No Man's Land Page 16

  Kit grasped the girl’s elbows. “Lacy, listen to me.” When Lacy didn’t look up, didn’t slow her crying, Kit grasped Lacy’s face in her hands. “Listen to me. You’ve endured a terrible thing, but the important part for right now is to keep us both alive. I need you to go to the Meeting House—”

  “No.” Lacy abruptly stopped crying. “Not unless you’re coming with me. I want to stay with you.”

  “But I’m going the other way, and—”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  They verbally sparred for a minute, until Kit decided it would be faster and easier just to take the girl with her. And maybe it would be safer. Who could tell on a day like this?

  Kit called Max on the radio, told him Lacy was alive and with her, but Agnes and her family were dead. He sounded both sad and relieved, and said he’d tell Lacy’s parents. He also told her there was no further sign of Sharks in that part of town, and Tom now had a dozen foam packs ready. A team was on its way to the shop to pick them up and join her at the plant.

  Kit and Lacy made their way to a maintenance shed outside the ethanol plant. The Shark’s ship lay halfway between the plant and the shed, the front of it about twenty meters from them.

  It was an old military launch, a model decommissioned years ago. The engines used air when in atmosphere, so three intake slits lay on each side of its prow, each about 15 mm wide, 40 mm tall.

  The two Sharks—per Max’s count, these should be the last two—weren’t visible. The plant’s loading doors stood open and Kit could hear them talking inside, their voices thick with inebriation. She wondered if their metabolism could handle the 200-proof ethanol the plant made, or if they’d already diluted the stuff.

  Kit handed Lacy a foam packet. “OK, you wait here. Don’t let a Shark see you, but if he does, throw this at his face. It will blind him long enough for you to get away. And if anything happens to me, you run back to the Meeting House.”

  Before Lacy could answer, Kit ran to the shuttle in a shambling crouch. She nicked a foam pouch and, keeping it pinched closed, reached deep into the intake port. She let go and pulled her hand out fast. Some of the foam smeared on her hand, but not enough to impede movement. She plugged a second slit. A third. She ran to the other side and stuffed in her last two packs.

  She turned to run back to the shed, and there was Lacy, running toward her.

  “I told you to stay hidden,” Kit hissed.

  “I heard something by the shed,” Lacy whispered. “I thought it was Sharks coming for me and I want to stay with you.”

  Voices. Shark voices from the plant. Coming closer.

  Lacy squeaked and turned to run for the shed, but Kit grabbed her and shook her head. Even drunk Sharks would notice humans running across twenty meters of wide open space. Their only cover was the ship itself.

  Kit turned back to the intake slits. She wedged in her foot—a stretch; the lower edge was about a meter off the ground—and hoisted herself up.

  Lacy joined her with far more grace. They crouched together, hanging on their precarious footholds, out of sight of anyone behind or inside the shuttle.

  Mushy voices. The thud and boom of a full barrel landing in the hold. Then silence. Kit placed her ear against the hull, trying to detect any further sound, any vibration.

  All was still.

  Maybe the Sharks had passed out. Maybe they’d died of alcohol poisoning. Now there was a pleasant thought, and it wouldn’t even be her fault. But they’d probably just returned to the plant for another load.

  She whispered into Lacy’s ear. “When I count to three, jump down and run like hell around the shed.” Before Lacy could respond, Kit said, very fast, “One two three, go!”

  Lacy blinked, hesitated, and Kit gave her a little push. Not a wise move on Kit’s part. Off balance, Lacy fell to the ground and yelped.

  A Shark shouted.

  “Run, Lacy!” Kit jumped to the ground and turned to face the enemy, about eight meters away. Too far for the net gun at her waist.

  The Shark stood outside the loading doors, wearing a leather breastplate. This one did not look so drunk or incompetent. It made an “Aha!” kind of sound and started walking toward them.

  Lacy tried to stand, but fell back with a grunt of pain, grumbling about her ankle. Kit stepped in front to shield her.

  The Shark ignored the heat gun in its holster and reached for his bandolier, casual and languid, ready for a bit of sport. He pulled out a black fight disc, a wicked little weapon similar to ninja stars, and hurled it at Kit as he approached.

  Kit dodged and it whizzed past. She listened, made a note of where it landed so she could go back and retrieve it later.

  Six meters. Kit pulled out the netter from her waist and the Shark dove and rolled to the side.

  She flicked the ejector switch to full range and pressed it, following the Shark’s roll, but nothing happened. She pressed again. Still nothing.

  Damn, damn, damn! She should know not to trust a weapon she hadn’t loaded herself. She threw it to one side.

  There was an unusual chirpy sound; a Shark laughing. He pulled out another fight disc.

  Too bad about her promise to the mayor. Kit was taking this bastard down.

  She pulled the Kappel Snake dart from its sheath and ran toward the Shark. He threw the fight disc, but she’d seen him raise his arm and was already dodging.

  At three meters, she stopped and threw the dart. When the Shark recognized what was coming, he let out a grunt of fear and tried to leap out of the way.

  The dart sliced into the Shark’s thigh.

  Shit. Too low. She’d been aiming for the gills.

  The Shark grabbed the protruding end and winced. The threads had barely gone into action, but it was enough to carve away a section of muscle as he pulled the dart out.

  Kit groped her pockets again, while flicking through ideas of how to get themselves out of this alive. She hit a KCL bottle, but it was useless without a needle for the syringe, broken in her fight with the female. She pulled out the nano-injector of sedative, glanced at it to see that it remained half full. Plenty of juice to knock this guy out.

  The Shark stood, pale blood running down his leg, and flipped the fight disc from hand to hand, teasing her. He said something; Kit only understood “death” and “demon maggot,” the usual Shark term for humans.

  And then, barely taking his eyes off Kit, the Shark took a step to the side and whipped the disc at Lacy.

  Lacy screamed and Kit leaped, nano-injector in hand. She had no time for proper positioning or finesse, just used her body as a projectile and slammed into the Shark, knocking him into the dust. His gills flared open, and Kit squirted in the full load of sedative as she rolled. It was fine with her if the bastard OD’d.

  The Shark yanked out his gun but, reflexively, his hand jerked as he started to cough the irritating nano-needles out of his gills. A heat dart hit one of the ship’s landing struts instead of Kit.

  She kicked the gun from his hand and bashed the injector against his super-sensitive nose, then dove for the gun and scooped it up.

  The Shark sat up coughing, waiting for death.

  Kit’s hand shook with restraint, with the effort not to shoot. “Come on, asshole, maybe I can still keep my oath. Now pass out before you tempt me too hard.”

  He snarled, showing a horrifying display of spiky teeth that could snap off a human arm in one bite.

  “That’s tempting me,” Kit said.

  There was a sudden shout from Lacy, a flash of motion, an explosion of white, a startled grunt.

  Kit turned slightly, still keeping an eye on the Shark, but enough to see another Shark on the other side of the shuttle. That one stared, confused by the plaster carapace that suddenly hardened on his chest and arms.

  “I saw it sneaking up on you,” Lacy called. “So I threw that thing you gave me. But I missed the face.”

  Kit smiled. “Oh, Lacy, you’re still a wonderful girl.”

  S
he’d only taken her eye off the other Shark for an instant, but it was enough for him to make his move.

  He was half up, knife in hand.

  Kit steadied the gun in her hand and...

  Splat!

  A blob of white foam hit the Shark’s back. Another plopped on the ground behind him.

  “Damn,” a quiet voice said. “I missed.”

  A horde of teenage boys, lead by Samuel, had circled around the plant, coming in from behind. They shouted and ran forward, flinging homemade foam packets with exuberance, hitting the Sharks and plenty of other things. One pack brushed against Kit’s hair and flicked hard pellets down her shirt.

  Shouting and pounding and pushing, the boys tackled the two Sharks in a pandemonium of glee and muscle and testosterone.

  A dozen adults, men and women both, rounded the shed with more casting packs, chains, netters, ropes and, for some strange reason, a plasma cutter.

  For pacifists, they sure could be ferocious.

  A Caritas ship arrived the next day to cart off the dead Sharks and two captives. And Kit. At least they didn’t tie her up.

  The crew kept their distance from her during the three-day journey to Koinonos, as if violence was a communicable disease. That was fine. It meant peace and quiet for Kit as she tried to sort out what had gone wrong on New Hope.

  By the third day, she figured it out.

  Nothing had gone wrong.

  True, if the colonists hadn’t insisted, she would have kept killing, wouldn’t have tried less lethal force. But at the end, she did stay her hand. She was learning.

  And if she hadn’t been there, most of those colonists would be dead, and Sharks let loose on humanity again.

  How could that be right? What she’d done, fight to protect her people, that’s what felt right. That was alive, that was real, that was her.

  Undue violence carried no honor.

  But pure pacifism would get them all slaughtered.

  She had only to find the balance.

  At the Earth Liaison Office on Koinonos, a panel of jurists questioned her for days. They didn’t arrest her, or restrain her movements at all, other than telling her when to come talk to them again.

  After a week, they didn’t know what to do with her. They could not get around the fact that, though she’d violated the terms of her probation, she had in fact saved hundreds of lives. From their increasingly convoluted questions, Kit got the idea they wished the whole problem would just go away.

  She intended to oblige them.

  On a bright and hot afternoon, she peered over a low fence—designed more to keep dogs out than humans—at the open landing fields of the transfer station. The air shimmered with the stink of fuel and sweat and commerce and action. She loved that smell.

  Only one ship sat there, sleek in design but battered in usage. She didn’t recognize its insignia and, intrigued, she entered the terminal. A man stood at the refreshment bar, pulling something hot out of the dispenser. He wore a blue jumpsuit with the same insignia as the ship.

  They eyed each other, they said hello, they talked. He said he was Lt. Anthony Badell, from the Tarrasa Settlements.

  “Never heard of it,” Kit said.

  “It’s out past the Chinchou sector.”

  She scowled. “There aren’t any settlements out there.”

  “There are now. Have been for two years.”

  “Oh.” Kit looked down, embarrassed by her ignorance. “Oh,” she said again, when she noticed something about his jumpsuit. “That’s a weapon sheath!”

  He glanced down. “Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s empty. Can’t carry a weapon groundside in the Unity. I’ve got the OK to refuel myself and the ship, then I’ll—”

  “How is it you’ve got a weapon at all?” she blurted out.

  “Like I said, I’m from Tarrasa. It’s independent, not in the Caritas Unity.”

  Kit only had to think about that for a second before the implications began to unfold. “So you fight if need be? You’re not pacifists?”

  “We can’t be, not out there. In such an outlying sector, right on the edge of human territory—”

  “I’ll join,” Kit said.

  Badell stopped, looked baffled. “What?”

  “I’ll join. Your military, or police, or whatever you’re the lieutenant of. Are you accepting recruits?” she asked.

  “Well, yes, but you should know it’s pretty remote—”

  “Yeah, good. I’m in.” Kit grinned. “When can we get out of here?”

  Falling to Eternity

  S. A. Bolich

  One of us is a traitor.

  That last, gut-stabbing message, flashed to my headset before the system went down and left me talking to dead air, seems to float in front of my eyes in letters of fire. I don’t even know who it came from; just that quick, before the identifier could even display, somebody killed the whole network. So the sender is a suspect too, one of seven, and I’m stuck here in my duty pod waiting either for the Worlies to show or one of my own squad to blow us all to hell.

  This day just keeps getting better.

  I take my hand off the unresponsive panels. Someone has done a thorough job of cutting pod functions. They can’t jam the guns; those operate independently from the central systems. But communications, scanners, the pod retract—all dead. We’re stuck out here like carnival-goers on a malfunctioning Ferris wheel.

  I’m tired. Even at zero gee my body feels like five hundred pounds of sand. My brain is mush. We’ve been here so long that watches just blur together, but even so this is overtime. I was just coming off operations watch when the alarm sent us scrambling to the pods. I lean my helmeted head against the clear observation port in front of me, wishing I was back on Earth, wishing I could rewind this day—hell, this war—wishing I could stop thinking about turning my guns on the outpost and ending the whole problem. I still have five friends in there.

  I had six this morning.

  One of us is a traitor. I don’t want to believe it, but too much has gone wrong. Nguyen discovered the pinpoint hull breach and disabled alarm that would have bled our atmosphere quietly until three days from now we’d wake up dead. But Vronski was the one who found the main transmitter array hanging by an eyelash and fixed it, no fuss, no alarm, just another repair on a sentry outpost in dire need of overhaul. I myself fixed the galley hatch, with a wrench and a few unkind words. But maybe those weren’t just age-related breakdowns. Did Hawk’s pod really hang a couple of minutes ago, or is she crawling down into the station right now?

  Ah, God. Home seems a long way away.

  I stare down at the blue, wonderful planet below me, peering through a swirl of clouds over Africa’s fat underbelly. So close. So far. I close my eyes against wishing. Okay. Leave out Hawk, “Lemme at ’em” Hawk who lost her whole family to a Worlie raid on stubborn Scotland. And Vronski. It’s surely not Ski. Yeah, his grasp of tactics runs toward brute force but his whole country is starving because it joined PatForce instead of One World. It can’t be Ski.

  My eyes fly open. Gren. I’ll bet it’s Gren. I never liked having a machine assigned to my squad. GRN-17 is a blank-faced, creepy little—

  Friend.

  Gren’s my friend, I tell my jittery nerves, dredging up all those quiet little memories that make a friendship. The time it showed me a better way to pack my ruck. The time it hauled my dragging ass up a space-chilled access ladder when I was so cold I couldn’t cling on. The time it—

  Gren is my friend.

  But friendship in a machine can be reprogrammed some fine and starry night by a stealthy hand removing a critical chip from a machine programmed to accept regular “maintenance.”

  Oh, God. Not Gren.

  Please don’t let it be Gren.

  Sudden heavy vibration runs like a shockwave up the fifty-meter arm of my pod. My heart rate shoots up about three hundred percent as I peer anxiously at the outpost. It looks the same, a squat round control pod connected by short spokes to t
he outer hex, just now sprouting spidery legs from long empty wells in each of the six faceless gray sides. Each leg ends in a fat and deadly little pod like mine. There are no blind spots in our observation of space around us. What the scanners can no longer see, we can. Any Worlie cruiser angling to fire on a PatForce free zone in our area of operations would have to elude our eyes, and our guns.

  The pods look fine, the three I can see in our current defensive configuration, but—Hoyt! The hair starts jumping over my body. Hoyt’s at ops inside, in control of every panel. He could jettison us all with the flick of a finger, blow the pods loose and—

  Have to explain it afterward. All six malfunctioning at once? Gee, sir, I don’t have a clue what happened.

  The pod continues to vibrate. Finally it registers on my sluggish brain that something is happening in the outpost, and if that’s so, then Dan Hoyt’s in trouble: steady, quiet, Alberta farmboy Hoyt who never would have come into space in the first place if the One Worlders hadn’t collectivized his folks’ operation at gunpoint. I dive toward the hatch—and stop, one gloved hand on the release, the other clutched tight around the hand grip.

  I’m on duty. I have to watch for a Worlie attack. We’ve been blinded to let a cruiser through, and below us is Africa, rich, fertile Africa where Patriot Force moved so much of our food production since the bread baskets of the free zones have been hammered so many times. Nebraska’s a wasteland, Poland is starving, but hey—One World is your benevolent friend. Give us your farm, we’ll run it better. Don’t give it to us and we’ll take it. Or burn it, as an example to the other stubborn hicks. The Worlies are not long on subtlety. But how did they get to my squad?

  My hand starts to shake. I snatch it away from the hatch release and try the comms again. “Any station, this is Alpha. Respond, over.”

  I wait. And wait. There is not even static hiss in my ears. My faceplate remains innocent of words.