Contact Imminent (36 page)

“And we will not discuss the fact that humanish are exploding holes in my embassy!” Tsecha shoved a helmet under the man's nose. As if in counterpoint, more bursts and rumbles sounded in the distance.

Jani fastened her armor, then added another shooter to her weapon belt. She felt as she did when her augmentation functioned—dry hands, slow heartbeat. Only the undercurrent of anger seemed as different. A desire to break and shatter that she had never known before.
Control yourself, Kilian.

“Work in teams of three.” Niall donned his helmet, faceplate up. “Clear rooms, keep pushing out. You run into something you can't handle, fall back fast. Keep your comlines
open—when the works come back on, I want to know where you are.” He lowered his faceplate. “Let's go.”

“Oh boy, we're having fun now,” someone said as they streamed back into the hall.

 

Pinlights through the dust and smoke. Red needle eyes. Growing bigger. Bigger.

Whoosh whoosh
.

Micah looked ahead of him, toward the hole O'Shae disappeared through. Noise came from there as well. Thuds. Crackles.

“Which way?” He didn't realize he'd spoken until his display fired up. Hallways, marked and mapped. The one he stood in now, capped at both ends by moving blobs converging on him.

Whoosh whoosh
.

“Shit!” Micah pushed off the wall. Headed for O'Shae's last hole. “There's an offshoot hallway here.” Didn't know where it led. Not a dead end—all he cared about.
Move!
He swung down his mid-range and barreled ahead. Fired.

Smoke. A waist-level cloud. Sense display—chemical fire. Toxic. Filters working.

Micah held to the wall, edged forward, hit something with the tip of his boot. Waved smoke away. Looked down.

O'Shae. Part of her, anyway.

“What the hell hit her?” Micah kept moving. Not like the sims—no Vynshàrau, pieces of bodies out of nowhere and
whoosh whoosh
getting louder and louder from behind—

—walls shook. Floor. Blast. Blitzed display.

Micah ran, bouncing off walls as the exo took him farther than the hallway allowed. His mid-range swung like a crazy third arm, jerking up then down, banging the walls, whacking the side of his helmet.

He broke around a corner. Fresh hallway. No smoke, no shatter, no bodies. “Display.” He pulled up the hallway, saw the blinking close from all around.

Micah ran as new sounds converged from all directions. High-pitched whines. The unmistakable static crack of shooters.

He ran faster, careened around a corner, bounced off walls like a bead in a box, pushing straight on as a hiss filled his ears and a—

—sea of pink flooded around him. Found openings he shouldn't have had and poured into his exo, like feathered silk against his skin. Shot down his arms and legs, rattling them until they shook like seizure.

“What the fu—” Ragged chirps stung Micah's ears as his sensors went mad, flashes of red and blue zinging before his eyes. The pink—mist—gas—
what!
—flowed around his face. He inhaled, tasted it sweet in the back of his throat—

“Aghhhh!”

—then dragged himself into the shelter of a doorway as something huge and dark spun like a dervish down the center of the hall. The sleek lines of the V-790, encasing a thing gone mad, loose mid-range swinging back and forth, flashes of white light bursting through the joints of the exo.

Then came…the scream. Low at first, then thinning and rising in pitch like a siren as the flares grew brighter and brighter and thick strands of grey smoke emerged from the exo and intertwined with the pink.

Micah held his breath and watched as the jerking and twisting slowed, the wail ceased. Then the exo turned, a graceful heel-toe spin, arms floating away from its sides, weaving like a dancer's, shreds of pink mist streaming from gaps in the exo and dancing around its hands.

The mid-range ceased its yardarm swing, its standby hum ramping in pitch.

“Oh shit.”
Micah bolted down the hall in the direction opposite the singing exo. Cooked like a spud in its skin. Whoever they were. He choked back a laugh that veered to a sob and kept running, legs pumping in an exo that didn't want to go where he told it, its joints stiffening, whiffs of that fucking weird mist puffing out of the gaps with every stride.
Dove around a corner into another hall as the heavy whine hit its peak. Tripped over his boots. Somersaulted and spun to a stop against a wall and prayed he'd run far enough—

—and buried his face in his arms just as the explosion ripped. Saw the flash through the pink-eaten gaps in his exo sleeves. Felt the rumble through the floor, the walls, heard the crash of the ceiling as it collapsed.

He looked up as the sound died away, in time to see the last whispers of pink mist flame to blue and vanish. Fragments of ceiling fell atop him. Cracked, buckled wall bowed over him.

Micah stared out at the clear quiet. Then he scooted to his knees and tore at his exo, battling jammed fasteners and tremoring limbs. Unlatched his helmet and flung it away. Tore at the coverall, the boots. Safety joints came apart in his hands—he tossed piece after piece of his suit after the helmet, as far as he could, trying to decoy the last wisps of pink fog that dogged every move of his hands and flurried before his eyes like dust devils.

He checked every flap and fold of his T-shirt, his pull-on trousers. Worked to his feet, testing his every move. “Not gonna take me over—not—no—no—no—” He danced in place, kicked out, did a jumping jack, his overhand clap ringing through the still air.

“All me.” He ran down the hall, turned and headed in the direction opposite the dervish's scant remains. Found himself in a hallway still flooded with pink, held his breath as he cut through it, thought
Hell with it
and breathed, then hugged the wall as another rumbling blast sounded.

“Oh—God.” Who had cooked in their suit this time? Who? “Manda?” He ran, the layout of the embassy unfurling in his head.

“Hey hey!” Niall gave Jani a thumbs-up sign. “Pull, talk to me!”

Jani smiled as Pullman's dry tones filled her helmet.

“—embassy systems coming up in fits and starts.” A pause. Thumps and whines in the background. “Still piecing together what happened. Damned Exterior missed 'em coming in, apparently, and then they blew right through the embassy shields.”

“That's because the embassy shields weren't up.” Niall's helmet moved in a slow headshake.

“Well, that explains that.” More thumps. “We're pulling out bodies. Fifteen in V-790s, so far. Give or take. Hartman's crew is clearing out the south wing. Some of Vynshàrau security were holed up in a meeting room there—bunch of them took it when the roof came down.”

Jani glanced to her right, where the third member of their team, a Vynshàrau security suborn named Pashé, stood straight as a statue against the wall.

“Bessard's gang has the west and the outbuildings,” Pullman continued. “They're reporting all clear. Jamil's crew has north and east. I don't hear a thing but she's not happy and they're going through again to make sure. She doesn't
like that we don't know how many of these people we're dealing with. Any ideas?”

“No.” Niall sighed. “Burkett's holding down the challenge room—I've got a team pushing out from there right now. Nothing so far but empty rooms.”

A pause. “Jamil just called in, sir. They're at the challenge room. Some Haárin won't let them in without the password.”

“I'll go.” Jani headed back down the hall. “The sooner we get them out of there, the better.”

“We'll all go back.” Niall fell in behind Jani. “Pull, I'm calling my team back to the challenge room—I want Jamil's crew to take over.”

“Yes, sir. We've got a few Vynshàrau out here now—they said that once they get their systems back up, we'll be able to run a heat scan and nail down the stragglers.” More thumps, then a muttered “damn.” “Sir, the PM's holed up in the Exterior Annex. She wants a report.”

“Tell her to put on a goddamned headset!” Niall quickened his pace. “This place is not yet nailed down.”

“No, sir.”

“Damn it.” Niall moved ahead of Jani and around the corner. “Ministers…”

Jani slowed, then looked back to find Pashé still standing in place. “NìaRauta?” She moved back toward her.
“We are going back,”
she said in High Vynshàrau.
“Others will take over.”

“Speak your own language,” Pashé replied in English. Then she turned and started walking in the direction opposite, vanishing around a corner in a few long strides.

“Shit!” Jani took one last look in the direction Niall had gone, then hurried after the Vynshàrau. “Can't have gone far—” She rounded the corner and found the female getting ready to boost over a pile of rubble that blocked an entry to another wing.
“NìaRauta! We are going back!”

“You go back! Humanish!” Pashé flipped up her faceplate—she shared Ghos's stark, snakelike features, and radiated the same tension he had. “Not even humanish. Worse.
You go back. Back, and farther back. This is a Vynshàrau place!” She raised her shooter over her head, then set her free hand on the pile of rubble and clambered over the top.

“NìaRauta!” Jani sprinted down the hall toward the blocked entry. “Hate me later—we have to move now!” She boosted atop the rubble and tried to see into the semidarkness beyond. Cracked and buckled walls. Shattered columns. The flow from ruptured plumbing dripped from ceilings, pooled in corners. She strained to discern any movement, but saw only half-dark and shadows, heard only the drip and trickle of running water.

Then a sound reached her. A sharp intake of breath on the cusp of a cry.

She strained to hear more, heard nothing but water, and with a swallowed curse clambered over the rubble pile to the other side.

The air on the closed side of the barrier already felt chilled compared to that on the side that had been secured, its former warmth victim to disrupted air handling and the initial impacts that had broken through from the outside. “Pashé?” Jani reached the end of the hallway and debated her next move. “Right? Left?” She looked down the quiet, broken passages, back over her shoulder to the comparative comfort of the rubble boundary, then started down the corridor. Shooter in hand, creeping with her back to the wall.

First room
. The safety illumins in the walls had lighted, revealing a sparse arrangement of soaked furniture and nothing else.
Second room
. Across the corridor. A tricky L-shaped entry with shadows in all the wrong places.

“Hell with this.” Jani backed away to return to the safe side, and caught sight of the mound of darkness in the corner of the room. She ducked inside, shooter at the ready, and found Pashé.

Jani knelt beside the Vynshàrau. Cracked the faceplate of her helmet, and caught a whiff of the choking stench of burned flesh. Turned her over, and saw what was left of her face.

The hissing started then, from points along the ceiling. The slow billow of pink. The candy cloud, tumbling through the room.

“Oh, hell!”
Jani straightened, turned, pushed through the thickening rose fog toward the door. Lifted her head in time to see a darker form appear in the doorway, blocking her.

An older woman. Broad-shouldered and muscular with a Service burr. Burned face and arms, charred to black in places. One ear was gone. She strode forward, shooter at the ready. She didn't speak—her eyes said it all.

Jani raised her shooter, made to fire, then felt the room shift as her left knee buckled, animandroid muscles cramping. The woman fired at where she had been, the shot grazing her helmet. The display flared in multicolor chaos, then blanked.

Jani tried to boost to her feet, to see what had tripped her even as she kept her eyes on the woman.
I don't see anything
…The pink continued its slow-motion tumble throughout the room. She inhaled through her mouth and felt its sweet taste on her lips. She tried once more to rise, almost straightened, tried to sight down once more through the fog—

—and fell again, left leg cramping, the pain like fire, left arm tremoring. Tried to sight down once more. Fired. Saw her shot go wide as both left siders spasmed at once.

“Having a problem?” The woman lowered her shooter and stepped closer. “Whatever you are.” She kicked out, caught Jani's shooter with her booted foot, sent it flying.

Damn!
Jani tried to tuck and roll as she reached for the blade in her weapon belt, but her left side fought her every move.

The woman tossed her shooter aside and fell on Jani, left hand gripping her right wrist and holding her blade back as she pushed up the faceplate of her helmet.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” She crimped Jani's right wrist until the pain sang, plucked the knife from her grasp.

Jani smelled the woman's scorched flesh as a blistered smile filled her field of vision.

“Cat eyes.” The woman held her knife so the point dangled above Jani's left eye. “Mutant eyes.” Her voice came thick, smoke-damaged and raw. “Glass eyes—watch them shatter.”

Jani tried to will her left limbs steady. Felt them twitch instead, refuse to respond. “You have the look of a sergeant about you. I'll bet you were involved in the training.” She watched the woman's smile freeze. “They told you they'd get you out, didn't they? They lied.”

The smile vanished. The knife dangled.

 

Micah edged out of the blasted room, strained for any sound. He thought he'd heard the
whoosh whoosh
of exos again, but the noise had come from reactivated airflow pushing its way through a crumpled outlet grating.

“Walkin'in Jesus' footsteps.” This part of the embassy had been hit the hardest—Micah stepped over rubble, fallen sections of wall, pieces of furniture. Splashed through the flooding caused by damaged pipes. He'd found an idomeni clock in one of the blown rooms and tried to figure out how long he'd been inside the embassy, but he couldn't make heads or tails of the display and smashed it as the anger took him.

Walkin'…
one, two, three…. Counting his steps.

“Fifteen minutes? Twenty?” Had it been that long since he'd sent the lakespray flying? Felt that first gorgeous recoil of his mid-range?

He turned the corner, pausing first to look around and check if anyone was in the hall. He hadn't seen anyone for a time, but that didn't mean they weren't there. He heard them through the walls, with their whines, hisses, tremors. They'd find him eventually, since no one had taught him how to get out. It was like Pascal said, damn him.

Walkin'….
Four…five…six….

He walked past one empty, blasted room. Another. Then he heard voices as he neared the third, and his step slowed.

 

“They promised they'd take care of you.” Jani tried to will her limbs calm. The pink had dissipated, and she sensed that
the twitching had lessened. The spasms. “Train these nonessentials, give them just enough skill to be dangerous, but not enough to do the job right. We don't want to make it look like the real Service wants the idomeni out, after all. But an offshoot? A submerged couple of percent? We can explain that away to Cabinet Row. Not our fault. Nothing we could control.”

The knife shook. “Filth. You should have died years ago.”

I did, in theory
. Jani tried to bend her leg, jam her right knee into the woman's side. But she couldn't find the leverage, and the woman's body weighted her like stone. “You may as well talk, because they aren't going to help you. They'll probably kill you, in fact, when they find out you lived through the assault.”

The woman's eyes were small, mud brown, bright as if with fever. They clouded momentarily, as though she actually heard what Jani told her. But it didn't last. She hadn't come to the embassy to talk.

She raised the knife and her upper body at the same time. Pushed off Jani's helmet, then grabbed a fistful of hair and forced her head still.

“'Night, kitty.” The woman's smile widened as she brought her blade up.

Jani felt her left arm still for just long enough. Curled her fingers and brought up the heel of her hand, jamming it against the woman's chin, pushing her head back, pushing, pushing. The woman struck, the blade came down—once—twice—hitting Jani's left wrist, slipping between skin and the edge of armor. Pink carrier spattered—the more that flowed, the more the arm steadied.

Jani kept pushing up, until she felt the weight atop her ease. Brought up her right leg, then kicked out, pushing the woman off.
“Niall!”
She tried to roll over to her hands and knees, tried to stand, but her animandroid limbs still betrayed. They trembled as she put weight on them. Buckled. She fell back to the floor, made slick with rose-pink carrier.

The woman careened backwards, then rolled into a
crouch like a cat. She still held the blade. “No one can hear you.” She tensed as she made to spring.

“Walkin' in Jesus' footsteps.”

They both stilled, and looked to the entry.

“That's what you said.” A young man walked into the room. He wore base casuals, sweat-stained and torn, and held the woman's discarded shooter in a loose grip.

Jani fixed on the pointed, pale face.
I've seen him before.
The lance from the bunker, whose coat she'd worn. Faber.

“That's what you said, Sergeant.” Faber's voice came quiet, like he spoke to a child. “You trained us and drilled us and told us how special we were, and every time we stormed the embassy in the sims, you said the same thing. Walkin'.” His eyes, in contrast to his voice, looked stone-carved. There was a disconnect between how he looked and sounded, what he said and the way he said it. “Well, where is he?”

The woman's breathing had gone shaky, as though she tried to hoist a weight that was too heavy for her. She held out a hand to Faber. “At ease, Tiebold. Stand down.”

“That's not my name,” Faber responded, “just like Chrivet isn't yours.” He raised the shooter, and sighted down. “
Where is he
?”

“I said—” The woman's voice stopped in her throat as the shooter crack sounded. The impact knocked her backwards, sending her sprawling, her limbs jerking as the pulse packet dissipated throughout her body.

“Lance Corporal.” Jani had worked into a sitting position, left limbs still twitching. “Stand down.”

Faber paused to look at her. Then he turned back to Chrivet, and sighted down once more.

“
Drop the shooter, then raise your arms. Above your head. Slowly.
” Niall entered, shooter fixed on Faber.
“Now!”
The young man slowly lowered the weapon—Niall stepped forward and plucked it from his grasp.
“Pull! Get the hell in here!”
He powered down the shooter and holstered it, then flipped up his faceplate and looked to Jani. “You're bleeding.”

“It's just carrier—I'm all right.” Jani watched Faber, who
still stood in front of Chrivet's body, his eyes fixed on nothing.

Pullman blew in, followed by a mixed bag of human and idomeni equipped with scanners and gurneys. Niall stepped out of the way of a pair of humanish medics who headed toward Chrivet, and came to a halt next to Faber. “Pull, this is Lance Corporal Micah Faber. It was his late buddy made mincemeat out your left kidney.”

“Is that a fact, sir?” Pullman flipped up his faceplate. “I'll bear that in mind.” He closed in behind Faber, yanking back his arms and binding his wrists with restraints he'd pulled from his weapons belt.

“All right.” Niall walked to Jani's side, and crouched down. “What happened?”