Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (25 page)

“Wait, who’s ‘they?’  Fighting for our lives?  What’s going on, Warner?” Jenkins asked outside of Warner’s vision.  He cursed as he realized he had told the middle and the end of the story, but not the beginning.  The convict couldn’t blame Jenkins for being confused.  The gladiator brought his right hand up behind his neck and looked back at his partner.

“Shit, sorry, forgot the details.  The EPI or whatever is going to stage a jail-break, try to start a revolution and bring down the Trade Union.  Not gonna work, but I’m all for the focused violence.  Sorry, didn’t mean to confuse you there,” he said looking at the young Crow in front of him.  Jenkins lowered his gaze and let the rifle fall by its strap down between his legs.

The artificial soldier couldn’t believe it.  Not only was he still trying to come to grips with not being the man he was supposed to be, there were plans in the works to just resurrect that man and call it a day.  Jenkins’ crisis of identity didn’t matter; at the very most he was just going to turn into another example of cruelty and inhumane treatment, and in any worse circumstances he wasn’t even going to live past a week. 

This living hell had somehow become more of a nightmare.

“FUUUUUUUUCK!” he shouted to the sky as he rose to his feet and let his misery be heard.  “GODDAMNIT ALL!  YOU MOTHERFUCKER……..YOU MOTHERFUCKING, you … assholes…..” he screamed as he started to sob mid-curse and lost all of the fight he had in him.  He sat back down on the transport and tried to bury his head in his hands, only to bounce his gloves off of his helmet.  Jenkins ripped open the clasps for his helmet in a fury and threw away the equipment towards a patch of barbed wire nearby.  He ran his hands through the beginnings of his hair and couldn’t help the spasms ripping through his body.  His body had fully given into his emotions.

Warner couldn’t blame him for that.  There was probably no way that the cameras weren’t on their way to investigate that little outburst, but the convict tried to push it from his mind.  The two of them sat there for a time, Warner unable to console the man wracked with despair just a few meters away.  The convict wondered if he had made the right choice.  As he considered the consequences of his decision, Warner heard a crackle as someone opened the Comms channel.

“Shit!  This is Cortes and Corrigan, we need a lot of help.  There’s four Wolverines bearing down on us and you guys are the closest.  Warner!  Jenkins!  Do you read?”  Warner heard the Spaniard’s voice and knew that they weren’t going to be able to help.  It might just be better to ignore the broadcast completely and pretend there was interference when he spoke to the newly-resurrected soldier.  Warner was turning to look at his devastated partner in order to give his opinion on the matter, but was surprised to see the red-faced soldier briskly walking over to the nest of barbed wire.  Jenkins picked up his helmet, which had acquired a few new scratches, and set it back over his head before securing the clasps.  The artificial soldier audibly sniffed and looked at the convict, rifle in hand.

“C’mon.  Just because I’m about to die or be replaced doesn’t mean we can’t save his ass.  I’m fake, but I can’t help but give a damn about you guys.  I’m a Crow, you’re a Crow and he’s a Crow.  That’s what matters, Warner.  You don’t need to be real to realize that,” Jenkins said before breathing in deep and looking to the Northwest, where Corrigan’s and Cortes’ beacons flashed ominously.  He ran as fast as he could to the beacons, hoping that he would get there in time.

Warner followed after him, shocked to discover that this new Jenkins might just be as good as the last.

-

Corrigan’s head snapped back from the force of the explosion.  Cortes had watched the other soldier peek over cover and bring the iron sights of his automatic up to his helmet, but neither had noticed the concussion grenade bouncing towards their cover.  Corrigan didn't even have a chance to pull the trigger on his weapon before a fragment from the grenade burst into his visor, through his skull and caused the man’s head to snap backward.  Cortes watched as the soldier stood there momentarily, his neck broken and his head pointed towards the sky at an impossible angle, dead but held standing by the kinetic motivators of the power armor.  The Spaniard could only think of the puppet shows he had seen on the local street corners when he was growing up.  He remembered looking down to see his brother’s gleeful smile and turning to throw a few coins to the street performer.

Cortes broke himself from the memory as Corrigan’s dead body hit the ground.  He needed to focus on the task at hand.  Cortes needed to find some way to make it out of this fight.  The coward didn’t want to die; not when he had something to fight for.

The problem was that he didn’t know what that was, and another problem was that the four enemy soldiers would make very quick work of him.  Cortes couldn’t help the whine escaping from his throat as he looked at the gray sky above him.  The only way he was going to get out of this would be a miracle.

“Cortes!”  The shout over Comms was enough to break Cortes from his desperation.  He recognized the voice; he just didn’t believe it yet.  The Spaniard breathed in deeply as he looked in their direction.  The coward could already see the two beacons closing the distance to his position.

“Cortes, we’re coming, just stay alive!  Just stall until we get there!”  The Spaniard wondered if this was the miracle he was praying for.  He couldn’t even consider responding to Jenkins’ words.  Cortes had long since abandoned any prospects for redeeming himself; he would just have to wait until the false warrior came to save him.

The coward shook his head and realized that he had lost his senses.  Jenkins was no savior, he was just a fake personality created in a lab.  Even he couldn’t fight four men at once and deliver Cortes to any sort of safety.  The Spaniard grabbed a hold of his automatic and released the clip.  He counted the shells remaining and groaned.  There were only four left after Cortes’ earlier firefights.  Just as always, the Spaniard had only fired around his enemies; Corrigan was the one who had actually gotten around to ending their lives.  Cortes reloaded the clip and opened the Comms channel to let his two compatriots know he was going to give a poor welcome, but the Spaniard never got around to finishing the thought.

Sam was standing just a few meters away with a grim look on his face.  Cortes noticed that the red bloom that always stained his brother’s orange shirt was strangely absent.  The Spaniard couldn’t comprehend what was happening to him; he couldn’t understand what his mind was trying to tell him.  Did it mean forgiveness after all of these years?  But Cortes couldn’t hope for that; not yet.

“He’s coming, Hector.  He’s coming to save you.  This is the man you need to help,” the false youth said, not bothering to open his mouth.  Hector Cortes heard the words all the same.

“Jenkins?  He’s …coming to save me?  I don’t….I don’t deserve that…” Cortes said with a quivering voice.  He couldn’t bear to look at his brother while contemplating that someone would save his worthless soul.  The Spaniard could only look down in shame.

“What the hell is that fucking coward talking about?”

“I don’t know, Warner, but it doesn’t matter.  We’re almost there, Cortes. Just hang on.”

The Spaniard did not even hear the words coming through over Comms.  He just whimpered before looking back up towards his brother.  The apparition had abandoned his position three meters away and instead appeared directly above his killer.  Cortes could only gaze upwards into the judgmental face of his younger brother.

“It’s not about what you deserve, Hector,” the delusion said, once again ignoring any efforts to open his mouth.  “But you will watch.  You will see what this life has in store for you.  You will see what you need to see, brother.  It won’t be long, now.”

Cortes blinked only to find that his brother had vanished.  He did what he could to sniff the mucus back into his nostrils; he wasn’t able to wipe the snot away with his helmet on.  The coward realized that he didn’t have much choice.  The Wolverines had already been so patient with him; they had waited for the Spaniard’s conversation to end before coming to kill him.  He breathed out sharply, closed his eyes and stood up, dooming himself to yet another death and resurrection.

But the hail of bullets the Spaniard expected did not burst through him.  The coward heard the explosions and gunfire, but Death did not come.  The Spaniard opened his eyes to see six soldiers fighting amongst themselves.  One fell immediately after being pelted with half a dozen rounds to the chest, and only after the warrior fell did Cortes realize what had happened.

Jenkins and Warner had arrived.

The odds were looking better for the Crows after that first casualty, but it was Warner’s grenade which truly tipped the scales.  It was only a split second before the ground beneath another Wolverine blew upwards like a geyser, separating the man’s legs from the rest of his body.  Cortes could only watch in shock as Death claimed yet another soldier from the battlefield.  Warner had ducked behind cover after throwing his grenade, but Jenkins fearlessly ran forward, almost recklessly, to the explosion, only picking up a piece of sheet metal just before the explosion.

Tears welled in Cortes’ eyes as he saw the light and fire beating against Jenkins’ makeshift shield.  The Crow had always been a warrior, but now the Spaniard saw him as a knight.  A modern day St. George, standing against the fires of the darkness he wished to overcome.  The coward watched as Jenkins threw away the piece of metal and trained his rifle back towards his opponents, who were just now standing outside of cover.  The artificial soldier stepped forward, sending three rounds to the far Wolverine, who had been ready to throw a grenade.  One of the rifle’s bullets struck the soldier in the elbow and caused the grenade to fall from the Wolverine’s hand.

The explosion ripped through the Wolverine and blood spurted into the air above the soldier’s cover.  Cortes could not believe what was happening in front of him.  This was no mere act of coincidence; God himself was present on this battlefield.  Jenkins was clearly a chosen warrior.  Cortes was not delighted; he was not happy at this turn of events.

Hector was afraid.

Cortes watched as Jenkins trained his rifle back on the other Wolverine, who was still somewhat disoriented by the explosions surrounding him.  The Spaniard assumed it would be quick work for God’s warrior, but the rounds never sprang from the weapon.  There was no muzzle flare or explosion.  There was just one word.

“Shit!”

The Spaniard understood.  The Crow’s rifle had jammed.  He was face-to-face with the enemy but his sword had been broken.  Cortes watched as the Wolverine found his courage and brought up his weapon to deal with the insolent Crow.  The coward felt the terror rising from his gut as he watched Jenkins try to dive behind cover and save himself from the bullets chasing after him.  Cortes looked to his left and saw the youth in the orange shirt, his face still the picture of grim duty.

“Go.  He needs you.”

Cortes didn’t hesitate for one more second.  He sprinted towards the field of death without any thoughts.  It was instinct which propelled him; a blind sense of faith that what he was doing was the only thing he could possibly do in that moment.  Cortes knew what he was doing was right.

The Spaniard raised his weapon and could see the Wolverine only half a meter away from Jenkins’ cover.  There was not enough time to make an accurate shot.  Cortes pulled the trigger and watched the burst of bullets dancing through the air around the Wolverine.  One glanced off of the man’s shoulder, but the rest sailed past harmlessly.  Cortes thought he could hear the fates laughing at him for the effort.  The Wolverine was hit off balance by the bullet, but he quickly realized the incoming threat and brought up his weapon.  The Spaniard pulled the trigger again after catching the man’s attention, but could only hear the clicks from his empty weapon.  He skidded to a stop and realized that yet again he would die; yet again he was just some empty existence with no merit.  Hector did not close his eyes this time, however.  The former coward would greet Death face-to-face.

Cortes could see the Wolverine aiming at him, but he also saw the man rising from behind his cover half a meter away.  Cortes’ knight leapt forward and grabbed at the Wolverine’s automatic, yanking the weapon towards his own body just as the soldier pulled the trigger.  The bullets burst out of the weapon, flying towards the Spaniard, but due to the interference they hit empty air. 

Hector could not help but watch as Jenkins fought the Wolverine for control of the firearm.  The artificial soldier used his left hand to force the weapon skyward and in his frustration the other soldier continued to hold down the trigger of the weapon, spraying ammunition up into the gray sky.  The Spaniard’s legs weakened as he saw Jenkins trap the other soldier’s arms up above their heads with just his left hand, grab at the holster on his hip with his right and then bring the sidearm up under the Wolverine’s helmet.  Cortes almost felt like he had been shot when Jenkins pulled the trigger and sent a decent portion of the man’s brain up into that gray sky.  The Spaniard lost his strength completely and fell to the ground.

Cortes had needed a miracle.  Jenkins had provided one for him.

Hector sat there for a time looking at the clouds above.  He felt like there was little to stop him from floating away towards the heavens; away from this corrupted Earth.  He had felt the divine.  It warmed his very soul, but at the same time he felt a tremendous weight, for he knew that he would have to repay God somehow.  He was not worthy of this miracle.  It was only a few minutes before a man stood above him and offered his hand.

“Thanks for that, Cortes.  He had me dead-to-rights.”  Cortes looked up at his savior and brought his hand up and took hold, feeling the weight slip away from him as Jenkins pulled him to a standing position.  Cortes looked over the soldier in front of him, only slightly taller and wearing the same armor.  But Cortes knew that this was a different kind of man.  Cortes was already in Hell, he did not deserve to be saved, but Jenkins had come as a warrior of God; the Spaniard was sure of it.