John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Torrence turned away and went on; felt a revolting combination of elation and horror as he shot two more men.

They’d lost the advantage of real surprise, but they still had the edge, had the initiative, and they had Steinfeld’s leadership.

Torrence paused at a gangway leading up the superstructure to the bridge and drew his headset from its watertight pouch, put it on. He heard Steinfeld’s voice, strident in the little earphones: “Teams two and three, regroup at the main deck aft gangway. Teams one and four, secure the forecastle and fantail.”

An explosion and a ringing ran through the deck as one of the other teams tossed a seismic grenade through a hatch. Most of the enemy were still below, and Steinfeld was trying to contain them till the ship’s controls and its captain were taken.

Torrence waited in the shadow under a large metal fixture he couldn’t identify, across from the hatch. His team started showing up; Carmen and Farks and Kelheim and Willow, a little bent over as they ran, Farks looking white from fear, his chest heaving. Asshole kid’s going to hyperventilate. And then Torrence caught a motion out of the corner of his eye from somewhere above; looked up and saw a big guy in an armored SA uniform, complete with helmet, leveling an M-30 at Kelheim and the other guerrillas. Torrence yelled, “Up there!” and squeezed out his last six rounds at the SA bull. They knocked the bull back but failed to penetrate his armor—and at the same moment the bull opened up with his M-30, directing it sloppily as he staggered.

Willow ran up, fired at the bull on the upper deck—making him keep back—

Farks screamed and Kelheim cursed. Torrence looked, saw Farks lying on his side, bending double and straightening and bending, opening and closing like a mealworm on a hot rock, gut-shot. Mewling. Kelheim was on his knees clutching at his own inner thigh and looking panicky. Torrence was surprised to see Kelheim react so strongly to a thigh wound till he realized the German was afraid for his genitals.

Torrence took a clip from his belt pouch, slapped it into his rifle—and it went in crooked. It was stuck partway, he realized, as he glanced up to see a grim-faced middle-aged guard come at him, raising an automatic rifle.

He saw in his mind’s eye, again, the guy who’d got his clip stuck, the look of fear in the man’s eyes, the whimper of Wait!

He had just time enough to think, At least I’m not going to pee my pants —

When Carmen ran up and shot the guy through the head with her side arm, two neat rounds, no hesitation. As Torrence cleared his clip, pushed it in.

Thinking, But I almost did pee my pants…

Willow was firing at the guard above them again as Carmen hissed, “Keep him pinned, I got the only piercer.” She ran around the corner of the superstructure, fired at someone Torrence couldn’t see, on her way to the gangway. She had to get closer to the bull for the armor-piercing round to work—and Torrence wondered if she’d gotten shot.

Then the bull fired down at him, missing with that burst; Torrence could see the armor’s helmet, a glinting arc in the light from the bulkhead. A round scored paint from the cowl Torrence crouched under, making him jump a little. He returned fire, saw sparks jump as his short burst sang off the bulkhead—and then Carmen was there, padding up from the left, raising one of the little guns that fired armor-penetrating explosive bullets. The bull saw her, turned to aim his weapon. She fired; he fired. He missed; she didn’t. His armor ballooned and he screamed, fell back.

Young Farks was lying still now, and Torrence couldn’t keep himself from thinking the inevitable: What a waste.

Kelheim sprayed sealant on his thigh and then stood up, turned to shout a question at someone, trying to adjust his headset—and Kelheim’s head exploded between his hands. One moment he was standing there shouting, his confidence back, once more part of the fight—the next his skull had flown apart under the impact of a round from an assault rifle fired from the lower corner of the superstructure. An SA regular, a stocky Hispanic carrying an M-18, was there, looking around.

Torrence stepped out to get a clear shot at him. Avenge Kelheim. The Hispanic SA—holding his rifle braced under his arm—was leveling the gun at Torrence.

One of those moments. The worst sort. When you can see the man you want to kill and the man you want to kill can see you, and you aren’t under cover, and you aren’t far from each other, and the outcome, your life or death, was contingent on a lot of factors, some of them out of your control. Not just a question of who shot better and faster. Could have just as much to do with who happened to have light shining in his eyes; who happened to be lined up best for a shot.

Who was simply more lucky.

They fired at the same moment. Bullets slashed by, Torrence expecting with each millisecond to feel the sickening crunch of impact. But the other guy was spinning, going down.

Torrence stood there for a moment, his bowels clenching, his heart hammering, hands shaking. Get it together.

But a wave of relief went through him as the call came over his headset, Steinfeld’s voice through the fuzz of static, “All teams: The bridge is secured. We estimate half the enemy personnel dead. Hold your positions, and if you have enough people, send someone to the bridge to report. I believe we’ve got her.”

Torrence took a deep breath and felt some of his calm return.

Until the thought hit him. Where was Karakos?

Kitty stepped off the lift at Level 3, Corridor C13, and saw the SA bull waiting on the other side of the glass wall.

Was it glass or some kind of plastic or what? She wasn’t sure.

She hesitated outside the elevator, looking at the big man in the padded gray-black suit, his face completely hidden behind the mirrored visor. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or not, and that bothered her. He stood there with his legs braced apart, his hands locked behind him, motionless. He might be asleep in that helmet, or leering at her, or his face might be angry or… anything.

She wanted badly to see Lester. But she was scared of the guards. Go on, she told herself, Security gave you a visitor’s pass, what are they going to do?

She walked over to the glass wall. She yelled, so he could hear through the glass, “I’m Kitty Torrence.”

The guard pointed to an intercom grid in the wall. She heard his amplified voice. “May I help you?”

Surprised by his politeness, she stammered a moment till she managed, “I’m, um, here to see…” Then she remembered the pass, which would explain everything. She took it out of her pocket, pressed it to the glass.

The guard touched something on the wall to his left, and the glass lifted into the ceiling. “Go ahead on back. You’ll see a door on the right says D5, the guard there’ll escort you.”

“Thank you.”

Kitty walked by him with a little ripple of anxiety, half expecting him to turn and grab her from behind. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. But she jumped a little at the noise of the glass wall coming down behind her. Hum, click.

She walked down to the hall, looking at door numbers. Her belly had grown a lot lately, making her back hurt, and making her feel awkward when she walked. She found D5, touched the door panel, and it slid aside. She went into a small gray metal room and spoke to a young, bored guard, plump and blond, sitting at a metal desk—this guard was, thank God, without a helmet. He looked at her pass. She saw him glance at her pregnant belly. He shrugged, took her handprint, then said something into an intercom. He listened, then nodded to himself and said, “Come with me, please.”