The Sum of Us

Bottleneck-2

The racket of ordnance had clamoured all afternoon, punctuating the air with shocks so intense they could be felt, like drumtaps, against her cheeks. As twilight descended, a flight of DemAir F22s screamed over the highway, bound for San Antonio. All the civilians on foot dropped to the ground, covering their ears.

The planes were sleek and deadly, vastly more powerful than the mix of antique kites flown by the Fiends—Typhoons, NextGen MiGs, Chengdu J30s. Demo equipment, enhanced as it was by the offworld Kabu Consultancy, was always better. Still, the Fiends had countless pilots to man those crappy planes. Not to mention an inexhaustible supply of missiles.

“That sounds bad,” said Zacha, making a question of it as a series of sonic booms marked the retreat of the surviving Kabu anti-aircraft platforms.

“Get inside,” Ruthless said, opening the Burro. She’d hoped to keep him isolated from the kids; no such luck. Pointing to a seat, she stood in the half-open forward hatch, watching the skies. The Fiends would strafe the highway.

Someone up ahead agreed—the convoy slowed to a crawl. The refugees on foot looked up, some with alarm, others with zombie resignation.

“You—under our Burro,” Ruthless ordered a woman as they ground to a halt. She got four people under cover before the car went into hunker mode, scrolling layered plates of Dust-proof plastic over its undercarriage and the bench.

Up and down the line, uniformed Democratic soldiers were doing the same, offering the civvies what cover they could, packing the road until there were bodies under every truck.

The roar of planes intensified. Black dots, a spray of fast-moving birds, resolved on the red-smeared horizon. Ruthless slammed the hatch shut on a rising chorus of sobs and screams.

“I can’t access your vehicle brain.” Zacha poked the console controls.

“Why would I give you access?” She strapped him into his seat, checking the window blinds, confirming the kids were belted in.

Delores, for a wonder, didn’t complain, instead curling into crash position with her hand in her brother’s. “It’ll be okay, Tonio,” she whispered.

“She’s right,” Ruthless said. “Everything’s fine.”

Fine, yeah. Unless the civilians roll the car, trying to get under it. Unless the Fiends throw rockets at the road instead of strafing with machine guns. Unless—no, no, stop it. Nothing we can do, just wait it out . . .

Ruthless belted into the driver’s seat as the strafing run began.

She checked the Burro’s exterior cams. Around the hunkered military vehicles, exposed civilians were panicking, pounding on car doors, jostling for room in wheelwells, fighting over Dust ponchos. As the guns and Funbeams laid into them, they broke, fleeing the highway. A few gas tanks exploded.

A sound like hailstones rat-a-tatted on the roof.

“Planes are past our position,” Ruthless reported, trying to sound businesslike. She scanned all the corners of her display for heavy bombers, saw none, and allowed herself to hope. “Mine-droppers coming up now.”

The mine-droppers were offworld tech. The Fiends had alien sponsors, just as Ruthless’s side had. She didn’t know anything about the aliens who had made the Fiends their pets, but her side in this long, pointless and mostly losing war had allied themselves with the Kabu Consultancy, a race of ocean-dwellers that humans referred to as squid.

The mine-droppers were black, elegant-looking gliders. They passed overhead like shadows, releasing plum-sized Dust mines in dense clouds. Feather-light, riding the breezes like dandelion fluff, the mines wobbled downward, coming to rest on the concrete of the highway, on the cars, and on the ground to either side of the road.

Wherever they landed, exposed civilians froze in terror. The oblivious wounded and a few of the sheerly unlucky, those who happened to trigger the mines, went up in silent puffs of Dust. Death flowered through the traffic bottleneck, bursting spheres of powder the colour of Turkish coffee grounds.

Dust wiped out everything it touched: humans, cars, pavement—everything that hadn’t been sprayed with counter-measures.

The miners passed; the fighters came screaming back. Another run, another round of chatter on the Burro’s exterior. The AC whirred lustily.

“Must have caught the edge of a Funbeam,” murmured Zacha.

Ruthless nodded. Her visor flashed damage reports: the gun had taken out her rear passenger-side camera and an armoured plate near the back. She’d have to do a walkaround later, check for breaches, and spray on more Dustproofing.

Zacha stole a look at the children. “Do you have ponchos for them?”

“No need. The Fiends aren’t bothering with heavy bombers. Anyway, here comes the cavalry.” The Fiend planes were banking hard, running back to base. Now she saw a ring of spacecraft, more alien ships, but these flown by Demos’ offworld allies. They slid through the sky toward them like beads of oil on water.

Lived, lived, we lived!

She checked the kids. Delores was holding a picture book for her brother. They took turns pointing at the images, silent but seeming to converse. Long-forgotten memories bubbled up: she and Matt had collected beer coasters from bars, trading them back and forth in a private economy.

“I think the worst of it is over, guys.”

Delores surprised her with a small smile. “Can we watch a movie?”

She ought to save the battery, but...“Just one.”

She unlocked the media centre and let them pick a live-action classic about a lost dog and his human family. Once that was done, she pulled up a convoy FAQ.

“Minesweepers are on their way,” she told Zacha. “Estimated time before we’re moving again is six hours.”

“Could be worse.”

Her visor pinged—her brother again. Still in play?

She pinged back. Game-ready, Matt.

Gladness. Unit’s falling back to AUS.

>Me2, she keyed back. Cya there.

Relaxing into the driver’s seat, she fumbled in her pocket for the piece of turquoise she’d found, then took a minisculptor out of her small kit of personal effects. She pressed the stone through its rubbery larynx, activating a tiny LED screen as she slid her fingers onto the control cogs.

A quick polish first—she wiped the grime away, revealing an irregular blue lump the size of her thumb.

“May I use the Burro cams?” Zacha asked.

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Even so.”

She wouldn’t give him access to the Burrobrain. Instead she slaved the driver’s goggles to her own display, pushing her visor up so she wouldn’t have to see what the cameras were showing.

Even a glimpse was too much. It was all wreckage and bodies—humans who’d been schrapped into burger, or fried by Funbeams and car fires. Chopped corpses lay at the edges of dust craters, severed by the spread of the nanotech weapon. Survivors lay trapped between vehicles and corpses, surrounded by mines, afraid to move.

“Can we not help them?” Zacha asked.

“Too many mines.” She concentrated on the turquoise, fighting tears. It wasn’t the worst thing she had seen.

Zacha took a slow breath. His face—where it wasn’t scorched—had turned a sickly grey.

“This ties up our side with civilian rescue. Gives Austin less time to prepare for the next Fiend push.”

“I know the tactics,” he snapped, pushing up the goggles.

“You ought to use the squatter.” She unhitched him. “I’m strapping you in for the duration.”

“You are still thinking I’m threat?”

“Nothing personal, Sir. I’m not taking chances.”

“I have a name, Sergeant.” He vanished into the bathroom. When he came out, he had a travel-sickness bag and a wash-wipe kit with him.

“You ill?”

“No, it’s for morning,” he said, as if that meant something. Ruthless searched the bag and kit, returned them, then locked him into his seat. She placed a motion detector over him just in case.

Within minutes he was asleep.

Using the sculptor, she carved small curls off her turquoise piece, finding the barest hint of a shape within its curves. The kids drooped, lulled by their movie. Everything was as okay as it was going to get.

She peeled off the wide-awake patch stuck under her arm. The last thing she did before dozing off was check her watch. She had been up for fifty-two consecutive hours.

Barfing woke her.

Zacha was upright, jerking against the restraints and making a sound that combined the worst features of retching and sneezing. He was bringing up gobs of a fluid the colour of chocolate pudding, catching it in the airsickness bag with the ease of long habit.

Afterward, he cleaned his blotchy face with the wetwipe and added it to the pack. Sealing it, he murmured. “Don’t worry. I’m not contagious.”

Stab of fear: what if he was? “Need anything?”

“I could use food.” He gave her the bag.

She put it down the squatter and scrubbed her hands thoroughly. The bathroom was warm; the Funbeam hit had thinned the armour plating over its window. She’d repair it as soon as the mines had been cleared. Meanwhile, maybe, she could tape a Dustproof poncho over the gap, add a little coverage inside.

Do we have tape? Pondering repairs, she unlocked the rations, setting two packs of waffles in front of the sleeping kids and bringing a selection up front. “Eggs and sausage, breakfast burrito, or blueberry waffles?”

Zacha picked one at random, opening it without heating it first. He poked a bit in his hole, chewing without enthusiasm. “Something is interesting, Sergeant?”

“I’ve heard the phrase ‘force yourself to eat’ a hundred times,” she said. “You’ve got it down to an art.”

“Where I come from, you force yourself or they put a tube in your stomach.” He swallowed. “Viranti used me as—how do you say?—lab rat.”

“The Viranti?”

“The offworld allies of the Friends of Liberation.”

Was he trying to goose her by using her enemy’s more user-friendly name? She kept her tone casual. “I didn’t think anyone had ever seen their offworld sponsors.”

“Yes, I’m terribly special.” He had a day’s beard. The bloodied eye had gone yellow; sunburn, on his face, was peeling. “The Funbeam killed one of your cameras.”

“They grazed the squatter.” Changing the subject, she thought—guess he doesn’t want to talk about it. She checked the convoy FAQ. “Minesweepers are inbound.”

A tiny hand tugged hers—Tonio.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

He climbed into her lap, swapping his waffles for the eggs. Ruthless popped the heat tab and they waited, watching the electronic timer count down, like a bomb.

Tonio was one of those kids who balanced lightly in your lap, like a bird, ready to flit away any second. Nothing like Matt, who’d been a lead balloon from day one.

Daddy used to joke about that. She hadn’t expected this; that being with kids would bring back these bits of remembrance. Memories, like electrodes laid on the skin. Zap, ow, leave the past in the rearview . . .

Gutting the foodpack, Ruthless peeled off the fork, handed it to the boy. He sat with his small head against her chest, munching.

“I see them.” Zacha was watching the road through his slaved goggles.

She pulled her visor down for a look. Kabu Consultancy minesweepers were indeed moving up the road, laying down a mist of oily Dust inhibitors. Squid soldiers came up behind them, walking on the tips of their tentacles, spraying any corners the sweepers had missed and bagging the mines. Coming up last, offworlder medics sorted the casualties onto pallets. Blue pallets for survivors, black for dead. They released them to drift, like helium balloons, up to waiting hospital ships.

“Bailing the Demos out,” Zacha said. “Your people must have cut and run.”

“The Kabu won’t give us drizzlers. We get mined, all we can do is wait.”

“Then why—” His expression changed abruptly. He reached for the console; then stopped, probably remembering she’d locked him out. Or, no—his gaze wandered to the boy.

Ruthless worked a hand free of Tonio and sent Zacha’s goggles a measure of independence. What is it? she texted.

Zacha fumbled the controls. Some of the survivors look Friendly.

Prickling nerves brought up the hair on her neck. Friendly meant Fiendish, of course. She hadn’t forgotten his flesh mosaic—he’d been one of them. Who?

Woman with brown wig, man on crutches.

U sure? The couple was well off the road. They looked like ordinary refugees. Even so, she snapped pics of them, flagging them as suspects and pinging Security.

They’re watching the Bur— Suddenly he cursed in Russian. “Where’s the girl?”

“Safe . . .” She glanced back, didn’t see Delores, and put Tonio down. The Burrobrain had both kids’ tracker frequencies; she hit the locate icon.

Delores was out in the minefield.

Ruthless ran to the squatter...and found the damaged window hanging open. The Funbeam hit from the strafing run had done more than melt away their Dustproofing—it had taken out the steel bars that protected its window.

Furious, she returned to Zacha. “How did you know?”

He shook his head. “They’ll have called her. Pretended to be someone she loves. Her mother. This governess you mentioned.”

“Mama’s dead.” Tonio raised both hands, popping his fingers outward, miming the fireworks-spread of a Dustbomb.

“Honey, go sit in the back. I asked how you knew, Sherlock.”

“I know my Friends when I see them.” He rubbed his jaw. “I’ll retrieve Delores.”

“Sure you will. Get access to the kids, orchestrate a kidnapping, vanish . . .”