***
The Ian I knew was full of dark cynicism. Every act of violence seemed to bury him, and he would claw his way back out of it. And every time … Some men and women thrive as soldiers. Others are destroyed. Ian was, is, a survivor. Survivors are the middle: they adapt. They live. In order to stay alive, they change themselves. As I stepped from the cover of the tree, into the drizzle, I decided that it was the survivors who were tested most sorely of all. - General Sir Leo J Bateau. – “Justice”
Or
How Those Bastards Finally Dragged Me Out Of Retirement.
Act One: Storm Clouds.
I.
“Will you stop looking in that mirror?” came the annoyed voice of my friend, Lora Janus, “I swear you look in that thing more than I do. Have you gone completely vain?”
I shot a dark ‘mock-angry’ look at her, but softened it with a wink.
“Just don’t want to embarrass you in front of all your work colleagues,” I said.
I still didn’t know how she’d talked me into it. A big party at her office, a major tower owned by the Martian media conglomerate that she worked for as a reporter. Apparently the story she’d written about me had been a big hit with the public. Apparently they just lapped up tales of bloodshed, carnage and ‘heroism’, which just proved that everyone had, once again, entirely missed the point of what I’d been saying. Regardless, sales were up and the conglomerate want to celebrate, since it was Lora’s story that was the cause of it all they invited her to the party and since it was all my fault she’d decided that I just had to go with her.
I looked into the mirror again. I was wearing my cleanest shirt and trousers and a reasonably respectable, if rarely used, suit jacket. I’d managed to find time enough to shave and thus was seeing parts of my face that I’d not seen in years. I’d even found time to run a comb through my dark hair although not enough to get a hair cut, so it descended almost to my shoulders; too long to control, too short to turn into a proper tail. In short it would be a disgraceful mess by the end of the evening. Additionally there were the dark shadows under my eyes. I had not had a good night’s sleep the night before. I tried to keep my mind off the subject of my dreams; those long metal ship’s corridors… I dragged my mind back to the mirror where I looked haggard and old. I felt oddly ashamed by that. Usually I didn’t give a damn what people thought about how I looked. Usually there wasn’t anyone with me who’d look bad by association.
“You look fine,” she said as she held on to my arm and firmly steered me out the door. I started fidgeting as the elevator dropped, quite unable to stand still. Lora herself looked even more magnificent than usual which was quite an achievement; a long black dress clung to every curve from neck to her ankles; it was made from a glossy fabric that was still amazingly soft. She wore matching gloves and silver thread streaked through her matching black shawl in an intricate pattern that looked like a spider’s web constructed entirely of lightning. Her wavy golden hair was tied up above her head with seemingly random stray hairs escaping to fall down and frame her face.
We small talked as the lift dropped the several dozen stories from Lora’s apartment to the ground floor where our taxi awaited. The usual stuff; I told her horror stories about the passengers on my bus route and she told me the dirt on co-workers and the office politics they were embroiled in. Still I only got that we were really in trouble when we started to talk about the weather, cliché as that was. Still it was getting Dark and quite stormy (which come to think of it could be another cliché) and it was that way quite in defiance of the local weather channel reports for the day. I glanced at the storm clouds and frowned to myself. There was something I should remember about that kind of thing, something that would have seemed important in my old line of work. I shrugged. It was hardly important. I didn’t do that kind of work anymore, no matter what certain old friends might want.
The lift finally reached the bottom of the shaft. The street was slick with the pouring rain and we had to dash to the vehicle waiting for us. I was impressed; it was a limo. I ushered Lorna in first at the expense of being soaked to my skin for being a gentleman and then followed her in as quickly as possible. The interior was magnificently upholstered in real leather (which is probably illegal now I come to think about it) and flashy holographic displays and had a truly massive drink’s cabinet with an alcho-synthesiser that could probably manufacture any drink I cared to name. I could have been roaring drunk by the time we’d gone a block but I restrained myself. Again turning up dead drunk would not lead to impressed people.
The limo zoomed along, effortlessly weaving its way through gridlocked streets, I switched on the news; it was full of reports of various, usually contradictory, reports on clashes between CTI Meisters and various rebel factions all across the diamond district. I switched it off, before my palms started itching, It was Leo’s job to sort this out. His pups had all the resources they could ever need. They certainly didn’t need me. Or so I kept telling myself.
All too soon, the car reached its destination another vacuum scraping tower; with an ornate two story tall sign half way up that proclaimed it to be the home office of the galaxy renowned HUBBLE OBSERVER newspaper. I sighed to myself as we swept into the entrance hall (luckily the building had an awning protecting incoming vehicles from the deluge of rain without.) An elevator took us up to the 42nd floor, halfway up the building and just above the Hubble sign and we emerged into chaos.
They must have removed all the office partitions on half of the floor and then decorated the shit out of it. Heavy wooden tables were laden with food and drink on platters that were at least plated in precious metals if not in fact entirely made out of them, sophisticated lighting bathed the area in golden light and filled the area with moving holographic effects; tiny translucent fairies and birds swirled across the ceiling, in quite a similar fashion to the people moving about on the floor below. There were at least a hundred of them if my quick head count was any judge; clustering in little groups of people who knew each other with occasional migrations between groups or towards one of the tables with their abundances of fine delicacies and vintages of wine. It was obvious that the Orion Conglomerate had deep pockets.
Lorna’s hand found my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. It was only then that I realised that nearly very muscle in my body was practically quivering with tension as I stood ramrod straight and immobile. I remembered to breathe out and I remembered something I should have mentioned before now; I really don’t like crowds. Still Lorna’s grip on me offered a certain amount of comfort but it was also unbreakable and merciless. She swept us out in to the sea of strange people as she beamed in every direction. I did not smile however, I’ve never figured out how to fake a good smile without it being obvious that it was fake. I tried to look friendly of course but I don’t think passers-by were entirely convinced of my benignity.
We suddenly came face to face with a dapper gentleman in an all white suit with silver buttons and similar buckles on his gleaming, polished shoes. Each individual article of clothing that he was wearing must have cost about as much as the bus that I drove four days a week. He smiled at me and, unlike me, didn’t seem concerned that it was obviously faked. His teeth seemed to gleam. I took an instant dislike to him.
“Ah,” he said, “you must be the wonderful man everyone seems so interested in,” his tone was flirting with sarcasm.
Sparks flew between us. Metaphorically, at least. For now.
“For reasons I can’t imagine, Mister…”
The man did not supply a name as I faltered and looked quite the fool. Malice flashed in his green eyes.
Lorna came to my rescue.
“This is Cameron Drake; he’s the owner and Editor-In-Chief of the Hubble Observer” she gracefully tried to disarm the inexplicable tension between us “Cameron, This is Major,’’ I coughed meaningfully at the title, “Ian Smith, formerly of the ISMC, of whom I’ve written about at length.”
As we shook hands I noticed that his gaze did not meet mine directly but flickered down to my left arm where Lorna’s hand rested comfortably upon my left arm. So it was obvious what that was about, he had designs on the pretty young reporter. That was all. Nothing potentially too dangerous.
“Ah, yes. Now that I know your name, I recall why you seem familiar.” He smiled again, mirthlessly, “I do believe I served with you on Cetus. Well, I shouldn’t actually say served, you military types always get so up tight about other people using that word but anyway I was there, employed as the network’s war correspondent for that sector. I plied my trade and you plied yours.”
A memory came to mind, unbidden; the image of a dank fetid hell hole of a moon. Of A planet that alternated between a baking humid heat and immense thunder storms a dozen times a week. A battlefield covered in swamps; swamps with hidden mines and micro-bombs lurking just beneath the surface, so that every step risked setting something maiming or deadly off.
“If I recall correctly you ran into a spot of trouble, with the Ark did you not? I remember one of the platoon’s other squads talking about pulling you out of a fire fight with some Terina light infantry?” I forced a certain lightness into my tone, as if we were talking of trivialities.
“Why yes, your Army friends did help me out of a spot. Although I’m sad to say they wouldn’t lend me a couple of men to go out with us in the first place so they were not there for the beginning of the confrontation. My camera man was wounded before they managed to intervene.” The man’s tone was sly and it was clear his words were not intended to me but directed to my left to try and disillusion Lorna. Failure to protect media personnel was bound to go down with her like titanium anvils encased in cement.
I had become a quivering mass of muscle again. I struggled to find words to rid myself of this man’s presence before I lost my cool and slugged him one. The full details of that instance had thrown themselves to the front of my brain and were boiling it to mush. I risked an equally dishonest smile.
“I can only apologise for my fellow’s tardiness, Mr Drake, I hope my likewise tardy condolences will be of at least some small comfort to you.” My tones went beyond Blake’s flirting and led sarcasm down a dark alley for a good groping, “but right now I fear you have left me parched. I simply must go avail myself of the excellent provisions you have lying about.”
I didn’t wait for his acknowledgement, I simply turned my back and walked off. Lorna; faced with either releasing her grip on me or being dragged away, hurried to keep up with me. My walk, in my anger, suddenly conformed to my old military habit and I was dismayed to find that I was pretty much marching across the room.
Any small enthusiasm I had had for this affair had evaporated with the force of my anger, as had my reservations against embarrassing poor Lorna and heavy drinking, without breaking stride I snagged an entire drinks tray from a passing waiter on my way past him.
Seething, I found myself on a balcony just above the E of HUBBLE with all the glasses empty and half the bottle that came with the tray as well. Lorna was almost timid standing a full metre away and fiddling with her shawl as the slanted rain came through the gap between hand rail and the roof in a fair attempt to wet our bones.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what’s the matter,” Lorna said in a light tone. There were glimmers of the anger just below the surface.
“That man,” I pointed vaguely the way we came, “is a lying son of a bitch,” She gaped at me.
“I don’t exactly like the man but..”
“Cestus.” I growled. “I heard the guy’s talking in the rec room when they came back from that. Drake had been told not to go out. It was too dangerous. We outlined the risks for him. Hell even the officers flat out told him not to go. So he snuck out, probably bribed some poor sap on the gate. And what happened? That place was covered in mines, some intentional, some just failed bomblets from the cluster bombs. That camera man was injured before the guys got there. He tripped on something that then decided to explode! Boom! Both his legs were taken off by the blast. It’s a miracle the army corpsman managed to get him back to base alive. And here’s this bastard twenty five years later trying to blame it on me!”
Wildly gesticulating, my hand knocked off the tray that I had balanced upon the edge of the balcony. It fell 42 stories, along with the empty glasses and the half full bottle. We didn’t even hear the smash as it hit the ground.
I suddenly felt very silly. Then worried.
“Shit,” I muttered “I hope that didn’t hit anyone on the head.”
Lorna burst out giggled at the rapid series of expressions that flashed across my face and wrapped me in a quick hug.
“You done?” she smiled. She had a genuine smile. Warmth flooded through me.
“Just about.” I said, still rather abashed. I slung one arm about her shoulder. We turned in back to the party. We might even have had a good time.
We might have, if not for the starships that burst out of the heavens, literally just five seconds later.
II.
I stood there and watched as Mars was invaded. Rain splattered in my face. I was giggling, I’d finally remembered: Slipstream distortions, jump into an atmosphere and they cause one hell of a mess and whip up a massive storm front. I should have remembered.
“Leo” I said to myself, my words barely above a whisper, “You screwed up pretty badly didn’t you?”
The mood I was in, I was not much surprised when the next thing that happened was a man bursting through the doors to the balcony and firing two pistol shots into the ceiling. I turned around slowly to face him and made sure to put myself between him and Lora. It was the gentlemanly thing to do and I was not overly concerned at the prospect of catching another bullet in the gut for her sake. I spread my hands wide.
“Congratulations, that’s two bullets that I don’t have to worry about going in me.” I said to the intruder.
The intruder corrected his aim; holding his pistol in professional two handed grip, pointing exactly at my centre of mass. In the main hall, there were short bursts of automatic fire, then screams and then more gun fire. I didn’t hear the sound of bodies hitting the ground, so hopefully they like my friend here they were only wasting their ammunition on the poor helpless scenery.
The gunmen glared at me. His eye’s both saw and did not see me. It’s a certain natural talent I have. I don’t look like a hero, I have a pretty ordinary face and I don’t have the right aura. People’s eyes seem to slide right off of me. The phrase I liked to use to describe this is that I’m so remarkably unremarkable that people jut don’t take note of me. That could just be my natural modesty coming to the fore, of course. Anyway, the practical upshot of this is that when this man looked me in the eye he did not see the man I was, but just another random party goer. I was probably out on the balcony to make a pass at the hot chick in the tight dress, not realising I was way out of her league. She was obviously stringing me along for the free drinks service.
Still, he did not like snark and not imagining that I posed much of a threat he stepped forward and casually whipped his pistol butt across my face.
CRACK! The blow was sudden, well placed and very hard.
The merc keeled over, I caught his pistol, in my off hand. My right fist was still extended. I gazed at it, almost surprised. Combat reflexes are a wonderful thing, I didn’t even remember deciding to hit to the man.
I stuck the pistol in the back of my pants. I’d have preferred the quickness of a front draw but I also didn’t want a live gun that close to my privates, I don’t trust safety catches that much or this guy’s personal hygiene for that matter.
“You hit that guy!” Lorna gasped, “Why do I always get into fights when I’m around you?”
“You’re just lucky like that’ I replied, “Normally I’m very boring. It’s only when you get here; you need stories to write and I just can’t help but oblige.”
Lorna glared.
“And why are you so damn chipper?”
“It’s a party! Aren’t I supposed to be having fun?” I smirked at her with one side of my mouth and went to the door, peeking around the frame with just one eye looking out into the room beyond.
There were at least two dozen mercenaries inside. Most were armed with Submachine guns, a couple with shotguns and one guy, obviously the leader had just a very large pistol, a ‘handcannon’ as it was known in common parlance. They were dressed in shabby black clothes that echoed military uniforms. One in three had, quite sensibly added some body armour to their outfit. Most of the mercs had got all the people clustered at the sides of the room and were coving them with the SMGs but the leader was in the very centre of the room talking to Cameron Drake.
“Where’s Smith?” growled the mercenary leader. I waited for Drake to give me up. The guy didn’t like me after all and he certainly wasn’t a solider, him caving under threats was only to be expected but as it turned out; reporters, even bad ones like Drake, don’t like being bullied. They also tended to be quick with their words.
“Smith? That’s it? You so realise that there’s, like, at least two dozen people with that surname in this room alone,” said Drake.
This was a brave show in Drake’s part but also a mistake. The Leader has a similar response to snark as the man that was crumpled on the floor behind me: a pistol whip to the face. Drake screamed as his face split open across the cheek. Facial wounds often bleed quite copiously and this was not an exception. His nice white suit proved to be an unfortunate choice: it made the red blood stains much more vivid.
The Merc grabbed a fistful of Drake’s hair and used to it pull him to his feet, jabbing the handcannon under Drake’s chin.
“Ian Tiberous Smith.” He said in a commanding voice that filled every possible cubic inch of space in the room, “I know that you are here. My name is Captain Gregory Brenton of the Vulcan PMC and you should know that if you don’t show yourself. I will kill this man.”
Inwardly cursing, I very briefly considered ‘showing’ myself via a bullet to Brenton’s brain pan but he had his men too well positioned and I only had one gun, any attempt to shoot my way out of this would result in a lot of dead people and more to the point a lot of dead innocent people, as well. I was Army trained and my sense of duty allowed me to think nothing of sacrificing myself for the good of these people. I glanced again at Drake. I just wished it didn’t have to be for that asshole.
I went back to the downed merc and checked his body. He only had another couple of pistol magazines on him; .40 calibre rounds, after stowing them in my jacket pockets, I took out the weapon itself and examined it. My estimation of the man rose. It was a good solid gun. Matte black, not a flashy chrome shooter, it also fired a decent sized round and was a reliable make. I shoved it back in my pants and took Lora by the shoulders.
“Stay here alright?” I said in my softest tone, “They don’t know you’re here. So stay safe. Please.”
She nodded. So I turned around and walked into the hall. Hands raised.
“Look,” I said, to get their attention, “Could you please get a better hostage? That guy’s is an asshole, I feel really silly.”
III.
The effect this had was sudden. All the mercenaries, who were not actively engaged in pointing weapons at civilians, pointed them at me. Including Brenton’s oversized handcannon. He released his grip on Drake, letting him curl up and bleed on the floor.
“Strange,” Brenton said, “you don’t look like a decorated war hero to me”
“Strange,” I countered, “You do look like a complete asshole to me.”
“Check him,” Brenton snapped to one of his subordinates. The subordinate let his SMG hang by its shoulder strap as he fished out what looked like a palmtop computer. He pointed it at me and the chips in my head beeped at me informing me they’d been queried about my IFF tags and had responded in kind. The merc’s eyes widened and he showed the display to Brenton.
I already knew what he was seeing of course.
Name: Smith, Ian T
Service Number: 4004-5518-23XX
Branch: ISMC (ISA)
Rank: Major (Demil.)
Callsign: Dusk
Blood Type: AB
Allegies: None
Prayer: No preference.
A year ago, the information displayed would have incorrectly indicated my rank as ‘Senior Captain,’ and would not have recorded that I had been demilitarized; my cybernetics deactivated. After the battle of Kalereon, I had never officially resigned or retired, despite my frequent claims to the contrary, I’d just walked off, (as soon as I could actually walk again; I broke both my ankles during the battle) in the confusion the bureaucrats at head office hadn’t noticed and Trego and Leo never really felt like pressing the issue. Still that was until I’d first met Lorna and managed to get into a series of fights culminating in throwing someone off a bridge with an active plasma grenade. Naturally the authorities hadn’t much approved of the affair and only a little help from Lorna and Leo’s connections quashed a multitude of charges against me. Still part of that bargain had been an official recognition of my retirement (although I didn’t see twenty years backpay at the rank of Major) and the de-clawing that retirement required.
Brenton’s eyes widened slightly and then he looked back at me.
“I owe you an apology Major Smith.” His finger slipped into the trigger guard of his gun, “goodbye”
I stared down the barrel of his gun and realised what it was. Fate it seemed was not without a sense of irony. Brenton was carrying a MAP-410, the same gun I used for my sidearm for most of the war. Brenton’s gun was much newer than mine; with a reinforced barrel that was at least inch and a half longer than the old version and it mounted a reflex scope on the top instead of iron sights. That was the gun that was just about to kill me. It’s possible that if I threw myself to the side I could dodge the shot and it was even possible that I could draw my purloined pistol fast enough to take out Brenton before he blasted me. What was totally impossible was to do that and stop the other two dozen mercs from gunning down every one in the room. I knew that going in. I don’t know what I expected to happen but I knew in that moment the only thing that could get me out of this was some divine intervention.
I got it.
Golden Birds dropped down from the ceiling and started flapping and pecking in the merc’s faces. I drew my pistol as fast as possible and started firing before they realised their attackers were just holosods; holograms that were only solid as long as they believed them to be so but that’s the kind of thing you can’t ignore. My eyes flickered to the console that controlled the formerly decorative holograms, I saw a flash of blonde hair and the tip of a black and silver shawl.
Dammit, Lorna, I said stay safe
“Hit the deck,” I yelled as my pistol came up to ready stance. Only really meaning the civilians of course but half the mercenaries dropped as well. I ran forward, each step a shot and each shot a step. I put to rounds into the shotgunners first, nasty things shotguns, even if he was aiming it right at me he could hit innocents with a wide spread of buckshot or flechettes. I was, of course, trying to aim for the guys threatening civvies first put in the relatively tight confines of the room (compared to a full scale battlefield) meant that any one aiming at we would probably hit the people standing/cowering the other side of me.
I’d taken down four mercs before I reached Brenton, who had finally figured out that it was only holograms that had scratched open his face and was looking mighty pissed. I’d gotten too close to effectively shoot him without risking the civvies behind him. So I just clubbed him between the eyes with my pistol butt and then I winked at him.
“Catch me if you can.”
Then I zigzagged towards the door. I got out of it and through an office still furnished as an office and then into a long corridor that let to the elevators that were ostensibly my aim.
This may seem like running away. That’s for the very good reason that it was running away. I’m not one of those pompous gits that can say ‘strategic withdrawal’ with a straight face. I was running away but I would fiercely contest that it was a cowardly action. I was retreating towards the lifts which would allow me to escape the building. If they let me escape the building the hostages would do them no good. They had no way to contact me to hold them hostage for a start so they would have lost me and I seemed to be their target. Looking into Brenton’s eyes I saw that he liked to think of himself as a professional; he was not the mad dog killer type. He wasn’t going to kill hostages unless it was necessary and a fit of pique did not count.
Besides killing media personnel is right up there with offing kid’s puppies on the ‘people will think you’re the bad guys’ scale but then so is ‘betraying your species to alien empires for money.’ Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…
Another good reason for running away is to get people to chase you. Totally fucks up their careful positioning and formations and splits them into the competent or lazy ones that fall back and the young pups that are eager for blood and will chase you as hard as they can. In this specific case, half a dozen of the mercs pounded down the hall after me without a care. Not noticing I’d ducked behind a pillar only halfway along the corridor.
I quickly weighed options; I could just open fire but they had guns that were bigger than mine and had a lot more of them. I could just let them run fast and then open fire, which gave me a much better change of winning the initial gun battle but ran the risk of me being caught between this vanguard and the more experienced men to follow. Or I could just wait until they were alongside me and then punch them the fuck out.
Of those, perhaps the lattermost option does not sound like the best option to the common man but I am not a common man. Common men are not usually Stormcommandos. That is, in fact, a most uncommon trait and while as a Stormcommando I flatter myself on being an excellent shot with a rifle or almost any small-arms weaponry from hold out pistols up to ‘Jackhammer’ nuclear rocket launchers, I must admit I’m an even more excellent melee fighter. For one very good reason; I’m an army man. The Army has long since been abandoned and absorbed by the Marine corp. but it was still around when I first join the ISAF and it left something with me that I carry to this day. I stepped out and smacked the closest guy in the jaw with a closed fist.
I fancied that I could hear a metallic clang with the impact.
Reinforced knuckles. I don’t need a cumbersome knuckleduster in my hand, mine are inbuilt. The man goes down very decisively. The back two men open up on me with their guns. They do a lot of damage to their fellows. Another one falls permanently, before I even touched him. ‘Friendly fire’ really isn’t, especially to the back of the head. I dodged left putting the biggest guy in front between me and the trigger happy pair.
The big guy at least was getting with the game plan, dropping his machine pistol and pulling out some kind of baton as his friend attempts to flank me. He attacked improbably quickly for such a large fella, with quick flicks of the baton’s weighted head, I backed away quickly avoiding blows as much as I could or deflecting it off the extremities. I screeched as it glanced off my forearm. The damned thing was electrified and sent a disabling shock upon impact! I was surprised. I let the next one right through and got my leg zapped. I collapsed to my knees in front of the guy. (That’s I line I hope never to have to use again) Still I whipped my good arm around and through the guy’s legs, forcibly knocking his knees together and upsetting his balance so he crashed down along side me. I caught the baton carrying arm and guided its fall so the electric end slammed into the guy’s gut and pressed it down hard enough so it delivered its entire charge in one quick brain frying jolt.
That was when a solid stock was slammed into the back of my head, none to gently I might add. My vision went blurry for a second but fortunately my Stormcommando qualifications include a thick skull and an ever growing resistance to being bludgeoned. Not getting up from my knees I slammed an elbow out and up behind me, catching the unarmoured sap in his solar plexus and probing up into his organs. He staggered; completely winded and helpless and I plucked his gun from his hands.
The whole hand-to-hand exchange had taken roughly a dozen seconds, twenty tops. The two shooters had barely had time to recognise their fellows had lost and were slow on the trigger this time. Too shocked by their previous friendly fire folly to shoot. I pulled the trigger on my newly acquired SMG and, with a long burst of fire, cut them both in half. There was an almighty roar from the weapon and the recoil was much heavier than expected. I looked at the gun curiously even as I turned to the guy who I had taken it from and applied to the butt to his face, at speed. His skull did not prove as resilient as mine.
I looked at the gun; It looked like a common brand of SMG, but the shape of the body was significantly more angular and narrow across the beam and the magazine was longer as well. It was chambered for rifle calibre rounds and was, in fact, not a submachine gun at all but an ultra-compact Carbine. I hefted it, grinning internally and threw the strap over my shoulder. I noticed that it even came with a reload taped to the inserted mag. Unsure how much ammo had been discharged I shrugged and reloaded it and then my pistol as well for good measure.
As I did so, I became aware of an awful fact; my hands seemed to be shaking. Even while doing something as simple as changing a clip. On the heels of that one fact were a host of others coming charging into my brain; I was out of breath; my legs were filling up with lactic acid and were on the verge of a major cramp; my head was still spinning slightly from the blow and that was affecting my balance and my knuckles hurt where’d I’d been hitting people.
This all lead up to the worst revelation of all; just how much I’d depended on my army cybernetics. They’d been cheap and already out-of-date when they were installed but I still needed them apparently. Look at me now. I’d taken down barely ten guys, even counting the poor bugger that got shot in the back, and I’d done most of them in with a firearm and I was getting tired.
Getting old is a terrible thing. I needed to level the playing field somehow. There were fourteen more guys in the building and they were going to be much harder to take down than these overconfident fools.
Maybe I really should just get to the other lifts on the floor.
But that meant leaving Lorna in trouble. Not to mention all the other people in the building. I couldn’t do that. If I did that I wouldn’t be me, or at least not a me I wanted be.
Looking around desperately, I sudden saw my salvation strapped to the big man’s chest.
Grenades
Well one grenade, actually. Singular. Still it was infinitely more grenade that I had a couple of seconds earlier. I’d have preferred more of course, it was a bit much to hope that all fourteen mercenaries would politely place themselves within one grenade’s blast radius of each other.
Keeping an eye open, I managed a stumbling jog to the elevator and hitting the call button, which produced a remarkably loud beeping sound. Perfect, that would get the tossers running this way. I slung my carbine over my right shoulder by the strap. Taking a firm grip on the grenade in my left hand (and making sure I had the fuse grip in hand) I pulled the pin with my right, tossed it away and filled the hand with my pistol. I did not trust myself to control the carbine one handed, another sign of my decline.
Brenton at least at a slight grasp of elementary tactics, I will give him that. Of the fourteen remaining men, he took eleven with him to hunt me down. Only leaving a couple with the civilians to make sure they couldn’t interfere. The rest he split into three groups of four, one set of four game along the corridor, while the others circled around and attacked from doors to the left and the right. To avoid the fire from the centre group I would have to expose myself to cross fire from the two flanking groups. Or at least that was the theory. I took some calming breathes as they approached. If I had the inclination or the right I would have prayed for a god, any god, to grant me more speed. For only that and the steadiness of my aim were going get my out this alive, much less in one piece.
I started to run. The two corridors were just ahead, I had to pass through the gap and the cross fire as quickly as possible to avoid nasty accidents. This however also meant charging the quartet directly ahead of me. I started firing for effect as I broke into a lat out sprint; I emptied half the mag with poorly aimed suppression fire. I think I managed to graze a couple of them. But that was all. I threw myself into a combat roll as I reached the breach, passing through it, drawing a hasty volley of fire from the mercs that did more damage to them than to me, while upside I down I sent the grenade rolling towards the large group of four mercs along the rightmost corridor. Coming up a crouch, both hands steadied my pistol, I held it sideways and focus on the rightmost figure. Don’t worry, there was a reason, I’ve not gone all ‘gangsta,’ although hitting the target was slightly more difficult, the range was short enough that it didn’t matter; I double tapped rightmost man, the recoil swung the muzzle to the left; putting the next guy directly in my line of fire. I emptied the rest of the mag. The first three guys got double taps to the chest, I returned my pistol to the vertical position to put my last round between the final guy’s eyes.
I didn’t stop moving but continuing moving and turning until I standing upright and facing the way I’d come. I’d just downed eight people in as many seconds; it was obvious that I was finding my stride again, old man or no.
The last four man team charged around the corner, the first three at full speed, with Brenton holding back to take up the rear. Inwardly part of me sighed. I hoped this was not the best money could buy. They really were making a hash of this but a much larger part of me, sad to say, soared with elation; soared at the sheer superiority of my abilities.
I gunned down the first two guys with the carbine on full auto, taking only a couple of grazes in return. Before the third man bull-rushed me. I lost the rifle but kept my feet, staggering back as we traded heavy blows. His fists slammed in to my hip and glanced off my temple, only making my growing headache worst. I countered by slamming a palm into each of his ears, crushing his head between a thunderclap of a blow.
Brenton fired as I span to face him; the super heat rounded missing my head by a clear foot. I titled my head to the side, marvelling at the man’s incompetence. The gun had a damn scope on it, how the hell could you miss with it at point blank range no less? I can only surmise that poor Gregory was severely rattled by the carnage I’d inflicted upon his men.
The recoil has pushed Greg’s arm 45 degrees towards the ceiling; I stepped inside his range and seized his gun arm before he could lower it back to firing position. I gave him my best ‘killer’ grin.
“I think this is a bit too much of a gun for you, Greg,’ I tightened my grip, “I really am going to have to take it.”
I slammed my knee into his midsection causing him to curl into the near simultaneous headbutt that knocked him into the ground. Hard. I winced as I felt blood course out my nose from the slightly misplaced blow but it was worth it. Now the gun was in my hand. My aim dropped to the ground.
The roar of the MAP-410 sounded like another thunder clap.
IV.
Captain Gregory Brenton of the Vulcan Private Military Company (PMC) slumped to the ground; Dead. His gun, the gun I killed with him smoked slightly in my grip. It’s a MAP-410 and even though it’s a different series than mine, its grip still sat in my hand like an old familiar friend but even the comforting weight of it in my hand did not stop my racing pulsing and spinning head. Sometimes being a nigh unstoppable trained killing machine has its down sides. I concentrated in controlling my breath. Making sure I took deep, regular breaths. In for two seconds, out for two. Just keeping myself to that rhythm occupied my mind until my pulse and breathing returned to normal. As I started moving again I suddenly became aware of how damp, my clothes were. Chills passed through me where the sweat soaked shirt clung to my chest, I grimaced at the continued evidence of the deterioration of my fighting trim. I slowly bent over to retrieve the carbine I had been using and reloaded it with the last mag I had. Likewise I searched Brenton’s cooling body to reload the MAP. More mags went into my pockets.
Walking very slowly and deliberately I head back to the ballroom where ‘the party’ was, remembering that there were probably two last mercs that needed to be dealt with.
I must have looked quite the sight when I burst back into the room; A rifle in one hand, the heavy pistol in the other, my hair a mussed, sweaty mess and my suit covered in tears, bloodstains (other people’s and mine) and even a couple of char marks where I’d been too close to hot rounds and the grenade. My nose was slightly flatter that it had been and was dripping crimson down my body. Still it seemed that my job had already been done for me: both of the two remaining goons were crumpled in a heap. One with a bullet wound through the shoulder, the other with a couple of holes in his leg. I frowned and found Lorna.
“Er…” I started lamely, “What happened here then?” I asked her.
Lorna waved something familiar in my face. A sleek modern caseless ammo firing pistol made of polymers. I had seen it before. It belonged to Lorna. She’d been the one to shoot the remaining people.
“You brought a gun to a party?” I stared at Lorna, outraged, “You didn’t let me bring a gun! How come you get to have a gun?”
Lorna just smirked at me. It was hard to get too outraged with her when she looked like that.
I took a closer look at the two mercs, huddled together amidst a menacing cloud of ex-hostages. Both their wounds had very luckily missed any major arteries and were just disabling painful rather than deadly, although one of them was going to need some quite complicated surgery to regain full use of his arm. I couldn’t honestly say I cared much for their lives but I did care, that Lorna didn’t have to become a killer. It just seem wrong to me that the next generation would have to turn into me all over again.
Drake was not at all happy, he was surround by flunkies with first aid kits and seemed to be staunching his wound with an entire silken table clothe that was now mostly blood red.
“There you are; you damned coward,” he growled at me, “Look at this! And there you were running the fuck away!”
From the tone of his voice you’d have thought for all the world that I’d told him mouthing off to a mercenary was the best idea I’d ever heard. I shrugged.
“Did you happen to notice the eighteen people, who chased me?’ I replied, though I’ve no idea why, “Do you notice how they are no longer around? And by ‘around’ I mean ‘in the land of the living’. You. Are. Welcome.”
It was about this time that the adrenaline rush which had sustained me gave up on it as a bad effort. I sagged. Dropping the carbine. I almost sat right down there on my ass. Luckily for me, Lorna was there instantly putting an arm under my shoulder and keeping me on my feet.
“Thanks,” I said to her, now ignoring Drake completely, “You got any idea what’s going on?”
Lorna shook her head.
“But you’re a news reporter!” I snarked, “Isn’t it, like, your job to know why alien space ships happen to drop out of the sky? Isn’t that like a human interest story?”
“Look if you’re going to be like that I’ll just drop you on your ass,” Lorna shot back, “and isn’t someone going to miss these guys? Assuming someone sent them and Brenton wasn’t just another loony with a score to settle.”
I stared at her.
“That’s a very good damned point. It might be an idea to actually get out of here right?” I stood up straight, addressed everyone in the room with my ‘officer’s voice’ in an attempt to sound authoritarian, “Everyone? Everyone! Oi! Listen up! Now if you’ve read any of colleague’s work about who I am and what I do, so here’s some friendly advice about the whole ‘bad guys are dropping out of the sky’ deal. Go home. Barricade your doors and don’t open up until you have to or the NUA’s showed up to rescue your collective assi. That’s what I plan to do. Good night. It was nice meeting you all. Sorry about the carnage. Um... ok, that’s all I was going to say, uh... Thanks?”
They looked at like me like I was some kind of gibbering idiot. I internally shrugged. If they didn’t want to listen that was their look out. Lorna and I quickly made it to the lift and hit the button for the ground floor, I noticed Drake looking daggers at us as we made our escape. I guiltily turned Lorna.
“I didn’t just get you fired did I?” Strange thing to worry about at the time but I still did.
“You really don’t grasp how well those war stories sold, do you?” Lora smiled in the knowledge that she was very good at her job, “I could get a new job on the strength of those articles alone, you know. Plus if I keep following you around, there’s bound to be a few more worth telling.”
“I don’t think, the inside of my apartment is going to be that interesting Lorna,” I said.
“You didn’t actually mean it did you?” Lora said, “About sitting in your room with the door locked”
“Well I’ll probably also be pointing a shotgun at it as well but yeah, sure. I stocked up on beer last week so I should be good for a few weeks.”
“You’re going to sit out an alien invasion?”
“Yep. This is Leo’s problem. He’s the General and I’m retired, remember? You were there when they made it formal. Besides I’m far too old and slow for this work.”
“b-but you just wiped out, like, an entire army, single handed. You weren’t even armed to start with!”
“Just one army? Thanks for proving my point.”
The lift doors opened and we staggered through the lobby and out into the still rain swept night. The sounds of sirens, explosions and panic echoed through the street. I sighed; I knew this tune all too well.
“I suppose taking the limo back is out of the question?”
On the road next to the Hubble building, there was a slightly tipsy blue skinned draseran was trying to get into his car. His graze was frequently shooting fearful looks at the skies. I approached him cautiously.
“Hey there, mate,” I said, “Um.. my friend and I need to get home. I was wondering...”
I trailed off as I was speaking the draseran shot me a look, his eyes bulged and he threw me his keys and then legged it off in the other direction.
“Hang on!” I called after him, “I only wanted a lift, I wasn’t…”
He was gone.
“…Threatening you,” I finished. I turned back to Lorna abashedly and waved the keys, “I don’t look that scary do I?”
I didn’t even have the pistol in my hand either. It was tucked in the back of my pants again out of sight.
“Not now that I know you.” She replied caught halfway between guilt and amusement at my expression.
We quickly got in the car and set it into motion, practicality outweighing our guilt for accidentally carjacking the draseran. This was something of an emergency, after all. I zoomed off through the streets of Neo York, trying not to attract any real attention. I steered well away from any explosions or smoke or any neighbourhood that was considered ‘dangerous’ at the best of times. I get several blocks before I realised I didn’t actually have a specific destination in mind and on top of that, Lorna seemed to be giving me the cold shoulder all of a sudden. Silly to say but I couldn’t the life of me imagine why. I can be pretty dumb. Strike that, I’m pretty dumb most of the time really.
I still had to ask her though,
“Er… should I drop you off at your place then.”
The look she gave me was cutting a scale that was competitive with a beam sword.
“Well, I think I’d be much safer at your place, wouldn’t I?”
“Sure, you’re always welcome.” Although from the look of that look, it was obvious that, this time, I’d be sleeping on the coach.
We didn’t talk for the rest of the trip. Although I tried to think of someway to tactfully start a conversation somehow and ‘how about them floating spaceships?’ didn’t really seem to cut it. The weather of course was rather cliché and also took us back to the alien spaceships. I already knew all the family news and that they were all, thankfully, off world but that eliminate that as topic of conversation as well. I was still thinking when we pulled into the back alley behind my apartment block.
‘Damn it all.’ I said, suddenly remembering that subtlety of speech, hell speech period, was not what I was well known for, “Lorna, what’s wrong?”
“You mean apart from the fact that the entire damn planet just got invaded?” she snapped back, thin lipped.
“Yes! It didn’t seem to bother you half an hour ago!” We jumped out of the car, slammed the doors in a futile show of emotion and walked inside at a rapid pace. My apartment building didn’t have an elevator, at least not a working one, so we would have to walk up four flights of stairs to get to my rooms.
“Well that was before you revealed your grand strategy for beating it was ‘lets all just sit tight, close our eyes and hope it goes away on its own!” she said.
“I’m sorry, are you angry because I told other people to do that, or because that’s what I plan to do?” We reached the top of the second flight.
“Both!” she nearly shouted, “Do you know just how long, I’ve spent writing about you? Everything you did! How much it cost you? I’ve been telling everyone, how you were determined, loyal to his friends, terrible to his enemies, near unstoppable in a fight! I heaped every virtue I could think of you at your feet! Do you see the nature of my complaint yet?!”
I did. I’d got my gritty reality all over her hero worship. I’d jumped off her pedestal and flipped her The Bird. Too damned bad. All it meant was she’d never listened to a damn thing I said.
As we reached the top of the final stairs. I stopped and faced her, getting between her and my rooms so she had to stop and look me in the eye.
“Lorna. Look at me.” I said bluntly, holding out my hands. They were shaking slightly. “That’s been happening when ever I’m not doing something with them. That’s not age Lorna, no matter how much I gripe about getting old. It’s not me being angry with you either. Do you know what that is? It’s Fear. I’m bloody scared Lorna. I have never talked to you about the battle of Kalereon. Now I will. I failed there. Talk about the Tyraxes all you like, my mission was to evacuate the flag officers. I failed. Each and everyone of them died there but that’s not what really gets to me. It’s all the other people that died before that. All the DART troopers, the marines, Sa…. They kept telling me to get the Admirals out while they held the line. They died there, protecting me. For nothing So if I did it. If I did what you wanted, if I used myself to rally everyone to fight against the invaders, thanks to your articles people would respond and people would die And twenty years so I swore to myself that no kids were going to go off and die for me again” There were tears in my eyes now. I half turned and stumbled towards my apartment, “So I’m getting out of it, Lorna. It doesn’t matter way you or Leo says. I’m getting out. No, I am out already. I. Am…”
I turned the corner. The door to my apartment was wide open, there were boot tracks leading in and out of it. I looked up and all I could see inside was a mess, every thing I owned had been thrown across the floor in some one’s search. All the drawers, containers, everything; lying in a random mess where they’d been thrown on the floor. Someone had been here and they had not had friendly intensions.
“out?”
End Act 1