Ghosts of the Federation Part 39
Er. It's looking sort of dusty around here. Oops?

Heavily revised version of chapters 35 through 38 now up on my website. Sufficiently so that it may be worth re-reading before moving on to the next bit.

He waited until they were well out of sight, and walked to the cave opening, a little angry, mostly with himself. The sunlight was good on his face, warm and somehow eased his fury, just a little. His hand slid back into the pouch containing the download of Buck's personality, and he twisted it between his fingers, smiling faintly. He leaned against the edge of the cave wall, and looked out across the desert. The two small figures of the mind-bound cybes had long since disappeared from sight. He waited patiently, pulling a narcstick from his other pocket, and crushed the tip, ignoring the pain as it self-ignited. A moment later he took a long contented drag.

Well. Maybe Buck would be pleased after all. Letting goddamned cyborgs go, unharmed. He knew Sarah would be. Mercy. He looked away, disgusted at himself. Sarah hadn't been granted mercy; Adam and Buck had been shown no compassion. He braced himself for the usual turmoil to drag at him, but it wasn't there. Instead, he held the small shard of memory gently, almost peaceful, as though he'd been given the man himself. Mercy.

Mercy.

"Where did you come from, old dog?" he murmured, and breathed the drugged smoke in deep, shoulders loosening, pain blurred just far enough away to forget it hurt. "Who did this to you?" Maybe he should talk to Josiah. Maybe Buck. Maybe Buck would even have the answers, once he found a way to access him.

His hand clenched around the chip, then loosened as quickly. That would be the trick. Find a virtual environment; yes, get the kid to fix one up. He'd understand, maybe, a little. If he could he'd just download him direct, but it wasn't possible. He could see himself now, as much a junkie as the rest of the netheads, locked into a virtual world that was the only living he wanted. He didn't much care.

He threw the narcstick on the floor of the cave, and ground his heel into it. Enough. He closed his eyes, a bitter little smile on his lips. Give him back a bare third of what he was missing: a virtual entity, unable to do more than give an illusion of life. Shades and shadows haunted him yet, now, now, some would talk back under daylight hours, while he was still awake. And it was still burning at him, still urging him on, in, deeper, willing to take the virtual ghosts over a reality that cast only strangers' shadows.

Someone had a very cruel sense of humor.

He wondered if it was Josiah, or someone else. Wondered whether if this were all he could have it would be worth it, if it would be bearable. Or if it would be worse than believing them dead, separated by the gap between soul and tech. To be so close--

He slid the chip away into the pouch and reached instead for one of the grenades hooked to his waistband, and strolled back up the path he'd come down. When he'd gone far enough he primed it, and chucked it over his shoulder, listening to it bounce noisily. One-one hundred, two-one hundred, three-one hundred and the mountainside groaned, shook. He kept walking, ignoring the way his coat-skirts flapped forwards, his hat dragging against its string. Dust stung at his eyes, fine fragments of rock blown upwards as the tunnel collapsed behind him.

Forget being nice. He considered the rest of the ways in, and nodded to himself. If they had to, they could close them all. Air vents, escape hatches, the lot.

If he didn't try, he'd never know.

Chris picked his way back up the mountain, not really caring what he encountered, half hopeful that he could kill something next time. Even with his ears pricked for any sound, his mind reaching into the dark for any signs of life, he still was surprised when Vin slid out of the darkness . He held his startlement in, and when Vin said: "Nothing much up this way," nodded.

"Route down is closed and safe." He didn't offer details; didn't ask about the scuffs and dirt on Vin's face and clothes and the deeper grimness in his eyes. Time to finish this.

---------------

"Oh my god," JD said out loud, too shocked to thread it for a moment. You can do that?

We can't do much, Federale, not in our current condition, but we can clear your sky or clear the ground, or maybe get you ten more minutes on the shields. You're on the ground -- just tell us what you need.

He swallowed. His call. No time to ask around, just him. He closed his eyes, frowning, pressed the heel of his hands into the sockets. How was he supposed to decide? The ground force was close, bare meters away from him, hazy through the shield. If they were gone he'd be safe. But the bombs would keep on coming as long as the V813 was in the sky. She was already returning, another strafing run, and the shields wouldn't survive another bombardment. The second or third from now would just pound straight through the mountain, and even if the shield held out another ten minutes it was just a matter of time. Sky, he said, and immediately wanted to take it back. He felt sick. Less than two minutes to shield collapse, and they'd come pouring through, kill him...

Good luck, son, Travis said through the net, his voice almost kind. Try not to get yourself killed.

Yes, sir, he replied firmly, as though it would be possible to survive.

We'll speak later. Travis out.

Thank you, sir. Dunne out. Over and out, all the way out. The shields flickered, like a bad holo. If there was a choice between waiting for the shields to go and taking one last shot...

Let's go down fighting, he thought. And added, real quiet, deep underneath the threads, where no one would hear him: Shit. We're all gonna die.

There was another thought after that, but he didn't let himself think about it.

Time to be doing.

---------------

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and Ezra and Jenna both spun, guns trained on the door leading to the stairs, waiting for the invaders to roll them up from behind.

They were so focused on the door that JD's sudden yell through an open channel, "Incoming! Ballistic! Fifty seconds to impact! Shields are gone, I repeat, shields are gone!" shocked Ezra cold. All around him people flinched, then turned, rushing away desperately, heading deeper into the mountain in an attempt to escape the onslaught.

For a second he couldn't move, then Jenna's hand was on his elbow, dragging him away from the doorway, lowering her own weapon as she did so.

"Move!" she said urgently, "Come on, we need to fall back. We've got--"

"Forty seconds," he said, his feet ungluing, and then the numbers flooded in, and they were running behind the pack, fleeing for safety.

Thirty-four, thirty-three. It was an old trick, the easiest thing in the world to count it down.

"Can we go lower?" someone asked, desperate, kicking at a door, and Jenna shook her head.

"No time! Move, move, move! Everyone, deeper. We need to be central before it hits. Run!" As they could outrun a missile.

"JD, what kind of incoming?" he asked, then bit his lip. Don't distract him.

"Sorry, Ez," Ezra let it pass, this once, this last -- not thinking about it -- "not missiles -- it's ships, two ships, oh god, Ez, they're fucking ships and they're gonna crash down on us and they're gonna just -- the engines are gonna blow and. We're so, so fucked--"

"JD. JD! JD! Where? How soon?"

JD laughed, and Ezra winced. "Right on us, I don't --" he stopped and Ezra could almost see him get a hold of himself, and he went on, a little more steadily, "It's a Church gun ship, and a fighter. Impact in seventeen, sixteen, fifteen..."

Ezra felt cold. A Church gun ship about to crash into the unshielded mountain?

"JD, I get it." They were going to die. No last stand, no good looking corpse. No hero. Obliteration and a mountain falling on his head. He wondered if he'd die straightaway, or be crushed, or suffocated, or die of thirst or hunger, whole but trapped... a hundred ways to die, each lonelier than the last. For a moment he wanted to be where JD was, waiting for a fireball to take out the wide open hangar, and flinched.

"The shields?" he asked, even though he knew.

He could almost see the kid's bright grin even over the mere radio link. "Got enough juice for one more shot," he said, suddenly calm in the face of seven-and, six-and, five-and --

"Good hunting, son--" There were more words but they stuck in his throat. Then the mountain juddered, everything rocking away and then back and up, and he fell, everyone fell, the world curled in around him and hid them in the dark.

---------------

He should have been shooting, but all he could do was stare up into the firmament. Clear blue sky, warm sunlight. Perfect.

"Ora pro nobis, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae," Josiah whispered gratefully. "Mother of god and the cavalry."

Two distant stars tumbled, streaming flame and he reached out a little, but the screams of the dying were gone, gone, evaporated in temperatures high enough to melt metal, dissolve bone, sear clean. Stars tumbling down and down.

A great light exploded below him, spilling out from the side of the mountain, heat prickling his skin moments later even here, as the ground jolted beneath his feet. Minds screamed, and blinked out. A second explosion followed mere seconds after, and the sound rumbled across the plain. "She puts off her Sunday clothes, and wears rags to the market, and dances barefoot in the shit," he whispered, and couldn't look away. Josiah watched the two ships burn, and turned his face away, laughed a little into his poncho, muffled his tears. Dead, dead.

"No one gets out alive," he whispered to himself, or perhaps to Chris. "Average death rate remains a nominal one hundred percent."

Even if the Church thought they could circumvent that.

One little thing at a time.

He hugged the great gun to him, and pitched it carefully. A dim glimmer of a targeting frame shone in front of him and he squinted through it to the encampment. Smoke trails drifted up from it yet, and he grinned. They'd left a little mark of their own then.

"Great troubles are good for the soul," he said solemnly, and fired. "A little trouble such as I will be followed by a greater." In a smaller man the recoil might have done serious damage. He muttered a plaintive, "Ow!", and carefully lowered the great gun to the ground. He shifted his shoulder cautiously, and frowned. He could put it back himself, or wait for Nathan's hand.

In the distance the missile detonated, scattering fire, illuminating the encampment by the light of the burning buildings. Josiah paid it no mind, still considering his shoulder with a certain amount of reproach.

"No one's going to die if I do," he said tiredly, and eyed the mountain. "They might if I don't."

He weighed the odds, sighed, and positioned himself carefully, a hand cupped over the displaced ball joint, and rammed his elbow into the mountainside. His eyes glazed over, scrunched up tight, and after some seconds had passed he drew a deep breath, and let it go. On the tail end of it he said mildly, "Ow. Again." It took a little longer for the color to come back to his face, and for him to stop pressing his lips together so hard they hurt.

"Well, that's a comfort at least," he murmured. One of the encampment's buildings was obliterated, and he could see them churning like disturbed ants. A small ant hill. And getting smaller. Best to move. He crept away from his position towing the great gun in his wake.

Scattered fire in his direction made him move faster. He had some secrets that should not go to the grave. Maybe he should have told them sooner, not waited for this to play out to the bitter end. If he died, then it would be bitter indeed. The boy, or the priest he'd helped make. He sighed. Ah, Hannah. I thought I was helping you.

In memory -- he hoped -- he heard her voice, sly and weighted with unclean knowledge: You did, elder brother, you did. Long practice drove the memory, the voice away, and with it the burn of bile at the back of his throat. They were all driven by their own ghosts. He just wished his were dead.

Memory, reality; graves and dances. It would all come to one in the end.

Not just yet. He reached out, stretched a little, and felt Nathan's only-human panic with real relief. His mind was clear and focused on a task, and Josiah retreated gently. Ah, and here was the boy; JD's thoughts were muted by his nanites, but he sounded joyful despite the danger. Children. He chuffed a faint laugh and moved on, cyborgs, cyborgs, more -- ah! Ezra was a blur of cool, calculating concentration, thoughts obscured, the edges glimmering blood stained and ice cold. And Vin and Chris... were hidden.

Chris, he understood, but Vin... Vin. He smiled. Vin had come a long way from the center worlds. A long, long way.

"Come out, Chris Larabee. Come out, come out wherever you are," he called softly. "I have something of yours yet."

A rock exploded into shards above him and he dropped, covering his face, wincing as hot sharp fragments riddled his clothing. Nothing penetrated through his layers, but it was unnerving. Hmm. Perhaps the burn marks would look pretty once they went out.

Chris didn't answer, but almost as good, he saw a bright star rising, green and gold. JD took something out of the sky, wrapping it in fire and Josiah grinned, almost seeing the boy's exuberant glee. He wasn't sure if he was actually feeling it or not, the edges of JD's triumph and fear echoing in him as a Church gun scout tumbled out of the sky in a great, burning arc straight down the throat of the shot that downed it. Then there was just fear, and then silence.

Three ships down.

Time to make a stand then.

He nodded again, and continued on his path down the mountain, hefting the gun to his uninjured shoulder. Time and past.

Perhaps he should pick up the pace a little.

---------------

The hammering had gotten closer; Mareen and Nathan and ten of the oldest children -- ranging from nine to fourteen -- had positions behind the first line of barricades, nothing more than stacked beds. Behind the barricade, smaller hands held smaller guns, waiting for that line to be breached also. And at the very back, one of the children was carefully leading the very youngest down through the air vents, only big enough to take the ones less than about eight years old. The very tiniest, the babies, were barricaded away, just three little, little forms, too small to save themselves. If it came to it, he knew what Mareen would do, rather than let the children serve the Church. He tried not to think about it.

He'd tried to argue, until she'd finally said, you don't understand. You never will. If you cannot agree, then at least respect our ways. He winced, remembering. She'd hit him right square in the middle of his Center Worlds trained tolerance.

And perhaps, if he fought, they'd make enough of a difference that the children would live.

His grip on his gun tightened reflexively as the hammering stopped. The silence held outside for long moments.

"Look: the door," one of the children whispered, and Nathan rested a comforting hand on the thin shoulder. He stared at the door, his eyes burning -- what was he meant to be seeing? The others could see, he could tell by the way they shifted. A patch near the hinges shimmered brighter than the rest of the metal, and he stared harder. Was it just his eyes or -- a small core of the shiny area started to show red, and he knew.

"Has everyone who can gotten out?" he asked distantly.

"Almost all of them," Mareen said. Next to her a small girl held a gun, a bulky combat vest incongruous on her small frame. Mareen's arm was over her shoulders, and Mareen said softly, "Soon, Nathalie, darling." The small girl nodded, face as solemn as a priest's and Nathan felt cold.

So young, and more of a warrior than he ever claimed to be. What did this place do to its children? What had they become? What had they been forced to be?

Another boom, more distant, and the whole mountain shuddered as though it were coming down on them, and Nathan held his ground, held his ground, held onto the children and held his ground as dust showered down and metal groaned under intolerable pressures. And all the while, a cherry red patch grew around the hinges of the door in front of them.

---------------

Ezra waited in the blackened corridor for Apman's troops to break through the gaping hole in the mountainside. The far end was open to the sky now; a hole punched through forty feet of solid rock, the payload small enough to stop after going through another two walls, both made of rock, neither less than two feet thick. They'd been purely lucky that it had clipped the mountain at an angle, not driven straight in.

"Will it hold?" he asked, and Marc shrugged.

"Maybe." Marc's hands were plunged deep into a morass of wiring, and Ezra itched to be doing something.

"Are you sure it's--"

"No! I'm not sure!" Marc snapped, "It's not like I've got someone on the outside to tell me if they can see a fucking enormous hole in the side of the mountain, or if the holoprojector is holding up and it all looks okay. If you have a contact on the outside you're not sharing, now's the time. Otherwise, bizui!"

"JD?" he asked over the radio, and Jenna's head snapped around.

"That the kid on the battle station?"

Ezra nodded, "You heard anything?"

"Haven't heard anything from anyone on the threads." She shrugged, "I'm guessing one of the explosions knocked the comms down -- the comms or the cyborg tech."

Marc shook his head, "Atmospheric EM saturation. Those ships had sub light drives of some sort. That would disrupt everything for a while if they went." He pulled a face. "I'm guessing they went. Big time."

"Comms are dead? -- how long?" Jenna asked before Ezra could.

Marc spread his hands. "Until I know the size and nature of the explosions, I can't tell you. Hours, days. Could be minutes. I don't know."

"Why's that working then?" He nodded at the machine.

"Because I'm not a moron, unlike you, who apparently has absolutely no clue about light imaging tech," he said tersely, and turned back to it, eyes closed for a long minute. He sat back on his haunches and gently pulled his hands out, wires disentangling themselves from his skin as he eased out. "There we go."

"But it's definitely working, right?" Jenna asked, and Marc sighed.

"Yes. Look."

If Ezra tilted his head he could vaguely see the shimmer of a hologram across the opening -- theoretically showing only a deep gouge in the mountainside rather than the gaping hole that was unprotected and open to anything at all. It was hard to make out through the dust and smoke; he rubbed at his eyes, and coughed, trying not to breath in too deeply. "What if something comes -- tries to get through?"

"Nothing's coming through there for hours," Jenna said coolly, and climbed the fallen rocks to peer further down the blasted corridor. Rock still glowed red hot, crackling sharply as it cooled again. "If it's this hot in here, imagine what it did to the outside. The explosion's got to have scoured the side of the mountain clean of pretty much everything living."

Marc grinned up wickedly, "And if they do try coming through in the next few hours, they're gonna singe their toes." He straightened up with a groan. "That should hold a while."

"What do we do while we're waiting for them to come through?"

Jenna and Marc glanced at each other, and if Ezra hadn't known comms were down he'd have been wondering just exactly what they were talking about behind his back.

"We should head for the infirmary," Jenna said, and Marc nodded.

"What's in the infirmary?" Ezra asked.

"Mareen's got most of the kids in there." She hesitated, and added, "We built it to be the most secure place in the complex. For obvious reasons."

A cold shiver ran through Ezra. Yeah. Obvious all right. Jenna was looking at him dubiously and two days ago, she'd have been right to do so.

"Let's go see what we can salvage for the future, then, shall we?" he managed to say casually.

Jenna nodded, and took point. "Marc?"

"Right here," he said from behind Ezra, who found himself flanked. They were willing to accept his help, but didn't trust him. Smart cybes.

The corridor was empty, and much to his relief, the further in they went, the cooler it became. He mopped at his face with a pocket cloth, and began, "How far--"

Jenna put a hand up sharply, and he stopped, unsure of her meaning, but not willing to chance it.

Marc slipped past him and then forward, padding silently to the bend in the corridor. He leaned around, and ducked back instantly.

Jenna might have said it was too hot for anyone to follow them in, but he watched their back trail carefully anyway, ignoring the faint smell of scorching human flesh rising with the smoking connections and white hot metal.

He shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Marc to rejoin them. Strange company he kept these days. He wished he could call Zhou Yu, or JD, or any of the others, find out if they'd survived. Instead, he was shoulder to shoulder with cybes. Three of them strolling through a war zone like idiots. Surely Apman had to be running out of drones to expend by now?

Marc shook his head, held up three fingers, and managed to convey that of three unfriendlies up ahead only one was looking their way. Jenna nodded, glanced at Ezra, cocked an eyebrow. Ready?

He grinned back brightly, and lifted both weapons, a tilt of his head throwing the question back -- I'm ready, you?

"Down to the bend, then on one," she mouthed noiselessly, and held up her hand, three fingers extended. Marc and Ezra nodded, and crept after her.

A dull thud, and a rush of hot air, and Ezra held still, his eyes narrowly on the dark ahead of them, blinking against the bright flash of the explosion, the dust burning on his exposed skin. A quick glance at Jenna, the cybe caught the movement, flashed a reckless smile, gone almost before he'd registered its presence.

At the bend, and they paused, counted -- thee, two, one -- and moved.

Into the corridor -- something turned and he fired in exact synchrony with the cyborgs beside him, but though their initial reflexes were almost of a pace, he couldn't keep up, and simply held down the trigger, spraying the area. Marc stopped, Jenna a fraction of a second after him as he lifted one hand; Ezra stopped too, listening. The corridor was too filled with ash and dust to see anything.

Was that -- he almost fired, finger tightening. If his palms had been sweaty the kid would have died. Slippery fingers on triggers were messy. Ten years ago he had the sweat glands cut in his palms; one at a time, the nerve cluster for it buried deep in his chest, so far in they had to deflate a lung to reach it. He can't imagine what it would be like to try to control a weapon with your hands slick. With your hands wound tight with metal.

The gray and cream of Marc's hands moved, flashed in the dim light behind the barricade and Ezra's hand closed the trigger again, firing blindly. A series of thuds, not explosions. Maybe. Marc sniffed beside him, and smiled whitely. Ezra took a small breath in, and smirked. As though they hadn't planned for this. He breathed deeply through his nasal filter, and --

"No..." he whispered, as he saw the child again -- he'd half thought it was a mirage.

A small figure, bouncing a ball in the dust off to the side. "No, no--" he rose to his feet. "You promised, you promised--"--"

Ezra didn't need to see the child's face to recognize her. He didn't need to see the future to know what was going to happen with terrible inevitability as he sprinted up the corridor. "No!"

---------------

The door blew and Nathan fired, a wall of energy beating into the door and the soldiers beyond it. He could see them jolt back, and then from near Mareen one of the children slipped through.

"Get her back!"

Mareen just shook her head, wouldn't look around, wouldn't do anything but grip his arm tightly as he stepped forwards.

"Let her be, Nathan," she said. "We all have our part to play. Nathalie understands hers."

Nathalie. He wanted to look away, wanted to cry, or scream, no, not children, but of course children. Why shouldn't they fight when they were the target? Sick at heart, he fired again, half tempted to take aim at the small back. All the arguments he could make ran through his head, but over and over again he came up against the memory of all his research, the look in the parents' eyes, the way that they had accepted what he had to say. Nathalie was dying. Perhaps this way was better. To make that death count for something when it seemed impossible that anything more could come out of it.

Perhaps this was better. Die fighting. Make it count. Rebel against something that meant something, not just die by inches from the revolt of her genome against tech.

Someone took aim at him and he shot them down, stepped forwards. Mareen moved with him, firing steadily. They were out of the doorway, driving them back, and Nathan grinned, maybe they could do this, maybe they could do this--

Someone moved to the right, and Nathan instinctively turned towards it. He could feel Mareen step into his back, guarding it so that they were standing back to back as he aimed, fired.

"Shit!" He swore and jerked his hand up hard, trailing a line of fire up the wall, completely missing anything worth hitting. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Standish rolled with the child out of the line of fire and came up with a hard little smile on his face. "I know you don't think much of cyborgs," he said viciously, "but I thought better of even you."

"Let go of me!" Nathalie was kicking and squirming; for all he'd thought of Standish as being lazy and effete, the man must have had a grip of iron, because his grip didn't budge despite the child being cybe enhanced.

"No," he shook his head. "We can find a better way." He dragged them both to the side of the corridor, favoring one hip, Nathan noticed.

"Get her in here, Standish," Nathan said sharply. "We'll cover you."

He fired blindly down the corridor until Ezra was behind him, through the door, and he and Mareen were retreating, step by step. Two figures came up through the dust and dark, and Nathan took aim -- then Mareen grabbed his arm.

"They're ours!" she said urgently, and he pulled up, pointing to the ceiling until the two cybes were there, and then they backed slowly the rest of the way into the infirmary. No one fired, and Nathan breathed out with relief. He turned to Mareen and grinned.

"I think we did it," Mareen began, smiling back, and then convulsed, the brilliant glow of a pulse shot illuminating her from behind for a fraction of a second, before it faded, and her knees folded under her. Nathan whirled, snapped his hand down to activate his blade and bring it into his palm, and then back and release, three blindingly sharp, swift moves, and a solid, meaty thunk as it hit dead center. Someone hit the ground outside, and he waited tensely, one of the new cybes at his side.

"I don't see any more," the man said softly, and Nathan looked over at him.

"How can you be sure?"

The cybe smirked. "Battle tech," and tapped by his eyes. "See in the dark, see through most things, as long as it's not hot."

"Nathan," Ezra called urgently, "Nathan, quickly."

He turned, startled to recognize one of the cybes -- Jenna -- cradling Mareen's body, and stopped.

"Can you help her?" she pleaded, "Doctor Jackson? Please, you, you have to do something--"

"I --" He dropped to his knees beside him, and brushed his empty palm over her open eyes, closing them. He couldn't speak, and bit his lip, trying to keep calm, swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Jenna, Mareen..." He shook his head, and said helplessly, "I'm so sorry."

"Oh." Jenna looked down at the girl in her arms and pinched her lips tightly together.

"Jenn?" The other cybe crouched beside her, and she blinked away tears. I didn't think they could cry, Nathan found himself thinking, and shook himself.

"How is everyone else? Ez? You okay?"

Ezra looked up, and his eyes were dark. "They're just kids, Nathan," he said softly. "How the hell do we fix this?"

Nathan had no answer for him, too uncertain that it wasn't his fault, in some deep, obscure way. "We get them all out, Ezra," he said firmly, and was faintly surprised to hear himself. Not as surprised as Standish looked. He rose to his feet and looked around the room. There were still eight kids -- three babes in arms, and five older children, including Nathalie. Two cyborgs. Him and Standish.

"Quit panicking, and help me tally up our few remaining assets."


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