Raptor Aces

  Papa ... he’s dead, isn’t he? Maybe I will meet him down here. He can tell me about the time somebody stuck a knife into him when he was guzzling beer. You could say that Papa really got the point that day. I wonder how that moment of truth was.

  What the hell’s wrong with me? My mind is working like a mad man’s. I have to get a grip on myself – only I don’t really want to get a grip. I rather enjoy the effect this place is having. It’s relieving me of all the civilized burdens I’ve been lugging around my whole life. I deserve a break from these restrictions, don’t I?

  I begin to devise a poem:

  Elegy to the Nether Regions

  Here I stand among the dead

  Visions squirming in my head

  I shall not leave til blood’s been spilt

  Daggers buried to the hilt!

  My inner voice laughs sarcastically. You sure as hell ain’t no poet, Dytran!

  Shut up! My brain shouts back.

  All right, I’m leaving.

  I feel a cord snap in my mind, as if the final link to the outside world has been severed. I am truly alone now with ... this place. Icy panic presses in, then retreats.

  I’m feeling much more comfortable now. What was I so scared of, anyway? It was just unfounded, childish fear – like the time when I was four and accidentally broke the sugar bowl. I hid in the pantry so that Papa wouldn’t find me. He never came after me, though. He just gave Mama a good smack for being “so damn careless” and leaving out the good china where I could get at it.

  That was very bad of her, wasn’t it? Papa was right to slap her.

  I shake my head to dispel the evil thought.

  “Come on, Bel,” I say aloud. “Get here before I lose my mind!”

  There is more definition around me now, tiny details visible in peripheral vision. My eyes are adjusting to the surroundings; my brain is adjusting. It’s sort of like how you get used to a dark theater when you enter it during a horror movie.

  Is that a large chamber up ahead ... on the left? Maybe I can find Papa in there. He’s got some real explaining to do. It’s time for a father & son chat. I begin walking toward the chamber when figures suddenly appear at my side.

  “Uh!”

  I jerk my machine pistol up and press the trigger. Nothing happens – the safety is on.

  “Careful!” Trynka bats the gun barrel aside.

  My face burns with shame. I might have killed my best friend, my true brother. Thank God he seems unaware of my stupidity. He looks shell-shocked, just as I must have appeared when I first entered this place. He’s still holding tight onto Trynka’s hand.

  “Close your eyes, Bel,” I say. “It makes things easier.”

  Bel shuts his eyes tight. He gropes his free hand toward me, and I grasp it with my own. Trembling vibrates up my arm from him. I know exactly what he is experiencing.

  Then, sooner than I would have thought possible, the trembling ceases. Strength enters Bel’s grip, and his eyes pop wide open. Wonderment attends his face.

  “Ohhh,” he says, “this place is ... weird.”

  He seems much younger, somehow, like an awestruck kid watching his first magic show. For a moment, I glimpse the person he might have become had not harsh circumstances intervened – before the abandonment, the orphan homes, before this terrible war. To my feverish mind, Trynka seems the embodiment of all that is feminine and nurturing. I want her to enfold Bel in her arms and make all his pain disappear.

  But this is only a fantasy. The real Trynka is hard and determined – a woman of ice. She presses a finger to her lips and begins walking. Bel and I follow in her wake. We are all comrades in arms now.

  54. First Blood

  As the partisan band made its way back to the hideout, two of its members melted away into the woods. Or they thought they were melting away. Omzbak and Number One detected their absence almost immediately.

  “You want I should go after them, Chief?” Number One asked.

  His face glowed with the lust to kill. He was enraged by the disappearance of the Mag punks and would like nothing better than to take out his frustration on somebody else.

  But Omzbak reasoned that more of his shrunken band would desert if he tried to punish the traitors. It was better to rid himself of the faint hearted, anyway.

  “Forget it,” he said, “just keep a close eye on the rest.”

  “Aye, sir.” The disappointment in Number One’s voice was obvious.

  The band continued its advance through the darkness, like ghouls returning from a night of robbing graves. Omzbak cocked his machine pistol with maximum noise. The others could not fail to hear and take it into account if they were considering their own escapes. Then he eased the safety on as quietly as possible. Let them wonder ...

  Omzbak’s thoughts turned toward the recent series of strange events. Were they all just coincidences, or were they related somehow?

  First came the shot-down plane with it’s dead courier. The pilot had obviously escaped with the secret papers. They should have tracked him down, but the artillery barrage intervened.

  Besides, it had not been so easy to go about in daylight any longer. Mag patrols notwithstanding, the Avengers had made enemies among the local population. It was not out of the question that some disgruntled farmer might report their presence to the Western invaders.

  Then there was the commando raid two days later. That was a near thing. Had the Avengers not managed to slither back into their hideout, they could have all been killed. Omzbak himself had stopped a bullet for the first time in his partisan career.

  Worst of all, he’d failed to get the commando leader. Omzbak could have sworn it was the same man who’d pointed his finger at him two years ago as a mock gun. The man who dangled human scalps from his vehicles, the one who had murdered Omzbak’s family.

  Omzbak would have traded his soul in order to punish that beast. But this was a silly notion; his soul had gone to the devil long ago.

  The closest he’d come to exacting revenge was the time that Mag fighter pilot parachuted down – the one who looked so much like the commando leader. Omzbak went insane and could scarcely remember what he’d done to the poor bastard.

  Afterwards, when the darkness lifted from his mind, the mangled corpse and the blood splattered all over himself told the story. That and the evil leer of Number One who was also covered with blood.

  “This will bring a curse upon you, Omzbak!” Comrade 19 proclaimed.

  Well, maybe it had. At very least, it got him into trouble with the main partisan command. He’d violated their strict rules – high-value Mag prisoners were to be traded for as many captured partisans or regular soldiers as possible. This policy had been surprisingly effective. Due to their massive casualty rate, the Mag were desperate to get back elite personnel and were willing to postpone their blanket death sentences for partisan captives.

  The regional commander actually sent people to arrest him, but Omzbak escaped their clutches. Somehow he managed to keep his band together, despite their condemnation of his actions.

  High command soon turned its attention elsewhere, though. Planning for the great offensive had taken urgent priority. The partisans were to play a crucial role in this effort, and who had time to worry about some minor leader’s infractions?

  Omzbak regretted the whole episode, but what the hell could he do about it now? Since the destruction of his family, he was only a shell of his former self – one that had been filled up with hate. It would soon be time to leave this painful world, he hoped.

  ***

  Trynka leads the way into the large chamber. At least, it seems to be large. But for all I know, the place could be anything from living room to concert hall size. She halts abruptly and motions us back, practically shoving us away. A rock outcrop appears by us; Bel and I wedge ourselves behind it.

  I hear a man’s voice, loud and challenging, and my heart leaps into my throat. I try to peer around the boulder. Bel yanks me b
ack.

  “Stay here,” Bel commands.

  Trynka answers the voice. Her own is small and frightened, like a young child’s. I know her well enough to recognize that the effect is bogus. The male voice barks again, Trynka makes a trembling reply.

  “They know each other,” Bel whispers.

  My perceptions seem divided, as if my eyes are operating on different planes of reality. To one part of my awareness, I am firmly concealed with only drab rock in front of me. With another part, I can see Trynka standing out in the open. The effect is dreamlike.

  A man approaches her. No ... “approach” is not the right word. He materializes right next to Trynka, like a genii popping out of a bottle. Bel grips my arm tighter, willing me to silence.

  The man is a gaunt, hardened figure with a rat-like face. He’s pointing a machine pistol at Trynka who has raised her hands in surrender.

  Trynka nods toward her hip pocket; the man withdraws the little automatic pistol from it and tucks it into his own pocket. Then he pats her down with his free hand, all the while keeping his gun aimed at her heart. He seems to enjoy the search, judging by his crafty leer. He finds the extra ammo clips and adds them to his booty.

  My finger twitches on the submachine gun trigger. If only I could get a clear shot!

  The situation takes a horrible turn. The man slings his gun over his shoulder and pulls Trynka brutally toward him. His hands rip at her shirt. Trynka makes no sound, but her eyes blaze with hate. She tries to push him back.

  Then it isn’t Trynka and some unnamed partisan struggling in the murk – it’s Mama and Papa. He’s tearing off her clothes. He’s going to kill her, and Stilikan isn’t here to stop him!

  I move out from behind the stone. The two are directly in front of me, scarcely a meter away.

  “Hey, you!”

  Papa gapes at me with astonishment. His mouth pops open to say something, but I’m in no mood for conversation. My gun speaks for me.

  The initial burst strikes his chest. Mama is holding onto him, though, and he doesn’t go down. Then she pushes him away. My second burst knocks him flat.

  I feel the wrath of God coursing through my veins. I am an instrument of divine retribution! I stride to the fallen man and fire the rest of the clip into him. The body jerks comically under the impact of multiple hits.

  “Stop!” somebody shouts.

  Who is that fool yelling at me? The world is turning into a narrow, black tunnel. The gun is hot in my hands. I yank out the spent clip and shove in another. I prepare to start blasting again.

  I feel a sharp impact on my chin; light explodes inside my skull –

  ***

  Next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground with Bel towering above me. Trynka is shouting at him. Then she lowers herself beside me and takes my head in her arms. She utters soothing words.

  “I-I’m sorry, Dye,” Bel says. “I had to do something ... you went nuts!”

  He looks away, ashamed.

  “That’s twice you’ve popped me, Bel. I’m beginning to take it personal.”

  Trynka starts to admonish him again.

  “Just help me up, please,” I say.

  She assists me to my feet. The madness has passed, and I can think more clearly again. I’m back to reality – whatever that means in this bizarre place.

  The partisan is a bullet-ridden mess. Odd, the sight does not bother me at all. I feel detached, as if somebody else is responsible for the carnage. Trynka is relieving him of his weapons, including the automatic pistol. It is smeared with blood again, as it was when I first took it from the courier.

  That pistol sure gets around, all right, like a whore at a convention of NSP big shots.

  “Who is this bastard?” I ask.

  Bel does the translating for us.

  “He used to work on our farm,” Trynka says. “He’s one of the men who betrayed Papa.”

  She spits on the corpse. Then she turns toward me.

  “You did well, Dytran. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, “you’re most welcome.”

  My reply is absurd. I’m grateful that Bel does not translate it.

  “I’ve shown you everything I know down here,” Trynka says. “I must get back to the others.”

  “Very well, carry on,” I say.

  We follow her back the way we came until we reach a dim, circular glow in the murkiness. It seems to flash at slow intervals.

  “Exit when the light is strongest,” Trynka says. “Move quickly, straight ahead. Close your eyes if you need to.”

  “Will do,” I say.

  She reaches up and wraps her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheek. I couldn’t be more surprised if the dead partisan suddenly got up and embraced me. She pulls away and gives me the oddest look – a mixture of awe, fear, and I’d almost say ... love.

  She looks toward Beltran and becomes all business again.

  “Farewell, comrades,” she says, “may God see you through these perils.”

  She composes herself and steps toward the glow just as it reaches maximum brightness. She is instantly gone, as if she never existed. Quiet settles over our subterranean world like a burial shroud. Bel promptly lifts it.

  “We should get out of here, too,” he says.

  I spin on him.

  “No way in hell!” I’m shouting quite loud. “Papa ... I mean ... Omzbak hasn’t showed up yet.”

  Bel shakes his head. He’s got his hands on his hips and is wearing his most steadfast expression. His thrust out chin dares me to take a swing at it.

  Maybe I’ll do just that!

  “You’re going around the bend, Dye,” he says. “Is this worth losing your mind over?”

  “Who are you to say that?” I cry. “Where were you when Stilikan took Papa down? He was just a skinny kid, and he had to fight for all of us!”

  “What are you talking about, Dye? It’s me – Beltran, your squadron mate. Don’t you know me?”

  “Of course I know you! You ran over Piotra. What did he ever do to you, anyway?”

  “Oh, my God ...” he says.

  The defiance drains out of him. He looks very tired now, and smaller than he was.

  “I don’t know what this place is,” he says. “I only know it was a mistake for us to come here.”

  I’m still very angry, almost enough to hit him, but I hold myself back. Could there be something to what he’s saying?

  “We’ve jumped out of one trap and into something worse,” he says. “Remember when I told you about the vibration in the ground, just before the offensive?”

  “Yes ... what about it?”

  “It was coming from here, Dye. This is an evil place.”

  “Nonsense!” I say. “You seem perfectly normal. You’re not ‘going around the bend,’ are you?”

  I begin walking back toward the great chamber.

  “It’s because I don’t want anything here,” Bel calls after me. “It can’t get a hold on me – not yet, anyway.”

  I spin back around. “What do you want, Bel?”

  “I want us to survive. Trust me, please.”

  “No way!” I shoot back. “You want to know what I think?”

  “You think too much, Dye; you see too much. Let’s get out of here!”

  You think too much – that’s what Stilikan used to tell me. Back in the days when our family was still together, when ...

  I can’t believe it! In place of the dark, glowering lad, it’s Stilikan standing back by the lighted circle. He’s proud and strong in his blue uniform; his face wears a smile of almost unbearable sadness. He’s holding out his hand.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  I take a step toward him. “W-wait, please ...”

  Muffled sounds penetrate from the outside. Gun shots.

  55. Ambush

  Omzbak and his men entered the clearing with its crashed enemy aircraft. Moonlight glittered on the wreckage and stabbed into Omzbak’s eyes. It was an
unpleasant sensation, as everything up here had come to be. Omzbak longed to return to the sympathetic embrace of his hideout, his true home. His wounded thigh ached furiously.

  He’d sure been given the runaround by those Mag punks tonight, and he needed time to replenish his energies. Imagine, he’d almost taken seriously the ‘warning’ those delinquents scrawled on the cabin floor! He must be getting old, he’d be jumping at his own shadow next.

  They navigated through the patch of marshy woodland and came out by the edge of the Barren. Even after two years of coming here, Omzbak felt a thrill of dread shiver up his spine. He repositioned his cap so that it no longer covered one eye and stared long and hard out into the void.

  “Something wrong, Chief?” Number One asked.

  “The entryway,” Omzbak said, “it’s moved again.”

  Number One cursed under his breath. “It’s been hardly a week.”

  Omzbak wondered what this could mean. Shifts in the entryway’s location were happening more and more frequently, as if the Barren was reshaping itself somehow. Months used to pass without any changes. What this could mean was beyond his power to imagine.

  “Come on,” he ordered.

  As they moved along the periphery of the woods, Omzbak kept a sharp lookout over the Barren’s surface. He scanned the same areas repeatedly, hoping to see some indication of the tell-tale blur, but the vista remained stubbornly blank. Then –

  “Over there,” he said. “I see it!”

  Yes, the entryway had indeed moved. It was now fifty or sixty meters from where it had been earlier tonight. Omzbak led his men along the edge of the forest and maneuvered as close to the entryway as possible. Then he brought them out onto the inhospitable surface. The moment he left the woods, he felt the steady throb of the Barren’s power vibrating up through his boot soles.

  Then, as they were almost at the entryway, he received a nasty surprise.

  “I won’t be going in with you, Chief,” Comrade 15 said.

  “What?”

  Omzbak spun around and took threatening steps toward the man until they were face to face. Comrade 15 stood unmoving, machine pistol at the ready. He was even taller than Omzbak, though extremely thin.

  “That’s goes for me, too, Chief,” a second man said.

  “Me, too,” said another.

  Four of Omzbak’s men now stood together against him. Only Number One remained on his side.

  “It’s nothing against you, Chief,” Comrade 15 said, “but the war’s over for us.”