She grabbed a corner and tugged. Light flooded into the room.
Will turned Stein’s burnt Field Zapper over in his hands. The battery lights were still winking away merrily to themselves: with any luck it wouldn’t short out and electrocute him.
‘Where the hell’s that damn Dragonfly?’
Right on cue the sunlight disappeared again. The flat’s windows rattled in their frames as Lieutenant Brand’s gunship twisted in the air, dipping its nose down to expose the double drop bay doors in its belly.
A single bullet thudded into the apartment door, ripping a hole straight through it and into the tiny hall. And then another one. And another.
‘That’s as close as you get!’
Will pulled up his Whomper and thumbed the trigger. The assault rifle kicked in his hands-its bark deafening in the confines of the filthy lounge-and the front door tore itself apart. One moment it was there, and the next it was a hail of sizzling plastic, pattering down on the threadbare carpet. He slung the Whomper over his shoulder and powered up Stein’s Field Zapper. The weapon’s lights flickered then died.
‘Fuck.’ He thumped it against the wall. Shook it. Tried again.
A tatty, ginger-haired figure leapt into the gap where the door used to be.
She was big-boned rather than fat, dressed in the same eclectic, colourful rags they’d seen this morning. Tribal scars twisted across her pale skin, pulling at the corners of her ice-green eyes. She was carrying an old F24, virtually an antique, and as she brought it up, a smile split her face. Teeth filed to points.
Will shot her.
The arc from Stein’s Field Zapper caught her in the chest, throwing her back into the sodden corridor. Stepping forward, Will pointed the weapon at the waterlogged carpet and held the trigger down.
A chorus of shrieks and squeals erupted in the hall as the blue lightning danced down the corridor. Then there was the sound of bodies hitting the floor. And then silence. Will didn’t risk sticking his head out to check the results: someone might have been wearing insulated boots.
DS Cameron forced the lounge window open. Debris leapt into the air, dancing and spinning in the hot backwash from the Dragonfly’s engines, like angry, paper seagulls.
Sergeant Nairn dropped from the ship’s belly, a cluster of body wires reeling out behind him. He grabbed at the open window with both hands and DS Cameron lunged forwards, dragging him into the room. Before his feet could even touch the carpet, gunfire was clanging off the ship’s hull: a Network Dragonfly made a big and inviting target.
Something bellowed from the floor above and the whole craft lurched.
‘Come on people, get a move on: we can’t hang around here all bloody afternoon!’
Will helped Nairn clip on Stein and Beaton’s bodywires while DS Cameron wrapped another set of wires through the handles on the scanning canister, finishing them off with a huge, in elegant knot. The bag of heads went into the cargo net.
That just left Will and the Detective Sergeant.
As they struggled into their harnesses a tubular canister bounced in through the door and landed on the grubby carpet-little red lights chasing each other round and round the ends.
‘Oh shit…’ Will punched his throat-mike and braced himself. ‘Hard D. Now!’
The Dragonfly leapt away from the building, yanking them out of the living room window. The scanning canister caught the frame side on, glass and twisted aluminium spraying everywhere. Someone screamed, the sound whipped away as the gunship rolled into a tight turn, accelerating hard.
The explosion tore Allan Brown’s apartment to shreds.
The sun hangs in the dirty blue sky like a jewelled furnace. It’s blurred around the edge, a faint shimmer of chemical fog that grows thicker as she watches. The wind must have shifted, bringing with it the firestacks’ industrial perfume.
She’s been wandering the streets for hours, drifting through her own personal smog. Faces swim in and out of focus: colleagues, patients, victims…
Something flashes overhead and she turns to watch it roar across the sky. Small figures dangle beneath it, slowly being drawn up into its belly. The shape is familiar, haunting: like a bad dream only half remembered. But right now everything is like that.
She doesn’t even know who she is.
Her stomach rumbles and she flinches, startled by the sound. It’s been six years since she’s felt anything as profound as hunger. She knows this because one of the city’s big, floating Scrubbers carries a flickering advert with today’s date.
Six years.
Six years since she’s been able to feel anything at all.
Hunger. Love. Anger. Pleasure. Revenge. Lust. Pain. Seven perfect words, much hotter than a mere ball of burning gas ninety-three-million miles away. Pretty words: shiny like the blade of a knife.
She drifts on, ignoring everything but the growing hollow in her belly, unable to do anything about it; she can’t feed herself, they saw to that on the operating table.
Six years of intravenous nourishment. Nil by mouth.
They took it all away…
But she’s going to get it back. Oh yes. She’s going to get it all back.
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: breathe.’ Private Dickson straddled Stein’s scorched body in the darkened drop bay, pumping away at his heart. Every time she said ‘breathe’ Private Rhodes pinched Stein’s nose and blew into his mouth. Then they would wait for his lungs to deflate and the whole pattern would repeat again.
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: breathe.’
Sergeant Nairn was up to his armpits in the resuscitation unit mounted on the drop bay wall. Cables snaked out from it, lying in coils at his feet, little sparks fizzling away in the depths of the circuit boards, adding the smell of hot plastic to the harsh tang of burnt hair and burnt flesh.
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: breathe.’
Beaton sat on the mesh floor of her cubicle, head back, face pale, clutching her left wrist where it had caught the flat’s windowsill on the way out. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Stein since they’d laid him out on the central walkway like a fish for filleting.
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: breathe.’
Will lurched back along the walkway to where Private Floyd was slumped against the bulkhead. The drop bay was baking hot, but Floyd was shivering, his forehead glassy with cold sweat. The front of his battle dress glistened with blood, but at least his heart was still beating.
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: breathe.’
Will knelt in front of him and peeled away the sticky fabric surrounding the wound. When Sergeant Nairn said the trooper had been shot, Will had expected some sort of flesh wound, not a gaping hole. It looked as if someone had welded a dozen nails onto the business end of a sledgehammer and then pounded merry hell out of Floyd’s shoulder.
‘What on earth did you stand in front of? A truck?’
Floyd hissed a couple of short breaths through clenched teeth, then tried for a smile. ‘Think it was an old…old P-Seven-Fifty.’
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: breathe.’
Will dug into the small first-aid locker at the side of the cubicle and pulled out a handful of blockers. He snapped three of the small, plastic ampoules into the injured man’s neck, waiting for them to take effect before popping the cap off a tin of skinpaint.
‘How’s…how’s Stein?’
‘Something’s wrong with the crash kit: no oxygen, no EKG, no defib. Nothing.’ He gave the tin a shake, then sprayed thick, pink mist into the wound.
‘One, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand: fucking breathe damn you!’
The paint bubbled where it touched raw flesh, sealing the ruptured veins, bridging the gap between the tattered muscles. It didn’t look very pretty, but at least it would hold Floyd’s shoulder together till they reached Glasgow Royal Infirmary.