Brady crawls out from under his sheet of plating, and suddenly everything is quiet.
That quiet is broken by the sound of boots stepping softly on cement. Just a few of them. Facing Brady, I tap my gun and hold up three fingers. He looks terrified, but nods in acknowledgment, and I lower one finger. Then the next. Then the last one.
I lean out over the pallet of foam, take careful aim, and squeeze.
The fat revolver kicks in my hand. A heavily armored mercenary drops dead, plugged through his tactical helmet. I swing to the next one and hastily fire another shot, dropping him. I duck back down just as the rest of the mercenaries in the doorway take hasty aim at me and unleash a flurry of bullets from their rifles, some zipping through the air over my head and crunching into walls, others thunking into the foam pallet. Brady is already cowering low.
“Get any?” I ask him.
“Yeah I think I hit one.”
“Move.”
The boots are stomping in now, dozens of them. I crawl a couple of meters closer to Brady, and he slides closer to me. A machine gun bursts off some cover fire for the troops pouring through the door, but I know that in seconds they’ll be in here and fanning out, so I take a deep breath and rise to my feet, dozens of bullets whipping by me as I take careful aim and fire.
A piercing crack as the fuel canister by the doorway blows. A fiery quick flash throws heavily armored men into the air like ragdolls. Another goes off almost simultaneously, hurling another cluster of soldiers hard to the ground before I even get back behind cover. They shout and panic, abandoning their little hand signal system as the ones left alive and able to get up beat a hurried retreat. I can’t help but smile, even though I don’t have a shot at the last canister.
“Form up!” a voice shouts, demanding discipline. “Storm! Storm!”
The sound of more men rushing into the hangar is muffled by the hammering of a machine gun laying down cover fire. When it stops, I peek up again and fire two more shots, the first missing, the second punching right through a view-glass facemask and killing instantly. Bullets rain at me as I duck back down.
Brady fires a barrage of blind shots over our cover. The gray smoke has dissipated, so I pull my breather mask loose and sniff the air, testing it. It smells of gunpowder and burnt plastic, but seems breathable, so I let it hang loose around my neck.
I roll away from the pallet of foam, exposed for half a second before I’m in cover behind tanks of sealant. I rise to my feet and lean out. The remaining mercenaries are storming back in, fanned out. I take aim and pop one in the center of his helmet, right above the visor. He drops as I duck back into cover. The others fire as they keep coming. Bullets plug into the barrels of sealant, stuck before they can reach me. Brady blasts off a barrage of shots, taking another one down.
I check the piping hot chamber of Greenman’s revolver. Only got two shots left.
“Brady,” I call to him, “we need to get to your car.”
He doesn’t question why. But he hugs the pallet he’s hiding behind, wincing in fear as bullets keep zipping over his head. “I’m not gonna make it, Taryn. You go.”
“What?”
“The car’s set to let any user with the key drive it,” he shouts. “It’s in the ignition. Take it and go. I’ll survive here.”
I’m not sure I believe him. “Brady, we’ve got to go!”
“Then go! I’ll cover you!” He fires a couple of blind shots over the pallet.
The car is only about ten meters away, but it’s exposed, and it’s not a straight path. I’ll have to wind around some boxes and a wide stack of aluminum sheets. Creeping to the edge of the barrels I’m hiding behind, I crouch low, then spring forward. I roll into cover behind the aluminum as bullets zip by, cracking off the floor behind me and plunking into the other side of the soft metal, burying in it. Underneath the gunfire is the faint sound of approaching sirens. Oasis PD will be inbound by now, and Space Port Security will be setting up outside.
I lean out around the side of the aluminum, aim, and take a shot. One of the mercenaries drops his gun and grasps at his neck. I’m behind cover again before I see him fall.
The car is about seven meters away. “Brady,” I call back, “how about that cover fire?”
As the bullets rain over our heads, we share a second of eye contact. He’s terrified. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, barely audible over the gunfire.
“I’m going,” I tell him. “If you want me to make it, put some metal in the air.”
When I hear the sound of a clip dropping out of a rifle between bursts of fire, I lean forward and run for it. Three long strides and a dive, and I’m at the car. Bullets fly past and crack off the cement as I fumble to open the passenger-side door and get in.
In the seat, I duck low, keeping my head below the level of the windshield. Feeling something wet and warm just above my hip, I touch my side. The skin burns with pain and my hand comes away red. A long gash has been dug there by a bullet.
The blood’s pouring out fast, but I’ll live. I can hear bullets chewing into the car by the dozens, many punching through the windshield. I’ve got to hurry if I want the thing to drive. In a rush, I climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and hit the gas.
I shove the driver’s side door open and lean out, steering by the view of the floor. I’m playing a dangerous game, and I’ve got to be quick.
The unspent fuel canister comes into view, and in one smooth motion, I lean out, hook it by the handle with my index finger, and fling it into the passenger seat. Slamming the door shut, I speed forward blindly. Boxes and objects thump over the hood and bounce off the cracking glass. A mercenary in heavy armor rolls over the car in a sprawl, breaking the smashed windshield completely. Then suddenly the light changes. I’m out.
I sit up and have to swerve immediately to avoid crashing into a parked van. Uniformed officers flee in front of me, shouting. The car smashes through a barricade and something pops, making the wheels skid, but I keep the pedal to the floor, straightening out, getting the speed back up as more bullets ding into the body.
Sirens sound behind me. To my left, Oasis PD cars are flooding through the nearest entrance gate, speeding to cut me off. I keep the pedal pressed hard to the floor. My pursuers are closing in from multiple angles.
It’s going to be close.
I’m only a hundred meters or so away from the launch area when one of the cop cars catches my rear bumper and sends me into a screeching spin. Brady’s car rolls up on two wheels for a second, but then comes back down, and I hit the accelerator again, wheeling back toward the launchpad. The guns have gone strangely quiet; they must be afraid of hitting the shuttle.
In seconds, I’m there. I screech to a stop at the base of the support ramp, grab the fuel canister, and get out. Half a dozen police cars from several different agencies are pulling into position all around, officers rushing out, aiming weapons at me. In two steps, though, I’m at the base of the support ramp, a huge piece of infrastructure with water, fuel and oxygen hookups, and a ramp leading up to the door of the shuttle, which sits in its recession under the hard, smooth pavement, the top poking twenty meters or so above ground.
“Stop right there!” one of the cops shouts. “Down!” yells another. “Put the gun down!”
“Bomb!” I call out at the top of my lungs, holding Aaron Greenman’s heavy revolver up to the fuel canister like it’s the head of a hostage. “Back off! Back! Off! Bomb!”
That makes them hesitate. For a second, I hope that there’s a lack of leadership here, but as I slowly back my way onto the ramp, a few more cars come screeching up, and out of one of them storms a Space Port Security Captain, silver-and-blue epaulets on his uniform peeking out from a hastily strapped-on armor vest. He holds a small mic up to his mouth as he steps to the forefront, in command. “Stop right there,” he says, his voice amplified. “We’d like to hear your demands.”