Peter David - After Earth

“Do you always do everything with military precision?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not at all. To be honest, you’re the finest lover I’ve had. You’re definitely a keeper, Andy.”

He frowned at her. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

She shook her head, but her eyes were no longer merry. “You are technically proficient, even creative, but you never feel fully committed to this… to us.”

He propped himself up on his elbows and stared into her eyes. Was she trying to break things off? She had just said he was a keeper, so what was happening?

“Andy, you have yet to let go of your dream. You’ve told me about being denied entrance to the Rangers, and I get how soul-crushing that must have been. But you have a good life, a good career. You have me . But that isn’t enough, is it?”

Anderson Kincaid had no proper response to that question.

Instead, he slid out from under her and hurriedly dressed, returning home to his place and his thoughts.

He was on second shift the following day, walking toward the huge outdoor market. Fresh produce and crops had been brought in hours earlier, and the place was teeming with people haggling, bargaining, and gossiping. In other words, another typical day in another typical week, and Kincaid was okay with that. He and Marquez could walk in comfortable silence and just soak in the local ambience.

As he pondered a choice between green and leafy or juicy and succulent for his dinner, their radios crackled to life.

“All corps, this is a priority alert. Ursa have been sighted in the city. Rangers are in pursuit, but we need to begin clearing the streets. The siren is about to go off, so be prepared for a panic.”

Marquez thumbed a button that acknowledged the alert and quickened her pace toward the market. “That place is a zoo under normal conditions; this is not going to be easy,” she said. “What was it you said a while back? Only a handful left from the last attack?”

“A few, but we have no clue if they breed or not,” he said, matching her pace.

“I’m voting for not,” she said, and her next words were cut off by the siren coming to life. It was long and loud and had the desired effect of catching everyone’s attention. From the speakers nestled within various structures, a recorded voice announced, “This is not a drill. All citizens are instructed to remain inside or report to the nearest shelter.”

Marquez understood the populace, and sure enough, people were moving in anything but an orderly manner. Some ran, some scooped up purchases, some continued to bargain. Awnings began collapsing, and goods for sale were being sealed in containers. People screamed in panic or shouted for loved ones. Everyone moved. Movement was good; all the corpsmen had to do was steer them to shelter.

Kincaid thought about the Ranger response. This was what they prepared themselves for and what each one dreamed about: killing an Ursa and claiming a prize, having a story to tell, or being part of a legend. He longed once more to be fighting alongside them but knew that was never going to happen. Instead, he would have to herd the people and keep the streets clear so that the Rangers could do their jobs.

Although it was not part of corps protocol, Kincaid maintained his own weapons training, making certain he could fire a pulser with either hand and be certain his target would fall dead. He was adept with various bladed weapons and had even dabbled in archery to perfect his eye-hand coordination. Aiming had to be precise, as it might mean the difference between life and death. In the case of the Ursa, it meant hitting their meat and not the smart metal that was bonded to their skeletons to give them a layer of protection. They were unearthly, hideous creatures, and in his mind’s eye he replayed the one that had nearly killed him almost two decades earlier.

A Ranger had died to save his life, and he owed a debt for her sacrifice and her memory.

Emergency shelters to protect people from sandstorms or lightning—and yes, Ursa attacks—dotted the city, marked with a glowing symbol that promised safety. Anderson windmilled his right arm while his prosthetic left arm directed citizens toward the nearest shelter. Marquez had jogged over to make certain it was open and powered. She then helped funnel the people through the dual doorways.

People continued to make noise, adding to the siren’s wail, and Kincaid wished for earplugs but gritted his teeth, ignored the discord, and kept directing them toward a safe haven. The great mass continued to flow from the market toward the shelter.

A roar, the sound of which brought back waking nightmares, pierced the panicky noises. An Ursa was close, and he hoped the Rangers were on its heels. He glanced over his shoulder and saw people fleeing in all directions away from the covered open-air market. The creature had to be in there.

Kincaid rushed to the space between the twin doors and entered a code on the keypad. A panel smoothly slid open, and he withdrew three pulsers. Tucking one in his waist and tossing another to Marquez, he felt better about dealing with the imminent threat.

A Ranger emerged from behind the shelter, out of breath and covered in dust. “Have you seen it?”

“In the market, I think,” Kincaid replied.

“Keep the people moving in there; we’ve got this,” he ordered somewhat needlessly. The comment bothered Kincaid, who took it as an insinuation that he wouldn’t do his job unless a Ranger directed him to.

The Ranger sprinted toward the Ursa and, no doubt, his fellow Rangers. If Anderson recalled correctly, the rules stated that—when available—a minimum of eight Rangers were required to confront one of those beasts. People got out of the Ranger’s way and kept streaming toward the shelter. Marquez continued moving them through the doors while Kincaid surveyed the scene. They didn’t need to speak; each understood the other well enough by now that words were unnecessary.

Kincaid watched as the cutlass-wielding Ranger dashed into the market, where sounds of destruction were competing with the siren. He wished there were an off switch for the alarm; by now, everyone had gotten the message.

A body came flying through an opening in the market and crumpled to the ground. It appeared to be missing a leg, and blood pooled around the figure. Marquez gestured for him to keep his position.

“Don’t go, Andy!”

“There are civilians still inside.”

She crossed over to him, eyes flaring. “It’s suicide! This is what the Rangers exist for. And you are not a Ranger. Let it go.”

“But they’re not here and I am.”

“Okay, Andy, so you live and breathe being a Ranger even though you’re not in uniform. What does the manual say about fighting the Ursa?”

“Eight Rangers, no less.”

“You are an army of one. How do you reconcile that?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“I didn’t know you had a death wish.”

“How can I face you tomorrow if I don’t go do this? How could I live a life with you if I knowingly let that monster kill the innocents?”

“If there were an army of us, I’d have your back, but right now it’s just us. We can’t go in there and survive.”

“Gin, I have to. I have to try or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Kincaid ran toward the body, but as he drew closer, it was evident the person was dead. He focused his attention on the market itself, an ever-changing cluster of prefabricated stalls and stands where every food and drink imaginable could be found. As he neared, the corpsman could see the creature, which was huge and moved erratically. However the Skrel bioengineered those things, they were far from elegant creations designed for maximum carnage. The six limbs ended in razor-sharp talons, and the maw was stuffed with pointed teeth. He knew they were sightless, using their other senses, mainly that of smell, to locate and lock onto their prey. Right now it was rampaging and destroying in search of human life.