Cypress City,
Mars March 26, 2482
16:42 GST-Z
Johnny sprinted as the grenade's detonation thundered behind him. His heart hammered; his mother was gone. Mary Harrigan would not have survived that blast. Her voice rang in his head: Control what you can control. Get your bearings. Understand the situation.
He clutched the laser pulse pistol, nearing the villa's back gate. It swung open. Johnny stopped, raised the pistol.
"Grip tight. Aim for the chest." Her words steadied him.
"Whoa, Johnny Boy, it's me!" Mr. Martinez called, hands raised, his gray shirt stained with dust.
Johnny lowered the pistol, relief washing over him. The Harrigan's neighbor had always helped when William was away. Martinez glanced past him, scanning the smoke-filled alley.
"Where's your mom?"
"Grenade—she's gone," Johnny said, voice flat with shock.
"We can't stay here. We gotta move." Martinez guided Johnny through the gate into an alley. After walking for what seemed hundreds of steps, they went around the block and to the Martinez's small family restaurant.
They descended to the storage cellar. Martinez shoved aside a shelf of pots, revealing a datapad. He punched in a code, and a red rock wall slid open, just wide enough to slip through.
"Wow!" Johnny exclaimed, eyes wide.
"Inside, quick!" Martinez urged, barely above a whisper. Explosions rumbled as IB hover tanks rolled through Cypress City. Martinez followed Johnny into the dark passage, sealing it with a code and barring it with a metal pole.
"That buys time, not much. Keep your pistol ready."
Martinez lit a flashlight, revealing a dank tunnel, its walls slick with moisture. They moved briskly, Johnny struggling to keep up. The war's sounds faded. After twenty minutes, Martinez slowed, letting Johnny catch his breath.
"Where's your family?" Johnny asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Paulo took them to the tunnel train station. Civilians are evacuating to Kepler Settlement. MDF's helping, but they're pulling back."
"Why weren't you with them?" Johnny asked, tripping over his weary feet.
"I promised your dad I'd look after you and your mom." Martinez's voice faltered. "I failed her, but not you." He changed the subject to keep the boy's mind off his mother.
"This is an old solar-storm tunnel, built before the domes to shield against radiation. Most of the tunnels are now filled in. This one's forgotten," Martinez explained, slowing a bit to let the boy catch up.
"Lucky for us," Johnny said, gulping air.
"Yeah, but we need to reach Kepler before the MDF leaves. Hurry."
They reached a hatch like an old navy bulkhead. Martinez turned the handle until it clicked, opening onto an empty passenger platform. No trains. The evacuation was over.
"Damn, too late," Martinez muttered, scanning the platform.
"Now what?" Johnny asked, panic rising.
"We walk the train tunnels to Kepler. Eighteen kilometers. You're in shape, right?"
"I guess." Johnny's voice shook. "They'll find us, and they'll kill us. I hate them!"
"Don't," Martinez snapped. "I promised your dad I'd get you out. Hate like that makes you like them. You're better than that, Johnny." He stopped and faced the boy. Johnny's eyes welled.
"It's not fair."
"No, it's not." Martinez hugged him briefly. "Your mom's words—control what you can control, right? We need to move now."
They hopped onto the magnetron track, jogging toward the tunnel. The tunnel is safe, Johnny thought, pushing his tired legs. The entrance looms closer. We're gonna make it.
An IB drone whizzed by, firing a pulse laser. The blast caught Martinez in the hip, spinning him sideways. He crashed hard, blood spraying as the joint shattered, flesh blackened and fused around splintered bone. The drone arced back.
Johnny dropped to one knee. Grip tight. Aim for center mass. He fired, missing. The drone's blast kicked up dirt, leaving a fist-sized crater.
Johnny rolled, faking a hit, then fired again, striking its side. The drone crashed, sparking.
"Mr. Martinez!" Johnny ran to him. "You okay?"
"Hip's dislocated. I can't run." Martinez gripped Johnny's shoulder. "Run to the tunnel. They won't chase a kid. Get to Kepler."
"No, I won't leave you!" Johnny sobbed.
"Shh. Stay then. Soldiers are coming. Get ready."
Johnny helped Martinez crawl to the track wall's edge, pressing him into the shadows behind a maintenance crate. Distant footsteps echoed north, down the tunnel. Martinez, bleeding from the pulse wound, shoved Johnny lower.
"Stay low, kid," he rasped, eyes fierce despite the pain.
Four IB soldiers emerged, rifles raised, cheap, reliable .30 caliber carbines chosen for urban fighting. Good enough to kill MDF personnel and civilians, but they wouldn't shred infrastructure the way pulse rifles would.
One soldier, carrying a drone control pad, scanned the darkness. One fanned out to the left wall, another to the right, and the last walked beside the controller.
Johnny's heart pounded, his shoulder throbbing where debris had grazed him in the villa's collapse. His mother's voice cut through the fear, steady: Control what you can control. Get your bearings. Understand the situation.
He found his way. Near the wall, he and Martinez were on the left side of the tracks. In seconds, he mapped the field, starting with the controller and then his guard. Move, shoot, stay alive. This was no simulator. If he missed, they would shoot him and kill him.
He gripped his pulse pistol, its weight familiar from years of his mom's drills—simulated raids, moving targets, mock battles he had thought were games. No games. Training for this.
The soldier with the control pad barked an order in Arabic. Johnny's hands shook, but he exhaled, steadying himself. Center mass. The first shot counts most.
He stepped from cover, pulse pistol wavering. The blue-white beam grazed the controller's shoulder, sparking against the wall. The man cursed, dropping the pad. Johnny fired again, hitting center mass. The soldier collapsed, twitching.
The others shouted, returning fire. Bullets tore into metal supports, ricocheting with deadly pings. Johnny dove behind a switch-track box to his immediate left. Martinez groaned beside him.
Get your bearings.
Two soldiers flanked left. One crouched behind a crate, his lightweight carbine spitting rounds. A third advanced in the open, eyes panicked but rifle steady. Johnny shifted, firing. A pulse struck the advancing soldier's chest, dropping him. No scream, just a god-awful gurgling sound. Two left.
Bullets pinged off the box. Johnny rolled right to new cover behind the control box for the bot, heart racing. He hit a soldier's elbow with his next shot.
The last soldier charged, shouting in broken English, "Come out, boy!"
Johnny aimed, but fear seized him. His shot went wide. A bullet slammed into his shoulder, a searing punch of pain. He collapsed, blood trickling warm, pulse pistol slipping from his grip.
The soldier loomed; rifle trained on Johnny's face.
"On your feet!" He spat the words.
Johnny could not move, pain stabbing with every breath. He was going to join his mother in death. The IB soldier ordered Johnny to his feet. He stood and stared down the soldier, waiting for the trigger to be pulled and oblivion to follow.
A Marine's concussion grenade arced from the tunnel's end and exploded behind the soldier, knocking both him and Johnny to the ground. Johnny's ears rang.
Boots thundered in. Astro Corps Marines in gray fatigues swarmed the platform, pulse pistols firing disciplined bursts. A man in a navy-blue uniform with gray trim led the charge, sidearm ready.
"Target secured! Medics, move in!"
Medics dropped beside Johnny, stabilizing his shoulder. The uniformed man kneeled, scanning him.
"Hey, kid. I'm Captain Braggart. Who taught you to shoot?"
"My mom, Mary Harrigan. She used to be Astro Corps," Johnny gasped, tears mixing with dirt.
Braggart studied him for a heartbeat, then nodded once in respect.
A corpsman retrieved Johnny's pistol, handing it back. "Yours?"
Johnny nodded weakly. "Mr. Martinez... he's hurt badly." He struggled to get the words out without crying. He had to be brave in front of the soldiers.
"Stabilize Martinez, now!" Braggart ordered. "Get his vitals."
As medics carried Johnny to safety, he clutched the pistol, Mary's mantra echoing. Those weekends of "play" had been her preparing him for war—a war that had already found him.