Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

But it still doesn’t explain how Rina survived. Three days after the battle, William joined a convoy to go back and search for survivors. No bodies were found — just scorch marks, dried blood, and the occasional scrap of clothing or desiccated flesh — but given the size of the explosion, they hadn’t expected more.

And William certainly hadn’t expected to see her alive again, working for the most-feared colony in all of North America.

“Lieutenant!”

Andie’s command voice brings him back. “Y…” He swallows, wishing he had some water; it’s back in the van, for all the good that’ll do. “Yes, Commander?”

“Miss Meredyth has some data for you.” Andie hands him a tablet; he shades the screen with his hand, skims the information there. “Do you agree?”

William reads the tablet again, then offers it to Rina. “I’m sorry, Commander, but I don’t.”

Rina folds her arms. Behind her, the soldier with the shotgun takes aim at the van. The man standing at Rina’s side draws his pistols. “Take another look,” Rina says.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you want, Rina.”

A gunshot echoes across the heat-blasted ground; the bullet buries itself into the cracked pavement at William’s feet. “You will be respectful!” the soldier snaps.

William hands the tablet to Andie, then puts his hands behind his back. He carries his pistol there only because it has to be somewhere. He hopes Rina doesn’t remember that. “Fine,” he says. “Miss Meredyth, please tell me what you want me to say.”

Her smile grows nastier, if that’s possible. “You want to say that my data are right. You want to say that the Demetrius Colony is going to divert course one hundred kilometers to the east.”

He catches Andie out of the corner of his eye. She gives the minutest possible nod. “All right,” William says. “I’ll recommend we move.”

“A wise decision.” Rina’s soldiers point their weapons back at the ground and William’s party backs up, climbing into the van. Andie moves the shifter and they back away; she waits for more than 200 meters to pass before she turns the wheel and points them back toward the colony.

Not a word is said by anyone.

The Commodore refuses to bend — “we won’t let them chase us off again,” he says over the colony’s radio network; “we won’t let them steal our water!” William hates himself for his own pragmatism: he knows the decision is correct; he knows the Demetrius Colony needs water; he knows it would be a colossal mistake to pass up a storm like this, one that could quench their thirst — and their children’s thirst — for months.

Despite the twisting fear in his stomach, six hours after the meeting with the Jairasu — with Rina — William is piloting a small, fast car with a trio of submachine guns mounted to the rear. In the passenger seat is another young gunner, a girl named Shanna with skin even darker than Rina’s, her hair intricately-braided, blood-red beads woven into the rows. Her hands are steady on the gunnery controls.

William’s car is one of dozens, a phalanx of small vehicles, gunships, and even two cruisers bearing heavy artillery, powerful enough to seriously inconvenience even large ships. It’s the biggest show of force William’s ever seen, by the Demetrius Colony or any other.

The gunner offers William a dense, wood-colored bar. “Thanks,” he says. It tastes like it looks, but it’ll keep his energy up. He follows it with a swallow from his canteen, a tall metal bottle with a liter of water inside. “Not your first time out?”

She shakes her head. “I’m part of the gunnery maintenance crew on the Jekyll ,” she says. “Never been in one of these little cars, but I know plenty about guns.”

“Good. I really don’t want to get killed out here.”

Shanna’s teeth aren’t as bright as Rina’s, but her dark eyes shine in the light of the setting sun. “Keep us out of the way of the other guys,” she tells him, “and I’ll do the rest.”

William’s car is on the fringes of the phalanx. He knows Andie is on the bridge of the Mighty Mississippi; as one of the biggest ships in the colony, it serves as one of several communication hubs. She’ll be safer there anyway. As safe as anywhere, he amends mentally; the Commodore refused to move the colony, despite the Jairasu threat — Rina’s threat — and the storm will come soon. Already huge puffy clouds have moved in, and William’s models predict that the first of the rains will start around sunset.

“It’s a damn waste,” he says softly, gripping the wheel.

“The water?”

“Yes.”

Shanna nods. “Maybe that’s their plan.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Jairasu are pretty much one huge ship, right?”

“Pretty much.”

“So they’ll probably just send in their gunships and protect the main vessel. All we have to do is hold them off until the storm ends.”

William gives her a tiny, tight smile. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’.”

“You’re the boss.”

The Jairasu gunships are big and fast, and, to make matters worse, they’re maneuverable too. “It’s not fair,” William grumbles as he joins formation with six other cars. He feels the wheels skid on the mist-slicked ground as the cars strafe past Mars — the Jairasu gunships are all named for planets. So far, Neptune has been destroyed, a smoldering hulk taken out by the grenade-equipped vans in the Fourth Group. William’s car is part of the Sixth Group; one of their number is already gone, a brief bloom of flame and then nothing but twisted metal and corpses. Overall the Jairasu are winning: the comm chatter coming through the door speakers confirms that. Six more cars and two gunships are gone forever from the Demetrius Colony, and one of the water carriers, the Farmer’s Dell , was hulled early on and is probably still spilling the precious liquid.

The guns behind William chatter — Shanna twisting her controls and raking Mars. The Jairasu ship’s huge gun barks once and an explosion forces the Sixth Group to scatter. Vehicles zip and twist around each other, trying to stay in formation, to concentrate their fire, but there’s just too much coming from the remaining five Jairasu ships.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” William yanks the wheel hard to the left; the tires squeal, trying to get traction. He pumps the brake, which helps a little.

“Bearing 245 relative,” Shanna says. She adjusts her guns so she can look through the digitally-augmented sight. “That’s not good.”

William spares a glance at the repeater; Shanna’s thrown her gunsight feed up onto it. “No,” William agrees, “that’s not good.”

Orders are coming up on the repeater now: Fourth through Eighth Groups, intercept small craft. William checks his bearing, then presses hard on the accelerator. The engine whines; the speed display ticks upward as they get closer.

The approaching vehicles aren’t cars; they’re much smaller. Motorcycles, armed with what look like grenade launchers. The drivers are exposed, protected only by windscreens and helmets.

“Sixth Group!” It’s the voice of Lieutenant Tenay, who’s in command. “Pick your targets! Fire at will!”

William aims at a cluster of three motorcycles; Shanna presses her triggers and bullets spatter outward. Two of the bikes lose control — one of the drivers is flung into the path of a Sixth Group truck, cracking its windscreen as he bounces off — but the third manages to fire his own weapon. William decelerates, twisting the wheel, then drops into reverse gear and guns the engine.