The Reign is Over – Part 15

We’re almost at the finish line with this story, and to make sure I can transition into new material as soon as possible, the story posts are going to get longer.  Today’s portion is a little over 1600 words, and Friday’s will be even bigger.  I’m gonna land this fish if it kills me.

What I’m trying to accomplish with this push to keep Reign going is to feel that I’m actually becoming a successful author.  This year, more than at any point in my career, I feel the clock ticking.  This will mark the third year that I’ve been writing, and I need to come up with some meaningful progress or I don’t have any business continuing to do this.  It eats too much of my time and my talents, causing strain on my friendships and my marriage.  If I’m successful, those are pains that can be tolerated.   Right now…

I despise ticking clocks, either real or imaginary.  While I acknowledge that sometimes things need to be done by certain times, I’ve always hated feeling that I’m under the gun.  I need to get over that.  My understanding from a large swath of individuals at all levels of publishing indicates that I’m going to spend the vast majority of my time writing under that particular Sword of Damocles.  It sucks, looking up and seeing the perilous nature of my career laid bare, but it’s better than not having a career at all.  I wasted the first thirty years of my life; I’ve no intention of squandering the next thirty.

So this year it’s go big or go home.  Put up or shut up.  That sort of thing.  So I’ll be here, pushing out posts even though it’s costing me sleep and leisure time. Pushing out novellas even if no one wants to read them.  Entering the Baen Books short story contest even if I don’t place and it never amounts to anything.

I need to feel like I’m actually getting somewhere.  Treading water keeps me from drowning, but it hasn’t done much else.

The Reign is Over – Part 15

Lieutenant Armsworth let out a grunt, muscles straining as he threw Brutus forward into the hanger bay as far as he could manage.  Right on the heels of his impromptu shot-put, he broke into a mad dash back down the hallway the assault team had been pinned down in.  Rifle fire splashed around him as he went, his arms and legs pumped like a maddened rhinoceros.  Without breaking stride he scooped up Lieutenant McNamara with one arm as he flew past.  She let out a string of curses as she found herself bumping against his shoulder.  Once she spotted Brutus on the floor of the hangar glowing cherry red, she increased her cursing and began firing madly into the hangar.  She had to do everything she could to keep their attackers focus on her so they wouldn’t figure out why Armsworth had flung Brutus hangar until it was too late.

Armsworth made it to the last recessed storage bay they had passed, rounded the corner, sprinted to the nearest blocky transport shell that faced the door, and unceremoniously dumped McNamara behind it before curling himself around her, hugging her close to him.  The remaining eight officers were hot on his heels, taking up their own spots behind cover and bracing themselves.  They didn’t know what they were running from, but when you see over two meters of muscle hurtling away from a firefight like a derailed freight train, you didn’t waste time on questions.  You just tried to keep up.

Moments after they had found cover, reality broke.  For a time madness reigned as sound and light and fury poured into the storage bay like a vengeful spirit seeking to destroy its summoner.  The blast sent the full transport shells scooting backwards along the smooth compcrete floor, those who had ducked for cover behind them tumbling frantically as they were tumbled about by both blastwave and shells alike.

After several eternities had passed under the geas of madness, McNamara’s eyes began to work again.  Images began to float in front of her, blurry and unfocused.  As she waited for her eyes to start up again, she tried to get the coppery taste of  blood out of her mouth.  She shook her head once, twice, hands pressed to her temples as though she could will away the aftershocks of such carnage.  Her ears rang, but she’d had her helmet on, so the chances she’d blown her eardrums were minimal.  Clearing her throat, she rasped out a yell.

“SPACE CONSUME ALL THE SAINTS AND MARTYRS, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ARMSWORTH!?”

Armsworth lifted his head in her general direction, his eyes swimming groggily, and managed a wisp of a smile at her shouted question.  He worked his jaw, trying to pop his ears, and eventually gave it up as a bad job and shouted his own reply.

“SOMEONE LANDED A LUCKY SHOT ON BRUTUS.  THE REACTOR WENT INTO A CASCADING OVERLOAD.”

His shouted response had to travel far longer than the distance between them.  McNamara managed to catch enough words to understand the gist of it, however.  Somehow, during the firefight that erupted as they had at last gained the spaceport, Brutus had gone belly-up.  It must have been one hell of a shot, because Brutus had multiple redundancies in place to prevent exactly that sort of thing.  Not to mention some hefty armor and the protection of Armsworth’s body.

Then again, the designers of the weapon hadn’t counted on nearly six hours of continual up-time, all while spitting out dozens upon dozens of shots with each new engagement.  One or more of the fail-safes must’ve fried.

“WELL IT’S A GOOD THING THAT YOU WEre able to throw it as far as you did then.”

Her ears came back online mid-sentence, and she dialed back the statement from a parade ground roar to a more sedate shout.  She tried to stand up, but decided after a few shaky moments trying to sit upright that the floor would be best for now.  She fumbled at her belt and after a few tries her hand lifted out the desired object.

She spun up the tight-wave communicator and input her clearance, and despite the inherent risks she called up Captain Walsh of the ISF Hidalgo. 

“Captain, you catch that huge explosion?”

His bushy face appeared on her helmet view-screen, and a single white eyebrow rose.

“Right, of course you did sir.  We lost Brutus with that blast.  Well, Brutus was that blast, but that’s beside the point.”

McNamara looked around at the other officers.  Dazed and tired faces stared back at her, all the same grimy crimson of smoke and smeared blood.  Two were unconscious.  Only Armsworth was upright, but even he looked like he was about to collapse at any moment.

“We need you to land an extraction team as close to that explosion as you can manage.  We’ve done all we can, but it’s time to put an end to this fiasco.”

She slumped her head back to the groud, eyes closed, as bitter defeat overwhelmed her.  They’d fought like demons, died like heroes, and it still hadn’t been enough.  Lacy and the others had paid for every centimeter with blood, and she was about to tuck tail and scamper away from everything their deaths had accomplished.  Defeat didn’t even scratch the surface of what she was feeling.

“I can’t do that, Lieutenant.”

McNamara’s eyes snapped open, thoughts of defeat and loss temporarily forgotten.  No amount of pain or nausea could prevent her from sitting upright.

“What did you just say, sir?”

His reply was cool, remote, and merciless.

“There will be no rescue, Lieutenant.  None of you are going home.”

McNamara just stared at the tight-wave communicator in her hands.  The illegal, one-directional, untraceable tight-wave communicator.  Which bypassed normal military and police protocols and kept them both out of the loop.  Which was the only way she could coordinate with Hidalgo.  Who was the only one that knew they were out here.

“You bastard.  You rotten bastard.  You’re how Reignover got military equipment.  We’re not here to take Reignover down, we’re here to destroy the evidence.”

“Right you are, Laura.”

Another voice had joined their comm, a voice made up of sharp edges and hard lines.  The voice belonged to Lieutenant Raithe.  Who shouldn’t even know about this communication line, let alone have access to it.  Whose team hadn’t encountered armed resistance.  Into whose hands she delivered all the wounded and all the prisoners.

“First, my name is Lieutenant you loathsome viper.  Second, are any of the men and women I sent back to you alive?”

“No.”

The word was said with obvious smug amusement.  McNamara could almost see the vile expression which Raithe must be wearing to talk so glibly about murder.  Bile rose in her throat; McNamara wanted to vomit up every meal she’d ever eaten.  Her vision went white as rage and terror bleached it of color.  Armsworth stared at her, his umber face draining of color as he saw her reaction to their request for aid.

“You’d both better hope I die down here.  If I make it out, you’d best invest in a good coffin.”

A small chuckle escaped the bushy mustache of Captain Walsh.

“Of that I’ve no doubts Lieutenant.  Ms. Raithe and her ‘recruits’ are there to ensure that doesn’t happen.  Her team has already destroyed Reignover’s data caches and his personnel.  He’s a cunning and ruthless man, but all humans have weaknesses to exploit.  Don’t they, Lieutenant?”

Terror and rage gave way to understanding.  She’d been played.  This whole mission was a setup from the start, and she’d never questioned it for a moment.  Because Captain Walsh had told her everything she’d wanted to hear.  Told her that at last she could have revenge against Laszlo Reignover.  Said she could have one last charge into battle with Armsworth at her side.  That she could give Reignover a plasma rifle enema.

“You’ve both made your last mistake.  And you’re quite right, all humans do have weaknesses.”

So saying, McNamara severed the connection, set the communicator carefully on the floor, and slammed her elbow down onto it.  It exploded into a satisfying number of tiny pieces across the floor, and McNamara looked up at the pasty face of the only friend she had.  The one she had doomed along with all the others in her lust for vengeance.

“Chin up Armsworth.  We’ve just been handed the shit-end of the stick, and I’ve a mind to brain the people who handed it to us.  You in?”

He nodded mutely at her, face regaining it’s usual deep color as he did.

“I’m with you Mara.  Always.”

McNamara got upright with care, brushed as much of the dust and grime off her as she could, and got to work.

To be continued…

Deceitfully,

The Unsheathed Quill