Fort Liberty, Volume Two (12 page)

He takes out the IV equipment, extends the stand, finds the liquid bag of artificial plasma, and connects all the tubing. He ties a cord around Petra’s arm above the elbow then pops the plastic cap off the needle and squints, trying to find a vein using only the light from the computer screen.

A trace of blue threads under the golden skin of her forearm and he slips the needle through, getting it the first time. He tapes down the IV port, inserts the plasma line, and the computer rewards him with a tone of approval. “IV insertion complete.”

“No shit.”

“Please scan known injury areas.”

Voss flips on the gun-like scanner and runs it once over Petra’s chest, then her abdomen, moving down to the tear in her leg.

Her wounds display on the screen, superimposed on the human figure. The computer expands each image, adding dimensions, measuring depth, its AI unit targeting areas in greater detail. Lines of code stream in alternate windows, flesh and blood reduced to ones and zeroes, if-then statements.

“Injury Area A: Torso, top right quadrant. Fracture: ribs 3, 4 and 5. Pulmonary contusion detected.
Priority Critical.
Insert Nano Pack A-1.”

The screen changes to show a huge syringe marked ‘Nano A-1’ being lowered by a stiff looking hand, its needle pausing once, then penetrating the bruised area of Petra’s chest. The unseen caregiver in the animation keeps the needle shallow, slowly pushing fluid into the wound.

Voss searches the ruck and finds a sectioned container of large, 500 mL plastic syringes with protected needle caps.

Nano packs.

He’s never worked with them because they weren’t offered to shitheads Earthbound, but Logan’s upgraded all his equipment to Mars gear, so it’s no big surprise they’re in his kit.

Theoretically, they should make things easier because they’re shiny Red Filter med tech. They’re clean and miraculous, syringes filled with millions of nanos swimming in thick fluid, microscopic machines that operate at the cellular level, capable of linking together to flood debris out through open wounds. They gel broken bones, repair organs, seal wounds…

Theoretically.

Petra wheezes beneath him.

He removes syringe A-1, pops the cap, and peels back the torn shreds of what little clothing they’ve left on her, finding her right breast bleeding and bruised. He’s careful, choosing the area closer to the sternum and slipping the needle underneath the purpled skin.

He pushes fluid, and waits, then pushes more, hearing the loud
buwumph
of Wyatt’s sniper rifle firing from outside the skimmer, the muzzle brake flashing in the aircraft’s windows.

Voss braces, expecting more than small caliber chatter in reply.

Rockets or grenades can’t be too long in coming.

“Insertion successful.”

He nods, tossing the syringe.

“Injury Area B: Torso, lower left quadrant. Peritoneal penetration detected. Foreign objects detected, composition metal. Priority Critical. Insert Trauma Pack A-2 and A-3.”

He does what he’s told, sinking needle after needle just under her skin, or directly into wounds where indicated. The computer requires three of them for the narrow tear in her leg below the tourniquet, instructing that fluid be pushed straight into the dark ooze leaking from the femoral artery.

And he does it, even at zero fucking skill level.

The computer switches from one window to another, controlling the progress in all three areas at once. “Administer medication. Select green auto-injector, and insert into IV solution. Maintain aseptic technique.”

“Aseptic technique,” he mutters, pushing whatever medicine’s in the auto-injector into the IV port. C’mon. C’mon…

“Add plasma,” the computer says.

Voss exchanges one plasma bag for another.

“Remove tourniquet.”

Voss looks down, seeing the wound in Petra’s leg now covered in a kind of hard gel, shards of metal bled out on streams of clear liquid, their sharp edges covered with a waxy substance. He loosens the tourniquet and removes it.

Petra draws a desperate breath, as if someone’s just released her from a chokehold. She arches her back, something involuntary, and he puts his hand on her shoulder. “Petra?”

Her lashes flutter, her teeth clenched. “Away.”

“No, don’t---”

She tries to twist out of reach, and he grabs hold of her, trying to prevent the IV from ripping out. She fights, her hands balled into fists and slamming his armor, its hard grooves already smeared with her blood. Her eyes are wide open, shining with panic, trying to escape something that isn’t there.

“Petra, look at me.” He slides one hand up to her cheek, trying to get her attention, bring her back. “It’s Jared. Look at me.”

He sees her refocus, a glitter of recognition surfacing through the pain. She goes still against him, her breathing a whisper through parted teeth, her black hair tangled, slipping loose against his wrist.

“Jared?”

“I’m here.”

She nods, eyes glossing with tears.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, looking back at the computer monitor. Her ribs now display in green. The procedure there is listed as complete. The repair in her abdomen is still in progress, the highlighted areas flashing yellow, the nano group A-number-whatever reporting they’re 60% done.

Her vital signs are stable.

Red Filter med care. Un-fucking-believable.

“My crew,” she whispers. “On the other ship.”

He looks at her. “What?”

“It took a different route. Coming in for extract. Can’t let them land.”

“You’re doing good,” he assures her, trying to draw her back out of it. “Take slow breaths. Lie still. The bleeding’s stopped, but the shrapnel is still pushing out of your stomach.”

“Nanotech.”

“Yes.”

“Medicine of the elite,” she says, struggling to focus. “Not meant for non-citizens like me, and illegal to distribute, or administer to such. You’re not supposed to be out here saving lowlifes.”

He gives a half-shake of his head, flashing an unrepentant smile. “That just makes this whole thing awkward.”

“You were supposed to shoot down that transport.”

“Yes.”

“Kazak said you wouldn’t… says he knows how to kill Assaulters.”

“That’s his name? Kazak?” Voss asks, distracted, knowing he has to leave her. He draws his sidearm from its holster and checks the chamber, guessing that if she’s busy weighing decisions he’s already made, she’s conscious enough to use a weapon in her own defense.

“Long haired liar,” she says. “Murderer, and Earthbound smuggler. Claims he can kill you, so someone brought him all the way here, with his men, to prove it. He’s got a contract with one of the powerful, one of the elite acting alone. He’s already hacked into the system, can take it all over from the right console, but needed a hostage to get past you.”

“He told you all that?”

“Thought I’d turn on you for money.”

“Doesn’t know how much you like me.”

“Knew me from before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I liked people.”

He looks at her, and it’s clear she doesn’t mean ‘people’. She means men in general, and him specifically. Despite what she’s seen, and the distance she wants to keep between them, it’s clear she’s not done risking her life to save his. What is that? He doesn’t know, but it’s mutual and strong enough to make things difficult, hard to look away, hard to leave.

A small blast cracks through the hangar, flashing heat from the darkness, sending a tremor through the aircraft.

The med computer rattles on the deck.

Voss ducks out of reflex, but it wasn’t close, not something aimed at the skimmers or his team. It detonated on the other side of the tarmac, close to the enemy’s position by the elevators.

Petra clenches her teeth.

“Stay here,” Voss chambers a round in the pistol then presses it into her hand, waiting until she grasps it. He slides two full magazines from a pouch on his armor vest and places them on the deck beside her. “Safety’s engaged, but there’s a round in the chamber, in case one of them gets past us.”

“You’re going to kill him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’ll kill his own to get to you.”

“Good,” Voss says. “They go faster that way.”

She grants him a humorless smile. It’s not much, but enough.

He pulls his gloves back on, then lifts his helmet from the deck and slides it into place, hearing it lock. He grabs his rifle and rises from the floor, pausing once before the ramp, looking back to see her gripping his pistol.

Battered, but alive.

Stay alive.

He turns, descends the ramp, and he’s back in it, smoke wafting through the skimmers, Wyatt yelling at his recruits. “Tell me what you see, Private F!”

“They’re going down the shaft, first sergeant!”

Voss moves up behind Wyatt and kneels. “She’s stable.”

“That explosion was them,” Wyatt replies, not looking up. “They blew open the elevator gates and dropped a few explosive devices down the shaft, maybe to clear the bottom. They attached rappel lines, and they’re descending with equipment. At least two dozen are down the shaft already. The rest are keeping us pinned. I took out one rocket team hiding behind the check station wall, but there’s another. They’re behind the wreckage somewhere.”

“Gojo?”

“Can’t raise him. System’s fucked.”

“Rocket!” One of the kids cries out.

It’s a flash through the smoke. Voss ducks and it hits the catwalk above, exploding against the diamond steel panels.

The impact blasts the metal loose. The catwalk collapses onto the skimmers. A figure tumbles out of the destroyed shield, falling onto one of the aircraft, and sliding off, hitting the deck.

“Fulson!” Wyatt is on his feet, crossing the distance and sliding down on his knees next to his recruit. The kid looks dead for a minute then comes to with a spasm of motion, yelling and screaming, gasping for air.

Wyatt starts laughing. “You got your bell rung, boy!”

Voss turns toward Rhoades. “Get those launchers up.”

“Sir.” Rhoades disappears.

Voss raises his assault rifle, switching from burst to auto, and finds them in his sight. Muzzle flashes sparkle from beside the transport. He aims, squeezes the trigger, and feels the gun shake, rounds tearing from the suppressor.

Bounder fire thins out, shooters forced under cover.

Rhoades comes back with two loaded rocket launcher tubes, their ends flared to direct back blast.

The kid drops down beside him, panting. “Sir, these are new tech, high explosive, for the outside terrain, for a thin atmosphere. There’s more atmosphere inside the hangar, thicker air, and the blast is going to be a lot bigger than what you’re used to. This space is ah… a bit small for these. I’ve never seen them explode, but my doctorate is in chemistry, and the specs on this weapon indicate a potential for a lot of damage.”

Voss changes out magazines. “You’re saying it’s going to kill us?”

“Maybe not the explosion, but the shrapnel.”

“That’s what cover’s for.”

Rhoades hesitates, nods stiffly. “Sir.”

The kid crawls to a safe distance and sits up on his knees, lifting the first weapon. He settles into it, bracing his weight under the shoulder stop and racking the cocking lever. “Rocket going!”

The Bounders appear again, rifles crackling.

Voss rises up and fires back.

Rhoades launches the rocket. A plume of fire shoots out the back of the tube. Voss sees it streak. The impact flares in the darkness. The cockpit of the transport disintegrates, blasting shrapnel.

The forward skimmer catches the worst of it, its armor denting, fuselage screeching as it gets punctured.

Rhoades is on the ground, covering his head.

Wyatt’s got Fulson covered.

James is behind the second skimmer.

There’s no return fire.

Voss looks across the hangar and sees a few enemy casualties crumpled on the ground, and several armed survivors falling back to take cover inside the transport wreckage.

“Hit them again,” Voss says.

“Sir?”

“They’re heading back into the wreckage. Hit it dead center, and the rocket will punch through.”

Rhoades pushes up, grabs the second launcher and raises it to his shoulder. He takes aim on the destroyed transport. “Rocket going!”

The rocket shoots from launcher and spears through the transport fuselage. Fire blows out both sides of the wreckage, then flames out.

Debris sprays across the tarmac.

There’s no gunfire.

The hangar goes silent.

Voss waits for the haze to dissipate, his breathing harsh inside the helmet.

Nothing moves.

“Fuckers,” Wyatt says, rising to his feet, blood streaking down his back. “Private Rhoades, get your ass up. We’re securing this mess. Fulson, stay put, because I don’t think you even understand the words that are coming out of my mouth right now. James, eyes downrange!”

“First Sergeant.”

Voss rises and moves with them, keeping close as they clear the hangar.

Smoke lingers. Corpses materialize from the haze, their flesh trapped in sharp debris. He expects a few survivors but finds none, the shrapnel damage too extensive, slicing through man and machine.

At the rocket impact sites, pieces of the transport are torn through body armor, through helmets, through walls, embedded in rock. The cargo area and the cockpit are shredded, every sliver blasted out as a lethal projectile. The bounders were cut to pieces wherever they hid.

He counts thirty-four bodies that he can recognize as such, which means that over twenty may have rappelled down the elevator shaft to the monitoring station. Petra said they had already hacked into the system prior to landing, which would account for outages, and the comms failures, and might mean they’re already through the blast doors on the lower floors.

Voss stands before the blasted shaft, staring into the darkness, listening and hearing nothing. The rappel lines hang loose at his feet, stretching 350 meters through solid darkness, with no weight apparent on them now.

Wyatt clicks though his teeth. “Suit propellant won’t cover that drop. Even in reduced G, it’s way too far, and you still accelerate, so…”