Lost Era 05_ Deny thy Father - Jeff Mariotte [117]
Kyle normally didn’t care much about material possessions-he had left behind an apartment full of them on Earth, almost two years ago now-but this was quickly becoming a matter of principle as well as survival. “You know what?” he asked, feeling the tension flow out of him and a remarkable sense of peace take its place. “I’m having a bad day. A very bad day, in fact. The woman I loved died, my neighborhood is being taken apart piece by piece, and all my friends are either under arrest or missing. There’s nothing I’d love more right now than to tear you all apart, one by one.”
“We got what we need,” one of the Cyrians said with some reluctance. “Let’s go.”
The others grumbled, but that one seemed to be in charge, and they finally indicated their assent. They all dropped what they held and made their way to the door, trying to give Kyle as wide a berth as they could. He knew they’d destroy him in a fight, of course-he was just one man, and although he was strong and athletic and driven by fury, Cyrians in general were bigger and more powerfully built than even the biggest humans. But he figured anyone who’d loot the homes of people driven out by invasion wasn’t the bravest guy on the block, and even with numbers on their side, these looters would rather have easy pickings in uninhabited apartments than risk injury or worse at his hands.
When they were gone, he went to the hiding place where he had stashed his money and false identification papers, under a loose floorboard concealed by his bed. He shoved the bed aside and pried up the board, and everything was still where he’d left it, wrapped in a cloth bag. He scooped it all up and pocketed it, then did a quick scan to see if there was anything else he needed. Clothing and toiletries would be nice, but he could always acquire more, and he didn’t want to look like a man who was traveling. He ended up grabbing a holoimage of Michelle and stuffing it into a pocket, and then he left the rest for the looters.
The first barrage hit the building while he was still running down the stairway. The whole structure shook under the assault. Plaster flew, and a wall opposite him imploded into dust. The staircase groaned and swayed. Kyle gripped the banister to steady himself and continued down, hurtling five and six steps at a time. He heard screams and shouts from elsewhere in the building-probably the looters, he suspected, since he hadn’t seen any of the residents around. At least, he hoped it was them-poetic justice if they were trapped inside the building when it came down.
Another wave hit and this time more walls blew in. Dust and debris rained down on Kyle. Above, he saw powerful energy beams lance through the walls, leaving further destruction in their wake. He leapt the last flight of stairs and landed awkwardly on the lobby floor, his feet slipping out from beneath him on the slick, dust-coated tiles. But he caught himself on his palms, righted himself and sprinted for the door.
Outside, he saw machines of war rolling toward the building, already loosing another fusillade against it. Infantry troops supported the tanks. They spotted Kyle running from the building, but ignored him; just another homeless refugee. When he was almost a block away he heard another, still louder boom, and glanced back to see most of his building collapse in a massive cloud.
The rest of the day had passed, like the building, in the cloud of dust and smoke-mostly obscured, always uncertain, never far from danger. He worked his way out of The End, joining the throngs of other refugees trying to escape the morning assault. Once beyond the boundaries of the neighborhood, the castaways scattered into every direction. The Cyrian authorities didn’t seem to have developed any kind of a plan except for the attack. There was no one except the soldiers to provide any direction for the refugees, and they didn’t seem to have a clue, which meant no order to the evacuation. The newly homeless drifted wherever