Hell, she thinks. Hell.
Because she’s kinda pissed.
Acquire the right weapon system and she can resume her day job from one of these towers. A little payback via the rooftop and a good sight picture. She’ll just shoot everyone in red and black and then they will know you do not mess with the marines.
Demons on deck; Hell to repel!
She shouts the hullbuster motto inside her skull and imagines a good sight picture and just the right trigger pressure. Love is a stationary target.
And then they’ll come for you because there’s probably about forty thousand of them running amok playing Resistance Fighter: the RPG in the city right now. And then back at Command you’ll have to explain why you shot all those civvies down.
You know that, Manda! You’ll have to explain.
Well, sir, she almost says aloud. They deserved it.
And that’s a pretty darn funny conversation, and she has to suppress a laugh, which reminds her that someone either busted a rib when they beat her or gave it a pretty good bruising.
So, don’t do that, Manda. Just get out. Get back.
That’s all you gotta do, Manda Panda. Get yourself out. Get yourself back.
She can stick a guard easy. None of the “stone-cold killers” she’s seen with this bunch strike her as a problem. Observation and planning will get her clear.
Play it cool. That’s all you gotta do, Manda.
She feels good about this. Very good, in fact.
They take her into a pitifully contrived “jail cell” that’s little more than some wire mesh over an alcove at the back of the basement. Easy stuff to get through.
Ninety percent of her plan is formed as they switch on a light and she sees the two legionnaires, both beaten and messed up, lying inside the cage. They pull back the wire mesh and force her through. Then someone throws a medical bag taken from some marine, most likely the downed bird, onto the dirty floor.
She just stands there. Clenching the knife between arm and chest.
She hears boots stepping through the crowd. They’re clearly military. They have that dull hollow thump of issue boots on concrete.
She turns to see a man. Older, gray hair. Cruel eyes. Shining black diamonds in the dim of the basement gloom.
“They need attention, girl. Use the kit. And, to be clear: we took out anything you could use as a weapon, Sergeant, so make do without the laser scalpel, shears, and needles. Get to work, Marine. Your little combat lifesaver skills you learned to make corporal is all them leejes have going for them. Keep ’em alive. Legionnaires are valuable. Marines, not so much. If they die… I guess you do too.”
Then he turns and walks away, and she listens to the thump of his boots fade down the hall. The resister kids in their costumes all watch him go and then they pull shut the mesh wire fence that she could get through. They place guards that literally turn their backs on her and start looking at their datapads.
It would be so easy to pull a silent takedown on them. All the kids guarding her, backs turned, minds elsewhere. She could probably saw away on their throats and no one would notice for a few hours.
All of that. They do all the secure things wrong and leave her as if daring her to try and make the easy escape.
She feels the knife.
Knows she won’t be using it.
Bending down, she takes a closer look at the legionnaire lying on the ground next to her. It’s the same one she helped stand. Removed his bucket so he could breathe. His skin is shiny and sweating.
He’s hurt pretty bad, she thinks as she assesses his wounds.
He mumbles something, and she bends close to his ear, pulling the marine medical bag close. She needs to examine him in order to see what she can do for him.
Maybe there’s nothing that can be done.
Maybe that’s how you don’t get out of here, Manda.
She moves the knife to her boot.
Get out now. Get back.
He’s mumbling. Looking over to the other legionnaire on the floor of the cell.
“Beers. He’s hurt bad. Back. Shot there,” the Legion sergeant tells her.
And then the lights go out. The guards don’t seem to mind. They remain illuminated by the soft glow of their datapads, held a couple of feet from their stooped faces.
It all feels like a temptation. As though they want to make it as easy as possible for her when the time comes.
“Okay,” she whispers to the Legion NCO. “I’ll help him first. Are you in pain?”
She feels stupid asking this. Of course the man’s in pain. He’s been shot in the thigh. And it looks bad. Two in the chest too. His breathing is shallow. But no bloody foam in his mouth. So, there’s that. No chest puncture.
“Nah,” he laughs weakly. “Ain’t nothin’…”
He pauses for a long moment, grimacing in pain. Trying to breathe.
“… but a… thang.”
Then…
“Help… Beers. He’s… just a kid.”
Okay, she thinks to herself. Feels the knife in her boot. And knows she’s not leaving them.
You’ll die here, Manda. They’ll die here. Y’know that, right, girl?
She begins to treat their wounds because that’s all you can do sometimes. Treat the wounds. Ironic. That isn’t her job in the marines. In fact, her job is the opposite. She makes wounds. Big ones that never have a chance to be treated.
But she did make it to sergeant. And the guy with the cruel eyes had that part right. You don’t make buck without knowing how to save a life along the way.
The kit is incomplete. It has some medicine, something to stop the bleeding. Skinpacks. But it doesn’t have enough.
She gets them stabilized, but they need more. Much more.
In the dark of the basement she sits back and knows she’s not leaving them. She’ll stay.
I know, she tells
