Under Strange Suns by Ken Lizzi Read Free Book Online Page B

from the cord belt, raising himself to one knee to catch the descending sword stroke.
    The blades clanged, Aidan twisted his wrist and the scimitar slid away to his right, throwing the swordsman off balance. Aidan used the split-second respite to push himself to his feet, swivel side-on in a fencer’s stance. It felt a trifle unnatural; his training was in the Italian school, sword and parrying dagger. But he’d cross-trained, acting as Captain Merit’s sparring partner in enough classical fencing bouts in the VR Salle that he pulled off the maneuver as fluidly as practical given all the gear strapped to him. His reaction seemed to take his attacker aback and Aidan had a chance to get a decent look at him, his greenish tinted face thin, mostly beardless. Oh Christ , he thought, not much more than fifteen years old. Another goddamn kid .
    And then the kid was moving again, starting a looping backhand, going for Aidan’s neck. Aidan lunged, plunging the bolo knife into the kid’s abdomen as the scimitar whooshed overhead.
    The kid screamed, dropping the sword and backing away. The thick blade of the bolo slid out of the gaping hole, a brighter shade of green beginning to spread from the wound.
    Aidan let the knife drop. He detached the spent magazine and grabbed another 200-round magazine.
    “Fallback to the rally point,” came Merit’s voice. Aidan took another glance down the street, saw nothing but the kid, now on his knees, still screaming, a pile of bodies behind him, some still writhing, pleas to God interspersed with groans and wails. A momentary glance, but the image imprinted itself vividly, indelibly. Then Aidan tore himself away and pelted back down the street, making for the south gate.
    He saw Hearse, a burden slung over his shoulder. Two dots overlapped on his visor. Shit, that was Summers in a fireman’s carry. Behind came Captain Merit, walking backwards, M4 panning left to right, triggering three-round bursts every few seconds. Sinclair sprinted toward them. They all met at the gate.
    Aidan and Sinclair took over rear guard from the Captain, who eased Summers from Massey’s shoulder.
    “Hang on, Summers,” Merit said. Turning his back, he grabbed the Master Sergeant beneath the knees and hoisted while Hearse lifted him by the armpits.
    “I’ll hang on so long as you and Massey do,” Summers answered. Aidan noted he didn’t refer to the medic as ‘Hearse’ this time.
    They returned to the rally point at a trot without seeing any further pursuit, Merit explaining that they’d taken out Farouq easily enough, took his mug shots, fingerprints and hair sample. Merit had snatched a datapad and was looking for a computer or any storage devices when the bodyguards arrived. More bodyguards than there should have been. Summers had taken two below his vest, but stayed on his feet, helping clear the room before they scampered.
    “Shit, sir, it’s just a flesh wound,” Summers said. “Well, okay, two. Two, deep, very painful flesh wounds.”
    “That’s right, Summers,” Merit said. “Let’s get you to the Mule and head to the rendezvous. You can show us the scars over beer. Or better yet, considering where you got shot, let’s just stick to drinking the beer.”
    It was a thirty mile hump to the exfiltration site, where an Army Special Air chopper would be waiting to fly them out to an aircraft carrier. From there, another helicopter would deliver them to Diego Garcia. And then Aidan would go back to what was left of the States and get his discharge papers. He had had his fill. There was something else out there for him. He didn’t know what it was but he was damned sure going to look. He didn’t know what the others would do. Probably more of the same; killing the seemingly inexhaustible supply of people filled with seemingly bottomless wells of hate.
    Except for Master Sergeant Summers. He’d never squeeze another trigger or drink another beer. He died before they reached the Mule.

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