Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 13

  Gettin’ old.

  When he looks back at Argo and Beckert, their helmet lamps are flashing on and off. Alerted, he wraps the rifle strap around his forearm and leans over the rail for a better look. Surface ripples diffract the blinking lights. His eyes scan over the water for the source.

  The water beside him explodes and he gapes into a black and white maw. Long jaws snap across his torso. The creature curls over and dives into the water, ripping the Gun from his perch. Driven by a powerful tail, the creature drags him down and away. Argo’s and Beckert’s lights grow faint.

  Thompson’s hands press against conical teeth and scaly black skin. Gasping for air, he strains against the elongated jaws. The beast rolls and spins, smashing him again and again into the solid floor. Each hit kicks breath from his lungs and his eyes cross before he goes limp. Water rushes around him as the beast resumes its powerful serpentine swim.

  Something tugs on one of his arms. As sense returns to him, he realizes it is his rifle, dangling from the strap coiled around his forearm. The Gun reels his weapon in and extends the bayonet.

  He plunges the blade into scaly hide. The beast winces and thrashes fiercely. It rolls and slams him like a toy, the hits bursting through his brain with pulses of bright light.

  Thompson slumps from the cudgeling, arms and legs draping. The rush of water surrounds him again, flailing his limbs in the currents. A searing pain crawls up his back, as if insisting on being the first sense to return. The pain twists and grinds savagely, alternately warm and cool.

  Consolidating his scattered thoughts and strength, he draws what breath he can. He tucks his head forward to strike again when his helmet lamps shine into a small red orb. The orb reflects like a mirror.

  With careful aim, Thompson stabs his bayonet into the beast’s eye. The crushing vice on his chest releases and a thick tail slaps him like a steel girder. He sinks in the shallow water, coming to rest in a heap of animal skulls, antlers, and rib cages.

  The Gun’s legs stamp through the loose bones in search of solid footing. The bones, fuzzy with white fungus, vomit clouds of silt and rotten flesh. He staggers back over the shifting piles, thrusting with his heels. His hands hold the rifle in a death grip and he swings it back and forth through the chummed water.

  Breaking the water’s surface, he drags himself up the grade onto greasy flooring. Jittery and weakened, he falls onto his backside, staring wild-eyed across the roiled water. Still watching the depths, he pushes up with one hand and gets to his feet. A guttural roar behind him shakes the ground.

  Thompson spins into a crouch. He levels his rifle and squeezes the trigger. A blue spark sizzles internally with a jet of steam. The weapon does not fire.

  A three meter tail sweeps the operator into a cartwheel, and sends him careening into the concrete wall. He bounces and falls forward onto his visor.

  Thompson’s hands seek for his weapon, scraping through slime and excrement. The battered operator pushes up wearily, unable to see through his smeared visor. He drags a hand across it, clearing a small streak, and he finds his rifle close by.

  He snatches it from the muck and holds it tight, swaying in his stance, but the creature is gone. Gentle waves lap up on the water’s edge with a v-shaped wake headed back toward Argo and Beckert.

  “No, no, no, you don’t,” he says drunkenly. “We’re not finished.”

  The Gun staggers into the water and collapses.

  Thompson’s eyes flick open. Lying on his belly, he looks through his opened visor at slime-covered flooring. The smell of dank decay pours unfiltered into his nostrils. He slides his arms below his chest.

  “Hold still!” chides Argo’s gruff voice behind him.

  Thompson freezes, suddenly aware of cool air on his back. Mid way, beside his spine, he feels the prodding of surgical tools under his skin.

  “Wha…What’s going on?” Thompson presses up. Argo’s knee plants firmly between his shoulder blades and drops him to the deck.

  “Still, Gun. That means don’t move.” Argo readjusts his grip on his tools. “That big fella got a tooth in you somehow. Lined up with the seam under your thoracic plates.”

  A dart of pain shoots through Thompson’s right side, and he inhales sharply through clenched teeth.

  “Is it bad?”

  “Easy, Major. It tore you up pretty good, got your kidney.” Argo places a curved lance into his med-kit and selects a pencil-shaped device. “Just relax and let me fix you.”

  Thompson props his chin on his overlapped hands while Argo works. From the inside out, Argo clamps the flesh together and draws the pencil-shaped device across each tear, leaving a thin bead of glue. The glue bonds instantly, and Argo tugs gently on each repair to test it. Thompson twitches with each tug.

  “You’ll have some blood in your urine, but I’m more concerned about septicemia.” Argo pinches the Gun’s thick back skin together and glues it. “That thing’s mouth was teeming with bacteria.”

  “Was?”

  “Yeah. Geek and I took it down.”

  The moment Thompson feels Argo’s knee lift, he turns to look at his surgeon.

  “Where is it now?”

  Argo points with his glue pen, and Thompson follows it to a scaly beast over six meters long, slumped half in, half out of the foul water. Stubby legs sprawl from a wide, black body. A crooked smile runs the length of the flat head, jutting an occasional tooth. At the base of the skull, Beckert’s sword is driven to the hilt.

  Beckert sits on the animal’s back, scraping and welding Thompson’s back armor plates. He looks up at the major with a wave and resumes his repair.

  “When I saw it swimming toward us, I thought it had swallowed you,” Argo explains. “Thought we’d have to cut you out.”

  “Almost did,” Thompson adds warily. “How’d you catch it?”

  “Geek got up onto the catwalk and snagged it with some rope as it passed. It yanked him in and rolled so many times, he got lashed to the thing.” Argo chuckles to himself.

  “And then?”

  “I caught the loose end of the rope, and it towed us all over the place. Nearly tore my arm off with all its thrashing. It finally got tired and swam back this way. Once it came up out of the water, Beckert drew his blade and finished it.”

  Thompson gets to his feet with a wobble. Argo rushes to steady his patient, but Thompson stiff-arms him.

  “I got it, I got it.” The Gun raises his arms and stretches, testing the closure of his wound. “Did a good job, Argo. Feels good.”

  Argo nods and cleans his tools before stowing them in his med-kit.

  Thompson steps to the reptilian carcass, feet squishing inside his boots. He sits down next to Beckert and removes his boots one at a time, draining the bloody water.

  “There,” Beckert announces, holding up Thompson’s armor plates. “That should do it.”

  The Gun stares at the tooth scrapes and gouges. He takes the armor from Beckert and inspects the repairs. All are well done.

  “Give me a hand with this?” the Gun asks, passing the armor back to his junior comrade.

  Beckert receives the plating and hangs the top of it on Thompson’s shoulder frame. He zips the mesh inner layers to the rest of the suit then locks the external fasteners.

  “All set, Major.”

  “Appreciate it, Sergeant.” Thompson spins in place, searching. “Where’s my rack?”

  “Not much left of it, sir.” Beckert reaches behind the dead creature and produces a twisted rail. Only two crushed boxes are attached. “Bite strength of this thing was incredible. Lucky it didn’t snap you in two.”

  Thompson takes the rail and opens the bent boxes. Foul water pours from them. He reaches in and pulls out punctured water skins from one, soggy and mashed protein bars from the other. He drops the trash to the floor and looks out into the expanse of water. The spare batteries, rifle parts, tools, first aid kit, extra food and water are somewhere out there, scattered and buried in sediment.

&n
bsp; “Who’s got a protein bar? I could eat my own hand.”

  Beckert produces a compartment from his rack and opens it, offering the contents. Thompson takes three bars and holds one out for Beckert.

  “No thank you, sir. Already had mine.”

  Thompson turns to Argo, who is still cleaning his medical instruments. Argo looks at the black wrappers as if they were the answer to a prayer.

  “Yeah, I’ll take two.”

  Thompson tosses the bars to his comrade. The men bite through the wrappers like famished wolves and chew in silence.

  Beckert snaps the box back into his rack. While the others eat, he searches out the loose end of the carbon fiber rope and starts winding it around his elbow. With a great deal of lifting and grunting, he untangles the rope from the creature’s legs, body, and tail.

  Outside of combat, he truly sees the creature for the first time. Beckert crouches and looks into its half-closed eye. The beast was fearsome in life, but in death, there is no thrill of victory. The Geek looks at the five-toed front feet, like webbed hands with sharp claws. He traces his hand along the thick, knobby hide of its face, admiring the complexity.

  Such a beautiful design.

  A fist closes around his heart and squeezes.

  “I’m sorry I killed you,” he whispers.

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  Beckert looks up at Thompson in surprise. “It’s too bad, sir, is all.” He stands and looks down at the still animal. “It was a remarkable life form.”

  “It tried to eat us.”

  “Hunger is universal. We’re no different.”

  Thompson struggles to swallow the last bit of protein in his mouth.

  “You’re right, but…don’t over think it. We’re alive and in good health. You did it right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beckert replies. He leans over the creature’s neck and withdraws the bright blade.

  “Mind if I look at that?” Thompson asks, changing the subject.

  “No, of course not.” Beckert grips the blade at the tip and passes it hilt-first. Thompson takes it delicately and cradles the sword in his gauntleted palms.

  “I understand why you couldn’t leave this behind.” The Gun takes the blade by the grip and slashes the air suddenly, as though striking an invisible opponent. He steps back from his lunge and passes the blade back to the Geek. “It has an excellent balance. From the General’s office, you say?”

  Beckert’s eyes light up. “Yes, Major. Amazing things there, sir.”

  “And you took photographs, of course?”

  “Of course! In fact…” The Geek reaches into a compartment and retrieves the black and white image of the old general in the steel helmet. He passes it to Thompson eagerly.

  Thompson grins, seeing joy return to the Geek’s eyes. “This is the General you saw in the video?”

  “Uh, no, sir.” Beckert presses two fingers into his temple, still confused by what he found. “This one is older…I think he was our first.”

  “Our progenitor?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Thompson holds the picture in awe, already imagining its place at the head of the Cadre Memorial. He offers it back to the Geek.

  “This is important. Keep it safe.”

  “Aye, sir!” Beckert replies. He tucks it away securely. “There’s more, sir…” Beckert’s mouth falls open mid-sentence, as though stuck. Thompson cranes his head in anticipation.

  “Spit it out, Sergeant.”

  Beckert shuts his mouth and lifts his eyes. “The General mentioned Cadre One and Cadre Two…”

  Argo sits straight up, nearly dropping the tool he is cleaning. Thompson’s eyes swell. His head turns to the side, yet his eyes remain glued to the Geek.

  “Cadre Two?” the Gun repeats.

  “Yes, Major, I’m sure of it.”

  Thompson squares his shoulders with the young operator.

  “I want your full report when we find a safe place to stop.”

  Beckert smiles, showing his even, white teeth. “Affirmative, sir!”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  Beckert salutes and wipes the curved sword before slipping it into its scabbard. Thompson strides over to Argo.

  “Did I hear that right?” the big man asks.

  Thompson nods seriously. Argo looks down at the ground, exhaling.

  “Cadre Two…” The big man shakes his head and finishes packing up his medkit. “That adds some color to things.” He clicks the kit onto his back rack and smirks. “Huh. It’s obvious, actually…there’d be no need to call it Cadre One unless there were others.” He pulls his cannon into his lap. “So what was Geek going on about before that?”

  “First-kill anxiety,” Thompson explains dismissively. “How are you doing?”

  Argo stands. “I was glad for the break, but I’m packed and ready.” The Brick hefts his cannon in emphasis.

  Thompson looks for his rifle and finds it in Beckert’s hands. The Geek is rubbing it clean with a small cloth.

  “That’s good, Sergeant,” he calls out. “Ready?”

  Beckert lifts the twin sacks of media records and tromps over to his teammates.

  “Ready, sir.” He slips an arm through the harness.

  “I’ll take it,” Thompson insists. “My load’s a little light.”

  Beckert hands off the sacks, streams of water pouring from the dense fabric. Thompson slides his arms through the harness and cinches it tight across his chest. Beckert hands over the rifle. Thompson checks it out of habit.

  “There was water in the optics, Major, but I got it all out. It’s a hundred percent.”

  “All right.” Thompson looks at his team. “On me.”

  The three spread out and run into the long darkness, minds ablaze over a lonely outpost called Cadre Two.

  Beckert’s Entourage

  Grateful to be on dry ground, Thompson sets a swift pace down the parallel rails.

  Mesh inner layers of his armor wick away perspiration and dry his waterlogged feet. He knows the suit’s recapture filters will purify the fluids before filling his canteen, but the thought of drinking the bloodied chum water from his boots is unsettling.

  Dark light fixtures pass by in endless succession as the operators run, marking off the distance like a silent metronome. Periodically, a smaller tunnel feeds in and merges with the larger tunnel. Thompson ignores them, opting for the spacious and clear path straight ahead.

  The tunnel’s slight upward grade turns downward and leads to a pond of waist deep water. The watery trek is brief, however, as the grade rises once more and returns them to drier footing.

  An acrid stench wafts at them from far ahead, stinging their sinuses. Thompson covers his mouth with a gauntleted hand. At the limits of his vision, he sees dark brown mounds covering the parallel rails. He lopes to a halt. Argo jogs up beside him, his eyes watered.

  “Smells like the waste tanks on that passenger liner we collected.”

  Thompson recalls the ship from that long-ago mission. During the inventory, they opened an access hatch and discovered the main tank of a massive septic system. It must have been a long flight before they intercepted.

  “Yeah,” the Gun snorts, “It does.”

  The team forges on, and as their boots sink into the crumbly piles, they recoil from the stench of ammonia. Gagging in their tracks, they look down at millions of insects scuttling over and through the fetid mounds at their feet.

  Argo arches his back, his helmet lamps illuminating a shifting brown carpet of creatures clinging to the high ceiling. High pitched squeaks voice a collective protest at the light.

  Thompson leads his team to the side of the tunnel, where the piles are shallower. Every step through the thin crust belches noxious vapors. Flat beetles teem from the perforations. Nausea overwhelms him and he breaks into a run.

  Beckert follows too closely, getting a face full of kicked up guano. Sputtering and retching, he emerges from the piles behind Thompson and hu
nches over.

  Argo stamps through the last of the heaps, his visor closed and sealed. Beckert looks up at the Brick with reddened eyes and a long line of saliva hanging from his bottom lip. The big man laughs behind his air tight mask and gives the Geek a hearty slap on the shoulder.

  “You find a new flavor for our protein, Geek?”

  Beckert opens his mouth to answer then faces the floor and spits out salty saliva.