John Barnes - Daybreak Zero

Paley thought, If I puke, I will never hear the end of it. Keep watching. Another one will pop out any second now. He breathed deep; the tribal he’d shot—twice because he didn’t go down the first time—was crawling toward the shadow, maybe for cover, maybe because he was hurt so bad that even the moonlight was too much for him?

Paley wished he could shoot again to put the man out of his misery, but the rules Dad had laid down were firm: no shooting the wounded who weren’t fighting and couldn’t escape—they were all wanted for interrogation.

Another figure in the moonlit street.

He didn’t let himself hesitate; if he did, he might never shoot again. He solved the abstract problem and pulled the trigger. The figure lay as if sprawled out to look at the stars.

He could feel his face was wet. I am so not the right guy for this.

Harrison Castro waited with three hundred of his best guard, weapons already drawn and ready, half a mile from the FBI “compound,” if you could dignify a decaying office building that way. They were formed up in long rows; he’d spent a while explaining that to the tribal war leaders. He had said that in this formation, they’d be able to keep up with the tribals and lay down covering fire during the final assault on FBI headquarters. Castro’s men, and a few women, handpicked and utterly loyal to him, waited in perfect stillness; he knew they would do exactly what he had ordered, when it was time. The waxing moon crept from the zenith toward the sea, silhouetting the strange mixture of hats and robes in the tribal crowd downhill from Castro’s men.

The plan was that a runner from the tribal war leaders was to bring the starting message to Castro. Two minutes after the messenger signaled that Castro had been alerted, and was ready, the massed tribals below would hit the FBI headquarters in a human wave with Castro’s men trotting at their heels. His guards would pick off defending snipers, overwhelm the doors with concentrated fire to clear the way for the final assault on the building, and then follow them in to help in mopping up.

Harrison Castro had formulated the plan, but that had not stopped the war leaders from each taking a turn explaining it to him at great length, again and again, while he held his tongue; he knew that explaining it to him was important to their self-esteem or some such woo-woo crap.

There was a small scattering of shots; the “handpicked elite” from the Awakening Dolphin Children must not have been as invisible in their rush as they’d thought they’d be. Castro waited, and sure enough, in a couple of minutes a message-runner appeared in the bright moonlight, headed for him.

“Get ready,” he said to his troops. “This is going to be it.”

They had been ready anyway; in the long breath as the runner approached, they became poised, taut with eagerness. Below, the tribals milled about with unfocused energy and nervous excitement, and the war leaders shoved and kicked at them, keeping them in place.

The runner approached. “Earl Castro, sir, our scouts report that our advance attackers have been intercepted, and we—”

The boom was terrifyingly loud as Castro shot the man in the chest at point-blank range. On that cue, the guards, already formed into rows for volley fire, fired their first volley; the second followed within a long breath, and the third. Backlit in the bright moonlight, with nowhere to go, the tribals were hit with a dozen volleys in less than a minute. At Castro’s command, his troops advanced down the hill, killing the seriously wounded, handcuffing or hog-tying everyone else, and marking those with treatable wounds so the medics could find them.

When Dave Carlucci heard the volleys roaring out up above, he blew his whistle; his small force moved to its second set of firing positions, and in less than a minute he began to hear the occasional claps of his snipers picking off fleeing tribals, ensuring that the few who ran away successfully would keep running for a long time, panicking many back into the arms of Castro’s troops, and leaving some dead or dying in the street.

At the sound of the bugle from Castro’s force, he blew his own whistle three times, and heard the calls back from everyone; they had ceased firing, they knew the forces now approaching were friendly. And there were twenty-two of them; everyone checked in. No losses on our side.

It was the first time Carlucci enjoyed shaking Castro’s hand; they agreed to talk the next day, and Castro made it a lunch invitation.

As Carlucci walked around his now-much-more-secure HQ, he looked in at the infirmary; Arlene had seventy tribals in there, mostly being tended and guarded by forces Castro had left behind. Carlucci waved at Arlene and was about to get out of the way when he realized who was working right next to him, applying pressure to stop a girl from bleeding to death through her shattered arm. “Paley!”

“Hey, Dad. Mom said I could help here, and I couldn’t sleep anyway, so here I am. Just trying to keep Avril alive. Least I could do, I guess, since I shot her.”

Carlucci paused and peered at his son; underneath his deep outdoor tan, the young man was pale, as if he’d been wounded himself. “That sounds like her real name, not her tribal one. Did you know her?”

“She was in my high school. I guess I’m glad I didn’t kill her.” He looked at his father, shyly, obviously trying not to sound defiant. “Dad, I think I want to be a doctor or a nurse or something in medicine. I feel like I could work here for a week without sleep if it would save Avril, or anyone else, but… when I was shooting—”

With his thumb, Carlucci smoothed the tears down his son’s cheeks. “You know, it’s a good thing we’re not all born killers, Paley. If it’s what you want to do with your life, we’ll find some way for you to do it. And to tell you the truth, I’ll be pretty happy if you’re always busier than me.” He wiped Paley’s tears again, and blotted with his handkerchief. “Now do what your mother tells you, because she’s the best and you’ll want to learn it right.”

When they had finished the meal, Carlucci asked, “Aren’t you afraid of being killed?”

“Sure, isn’t everyone?” Castro looked surprised at the question. “But I’m in about as safe a place as I could be—after that guy sneaked in we did some serious purging, and I not only know how he got in, I know a few other ways he could have. Those are all plugged now, and my best people are going to be looking, all the time, for people who are trying to find new ones. Meanwhile, the tribes in the area just took another ass-kicking, and the Tempers and Provis are both promising to reinforce you. For the moment, we have them on the run.”

“And about the Constitutional issues?”

“You’re not going to disarm me, or even try, because you’re not crazy. And if you think I’m hard to deal with, wait’ll you try Bambi.”

“Actually, your daughter and I have always gotten along.”

Castro shrugged. “Ever tried to tell her no?”

“Uh, no, she’s always been right.”

“As long as you keep believing that, you’ll be fine.” He stood. “Dave, I really did just want to have lunch with you and work on developing a friendship. I know there wasn’t much business to do today, except to agree to be civil about whatever either of us has to do later on. You’re welcome for the help in smashing the tribes and, while I’m not going to comply with your court order, I will try not to rub your nose in my defiance any more than necessary. I need to run to another meeting, which I will not enjoy nearly as much as this, so before you go, I have to hurry up and cover just one more thing on my agenda.” He handed him a thick manila envelope. “This is everything, absolutely everything, from our investigation of that Daybreaker that broke in and threatened me. I’ll send you updates regularly. Keep it on file.”