning out the tower, shouting at Darant, but his voice was inaudible over the plasma squirter’s roar. So, Darant cupped an ear, and Fitz responded by pointing down behind the breach Enthree had blown.

  “What does that madman want now?” he asked Hubert. “Does he want me to re-light his cigar with my plasma?”

  A tingling sensation came over him when he realized what Fitz was trying to say. Something bad was about to emerge through the breach.

  “Sorry, mate,” he told the goat. “Looks like we’re screwed.”

  But Hubert wasn’t paying attention. The basten was looking over Darant’s shoulder and bleating happily.

  “Whoever you are,” Darant growled at whatever had gotten Hubert’s attention, “either put a bolt through me or leave me be, because I ain’t turning around until tank-2 is spent.”

  He panned his plasma stream to the left and rained down hellfire inside the camp, just beyond the rubble of the breach. Any REEDs assembling there were getting a hot surprise.

  “Do you need a hand swapping out plasma tanks?” asked Istrielle.

  Despite the dire situation, his heart skipped a beat at her voice. “If you’re not trained for it, then no.”

  “Holy skragg!” Something big and highly explosive cooked off beneath his plasma spray, sending up a fireball higher than the camp wall. “Get some! That’ll keep you bastards quiet for a few seconds.”

  But without his plasma raining down on the wall, the REEDs at the firing posts began pouring bolt after bolt into the armor protecting his position. The fire set the screening foliage ablaze but didn’t penetrate the armor shielding his gun.

  Darant took a deep breath and confronted Istrielle. “We’ve been set up. Why?”

  Istrielle remained tightlipped and grim faced. She wore navy blue coveralls burnt away on a shoulder to reveal severely burned skin. Her green hair was tucked inside a knitted black hat with loose flaps that covered her ears. She sure didn’t look like a soldier, but she carried her blaster like she meant to use it, and boy was she pretty.

  “Speak!” he demanded as he began detaching tank-2 from the SG-7.

  “The villages are being massacred. Faeynsted, Bas-Hemel, and…Krunacao. The others went back to defend their homes.”

  “If the REEDs are massing for an attack, there won’t be any homes by the time they get back.” He sealed the spent tank and threw it behind the gun emplacement. “Here, they could have made a difference. So, what do we do now, RevRec girl? Your friends decided to leave the expendable off-worlders to sacrifice themselves as a rearguard. Is that it?”

  “That’s what many were saying.” She cast her gaze to the ground in shame. “I didn’t leave you, Yat.”

  She jerked, screaming, as something wafted in front of her face.

  “What? You scared of a little splither of burning wood now?”

  Then he saw the reason for the look of horror on Istrielle’s face. The rebels had piled up bundles of shrubs to screen his gun’s armor shield. And now, burning branches were falling inside that shield.

  Onto the last two plasma tanks.

  They each grabbed one of the tanks from under the burning wood and leaves and scraped away the flames, not daring to think what would happen if the plasma fuel cooked off.

  Darant began furiously working on connecting tank-3.

  “Here they come,” warned Istrielle, who was peering through the gap in the armor.

  “Be specific,” snapped Darant as he screwed in the plasma feed.

  “Hover vehicles. Six. More coming. Like armored bubbles. With four gun barrels out each nose.”

  “Holy skragg!” Darant looked through the gap to see for himself.

  He saw a column of ‘crab’ light armored vehicles and, screaming above them, hover darts— narrow, two-man flitters that were nimble enough to get through the trees.

  Explosions blossomed to their front and flanks, crumpling their armor shield and making Darant’s head and chest ring.

  Darant wasn’t great with numbers, even when his head hadn’t been beaten with a lump hammer, but the calculation he ran was not difficult. The crabs couldn’t fly through the trees, but they’d be at the tree line pouring down cannon fire at him before he had any hope of readying the plasma gun to fire again.

  “Run!” he screamed, scooping up Hubert and his pack as he fled into the depths of the trees.

  He was pursued by bullets, bolts, and splinters of wood, shattering under the onslaught of fire pouring out of the crabs and hover darts.

  The ground before him erupted into plumes of dust and fire as rounds struck.

  Darant dodged right and ran around tree trunks and through bushes. His lungs burned with fatigue and the smoke from the trees, but the shouts of REEDs were close by, and he didn’t dare stop.

  An explosion ripped apart the air behind him, and he lost his footing. Thrown forward in a wave front of dirt and shattered wood, he thudded into a tree hard enough to bruise ribs. Maybe crack a few.

  Stunned, he lay still on the forest floor. Every breath was a stab of agony cutting through his chest.

  The throb of gravitic engines kneaded his ribs, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming out in pain. They sounded as if they were passing through the f
orest mere feet away. But he was half deafened, and his thoughts wouldn’t come together properly in his head.

  If they were that close, he was screwed, so he decided to lie still for the count of ten to clear some of the thunder rolling around the inside of his head. Then he’d make his move.

  He got to four before blacking out.

  With a gasp, he came to in the same litter of broken branches he’d passed out in.

  Skragg it!

  He rolled onto his side, which made him grunt with the pain in his ribs.

  No one there.

  He’d been left behind. No, not quite alone. A familiar sound of crunching leaves nearby told him he still had the damned goat for company.

  And not just the goat. He heard shouts from deep in the forest. They grew urgent.

  Then came the scream of heavy blaster fire.

  Followed by silence.

  He checked his wrist slate and found he’d only been out for a couple of minutes.

  Memories flooded back and slotted themselves into an order that made some kind of sense.

  “Sonofabitch!” he murmured, remembering that the rebels had left him to die.

  Though not all of them.

  “Istrielle!” he groaned and pushed himself up to sit against the tree. Pain flared from his chest like fireworks. They exploded across his vision. He needed to get back into the fight, but he needed to grab his med-kit first.

  Back in the capital city of Kaylingen, he’d pilfered some of the good stuff they didn’t issue to penal scum like him. Man, he was glad he’d taken that risk now. He stabbed himself in the chest with a rib trauma kit.

  Fiery tentacles spread across his chest.

  What was this? A pain enhancer? ‘Rib trauma’ had been written along the tube, but did it have the wrong contents?

  He ground his teeth and held on to his consciousness because his mind was telling him his friends needed him.