The Final Battle

waving of arms.

The school’s front door opened, and there he was. Michael’s heart kicked hard when he saw the familiar figure of Colonel Hartspring, dressed like the rest of the DocSec troopers in black fatigues under a combat vest and carrying a stubby machine pistol. He strode out into the yard followed by what Michael assumed were the marines of Team Victor. They made their way to their ATVs and climbed in, Hartspring getting into an APC.

That’s his command vehicle, Michael thought, looking at its array of aerials and datacomm lasers. Fusion plants came online.

After a short pause, the vehicles set off, some turning right to head west along N’debele and the rest turning left to go east. A moment later, the search teams followed on foot. Again, half went left and half went right.

Now Michael really was confused. If their plan was to start searching the city, they’d have all gone off together and they’d have gone in truckbots. No, they had something more specific in mind, and it was close. They-

It hit Michael like a brick between the eyes.

You are a fucking idiot, he raged at himself. They’re not searching all of Cooperbridge. They don’t need to; Hartspring knows where I am.

Michael’s heart turned to ice. Somebody’s chromaflage discipline must have slipped long enough for a DocSec surveillance holocam to pick up the mistake as the team-or me, thought Michael-made its way to Papa-Six. That was the only explanation.

Good thing I ordered Shinoda and the rest to go when I did, he consoled himself. My conscience is bad enough without adding them to the list of people I’ve gotten killed.

Now Michael could see Hartspring’s plan as if it had been drawn on the ground in front of him. It was obvious. Backed up by Team Victor’s firepower, DocSec would throw a cordon of laser trip wires around the area, one even a flea couldn’t get through. When the perimeter was secure-it already is, he realized- Hartspring would send in the search teams to flush him out. And they would. It was only a matter of time.

Michael’s time had all but run out. He had to find a way out of the trap Hartspring had laid for him. The man had played him for a fool, and what a fool he was.

Of course ENCOMM always knew where Team Victor was. Hartspring had made sure of that. And he’d changed his strategy. Kidnapping Anna might have been his original plan, but that would have been all but impossible in the chaos of combat. So instead of going after Anna-or Michael, come to that-he had sat back and waited for Michael to come to him. Which he had just done.

Michael cursed his stupidity, his pride, his arrogance.

He took a deep breath. Beating himself up was only wasting time. He had to get out. But how? A careful look around the ruined warehouse provided no options. It was built on a ceramcrete slab, and so there was no way into any sewers or drains that might run below it. The building’s simple plasfiber-covered frame and handful of offices offered nowhere to hide, and even if they had, the searchbots would sniff him out. Make a run for it? No, that wouldn’t work. He had delayed too long. He’d never get past DocSec’s trip wires.

With fear now threatening to turn to panic, Michael cast about in a desperate search for a way out. But no matter how hard he looked, there was none. As if he were looking for divine intervention, his head went back. That was when he spotted the control cabin on the massive gantry crane spanning the warehouse. Wait, he thought with mounting excitement. My breath is warm, and warm air rises, which means the searchbots won’t be able to detect the carbon dioxide I exhale. It’ll mix with the sun- heated air under the ceiling and escape through the holes in the roof.

“Yes!” he hissed, exultant now that he had a real chance to escape Hartspring’s trap. He should be safe. Searchbots couldn’t climb ladders as far as he knew. Better still, their infrared sensors would not see him. The metal cabin would be so hot that any heat his body added would go unnoticed.

If the Hammers wanted to find him, they’d have to climb the ladder, and even then they had to spot him under his chromaflage cape. But Michael hoped they wouldn’t even bother to look for him in a place so exposed, so obvious.

He did not wait. Jumping to his feet, he ran hard for the ladder, pulling himself up rung by rung, wincing as flame-seared hands took his weight; then he moved along the access catwalk and into the cabin, its interior hot in the sun-baked air.

Forcing the safety gate half shut, Michael went to the very back of the cabin and slumped to the floor, all but his boots and head tucked away out of sight behind a large junction box. Pulling his cape over his body, he did the only thing he could do: wait.

Michael awoke with a start, for a moment confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then it all flooded back; he cursed his lack of discipline. This was not the time to be snoring his head off; searchbots had all the senses except touch, and so they would hear him if he did.

His heart thudded in his chest when he heard a skittering, scratching sound: the sound of dry leaves being blown gently along, the sound of a searchbot legs as they made their way across the ceramcrete floor of the warehouse. And not just one set of legs; there were lots, and for all its gentleness, it was a truly frightening sound: the sound of mindless machines hunting for him.

There was a heavier sound now: the noise of boots. “Dubcek, Carmichael, take that end,” a voice boomed, rattling and echoing around the warehouse, “Mishra, Kowalski, the other.”

Don’t look up, Michael prayed, heart pounding and mouth ash-dry with fear. Please do not look up.

The boots crashed their way up and down. “Nothing, sarge,” one of the men said.

“Okay, outside. Mishra?”

“Nothing here. The bots say the place is clean.”

“Fine.”

Michael had been holding his breath so long that his chest burned in protest; exhaling in a long, slow silent hiss, he let a tiny flame of hope spring to life.

It did not last, snuffed out by a few simple words. “What about up there?” the corporal said.

“Kraa’s blood,” a voice protested. “Nobody’s going to hide up there.”

“Get your fat ass up that ladder, Kowalski, and make sure that’s the case.”

“Oh, come on, corp. What’s the point?”

“The point, Marine Kowalski, is that I will kick you from here to sunset if you don’t. Now move!”

“Yes, corp.”

“What the fuck are you doing, Kowalski? Take the damn probe with you.”

“Do I have to?” the voice whined. “Those things are heavy.”

“Kowalski!” the corporal roared; his voice was incandescent with rage.

“Okay, okay. I’ll take it.”

Michael looked around, frantic now. His chromaflage cape might fool Kowalski; nothing would fool the probe. At best he had thirty seconds left before the marine found him, and then his life was over.

Defeat swamped him. He slumped back. Thirty seconds or thirty years; it made no difference. This was the end, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except raise his pistol and wait, peering at the door to the control cabin through the tiniest of gaps in his cape.

He counted down the seconds as booted feet clumped along the catwalk. The man stopped. “Like I said, Corporal Shit-for-Brains,” he muttered when he looked in, “there’s not a damn thing up here.”

For one glorious moment, Michael thought the man would leave it at that. But it was not to be.

With a grunt, Kowalski lifted the probe-a bulky box, its front studded with sensor wands-and balanced it on the safety gate. Buttons were punched; a soft hum told Michael that the machine had started to work.

Michael let the cape slip away from his face. It took Kowalski a few seconds to notice; by then Michael had his pistol pointing right at the man’s face. He put his finger to his lips. “Shhhhh,” he hissed.

The man stiffened. He blinked and stared back but said nothing. But only for a few seconds. “Corporal!” the man shouted, starting to back away.

Michael shot Kowalski between the eyes. The crack of the laser pulse sounded horribly loud. Dropping the pistol, Michael scrambled to his feet. He lunged out even as the body started ever so slowly to fall away from him.