Space Magic (11 page)

He’d told Angel that he’d had a disagreement with Duke about a girl. That was true, as far as it went.

She must have been beautiful, before. Now that perfect, sweet face was frozen in an expression of pain and fear and despair, spattered with flecks of dried blood. The same blood that stained Duke’s hands.
I’m sorry you had to see this
, he’d said,
but I’m sure you’ll understand
.

He understood, all right. As he helped Duke dispose of the body, he finally understood that Duke was running K Division as his own private hunting club. It was while he was washing the blood off his hands that he decided to get out of the Army.

But it was only now, with Angel’s story fresh in his ears, that he thought about how Duke fit into the system. How his superiors must have known what he was doing, and had left him alone. It must go all the way to the top.

“What does this ‘rewind’ feel like?” she asked.

He blew out his cheeks. “Like having your bones pulled out of your body, all at once. Some guys can’t take it. Go through all the surgery, all the training, and after the first time they just can’t pull that trigger again.”

“What happens to them?”

“They get transferred out.” Like Duncan Mackenzie. He remembered clearing out Mackenzie’s quarters, packing up his stuff for shipment to Fort Benning, laughing and joking with the other guys about the “washout.”

Mackenzie had never answered his letters. Thatcher had assumed he was too ashamed to write back. But now he thought about Duke, leaning over him in the hospital bed.
Do you know how much the central stabilizer on your spine costs?
He’d said.
Ten and a half million dollars. They have to build twenty thousand of them to get one that works. You didn’t really think we were just going to let you walk away with that, did you?
Suddenly he wondered where those boxes of Mackenzie’s stuff had really wound up.

“They get transferred out,” he repeated, more thoughtfully. “At least, that’s what they say.”

“You can never trust them. They said they’d keep Cherry and me together, but when space got tight in the orphanage they transferred me to another facility. I had to kick and scream to get us together again. As soon as I turned eighteen I got us both out of there.”

“That must have been hard. Supporting two people at eighteen.”

“It was. But somehow we survived. I gave up a lot to keep her safe.” She closed her eyes. “I’d give up anything to bring her back. But I know that’s not going to happen, so I work to bring down the system that killed her. I’d give my life for that.”

“You came damn close back there. And at the hospital. If you don’t take a little more care, you’ll wind up an angel for real.”

“Yeah, I know.” She slumped in her seat. “But ever since Cherry died, I don’t really care a lot about me.”

“You should,” he said. “You’re worth caring about.”

“Thanks.”

But she didn’t seem convinced.

-o0o-

They reached the rendezvous point—an abandoned gas station near Ellensburg—just after sunset. There they found a couple of men who identified themselves as Dusty and Wolf.

Dusty was a round man with a gray beard and a black leather cap and jacket. “We’ve done some checking on Thatcher’s story,” he said to Angel, “and it seems to check out, but we need to interrogate him.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Thatcher.

“Sorry, but we have to take precautions,” said Wolf, a large muscular man in jeans and a flannel shirt. “With the ambush day before yesterday, we think there may be a mole in the Committee. We’re not going to torture you or anything, just ask you some questions.”

Wolf had a key to the empty gas station, and they went inside and sat around a table in what had been the repair area. The windows in the garage doors were covered with newspaper; the space was illuminated by a hissing gas lantern. Angel, Wolf, and Dusty became faces floating in the darkness.

They asked him a
lot
of questions, some of them over and over. Thatcher explained about the Knights, about Duke, about why he’d left. When he told them about the girl he’d seen Duke kill, Angel’s eyes went wide and she put her hand on his.

“Couldn’t you just transfer out?” asked Dusty.

“With what I’d learned about Duke, I didn’t want to be anywhere in the same Army with him. Anyway, I don’t think he would have let me go in one piece.” Poor Mackenzie.

Some of the questions they asked about the Knights’ technology were very perceptive. They seemed to know a lot about the system already, seemed to be probing to see how much he was willing to reveal.

He told them everything. Classified, Top Secret, Maximum Secret—he let them all go.

The other Knights seemed to be standing in the darkness behind Wolf, staring at him with disapproval. He knew them all—their names, their faces, their voices, their habits—and their scorn burned him. But behind Angel stood her sister Cherry, the girl Duke had killed, and Duncan Mackenzie, their eyes pleading for mercy. The girl had no name, and Cherry no face—but somehow those three were more important to him than all the Knights put together.

There was one other presence in the darkness. Duke. He seemed to stand behind Thatcher. His stare made the hairs rise on the back of Thatcher’s neck.

“One last question,” said Dusty. “How can you kill a Knight in combat?”

Even after all the secrets he’d betrayed, this was the hardest. It took him a long time to form the words. “You have to shoot him in the head, and it has to be a surprise. If you can kill him before he can bite down, his system can’t save him.” In the darkness, the Knights shook their heads, turned, and walked away.

Wolf and Dusty looked at each other. Dusty nodded. Wolf said “All right. We’re going to take you to a safe house a few miles from here. We have another defector there. I hope that you and he together can give us a weapon we can use to overthrow the government. Any questions?”

“Can we get something to eat first? I’m starving.”

They hid Angel’s car under a tarp behind the gas station and all got into a van. They drove to a little mom-and-pop diner, where Wolf called the safe house from a pay phone. Thatcher ate a huge meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits, and two slices of apple pie à la mode. The conversation was pleasant and trivial.

It was 11:03 when they came to a farm: a house and a barn and a couple of outbuildings surrounding a dirt courtyard. Moths fluttered in the cone of mercury light coming from a fixture near the peak of the barn.

Dusty was driving, and Thatcher could see his brow furrow in the cold blue light. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Booter?”

“Probably in the barn,” said Wolf.

“Who’s Booter?” said Angel.

“The dog,” said Dusty. “He’s kind of our chief of security. Whenever a car comes by, he’s out here barking his head off.”

“He’s probably just asleep somewhere.”

“I don’t know.” Dusty stopped the van. “I’m inclined to be a little paranoid right now. I think I’d like to back off and reconnoiter.” He put the van into reverse.

Machine gun fire rang out of the darkness; Thatcher couldn’t see from where. Steam spurted from under the van’s hood, and the engine coughed and died.

“Shit!” said Wolf.

“I think we’re in trouble,” said Dusty.

Thatcher’s system was at eighty percent. “Give me the gun,” he said, meaning the rifle they’d brought with them from Angel’s car. “I can hold them down while you make a run for it. We’ll go out the back door.”

“Why should we trust you?” said Wolf.

“We can trust him,” said Angel. Dusty nodded. “Good luck,” said Angel, handing him the rifle and a spare clip of ammunition.

“I’ll go off to the left. Give me half a minute, then go right. Good luck.”

Thatcher checked the rifle over—safety off, seven rounds in the clip plus one in the chamber—then clambered over boxes and tarps to the back door. He eased the latch open, then quickly threw the door open and jumped out.

The van sat in a rutted driveway between fields of winter wheat, a sketch in silver and black in the mercury light from the farm and the beams of a full moon. Thatcher kept low, hurried into rustling wheat. He dropped to one knee and examined the barnyard through the rifle’s telescopic sight. Nothing moved. Finally he sighted on the light that illuminated the scene, shattered it with one shot.

There was an immediate response, shots flashing from the darkness in the vicinity of the barn. He ducked and ran, moving to the left, forcing his way through the rough rattling stalks.

Thatcher poked his head up above the wheat, eyes beginning to adapt to the moonlit dark. He saw a heavy figure—Dusty—emerge from the van and run into the wheat to his right. Then two more figures. But instead of running away, they headed toward the farm!

Wolf was nearly carrying Angel, who struggled to no effect. Thatcher cursed and raised his rifle, but their jerky movements and the darkness prevented a clear shot at the traitor Wolf. He hurried after them, but the van was closer to the barn than to him and they reached the barnyard before he did. They vanished into the black square of the open barn door. A moment later, gunfire flashed out of that square at him, and he ducked back into the field.

Thatcher considered his options. He could run, hide out in the fields, try to make his way to safety on foot. It was what he’d advised the others to do. But now the situation was different.

He scurried back to the shelter of the van. At least it would block some of the bullets. A few shots rang out as he emerged from the field, but as he reached the van he heard a voice on a bullhorn. “Hold your fire!” It was Duke! “Sergeant Thatcher, listen to me. We have your co-conspirators. We have your girlfriend. Surrender, and they will live.”

Faintly, he heard Angel protest: “I’m not his fucking girlfrien...” The sentence ended with the smack of hard plastic against flesh.

Thatcher panted against the van door for a moment, then poked his rifle out from behind the bumper. He put five shots into the barn doorway, was rewarded with screams and an answering hail of flashes. He ducked back, hearing a bullet slam into the van’s tire.

He leaned out again and fired two more shots, then pulled back and inserted the second clip. Deep breath, then he charged out from behind the van. He would take as many of them down as he could. Then he stopped short.

Duke was standing in the middle of the courtyard, plain as anything. His face was cool and pale in the cold moonlight, features sharp and unperturbed, though he held the struggling Angel to his chest with a pistol to her head. Even his fatigues were crisp.

“Let’s not drag this out,” he said, not shouting—speaking just loud enough to be heard. “It’s quite simple. Deactivate your system, throw down your weapon, and the woman lives. Otherwise, she dies.”

In response Thatcher raised his rifle, sighted between Duke’s eyes, and fired. But even as he squeezed the trigger Duke ducked out of the way. He tried again; same result. Even a head shot was no good in this situation, when Duke was ready for him and looking right at him.

Duke ducked down behind Angel, putting her head between him and Thatcher. “Nice try, Sergeant,” he said, panting a little. “But I’m losing patience.” His finger tightened on the trigger. “You have five seconds to surrender. Four. Three.”

“Don’t let him use me against you!” Angel shouted, and threw back her head into his nose. He ate the pain—did not rewind—but he was distracted for a moment.

Angel’s face filled the gunsight. Her eyes were hard, looking right at him. She knew that the head shot was the only way to kill a Knight. I’d give up my life to bring down the government, she’d said. “Do it!” she said through clenched teeth.

He couldn’t do it. He dropped the gun, held up his hands. “You win.”

“Excellent choice. Deactivate your system.”

He bit down on his tongue. “Done,” he lied.

“Come forward. Private Keene, bring the syringe.”

“No!” said Angel, and elbowed Duke hard in the ribs. His grip relaxed and she twisted, caught him in the groin with a heel.

“You little bitch.” Duke’s finger tightened on the trigger and Angel’s head exploded.

Thatcher growled, a fierce animal sound, as he bit down hard.

Rewind.

“You have five seconds to surrender. Four. Three.”

“Don’t let him use me against you!” Angel shouted, and threw back her head into his nose. Her face filled the gunsight. “Do it!”

Thatcher pulled the trigger. Watched as the bullet slammed into Angel’s face, and through it. Into Duke’s face behind hers. Into the brain behind that face.

Stopping that brain before it could rewind.

Thatcher ran as hard as he could toward the courtyard even as the two bodies buckled. There was a stunned pause, then bullets flashed from the barn toward him. One caught him in the shoulder—he ignored the pain and kept running. He reached Angel, scooped her up, held her tight against his chest, and bit down hard.

Rewind.

“You have five seconds to surrender. Four. Three.”

It hadn’t worked. Angel was still in Duke’s arms.

He had to kill her again.

“Do it!”

He did it. Again. Then he stayed where he was, turned and fired shot after shot into the barn door before those inside could react. Blinking away tears.

In the end, he killed enough of them that the CLU members in the barn could overpower the rest. He took two bullets doing it, but neither of them hurt him as much as the ones he’d fired into Angel’s head.

-o0o-

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Dusty said.

“I do have to,” Thatcher replied. “I owe it to Angel.”

He lay on a couch in the farmhouse’s living room. An ATP/glucose mixture dripped cold into his left arm, and a power cord was alligator-clipped to wires that emerged from a bandaged incision at the base of his neck. His blood seemed to be fizzing.

“We could really use you right here and now.”

“If this works, you won’t need me here and now. It’ll be a whole new world.” He turned to the defector, Dr. Collins. He was a former K Division scientist; Thatcher had been told that he’d been killed in a terrorist attack. Somehow he was not surprised to find him here. “How many seconds again?”