Son of Sedonia

10

Duty


KABBARD FELT LIKE he was on the wrong side of the briefing. He should be sitting out there with the officers, leading one of the squads...not standing up on the platform next to Commander Gorman. But that time had passed. And all the gym memberships in the world hadn’t kept Kabbard from losing his edge. This is my place now. He took a breath at the silent reminder. The hangar of EXO HQ filled with the nervous chatter of the men as they sat with their squads. Pilots, infantry, medics, and specialists. More than a few leaned to each other in whispers, pointing at the former Sergeant.

He’d had some oversight through the planning stages of the Raid. Basic goals, timing, structure... But the commanding officers had reluctance to listen beyond that, and he didn’t blame them. Better that the missions be scoped by the ‘boots on the ground’ than the ‘suits in the Tower.’ I’m a suit in the Tower... The soft, designer jacket and slacks suddenly chafed him.

“Easy, John,” said the Commander, privately, “This is necessary.”

Kabbard nodded. The data the Commander had shown him was conclusive. The T99s had been busy, setting up labs all over the Slums. And not the Sway-cooking variety. Bombs big enough to disable Border towers had been confiscated over the past weeks. A clear threat. So why the fireworks in my gut? It must have been all the rookies.

The labs were so spread out and so heavily defended that the EXOs didn’t have the numbers to pull it off. Not all at once. The only way to fill the ranks had been to fast-track a few hundred kids out of Red Gate Academy. Their young, eager faces filled the crowd, jawing excitedly as they sat equipped in full Aug kit. It’s reckless...they need more time.

“TEN-HUT!” said one of the acting Sergeants as Commander Gorman crossed to the podium. Kabbard stood up out of conditioned reflex. Noticed that the entire hangar stood too. Vets and rookies in perfect unison. Part of the weight lifted. Discipline was a start, but it had to be proven in the scrap, ashes, and dirt. And blood.

“At ease,” said Gorman. Officer Vaughn took his seat with the other recruits. His pale skin throbbed softly beneath the humming Augmentors. He’d worn Full Kit thousands of times back at the Gate, but here, the hyper awareness seemed to spread his heartbeat through every nerve.

At the far end of the hangar, the engineers prepped the IG-8 dropships and A39 fast-mover gunships in a din of noise. Vaughn ran a trembling hand over his fresh head of grunt stubble. Scratched the back of his neck. His grades were never that great, and he was decidedly average in the exit physical. What am I doing here? He couldn’t help but think it over and over. A sudden tap on his shoulder actuator snapped him out of it.

“Hey man,” one of the other recruits whispered behind him. Vaughn turned. An over-caffeinated junior classman. The squad readout in Vaughn’s Neural placed the name ‘Dreivan’ above the kid’s ridiculous high-and-tight hair.

“Look! It’s him!” Dreivan said, pointing to the stage.

“Him who?” Vaughn whispered back.

“Kabbard! Sergeant John. F*cking. Kabbard!” said the kid. Vaughn squinted at the stage. There he was, alright. The man who basically wrote their textbooks in addition to having been the most notorious EXO on the force since the Border Offensive. A legend in the flesh...though there was more flesh on the man now than in the archive pictures and vids.

“SHUT THE F*ck UP! BOTH OF YOU!” hissed Sergeant Shima, whirling in his seat. The man looked like an psychotic jack-o-lantern when he was pissed. Vaughn snapped his eyes front. This vet had a reputation too. A hell of a temper, and a tendency to go just a little nuts on certain missions. Luckily First Sergeant Mason had also been assigned to their squad, presumably to keep things level. Vaughn had ended up in one of the only squads with two vets. The fact soothed his jangling nerves. Sort of.

Vaughn’s Neural beeped a notification in his inner ear, and a vast glowing map of the Slums appeared overhead. Big enough to hover over the entire regiment. Vibrating lines of light rendered the topography and major neighborhoods of Rasalla. Commander Gorman cleared his throat.

“This, as you know, is the Rasalla District. The largest single district in the Slums, separated into thirteen major zones. Tonight, we’ve gotta hit ‘em all,” Gorman said. One to three sections of each zone were the target areas, highlighted in yellow. Thirty squads for thirty targets. A ‘smash and grab’...on the whole damn District...

“Each squad,” continued Gorman, “will be simultaneously dropped via RaDVert into their GPS designated target area at 0400 hours. Once on the ground, you will have fifteen minutes to get into position and wait for the Big Go. By 0430, primary prisoner and ground-force extract should be completed! The longer we stay, the greater the risk of casualties. The name of the game today is prisoners, boys. Live, undamaged ones. We go in with spurs, drop the suspects, load ‘em up, and get out.”

“Sir!” Sergeant Shima raised his hand. The Commander sighed. Nodded.

“Sir, are we to understand that we’ll be hitting Rasalla without live ammo?” Shima asked. A low muttering wave spread over the men. The lack of respect rubbed Vaughn the wrong way, but he wanted to hear this too.

“Calm down, Shims,” said the Commander, “No one goes into the Rasalla District without brass jackets, but they are last resort, End-of-Times only! This goes ugly if the metal starts flying. 0430 hours. Drill it into your skulls. Now, each target will require specific, dynamic tactics to neutralize, so pay close attention to your vets and squad leaders. God bless you all. Dismissed!”

Vaughn watched Kabbard approach the Commander and immediately start talking. It looked serious.

“Vaughn!” Shima yelled. Vaughn jumped and turned. Realized that the squad was filing out of the rows. He scrambled to pick up his helmet and follow. Shima fell in beside him on the way to the ships.

“There he is, huh? That’s what you’re thinking? There’s the all-wise, all-knowing John Kabbard...” Shima said. Vaughn thought it best to stay quiet. Shima continued. “Forget that f*cking sell-out, son, he ain’t coming with us. You got your head on straight? Or am I gonna have to worry about you...”

“Sir, no, sir!” Vaughn said what the man wanted to hear. But he wasn’t truthfully sure.

“Good. I don’t need you rookies comin’ loose after your first RaDVert...it ain’t exactly like the Neural sims.” Shima quickened pace to the front of the squad, making himself the first to enter their IG-8 dropship. Its broad, curved belly shimmered with the light-bending camo that would reflect the sky above in any weather and any time of day. ‘Rapid Descent Vertical Insertion...’ It had been a screaming Hell even when it was just a projection into Vaughn’s brain. A long ramp led up to the officer compartment, above the ‘cargo hold.’ Vaughn felt another hand on his shoulder. He turned, expecting the rookie from before.Instead, he met John Kabbard face-to-face. Rumor had it that the scar on the former Sergeant’s cheek came from a bullet graze. A T99 punk had Kabbard dead to rights with a gun barrel under his chin...but the Sergeant knocked it aside, discharging it as he ripped the punk’s throat out. Without Aug gloves.

“You got a loose seal on your anterior delt plate,” Kabbard said. Vaughn flushed pale and reached for the clasp. Kabbard got it for him, bleeding air from the seal. Pushed it closed with a click. The shoulder moved much more freely. “You’ll be fine. Just Flip-the-Switch and watch the man next to you.” With that, the man left. Walking from squad to squad, sizing things up and talking with the men. Most of the vets didn’t seem to appreciate it. Vaughn slipped his helmet on, pressed the seal, and felt it tighten around him. He started up the ramp.

“All in! Lock it down!” First Sergeant Mason said into his throat mic.

“Roger, securing rear hatch and personnel harnesses.” The voice of the pilot hummed in Vaughn’s inner ear as the rear doors of the IG-8 hissed shut. Bolted. Red light filled the cabin. Carbon-fiber harnesses dropped down, securing each officer in his seat with a click.

“EXOs, check restraints! Visors down!” Shima barked. All nine officers slid their clear visors down and tested the fit of their harnesses. They sounded off down the line, each confirming ‘Secure!’ One of the rookies added a ‘Yeah!’

“Cabin secure! Go for launch!” said Mason. The elder vet saw Vaughn staring. Gave a smile and a nod. The engines picked up, sending vibration through every surface in the cabin as the craft lifted off the deck. Vaughn felt the landing gear retract under his feet and took a deep breath as the ship bobbed, turned and hovered forward.

“Yeah, baby, here we go!” a voice barely shouted above the hum of the engines. Mason pressed and held a finger to a button on his helmet temple. Neural screens materialized in front of Vaughn and each of the other officers. Video feeds from forward, aft, starboard, and port appeared, showing the entire EXO fleet in motion. The hangar doors yawned open, exposing a vast plane of orange lights under a pitch black sky. The cabin went quiet.

One hundred and seven ships flew out of the hangar in formation. Gunships formed an expanding octagonal perimeter around the IGs as the fleet flattened into a slow-moving wave. It crept to within a mile of the Border when the whole fleet went dark.

“Exterior lights off. Beginning my ascent to 7600 meters.” the voice said in Vaughn’s ear. The ship lurched and climbed straight up. The force pressed the officers down and back into their seats. Silhouettes of the other ships disappeared on the video feed, visible now only by dots on the radar. When the screens went totally black they switched to radar-only. Seconds later, the IG-8 slowed. Stopped.

“Seventy-six hundred meters. Moving over position for RaDVert.” the voice said. The blue dots on the radar fanned out over and past the Border, each eventually stopping over a different outlined sector.

Vaughn swallowed hard. He looked across from him and saw Mason’s head bowed in the dim, red light. Praying. Wish I could do that. He thought about trying, but nothing came to mind. Side effect of being an atheist. The dot in the center of each screen, their dot, glided over a section of Southwest Rasalla and froze. As Vaughn felt the ship come to a hovering stop, everyone’s Neural flipped to Tactical Mode. Visible squad IDs, GPS minimap, ammo counters, and a myriad of other combat apps. A chorus of other mechanical buzzes, clicks, and beeps sounded throughout the cabin.

“In position. Awaiting ‘Go’ at 0400 hours,” the pilot said. Everyone took hold of their harness handles and waited in the humming silence. The seconds felt like hours. Vaughn, at the last second, remembered his mouth-guard. He lifted his visor, put the guard in, bit down, and closed the visor again. Gripped the handles.

“We have a ‘Go.’ Beginning RaDVert in 10. 9. 8. 7,” Vaughn tried to breathe evenly past the jackhammer in his chest and think of the mission. All of that disappeared at “3. 2. 1. Drop!” The engines cut and the IG-8 went into free-fall. Vaughn’s forearms bulged as he strangled the safety handles. His shoulders dug into the harness padding, pressing harder and harder toward the ceiling. He thought his teeth would bite through the mouth-guard and break his jaw. Terminal velocity gave the officers a short-lived break to look around wide eyed at one another. The roar of rushing air filled the cabin.

“AAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAAAA!” Shima screamed above the noise. Some of the rookies followed his example. Most were laughing when the engines kicked on again full blast, humming smooth and loud. The crushing force shoved them down into their seats and, in seconds, brought the IG-8 to a dead stop. The exterior camera screens appeared again and showed a 360 degree view of an empty Rasalla street in Zone Four. Vaughn shook his head. Collected himself in the moment. The harnesses clicked and lifted off the EXOs. Mason and Shima stood and secured their submachine guns. The rookies managed as the hatch doors hissed open.

“Legs off, weapons hot! On me!” said Mason.

Vaughn willed his shaky legs down the ramp with his squad. They made it about twenty paces from the ship when the sudden smell of sewage raised a lump in the back of his throat...enough to give his stomach the excuse it needed. He doubled over in the street, retracted his visor, and puked. The other officers looked at each other, then nervously at the concrete and scrap-metal buildings around them. Vaughn spat, wiped his mouth and stood. Mason came in close next to him, weapon ready.

“You good?” Mason asked.

“Yes, sir,” Vaughn answered. Mason stepped back and pressed his throat mic.

“We’re clear. Proceed to recon altitude,” said Mason. The IG-8’s four hover engines glowed a masked blue as it lifted off and up into the night sky. Mason pinch-zoomed the hovering mini-map of the area and tapped a group of buildings. It became highlighted in each officer’s display, and set a waypoint.

“Objective’s two blocks west then north through the alley. I’ll take point. Shima take the rear. The rest of you stay close and keep it tight,” Mason said. Shima dropped to the back, scowling at the stain on Vaughn’s flak vest. They stalked through the street. Vaughn felt the eyes on them, peeking down from ragged window holes cut from steel and cinder block. He swore he could see silhouettes darting away in the shadows, off to warn Rasalla.

Mason halted them at the edge of an alley and all pressed against the wall. Broadcast his view to the squad over the Neurals. The target building sat to the right, atop a long stairwell. Mason pressed his throat node three times. Vaughn heard a beep in his inner ear each time. Hold sign... They waited in silence.

“Recon altitude reached. Stand by for audio, depth, and thermal data.” The pilot’s voice buzzed in each officer’s inner ear, and a digital task bar appeared in their Neurals. 30%. 67%. 100%. Vaughn watched blobs of color focus into distinct, outlined figures all around him. People sleeping on the floor by the dozens in several shacks. A woman bathing her baby by candlelight. A couple making love under a lean-to. As if they all lived in houses of blue glass.

In the target area above and to the left, he saw the shapes of nine men. Two sat on buckets outside, dozing with submachine guns on their laps. Four inside sat around a table working on something. The remaining three stood around the room, pacing and talking to one another. A sound-wave readout in Vaughn’s Neural tracked and recorded the conversation.

“—need to tell Suomo we got all the tech we need, man! I’m knee-deep in switches and pipe, but I ain’t got much left to put in ‘em!”

“I hear you, I hear you! But I can’t keep tellin’ him that every time I go back to the Club, man, he’ll put a bullet in me just for gettin’ on his damn nerves!”

“Well tell him again! And explain if he wants to shoot somebody for bringin’ the truth that he’d best shoot me, cuz ain’t no way I can keep makin’ shit blow up if I ain’t got the main ingredient!”

Mason tapped his Neural screen, selecting the two targets outside the house. Marked one ‘Mason’ and the other ‘Vaughn.’ Vaughn gulped and pushed to the front. They each slung their SMGs back around their shoulders and un-holstered sleek, black pistols. Pressing the mag release, Vaughn double-checked the ammo. Stun spurs. He clicked the mag back into his pistol and chambered a round. A digital countdown started as Mason took aim. Vaughn gulped a bad taste in his mouth. Okay...just like the range at the Gate...

One. Two. Three. Vaughn and the First Sergeant leaned out of the alley and fired. The spurs found their marks in the flesh of the guards. Both convulsed, then slumped where they sat. Vaughn exhaled. Mason turned to the officers in the alley. Waved them forward as the scene inside the shack played over audio.

“What the f*ck you lookin’ at? Go! Tell ‘em now!” A T99 with the face of a pitbull and build of a silver-back gorilla waved a giant chrome-plated pistol toward the door.

“Oki, come on, man...he’s either high, drunk, or sleepin’ right now...maybe all three,” a fat gangster said. His double-chin wagged as he shrugged. Oki thumbed back the hammer on the gun and waved it again. The fat guy rolled his eyes and turned to leave when his SMG strap caught on the chair of one of the techs. The tech’s skilled hands flew up and away from his work in an instant, a metal pipe full of gray putty on the table. Wires stuck out of it on all sides, one of which was connected to a gutted light switch. The tech turned to look at Oki, staring wild-eyed over a dust mask.

“Lopei, don’t move...you stupid, fat piece of shit.” Oki walked over and gently unhooked the strap from the chair. Lopei backed away, sweat pouring down his face from under his backward ballcap.

“Outside! Now!” Oki pushed him toward the door with the gun barrel. Lopei’s huge clumsy legs barely managed to back-pedal.

“Man, Oki, chill!” the lanky T99 in the back said, “You’ll push his ass over and he’ll—”

They all heard it. Footsteps outside coming up the stairs. Before they could react, two white discs slid under the door and exploded in a blinding flash. EXOs rushed in firing stun spurs. The first two hit Lopei and sent him to the floor in a massive heap. The others sprayed across the techs. Half-blind, Oki squeezed off four ear-shattering rounds at the shapes in the door, pushing them back. It gave him and the lanky T99 time enough to find the window and scramble through it.

“Shit!” Shima yelled, cranked up his Augmentors, and took off after them out the window. Mason reached for the crazy bastard and missed.

“Vaughn with me!” Mason shouted, “Dreivan, take the squad and—”

Vaughn switched on his legs, shoulder, and grip assists then stopped. Turned and looked. Dreivan, the dopey rookie from the briefing, had taken a bullet in the throat. No vital signs appeared in the Neural readout...just three letters. ‘KIA.’ It didn’t come close to sinking in.

“Officer Babb, take the squad, secure the prisoners, and prep Dreivan for dustoff!” Mason said. The First Sergeant grabbed Vaughn by the flak vest collar and yanked. “MOVE!”

After Mason disappeared through the window, Vaughn stepped back from it. He took a breath, hopped to the window frame, and pushed off. He sailed through the hot, damp Rasalla air. Came down silently on a concrete roof below, muffled by a dampener pulse. Mason was already way ahead, chasing after Shima. Vaughn put everything he had into the Augs to catch up, leaping, diving, and vaulting through the schizophrenic landscape.

A squad cam window popped into his Neural as they reached Shima. Officer Babb’s live feed streamed in.

“Uhh, sir, Dreivan’s twitching...his RFID may be on the fritz, should we call in the medivac?” asked Babb. In the feed, the other officers struggled to move the fat T99’s face-down body. Vaughn could hear them in the background.

“Je-sus! This shit-bird weighs a metric ton!”

“Turn on an Aug boot and kick him over...”

Mason, mid stride, tried to keep his voice down in reply.

“Negative! That man is KIA, now get off the comms!” Mason said as the fat T99’s body flipped over in the feed...wide awake and clutching something to his chest.

“RASALLA!” the T99 yelled.

The feed cut out. The shockwave slapped Vaughn in the back before he heard the deafening blast. Searing heat filled the air behind him. Ears ringing and bleeding, Vaughn rolled on the dented tin roof where he’d landed. Saw the curling molten cloud rise into the sky.

“NO!” Shima yelled, sprinting past Vaughn and Mason toward the blast. Mason caught up in two strides and grabbed Shima’s camelback.

“No, Shims!”

“LET GO! They could be—” Shima protested.

“They’re all KIA, and we will be too if we stick around—DEBRIS!” shouted Mason. Flying chunks of cinder-block, scrap metal, and charred whatever fell from the sky, some of it stabbing into the rooftops like throwing knives. Vaughn pushed out of his dent on the roof and stood up.

The three of them ran for cover.