Train:
The John Everett (Formerly the 556)
Location:
Devil’s Lake Subdivision Line, North Dakota, Former United States of America
48°22'11.3"N 99°59'59.9"W
Time:
2134, Tuesday, June 21, 2067
Issuer:
January-50a - Aurora Marshal
Third Generation Immune
A tremor pulls me away from my studies. As eager as I am for any excuse to put off learning more about plant parts and chloro—uh, plasts, I think—something like this isn’t—
The train raddles, more noticeable this time. It’s definitely beyond just the usual bump or shiver of The Everett as it travels down the rails. The feeling is gentle—subtle—but pervasive. That’s got power behind it.
The train’s hard brakes engage, and I realize I’m rambling in my own brain. The sound of screeching metal barely makes it to my ears, but the negative acceleration pushes me against the chair.
We’re stopping.
Whatever happened was real—not some kind of tricky program meant to evaluate my reaction. Scolding myself, I can’t even believe I was seriously thinking that might have been what was going on, subconscious or no. Even if we have been on higher alert ever since that immune kid went missing, the rattling is something real—something—
I need to focus.
The train is stopping.
My first thought is to tear off the VR headset and make for the nearest weapons locker. An idea makes me reconsider. The main defensive turrets should take care of things a while before Rangers need to react; if they can’t, there’s nothing I could really do anyway. A minute spent in active VR might help—show me the exact problem.
It would make me more prepared.
I might be able to take more directed action.
Mother would want me to do that—think smart, not impulsive.
I am bound for leadership and all.
The red indicator flashing in VR finally gets my attention. I select it and visuals shift over from my plant lesson to the train status module. I barely notice the Mahogany leaf as it disappears, begging in vain for classification.
A shame as I recognized that one, at least.
A little location blip appears before me and the model zooms out. It grants me perspective. I am a little dot in one of the cars as The Everett appears before me, stretched out on the rail like a long convoy of caterpillars on an immense vine.
—I’ve really been studying plants too long.
All the cars in the long chain show status green. I skim past less interesting data—
Time and distance for full stop—
Current coordinates—
Supply statistics—
I see launch tube clusters one through twelve have deployed their scout drones—ninety-six dots in all, swarming out from The Everett. They move toward something—the source of the shaking, probably. The drones move into a reconnaissance formation I’m sure has a name, though they are not reporting anything interesting yet.
The car jolts a little—a clipped, powerful motion.
A-are we taking fire?
I quickly realize it’s the hydraulics switching on, power of the huge cylinders shifting the heavy side armor plates into place. When traveling, they are perpendicular to the train—The Everett is narrower that way. Yet from what I’ve learned, armor is more effective against attack when it’s angled—better to deflect a projectile than absorb its energy.
Focusing on VR again, I notice manual and remote pintle-mounted defensive turrets begin to switch over from green to blue one by one.
Operators are checking in.
The same goes for the sponson guns.
In a brilliant instant, full range radar, sonar, and thermal data begins coming in too. Color and definition wash over the virtual map with brilliant clarity—almost like I’m flying over the real train, looking down. Numbers and indicators show up too. Other types of data appear as well, but I can hardly identify what most of it is supposed to mean. Soon 3C will begin compiling a more precise virtual model of the surrounding area, but for now it’s a wash of information.
Even so, all this is just… it isn’t anything I can do anything with…
I had thought that maybe with a little more information I could make a smarter decision, but I…
I ignore it for now.
Parts of the surrounding landscape flick into reality, real-time models trying to determine an optimal render. I see a lot of rectanguloid structures with slanted roofs—houses or buildings or other structures. The model has begun superimposing each on the Google Maps record for our coordinates. Even thirty-whatever-years of wild growth and decay aside, the relic Google data is still the most accurate map in most areas.
I see a large city—Rugby—start to form. A lot of these places—these former cities—are huge—easily kilometers across.
Widening the map, I see a lot of green and tan rectangles—farmland, I think. Many of these cities were surrounded by—
The three heavy LiDAR-equipped drones start feeding in their tele… telen—telemetry! That’s the word—and find myself surprised. The far more valuable fliers are usually left in reserve, but someone must have made a call… probably.
Looking at the map more closely again, I notice the model has spliced in non-computer made visuals. I think that means camera data is being added in now, too. It lets the processors focus on other tasks… much like I should be doing.
At my age—a should-be-respectable seventeen—and situational rank—a measly Ranger reserve—this is all beyond my concern. I should be moving.
Yet I am also the daughter of The Coordinator and The Daughter, so it would be expected that I look further into things—think as leadership would think.
Before I can dwell on my role, my duties, and even age and being the first born in the 50s—or, more importantly, not born in the 40s—the first status is posted: “Zero Delta.”
Speed to stop, assume defensive positions.
I swallow.
It’s a combat situation.
It’s a combat situation.
It’s probably just a precaution, but a declared combat situation, nonetheless. As a Ranger reserve, that means I have responsibilities.
Before pulling out of VR, I center in on my ID signature within the 3D model. Half just wanting to be sure of the nearest weapons locker’s location and half to give myself a second or two to reorient, I find what I’m looking for: confirmation there’s a weapons locker on this car. As I thought, it’s just downstairs and around a pair of corners.
Removing the headset, I am greeted by red lights and a low klaxon. The slowing car is barren, two long columns of empty plush study seats on the second level. I store the VR interface in its padded case, careful with the intricate treasure. Taking a steadying breath, I unbuckle myself. It’s time to make my way to the locker.
I get up and start walking, sure to move my hand from chair to chair—ready to throw myself into one if the train suddenly changes acceleration. They are spaced widely apart, however, probably originally meant to be observation seats or something—back when there was something out there to look at besides a lot of boring grassland, trees, and mountains.
I reach the stairs and grip the railing. Navigating the tight descent and rounding a corner, I see December 49c—Sam—already at the locker. Sam happens to be one of the last people born in the 40s, something that always happens to get mentioned in conversation.
Sam is also a dick.
Predictably, he puts aside a scoped AR10 for himself. He then hands Thomas—May 50g—the other precision weapon on offer, a Remington 700. The two already have weapons, both full-fledged Rangers and Sam some fancy officer, each equipped with a SCAR 16—pretty much the best you can get for combat rifle. Even so, they take the precision rifles too.
Thomas begins removing headsets, ammo, and other tactical gear, while Sam motions over two younger teen Rangers. They, like him and Thomas, already have non-precision rifles ready. He directs one over to Thomas and the other to join himself.
Next, Sam points at a very young boy—the kid maybe nine years old—and waves him over.
Sam then hunches down.
“You don’t think you should have taken shelter?” he asks in a soft voice.
The boy looks fearful, but determined.
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“Tell me, April 58d,” Sam says, and it’s clear that the boy’s surprised that Sam knows his date, “do you know your magazines and rounds yet?”
The boy nods.
Sam tilts his head, pantomiming placid disbelief.
“Mostly,” the boy replies, nervous voice barely carrying over the soft claxon.
“Well, they’re labeled if you forget; take your time,” Sam replies. Then, turning to Thomas, he continues, “A bag with a couple of each—not too heavy.”
I fold my arms in annoyance, despite feeling a twinge of something favorable for Sam—I’m honestly more annoyed with myself than with him, hating that some stupid gesture— I’m sure I’ll find a justification for my sentiment soon enough.
It won’t be long until he reinforces his proper, sterling image.
Sam turns to three remaining boys—each maybe thirteen or so. Clearly, the middle one hopes their numbers will work in their favor.
“S 55b, July 55f, and May 55d,” Sam says, air of authority even, evaluating, and emotionless.
I shift my jaw a little. I remember him being a lot more immature, but to be honest, I have been trying to ignore him for the last half a decade or so, so his schtick has probably changed.
“What do you think you can handle?” he asks.
“AR15,” the middle one, S 55b—I think—says, throwing his chin up.
I roll my eyes.
He’s clearly trying to look confident.
“July?” Sam asks, looking to the next boy.
“Same,” he replies, far more clearly nervous.
“And May?” he continues, playing the same little psychological game.
“Model 870,” he replies, more genuinely levelheaded than the others.
“Shotgun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still not too confident about your accuracy?” he asks with something that sounds like understanding, but is probably something else.
He pauses before replying, thinking.
I like this kid; he seems mature for his age.
“In a situation like this, I should take the weapon I rate the highest in. Also, no one else took a shotgun, so I intended to help widen the combat readiness profile.”
Sam regards him evenly for a second—the closest thing resembling approval he’s liable to give the twelve-year-old—but then looks at the other two. “And why do you two think you’re ready for anything more than 9mm SMGs?” he asks, but somehow makes the question amusing—like, something that should have calmed the two worried kids if they weren’t on edge. What is he playing at?
“I-I have good range marks—I’ve been practicing!” S55b—definitely S55b—replies.
Sam looks over to Thomas, who shakes his head in negation. “Simulation… is different than reality, S55,” Sam says, turning back, tone firm. He then turns to July44f. “And what about you?”
“J-just want a chance to prove what I can do, Sam.”
The mood instantly turns frigid and the other kids panicked. “Only his friends call him by his name,” one of the other kids whispers—I can’t tell who.
“Hey,” Sam says, calmer than I would have expected but with a bit of volume to re-center the focus. “Sir or LC, July,” he replies with a grin, rustling the boy’s hair. “At least in a combat situation.”
“Sir! Sorry!”
“It’s okay, kid—you’re getting used to a new way of thinking,” he replies, but then laughs. “It’s okay, recruit—damn, but I’m petting the same dog,” he mutters. He then pulls out two shotguns—I don’t have the models memorized—handing them to S55b and July55f with significant looks. “And you don’t need a big gun to prove what you can do—in fact, ask me later about dragon’s breath rounds,” he adds with a smirk, turning to Thomas. “About time we showed those off again.”
“Yes—y-yes, sir!” the two boys reply.
Sam then hefts a… what the hell is that? He looks to May55d, hanging him the huge-barreled gun. “Are you rated for a grenade launcher?” he asks the boy, giving him a stern, but not patronizing stare.
“Uh… I know how they work, sir,” he replies, shrugging. “The Gunsmith isn’t exactly… uh…”
Sam just nods. “I understand. Well good a time as any, I guess,” he says, looking over to Thomas.
He shrugs. “Why not?”
Sam turns back to May. “These are ABT rounds. Are you familiar?”
“No.”
“They are Air Burst Thermobaric. Last resort, crowd control only—we don’t have many of them and, as you seem to know, The Gunsmith will ring you if you waste a round.” Thomas laughs, Sam looking over to him, grinning. “We are in deep shit if we have to use this, so this is an exercise in being the guy who doesn’t fire, right? If we do—on my mark—aim far—long arcs, got it? I’ll give you a primer later.”
“Understood.”
“Other than that, here’s a pair of binocs,” he replies, handing him binoculars. “You can spot for me. —well, at least get some practice in, anyway.” Sam regards him for a couple of seconds, and I wonder if he is going to chew May out for his lack of a “sir,” but Sam eventually nods giving him the grenade launcher.
He then looks to the other two.
“You two. Learn from him.”
Sam then turns, opening his mouth to speak, before noticing me. He… a big smile forms on his face. “Aurourrra,” he says, drawing out my name. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Poor eyes for a marksman,” I retort.
He smirks.
He smirks, seeming genuinely pleased.
I look away, irritated.
The Everett having come to a full stop a while back, I had become comfortable leaning against a wall, trying to be deliberately casual. I push off it, sauntering forward a step.
“I would think we should be done already,” I add, gesturing around. I know until definitive orders come down beyond those for the train’s main weapons, we are more or less on standby, but I don’t let that stop me. It’s still sloppy—my untrained interpretation of sloppy, anyway—and bothers me, value of Sam’s little impromptu training exercise notwithstanding. “Not good.”
“Congratulations on making the reserves,” he says evenly, ignoring my assertion. The lack of sneer and genuine sounding words somehow make the words more irritating than direct mockery.
“Thanks,” I reply, icy.
He looks away, reaches into the locker, and hands me an MP5. “I know you are having trouble with recoil, but this should give you a lot of flexibility,” he says, so helpful-sounding that an outsider might believe it was genuine.
I narrow my eyes and shift my jaw a little.
A petite girl, the simulations have shown me I can’t handle the higher calibers properly and it’s a well circulated secret that it bothers me—one of the first such secrets I have since learned to never let out. It’s the reason I like precision weapons: single shots. Either way, the jab sinks right between the ribs.
I take the weapon, stony, but then he pulls out a training rifle whose model I haven’t bothered to memorize; what matters is it’s definitely a .22 caliber.
Of course, the thing just had to be in this locker.
“Take this too,” he adds, twisting the knife. “If the situation arises, your marksmanship should—”
But my cheeks flush, the feeling of it hot and irritating. A quick survey of the cramped, bending corridor shows Thomas smiling openly with silent laughter and the two slightly younger boys grinning, undoubtedly happy to be part of the action. “Funny,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Sam looks around, seeing the reaction, then turns back to me. “Look— I mean…” He puts a hand to his forehead, stroking it. “You are a great shot, and it wasn’t meant—” He takes a breath. “Here,” he says, holding out the AR10. “May can spot for Thomas, and I’ll spot—”
The sirens subside. The lights shift back from red to white, turning the gloomy, serious tone of the car into something more alive and inviting. Undoubtedly yet to undergo some necessary checks, The Everett remains stationary. Yet the sound of the place lacking the familiar nighttime rhythm of rotating wheels and passing bumps. I…
Suddenly uncomfortable, I round the corner before he can say anything else.
I duck into an unoccupied privacy room—one of the small ones with couches—and listen closely. Tense, I can’t tell if all that was some elaborate mockery, of just—
Whatever the case, it’s a small defeat, but a defeat nonetheless. I realize I’m breathing too fast—flustered and irritated—and try to—
He—
Sam—
The lights come on.
“I am surprised he offered you the AR10,” The Hunter says in his smooth, Spanish accent, the sound of it lilting out from the corner and startling me. “Yes, the spotter typically is the more experienced shot, but you… well, you are very inexperienced…”
I just look at him, nervous and excited.
“He must really trust you.”
It takes me a moment to get a handle on the situation, the reality of finding myself surprised by The Hunter in an empty privacy suite something almost bordering on a girlish daydream.
“He was mocking me,” I blurt, stupidly correcting him.
He just chuckles. “Was he now?” He takes a pull from a cigarette, the red glow illuminating his angular, hard face and long, wavy, brown hair. “Are you sure?”
“We shouldn’t smoke those,” I add, further hating myself with every “proper girl” word that pours unbidden out of my mouth.
“Just because you and I are immune, doesn’t make us immortal,” he says through a toothy, captivating smile.
“They smell.”
Fortune, I can’t stop myself. At least it sounded nice—through a smile—betraying easily that I’m charmed by the conversation and attention. Kill me.
“You don’t like the way I smell?”
My mouth drops open a little. Did he just flirt with me? —The Hunter? —a 39? “I…,” I sputter, trying to think of something. I can’t wait to tell Sadie. “What happened? —I mean tonight? —what was the alert about?”
He chuckles, making me smile.
I bite my lip.
He nods his head toward a couch across the small compartment; I sit. “Some fury pendejo blew up a gas station,” he says, growing thoughtful. “The thing is… gasoline should have denatured by now.”
“What even is gasoline?” I ask, eager to keep the conversation alive.
“It was a common fuel before… well, before.” He sighs. “I suppose the explosion might have been propane, but I find it suspicious that one,” he adds, holding up a finger, “there would be any unclaimed propane anymore, and two,” he adds another finger, “anyone would be stupid enough to destroy any reserves. That stuff is irreplaceable.”
“Well, furies aren’t exactly… rational.”
“That is true, but…”
“But?” I ask, the word coming out before I realized his “but” was something unintended—a spillover word from an idea he immediately realized he should have kept to himself.
“But…,” he continues, seeming to indulge me since we are past letting the point drop in entirety. “I’ve noticed something odd.”
“Okay?” I ask, smiling in my skepticism.
Yet he doesn’t mellow.
“I won’t get into it, but… well…” he gets a pensive air about him, one racked with heavy thought. “I—” he starts, but then closes his mouth, thinking again. He looks at me. “Have you ever felt like something is watching you?” he asks, a twist of genuine concern to his voice.
“What do you mean?”
He looks away. “Like… you are just doing something—anything—and all of a sudden there’s this sensation… like… well…”
“Someone is watching you?” I ask, a little amused. “Yeah, isn’t that kind of universal?”
“I guess,” he replies. He thinks for half a moment, but then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“So… we’re all clear?”
“For now, I think so.” He grows a little sober, sighing again.
The mood changes; I don’t know how it happens so suddenly, but it does.
“Sam might be—might have been… a coarse young man. Perhaps you might notice he is more reserved now than you seem to paint him from memory. Even so, he is one of our best Rangers, so please don’t antagonize him. I need him for as long as he will last, Aurora, especially since I can’t have you out there.”
I flush. “I-I’d go if they’d let me.”
Stupid!
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
“I know.” He sighs, leaning back and taking another drag. “But you must control yourself. Self-control is becoming—it shows maturity.” He smiles, a wicked little thing. “Beautiful as you are, it only makes you more attractive, Aurora,” he adds, and I-I like the sound of that. But then he grows serious again. “It contrasts the others that constantly have to fight their emotions.”
I… I… Something in my expression catches him and I see a twinkle of appreciation in his eyes.
Yet then it fades.
“Don’t think we’re not aware of the way your peers look at you,” he says, more serious now.
My mood sours with the words and I have to stop myself from instinctually crossing my arms. “What, like you know about what it feels like to have everyone hate you,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “More than you would suspect, evidently.”
“BS,” I grumble.
He laughs a little more, making me smirk. “Besides, all your… persecutors…,” he says, making me feel a bit childish with the way he enunciates the word, “will be gone soon enough.”
“I hate them,” I whisper. In my nervous excitement, the words escape—the words very, very true on my lips. “If I antagonize them back, they’ll be gone sooner,” I add in a mutter, impulse getting to me as I spit up the words like vomit. I immediately realize it’s true—it’s a deep thing that has been brewing in me for years.
…also immediately, I hate myself for it.
“That…” he says, shock in his voice.
I look at him, surprised by myself.
The look he gives me makes me hate myself all the more. It is a sad, pitying expression—the type of look an adult gives a child when a bit of pride slips away… when they realize the one they are looking at is still very much a kid. “Hmm…” He stands, inserting his cigarette in a small tube and extinguishing it, saving the other half for later.
“I’m not a child,” I stupidly protest.
“I know, Princessa,” he says, and I flush, the charm getting to me.
“That was very childish of me to say—to feel—though,” I admit, looking down.
“But that wasn’t,” he says, and I look at him. He smiles and I blush again, his gaze too much. “Oh, you are definitely not a child.” He pauses, the tone growing somber as his smile turns bittersweet. “I just wish you realized you don’t have to say goodbye to your youth so quickly.”