Amazing Stories Spring 2019 by Amazing Stories

Author:Amazing Stories [Stories, Amazing]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amazing Stories
Published: 2019-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

Impending Karma Strike

By Marc A. Criley

Marc A. Criley began writing in his early 50s and has been published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Galaxy’s Edge, and elsewhere. Marc and his wife “manage” a household of cats, along with Tammy the Dog, in North Alabama, from where he maintains kickin-the-darkness.com and tweets as @That_MarcC.

Malik’s phone chirped. He flipped it open. Still liked the flip: kept a mobile for web access, but used a plain cell for talking. Old fart. Caller ID said “Wilson.” He thumbed Answer.

“Elaine?”

“Handoff went to shit. All dead. And it gets worse.” She was pissed.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“The Dissipyat transfer, looks like someone got the route, hijacked the locals, then tried to fake out our people. We didn’t buy it. Gunfire ensued.”

“Who’d we lose?” Malik asked.

“Lopez and Siriwatchara were handling, Petrovna and Gunnerson security, and my man Bragg was transfer agent. Dunno yet who Dissipyat sent.”

Malik Boudreaux took a breath, rubbed his buzz cut, what was left of it anyway. Half the south Asian transfer team. Shit. “What do we know?” he asked.

“Three coverage drones went dark just before the hijackers pulled up, but the fourth lagged so we got some intel. It’s hard to tell for sure, though, who all shot at who. I just got the archive and fast skimmed it. Looked like the hijackers showed up, tried to fake the hand signals, words were exchanged, our team made a break for it, then the assholes started shooting. Something must’ve punctured a canister. Fucking moron gangsters.”

Malik drummed the table. “That isn’t supposed to happen, those canisters are certified for missile strikes.”

“Heard some of those fucked up militias got their hands on depleted uranium slugs and rocket cartridges. That’s my guess.”

“Why do you think a canister got hit?”

“The drone video shows the assholes all jumping around shootin’ their fucking guns,” Elaine continued. “Then, misfires start blowing up in their faces while some playground general is whippin’ shitties. Then –”

“Whipping what?” Malik interrupted.

“Shitties. Doing donuts. Two seconds later an axle snaps or some shit and he rolls the truck. Guess what it’s packed to the gills with? Everything goes up, RPGs, C4, God knows what other shit. Everyone dies. Ten seconds later we lose the drone.”

“There were six other cans in the truck,” Malik said.

“Well, the fact that the area hasn’t been rent asunder by earthquakes, storms, and plagues of locusts bodes well. Hopefully the rest are intact. But I doubt that’ll last, this disaster shit has a way of escalating.”

“You call 9-1-1?”

“Yeah, backchanneled the UN, they’re scrambling a couple Chinooks full of Bhutanese monks to clean up the mess and hold the fort. Should be sandals on the ground in three hours.”

“The Director General?”

“My guy says Kothapalli is birthing fire leopards and calling on demons to rain flaming sulphur with a ‘ph’ down upon your head.”

Malik glanced out his twenty-eighth floor office window towards the UN building. He didn’t see any smoke. “I don’t see any smoke.”

“My guy sometimes exaggerates.”

Malik took a couple deep breaths. Faint buzzing on the open line – pretty solid for Manhattan to whichever shithole-stan Elaine hunkered down in.

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