Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Page 5

  “Why’s that?”

  “A planet like this should have a strong magnetic field. That field would deflect those particles far to the north or south. For whatever reason, the magnetic field is erratic and weak. It’s letting that radiation through.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “No. We get a lot more at Cadre One” The Brick’s eyebrow lifts. “If anything, all that interference might make us harder to spot from space.”

  “Finally, some good news,” Thompson snorts cynically. “So what’s wrong with the planet. Is it broken?”

  “It’s possible it was caused by the attack. But then, a spinning, liquid metal core can reverse its poles, sometimes. This planet could be going through an inversion.”

  Thompson’s interest dissolves and his eyes return to the horizon. Squinting, he sees a tight cluster amid the swarm with multiple bright lights aiming down. Resting his rifle on his raised knee, he zooms in on the cluster. Argo takes Thompson’s non-verbal cue and pulls his cannon into his lap.

  “What do you see?”

  “Movement…stand by.”

  Argo hunches in readiness while Thompson zooms to maximum. In the scope, six platform-like vessels hover with undersides wavering from hot thrust. Brilliant lights at their corners stream down into the rocks and trees below. Slowly, the platforms rise.

  Thompson’s eyes dart back and forth, searching for detail in the over magnified image. The ascending platforms clear the trees. Dangling beneath, silhouetted by white steam, is a battered egg.

  “That’s it. We’re leaving.” Thompson slides back from the outcropping. Argo follows closely.

  “Can Beckert run?” Thompson asks.

  “He’s medicated…”

  “Then carry him.” Thompson pauses long enough for Argo to lift the Geek over his shoulder, and the team rushes off through the undergrowth.

  **************************************************************

  The going is slow. Steep slopes and tangled thickets of creeper vines hamper their movement, making them work for every step. Thompson extends the bayonet on his rifle and slashes through the foliage. Though sharp, the blade requires a wide swing, and after many hours of the repetitive motion his shoulders ache.

  A loud buzz makes Thompson pause in his tracks. Looking down, he finds a rope-like creature coiled and staring with elliptical pupils. A forked tongue slides past its pitted snout and waves over its head. Chevrons of brown and black run its length to a furiously vibrating rattle on its tail.

  The creature uncoils deliberately and noses toward the brush. Before it can escape, Thompson grabs it by the middle. The snake strikes repeatedly at the Gun’s hand and wrist. He holds it out toward Argo.

  “Have a look. Angry little thing, isn’t it?”

  Argo watches the snake chew on Thompson’s armored index finger.

  “I don’t expect it enjoys being handled any more than we would.” Argo inspects the snake, recognizing it from the colonist archive. “If that bit you, it could kill you. But they’re docile if you leave them alone.”

  Thompson hurries to set the snake down, suddenly concerned he might be hurting it. The snake threads its way beneath a fallen tree and disappears.

  Embedded in the rubberized pad at the end of his finger is a short, needle-thin fang. He pulls it loose and spins it between his thumb and fore finger. Delicate and deadly, he thinks in admiration. Swinging his arms in alternating circles, he limbers up to start cutting again.

  “Ready?”

  Argo swaps Beckert from his left shoulder to his right. “Ready.”

  **************************************************************

  Thompson crests a slope and discovers an end to the mountainous terrain. He looks out over a broad, forested plain, gently illuminated by the pre-dawn sky. Directly ahead a river meanders north to south, some sections turned white with rapids. He scans up and down as far as his scope can resolve, but nowhere does he see a good place to cross.

  He swings his scope south and discovers a black scar in the forest over ten kilometers wide, devoid of vegetation. From his vantage, it appears the river flows directly to it.

  Argo sets his burden down with a groan and leans against a stout trunk. He unscrews the cap on his canteen and takes a long slug. Argo passes the canteen over, but Thompson ignores it, still focusing on the charred gap in the forest.

  “Spot something?” Argo asks.

  “Due south, thirty clicks out, just below the horizon.”

  Thompson hands over his rifle. While the Brick gazes through the scope, Thompson scrambles up a tree and scans the sky. High above, a ship gleams from low orbit. On the horizon, hundreds of tiny specks reflect the morning light to the north and west. The swarm appears to be centered on the failed reservoir and the number of search craft has tripled.

  “That should be Frederick,” Argo announces, lowering the scope from his eye.

  Thompson swings down from the branches and thuds onto the dirt.

  “Who?”

  “Not who. Where. Frederick was a city, according to the colonist maps. Small military base. Over sixty thousand residents.” Argo passes the rifle over as the realization sinks in. Sixty thousand.

  “I couldn’t see a bit of it left.” Thompson takes his rifle back. “Looks like the sun reached out and touched it.”

  Argo nods. “It does. How do the skies look?”

  “Crowded. New craft are flying up from the south.”

  “No point staying here, then.” Argo bends over to lift the still unconscious Geek. Thompson stops him.

  “You’ve carried him long enough. I’ll take him. You blaze a better trail, anyway.” Thompson squats, raises one of Beckert’s limp arms, and passes it behind his neck. When he stands, Beckert comes up with him. Holding the Geek at the waist, Thompson squats again and allows Beckert to drape over one shoulder. With both arms, the Gun supports his comrade and stands. He shrugs a couple of times to adjust his grip.

  “We’ll cut straight to the river and follow it south. Let’s move.”

  **************************************************************

  Morning daylight brightens then fades into late afternoon. Various chirps and tweets sing to them in their marathon, interrupted at times by distant turbine engines streaking by. Thompson is so content in his mindless exertion that he scarcely marks the passage of hours.

  When Argo lopes to a stop in front of him, it is the first time Thompson notices how thin the vegetation has become. Trees are stunted and gnarled with thick knots in the trunks and branches. Leaves are vibrant green, yet curled and misshapen. Beneath his boots is a thin soil, partially organic, the rest a brittle black glass.

  Argo turns to face his comrade, labset in his large hands.

  “This place is hot. We should seal up until we leave.”

  Both men open their mouths wide as their faceplates drop and lock with a hiss. After a couple of swallows the pressure in their ears equalizes, and processed air circulates past their nostrils.

  Argo’s voice comes clipped and mechanical through his helmet speaker.

  “This whole place was melted into one giant lump.” He thumbs his labset, absorbing the data. “Heat and compression on a stellar scale.”

  “Isomer weapons?”

  Argo shrugs.

  “Don’t know…maybe.” He looks past the stunted trees at a circular field which is flat, black, and smooth. The surface is homogenous gravel with an occasional tree limb or animal bone. Farther out, dust devils twirl over shimmering mirages.

  “There’s nothing here. This is a dead place.” The Gun waits for Argo to store his labset and passes Beckert over. He takes his rifle from his shoulder and casts a wary eye to the sky. “We’ll go around, then look for a river crossing on the far side.”

  **************************************************************

  Kilometers roll by under the regular cadence of their stride as daylight yields to night. Black-winged creatures tak
e to the sky in dense, silent flocks. Chirps and peeps call through the forest in every direction. Far away, a lupine howl carries through the cool air.

  Abruptly, the tree line ends several meters ahead, and something massive stands in the clearing beyond. Thompson drops to a knee and takes cover behind a thick tree trunk, aiming his rifle at a smoothly sloping construct. Argo gently sets Beckert down and thumbs the safety of his cannon.

  Thompson traces the dimensions of the edifice, seeing no entrance or window. No heat source interrupts the light colored surfaces. With a hand signal, he orders Argo to wait, and the Gun steps cautiously ahead.

  Light colored fragments lie scattered around the base of the construct. Thompson stoops to pick up a hand-sized block and turns it over. The hardness makes it seem like rock, but the sandy whiteness gives it away as a kind of cement. His strong hand squeezes the fragment and it yields, crumbling into many sandier pieces. He drops the remains and strides closer.

  The sloping surface bears deep pock marks. In the deeper gouges, exposed metallic reinforcements are little more than rusty nubs. Plants and small trees root in most of the gouges, contributing to enormous cracks and separations.

  Thompson grows bolder, moving to the base of the colossal construct. As his eyes move up the weathered surface, he discovers an arching span extending across the river valley. Without a word, he scrambles up the angled abutment.

  Argo collects Beckert and follows. The Brick’s heavy steps dislodge layers of loose scale and sand, making the huge warrior stagger and scuff his way up the steep slope.

  At the top of the abutment, Thompson crouches beside a corroded railing and scans for the enemy. The sky is clear and the overgrown bridge deck is devoid of heat sources. To the west, a deep and narrow notch is cut into the valley’s side, aligning with the approach of the massive span. Rock slides have buried the bottom of the notch, creating a boulder field where no trees can root. Wind howls through the gap.

  Thompson throws a leg over the decrepit railing and steps out onto the mossy bridge deck. Through the notch to the west, he can see the distant swarm of reflective search craft. Where it was once densely clustered over the reservoir, the orbiting swarm has expanded over the surrounding area.

  Decayed leaves form a dark soil beneath the green matting, and the bridge feels plush under his boots. As he marvels, it occurs to him that he is standing on something man made. Such a conclusion is obvious from the age and state of ruin, yet feeling stirs in his chest. Beneath his feet is something constructed by his terrestrial forebears over a thousand years ago, and it still stands as a monument to their existence.

  It is also a potent reminder that those who made it are all dead, murdered by a remorseless, blue-skinned enemy.

  The Gun’s sinews tighten. As his lifetime of Cadre training demands, he stuffs the anger deep down and forces himself to think no more about it.

  When Argo crests the bridge’s foundation, he finds Thompson crouched and sighting the eastern side through his rifle scope.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing.” Thompson lowers his rifle, still looking out across the span. “If we cross here, it’ll save us time.”

  Argo looks out across the suspended road of dilapidated concrete and weeds.

  “There’s no cover…”

  Thompson looks over his shoulder at the expanding swarm of lights. The cluster has flattened and is spreading over a wider area.

  “Let’s go.” Thompson springs up and runs out onto the flat top. Argo shrugs Beckert tighter to his neck and sprints after his leader.

  Unburdened, Thompson easily pulls ahead. The farther he runs from the bridge’s end, the less moss and soil mats the surface. Soon, he is running across loose chunks of grayed asphalt. Broad potholes are scooped from the surface by centuries of rain, wind, frost, and sun. Shrubs and grasses sprout from the holes.

  Farther on, large sections of the span sag, the reinforced concrete cracked in circular sectors. Some sags have dropped away completely with ragged edges, their bottoms fallen to the valley floor. Thompson skirts the sags, casting a wary glance down at the tree tops and river far below.

  A sudden gust shoves him close to the bridge’s rail. He braces against it, veering toward the center divider. The strong wind is cool, evaporating the sweat on his face; it streams through his nostrils, filling his lungs with damp night air. Rich, unprocessed, the air feels thick and satisfying, dissipating the heat from his exertion with each inhale. A feeling of renewed vigor grows inside him. His heart feels stronger, his limbs feel refreshed, his eyes seem wider and more aware.

  Never before have his senses felt so thoroughly aroused. Even in the heightened circumstances of an assault, his senses were always focused on the mission, prioritized and specialized for maximum efficiency. Here, he is aware of everything: the smell of humidity, the taste of forest air, the coolness on his sweating skin, the howling of wind, the shimmering ribbons of light in the sky, and the red moon rising full on the horizon. The sensual symphony overwhelms him, making him feel simultaneously small yet connected to something truly huge.

  A bizarre idea washes over him: everything he sees may be alive. Everything. The rock, the tree, the air, the tiny insects among them, possibly even the entire planet are all bound together in life. He understands with every breath, the planet is nourishing him and he is a part of that magnificent living system. Same with Argo and Beckert…

  But the Blueskins can not be a part of that whole. They are invaders. They do not belong. He does not know how or why he knows this, nor does he care. This was a Human world, and it will be again. It must be.

  The thought of Beckert and Argo reminds him to check on his comrades. When he looks back, he sees he has far outrun them. He jogs to a halt and crouches. While waiting, he drinks in his surroundings.

  “Maiella should be here to see this.”

  More surprising than the sudden thought of Maiella is the realization he said her name aloud. He mentally chastises himself for letting his guard down and returns to his austere state of mind, watching Argo lumber up the broken surface.

  Above and far behind the Brick, a bright light drifts between the walls of the mountain notch followed by a second. The lights cease their lateral drift and grow brighter.

  Thompson raises his rifle. He dials in on the lead light source and shifts the wavelength on his scope to minimize the washout. The scope resolves two small, streamlined craft, heading their way. Beneath them, a triangular pink beam oscillates.

  “Argo!” Thompson shouts, “They’re coming!”

  Argo pivots mid-stride to see the advancing lights. He whirls about and lowers his head, re-doubling his sprint. His large feet pound the broken asphalt.

  Thompson slings his rifle and rushes to join his comrade. “Give me your cannon!”

  Argo passes the heavy weapon over. He lifts the unconscious Geek across his shoulders like a yoke and holds with both hands. Without the swinging cannon, his stride lengthens.

  Thompson hefts the cannon with both hands, compensating for its mass. As the men crest the middle of the arching span, Thompson spots the end of the bridge. He sneaks a nervous look over his shoulder and sees the lights are much closer.

  “Move it, Brick! Come on!”

  Argo’s footfalls thud slightly faster and he pants with effort.

  The high pitched whine of turbine engines pours through the valley cut. Thompson looks again and the lights are almost to the notch. He curses through clenched teeth. Argo is not going to make it.

  “Run ahead and take cover where you can!” Thompson shouts. Argo acknowledges with an exaggerated nod as he thuds by.

  Vibration carries along the bridge surface when the aircraft pass the notch. Thompson ducks to the outer railing and crouches low, thumbing the cannon output higher.

  The aircrafts’ noses rise sharply as they slow, then level out. Each craft takes a side of the wide bridge, and their oscillating pink beams sweep the top, overlapping at the cen
ter divider. The thrust from their engines shakes the entire structure, making chunks of asphalt roll and dance.

  Adrenaline and neurostims flow into Thompson’s blood stream, amplifying his reflexes. His leg bounces with anticipation. His mind collapses to bloody intent, and he aims at the nearest craft.

  A series of cracks like gunshots erupts behind him. The bridge lurches and sways. Eyes wide, Thompson spins and watches the edge of a massive concrete slab snapping free. Clouds of dust belch skyward, and seconds later a violent crash of smashed timber rises from the valley below.

  “Argo!” Thompson yells. He jumps to his feet, trying to balance on the still swaying surface. Thick dust rolls over him.