Glory Main (24 page)

The hangar went up just then, sunrise combined with thunder and a tornado, and a belching red cloud of flame raced across the distance. It slammed most of the Sims into the armor while merely flattening the others, and Mortas felt it tousling his hair as he leapt around the protection of the tank and started to run.

The hangar was still standing, but just barely. It was engulfed in flame, swirling spirals greedily licking the edges of the entrance before disappearing into the night sky where the roof had been. Large pieces of wreckage began crashing down around him as he moved, tripping over the Sim work crew's rucksacks. Cinders fell on his exposed head, biting and stinging, but he fought to get the knife back into its scabbard instead of swatting at them.

Got to get to the others. Got to get to the others.

Ahead, in what had been darkness before the explosion lit up the field, he could see the Wren trying to maneuver away from the carnage. Sims were running in all directions, trilling and cawing as they tried to escape the disaster or render aid, and he couldn't make out Trent or Gorman among them.

A section of corrugated metal, ripped and on fire, crashed to the tarmac in front of him. He was just cutting around it when a second explosion went off, lifting him, tossing him—­a warm wind from a day at the beach that dropped him onto the pavement like a sack of laundry with bones. Pain shot through his left shoulder as he rolled several more times, and when he came to a stop he could barely move. His cheek was pressed against the flat stone, not minding it now, accepting that the whole silly charade was finally over. He was wondering if that was why Cranther had smiled at the end, but then he saw Trent and Gorman.

They were a few yards away, knocked down, not moving, and the raging fire showed that both of their flight suits were spotted with blood. He tried to come to his feet, but couldn't find his balance and fell over instead. Rolling on his stomach, blinding pain from the shoulder, pushing with his one good arm until he was finally kneeling back on his haunches. Seeing movement, Trent coming to a sitting position, face screwed up in agony, hands grasping something buried in her midsection. Twisting where she sat, teeth gritted, pulling on a spear-­shaped piece of broken wood that was clearly stuck in her torso.

Mortas pushed off, still bent over but now standing, and began to totter in their direction. Gorman was motionless, and with a mighty effort Trent yanked the shard from her belly. She flung it aside with a look of distaste before, miraculously, rising to a squatting position and reaching for Gorman. She'd just rolled him over so that he faced the sky when Mortas got there.

The chartist's flight suit was peppered with fragments as if he'd been shot multiple times, and fresh blood spotted the fabric. Mortas dropped to his knees next to him, his eyes reaching for Trent's as the full extent of their wounds became apparent. A Sim rescue vehicle flashed by, trailing flame, and another, smaller explosion went off far behind them.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” he shouted, heedless of the enemy running all around them. His hands fluttered in the air, sending another jolt from his injured shoulder racing for his brain. “I thought it would work.”

Trent's eyes locked on his, full of fire. “Grab hold of him! It's getting away!”

Mortas looked up to see the Wren moving by, very close, maneuvering to avoid the burning debris that now clogged the runway. Its rear ramp was still down, and he watched as one of the pilots' kit bags lolled onto its side and fell off onto the tarmac.

Trent took hold of Gorman's left arm, pulling him to a sitting position. The chartist's eyes snapped open and he gave out a brief cry of pain before recognizing where they were. Even amid the roar of the fire and the ripple of smaller blasts, his voice could be heard. “Where's the bird? Get me to the bird.”

Mortas grabbed his other arm, flinching with the new pain but dragging Gorman to his feet. The Wren wasn't more than fifteen yards away, and they began stumbling toward it like a new form of life, a hybrid of three separate creatures that was just learning how to walk. He stared across at Trent, marveling at the huge red stain on her uniform and knowing that some time, any moment, the dreadful wound would drop her and end this madness.

And then they were somehow at the ramp, tripping as they clumsily made the big step up and collapsing in a ringing metallic heap even as the craft continued to roll forward. Mortas looked up into the bright lights and the white walls and all the open space, recognizing that the ship had been configured as a cargo carrier. Twenty empty yards ahead both pilots were seated at the controls, concentrating on getting away from the fire, oblivious to their new passengers. Gorman's hands clawed at his arm, his eyes full of pain. “Hurry. Get me to the panel.”

Mortas looked up just in time to see one of the pilots moving, somehow warned that they had come aboard, quickly unfastening his seat harness while staring at them from behind the blackout lenses of his helmet. Mortas reached back for the knife, but the drying blood stuck to the sheath and it wouldn't budge. Trent was trying to get on her feet, but the ship swerved around something and she went down again. The pilot, now standing, yanked his helmet off and drew some kind of tiny Sim sidearm.

This is where it's gonna end. He's going to shoot all three of us.

The pilot started toward them, almost losing his footing with the ship's erratic course. He chirped something at them that was lost in the engine racket, and waved the gun as if trying to shoo away a fly. It took a moment for Mortas to see that their subterfuge still worked and that once again they'd been mistaken for Sims.

The pilot came on, snarling now, the chirps running together into an angry cacophony. He stumbled again, catching his balance by grabbing a section of cargo webbing attached to the hull. Mortas pushed himself up into a squatting position, his good hand in the air in pantomimed surrender, but the movement alarmed the Sim enough to remind him he hadn't chambered a round or done whatever he needed to do in order to shoot someone. His eyes swung downward and then he let go of the netting, his free hand darting for the weapon.

It was all Mortas would ever need. In two quick steps he was beside the pilot, swatting the gun out of his hand and seeing for the first time that he was larger than his opponent. Grabbing him by the back of the neck, Mortas pivoted and heaved him toward the ramp like a bouncer throwing a drunk out of a bar. The Sim lost his balance after one lurching step and fell forward, tumbling, his momentum carrying him over the edge. A moment later Mortas saw him on the runway, still rolling in the light from the flames. He turned away from the open back ramp, knowing he was much too far from the remaining Sim to pull the same stunt.

The second pilot was all frantic movement now, fighting with one of the buckles that held him in his seat, but Mortas just stood there, amazed, as Trent covered the last few feet. She'd found the pistol dropped by the other pilot, but she waited until she was right on top of the Sim before firing. She jammed the weapon straight down into the hollow at the base of his neck so that the round would go the greatest distance through his body and pose the least danger to the ship's hull. The pilot jumped in his harness once and then drooped, and Trent tossed the gun away before looking at Mortas.

“Get Gorman over here!” she shouted even as the Wren ran over something on the runway, bucking and bumping while she climbed into the one empty pilot's seat. The chartist had already started moving, on his hands and knees and barely covering any ground at all. Mortas slipped around him in order to use his one ser­viceable arm to lift the other man, and the two of them weaved forward as Trent got the controls to respond.

Gorman was making faint gurgling sounds deep in his chest, but Mortas had to leave him standing for the time it took to remove the dead Sim from the other seat. Luckily there was little blood on the dark cushion, and he guided Gorman into place. The chartist's mouth hung open and he was taking rapid, worthless breaths, but his hands found the navigation panel and he began punching buttons. Star charts swirled on the screen, and he shifted a cursor to tell the ship where to go.

Mortas dragged the pilot's body to the ramp and rolled it off, shocked by the carnage receding behind them. More than one hangar was in flames, vehicles and individuals were racing in all directions, and several other spacecraft were following them.

Cover. They're going to give us cover as we lift off. Every ship that can get away from here is bugging out.

He found the one lever on the bulkhead that looked like a means of opening and closing the ramp, and yanked it in one direction and then another until the machinery began to hum and the hatch started moving upward. His last sight was geysers of fire shooting skyward like the birth of a new volcano.

Mortas made his way to the front, hearing Gorman tell Trent to engage the automatic flight controls. Trembling in excitement, the lieutenant squatted down with his good hand on Trent's shoulder, looking through the Wren's windshield and seeing a wide open expanse of runway. Every available light had been switched on by whoever controlled them, and he was reminded of a late night drive only a year before, when he'd passed a blazing sports stadium out in the countryside where some big night game had been in progress.

The Wren's system took over then, setting the course for Sere and wresting control from Trent. She leaned back in the seat, reaching up and taking his hand just as the blast shields slid into place and momentarily blocked their sight. Projections from exterior cameras lit up the blast shields moments later, and the imagery was so precise that it was hard to tell that they were closed. The engines of a slightly larger craft ahead of them flared and then propelled the bird down the track, making them next in line. Mortas forced his numb arm to function, swinging his hand up until it landed on Gorman's shoulder. The chartist's head lolled back, and he looked up with an expression of astonishment and relief.

The engine caught fire, and with a surprisingly light kick the ship raced off down the runway.

“L
ay me down on the deck.” Gorman's voice was strained and weak. They'd lifted him from the seat just after the Wren had broken free of the planet's atmosphere, gingerly holding his head up and mindful of his grievous internal injuries. Mortas searched around the cockpit area and quickly located a cabinet filled with sealed water bottles. After checking to make sure it was indeed water, he knelt and held the bottle to Gorman's lips.

The chartist managed to keep it down, but his voice remained weak. “Can't believe we actually made it.”

“Try not to talk. We'll be getting to Glory Main in no time and they'll patch you right up.”

“Thank you for trying, Lieutenant. But I'm going somewhere else.”

Trent's words were choked. “No you're not. You're staying with us. We're a team. You can't leave us.”

Gorman smiled at that, and he weakly raised both hands until the others each took one. He looked at Mortas.

“Father.”

His eyes shifted to Trent.

“Mother.”

Trent squeezed his hand in both of hers, moaning in a low voice. “No.”

“Sister.”

The eyes moved back to Mortas.

“Brother.”

Mortas cleared his throat, remembering the words and taking up the litany.

“Son.”

Trent managed to join in next. “Daughter.”

The three of them started the last line.

“All are one, from the beginning of time until its end.”

But only two of them were speaking when it was done.

M
ortas collapsed against the bulkhead just after they'd strapped Gorman's body into a fold-­out bunk. The prayer had calmed him right up until the moment that they covered the corpse, and then a rush of anguish had taken its place. His knees came up toward his chest, and he wrapped trembling hands around them as he lowered his head and began to cry without making a sound.

Trent was there a moment later, her face streaked with dirt and the torn side of her flight suit flapping open. She tried to take him in her arms, but he wouldn't let go of his legs and so she pressed the side of her head against his own. Sobs wracked them both, and it was many moments before Mortas could speak. He finally blurted out the words that refused to stay inside.

“I promised I'd get him to safety. I promised both of you. I said I'd die before anything happened to either one of you, and look at me now. I'm alive and he's dead. Shit . . . it was probably that tank round that killed him.”

“Hey.” Trent ran the back of a hand across her face, wiping away the tears. “Look at me.”

He raised his head like a child, his face contorted.

“You didn't say you were going to get us to safety. You said you were going to get us out of there. And you did it. We did it. You, me, and Gorman. We pushed that scout car out of the way together, we crossed the strip together, we took this ship together, and we got out of there together.” She glanced at the bunk and then looked back again. “And was he cursing you when he died?”

“He never cursed anybody.”

“Exactly. Gorman was his own man the whole way through, and long before he met us. He fought his way onto this ship right alongside us, despite his wounds. He insisted you put him in that seat so we could escape, knowing he wasn't going to make it. And he died content, holding our hands and saying the final words of his ­people. So if he didn't blame you for what happened, why are you blaming yourself?”

A painful memory. An oblong pile of rocks by a dark stream. Uttering the same words that he'd heard Gorman recite over the dead tanker they'd found in the ravines. Cranther telling him to get the others out, thinking of them even though he was the one who was dying.

Gorman doing the exact same thing. Catastrophically injured, dying and knowing it, and yet urging them through gritted teeth to get him onto the Wren and then to the controls. His final act as a chartist had been to lay in the course to a destination he knew he'd never see.