Doo-wop blared in her ears as Tomi blindly lurched toward the flashing heartbeat indicator in her visor that told her Dipshit was still alive. The Five Satins, In the still of the night. It did what it could to blunt the piercing sunlight. No shade away from the lake with its dying trees. Nothing growing any taller than a cat, and certainly nothing green. Skeletal fingers of grass reached up from the ground, looking to pull down unsuspecting travellers. Blood-red stains splotched the gaps between them like horrific scabs growing from the toxic land. Copper sulphide, or so the indicator on her water purifier said. Filtering it out and nuking any bacteria would take the better part of the hour, and she was already swallowing cactus fronds.
Water sloshed around her feet as she waded through the marshland surrounding the lake. Her legs were lead. Walking in full gravity was like boxing a rock. You could get in all the good shots you wanted, but the rock was going to wear you down eventually. Getting her strength back was going to take time, and more importantly, it was going to take food.
The pilot of the Atlas had made landfall not far from where she had. Only five kilometres. That was all, just five... whole... damn... kilometres. It might as well have been twenty for her wimpy twig legs.
God, it had to be thirty-six degrees. Her boots were soaked, but her mouth was a desert. The swarming mosquitoes were enough to keep her sweat-soaked flight jacket tightly around her shoulders.
Flicking up her visor, Tomi stopped a moment to check on the status of the purifier. Still twenty-seven minutes to ensure drinkability. The next check went to her phone.
"Network error. Tram Military Services is unable to provide status on Red Flight at this time."
Signals could get in, but she had nowhere near enough power to send them.
The mosquito drone quietly drowned out her baleful sigh.
"Should... have spent... more time on... that hamster wheel, Dubs," she wheezed. "One lead foot... in front..."
Before she got to the end of the sentence, her foot slid along a streak of ruddy muck and Tomi toppled onto her side. Filth slopped up her arm and over her cheek.
"The good... thing... about not having anyone around to help you..." Her regaining of her feet was punctuated by several groans of exertion. "Is that there's also no one around to criticize."
Dublin's flopped over her shoulder from his perch in her backpack. His half-burned smile and glassy plastic eyes stared up at her with merciless ridicule.
"Oh, piss off."
Tomi struggled her way back to her feet, practically ripped the stuffie from the mud and returned it to its place leering out over her shoulder.
"Next time we do this--" she grumbled into the sweat dribbling around her cheeks, “-- you're carrying me.”
---
The hill above the wreckage of the Atlas's cockpit was, in reality, little more than a knoll. Hitomi leaned next to it, breathing heavily and using her achingly heavy phone to shade her face from the waning sun. The world swam around her as Tomi struggled to breathe the hot, humid air. The world seemed so goddamn slow.
"Network error. Tram Military Services is unable to provide status on Red Flight at this time."
If the rest of Red Flight had the same experience with the Pact drones that she had, it was entirely likely that most of them had been wiped out before getting back to the relative safety of the Leading Edge. At least three she had heard over the course of a few seconds. Those things had killed them. Had she known any of them? Maybe shared a bunk room with one or two? Played Byzantine Cross with them now and then? She had a hard time putting names to the call signs, but, Jesus Christ, she had to imagine that she had.
And now they were dead.
Why?
What had changed? Why was the Pact fielding drones? Did it no longer need to feed the giant brains determined to squash the LAR in their ponderous economic chess game?
And why were they after...
Over the side of the knoll, a figure sat on the waterlogged ground, legs tucked underneath him. Behind him was the transparent oblong orb of the Atlas's cockpit, a trio of parachutes draped over it like silk sheets. Beyond that stood the ramshackle edifice of a house of some kind; a ruin from the days before Pact forces had seized the West Coast.
Beside the sitting figure, another was lying on the ground, relaxing. The two of them were just waiting. Waiting for someone to come and pick them out of this cesspool.
Sure, just lie there. Sit back, relax, and I'll Uber your sorry asses back to civilization.
She gritted her teeth and wiped the sweat flooding her eyes.
You negligent, line jumping piece of shit. Damn, I could sure use some Amp right now. It’s not habit-forming, just gives you a serious case of saggy brain if you stop.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The sky was darkening, clouds were gathering overhead as Tomi checked the Airman pistol clamped to her thigh. She hefted her pack from its relatively dry place on the edge of the knoll and slowly rose.
We're not shooting anyone. It would feel pretty damned good, but they're worth sixteen million alive.
The pistol jostled against the water-logged legs of her flight suit.
Although... they just wanted the pilot.
“Just a punch,” she whispered to Dublin. “Just a good shot to the solar plexus and a passive-aggressive remark. The ol’ Toronto special.”
You’re not thinking straight. You’re dehydrated and--
"Okay, dipshits!" Tomi bellowed as she scrambled up the short half meter slope. "Up and at 'em'."
Neither of the figures moved. The one lying on the ground stared. The sitting one turned his eyes towards her. In her filthy, white flight suit she imagined she cut quite the imposing figure. Certainly enough to handle a couple of shaken luggers. That's what survival was about, pretending you were a lot more threatening than you thought you were.
Fake it until you make it.
Dark circles lined the equally dark eyes of the sitting man as he slowly shook his way to his feet, cargo pants blowing in the slight breeze that was joining the incoming cloud banks. He was nearly a full foot taller than she was, shoulders nearly as broad as the Atlas's. Dark skin covered in mud poked out from under a sleeveless shirt. His large hand grappled at a short pipe buttressed with wood supports next to him on the ground.
The one laying on the ground with his hands behind his head did not move.
"What do you want?" Cargo Pants asked.
Tomi eyed the broken husk of the cockpit. Various pieces of paper fluttered inside. The charred remains of a hastily printed calendar of some kind. A half-naked woman smiled up at her. Typical lugger fare.
“Number one-” Tomi balled up her fist, feeling the slow heavy air condense just a little further around her. “I have something for the dipshit that nearly got me killed.”
She swung what she thought was a pretty powerful haymaker – the same kind that had knocked Kara Marcus down a peg or two – at the guy’s face. She had to stretch a little. He turned slightly, and her fist simply skipped off his pec. His only reaction was an arched eyebrow.
Was Kara Marcus just easier to punch than she remembered? She was having trouble remembering plenty of things at the moment. It was too goddamn hot.
And he was a pretty big guy.
"Fuck gravity," Tomi breathed. "Look, do you have any water? My decon bottle is stuck at ninety-five percent."
She started circling toward the ejected cockpit. Cargo pants pointed the pipe at her, grasping it by a handle on its rear.
She swallowed the remaining acid in her throat. Lugger pilots typically kept a supply of water in the cockpit in case of emergency. She leaned inside the transparent eggshell, shoving the half-naked pin-up aside, rifling around in the ruined storage compartment.
The assembly holding the pilot's seat in place within the shell had collapsed. It lay on the opposite side of the cockpit, split in two. Tomi marked it as she retrieved one of the aluminum bottles from the compartment. The familiar bile rose at the thought of the crushed ribs and broken bones on the corpse outside.
It was the pilot's seat. The pilot's seat where someone named Gunnar had radioed her and said his dumbass cousin was his co-pilot. Sitting in the co-pilot's seat. That was still intact.
Something's really not right with this whole goddamn thing.
Tomi swallowed, running a finger around the comforting grip of her Airman. A sudden cool breeze broke through the stifling humidity. It had been two years since she had been on Earth, but the telltale signs were ingrained in her as surely as they were in every human. Another fifteen minutes and the cloud were going to open up on them.
"Maybe I should have started with: Who are you?"
That’s my line.
"You don't recognize my voice?" Tomi traced the name patch on her jacket. "I landed two cesspools over, I'm sweating like a hog, and I'm thirsty as hell. You must be..."
The man pulled back on the pipe. It emitted a menacing clack, freezing Tomi in her tracks.
"Gunnar," she finished. "What the hell is that thing?"
"It's called a shotgun." His voice was a bunch of gravel dragged along a kilometre of bad blacktop. "Not as fancy as that pea shooter you're carrying, but it'll put a big hole in that flight jacket."
Tomi felt a surge of anger passing through her. Bad enough they had probably gotten all of Red Flight killed, he was going to point a gun at her? The index finger of her right hand circled the butt of her pistol.
When was the last time you shot this thing? Been slacking off on the hamster wheel and the shoot range.
"Put that thing away." She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead.
"I don't think so." His clean-shaven face sneered.
The lying one still hadn't moved, his eyes fixed on the clouds forming overhead.
"I have orders to get the two of you back to civilization. Alive. So, put that antique away, or I'm going to have to disobey orders."
Look at you. Just a little cornered dog. Barking at thunder.
As if on cue some dry rumbling pealed from the clouds.
"You're already halfway there." Gunnar lowered the gun with a shaky hand.
"What are you..."
The man lying on the ground still hadn't moved. He had said nothing, and as Tomi glanced down at him, she could see his arms weren't so much bent at the elbow as they were bent just above the elbow. A white shard of bone jutted out of the arm. His focused eyes were glassy and the look of peace on his face was completely slack.
A dead man.
Tomi's hand fell away from the pistol as the colour drained from her face.
Never actually seen one up close, eh, little dog?
A thin trail of blood trickled from the corpse's left ear. And she could tell from the slope of his ribs that they were little more than gravel in his chest.
"My idiot cousin," Gunnar gestured.
Loooooot different than just a little pop and a blue flash, huhn? Well, he was weak and stupid. He got half your squad killed. He fucking deserves what he got.
The mosquitoes stayed well away from the body. The flies on the other hand flocked. After a moment or two of staring, Tomi could swear his mouth was turning down in regret. Her knees shuddered. Her hand cast around, feeling for support. The humidity pressed in close, stealing the oxygen away.
Can't be in charge if you're passing out, little dog.
Bile forced itself up her throat and onto the ground beside her.
Gunnar snorted derisively. "So, you're going to get us back to civilization?"
"Ugh!" Tomi spat between her legs. "I'm fine! It's... it's heat exhaustion.”
Or withdrawal. Or that there’s a broken marionette of a person laying there.
“I’m..."
The next thing she knew, the soaked ground was rushing up towards her and the air suddenly didn’t seem quite so hot anymore.
