Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Connor screamed and tore at the metal-backed cloth. But already the fabric smoldered. The metal snapped and popped in an inferno of blue sparks; the poles on his backpack burned hot-iron slices into his back. Acidic smoke billowed out; even the metal eyelets on his boots crackled with tiny arcs of flame.

The pain went on and on. Connor fell to his knees, clutching at the melting blanket that spread over his head, over his skin.

In a final effort, Connor tried to pry the covering from his scalp, but his fingers refused to respond, turning into burned, bloody stumps by the boiling metal. Sparks continued to crackle in a cocoon around him. He screamed, and hot arcs lanced from the fillings in his teeth.

The pain … wouldn’t … stop ….

Seven hundred kilometers above the Earth, the second satellite locked on and started to beam its microwaves down to the target.

Five others waited patiently behind for their own turns.

Todd and Rita galloped in on either side of the base camp near the burned-out railgun facility, yelling their loudest battle cries. Todd set the spring-loaded timer on his crude grenade canister and lobbed the explosive toward a supply tent.

The Air Force men saw what he had thrown, and they scrambled in the opposite direction. Some ran for their rifles, but most ducked for cover.

Rita Fellenstein headed them off from the other direction, tossing another grenade in among the campfires. Following closely behind, the ranch hands fired their own rifles and shouted.

One colonel stood in the middle of it all, with a wounded arm in a sling, staring at Todd and the other riders. Very carefully, the colonel tossed his own rifle to the ground.

Bayclock’s other troops, as if waiting to surrender, took this as a sign of permission. Other explosions erupted from the citrus-based explosives. Gunfire rattled around the hills, but nobody seemed to be shooting at anything.

Todd had intended only to ride in, cause damage, panic, and confusion, make the troops scatter, then hit the road as fast as possible to hide in an overgrown arroyo.

Rita pulled up beside him, and they stared as more and more of the soldiers either ran or tossed down their weapons.

“Now what do we do?” Todd asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Rita shrugged. “We didn’t plan on winning! ”

Carrying their white flag like a shield, Spencer and Heather were escorted up to the main buildings of the railgun only moments before the first explosions and gunshots broke out in the camp below them.

Heather gripped his hand hard enough that her nails bit into his skin. Spencer felt himself trembling, knowing he was crazy even to be making this attempt. He tried to keep a straight face, although his guts had tangled into knots.

The first thing he noticed near the control building was the fistfight between Bobby Carron and the general. A small group of Bayclock’s soldiers had formed a ring around the combatants, like gamblers watching a cockfight. But they did not cheer, simply watched the pummelling in silence.

Spencer’s attention was yanked like a metal filing to a magnet when he noticed the noose hanging from the utility pole—and the bloated body of a strangled Lance Nedermyer tied to the creosote-smeared wood.

“Oh, Lance!” Spencer said, and his breath went out of him. Even his cocky plans evaporated in his mind. If Bayclock could do this to one of his own supporters, then he would have no qualms about slaughtering Spencer or Rita or anyone else who dared to defy him.

Lance Nedermyer had been a real pain most of the time, but he had a good streak in him—a streak that Lance himself tried to extinguish. Maybe that good streak had been his downfall while trapped in Bayclock’s hell.

Farther down the long rail launcher, he heard the first shouts of Todd’s charge as they struck the base camp. Gunshots. Explosions. Several of the spectators ran off to see the attack, while others seemed afraid of leaving Bayclock’s side.

Bobby Carron and Bayclock rolled around on the ground, pounding each other with fists. The general clawed the back of Bobby’s head, attempting to grab his hair. Finally, he dug his fingers into Bobby’s ear until it bled. Bobby cried out and smashed his forehead down on the general’s skull, butting him viciously.

Blood poured out of Bayclock’s nose and sprayed in red foam every time he took a heaving breath. Bobby hammered the general’s side with his sharp elbow; Bayclock bit and grabbed, sinking his teeth into Bobby’s shoulder.

With a scream, Bobby tore himself free and scrambled away. Bayclock climbed to his feet and charged, but Bobby met the attack with a double blow to the general’s stomach, making him stumble back toward the railgun launcher. Bayclock’s eyes were bloodshot and his skin looked like a cube steak. Bobby didn’t look much better, but he remained on his feet as the general wobbled and fell to his knees in the dirt.

Todd and Rita rode into the area, with a tall solemn-looking colonel striding between them. The colonel cradled his wounded arm as he absorbed the situation, then he took another step toward the beaten Bayclock.

“General… “ he hesitated, but Bayclock did not acknowledge him. Colonel David didn’t seem to care.

“It’s over, General.” The colonel flashed a glance behind him to Spencer standing with his white flag. “I believe these gentlemen are in a position to discuss terms.”

Rita leaped from her horse and ran to help Bobby up. Bobby swayed on his feet and flicked blood out of his eyes. Sweat ran in rivers down his exposed skin, and he shuddered like a shack in a hurricane. “That’s it, Bayclock. Your troops have caused enough damage.”

Bayclock collapsed, but Spencer saw that the man’s eyes were open and calculating. In the shadows by the railgun supports, he fished around on the ground. After a moment, he snatched up a hunting knife that lay beside severed strands of rope.

“I don’t surrender!” He lurched to his feet, brandishing the wicked-looking combat knife. Bobby stiffened; Rita tightened her grip on his arm. One of Bayclock’s men grabbed a rifle, but didn’t know what to shoot at.

The general turned, holding out the knife. Backing up, his arm brushed against the metal supports of the electromagnetic launcher rails. The live wire, disconnected from the battery banks and capacitors, dumped its electricity into the bottomless ground of the miles-long rail, waiting for a load.

Bayclock completed the circuit.

He froze as if caught in amber, then in an instant he seemed to go out of focus, with a million nerves in his skin suddenly misfiring, every strand of muscle fiber in his body scrambling. Sparks flew from the point of contact, and his skin blackened.

His mouth cracked open in a long silent scream, and then his lips curled away from his teeth. When General Bayclock finally fell to the white sands, his entire form steamed from the moisture boiling inside his body.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Colonel David turned to them all. He looked strong, even with his wounded arm in a sling. The other troops kept staring.

“The general is dead, as is Colonel Nachimya. This leaves me in command of the expeditionary force.”

He met Spencer’s gaze, Todd, Bobby and Rita’s. “We have a lot of details to discuss, you and I.”

The breeze picked up in the late afternoon on Labor Day, rippling the golden grass along the Altamont Range. The wind-turbines, like metal flowers lining the hilltops, whirled around and around, generating a silent river of power that flowed to the speedway stadium.