For this to work, everything must happen exactly as planned. That thought kept rolling around in Vartan’s head as he paused behind a rusty piece of mothballed equipment at the edge of the landing field. The rear of the airtruck lay no more than thirty meters from his hiding place.
Capella’s hard light burned down on his bare head, scorched his already sunburned shoulders. The heat waves rising off the hard basalt and low vegetation amazed him. Sort of like looking across the top of a hot stove. He’d never seen such a thing, even when he’d been on Earth those few days.
Being out in the open was still too new, the light, the moving air, the endless sky, all that musical sound from the wildlife. It scared him. Way down deep. Not to mention that he might be dead in a matter of moments.
The plan had made so much sense when he pitched it to Petre. But it was one thing to propose such an absurd idea while sitting in the cafeteria over a cup of delicious mint tea. Quite another to be creeping up to the airtruck, knowing that if the marine guarding it peered over the side, he’d be shot within an instant.
His heart hammered in his breast. A sheen of nerve-sweat had broken out on his face, neck, and chest. He felt sick to his stomach, muscles quivering.
Step by step, he made his way closer, and yes, right on cue, here came Svetlana, five of the children in tow as they emerged from the garden. The children—having been coached—caught sight of the airtruck, and at a whispered command, charged forward, shouting, laughing.
Perfect!
For the first time, Vartan entertained the faint hope that he might survive this after all.
Sure, the Messiah always promised that anyone who died would be reborn. That through the Irredenta, they were all immortal. It came across as such a reassuring thought: His flesh would be consumed, purified, and his immortal soul would travel the maze, find its way into a woman’s womb during intercourse. That he would be born again.
He licked dry lips and wondered if he really and truly believed.
The children were almost to the airtruck. The guard would have his attention focused solely on them.
Vartan sprinted for the airtruck. Reached the side. He flattened himself. Panting, he tightened his grip on the tape-wrapped stave of flexible steel.
It had come to him: If the Supervisor had left them defenseless, they’d have to craft their own weapons. Rail guns and rifles were too complicated. But humans had been building weapons for all of their existence. Bows were still used in sporting competitions back in Solar System.
He’d found the length of steel, tested its flex, and fashioned the bowstring from thin cable. The arrow, he had crafted from a dowel. To create fletching, he cut plastic to shape.
Not only that, but in practice, he could hit a man-shaped target dead center from ten paces.
“Hey, back away!” the guard bellowed from the cab door.
“They’re just children!” Svetlana’s voice protested.
“I said, get away!”
Vartan’s heart had turned manic. Sweat was trickling down the side of his face. Fright bunched in his throat.
He crept around the front of the vehicle, saw Svetlana’s subtle gesture to wait. She shooed the children away, stepping close to the airtruck. “What would you do? Shoot me? An unarmed woman?”
“Listen, we don’t want trouble.”
Vartan crouched, Svetlana at the edge of his vision as she walked up to the airtruck. “Step down here. Let me see you. Been a lot of years since I’ve seen another man.”
“Can’t ma’am.”
Svetlana looked around. “Hey, uh, there’s only you and me. The kids are gone. I mean it. I want to look at you. Surely an undernourished and naked woman isn’t a threat to a big man with a rifle.”
The guard laughed, clearly uncomfortable.
“It’s the scars, isn’t it?” she said after a pause. “That’s what fascinates you. They all mean something. It’s for the souls of the dead. Oh, come on. You’re not going to be able to see from up there.”
Vartan heard the man step down from the cab. Svetlana backed away, giving him room. Asked, “Is it the spirals on my breasts? That’s for the souls to follow when an infant suckles.”
“Clap trap in buckets, but that had to hurt.”
Svetlana had maneuvered him so that the guard’s back was fully exposed. Vartan stepped out from the airtruck, nocked his arrow, and pulled it to full draw. It was all his muscles could take. The arrow wobbled as he centered the tip in the middle of the man’s back.
The seemingly broad expanse of the guard’s dark shirt became Vartan’s universe. Time seemed to slow. In that instant he felt Capella’s heat, the sweat beading on his skin. Heard the rising and falling of the chime. Was aware of Svetlana’s dark gaze holding the guard’s, willing the man’s attention into her own.
Vartan’s fingers slipped off the bowstring. The stave shivered in his hand as the aluminum arrow leapt forward, caught the man just to the right of the spine, punched through the chest.
For a moment, the guard staggered, glanced down, as if in shock.
Svetlana wheeled on her heel, sprinting for all that her thin legs could carry her.
The guard managed to shout: “Supervisor. Carson here. They’re making a try for the airtruck.”
Then he lurched sideways, crashed into the side of the cab. Tried to prop himself. The rifle discharged with a booming concussion. Dirt exploded as the bullet tore a divot from the ground.
Vartan watched the rifle drop from the guard’s hands to thud into the dirt. Then the man sagged, seemed to wilt. When he coughed, it was to blow a spray of blood across the side of the airtruck. A moment later he was down, gasping as frothy lung blood gushed from his lips.
“I’ll be . . .”
Any revelry was cut short by the bang, muffled as it was from the inside of the admin dome. Scratch one Supervisor. Though it would break Shyanne’s heart that Fatima’s life had been the price.
Vartan, wiped his hot face. Stepped warily forward. He reached down, snagged the rifle away, awed by how heavy it was. Then he jerked the pistol from the man’s belt.
He caught a momentary glimpse of the man’s wide and straining eyes. Gaped at the blood, so much blood, gurgling up from his throat.
Then Svetlana was there, grinning. “Worked! Good shot!”
“Feast tonight, huh?” he mumbled, still too amazed at what he’d done to think straight.
The sound of gunshots could be heard from inside the dome. What the hell?
She clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounds like trouble in the admin dome. Now, you do know how to work that rifle, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” He performed a chamber check, finding a round loaded. “Guess I better go make sure the Messiah and Prophets are all right.”
He was panting by the time he arrived at the dome. People were crowded into the cafeteria, pressing around bleeding bodies who’d been laid onto the long tables.
The Chosen. Three of them. Looked like Burht, Shyute, and Wamonga.
Hurrying down the hall, he found Petre and the members of the Will huddled at the junction of two hallways.
“Got the airtruck,” he told them. “What’s happening here?”
“They slipped out of the trap. Shot three of the Chosen.” Petre spared him a worried glance. “They’re holed up in a stairwell at the far end of the hall. There’s no way to rush them without being shot.”
“Don’t be a fool. They’re in the basement, headed for another stairwell, figuring to get out behind us. Make a try for the airtruck. Quick. The rest of you! There’re three more stairways. Block them. Seal them any way you can. Pile whatever, but be sure they can’t get out.”
He turned, seeing Tikal. Tossed him the marine’s pistol. “Get to the airtruck. Keep it safe. Shoot any of the Supervisor’s party who try to take it.”
People seemed to explode into action, flying off in all directions.
“Should have thought of the other stairwells,” Petre said sheepishly.
“If they break out, I can still stop them with this.” Vartan slapped the side of the automatic rifle. “Military grade. I can disable that airtruck if they try and lift off. Assuming they get that far. And if they don’t shoot me before I can finish the job.”
“Just see that they don’t, huh?”