As the MPs began rushing the crowd, Raynor knew that he and his friends needed to escape or be arrested. He took advantage of his momentary victory to shout, “Harnack! Kydd! Follow me.”
And just as they had for the last nine weeks, the other two obeyed willingly. Unfortunately, some of the combatants were blocking the path to the kitchen. So when a bleeding marine stumbled into Raynor’s path, he pushed the man into a swabbie, who swore as both tumbled to the ground.
Raynor led the charge, stepping over the grappling foes—and inadvertently slammed the swinging kitchen door into a stunned waitress as they burst through. Mortified, Raynor glanced down to see that the front of her minidress had been plastered with chocolate cake on one side and what looked like framberry pie on the other.
He opened his mouth to apologize, and was greeted by a bone-crunching closed-fist punch to the nose. He stumbled back into Harnack and Kydd as the cursing woman continued her assault by scooping a gob of chocolate off her apron and smashing it into his face.
“Ow, damn it! Knock it off … we’re just tryin’ to get outta here!” Raynor pleaded, slurring from drink, wincing in pain, and mumbling through the heavy smear of sticky chocolate and blood that now coated his nostrils and mouth.
Two white-clad cooks appeared behind the waitress. One of them lifted her by the armpits as she thrashed about. “Let go of me! What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, April, we got this,” the cook said as he put her down. April stomped off, furiously wiping her dress.
“Hey, chef man,” Harnack said, as he battled a hiccup, “let us get the hell outta here and no one gets hurt. Otherwise, I’m gonna break your fekkin’ bones, one by one… .”
The cook made use of a meat cleaver to point toward the back of the kitchen. “Get out. And don’t you idiots ever come back here. I specialize in butchering meat. Get me?” He waved the cleaver and the other chefs snickered behind him.
“Okay, let’s go!” Raynor yelled as he scrambled up and dashed toward the back. He snatched a rag off the counter and quickly ran it over his face before tossing it haphazardly on the floor.
Raynor saw Kydd hesitate as he edged nervously past the cooks, who stood watching with their thick arms folded. “Come on!”
The three recruits bolted out the back door, aware that the MPs were no doubt making their way through the brawling crowd and would be there to arrest them at any moment. They exited into the rear parking lot.
They split up, searching for a means of escape, but found nothing until Raynor spotted an olive drab vulture hover-cycle idling next to a marine combat car—it probably belonged to one of the MPs who was called to the scene. How the hell am I going to drive this damn thing? Raynor wondered, his head swirling with doubt. But he knew he had no other choice. “Okay! Here’s our ride, men … hurry, climb on the back.”
Harnack chuckled as he approached, getting his first clear look at Raynor’s face since the chocolate incident. “Jimmy, my brother, you are shitfaced! Literally, you have shit on your face!”
Kydd howled with laughter.
Raynor self-consciously wiped the last of the chocolate off his face with his sleeve and then straightened. “Okay, seriously. We gotta go now.” The vulture rocked slightly as Raynor swung a leg over the seat and eyeballed the controls. With its long streamlined nose, a seat large enough for an armored soldier to sit on, and two powerful engines, the vulture was equipped with standard handlebars, plus some simple instrumentation. What could go wrong?
Thanks to the fact that Raynor wasn’t wearing armor, there was enough room for Harnack to swing in behind him, but that left Kydd with nowhere to sit. “Think you can stand behind Hank?” Raynor asked, eyeing the rear of the machine over his shoulder. “Yeah … just put your feet on the floor and lean backward. Looks like the engine compartment will support you.”
Kydd clearly didn’t want to be left behind, so as Raynor revved the engines experimentally, he straddled the seat. It was a tight fit, and the additional weight caused the vulture to sink alarmingly. But there was no time to consider the mechanics of the situation as someone yelled, “Halt!” and a whistle blew.
Raynor twisted the left handle, felt the bike jerk, and saw the letter “D” appear on the control panel in front of him. Then, as a couple of MPs pounded across the parking lot, Raynor opened the throttle. That was a mistake because with two engines, and no wheel-generated friction to slow the vulture down, the machine was fast. Kydd was nearly thrown back over the engine compartment as the bike took off, Harnack howled with delight, and Raynor experienced a moment of panic as the nose hit the side of a parked car and glanced off.
Having backed the throttle off, and cranked the handlebars over, Raynor managed to guide the vulture out of the lot and onto the street beyond. Sparks flew as the badly overloaded bike bottomed out, rose an inch or two, and accelerated away.
Perhaps Raynor would have been able to drive the vulture down a quiet side street and abandon it there if it hadn’t been for the combat car that gave chase. Though not as fast as the vulture, the four-seat vehicle was better driven, and therefore able to keep up.
Raynor glanced into a rearview mirror, saw the flashing lights, and turned onto a main street. The sun had set, but thanks to the planet’s moons and a clear sky, there was still enough light to see by as Raynor wove in and out between other vehicles. The bottom of the vulture scraped the pavement each time it tilted more than two or three degrees to the left or right and sent sparks arcing away.
“They’re gaining on us!” Harnack warned, as he shouted into Raynor’s right ear. “Go faster!”
So Raynor twisted the throttle and felt the machine accelerate. Signs flashed by, one of them said something about “Police,” but Raynor missed the rest of the message as he blew through the intersection, saw the T-shaped warning sign, and knew he should turn right or left. But he was going too fast.
A curb rushed at him, and there was a horrible grating sound as the vulture lurched up and over the obstruction before landing on a perfectly manicured lawn. The grass led up a gentle slope to a low-lying sign that read policestation, which shattered into a dozen pieces as the vulture plowed through it.
Kydd was thrown clear, Harnack was wedged between Raynor and the engine compartment, and the hover-cycle’s onboard computer shut everything down as the vulture skidded to a stop only steps from the building’s front door.
Raynor struggled to his feet and turned to assist Harnack as Kydd tottered across the lawn to retrieve his kepi, which had landed several yards away.
“I’m driving next time,” Kydd said calmly as he brushed off his uniform. “And you can fekkin’ stand up.”
It wasn’t much of a joke, but the other two thought it was hilarious, and fell down laughing.
All three were arrested four minutes later.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Confederate troops provided critical support to nuclear fortifications on Char today during heavy fighting, helping to drive Kel-Morian forces into retreat. Colonel Trelmont of the 2nd regiment congratulated the soldiers in a news conference later this evening, saying, ‘If it weren’t for loyal Confederate citizens bolstering our ranks, men and women picking up arms to defend our unified accord, we would have lost a planet today.’”