Nobura squinted at him, then returned to talk on his communicator. Mehta sat down on the ground, carefully placing the rocket launcher bag he was carrying next to him. He took out his canteen from the bag and took a big gulp of water.
The Shinogi around Nobura stared at Mehta. Some seemed afraid, some not as much. All had a vivid tension in their eyes. They were far from home, and despite their discipline, despite their training, this kind of conflict was foreign to them all. They were still not used to fighting with guns, never mind rocket launchers. And here was an outsider, someone who had nearly killed their general only days ago, sitting among them.
Mehta smiled at them. The smells, the violence, the looks of fear and uncertainty—to him it all felt like home.
Mehta was assigned to one of two groups of ten. He was near the back, to be used strategically given his rocket launcher experience. The platoon ran out screaming with bloodlust and joined two other groups of ten that were peeling off the other main position closer to the exterior wall.
It wouldn’t be long now until they were in the crosshairs of the enforcers, like lambs running to the slaughter.
Abruptly, Mehta split off from his group and ran perpendicular to them, away from them—west instead of south.
“Koshinuke!” the Prefectorate private who was next to him yelled. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it probably wasn’t an expression of camaraderie.
He ran as fast as he could. His heart pounded and his chest heaved. His injured leg would be in pain tomorrow, if there was a tomorrow. For today his adrenaline had taken over, trumping the pain.
The heavy gunfire began in earnest, but it wasn’t directed at him. Why would they fire at him? He wasn’t headed toward the artillery gun tower, or even one of the protected bunkers. Nor was he part of the major offensive.
More bullets. More screams.
He noticed the snow again. It pecked at his face with soft kisses as he ran.
He cut behind a small, rectangular building. He was heading south again. Here he surprised two enforcers jogging in his direction. He shot the first in the chest with his pistol. The second scrambled to pull up his rifle but Mehta’s second shot struck him in the leg, flooring him. Mehta finished him off with a shot to the chest as he ran by.
Once past the building he was in the open again. The detention tower was visible. Few had noticed him, and it wasn’t until he was almost at the door that enforcers started firing in his direction.
A bullet tore through his chest, dropping him.
He forced himself off the ground and staggered over to the main door. He fumbled with his keys and tried them as more bullets glanced off the tower. The key still worked. He pushed open the door and fell onto the floor inside.
The bullet had torn through the flesh on his right side. It wasn’t deep, however. It might have broken a rib but otherwise seemed manageable.
He forced himself to his feet and looked at the spiral staircase in front of him.
The bullet had taken some of the piss out of him. He couldn’t quite run up the stairs, but he pushed hard.
They wouldn’t have expected a solitary man to try to take the detention tower, so far removed from the main position. Nor would they know he would have a key. But the element of surprise had been exhausted. The enforcers would come for him.
Two shots rang down from above, ricocheting off the metal stairs. It seemed to be coming from near the sixth level. That was where enforcers would be stationed during the conflict. There was a balcony on one side where they would have good visibility to the Barnyard.
He stuck to the outer walls and continued up the staircase, more slowly this time.
On the fourth floor he stopped. There was an open doorway that led to the detention cells. He poked his head in and couldn’t see anyone. He quickly ran through the doorway, past the cells where Cecile and Flora had been kept, then to the other staircase that led up to his old office.
The office was unoccupied. It was a tight room, no more than eight feet across. The desk was still there, devoid of clutter. He pushed the desk up against the window, sat on top, dropped his bag, and began loading the rocket launcher. When it was ready, he turned and kicked out the window with his boot. It fragmented but held on the first kick and then smashed open on the second kick. Then he kicked out the shards that remained.
The balcony would be just above him. That’s where enforcers should be, but he couldn’t hear their yelling or footsteps. They must be on the tower stairs, or closer. He had to hurry.
He positioned the rocket launcher on his shoulder and turned to the window.
The southern artillery gun tower was within his sights. It was still blasting away at the high-rise condos, two rounds at a time. Below were the enforcer defenses, mostly untouched by the pitiful advance of Nobura’s forces. There was one black mark on the tower where something had hit, but no other visible damage. Closer still was a litter of bodies, presumably the men he had just been running with, not one of them moving.
The artillery gun was just in range, but it would be a difficult shot.
He fired.
His first rocket went wide, swimming around the tower and hitting a warehouse on the other side. The sight of the rocket sent the enforcers stationed around the tower into a frenzy. They pointed their weapons and began firing at him.
He ducked inside the room and reloaded. One bullet glanced off the ceiling. Another off the sidewall. He could certainly use some cover fire, but he knew none would be forthcoming.
For a brief moment he wondered what he was doing here. Why shouldn’t he take cover, or even flee? But it was a cursory thought, born of that unpredictable human instinct that occasionally reared its ugly head. Fear was such a silly thing.
He reminded himself that Flora could still be in danger, especially with the artillery gun still firing into the high-rise condos. He reminded himself of his commitment to the mission, to Owen’s insistence on their objective. Yes, it was true he didn’t hold much stock in this Sentinel business, but like any merc, you can’t have all the answers. You fulfill your contract, even if it’s dirty business.
You fulfill your contract, especially if it’s dirty business.
He raised the rocket launcher, took aim, and fired. The rocket veered up, veered down, and then struck true, casting a shroud of black smoke around the artillery gun turret.
Only a brief second after the rocket launched, a bullet pierced his chest, this time in the center, this time lancing through a lung. He tried to counterbalance the force of it, but then almost rocked forward out the window until his arms shot out to halt his fall.
But his hands were gripping the shattered glass along the windowsill. The glass cut through his hands. He grasped the sill all the same.
Another bullet pierced his arm, this time shattering bone, disabling his tenuous grip. His weight no longer balanced, he twisted forward, out of the window. His only good arm feebly reached for something, for the wall, for a loose beam, anything, but it found no purchase.
So he careened forward, spiraling into a sprawling arc, the launcher hurtling off him and orbiting into the expanse below. The world spun as he spun, and with it, the carousel appeared again. The faces were mottled, maimed, ghastly, and sad.
He tried to find her among them, but there was no sign of her.
The carousel tumbled with him, past dark clouds, past flecks of snow, past smoking buildings and toward the approaching ground.
And when his bones shattered against the hard cement below, when his organs exploded against the unforgiving surface, the carousel shattered with him. The faces disappeared forever, lost in time.