Peter David - After Earth

The first two floors proved empty, just remnants of what once had been people’s homes and lives. Little had survived the heat and flame, which hungrily devoured what it could. He had never bothered to ask what had caused it, but whatever had happened had happened fast, long before the firefighters could arrive to stop the spread. The foam left a sticky residue everywhere, tinting the blackened furniture and walls a dull green.

As he climbed the emergency stairs up to the third floor, he heard something above—a wall, most likely—give way, crumbling with loud thuds that actually shook the stairs. He tightened his grip and continued upward, listening for any cries that might indicate an injury. His breathing seemed to grow louder in his ears with every step.

The first four apartments he checked were damaged and empty, but the fifth was where the structure fell apart. The rooms were almost pitch-black, with charcoal masquerading as furniture. The collapsed wall had divided a living room from a bedroom, leaving structural supports that had burned through. He suspected the fire might have started there or nearby, but he’d leave that to the trained investigators to confirm. He gingerly kicked at rubble, seeking evidence of a living being that might be trapped beneath. There was nothing remotely human, and after a few minutes he gave up.

Turning, he readied himself for the next apartment, his throat beginning to long for a cool drink, when he saw a figure dart by the doorway.

“Hey!” he called out, but there was no response.

He tried to move both quickly and cautiously, not wishing to cause walls or floors to crumble beneath him. The figure had made it to the end of the corridor and had entered the last room on the left. Skipping the ones in between, Kincaid stalked the person, wishing he had a pulser with him just in case.

Peering through the doorway, Kincaid was surprised to see the person was an old man, seemingly unharmed by the conflagration. He was wandering in circles, as if he was searching for something, looking increasingly confused. Kincaid took one step into the room, and the old man finally noticed him.

“Have you seen my reader?” he asked Kincaid.

“Sir, are you all right?” he asked the man, who looked anything but all right.

“Absolutely,” the man said distractedly as he opened a drawer. “Thank you for asking.”

“You do know this building is on fire? It’s unsafe, and you should come with me.”

The man paused in his search and looked at Kincaid as if for the first time. Studying him from head to toe, the old man gaped. “What are you?”

“Civilian Defense Corps, sir. I’m searching for survivors, and you look like one.”

“Survivors of what? Are the Skrel attacking?” He was clearly addled, perhaps even mentally ill.

“Not the Skrel; a fire. I need to get you out of the building.”

“I need my reader; I have to finish my book before class,” the man complained. Kincaid realized his argument was not getting through to the poor man. He still wondered how he was totally unscathed by the fire, but that was a mystery for another time. The one wall crumbling made him feel as if he were inside a ticking bomb. He stepped forward decisively, grabbed the man’s left wrist, and hefted him into the air and across his shoulders in the traditional fireman’s carry. He tested the added weight and the floor held, and so he took one step and then another to make certain they could escape. The moment the old man was across his shoulders, he became remarkably placid, like a kitten slumping when its mother carried it by the nape.

“McGirk, I have a survivor. An elderly man, physically unharmed. We’re coming down from the fifth floor.”

“Acknowledged. Medical corps will be standing by. Stay safe, kid.”

“No kidding.”

The old man stayed quiet as Kincaid made his way slowly down the steps until finally, several agonizingly long minutes later, he emerged from the building. Two members of the medical team ran to him and eased him from Kincaid’s shoulders to a stretcher, where he was quickly checked over.

Kincaid ripped off the mask and breathed in air that smelled of smoke.

“Nice work, kid,” McGirk said as he walked over. “What’s his story?”

“No idea,” Kincaid admitted. “Don’t know and frankly don’t care. The guy needs some help, and I’m too sore and tired to really think about it.”

“You’re done. They got the fire under control, and the firefighters can check out the rest of the place. When are you next on?”

Anderson thought a moment and answered, “Second shift.”

“Get some sleep and come in late. Marquez can keep the peace until you show up.”

“Nice work, Anderson,” she said, giving him a hug that lingered a bit longer than normal. He pretended he didn’t notice and thanked her.

Collapsing into bed back at his apartment, Kincaid thought that this was why he had signed up: to protect the people, to use his body in productive ways. It was a good way to live.

The following day, he reported for work and was heartily congratulated and razzed by the others for his heroism. He shrugged it off in the locker room but inwardly felt very proud of upholding the Ranger ideals even if he was still a corpsman.

On the street with Marquez, though, he felt he could really express those feelings. They’d been growing increasingly comfortable with each other, a true bond forming between them. Today he noticed she had done her hair a different way.

“I like it down like that even though it’s not regulation,” he said.

“Thanks, but there are few hair regulations. You keep thinking we live by the Ranger code, but we don’t. We are looser and have far more fun.”

“Just what do you do for fun?”

“Long-distance hiking. I really like getting out on the Falkor Desert, seeing what’s out there.”

“You walk far enough, you’ll get to New Earth City,” Kincaid said.

“No, I go looking for reptiles. I’m a secret herp.”

“Herp?”

“Herpetological, silly. Reptiles, snakes and things.”

“Really? That sounds really… different.”

“Says someone who has clearly never handled a snake,” she said. “Look, come over after shifting and I’ll let you have a feel.”

She was blushing as she said that, but he was certainly interested enough to accept her invitation.

It was a good way to live. Then why didn’t it feel like it? Anderson had grown comfortable with his life, and the year 997 AE had been a particularly satisfying one for him so far. He had the corps, he had friends, and his apartment was taking on his personality. Kayla was old enough to no longer be annoying but a loving sister and good friend. His parents continued to ask about a spouse, and his mother—still the city’s head physician—asked about grandchildren to occupy her during her impending retirement. But he was not interested. Not yet, anyway. He was twenty, in his physical prime, and creating new generations of Kincaids could wait.

Over the last few weeks he and Marquez let things take their natural course, and a romance was developing. She introduced him to her snake, Merlin, then let him feel the reptile’s skin and compare it with her own far hotter flesh.

Since that torrid night, the two were seeing each other both on shift and off duty. Now both were getting teased by the others, but all approved, even Alpuente, who seemed to have first dibs on Kincaid.

It wasn’t all Nirvana, though. He felt a great deal of affection for her, but it was clearly secondary to his mission, and that caused problems. The previous night, he had stayed at her place, and after they had made love for the second time in a few hours, she straddled him, her hair tickling his nose.