Greeley nodded. “I’m gonna kill all those black bastards, Captain.”
“You go hunt,” Jolo said. “Koba, tell Barth he’s got the conn, now y’all go get the kids.”
“Captain, treat her well,” Greeley said, and handed him Betsy.
Jolo ran down to the hatch, peered down through the hole, wind whistling into the hold, pushing him back. Koba had the Argossy 50 meters above the surface. Orange earth and a burning transport awaited—the dead kid with the bright green jacket snapping in the wind, partially covered in sand, the charge hose a black snake in the shape of an S.
He jumped, aiming for the tiny reflection of light off of Marco’s illuminator above the atrium.
The Things We Do For Love
Duval
1 day left
Jolo slipped down through the humid Duval air, his heart pounding, his mind gripped with fear and panic. I’m going to die. But that soon passed. He remembered. I am not that Jolo. And that’s okay. He had time for one good breath of air and he braced for impact, dust flying up around him when his feet hit the ground. His mind told him he was fine, but parts of him still doubted. He looked up and the Argossy was already streaking off towards Jaxxon.
He took a few tentative steps to make sure his legs were good and then he broke into a dead run. The ground was hot. Hotter than usual. And when he stopped he looked back towards the lip of the ravine and could see heat ripples in the air--the core was heating up. Was he too late? he wondered.
Marco had padlocked the big, clear atrium cover, but fortunately Jolo had a key. He pointed Betsy at the flat side of the old lock and blew it apart. He lifted the cover and there was the metal shaft that brought light and air down to Marco’s prized plants.
He swung his feet over the edge and sat there for a moment wondering if the shaft would hold his weight. And then he thought of Katy, down there, held by the black bastards, and he slid down.
The first 10 meters or so were at a slight angle, then it dropped straight down, his body again weightless. He couldn’t tell when he was going to touch down but right before he slammed down into the atrium he felt the leaves of Marco’s plants slapping against his legs. He came down on a table and it broke and he hit the floor surrounded by dried leaves and pieces of wooden table.
He stood up, the Colt in his right hand and Besty in his left. The plants were mostly brown and dead, except for a few Duval species that lived in the desert areas. The place smelled like Marco’s house, plants and wood and leather chairs, real things. But there were new smells too: smoke and ruin. The BG. Marco came to this place every day to take care of his plants. But standing there in the heat, amongst the wilted, brown tomato plants, the air dry and stale, Jolo knew Marco hadn’t been here for days.
Koba said his scans had the human heat sigs in a storage bay connected to the main hangar next to the BG transport. Jolo went down the stairs into a large open room, his eyes scanning for any hint of movement, but it was quiet. In some other time maybe this space would have been used as a meeting place, but until recently had been for food storage. The floor in the center of the room was wet, and there were scorch marks on the ceiling above, black gashes, but no blood and no bodies. In the corner a few Fed ration boxes remained, the rest now black and ruined in the burning transport topside.
Jolo edged closer to the food stash and noticed a foot sticking out from behind one of the Fed containers. He eased around to the back of the boxes and there on the floor was a human shape wrapped in a thin cover the Duvalites used to keep the sun and sand off of them in the desert. Jolo kicked the man’s boot but he did not move. At least it wasn’t a Jaylen, he thought. The man was as still as death and Jolo couldn’t hear him breathing, couldn’t hear his heartbeat. A tinge of fear swept through Jolo and he scanned the area but the big room was still quiet. Suddenly a strong hand had Jolo’s leg and he was on his back. Instinctively Jolo brought the Colt down and trained it on the man’s head. He was about to pull the trigger when the cover fell off the man’s face and Jolo recognized him. George.
The synthetic humanoid sat up and stared at Jolo, tilted his head. “If you are quiet and still you can hear their breathing,” George said. “Two levels down in storage bay #7. Surrounded by two mechs, at least ten of my blond sisters, and one of the clever brown-haired variety, missing an arm.” His face was calm and serene, like they were safely hidden away on some oxygen rich rock with all the people they loved and a cargo hauler full of Fed meal packs, instead of the current reality: about to be killed by a BG energy blade.
“It’s good to see you,” said Jolo. “Let’s go.” Jolo stood and held out his hand and George just looked at it.
“I am sorry. I do not think I will be of use. Though I have thinned their ranks a bit—uh, some of the blonds are here,” he
