Hard Drop (30 page)

And then the wheels crashed down onto solid pavement, tires screaming against the wheel wells as the suspension gave way, and they were through, out of the tunnel and into the bright, sunlit desert. Flip let out a whoop, turning to look back at the scene of their narrow escape.
 

The sight that greeted her was impressive and horrifying: the mountain had crumbled, collapsing in on the tunneled highway and sending up a massive dust cloud. The sky behind it was a towering mass of dark, black smoke, rising from the city like a funeral pyre. Even as she watched, the ground shook, as another missile exploded behind the hillside. An enormous cloud of smoke rose into the sky, followed closely by a rippling shockwave that rolled over the hillside, flattening everything in its path. It billowed out towards them, moving quickly, its front a whirling mass of dust.
 

Tyco saw the cloud rise in the mirror above him, and tightened his grip on the wheel. They had made it out this far, but there was no telling where the next one might fall. He glanced nervously ahead into the desert.
 

“Hey, uh – Flip.” He asked, his voice ashen.
 

“Yeah?”
 

“They going to be lift-off ready when we get there?”

“With any luck.” She said grimly, glancing down at the expired countdown on her rifle. Tyco gritted his teeth and leaned low over the wheel, gunning the vehicle down the empty highway and directly through the field of collapsed test craters Flip had seen from above. If he could stay ahead of that shockwave, they had a chance.

Two miles away, in the middle of the quiet desert, the base waited silently. There were no signs of life on its sunbaked concrete. The gates were locked, shut tight and abandoned, and small dunes of sand snaked their way across its endless runway.

Otherwise, it was barren. The runway Flip had seen from the frozen mountain was deserted, the hangars shut tight.

It had not, however, been left unguarded. The high barbed-wire fence was ringed by sheet metal guard towers, each manned with an automatic turret. They were silent now, bent double against their supports in watchful sleep. No one had disturbed them for weeks.

In the distance, the bombardment continued. Jagged shadows rose over the desert floor as smoke rose from the city and the blast cloud tore outwards. The mountains in the distance had disappeared almost completely. And still, the turrets remained asleep, their sensors untroubled by the darkening sky above.

A tiny, gleaming speck appeared at the bottom of the cloud. Racing across the desert, its wheels glinting as it tore along the winding road, the object came into range quickly, making directly for the abandoned gates below.

A lone sensor whirred in the guard tower nearest the road. A klaxon came to life soundlessly, its red light flashing high over the deserted base. And then the restful

machine turrets came to life, their angular necks extending outwards gracefully until their barrels faced directly out over the desert.

Infrared beams flashed unseen across the sand, finding and locking on to the speeding metal blip in the distance. And then, one by one, the turrets opened fire.
 

Tyco jumped as the first bullet struck the metal frame. “What the -?” He said and then stopped himself, face falling, as the reality of their predicament sunk in. “Get down.” He growled, motioning for MAP-11 and Flip to follow as he huddled low over the steering wheel. MAP-11 obligingly retracted his shard and slumped, covering Chip.

More bullets followed, raking across the front of the vehicle and chewing up the asphalt in front of it.
 

“Why are they shooting us?!” Flip shouted, crouched low in her seat, not understanding the unexpected opposition.
 

“I’ll ask them when we get there.” Tyco answered grimly, setting his jaw as the bullets zipped past.
 

The guns had found the range now, focusing their fire unrelentingly across the jeep’s side and front. Their bullets found their mark, smashing through the tires and dropping the truck onto its solid metal rims. It veered hard, cutting across the two-lane highway and nearly running off of it. Tyco’s knuckles went white as he fought the understeer and brought the truck around, intent on keeping it on course, on the road. The roiling black cloud behind them was gaining rapidly, threatening to swallow them whole and throw them off the road. They were barely half a mile ahead of it and losing quickly, and there was nothing for Tyco do but stay on the road, accelerating into the hail of bullets – and pray.
 

The barrage picked up as the truck roared towards the facility gate. Tyco went almost flat, barely peeking above the wheel, feeling the bullets whistle by. They missed by inches and less, smashing against the metal truck frame and crumpling it mercilessly. He felt a second tire burst beneath him, and the truck shifted again, cutting back and forth across the asphalt. Tyco kept a tight grip on the steering wheel, sweat dripping between his fingers and the baked leather, staying on the road by sheer force of will. Bullets ripped into the seat behind him, pounding the fabric. A ricochet pinged off his chest armor, unexpected and doubly painful for it. He gritted his teeth and groaned through them in pain, shoving his foot down against the pedal to close the final few hundred yards to the security gate.
 

“Brace yourself – !” he shouted, and Flip looked up instinctively, eyes on the gate, unable to resist the temptation to look.
 

It was a mistake. A bullet smashed into her armor, rocking her back in her seat and knocking the wind out of her lungs. Another smashed into her arm, drawing blood and pulling a scream from between her lips. A third rocked into her torso, cutting it short, and she slumped forward.

Tyco looked up one last time, correcting their course as they barreled towards the gate. It was close now, looming large through the windshield as the truck barreled towards its heavy chain link unstoppably. The air was electric, charged with the steady hum of high-speed lead as it whistled past, ripping the truck’s interior to shreds. Tyco sat low in the seat, ignoring the danger, bent on keeping the truck on course. He kept his head low and plowed headlong into the gunfire. There would be no mistakes this time.
 

His shoulder exploded abruptly in red-hot pain as the gunners found him at last. The bullet flung him backwards against his seat, throwing him sideways and spinning the wheel uncontrollably in his hand.

The truck veered sideways, its metal rims screaming over the concrete as momentum carried the frame forwards. The naked rims dug into the concrete, catching and rolling the truck over on it side. It slid sideways, veering crazily, and smashed through the main security gate, sending the heavy metal links airborne before coming to a hard, crashing stop against a solid metal pillar.
 

Tyco lay dazed on the ground, staring up as the blue sky through the passenger window went white, then grey as the debris cloud washed through. He closed his eyes and the world went black.

He came to as he was pulled roughly from the truck, his shoulder screaming in pain as it caught against the window. His eyes watered and his head spun as he landed on his feet, unable to bring the world around him into focus. It was a grey blur, darkened strangely as if night had fallen, though the air around him felt hot and smelled of fire and cordite. MAP-11 released him, placing him down on the tarmac against what was left of the vehicle. Every window was smashed, and the rear doors had been ripped from their hinges. Chip was nowhere to be seen, and even as Tyco adjusted to the light, MAP-11 was on one knee, reaching deep inside the truck.

The barrage that had greeted them as they had approached the base had stopped, leaving an almost otherworldly silence behind. A quick look around the ground showed Tyco clearly why: the shattered bodies of a half-dozen turret guns lay on the ground around the APC, splintered where they had fallen from their emplacements. That much, at least, the impact cloud had done for them. Tyco rose slowly, steadying himself against the side of the APC, then fell back against it, closing his eyes in pained relief.
 

He opened them to find MAP-11 staring down at him, his breathing deep and steady. The creature stood tall in the dim grey light, his arms delicately cradling Flip’s body.
 

She was wounded, bleeding freely where the bullets had gone through her body armor. Her head slumped back and her eyes were closed, though her chest heaved visibly over MAP-11’s arms. The crash had left her unconscious, Tyco could see that, though how serious her injuries were was unclear.
 

Tyco looked up weakly at MAP-11, slowly nodding his head. “Thank you.” He said, simply.

MAP-11 nodded in return and turned abruptly, swinging away from the APC and heading back into the base, towards the hangars. He carried Flip easily, her frame hardly a burden as he lumbered across the tarmac. Tyco watched them go, then turned and, breathing out from the effort and pain, fell to his knees on the hot tarmac. Wincing, he crawled back into the APC through the shattered window, reaching for the med kit he knew he would find behind the driver’s seat. Judging from what he’d seen of the base’s condition, they weren’t going to find anything here. His fingers searched through the wreckage, fumbling over broken glass and twisted metal until they found it. His hand closed around the kit’s cold metal handle and he pulled, groaning with pain, wrenching it out from under the seat and crawling back out onto the tarmac.
 

He rose to his feet gingerly, his legs aching as he brushed the dust from his knees. There would be time to worry about that later; for now, he would see about his soldiers.

TWENTY: CHOICES

He found her in the facility’s control room. The evacuating troops had sealed the door behind them, but it had been no match for the creature’s massive strength. It had been torn from the wall, and now hung loosely from one of its reinforced hinges. The room beyond it was small, seeming almost like an afterthought given the size of the runway and hangars, but its walls were packed with high-powered communications equipment. The lights blinked green as Tyco entered through the broken door.

MAP-11 had laid Flip out carefully on a solid wood table. She was awake, her breath ragged, groaning quietly every time she exhaled. She looked up at Tyco as he entered, nodding once by way of pained greeting.

The creature stood over Chip, once again tending to him, the shard extending beneath his skin. Tyco stared at it incredulously, but Chip’s steady breathing was reassuring, and besides, there was not much better that could be done for him.
 

Tyco turned his attention to Flip’s injuries, ignoring her weak attempts to wave him off. With a practiced eye, he examined her injuries. She had been lucky, lucky as you could be driving blindly into a hail of bullets. The shot that had found her midsection had only grazed it, cutting through her side, painfully but not fatally. The blood there had clotted, and her uniform shirt now hung brown and dry from her skin. Her lips were parched, and the cut on her forehead still bled, but less now, its flow slowing to a trickle. The wound on her arm was ugly, mud-caked where the settling dust had covered it, but a little cleaning would take care of that. Her body armor had caught the rest.
 

He stood and removed it now, unclipping the last links carefully, trying not to open her wounds again. She groaned and closed her eyes tightly as it came free, but made no attempt to stop him.
 

“Lucky girl.” Tyco muttered, as the armor fell away and the limitations of her wounds became clear. There was nothing there that the meds and clot-bonds wouldn’t fix. Even the more serious burns where she had skidded across the asphalt wouldn’t kill her.
 

Tyco lifted the aid kit onto the table with a weary sigh. This was going to hurt, he had no doubt of that, and he hoped earnestly there would be something in the kit to help. He snapped open its locks and stared inside, praying there would be something, anything of use inside.
 

It fell open and he sighed, shaking his head in tired frustration.

The rebels had been through it. They had taken the dullers it should have contained, as well as all pills and alcohol. Even the disinfectant wipes had been torn open, their contents no doubt sucked dry for their distilled contents. The remnants had been left inside, ragged and filthy. All that remained were a handful of thick gauze pads, still in their clean wrappers, and a length of clot-bonding tape. Tyco removed them from the case and dumped the empty wrapping on the floor. They would have to do without anesthetic. As for his own wounds, well -
 

Setting his jaw, Tyco ripped open his uniform shirt, groaning as it fell off of his shoulder and revealed a deep, ugly, bleeding wound in his shoulder. Hog’s flask fell from his side and clattered loudly onto the table. He picked it up sadly, wiping the dust from its side.

“You want to clean those yourself?” He asked Flip, indicating her wounds. She nodded gratefully. He dipped Hog’s flask against a bandage and handed it to her.

“Not what I’d want to use it for, but still…” He said, bracing the flask against his chest and quickly unscrewing the top. He held a second gauze pad against its mouth and flipped it, once, then twice, until he felt the cloth wet under his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he plunged it against the wound in his shoulder, shaking with agony as he swabbed it. The alcohol burned in the wound as it cleaned. Tyco set his teeth and rode out the pain until it numbed. He opened another pad and strapped it down tightly, tying it off with a thick roll of tape.
 

He ripped the end and let his head fall, shaking as he fought off the blackout he felt coming. When he looked up again, it had passed.
 

Flip had fallen asleep, or passed out, her hand holding the gauze pad fallen flat against her skin He’d have to finish the job for her.