(Darwin, Tau Ceti system, five years earlier)
Nick Michaels and the leader of the resistance cell continued to argue away from the rest of us. The cell commander, Zarin Nguyen by Michaels’ briefing, seemed unhappy I had shown up uninvited to their dress rehearsal. As though I had anything to do with it. My orders hadn’t come down through the standard channels. Even after the perfunctory briefing, I still had no idea why Michaels had chosen me. There were dozens of better marksmen on planet.
I leaned back onto the small crate we’d brought and took in the warehouse. It was tightly packed with cargo containers, none with Darwin’s official holographic seals. They probably belonged to a sympathetic black-market smuggler. Not the most reliable characters in the counter-revolution.
Two other cell members conversed in low tones nearby, a man and a woman, both dressed in Interior Ministry uniforms that I assumed were not their own. Both were young, maybe in college. Only Nguyen had any real age on him and he was still years short of either Michaels or me.
Explosions shook the building intermittently, some closer, some farther away, rattling loose the dust from the ceiling. The protesters dug in behind their barricades in Iridium Square would take it tough today. So would any nearby civilians.
Dust settled on everything as it did everywhere on Darwin. The slightest breeze kicked up the planet’s fine soil as if the ground actively repulsed it. Much like the people of this conquered colony, it longed for freedom and escape. Despite the bounty of life beneath the surface of the oceans, the soil around the starport held no moisture. Nothing to hold our ghosts in their graves.
I fished Hugh’s first grade digital out of my pocket, pressing the button that brought his gap-toothed smile back to life. The young woman wandered over. Sinclair was her name.
She craned her head to see. “Cute kid. He yours?” She was young, probably too young to have any of her own, or to have lost them in this fight.
“Yeah.’ I said, not feeling communicative.
“What’s his name?” she asked, undeterred.
“Houston,” I said. “We called him Hugh.”
She was sharp enough to note the past tense. Her voice conveyed an undertone of pity that I’d come to despise. “What happened?”
“He was killed the day the revolution started. One of the ones in the school when Abrami’s gunships hit.”
“Damned Greensicks,” she said. “This war won’t end until someone tags Sub-Commander Z’s face and gets rid of him for good.”
“A lot of truth in that.” I deactivated Hugh’s picture and stowed his memory back where it belonged.
The cell commander broke off his conversation with Michaels. Nguyen eyed me with suspicion as he strode over to where Sinclair’s companion, Ricketts, was waiting. The last member of the cell, Keane I assumed, remained outside as a sentry. At least they had that much sense, which was more than the usual for the popular resistance. That meant they’d been blooded.
“Listen up,” Nguyen said, gathering us in closer. “This is Captain Michaels, LOW OrbIT Marines. He’s here as a liaison and advisor.”
“They finally sending in the cavalry?” Ricketts asked.
“More like the other way around,” Nguyen said. “But I’ll let him fill you in.”
Michaels stepped forward with a datapad. He looked too comfortable in civilian clothes. His haircut and posture betrayed him as a spook, not a soldier. “We have actionable intel that puts Sub-Commander Z in a ground vehicle along this route through the city accompanied only by a driver and a personal bodyguard just before noon tomorrow.”
“So smoke him,” Ricketts said. “You’ve got ships in orbit. What do you want from us?”
“We want him captured and turned over for trial,” Michaels answered.
“Screw that,” Sinclair said. “We should just put a pistol to his head and be done with it.”
“LOW OrbIT has indicted him for Crimes against Humanity,” Michaels said. “They want something to warm up the core colonies before they send us in.”
Ricketts snorted and folded his arms. Sinclair looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.
“Forgive them, Captain,” Nguyen said, “but we’ve heard this same song for more than a year. Help is always on the way if we do you one little favor. This revolution would be over if you guys would just commit.”
“This time is different,” Michaels said. “This time people are paying attention. You’ve held the square. You’re 24/7 on all the news feeds. LOW OrbIT is finally onboard for full intervention. Sub-Commander Z is the only obstacle.”
“Have you IDed him yet?” Sinclair asked.
“We’ve narrowed the possibilities,” Michaels answered with a straight face. Definitely a spook.
“Do you even know he or she?”
Michaels just pursed his lips.
Sinclair shook her head as she turned away. “Blind leading the blind,” she whispered under her breath. Michaels didn’t appear to notice.
“So what’s in the case?” Ricketts asked, nodding in my direction.
“A Mark-43-KE recoilless flechette rifle.” Michaels said.
“A Greensick antique. And what’s he supposed to be,” Ricketts pointed at me, “our Sherpa?”
“You ever fire one of these, son?” I asked, not bothering to stir.
“We aren’t exactly new at this,” Ricketts said.
“Then you know that the Mark 43 is a single-shot, kinetic energy weapon that doesn’t show up on the satellite scans,” I said. “It was prototype designed for use on Scorn during the initial uprising. Targeting is preset with windage for that system unless you specifically recalibrate to local conditions. Which would explain why every time I see you people get your hands on one, it flies three meters wide of the target.”
Nguyen narrowed his eyes like he was reevaluating me. “And you’re some sort of expert?”
“Lt. Martin Freeman,” Michaels introduced me, “LOW OrbIT Marines, Darwin Reserve.”
Ricketts stiffened. “Abrami’s Collaborators? You’re on the wrong side of the blue line, aren’t you Greensick?”
“Ease up, Ricketts,” Sinclair said. “The man lost a son in the May 8th Raid.”
“My unit held the hospital complex against the Greens for three years before you started playing resistance,” I said. “I watched most of them die, up close and personal, good men and women. So I’ve got as much interest in ending this as any of you. But I’m not a college senior dressed up as an Interior Ministry major. Sinclair’s uniform will pass in the city but your insignia is for the 6th Guards, one of Z’s elite battalions, all of which is engaged fifty klicks east of here last I checked.”
“Like the Greensicks will notice.” Ricketts said.
“They’re called Greensick, son, not Green-stupid,” I said.
Nguyen stepped in. “Knock it off. We’re all on the same side here. As we go over this, I’d like you to tell us what else you see, Lieutenant.”
We gathered around Michaels’ datapad and went over the plan, step by step.
...
The sunlight slanted harshly across the city skyline. In another hour, it would be directly overhead. The roof was hot, even in the shade of the solar panels that provided theoretical cover against any of Z’s remaining eyes in the sky. Since a LOW OrbIT cruiser had taken up a parking orbit over the city, most of Z’s spy satellites had gone dark. But he still had recon drones. Pillars of smoke rising from around Darwin Station attested to the Greens’ ability to lash out with either gunships or remotes whenever they perceived a threat. We didn’t have much of a window. If Z was late, we’d have to scrub and hope we’d get another chance or risk the sun glinting off our equipment.
Waiting is the hardest part of missions like these. It gives you too much time to think, too much time to worry about what could and would go wrong.
The plan was jury-rigged from the start. If we believed Michaels’ intel, Z’s route took him through the shadowed back alleys of downtown. He’d become increasingly paranoid about being picked off from orbit on his way too and from whatever meetings our revolutionary overlords attended around the city. In the deep maze of streets, he only had to worry if a cruiser looked down from directly overhead. Unlike Z’s forces, LOW OrbIT didn’t fire into civilians indiscriminately.
Keane and Sinclair’s job was to block Z’s route with an Interior Ministry transport that had been recovered in the fighting and repainted this morning. Keane and Ricketts had switched roles as each only had one uniform that fit, and Keane’s matched Sinclair’s. That meant Ricketts was now in charge of cutting off Z with an ATV parked in a garage just behind the ambush site. He would use the ATV to push a cargo container across Z’s line of retreat. My job was to put a hole the limo’s armor without killing Z, which shouldn’t be a problem for the Mark 43. Once we secured him, we’d load him into the ATV and head for the rendezvous with Michaels at best speed. That left Nguyen as overwatch. His job was to spot any reinforcements or decoys, plus provide an interlocking field of fire to mine in case everything went south. Simple really.
Except for the thousand things that could go wrong. Z’s car could take an alternate route without warning. The driver could get suspicious and pull back before Ricketts was in position. The bodyguard could come out shooting. Z might not be in the car at all. It could be a trap.
Just as our meeting was breaking up the night before, Ricketts had asked one of the few salient questions. “What do we do with Z if this whole thing blows up on us?”
Nguyen didn’t hesitate. “Kill him.”
“What?” Sinclair asked as if she were uncertain what she’d heard. That had been her position all along.
Nguyen turned and looked her in the eye. “I said kill him. Better to walk away with a partial victory than none at all. But remember, our objective is to take him alive.” The man definitely grasped the reality of the situation. I was beginning to see his leadership potential.
“LOW OrbIT will be extremely grateful if you hand him back unharmed,” Michaels added.
“Which translates to what?” Ricketts asked. “Their undying gratitude?”
“It translates to ending the Green Revolution on Darwin for good,” Nguyen said. “So let’s make this work.”
Deep inside, I knew that Sinclair was right. The idea of capturing Sub-Commander Z so LOW OrbIT could have a trial for the masses was ludicrous. Worse, it was probably suicidal. Not that I had a problem with that particular aspect of the mission. Hugh’s death had hit Rachel hard. She’d become distant, didn’t talk to me anymore. In a way, I’d lost them both to the Greens’ brutality. I wouldn’t mind a little payback, up close and personal, regardless of the cost. The problem was, that was in direct conflict with the mission. Taking matters into my own hands would put everyone at risk.
I was too familiar with risk, too familiar with its consequences.
I knew I should have stayed home with Hugh that day four years ago. I thought the school was far enough from the Greens’ protests, thought I could keep an eye out as I worked nearby and get him out if things turned violent. Our credits were running low. No work meant no food. Rachel hadn’t been to the market in weeks. The snipers had made it more dangerous than Iridium Square. At least until the protestors had opened fire on the local security forces and they’d retreated into Hugh’s school. I’d sprinted toward the clashes as soon as I heard the first volley. I was halfway across the square when I saw the Abrami’s mutinous gunships start their strafing runs. They’d finished their work by the time I got inside.
I’d found Hugh in a damaged classroom. I comforted him in my arms, applying pressure to the wound on his leg. His blood seeped through my fingers as we waited for the ambulance that never came. Z’s revolutionaries had setup roadblocks around the square and wouldn’t let them through. Rachel arrived just before Hugh died clinging to my arm. The market had been safer that day. The market was never safer. I had to drag her out when orders came in for my unit to rally at the hospital complex at Blind Mouth Bay. She’d never forgiven me for leaving Hugh’s body behind even though she knew I didn’t have a choice. We barely made it across the bridge as it was.
A double click on the comm unit brought me back to the rooftop, the trail of a tear cooling my cheek as it evaporated in the midmorning breeze. Nguyen had spotted something and was asking me for confirmation. Right on time, just as Michaels promised.
I wiped my sleeve against my face, then brought up the targeting system of the recoilless rifle. I scanned the area. There, creeping through the empty back alleys like a thief, raising a thin trail of dust, an armored limousine with electronic privacy windows, the kind Green officials once used to press their way through the crowds in Iridium Square before the city had risen back against them.
I sighted the detachable spotting scope along the Mark 43 through a roof drain to conceal my profile, then adjusted the filters to pierce the limo’s darkened windows. Sure enough, two Greens occupied the front seat, both in Interior Ministry uniforms. The scope highlighted a micro assault rifle casually draped across the front passenger’s lap. He was scanning the roofline with an optical recognition system, looking for any suspicious profile against the sky.
Focusing the scope deeper into the vehicle, through the barrier between the passenger and the driver’s compartments, I spotted another Green in the back. The targeting system began scanning its facial recognition database for a match, but couldn’t come up with one even bordering on accurate through the privacy shield. The Greens fought to suppress technology, but they sure knew how to use it to their advantage.
I glanced down to make sure Sinclair and Keane were in position around the corner, then verified my own escape route, an emergency stair that dropped into the alley below. I double clicked my mike, paused, then double clicked again, the confirmation signal. Now we were committed.
As I waited, I sighted the scope’s reticule on the backseat passenger. The bipod made sure the barrel didn’t poke out of the drain hole where it might give me away. The targeting software compensated for the steady movement of the vehicle. I had a clean shot. All I had to do was squeeze the trigger and the backseat passenger’s head would explode through the rear window like the tail of a dying meteor. Sub-Commander Z deserved no less.
With my steadying hand, I keyed the record function built into the targeting system. In a minute, Sinclair and Keane’s transport would come into the limo’s line of sight. When it did, things would move fast. I wanted to capture everything on video so if we succeeded there would be no doubt.
My finger tensed against the firing nub, the crosshairs centered midway between where I extrapolated Z’s eyes to be. My training said it was always best to seize the initiative. My experience said it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.
Just then, movement in the back compartment caught my eye. A small figure jumped across Z’s chest and clung to him. A concubine? No, too small. Z swung the figure effortlessly back to the other side of the seat, where it was once again blocked by the bodyguard’s head.
A child? My blood froze. I hesitated. Why would the Butcher of Blind Mouth Bay have a child in his car, today of all days?
In that moment Z bent across the seat, out of sight as if tickling the child. Or was that just my imagination filling in the gaps from what I used to do with Hugh?
Either way, my opportunity had been lost. Now, I’d have to see how the plan played out. And if we captured Z, what would we do with his kid?
...
Someone wise once said, “Seize the day, putting as little trust as possible in the future.” Very quickly, I wished I listened to that ancient advice. Soon after our plan made contact with the enemy, it lost integrity and became terminal.
Z’s limo eased around the shallow corner that brought Sinclair and Keane’s transport into sight, the engine compartment propped open in the universal sign of a breakdown. Keane was bent inside, concealing his weapon. Sinclair was in the cab, watching the limo through the side viewscreen, waving as it approached.
At first it looked like luck was on our side. The limo slowed then stopped, blaring its horn as if that would fix the problem. The alley wasn’t wide enough for it to slide by never mind turn around.
The front passenger door started to open. In another second, the bodyguard would be out and exposed. The best-case scenario boxes were getting checked off inside my head. Good, good, good.
I picked a spot on the limo’s windshield where my shot would pierce the privacy screen into the back without hitting Z. The passenger compartment would be impervious to small arms fire, but not the flechette of the recoilless rifle. I was waiting for Ricketts’ cargo container to cut off the limo before committing to the shot. That’s when Z must have spooked and the world turned a familiar shade of brown.
Z’s limo lurched into reverse without warning, the passenger door fluttering wildly as the vehicle swerved from side to side down the narrow alley without ever connecting with a wall. Something had gone very wrong on Ricketts’ end. The cargo container still wasn’t in position. I switched my targeting filter over to IR and sighted in on the trans-engine. The Mark 43 only had one round, so I wasn’t sure how we’d get into the limo, but I didn’t want it to get away.
In the second it took the recoilless rifle’s targeting system to recalibrate and adjust for the vehicle’s erratic motion, Ricketts arrived, too late. By then the limo was just crossing the garage entrance. Instead of a cargo container, our ATV shot out, crashing directly into the rear quarter panel of the limo, pinning it against the far wall of the alley but only for an instant.
The recoilless rifle accepted the limo’s pause as an invitation to reacquire and lock on target. My finger was still pressed against the firing nub. I couldn’t pull it back in time.
The limo lurched to a stop. It came to rest askew in the alley, its engine compartment releasing an unhealthy amount of greenish-gray fluid and vapor. Just like our ATV. Without an inconspicuous escape vehicle, Z’s capture was completely off the table. Plus, we had bigger problems, and maybe minutes to solve them before the gunships arrived.
I didn’t see Ricketts stir in the ATV. At a best, he would be trying to dig his way out of the crash-foam bags. Z’s bodyguard didn’t appear to have that problem. He popped out of the front passenger door, spraying rounds down the alley at Keane and Sinclair who had started to advance, but were forced to retreat back around the corner toward the transport. They had enough experience to lay down covering fire to give Ricketts a chance to escape.
That allowed Nguyen to swing around and take a well-aimed shot on the bodyguard who slumped to the ground, his body pinning the passenger door open. I then heard Nguyen give the code word over the comm for us to retreat and link up at the rally point. Keane and Sinclair faded back to the transport. It was our only working vehicle, but we had to assume it had been made by drones by now and would only be useful until the gunships arrived. The plan had always called for us to ditch it within minutes.
I snatched the datapad from the recoilless rifle and pocketed it, then grabbed the scope and slapped it on my sidearm. I left the Mark 43 in position, as there was no time to pack it up and sling it, not that it would have been much use anyway. Without the electronics or ammo, it was pretty much an empty tube and a firing mechanism. No great loss.
I jumped to the fire stairs and hurdled over the railing of each scissored flight of steps to speed my descent, then rode the spring-loaded ladder the final five meters down.
I jumped clear before it hit the stops and was running before it sprang back up. If Z or his driver recovered before Ricketts, he wouldn’t come out of this well. Nguyen’s role as overwatch meant it was his responsibility to see that none of us got left behind if humanly possible. I just planned to hedge the odds, and maybe salvage something from this debacle.
I sprinted down the alley, covering the distance in my best time since training. Nguyen had already descended and was helping Ricketts extricate himself through the back of the ATV, using the vehicle itself as cover. I approached Z’s limo from the passenger side, my sidearm steadied and braced with two hands.
The bodyguard was bleeding, but still alive, fumbling to replace the micro assault’s magazine. I solved that problem with two quick rounds to his head then kicked his body clear of the door. I ducked into the cab to find the driver feebly clutching a pistol that wavered as he brought it up. Another round ensured he, too, was no longer a threat.
I slid inside, pulled the datapad from my pocket, and keyed the intercom into the passenger compartment. My only choice at this point was to bluff and hope Z bought it. Belatedly, I noticed the facial recognition software tied to the scope had assigned the bodyguard and driver names, Venn Gardner and Mike Dunne, respectively. They were in the database, so that was confirmation of a sort.
“Drop the privacy shield, Sub-Commander,” I ordered, “or I’ll have that recoilless rifle blow you and the kid straight back to Scorn.”
I heard the whir of a damaged electric motor. The instant I saw the shield begin to fall, I wedged the barrel of my sidearm into the opening.
“Do anything twitchy,” I said, “and I’ll start spraying rounds all through that compartment. Now, interlock both hands behind your head.”
I used the descending shield as cover and watched what the scope displayed on the datapad to make sure he’d complied before I put my head into the line of fire.
When his image appeared on the datapad, Sub-Commander Z, the Butcher of Blind Mouth Bay, was sitting back in his seat, his fingers interlaced behind his head like a common detainee. The scope detected no weapons signatures in the compartment. I had him. I well and truly had him. Now he would pay the price for Hugh and all the other children he’d murdered over the past four years. I gripped the pistol a little tighter and lined it up on his torso. The datapad finally confirmed an identity with ninety-nine percent certainty. Captain Souleymane Abrami. The Collaborator. It made perfect sense that he was the one running the revolution from the shadows under the guise of Sub-Commander Z.
It was only when I rose up that I saw the child clinging to his side, shuddering and sobbing. The girl, Abrami’s daughter by the resemblance, alternately looked at me in black-eyed terror and buried her head into the crook of her father’s arm, as though she couldn’t bear to watch what she knew was about to happen, but couldn’t turn away either. For an instant, I remembered the same horrified expression on Hugh’s face when he first noticed the blood oozing from his leg. Abrami was making cooing noises to comfort her, but otherwise didn’t speak or move, just stared at me, resigned to his fate.
That’s when I heard the distant thump, thump, thump of the gunships beating their way through the air to our location. It was now or never. I steeled myself against the deafening sound of my weapon’s discharge and the explosion of blood through the compartment. I willed my finger to pull the trigger. My hand shook with the effort.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t kill Abrami where his blood would spray across his daughter’s face. I was trained as a soldier, not an assassin. As my gun wavered, Abrami disregarded my instructions and dropped his arms to encircle the girl protectively.
I wanted to tell Abrami to leave Darwin. I wanted to tell him that we knew how to hurt him now. I wanted him to feel what I felt when Hugh died clinging to my arm. I wanted him to beg.
But, I couldn’t make any of those things happen. I could see the relief in his daughter’s eyes when I turned my gun away. In that moment, I could only picture Hugh face and wonder what Rachel would think of me.
I slipped from the limo before the tears obscured my vision completely. I zigzagged my way across the alley to the ATV. By the time I arrived, Nguyen had Ricketts out of the vehicle and was supporting him inside the garage. It looked like Ricketts had a broken ankle.
“Let’s go,” I said. “They’ll be here any minute. We can still make the rally point if we hurry.”
“Did you take care of Sub-Commander Z?” Nguyen asked. Ricketts looked at me expectantly.
“No,” I whispered.
“Why the hell not?” Ricketts demanded.
“Because if we start killing them in front of their children,” I said, “we’re no better than the Greens.”
Just then Keane and Sinclair rolled up with the transport in the alley backing the other side of the garage.
...
I still don’t know why Michaels did it. By then, he’d disappeared. But when the city fell three days later, he spliced together the video from my datapad as if it were a citizen documentary and posted it anonymously on the net. I was hailed as the Hero of Darwin Station. As if I had been personally responsible for Sub-Commander Z’s flight. All I’d done was spare his life, not for him but for his daughter, to break the chain of unnecessary violence. I’d seen enough of these Greens and their war.
Even that isn’t completely true. I think my reasons for sparing him were more selfish. Maybe it was an attack of conscience, or maybe I couldn’t just murder a man in front of his daughter. But maybe, just maybe, it was so I could look Rachel in the eye when I saw her again and still smile through the tears the next time she activated Hugh’s picture. Maybe in the end, his untainted memory mattered more to me than Abrami’s blood.
© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III
