Black Hawks From a Blue Sun Read online

  Having risked light long enough, the Gun clicks off his lamps. The strands disappear, to his great disappointment, leaving the space with its original dilapidated appearance.

  As Thompson moves toward the middle of the space, he notices the ceiling is woven with a thicker mesh of the translucent strands. Dead center of the floor are multiple balls of white spun fibers. Thrilled for something to investigate, he hurries to the curiosities.

  Capsules of silken bundles, all half a meter or less, lie casually on the floor. Above the pile is a large, round hole in the ceiling. Webbing is thickly spun around the opening, forming a wide tube which rises and diverts to one side.

  Thompson returns his attention to the silken bundles. He extends his bayonet with a shick and carves into the nearest one. The fibers cut reluctantly, clinging to the flat of his blade. With care, he bisects the ball, freeing a compressed lump of off-white feathers and hollow bones. The desiccated carcass spills out, its smaller feathers flying in the breeze before catching in the numerous invisible strands. The feathers hang and twist by unseen tethers.

  Thompson looks again at the fibrous tube above him, when caution urges him to step away. Keeping careful watch of the tube, he finishes his search of the floor. Nothing else draws his interest and he hops up through another gap in the ceiling.

  Propping himself on elbows again, he surveys the new environment before pulling himself through. Silken veils connect the support columns, ceiling, and floor like ghosts of the walls which once stood. Spun fibers cover every surface in white mats.

  He presses all the way up through the gap and crouches near the hole. The veils scarcely move in the breeze, giving them a very taut appearance. Narrow tubes feed in from other areas, connecting the various chambers in a labyrinthine fashion.

  Something living made this…

  His grip tightens on his rifle, but the lack of movement or heat sources in his visor tell him the creatures are long gone.

  With his rifle pulled tight, he duck-walks stealthily toward one of the veiled walls. More silken bundles cluster in the chamber beyond, attached to the ceiling and floor. Some dangle in between on thin cords of spun silk.

  Thompson presses the tip of his bayonet into the veil and draws a vertical slit. As he steps through, the strands snag him, requiring significant effort to break free.

  Patrol of the area inside shows it remarkably intact, held together by the micro-fine threads. More tubes feed into the chamber, seemingly random in their distribution. He sets his attention on the silk-wrapped bundles and, like an exploratory surgeon, he dissects them. Fresher victims fall from the cases, almost all of them types of birds.

  Slinging his rifle, he takes one of the larger birds in hand. Its black plumage contrasts starkly with the white wrapping. A naked head with empty eye sockets elongates into a hooked beak. Scaly legs attach at the mid section and end with sharp-taloned toes. The Gun takes a wing in each hand and extends them, surprised both by the one and a half meter wingspan and the cluster of white feathers at the wingtips.

  Thompson contemplates the creature, its head slumping loosely at its chest. He lays the bird down on the silk wrapped floor. Sticky threads cling to the wings, holding them out. The bird’s head flops up and lands facing right.

  A lightning bolt of recognition strikes. The Gun looks down at the subtly emblazoned emblem on his chest then back at the bird. There, stretched out on the floor, is the likeness of Cadre One.

  Thompson realizes he is staring. He takes a step and nearly stumbles, his right foot oddly rooted to the floor. Surprised, he looks down and finds a black, bulbous creature busily knitting his ankle with long, spindly legs.

  He tries to shoo the creature with his rifle. Despite only being the size of Argo’s boot, the creature is strong and it refuses to budge. Thompson plunges his bayonet through the creature’s body, pinning it to the floor. Completely impaled, the creature continues to weave.

  Astounded at its mission focus, the Gun lifts the spitted creature, holding it upside down before him. He looks into a row of eight shiny black dots. The mouth is little more than a red maw with two articulated, dagger-like teeth. Thrashing legs bear subtle bands of brown, and the pierced abdomen is marked with two nearly parallel zig-zagging lines. With a flick, he hurls the creature across the chamber. It rights itself and staggers away.

  When he bends to cut the webbing at his ankle, a tension on the back of his helmet stops him. He looks up into the belly of another creature that is attaching his helmet with long lines to the ceiling. Annoyed, he slashes the lines and spikes the creature before tossing it aside.

  At his ankle, Thompson sees a smaller creature has already resumed the work of the first and is netting him up to the knee. Another approaches his left foot, spins around, and starts weaving. Eyes wide, Thompson shifts his stance and punts the new arrival into the veiled wall. In the same motion, he pivots and stomps the creature knitting his knee. The eight-legged thing merely slumps, its carapace barely flexing under Thompson’s heel.

  Behind it, a scuttling carpet of fist-sized and larger creatures pours through multiple connecting tubes. The slice he made in the veil is already sewn shut, notably thickened. He is being hemmed in.

  Thompson slashes at the webs around his leg, ripping free. Terribly outnumbered, he dashes away from the advancing horde and cuts through the thinner interior veils. He hacks and carves a path through each chamber, gaining a little ground, powering his way past the clinging strands, searching for a way out.

  Two creatures, bodies the size of Argo’s torso, launch bullet-like from tubes to his left and right. Their spindly legs skitter over his armor, hooking in the overlaps and wrapping strand after strand around him. Sickle-shaped fangs seek for his throat, probing for an injection point.

  Thompson struggles with his long weapon, the butt of it catching in the close webs, and finally jabs the bayonet up into one of his attackers. It refuses to release. He pulls the blade out and rakes it down the creature’s side, amputating all four legs at once. The creature drops and scuttles awkwardly away, its severed legs still hooked in his armor.

  Thompson wrestles with the other, using his bayonet and brute strength to break its winding threads. With a frustrated roar, he frees his right arm and takes hold of one leg at a time, ripping it from the body. The creature’s grip slackens and Thompson punches it in the underbelly. The hit catapults the creature across the chamber, where it lands and struggles to stand on its remaining legs before limping away.

  The Gun frantically clears himself of the tangled threads and staggers toward the next chamber. He makes a circular slice in the dividing veil and dives through into a much larger chamber. He rolls to his feet, long strands from the floor coming up with him, and looks into the face of a creature over two meters long. Fangs like sabers protrude from its flat head. He shrinks back, leveling his rifle at its plate-like eyes. It does not move.

  The Gun gasps with anxious breath, staring at the behemoth slumped on the floor. The huge carapace is dented and sags in places. Three meter legs sprawl in all directions, and what he first mistook for hair, he discovers are thousands of younger creatures slurping fluids from the joints.

  Once past his initial shock, he detaches his gaze from the monster and scans the entire chamber. More spheres of spun fiber adorn the upper corners of the chamber, most with small holes in them.

  Thompson’s eyes bounce from the massive body to the hair-like young, to the meter-wide egg sacks. Gradually, he makes the connections.

  An incubation chamber…and this, the mother…she gives her life to nourish the young…

  Grateful not to deal with her in life, he backs away.

  Behind him, the horde struggles to chew and clamber through the rags and tangles of his passage. Though they would clearly like to draw his fluids in a slow and painful manner, profound respect wells in him for this selfless society.

  Close by, Thompson spots a wide tube which bends toward the floor. With a quick slash, he hustl
es through it and leaps down onto a spongy pile of dry bundles below.

  The bulbous creatures swarm from the hole above him. Larger ones form a perimeter while smaller ones spin thick strands across the opening. In moments, the tube is completely sealed, leaving just the perimeter of large creatures. They hang from the ceiling, watching Thompson as closely as he watches them. They raise their front legs, displaying red maws and menacing black fangs.

  “Okay, I get it. I’m leaving.”

  The creatures maintain their angry posture, letting the Gun retreat. Freed from attack, Thompson’s mind turns to fascination.

  Such cohesion, focus, will, and sacrifice… Our ancestors must have had their reasons for choosing the bird… But if they wanted to identify with something, this eight-legged life form is better.

  The Gun freezes his thoughts and impressions into a mental snapshot and hustles out of the leaning building, continuing his search of the city.

  The First of Us…

  Beckert runs in long strides over crystalline black ground, boots crunching on the brittle soil. He vaults over obstructions and dodges protruding beams like a porpoise at sea. His strong heart beats in his chest, fueling his effortless movements yet aggravating the throbbing ache behind his eyes.

  A flat-topped hill looms before him, and he rushes up the slope to a square field without obstruction. In the late afternoon sunlight, weak mirages shimmer over its irradiated black gravel.

  To the northeast, stunted trees cling to low hills, adding the only real color. To the south, the Potomac delta flows into the edge of the Chesapeake Bay. Everywhere in between is devastation. Vast rubble fields extend from Chevy Chase in the north through Cleveland Park, McLean Gardens in the south, and Tenleytown in the southwest. Dust clouds roll across the blasted landscape. High above, black birds patrol in wide circles.

  Beckert crouches and scans the ruins. Even with his goggles’ magnification, there seems little worth investigating. The once-proud buildings are razed to their foundations. There could be astounding numbers of artifacts buried within but, without heavy excavators and plenty of time, he will never know.

  Beckert looks farther, his goggles zooming in on the eastern hills. Lumpy, curving tree trunks jut from compacted soil, their foliage sparse and sickly. He follows the hills to the south, searching over the mounds of scorched concrete, and stops when he spots a cylindrical tower to the southeast. The main structure surrounding it has collapsed to a fortified foundation, yet the tower stands straight and true, less than two kilometers away. Beckert leaps to his feet and rushes down from his vantage.

  The intervening terrain proves a difficult course of jutting beams, shifting cinderblocks, and ledges of wreckage. Using all of his strength and agility, he takes the better part of an hour to close the distance.

  Beckert pulls himself over the last tall pile to see the tower standing just ahead of him. An armored skin covers the cylinder all the way to its flat roof, interrupted only by a ring of heavy shutters near the top. Its lower levels are buried in the wreckage of the main building.

  He steps closer with reverent awe, his feet automatically negotiating the sandy approach. At the tower’s base, the sand yields to large chunks of cement, singed metal, and shattered glass. Nowhere does he see an entrance.

  Climbing atop the rubble, Beckert walks the tower’s perimeter. Numerous beams and brackets extend into mid-air where the tower once connected to the main building. Two floors up on the far side there is a short ledge jutting from the tower. Just above the ledge is a door.

  Restraining a shout of excitement, Beckert clips his pistols to his back. He maps out the sturdiest hand holds and, with the comfortable ease of a gymnast, propels himself up the side.

  He perches like a gargoyle and looks over the collapsed complex. It is much larger than he realized, where the foundation continues over the hill and part way down the other side. Many other towers attach to the outside of the building, but are broken off at the base.

  None of the other towers were armored, I guess.

  Turning about, the Geek studies what seems to be a standard security door, much like the ones at Cadre One. The access panel is badly decayed with a few brittle fiber optics remaining.

  His hands run over the door’s smooth surface, tracing the jams. The framing feels bent, most likely from the main building being ripped away; and the door is shifted in its tracks, leaving a slim gap at the bottom left.

  Beckert reaches into a compartment of his back rack and retrieves a pry tool. Wedging the flat end into the gap, he draws a deep breath before a mighty pull.

  The door slides several centimeters with a deafening screech. Beckert nearly drops the tool in alarm as echoes return the screech again and again. Wincing and cursing, he resets the pry tool. Small, regular tugs nudge the door a millimeter at a time with slight chirps. Soon, the door halts and refuses to slide no matter how hard he pulls.

  Beckert sizes the gap. Eager to get through it, he removes his pack and pistols, placing them inside. Turning sideways, he slides himself between the door and frame. No matter how he turns, his helmet will not pass.

  With so little time to search, he cracks the seal on his helmet and lifts it from his head. Hot, dry air evaporates the sweat between the silver terminals in his scalp.

  He detaches his HDI and goggles from the helmet, setting them just inside the doorway. The too-wide helmet he leaves on the outer ledge, hiding it under a convenient chunk of concrete. The Geek slides through the gap into darkness.

  In orderly fashion, Beckert snaps the HDI over the silver contact terminals on his head, clicks his goggles firmly in place, slides his rack onto his back, and takes a pistol in each hand.

  The goggles compensate for the low light, revealing the interior in bright green monochrome. Fixed consoles and tall scanning equipment line the entrance, beyond which is an open floor. Fine dust blankets everything and the disturbance from his intrusion makes it airborne. He sneezes as it catches in his nose and throat.

  The young operator feels the flooring with his toes, tapping gently. Despite the ravages of centuries, it feels quite solid. He walks into the room’s center getting a feel for its dimension. Like the exterior of the tower, it is circular but feels much smaller than it should.

  Either the walls are extremely thick, or there’s something I’m not seeing…

  He looks back at the entrance, seeing his own tracks. In each boot print, the dust has been smudged away, exposing polished flooring. Beckert looks down at his feet, and slides the dust gently aside. The letters G-I-L-A gleam up at him. He kneels and sweeps away more of the dust, uncovering more letters and part of an image. On hands and knees, he works faster, coughing and sputtering in the whorls of choking particles until the image is revealed. He stands to see its entirety.

  A four-meter-wide hawk—head turned right, wings spread, talons empty—adorns the floor. Below it, inscribed into a curving banner, are the words VIGILANTIA, SERVITIUM, VIRTUS, INVICTUS[2].

  Stunned to immobility, he stares for long minutes, inhaling the dusty air. The young soldier drops to his knees and caresses the image. A fundamental understanding enters Beckert’s awareness: his people were here. This unmistakable image proves it. Here is a piece of home, mysteriously present in a distant place. His goggles click photo after photo.

  Fire ignites in the Geek’s mind and millions of questions form, all demanding immediate answers. His eyes lift to the circular ceiling which hides the upper levels of the tower. Nothing hangs from above, nor are there any doorways in the walls. He squints skeptically.

  There must be a way…

  He starts near the entryway and walks the perimeter, tapping the smooth walls with a pistol. Nearly opposite the entry, he hears an echo so faint, if it were not perfectly quiet in the room, he would not have heard it. To confirm, he pounds the panel with his armored fist and the echo returns a bit louder.

  Stepping back, he scrutinizes the metallic panel for any differentiation from those aro
und it. Far as he can tell, it is identical.

  Beckert clips his pistol and pulls out the pry bar. With a confident stab, he wedges the flat end into the panel’s seam and yanks. The metallic veneer shoots away with little resistance and the Geek stares at a stone gray subsurface. Four bright fasteners secure a small, rectangular panel. The heads of the fasteners are irregular, requiring a very specialized tool to remove. He grins, and produces the tool from his pack.

  Beneath the secondary panel is a flat black pad. Ribbon cables attach at the lower edge and run into the wall. The configuration is familiar, as Cadre One has many of these sensor pads embedded in the walls near critical access points. Power is a problem, however. Power lines route through each pad to ensure the door remains locked during outages. Beckert knows the pad also produces sequential pulses of exact voltages to prevent someone bypassing it and routing power straight to the lock. Too much voltage, or too little, will keep the lock shut. Only the correct magnetic key code will send the right voltage to the lock and release it.