Murder of Crows (Book One of The Icarus Trilogy) (7 page)

He moved from that patch of wall to another, and then to another.  The soldier’s bones ached underneath the skin, but he didn’t care about that.  He would have brand new bones eventually. 

Warner finished a session of beating the wall in his room and sat on the bed.  He could see the bloody marks over the broken plaster and smiled at the fantasy of it all.  While he had been beating on the wall he had imagined sinking his fists into the doughy body of the receptionist in the lobby.  Warner didn’t have to think too hard to justify his anger.  The receptionist would always talk down to Warner and sneered at the convict whenever he needed information.  It was enough to drive the old Warner to violence.

But the Warner sitting on his bed with bloody knuckles wasn’t going to beat up a receptionist.  It wasn’t worth the fine; not when every other day he could take out his aggression in gladiator combat.  He wondered what it would be like to pound away at Jenkins again.  The convict smiled at the thought, but soon felt guilty about it.  He looked around at his room and sighed.  The paper for his journal was still scattered around the desk and Warner just didn’t have the energy to pick it up yet.  He would have nothing to pour on the pages if he did.

He stood up and left his room.  It was time to make a house call.

-

Jenkins heard the knock on his door and wondered who would even bother talking to him.  He expected Carver or Roberts to be on the other side, but when he swung open the door he found Warner glowering at him.  Jenkins had to really try to not look frightened when he saw his teammate standing there, but after the initial shock the young soldier mustered up his courage and crossed his arms.

“Hey, Warner.  What’s going on?”  The angry veteran looked at the young soldier and sighed before shaking his head.

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”  Jenkins furrowed his brow and wondered what the soldier was playing at.  He didn’t seem the type to ever apologize for anything he’d done.  Jenkins kept his arms crossed and pursed his lips.

“Sorry for what?”  The veteran sighed again and let his disgust be known.

“Well, a lot, but in regards to you I’m sorry for beating you up a bit.  I was out of line,” Warner said before looking away.  He was finding it difficult to speak to the boy.  “I shouldn’t have done it.”  Jenkins’ gaze softened after that and he uncrossed his arms.  He didn’t need to be confrontational about this.

“It’s ok, Warner.  I understand where you’re coming from.  I just got back from a resurrection this morning.  I get it,” the young soldier stated, trying to commiserate.  Warner gave him a quick glare; the boy had no idea what it was like, but then the convict realized he was being brash again.  The new soldier had just died.  Jenkins had to make that lonely display of courage up there in the mess hall not once, but twice that day.  He was allowed to think he understood, even though he hadn’t been exposed to all this asteroid had to offer.  Warner swallowed his words.  The boy would understand soon enough.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t any bad blood.  We need to be able to fight together.”  Warner realized the words sounded too much like they had come from his old coach, but he let it slide.  If the boy decided to make fun of him Warner would snap the kid’s wrist.  Jenkins just shook his head and bit his lip slightly.

“No bad blood.”  Warner looked at the rookie and wondered if he should shake hands.  He realized that he would get blood all over the recruit’s hands if he tried, so he just left it at that and walked away.  He knew he wasn’t really angry at the kid, he was just angry at the whole world.  Jenkins was just a part of it at the time.  The convict held so much more fury for the establishment.  Joseph Warner’s fingers itched as he realized he could pick up the papers from the floor, now.  He had plenty to write about.

-

After a few days Jenkins’ body was no longer a testament to pain.  His new muscles were familiar; his body felt his own.  He’d even participated in the last game against the Mastiffs.  His conscience took a hit from sending the other soldiers to the same kind of hell he’d experienced, but they were all professional soldiers and dying was part of the job.  It was a terrible job, but some thought it was better than nothing.

None of those people ever had to play the games.

Today he had held his own in the training yard.  The soldiers had filed out of the area, but a few stragglers stayed behind.  Feldman had chosen to help Jenkins with his bench press exercises.  The brute had taken a liking to the new recruit.  The giant did little to show it, but even Jenkins knew that the smallest actions from the man still held significance.

Across the yard Norris and Abrams were sparring.  Norris had a dozen centimeters and twenty kilograms on the woman, but to call her scrappy would be an understatement.  Jenkins’ repetitions were often complemented by the sounds of impacts and groans from the two fighters.

Feldman stood over Jenkins without any sound.  Jenkins was oddly comforted and scared by the massive Crow.  Feldman was impressively large by any standard but Jenkins wouldn’t have preferred anybody else to help him.  There was just something about Feldman that eased Jenkins.  The young gladiator focused on the task at hand and continued his exercise with a grunt.  His arms swayed from the effort, but he regained control and started counting out with every push.

Feldman had almost reached out for the bar when he noticed the child’s efforts.  The new Crow was in decent condition, but Feldman didn’t want the kid to hurt himself.  The giant thought of everyone as children with the exception of Carver.  Jenkins was a toddler in power armor; Abrams and Norris were teenagers refusing their feelings for each other.  It was painfully obvious to Feldman, but most didn’t notice or care.  He felt like he needed to be the one to take notice.  So many of his comrades were filled with apathy; so many dominated by a void in their soul.  To Feldman it felt like all of them skirted on the edge of oblivion.  They were slowly forgetting they were human; slowly forgetting they were capable of so much.

Feldman didn’t want to end up like that.  He didn’t want to forget all those connections and experiences.  The giant was observing Abrams’ frustration when Jenkins started to falter again, but before Jenkins could ask for help Feldman merely put out his hand and lifted the bar up on the rack.  Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief and let his limbs go limp onto the ground.  Feldman looked down at the child, whose eyes were closed from exhaustion.  He was a good kid; he still had some life in him.  Feldman guessed that’s why he liked the boy.  This mausoleum of living people hadn’t corrupted him yet.

Feldman walked over to the stack of weights and began replacing Jenkins’ weights with larger and larger plates of steel.  Jenkins was alarmed by the clang of metal against metal but quickly figured out that the new weight wasn’t meant for him.  He sat up and wiped the bench.

“I’d spot you if I could, but I don’t think I’d really be able to help here,” he said with an exasperated sigh.  Feldman looked down at the man and chuckled.

“I appreciate it, but, yeah,” he said as he looked over the boy in front of him.  “Can’t say that you’re wrong.”  He smiled at the toy soldier.  Feldman wished the rookie could stay like that.

-

  Jenkins was nervous as he stared out of the loading bay.  The roar of the wind and the engine turbines did nothing to help untangle the knot in his stomach.  He’d just watched Goldstein fly out with Norris.  The powers that be tended to shuffle around players whenever they died.  It helped keep the games fresh and exciting.  The more people they could draw in to watch the games meant all the more advertising.  However disorienting it might be for the players, it was good for business.

Jenkins could feel Feldman breathing heavily behind him.  With the extra armor and kinetic motivators Feldman was a good two and a half meters tall.  His size should have comforted Jenkins, but he was uneasy with the prospect of being paired with the titan.  Feldman was certainly accomplished, but Jenkins had no idea how to play with the berserker.

He didn’t have much time to think about it before the drop point came up and the green warning light blinked by the back of the cargo bay.  Jenkins took a breath and prepared himself for the jump.  Even with five games behind him he wasn’t used to the ordeal.  He jumped out of the plane anyway.

The ground rushed at him impossibly fast.  The scream of the wind flying past him made it hard to focus, but he’d been trained to release his parachute at three hundred meters.  It almost wasn’t in his control anymore.  He just had to make sure he wasn’t going to land on a spire or jagged line of barbed wire.  No point in getting gibbed right at the start.

He directed himself to a patch of clear ground and released his chute.  It fluttered behind him and caught the atmosphere.  It slowed down his descent considerably, but he was still falling at a good click.  At five meters he flicked the release switch and prepared himself for the landing.

The young Crow met the ground with a considerable thump and tried to use up his momentum in a forward roll.  The suit took the brunt of the impact, but Jenkins still needed to do something to compensate for the freefall.  He came to his feet afterwards without harm.  His bones ached, but that was a fairly common occurrence on reentry.

There was a crash behind him.  He thought he’d been ambushed before realizing it was just Feldman making his entrance.  The brute had released his parachute at twenty meters from the ground, just like every other game.  His suit was reinforced for all the extra weight and a great deal of his fan base was enamored with his nonchalant style.  Usually he landed on his feet and tried to look the part of the juggernaut.  In this particular instance he fell onto a pile of trash and metal and promptly landed on his back.

Feldman picked himself up and wiped some mud from his armor before looking around for his sword.  The overseers tended to place the weapon at the drop zone instead of sending it along with the soldier.  Too many mishaps and problems involved with reentry.  It also made it more entertaining for the viewers to have some soldiers virtually unarmed until they could find their weapons.

Feldman didn’t really care either way.  It was usually tucked away nearby.  The few times he had been ambushed he was able to adapt fairly well.  Most soldiers had a hard time reacting to a behemoth rushing them in power armor.  He felt fortunate for growing up on an asteroid farm.  His genes had taken full advantage of the lesser gravity and the Commission had done what it could to replicate it in his clones.

Jenkins looked around the clearing and found Feldman’s sword off in a patch of grating to his right.  He pointed it out to Feldman and then tried to take in his surroundings.  Feldman lumbered towards his plasma sword off in Jenkins’ periphery while the young soldier scanned the horizon for his teammates’ beacons.

Goldstein and Norris were fine and setting up camp along a ridge.  They’d probably stay there for the whole game.  Guarding the sniper wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it would keep Goldstein out of trouble.  The soldier had been quite unfortunate in the last few games.

Feldman was trudging towards his teammate when he heard a few rocks fall down the ridge behind him.  He turned quickly for his size, but a flurry of shells pelted his armor before he was able to gain his bearings.  The bullets did little damage but it was still somewhat jarring to the veteran.  Jenkins was yelling something over Comms, but Feldman wasn’t really paying attention; he was already rushing the source of the gunfire.

There were two men from the Hawks above the ridge, which would have been a little more than Feldman would have preferred, but Jenkins was already laying down suppressive fire.  They were already retreating back to the other side of the crest as Feldman rushed closer.  He didn’t smile, as Norris or Warner might have done.  The titan took no pleasure in killing men.

Feldman was only a meter away from the crest when he activated the armor’s kinetic assistance.  Feldman had a titan’s strength, but the armor and sword together weighed upwards of a hundred kilos.  He was grateful for the extra boost.  

He was not grateful to see four men with blue Hawks emblazoned on their shoulders as he landed on the other side of the ridge.  Feldman cursed himself for falling for the obvious trap and braced himself for what was coming next.

The four soldiers unloaded onto Feldman in concert.  Most of the bullets glanced off harmlessly, but others sank right into the joints of his armor.  He could feel the shells tearing through his kneecaps, his torso and his shoulders.  The bullets slowed down his momentum as they pushed him back to the ridge.  He landed and collapsed into his armor.  It was only holding itself at this point.

They kept firing; all four of the Hawks spent their entire clips.  Feldman was only clinging onto consciousness as the onslaught continued.  It didn’t seem like it could end, but it did.  There was an odd quiet as the four soldiers stared at their broken opponent in the thirty kilogram suit.

Feldman could feel the blood pouring out of his wounds.  He didn’t know if they’d hit anything vital, but it didn’t much matter.  He was going to bleed out soon enough.  Feldman was already dead; his brain just refused to admit it.  The giant breathed raggedly and tasted metal in his mouth.  He wanted to cough, but he also didn’t want to drown in his own blood.  Feldman guessed that he only had a minute left to live and that he was about to go into shock.  He looked at his opponents.

They were all children from the look of it; new recruits who feared death.  They had never looked that boogeyman in the eyes.  Feldman thought them an odd mix of fortune; they still had so much growing up to do.  But Feldman knew he would find himself face-to-face with the specter in just a minute or two.  The giant swallowed the blood filling his mouth and resolved that he didn’t even need the minute.

He forced himself forward using the kinetic motivators.  His bones and joints were useless things, but the suit would at least move forward for him if he tried.  It was pain beyond enduring but he pushed himself past it.  He already knew that he was hurt; he knew that he was dying.  Pain was unimportant.