A Private Little War(138)

He wondered about the pilot of this transport. Some idiot kid like he’d been, veteran of Luna, Bloemfontein, and the battle camps of Washington Free State, now having been offered the best deal he was ever going to get by Ted Prinzi: one small betrayal in exchange for gold enough to effect an escape. It was the deal Carter’d never been offered—the one he would’ve jumped and danced and killed for. One lucky break and things might’ve all turned out so differently for him.

Eddie had told them—him and Fenn—that this was their only chance. That night when they’d gotten him drunk and watched him cry. He’d said there were emergency orders, a stock of hard currency set aside for just such an unlikely eventuality. No chutes for pilots, but one big golden one for management. He’d said all they could hope for was one pilot willing to pull their asses out of the fire when it all went wrong. And then Ted had gone and found three.

Eddie and Ted were supposed to be the only ones who’d known about this fail-safe. And now there was only Ted. When Carter’d left his tent this morning, in mortal fear already that he’d been abandoned, he’d gone to the field house because the field house was where the comms equipment was and the comms equipment was supposed to be manned continuously. He’d found the door locked. Inside, he’d heard only the whistle and static of equipment—no voices, no signs of human occupation or industry.

He’d kicked the door in. Convinced now that something had gone terribly wrong while he’d slept, Carter had barged through the door, meaning to get on the gear himself and call home, call for help, call someone.

He’d found Eddie’s body in a heap on the ground near the FTL relay, shot twice—once in the chest and once straight through the lovely, thousand-watt smile. Carter’d gagged, turned away, then walked out onto the field and seen the men gathering. When he’d spied the first entry flares skittering across the sky, he’d understood. He knew what was coming. He knew that his fear of being abandoned, buried here, left behind, had merely been premonition. He knew that they were all leaving together. All who were left, anyway.

Another shrieking barrage of artillery shells tore up the ground, plowing up the far cross where B and C strips touched and marching near enough that their concussion wave twisted the walls of the machine shop and blew hot, black grit rattling along the skin of the dropship with a sound like stones shaken in a tin can.

Carter slowed. His boot touched the steel tongue of the ramp. He could smell warm plastic and lubricating oil rolling out from the cargo compartment. He stopped. Fenn burst past him, boots ringing on steel, then stopped. He turned around. Shouted Carter’s name.

Carter thought of Frogtown. He thought of that sweet moment, lifting free of gravity.

Fenn darted back down the ramp to where Carter stood, one foot on steel, one in the mud. Emile pushed past him. Diane. Some mechanic he didn’t know. Fenn was shouting.

“Kevin!”

Carter looked up. “I’ve got to go back,” he said.

“No. We’re going home, Kev. Now.”

“Cat,” Carter said. “I forgot Cat.”

Fenn grabbed him by the shoulder.

“I promised Cat.”

Carter ducked the punch he knew was coming. Twisting free, he turned and ran for the tent line.

Fenn did not follow him.





Fenn had run, keeping pace behind Carter the whole way by stamping his own boots down into the prints Carter left in the melting frost. As the black bay of the transport loomed large before them, he felt the runnels of hot water—snow melt and condensing atmospheric moisture boiling on the black skin of the ship—splashing his head and shoulders. Suddenly the frost was gone and Fenn found himself running alone.

He stopped, looked back, saw Carter slowing and, doubtless, thinking of something stupid. He got this face on him when his brain was working, Carter did. This face like he was chewing the fat of a steak he was no longer interested in eating. Fenn knew this face too well. This was the face Carter was wearing now.

Fenn darted back down the ramp to the martial tune of crumping explosions that made his ears ring and the castanet rattle of tortured earth being blown against the hot skin of the ship. Carter’s foot was touching the ramp, but he was looking back over his shoulder at something. Fenn reached for him.

“None of that now, soldier,” he yelled, forcing a tone of lightness into his voice, a jocularity he did not feel. Carter appeared not to hear him. Or not to care. Bodies pushed past them. Fenn didn’t register the faces. He slapped at Carter’s shoulder and tried again. “There’s nothing out there for you!”