Phoenix Reborn Page 12

  “Well that can’t be good,” Connor said with a little laugh.

  ~ ~ ~

  “He spoke?” the doctor asked, coming into the room after being alerted by the attending 311AFMR.

  “Affirmative, sir” the machine replied.

  The doctor helped Connor sit up in his bed. “What did he say?”

  “That can’t be good,” the machine repeated.

  The robot and doctor began talking to Connor, who gave his best attempt at telling them where it hurt and how bad. He had sustained heavy injuries, but under the medical care of the OMBIcademy staff and specialized machinery, he was recovering fast.

  His left leg was broken, as well as his left arm, and his skull was cracked. All his injuries were being bonded with synthetic bone solution and he almost felt like he could walk out of there. The doctor informed him, however, that he would be unable to leave for a few days at least. He remembered who put him in the infirmary and how, and for the next few days Connor sat alone, plotting his revenge.

  Chapter 12

  Free Men

  In the hours since the riot broke out on the streets of New York, the Dragoon had been rallying groups of rioting citizens, using hit-and-run tactics against fortified special police positions. The local law enforcement and control personnel had attempted to contain the spreading riot by blocking off the broad streets of Manhattan. As the Dragoon and his forming army pushed them back, more and more squadrons arrived to contain the area.

  It was public knowledge that the Dragoon had taken down Councilman Stahl’s transport and assassinated Councilman Kaufmann by now, and the rioters had named him their leader as more and more citizens joined the cause. UEDF International Guard Squadrons began arriving within hours to help facilitate the capture of the man by closing off the city. The bridges and tunnels had been heavily fortified with heavy assault vehicles and a line had been formed at the edge of Harlem to the North. The choke points made it impossible for even larger groups of rioters to get in and out of the city, cutting off their ability to merge forces into a bigger army. It was clear that the EMC was trying to kill the Dragoon quickly to disrupt the man’s influence on the people.

  He had been holding captured UEDF and law enforcement personnel in a downtown office building, keeping them comfortable and under heavy guard. To his surprise, once they had been removed from the battle, many of them had expressed sympathy for the cause and even offered to help. Naturally, nobody trusted them, but as the sentiment grew, and the prisoners seemed content to just wait. When the Dragoon asked one of them why he wished to defect, he had said that Captain Marlena “Phoenix” Mercer was one of his idols growing up, and the fact that the EMC had killed her made him angry.

  It was during that conversation that the Dragoon had come to realize he served as an inspiration for rioting, but that the woman would be a symbol for a revolution. He began using the battle cry, “Remember the Phoenix” before leading charges into heavily fortified areas. Always at the head of the charge, the Dragoon would run into battle like a man courting death. On several occasions, he charged alone into battles that no one should have walked away from, but somehow had come back out. The rioters, who began calling themselves “Free Men” spoke of him reverently, saying he was an angel, come down to judge the men who had enslaved the human race. The Dragoon made no effort to correct them.

  On the second day after the death of Councilman Stahl, the UEDF radio chatter had begun to change. Previously they had been sending expeditions into the city to try to find the Dragoon. Having cooperative prisoners translating the code made their movements easy to predict and the man had successfully ambushed and captured three squads before they made it too far into the city. On that day, the translator had told him that the forces had been ordered to hold.

  “What are they waiting for, Kyle?” The Dragoon had asked the short-haired boy, who had been a communications officer for the UEDF IG forces, before he had been taken prisoner. Kyle Aaven seemed intelligent and willing to cooperate, so his interrogation seemed more like a collaboration.

  “I can’t say. Either they are going to make a massive push to kill us, or they are going to try to wait us out,” Kyle said, hesitation evident in his voice.

  Despite the news, the Dragoon smiled at the boy’s usage of the word “us” when referring to the Free Men. Most of the people he had captured after meeting him felt like a part of the cause rather than the enemy.

  “What are you thinking they will do?”

  “Reports are coming in from across the globe; they have been trying to quell riots for three days. If I were Harruhama, I would do whatever it takes to remove the leadership of the Free Men as quickly as possible,” Kyle offered thoughtfully.

  “Agreed; I doubt they would risk an all-out assault. In the chaos, they might lose me. Plus, the troops, while better equipped, are severely outnumbered in an open fight.”

  “Then what, assassins?” Kyle asked.

  “They have tried that before. I don’t think so, too much ground to cover and how easy would it be for me to take off my mask and just blend in? Let me ask you something, kid, if you were a man who was dedicated to ruling humanity at any cost, and there was a threat to your rule, how would you remove him?” the Dragoon asked, already suspecting he knew the answer.

  “Well, look what he did to the Phoenix in 2115? He was ready to sacrifice an entire colony to kill one woman in order to grab power.”

  The kid was smart.

  “Orbital bombardment then, he means to kill everyone here to get to me.”

  “That seems likely. What are you going to do?” Kyle asked, concern written across his boyish features.

  “Well, either I am going to have to give myself up or get out of town; staying here is only going to get people killed.”

  The kid stood up and saluted him.

  “I understand. Good luck, sir.”

  The Dragoon thanked the boy and walked outside. This far from the barricades, few people were on the street. As the man walked east through the high walls of buildings, he looked up often to admire the old structures and the minds of the men who dreamed them up long before they were built. He’d always had an affinity for New York City, for humanity’s achievement in its creation. He knew that the Free Men could easily hold this city against the forces of the UEDF so long as the orbital defense vessels didn’t start firing downward, trying to eliminate him.

  He knew that the best chance for the rebellion to take hold and eventually prevail would be for him to leave. He couldn’t sneak out; it had to be publicly known. Anywhere he went from there would be at risk of bombardment from Battle Frigates in orbit, which meant he couldn’t stay in one place long. Being an icon of a rebellion didn’t seem so good anymore, but the man chuckled despite himself. He knew the EMC had to be removed from power if the people were to have any hope of being free and surviving the global resource shortage.

  As he walked on the quiet streets, a plan began to form in his mind.

  Later that same day, the Dragoon released all of his prisoners. Many had wanted to stay and fight on his side of the conflict, but he informed them that their insights and efforts would be far better served by returning to their command. With their hearts no longer with the EMC, it wouldn’t be long before the sympathetic influence spread among the enemy forces. He knew he didn’t have much time before the aerial bombardments began, so he organized a meeting in a large theater on Broadway with the men and women who had assumed rolls of leadership among the Free Men.

  “Patriots,” he began, addressing the room, “we have started down a road that will lead to the freedom of humanity.”

  The people in the room applauded as he continued.

  “We have chosen this path to remove a corrupt power that has eroded our freedom, exhausted our resources, and has even taken our children all in the name of the ‘greater good.’” His pitch rose as he spoke with growing passion to the assembled crowd.

  “All around the world, men and wom
en like you fight for the cause of liberty. Even now our enemy plans to launch an orbital strike on this city in order to kill me; that they may continue to rule and enslave you. They have underestimated your hearts and minds and they believe that if I am gone, you will not fight.”

  The crowd yelled, arguing the point.

  “You have shown tremendous bravery, standing up to the EMC! We have thrown them out of this city, and it is time to push them from the borders as well. Without me in the city, the UEDF IG squads will have no reason to support the local troops, who are already beginning to lose their will to fight us.”

  The crowd got quiet. Everyone in the room held the Dragoon in high regard as a symbol of their cause, but each of them understood the truth of the matter. The city was theirs, as long as the Dragoon was not in it.

  The man laid out his plans to get out of the city and put three trusted men in charge of leading the rebellion while he was gone. No one argued the point and the men who had taken on leadership roles seemed comfortable enough continuing the cause and keeping the EMC out of their city. They also agreed to support the surrounding areas in their efforts to liberate themselves. Plans in motion, the Dragoon focused on the long road ahead.

  ~ ~ ~

  In the twilight hours of July 17th, the man called Dragoon loaded his three-barrel shotgun, then got onto his motorcycle on Essex Street, patiently waiting. He took several deep breathes, reminding himself that he had gotten through worse in his life than what he was about the face. He let his mind drift away from the task at hand while he waited for the signal to begin his run.

  In his mind he thought back to the life he had before becoming a vigilante freedom fighter. It hadn’t been more than a few months, but in his heart, it felt like a lifetime. When he thought about his past, his mind always went to the same moment, the day he had met the woman he would marry.

  It seemed like such a minor detail at the time; he was out of synthetic creamer for his coffee. He almost used milk and sugar, but that particular Saturday morning, he got the strong urge for hazelnut. He traveled to the local market, which, as fate would have it, had been out of the hazelnut flavor that he wanted. So he got back into his red truck and continued to the other side of town, now on a quest for the right creamer. It became a game to him, and he even paused to wonder why fate would deprive him of such a simple pleasure.

  He arrived at the market and strode boldly toward the refrigerated section at the back of this store that he had never been to. As luck would have it, there was one bottle left of the particular creamer he craved. As he removed it from the cooler he heard a melodic voice from behind him.

  “Oh, last one, eh?” she said, the first words she spoke to him.

  He turned to see the most stunning women he had ever laid eyes on. Her long dark hair fell casually across her shoulders as she held a baby in her arms while her young son pushed the grocery cart. As he looked into her almond-colored eyes, the two smiled at each other.

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” he managed to sputter out.

  Their eyes remained locked on each other, neither talking for several moments. It was the woman’s son who broke the silence.

  “Mom, can I get chocolate milk?”

  “Yes, Alex, but only a small one,” she had said.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the creamer while her son climbed into the refrigerator, ascending the racks to get his chocolate milk.

  “No, you got it first. But thank you,” she replied, still looking into his dark-blue eyes.

  “I insist.” He was unable to look away. Her dark hair framed the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

  “Tell you what; I’ll split it with you.” A smile formed on her lips.

  “Are you inviting me over for coffee miss?” he asked, sharing her smile.

  “I guess I am,” she replied, “I’m Marlena.”

  “William Mercer. It’s really nice to meet you, Marlena.”

  The gravity between them was apparent from the first word and had only grown with time. He was in love with her by the time they left the market. A year later, they would be married and making plans to build a house together.

  He had never been as happy as he was back then. His life before her seemed like empty space, despite his many achievements. He grew to love her children and raised them with the dedication and patience of a caring father. He remembered the times they would travel together, seeing new things for the first time as a family, excited every day to see what life with offer them next.

  In those moments he made up his mind on where he would go from New York: to rescue his adopted son.

  An explosion in the distance tore the man from his thoughts. Tears were streaming down his face as he started the ignition of his motorcycle.

  “I miss you, baby,” William said to the evening air, kissing the gold wedding band he still wore.

  He revved his engine a few times to get the motor hot then dropped it into first gear, spinning the tires and accelerating around the corner onto Delancey Street, heading east. The Williamsburg Bridge loomed head, a fortified stronghold of the UEDF troops.

  As he sped up, he weaved around the k-rail barricades toward the makeshift walls the International Guard had set up on the bridge. The rockets that the rebels had liberated from a supply depot in the city soared in over his head, striking the wall, scattering the defenders onto the bridge, disoriented. Using his left hand, William removed his triple-barreled shotgun and launched both barrels’ worth of explosive pellets in a barrage of concussive destruction at one of the weak points created by the rocket fire.

  The wall split apart as the man and his motorcycle tore through to the other side. It took the surprised troops on the other side a few moments to realize what happened and to recognize the man who had pierced their defenses. They began to call in his location and description more quickly than he hoped, some even raising their weapons and shooting in his direction as he sped away.

  He’d heard the EMC forces had turned the local airports into makeshift transport hubs for troops coming into the city to quell the rebellion. He knew he had about an eight-mile span to cross, before he would reach what had been JFK International Airport. The riots on this side of the bridges had not been as effective as they had been in Manhattan and troops moved to block and attack him as he traversed the otherwise desolate urban landscape.

  He was traveling recklessly fast, making hairpin turns to avoid roadblocks, occasionally feeling the sting of small arms fire upon the battle suit he wore beneath his duster. As he neared the halfway point of his run, the roadblocks didn’t seem as prepared for approaching vehicles, and as he rounded the corner onto Atlantic Avenue he sped up to run through the unprepared checkpoint. He noticed that the area around him was getting brighter, like a huge spotlight was focusing on his location. He knew what it meant, and pulled his throttle back as hard as he could, turning down a side street just before the checkpoint.

  The road block and its guards erupted in a massive explosion, the shockwave nearly knocking William from his bike even though he was nearly a block away. They had targeted his egress from orbit, and the Battle Frigates had begun a bombardment, trying to end his life as desperately as they could. The bright lights came down like rain as night descended upon the city. Buildings burst outwards from the cannon fire as the man swerved and dodged the best he could. He knew the gunners aboard the Battle Frigates, high above his location, were good, and it wouldn’t be long before they anticipated his evasion well enough to get him.

  Frustrated that his enemy was willing to sacrifice their own troops and innocent lives, the man wondered if they would even sacrifice the transportation hub to get to him. As he neared JFK International, he noticed a large checkpoint at the entrance and slowed down. He waited until the light began to form around him again before speeding up directly at the gate, counting the seconds before the orbital weapon would impact.

  It was a guess. They had been landing between four and six seconds of the light. Usi
ng five as his number, he went full speed at the roadblock.

  Four. The soldiers ahead, noticing the light, began frantically running to the sides, abandoning their positions. William focused intently on maintaining his speed.

  Three. He felt the air around him heating up, knowing that impact was eminent now, tracking his motion from orbit, anticipating his path.

  Two. Small stones and rubble on the expressway began to lift off the ground as the energy of the cannon forced gravity to shift; he even felt himself tugged slightly upwards.

  One. Fully committed to his plan and counting on his battle suit to absorb the impact, the man leaps backwards off his motorcycle, trying to use his enhanced legs to slow his momentum or turn it to the side. He felt his ankle crush under the momentum of his body and the ground rush up to meet him.

  Zero. The checkpoint exploded in flames, consuming the soldiers that had been there and the motorcycle the man had been riding for the past several months. The explosion flung him back, against the momentum of his roll, the concussion whipping his head violently into the ground. The helmet he wore absorbed the impact, but knocked him unconscious as he rolled to a stop under a small bridge.

  ~ ~ ~

  From orbit, the ATG Gunner of the UEDF Battle Frigate Paladin watched his monitor carefully. He had been tracking the movement of the terrorist since his run began over the Williamsburg Bridge. He was glad that he hadn’t had to level the city with the other frigates to kill the man; although, he had been briefed on that contingency. He had a nephew who lived in Soho, and the idea of destroying an entire city to kill one man left a bad taste in his mouth.