Androne by Worrell Dwain

Author:Worrell, Dwain
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: 47North
Published: 2023-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

29

He wouldn’t make it back in time, not with the few hours left in his shift, and definitely not with the quartet of Furies whistling over the stadium’s airspace. He took the Spartan underground and crawled about in the dirt before making a mad dash for the blown-out buildings nearby. It stooped beneath a rubble-made skylight and watched the reinforcements congregate in the sky. Gunships, Furies, and aerial drones he didn’t have names for blazed across the sky like semi-suns. Reinforcements gathered on the ground: Z Series and Apaches and packs of quadrupedals hounded the civvies like wolves. He was stuck, beneath all the rocks and hard places as the minutes trickled down on his screen, as Oya knocked against the cockpit door, as he realized this was it; this was how it ends.

The burn of perspiration scorched under Paxton’s armpits. Sweat slimed on his palms. His heart throbbed hard against his chest—no, that was Oya again, knocking impatiently at the door. He’d have to tell the truth, admit, confess, plead ignorance. If he did it now, he might serve only ten to twenty years. With time off for good behavior and lip service from the old man, Paxton might just get out in time to see his son graduate from high school.

He reached for the door and lifted the heavy handle. The gauges clicked, internal locks dislodged, and the hinges hummed open. The hangar’s acrid musk wafted in, and he felt choked by it. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck, Arés?” Sergeant Oya said. “You don’t get paid overtime.”

“Right,” he murmured, barely there, barely paying attention.

“Corporal Columbia’s looking for you,” she said, referencing Bella by her surname.

“Where?”

“She was just . . .” Oya glanced back at the hangar crowds, searching for Bella. Then she brought impatient eyes back to Paxton, as if waiting for him to say or do something. “You planning on spending the night, Arés?”

Paxton’s gaze sliced past Oya and fixed on the armed officers in the distance, holding coffee cups and Coke cans like microphones to their conversation. The men’s casual vigilance flickered toward Paxton. Static buzzed from a nearby walkie-talkie. The click of high heels Dopplered by. Every crackle and conversation, every glance in his direction wasn’t like the butterflies in his stomach but more like caterpillars crawling around the walls of his gut.

Then Paxton snapped. His arm flung toward Sergeant Oya, and he snatched her, dragged her into the cockpit, and she landed on top of him as Paxton pulled the door shut.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He didn’t know. Paxton had no idea why Oya’s flexing biceps was bundled in his sweaty fingers, why the door, though still ajar, was held in place by his other hand, keeping it quiet, keeping it dark. Why? What was he going to tell her? What could he tell her? What was the solution to this equation he had etched out so haphazardly in front of him? What?

“What’s wrong with you?” she snapped.

“We’re in the future,” he said and winced.

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