January 23, 2363 AIA

Ionu

Preparing for the bust was a somber and strange affair. Creed had never done anything like it.

Setting the stage had been normal enough. The larger tasks had been broken down into small errands. Each bit was done alone, in secret, at random times, with only a word or a nod to Fenn to show it was finished. Because each task was meant to be done by only one person, Creed never felt the solitude.

But now they were standing in the prep-zone, checking each other’s armor. No one was in the building but the two of them. The sheriff’s whispered instructions echoed from the bare walls. The loneliness enveloped Creed. It was so profound, it was almost tangible, shrouding him in an ephemeral weight, until the only sense of reality came from the person in front of him.

Jun Fenn jerked down on Creed’s shoulder straps, then pounded twice on the draped metal covering his deputy's chest. “That’s it.”

Tyler put a hand up to where his boss had hit him. “It’s heavy enough.”

“Incorrect, Deputy.” Fenn reached over to the table and picked up two e-pistols. “Since they know we have them, it would’ve been better if they were twice as heavy.”

Creed took one of the pistols and tucked it into his holster. “Heavy enough to stop a bullet you mean?”

The sheriff nodded.

“Sir, do you think they’ll have ancients?”

“I don’t know. I’d say it’s unlikely, but it’s still a risk.”

“And if they do?”

Fenn passed his subordinate a night stick. “General procedure is to fall down after getting a big hole in your chest.”

Tyler shook from his repressed laughter. “I think I can handle that.”

“I’ve heard it’s a very natural reaction. Most people don’t even bother practicing.” Fenn finished sliding his own stick into its snap holster. “Helmet.” He handed over the headgear and picked up own, but he didn’t immediately put it on.

The deputy waited, helmet in hand.

“Creed, thank you for being here.”

Tyler Creed could hear the sincerity in the sheriff’s voice. A lump formed in his throat so quickly he couldn’t swallow it back. All he could do was nod.

They put on their helmets, then Fenn passed Creed one of the XM4. They slung the rifles over their shoulders, then both reached down and grabbed the handle on their side of the directional emp cannon.

They left the warehouse and crossed the empty street. After putting down the cannon, Fenn went over to the building’s double doors to listen. Creed scanned the cracks around the window slats. The lights were still on. When the sheriff nodded, Tyler bent over the cannon and finalized the settings. By the time Fenn was back with him, it was ready to go.

They took their respective handles and lifted it until the indicator light blinked green. A moment later, it blinked red. Once. Twice…

They braced themselves on the fourth blink.

On the fifth blink, it fired.

The concussion of the explosion pushed the cannon back. They let it swing, then used the momentum to slam it against the door. The bolts cracked and the doors burst open. Creed and Fenn had already dropped the cannon and brought up their XM4s.

“This is the peacekeepers!” Fenn yelled. “Hands up!”

The room was empty.

Creed’s eyes darted around the space as he tried to understand. His ears were telling him there should’ve been a crowd! But the invisible gathering had failed to notice their dramatic entrance. They continued doing whatever they were doing with no change to the sound.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

It took less than a second for him and Fenn catch on. They both turned so they were back-to-back, facing the outside corners of the warehouse. Three men were bearing down on each of them. All six were wearing masks and gloves. They didn’t have ancients. They had pipes and crowbars. Emps didn’t work on them either.

Creed managed to get off a shot before his rifle was struck by a pipe. The impact made his left hand ring with agony, but his right hand had enough of a hold on the weapon, he was able to smash it across his attacker’s face.

Something was wrong. The blow felt ineffective. Dampened.

Creed slammed the butt of his rifle into the man’s exposed neck, drew his pistol and fired at another attacker’s chest. As he suspected, the blast scattered off without leaving a mark.

“They’re armored!” he shouted.

Fenn was too busy to answer.

Creed dropped his pistol, pulled out the night stick, and threw his rifle at the face of his nearest attacker. When the man flinched away, Tyler clubbed him across the side of his neck.

Wrists. Elbows. Knees. Neck. The joints would be the weakest points.

Fenn’s voice said from behind him, “Your knife.” There was a vague sense of pressure at Creed’s back, then it was gone.

If Fenn had taken his knife, things were bad, but frustrated by the nonstop attacks, Creed couldn’t help him. The deputy tried to move faster, tried to hit harder, but there was only so much he could do.

One of his attackers was down before Tyler succumbed to their assault. They didn’t bother to aim for any joints; they simply beat him. As the arrhythmic blows slammed into his armor, he forced his eyes open. A length of metal drifted into his blurred vision. One of them must have dropped their pipe. He grabbed it, rolled to his back, and brought it up swinging. His attacker’s leg armor deflected the blow toward his groin. There was a lot of protection in the area, but none in the crevice where his leg met his pelvis.

While that attacker curled over with a scream, Creed yanked the bar back and slammed it into his other assailant’s face. Yes, it was armored, but—as the deputy knew—it would still hurt. The man staggered back.

Tyler forced himself to his feet.

Another man had been coming toward him, but he stopped when the deputy started to rise. The man’s sleeves were shredded, exposing the armor beneath. Some blood was weeping from his elbow crease. He held a machete limply in his hand.

Creed laughed as he stripped off his helmet and dropped it to the ground. “That’ll be mine now.” He motioned to the machete with his pipe.

The other three men that had surrounded him tried to stumble or drag themselves away. He ignored them. All he could see was the machete and the blood that was on it.

Creed launched himself at the wounded assailant. He brought the pipe down on the man’s wrist. The machete rang as it hit the concrete, but Creed didn’t hear it. His attacker had landed a brutal round-house punch to the outside of his eye socket. His world dimmed for a second.

When his vision cleared, he was looking down at the light shining off a blade. Tyler half saw, half felt movement beside him and stomped his foot down on the machete. When his attacker tried to lift it, it barely budged. The deputy kicked the man’s face, grabbed the machete by the blade, took the hilt in his other hand, and lashed the cutting edge out in an arc.

His assailant fell back. When the man raised a hand to his chest, he could feel his armor’s cloth cover was slashed open. The metal beneath it was deeply scored.

Creed stood on the balls of his feet, leaning toward him, machete in hand. “Come on!”

The man ran.

The deputy turned and saw the rest of the attackers fleeing away from a crumpled form on the floor.

Creed limped over. “Boss?”

Fenn groaned. His hand twitched around the hilt of his deputy’s knife.

“How bad?” Tyler asked as he tried to visually gauge the sheriff’s injuries.

“Check the room.” Fenn’s voice was so quiet, Tyler could barely make out the words. “No more surprises.”

The deputy let out a yell when he unthinkingly tried to wipe his tearing eye. The agony made it hard to breathe. He let his arm fall back to his side and, ignoring the tears, went to obey the order.

After checking everywhere else, he found a speaker at the far end of the room, out of reach of the emp. It was still pouring out the sounds of a laughing crowd. Creed hacked at it until it went silent. Then he walked back to the front of the building, stopping only to gather their weapons. They clattered into a heap when he dropped them beside Fenn.

“Creed.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t destroy evidence.”

Tyler looked back at the shattered remains of the speaker, then dropped to the ground, laughing. When his hysterical mirth faded, he muttered, “Sorry, Boss.”

“It’s an understandable reaction. I feel the same way about country music, but next time, restrain yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have our weapons?”

“Yes, sir.”

Creed saw his boss struggling to sit up. He put out his arm. They worked together to get each other standing. Then Tyler could see more of the damage inflicted on the sheriff.

“We have to get you to Davis,” the deputy muttered.

Fenn grumbled, “Are there any bodies?”

“You mean aside from ours?”

“We’ll have to leave the canon here for now.”

Creed felt his stomach twist with grief. Fenn’s mind, dim and bleary from his injuries, was still touching every piece of protocol, trying to put it into place, but the rules unthinkingly assumed they’d have the luxury of a squad. There was nothing they could do. Everything would have to be abandoned. There was too much risk for either of them to go alone.

Tyler slung both XM4s over his shoulder and holstered the pistols.

“I’m sorry, Deputy.” Fenn’s voice was alarmingly weak. “I have to keep your knife for now. It has…blood. His blood.”

Creed flicked the blade of the machete up so it was resting on his shoulder. “I’ll make do until I can get it back. Unless—do we need the blood on this one?”

“No. That blood’s worthless.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s mine.”

They both laughed this time—weary, anguished laughs that were welcome despite how much they hurt.

Tyler put a hand on Fenn’s shoulder. “Can you walk?”

Fenn didn’t move for a moment. Then he shook his head.

Creed hoisted his boss’s arm over his shoulder. “Tell me if you’re about to faint.”

“I will.”