SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

The door in the other side will come out in front of the tank. I sprint towards it, drop my shoulder. Momentum carries me up to the door and through it, almost as if it weren’t even there. I drop into a roll and pivot. Both railguns are aimed at the tank and firing before I even realise it. Spears of plasma scorch the air and buildings around me as I slide. But I have a new plan—a weakness I’ve seen in the armour. Not much of one, because to exploit it, I need to get underneath. To get to the vents, I need to be right up close.

I hammer through the door of the building next to the tank. The walls explode with shards of concrete and brick as heavy rounds punch through. I’m kicked back by the chaos and I duck down low as it surges over the top of me. This is the only cover I have, but I don’t need to be in here for long. I know what the tank is trying to do; in fact I am banking on it. Banking on the fact it has been watching the way I fight and is trying to predict what I will do next. The human part of me that is left—what I might once have called guile—is my best weapon now.

There’s a door at the other end, about the right distance. I pop a grenade and aim it just next to the door. It explodes, tearing the steel frame apart and kicking the door, contorted, into the street. Heavy rounds blister the air around it and surge through the broken doorway. But I’m not there to be hit. Instead, I’m sprinting through the first door, behind the tank, dropping low, sliding beneath it in the mud and rain. I launch grenade after grenade at those vents and some of them even go in. But it’s too late to stop the slide. I look away as the tank explodes.

The armoured beast sinks to the ground and I try to roll away, but can’t get my left arm out before it collapses onto it. The pain nearly overwhelms me. I engage the Terminal Emergency Mode and dampen every nuance of it I can. The effect is almost instant: artificial and inhuman. Another reminder of what I really am. I try to get the arm out, but the weight of this armoured titan is too much and I cannot lift it.

As I struggle, through a small gap between the hull and the ground, and amidst the billowing plumes of smoke, I see the boy.

He is on his back, scrambling backwards, trying to bring his railgun up. His face is contorted into a rictus of fear and fury, all focused on something out of my field of vision.

On my sensors, there is a single tank headed towards him.

My interrogator lied to me. Of course, what did I expect? I should be furious, but all I can think about is preventing a conclusion to this mission which involves the boy’s broken, bloodied body lying in the mud alongside others.

I scream inside my head, channelling everything I have into my efforts to move the tank’s vast bulk even a little, but it’s too heavy. I jerk my body away hard, again and again, but cannot free myself. I consider digging but the ground is too hard. There is only one way.

I allow myself to access the image of the small girl on the swing, his sister. I take comfort in her beaming smile. Then I bring my right arm over and level the railgun against my left. I turn away—ricochets might conceivably damage my retinal systems, or maybe I can’t watch as I know even the terminal emergency mode won’t dampen this—and I open fire.

The pain is beyond me, made worse by the knowledge there is no coming back from this amputation—no fresh Widow to take away the loss. Sensory data explodes across my vision, angry warnings I can do nothing about. I pull myself away, sick and reeling; I am unsteady, as if I am skating on slick ice.

There is no time for self-pity. You deserve this. The boy does not.

I turn and run hard, pumping round after round into the tank surging towards him. I want to hit it with grenades, anything that might kick through the hull, but I know it will be a waste; that the armour will turn them away without something more.

The boy sees me coming. He keeps firing.

There is no way I can stop the tank firing on him. No way to disable or destroy it before the plasma tears his fragile body into two. I launch into a dive.

I hit him hard, but there’s nothing I can do about that.

I curl him up in my one good arm and allow the momentum of my run, and the weight of the Widow, to do the rest.

We roll for maybe thirty metres, but I keep my arm rigid around him like a cage. There’s no doubt it will hurt him, but it might be enough to save his life.

A cluster of sensors tell me the plasma has struck about the area where the kidneys might be in the human body. They also tell me that dozens of systems in that area have shut down and that my right leg is receiving intermittent signals from the main neural pathways. I can hardly walk, let alone run.

I stumble, half-carrying, half-dragging the boy and head for the cover of one the compound’s low buildings. I know the tank will reach us in seconds.

I throw him down and lean against the wall, trying to formulate a plan.

The clock reads four minutes, eight seconds. Less than a minute and they’re out.

There is only one play left.

I glance down at the boy and wish, in that moment, he could see my face, instead of the demon from his nightmares. But he can’t. “Go now,” I say. “I’ll get you the window you need to escape.”

He knows they can’t make it out without this; he knows I am not coming. I allow myself to believe I can see something approaching forgiveness in his eyes.

I lift the bandolier of grenades from his shoulder, and turn away from him. I slam a reload into my remaining railgun as I turn the corner and open fire.

It was never my intention to escape. As I listened to my interrogator, I could not help but analyse what he was saying and what that meant for the war. When They had finished their bombardment, they occupied what was left of our colonies because we were easily subjugated. Most colonies have been annexed and are now governed by Them, and what is left of humanity exists at Their whim and within Their prison of night.

But the resistance has been able to attack heavily guarded compounds and surgically remove precisely what it needs to control Widows. They were able to disable and attack my Battle Group in the drop zone. They knew we were coming. Their weaponry, even though it is a scarce resource to them, is military in origin. Now, this last raid might begin to turn the tide in the war.

There is only one way the resistance could have obtained all that information and materiel: they have informants in positions of considerable responsibility. If I know this, and if I am captured, then so will They.

There is only one way to protect that information.

I was once an immortal weapon of war, but now I can finally find peace in death. A permanent sleep from which I will never wake—and no more will die by my hand. I have found my retribution. I have given humanity the tools to free itself.

In my mind, I can see an orange flower, moving gently in the breeze as the darkness comes.

I am death.

Yet finally, I am gone.

Originally published by The Future Fire in the anthology Accessing the Future

The floater turned out to be one of those shiny, sky island multi-deck passenger deals that would occasionally completely lose its shit in the middle of a jump.

This one would have been alright—various backup systems humming away, fifty or sixty first-colony licensed pilots determined to discover just what went wrong—had it not jumped straight into something else. Probably a garbage scow; there were a lot of garbage scows this far out. Now, the ship just drifted, listing and rolling like a fat, pretty corpse.