After Earth

^{AFTER EARTH} Ghost Stories REDEMPTION Robert Greenberg

The sun was warm as usual, but not oppressively so, and Anderson Kincaid wanted to play in the sand. His mother took a rare afternoon off to bring the seven-year-old to the park. Accompanied only by the boy’s baby-sitter, she left word that she was not to be disturbed for anything short of a supernova. This was strictly family time, a rarity given her responsibilities for the population’s medical needs.

She smiled as Anderson rushed from her grasp to the mounds of sand before him. Given how dusty Nova Prime City could get, it never ceased to amaze her that the boy still asked to go play in the sandpit. She briefly worried that he would inhale the fine particles and choke, but Norah shook her head at the maternal instinct to want to protect her child. It was this sense of protecting life in all its myriad forms that tied her to the people.

Rather than swallow the sand, he stomped around on it with white sandals and then planted his rump and squirmed, indenting the space until he was comfortable. His baby-sitter, a young man named Jason, stepped over and handed him a cloth bag filled with tools to shape the sand. Anderson patted the faded red shovel atop the sand and giggled. He delighted in this, and the sound reminded her of what she herself had been like as an infant, first encountering the sand. Anderson began digging with a purpose that attracted the attention of boys and girls of various ages. Soon five children were busily constructing some sort of fort or castle.

Norah Kincaid was content to sit and watch. Life on Nova Prime was never easy, but the people were enjoying a nice respite. Their alien enemies, the Skrel, had not been heard from in decades, and their vile creations, the rampaging Ursa, had been largely wiped out. The last attack had been around thirty years ago, and all but a dozen of the Ursa had been killed. Those remaining beasts were elsewhere on the planet, and every night, as part of her prayers, she asked that the United Ranger Corps or age would destroy them and keep her people safe.

Those prayers appeared to have been answered—there were very few such sightings in the last handful of years.

As a result, the people once more were gazing up at the stars, wondering what else was out there. The news was filled with word that the latest anchorage, Avalon, had been successfully opened for business out in the next spiral arm. The planet Tau Ceti beckoned nearby, and Norah’s cousin Atlas had been captivated by the notion since he was a boy. Such thoughts were good ones, but the actions they might lead to were a constant source of concern. Humankind had fled Earth nearly a millennium ago and, hundreds of years after that, learned they were not alone in the universe. There were dangers out there, including but not limited to the Skrel. She had understood the warnings against tempting the fates and the hand of the creator, but there remained those who wanted to explore. It was human nature, and rather than fight it, she sought ways to embrace the yearnings while tempering them with grounded reality.

Anderson stood up, grinning at her and waving the shovel. “Come see!” he commanded.

She rose and took three steps toward him to admire the formation of a massive structure. There were towers clustered together and several smaller buildings in a semicircle. Clearly, he was the architect and had convinced the others to build from his ideas.

“All you need now is a moat to protect the village,” she said admiringly.

“What’s a moat?”

Before she could answer, sirens broke the sounds of play. She knew that sound all too well. She reached out and grabbed Anderson, who was in the process of covering his ears, his eyes clenched in disapproval.

“What is it, Mama?” he shouted.

She didn’t answer him as her eyes darted from side to side, seeking some sense of the alarm’s source. Jason looked at her, and she nodded in confirmation: an Ursa sighting. He reached into a satchel and removed a communications device. She might have taken the afternoon off, but her oath meant she could never shed its responsibilities. She took the comm unit from him and spoke into it.

“This is Dr. Kincaid. What is happening?” she asked.

The voice on the other end replied, “At least six Ursa have entered the city. One is by the main market, the other heading toward the park! You said that’s where you were going; if you’re there now, get out of there. Rangers are in pursuit.”

“I’m coming in,” she said, Anderson squirming in her arms. She handed the device back to Jason, who already had collected the toys. “Emergency protocols should already have begun. If not, someone is going to be flogged.” People were screaming and rushing about, children wailing almost louder than the siren. There was so much noise that she didn’t yet register the commotion at the other end of the park. A squad of eight Rangers had rushed in through the far gate, their shape-shifting weapons—called cutlasses—configured into swords.

Norah swiveled her head around. Where was the Ursa?

The octet of Rangers also seemed confused, forming a loose ring back to back, scanning the park. People continued to flee.

She studied the men and women, noting just how young and nervous they appeared. No doubt they grew up on tales of the genetically engineered monsters that the Skrel sent to the planet with frightening regularity, all in a vain attempt at ridding the world of life for some unknown reason.

They stood their ground, uncertain where to go. If they weren’t moving, neither was she. She tightened her grip on Anderson, who studied the Rangers in their brown smart fabric uniforms with fascination. He knew what a Ranger was; after all, her older cousin Lucius was Prime Commander, and Anderson, even as an infant, was drawn to the uniform. It was in the Kincaid blood and had been for many generations.

One Ranger heard something and looked up. Norah followed her gaze and looked at the brown- and yellow-leafed tree.

That was when she heard it: the unearthly, ferocious cry of an abomination. It became visible amid the foliage, bellowing in a horrible tone. Her nightmares had manifested, and she had to flee. In the rush of activity, Anderson squirmed free and rushed across the sandpit, away from her. She cried out to him, but with the siren and the other noises, her words were swallowed and the boy, unaware of the danger, headed right for the Rangers.

The moving target was all the Ursa needed, and it leaped from the tree toward the boy.

Time slowed for Norah as her heart slammed against her chest, each beat drowning out all other sounds.

Anderson finally stopped moving and watched the Ursa in the air. He was paralyzed with fear.

One of the Rangers also leaped into action, trying to draw the Ursa’s attention, but the monster had other ideas.

The last thing Norah saw before her world went black was the Ursa’s maw opening to devour her son as the Ranger’s bladed weapon swung through the air.

The boy woke up hours later. Norah never left his side. She was accompanied by her husband, Marco, a slightly paunchy man with dark, slicked-back hair and a mustache that once had been fashionable but now seemed oddly out of place. Anderson was groggy, blinking repeatedly as he looked around the room before focusing on his parents.

“Where… am I?” he croaked.

A nurse, also present, leaned over and gently squeezed water from a yellow bulb into his mouth. He swallowed, sputtered, swallowed again, and seemed to be becoming more alert rapidly.

“Hi, love bug,” Norah said, tears streaming down both cheeks.

“You’re in the hospital, Andy,” his father said. “How do you feel?”

He shrugged. “I dunno… sore. What happened?”

Anderson drifted off before he could hear the answer. Over the next few hours he could only hazily recall snippets of conversation. None of it seemed real to him, but it all sounded scary, so he took comfort in sleep.

He heard his father ask, “Can it be reattached?” His mother sobbed. The doctor started talking about prosthetics and how far they had progressed through the years.

Anderson also heard his parents arguing, and that hurt him in ways different from the ache in his shoulder. He heard his mom saying, “I never should have stayed in the park.” His father was agreeing but sounded very angry.

As he fully woke up, he wasn’t sure what to expect. All he knew was that he ached all over and was very thirsty.

“Mom?”

Norah turned to look at her son, and he saw that her eyes were red. His father was right behind her, his hand on her right shoulder.

Shoulder. He turned to look at where he ached. All he saw was a huge bandage and beyond that… nothing.

“Mama! Where’s my arm?!”

“The Ursa was about to kill you, but the Ranger stopped it…” she continued.

“The creature took your arm,” his father said as gently as possible. “It could not be reattached.”

Anderson blinked, his left shoulder under thick white bandages shuddering in response. “But I feel it. Mama, you’re a doctor; can’t you put it back on?” The question sounded so reasonable, and it was, if you were seven. Norah Kincaid, though, knew that there were limits to what medical science could do.

Just then, a middle-aged man of Asian descent entered the room, followed by a different nurse with a rolling cart. Atop it was a readout of Anderson’s vital signs that the man consulted before looking at the boy.

“My name is Dr. Zeong, Anderson. How do you feel?”

“What about my arm?” he asked, ignoring the question. “Mama’s the best doctor on Nova Prime. Can’t you put it back on?”

“The arm was too badly damaged at the base for successful grafting,” the doctor explained in a low voice. “I’m sorry, son, but it couldn’t be saved.”

There was some talk about prosthetics, which he knew meant a fake arm, and that didn’t interest him. As he lay back in the bed, he tried to recall what had happened. He remembered the sandpit, then the siren. And he remembered the Ranger who ran toward him.

“Mama,” Anderson said, breaking the silence. “What happened to the Ranger who saved me?”

She sighed heavily and kissed his forehead. “She died doing her duty to protect you.”

He nodded at that and thought a lot about the Rangers as the adults chattered among themselves about things he couldn’t follow or care about.

Year after year, Anderson grew up, training himself to qualify for the Rangers. Every few years, as his body continued to grow and develop, he would visit the hospital, where a new arm had to be attached. There were weeks of clumsiness as he adjusted to each new prosthetic; this usually was accompanied by some depression and frustration as the simplest tasks proved difficult.

Never once did Anderson think his arm was “fake”; that was a little boy’s way of thinking. As he matured, he treated the arm as a real limb. Thanks to the smart fabric technology woven into the synthetic skin, it actually tanned in the sunlight, even freckling to match the rest of his body.

As Anderson grew, he studied the history of the Rangers and his family’s lengthy connection to them. His family could trace its proud Ranger heritage to at least 306 AE, when Carlos Kincaid became the first Kincaid to be named Prime Commander. He pestered his cousin Lucius for information about what it was like and what was required and never tired of hearing stories of the family’s Ranger-related exploits. Despite the tarnished reputation of his grandfather, Nathan Kincaid—considered the worst Prime Commander in history—Anderson wrote several school reports addressing the man’s notorious tenure as Prime Commander.

He also learned more about the Kincaid family’s lengthy rivalry with the Raige family. It stunned him to hear the genuine hatred in his family members’ voices as they recounted how the Raiges had stymied the Kincaids’ progress time and again. For every achievement his family had, such as developing the cutlasses, the Raiges seemed to trump it. He didn’t know any Raige in school, and they remained an abstract concept to him with the exception of Cypher Raige. The Ranger had been his cousin Atlas’s close friend despite the familial animosity, and Anderson had met Cypher a few times. The tall, stern, quiet man was the epitome of what it meant to be a Ranger. But more than that, he was a legend. The year Anderson lost his arm, Cypher Raige managed to do something they called ghosting—becoming invisible to the Ursa. It enabled him to become the first to kill the creature single-handedly. It sounded like the stuff of myth, but Atlas and his mother had assured him it had happened. Cypher himself never wanted to talk about it, disliking being the focus of attention.

Growing up meant overcoming the replacement arm’s limitations. He constantly adjusted it to match the strength and dexterity of his right arm so that he could play sports and function without an unfair advantage. Working with weights and other equipment, he honed his muscles and improved his endurance. He learned how to box and shoot, how to ride, and how to fence. The teen was guided by his father to balance the physical with the mental, which meant not neglecting his studies. Though not at the top of his class, he was proud of his accomplishments.

At night, Norah arrived home from her work and tended to her son. Even though his body was exhausted and his mind weary, he would absorb her lectures on the philosophies of Nova Prime and its people. Although the Kincaids had a deep connection to the Rangers, several served as the Savant and as such were in charge of the scientific community of Nova Prime. Currently, their aunt Liliandra led the planet’s religious order as the Primus. Their family served the planet in whatever honorable way possible. When those lectures occurred, he reminded her time and again that it was all well and good, but he was determined to qualify for the Rangers. Testing began as early as age thirteen, but he wanted to make sure he nailed the admissions the first time out. She nodded encouragingly and continued her lectures as he fell asleep.

Maybe it was her medical training and her concern for the sanctity of life, which was constantly at risk, but she didn’t necessarily encourage him in his pursuit. She did, though, know he had been focused on this path as a form of atonement or honoring the dead, and she couldn’t argue with that.

Then came the afternoon the eighteen-year-old appeared at Norah’s offices in a sweat-drenched shirt, a towel wrapped around his neck. Maybe it was the glistening sweat, but it appeared to her that Anderson was glowing.

“I’m ready,” he told her.

“For a shower, I would think,” she replied tartly, sniffing at him in disapproval.

“Fine. But after the shower, I’m going to go sign up,” he announced.

She said carefully, “Is this truly what you want?”

“Mom, it’s all I’ve been thinking about since the attack,” he said in a tone that indicated this was old territory. His mother pressed the point.

“Yes, and it has been good to stay focused so you can heal and get strong. But now that you are fit, you have so many other options. There are other ways to serve the people.”

“I already heard Aunt Liliandra and how wonderful the augury is,” the teen said. “I don’t care.”

“Show some respect for your aunt and the faith,” his mother said. “I don’t know where I’d be without it. I prayed and prayed you’d survive that awful attack.”

“I did, Mom. I did because a Ranger risked her life for mine. Aren’t you always telling us to give back? This is me, giving back.”

“You could explore medicine or other fields,” she said. He had heard it all before and knew she was just trying to get him to at least consider other careers. But after so many years being focused on the Rangers, nothing else felt quite right. “You really have your mind made up?”

He nodded.

“All you see is the noble sacrifice, and all I see is a dead woman, cut down before her life could really develop. You’ve already lost one arm, and it nearly killed me. I just don’t want to lose the rest of you.”

“You won’t, Mom,” he swore.

He walked over and hugged her.

“I want you to be proud of me,” he said.

“Always,” she replied. They stood in each other’s arms for a few silent moments.

“If that is what you wish, then I will not stop you,” she told him at last. “Shower first, United Rangers second.”

He knew that Phase 1 testing was a grueling mix of physical activity and mental recall. There were two dozen others testing that cycle, and he was determined to top them all. He had barely any body fat and was pure muscle, able to dead lift over 114 kilos—impressive for an eighteen-year-old—and that was without any enhancement to the prosthetic arm. He omitted its existence on the entrance forms and never mentioned it to the others. The synthetic skin was perfectly blended to match his natural skin tone, and he stayed in a T-shirt whenever possible. Being a Kincaid meant he knew the regulations by heart, and among them was the archaic prohibition against Rangers having prosthetic limbs. Nope, he was going to do this evenly matched against the others.

Well, maybe not that evenly matched. Being a Ranger was in his blood. He proudly carried over seven hundred years of Kincaid dedication to service.

He outran the men, outclimbed the women, and sparred them both into submission.

Stepping into the dreaded booth, he was able to recite facts and details way beyond what the artificial intelligence was asking him. He also finished in what he imagined to be record time.

There was nothing stopping him from being approved for Phase 2 testing.

That night, there was a knock on the door of the family’s home. Anderson’s younger sister, Kayla, ran to answer it while he was reading. All he heard were hushed voices and some sort of commotion that caught his attention.

Clicking off his reader, a barefoot Anderson padded through the fabric curtains into the main room. Standing in the middle of his home was Commander Rafe Velan, the man in charge of training and testing the cadets. The tall, broad man had a close-cropped head of graying hair and a weathered face. Anderson’s mind was reeling; he had never heard of such a personal visit being made. What on Nova was happening?

“Commander!” he said, snapping to attention despite wearing a light shirt and baggy trousers. His sister imitated his stance, stifling a giggle.

Velan, a stern look in his eyes, twitched his mouth a moment before saying, “At ease… kids.”

Anderson exhaled while trying to remain at least somewhat presentable; Kayla fell into a chair.

“Are your parents at home?” Velan asked.

“Dad’s out getting something for dinner, and Mom’s at her office, as usual,” Kayla said.

“I see. May I speak with you alone, Cadet Kincaid?”

“Kay, get lost,” Anderson said, looking intently at his sister.

She made a face at him, smiled sweetly at Velan, and skipped out of the room. The commander, meanwhile, looked around the room, clearly uncomfortable. That got Anderson concerned. Something was wrong if the commander himself was in his house. How he wished his mother were there.

“Sir, may I get you a drink?”

“Thank you, no,” Velan said before swallowing hard. “I will get right to the point. You cannot be a Ranger.”

Anderson blinked once, then twice.

Kayla peeked through the bottom of a curtain, trying to eavesdrop, but he glared at her and she vanished back behind the curtain. He hadn’t imagined something so blunt and definitive. Now it was his turn to swallow and collect himself, trying to control the roiling emotions he felt.

“Sir, may this candidate inquire as to why?”

“At ease, Anderson,” Velan said emphatically. “You’re not in the program, and we know each other. In looking over your application for admission, the computer sent up a red flag. And I believe you know why.”

Anderson stared at the commander, trying to hold in the warring emotions deep in his chest. His dreams were about to become bitter ashes.

When he didn’t reply, Velan continued: “You lied, son. Had I seen the application, I would have remembered your accident and prosthetic arm and pulled it from consideration. You know the rules, I believe.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he said weakly.

Velan nodded at that. “You knew about the prohibition, but you applied anyway and tried to sneak by. You were dishonest. Is a Ranger dishonest, Cadet?”

“No, sir!”

“Why lie, then?”

“The prosthetic is a part of me,” Anderson began. “I have lived with it for over half my life, and it doesn’t make me any less fit for being a Ranger.”

“Our regulations have a prohibition against Rangers having any prosthetic devices that may malfunction in the field, compromising the Ranger’s welfare and the safety of the Rangers around him,” Velan said, practically reciting the manual.

“Has it happened to anyone before?”

“Not that I know of,” Velan admitted, and if he could not think of an incident, it probably never had happened. Velan was a legend at the academy, a battle-tested man who was a walking, talking rule book. “But the rules were written a long time ago.”

“Then with respect, sir, considering the advances of prosthetics, maybe it’s time for those rules to be reviewed and revised.”

“A good point and one that will be taken under consideration. But meanwhile, the prohibition remains on the books, and it therefore excludes you. Right now, the larger issue is you being deceitful, which I cannot tolerate within the corps. I have to say, Anderson, I am disappointed you would lie. It dishonors yourself and your family name.”

“The arm has never once let me down, just like I won’t let the Rangers down. You can’t discriminate against me—it wasn’t my fault, and it’s not all I am. Let me prove it.”

“You hid the truth from the Rangers, and it sounds like you’re hiding it from yourself, too,” Velan gently said. That seemed to end the discussion, and Anderson knew he was not going to win the argument.

“Does my mother know?” he asked.

“I felt I owed it to you to tell you first,” he said, sounding genuinely sorry. “Would you like me to discuss this with her?”

“No… thank you, sir,” Anderson said. “I can tell her of my own failing.”

“You didn’t fail,” Velan said. “This has nothing to do with your ratings and everything to do with you hiding a disqualifying factor about yourself. Truthfully, you shouldn’t have even been allowed to try out in the first place. The thinking was that if you proved to be simply not up to the demands of the position, this would all be moot. The fact that I had to come out here just to have this discussion at all is your victory, not failure. Your scores were incredibly impressive. Then again, I would expect no less of Atlas’s relative.”

The future that Anderson had spent more than a decade working toward had suddenly vanished, and now that reality was sinking in. It hurt in a way his shoulder and missing arm never did. The pain was a psychic one, coursing from brain to heart and back again. Now all he wanted to do was scream at Velan, but he suspected that would be an irreparable mistake.

“I think I’d better go, Anderson,” Velan said, beginning to turn. “If you want me to speak with your parents, just call my office. I wish it were otherwise, since I know you would be an asset. Good night.”

With a voice that was as dead as his career, Anderson Kincaid said, “Good night… sir.”

It was a few days later, when the pain of the rejection had faded to a dull ache within his heart, that Anderson truly sat down to examine his options. He was powerfully built, and it appeared that only the Rangers had the limitation on prosthetics. Scanning the feeds, he considered various opportunities, but many were for labor and offered no real sense of a career. He most definitely didn’t want to be a laborer or an athlete (for fear someone would also be whispering “fraud” at every competition) or provide personal security for the elite.

Then he spotted a position with the Nova Prime Civilian Defense Corps. They were looking for qualified candidates for civilian patrols.

Kincaid did a quick scan of the agency and realized it was sanctioned civil defense. He hadn’t previously noticed or concerned himself with any other options, blinded as he was by dreams of the Rangers. Now, though, the NPCDC looked like a perfect fit.

“A Kincaid, eh?” the slightly overweight desk officer said. “Haven’t had one of those yet. Why us and not the Rangers?”

Anderson had anticipated the question, although he didn’t like discussing it. Just seeing the artificial arm and hand should have been clue enough. But then again, not everyone paid attention to details.

“My left arm is a prosthetic,” he said in a flat tone.

“Lemme see,” the man said, extending a beefy hand.

Anderson complied, meeting the hand with his own. The man rolled up the sleeve a bit and examined the detail work, which simulated skin, arm hair, and even fingerprints to match the other hand. He whistled.

“That’s the new K-class arm,” the man said.

Kincaid blinked in mild surprise that the man knew that and flexed the fingers for him, suddenly swelling with pride, since the man clearly wasn’t patronizing him.

“Works great, the best one yet,” Anderson agreed. “You have any problem with prosthetics?”

“Not in the slightest,” the man said. “Bill McGirk. Fill this out, and once you pass the physical, you’re in. And you’ll look better in the uniform than I will.”

McGirk was a man of his word, and within days, Anderson Kincaid was being shown the pulsers used by the NPCDC, which were not regularly carried but cached in case of emergency. Most of the work involved patrolling public spaces, looking for mischief, petty theft, and other troubles the Rangers didn’t have to focus on. They were first responders to medical emergencies, and so he needed a week of paramedic training, which he had an aptitude for despite ignoring his mother’s lessons through the years.

He enjoyed the long shifts and felt a sense of purpose as he walked the streets of Nova Prime City. McGirk was right about one other thing: He looked damn good in uniform, its sheer fabric diffusing heat and wicking away sweat, keeping him comfortable.

Anderson also liked patrolling with Virginia Marquez, a petite woman near his age. She was pretty and sassy and easy to get along with. They would walk the streets together, and bit by bit he was getting to know the neighborhoods in the sectors, picking up the vibes each area gave off. In many ways, it was like he was a newcomer, experiencing the city for the first time. There were the areas where the technicians worked, the smell of the animal herders and farmers with their own ripe odors, the manufacturers who always had recyclables littering the edges of their buildings.

“What’s the strangest call you’ve had?” Kincaid asked her the fourth week they were patrolling together. It was morning, and as the suns climbed the sky, the heat rose and the city woke up. There was a quiet followed by the growing sounds of the people getting ready to work or play. There was always the smell of freshly baked goods, and he learned early on when to be near the bakeries so that bakers would toss them hot rolls—their way of saying good morning.

Marquez, her long hair knotted in an elaborate style with various wooden pieces holding it in place, thought about it for a while. “It might have been the time I was called for a domestic disturbance. Neighbors called just before dawn, claiming there was a horrible fight going on next door and they heard things breaking. I got there with my partner, Cotto, and we knocked once to be polite before we kicked in the door.”

She fell silent, munching on the roll.

“Well?”

“There was no fighting. They were making love. A lot of it, apparently.”

Kincaid nodded and grinned at her. “Learn anything?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she teased, and quickened her pace.

“You miss your arm?”

Marquez settled onto the bench next to him, shoving the beer stein in his direction, letting some of the foamy head spill onto the worn table. They had knocked off work a little early and met others at their favorite bar to toast Anderson’s first year in the service.

“I was so young when it happened, I think about it more than actually miss it. At night, sometimes, I think I can still feel it, still flex my real muscles and point with my fingers. I was told the sense of the phantom limb would fade with time, and I guess it has, but I don’t stop thinking about it.”

“But you should be thinking about the path it set you on,” Lars Svensen said. He was a five-year vet with blond hair, blue eyes, and pecs the women swooned over. As a result, he made certain to wear his uniform shirt open beyond what regulations allowed for; not that anyone complained. “You could have been a Ranger.”

“Yeah, you could have been a Ranger and flown over all this planet or trained until you were ready to cry,” Kelly Alpuente added. “I mean, really, what do they do when not fighting Skrel and Ursa? They train to fight Skrel and Ursa.”

“And when was the last time you saw a Skrel ship?” Marquez asked.

“It’s been a while,” Anderson admitted.

“And when was the last significant Ursa attack?”

“Nine fifty-one AE. The Skrel deposited a hundred on the ground; the Rangers took out eighty-eight of them,” he mechanically replied.

“You’re on my trivia team,” Alpuente said with a smile. “I might have gotten the year right but not the rest.”

“It’s that Ranger prep,” Marquez said. “You really wanted to be one of them, didn’t you?”

He merely said yes and drank his beer. He was happy with the corps and had made some valued friends. The last years had been good ones, and he was pleased with the work. They were happy with him. It all should have been good and this should be a joyous celebration, but like his phantom limb, being a Ranger still felt like a phantom career, the reality versus this substitute.

Kincaid threw himself into the conversation, drank one beer too many, and let Alpuente take him home for the night, unaware of the longing look Marquez shot him.

Flames had blackened the side of the honeycombed complex. Non-smart fabric materials were catching fire and adding to the heat and light. People were still being evacuated when Anderson finally showed up to assist. The call for reinforcements had gone out only ten minutes prior, so he thought he had made good time, but he recognized that every minute meant more property lost, more life endangered.

McGirk had arrived to take point, sweating in the heat, soaking his uniform beyond the fabric’s ability to keep him cool. He looked haggard as firefighters behind him were spraying foam directly on the flames.

Kincaid and Marquez had been pulled off their regular assignment to lend assistance to the firefighters. They first were handling crowd control, and thankfully, everyone followed orders without trouble. Then McGirk came toward them, pointing at Kincaid.

“Kincaid, the firefighters are shorthanded. You’re strong; I need you in there searching for stragglers,” McGirk said, shoving his right thumb in the direction of the burning building.

“I’m a little underdressed for that,” Kincaid began when a fireman shoved a rubbery yellow suit at him. Without hesitation or additional comment, Marquez helped him step into the one-piece outfit, which quickly fastened around him. He was handed a pair of orange fluorescent gloves that fit over the sleeves and then were molded around his wrists, adhering to the bodysuit. Finally, a cowl was applied, fastened, and finished with goggles and breathing apparatus. The oxygen had a metallic tang to it. He felt a little silly, but it was regulation and he was now insulated for brief periods so that he could enter the structure and see if people were trapped.

Marquez patted the side of his face, which Anderson found oddly affectionate until he realized the woman was merely activating the communicator built into the breathing mask.

“You hear me? Am I coming across clear?”

“Crystal.”

McGirk gave him a thumbs-up, adding, “Go find ’em, kid.”

Kincaid walked toward the building, seeking a safe entry point, and wound up climbing through the remains of a burned-out window. He half stumbled his way through, regained his footing, and paused to study his surroundings. The fire had pretty much charred the furniture and belongings so that there were dark heaps of what once had been useful materials. He saw no loss of life and walked into the next room. There was enough noise from the flames, the foam, and general shouting of orders that he decided against adding to the noise by calling out. Instead, he methodically worked his way from room to room, apartment to apartment, and floor to floor. It promised to be a long, tedious process.

The first two floors proved empty, just remnants of what once had been people’s homes and lives. Little had survived the heat and flame, which hungrily devoured what it could. He had never bothered to ask what had caused it, but whatever had happened had happened fast, long before the firefighters could arrive to stop the spread. The foam left a sticky residue everywhere, tinting the blackened furniture and walls a dull green.

As he climbed the emergency stairs up to the third floor, he heard something above—a wall, most likely—give way, crumbling with loud thuds that actually shook the stairs. He tightened his grip and continued upward, listening for any cries that might indicate an injury. His breathing seemed to grow louder in his ears with every step.

The first four apartments he checked were damaged and empty, but the fifth was where the structure fell apart. The rooms were almost pitch-black, with charcoal masquerading as furniture. The collapsed wall had divided a living room from a bedroom, leaving structural supports that had burned through. He suspected the fire might have started there or nearby, but he’d leave that to the trained investigators to confirm. He gingerly kicked at rubble, seeking evidence of a living being that might be trapped beneath. There was nothing remotely human, and after a few minutes he gave up.

Turning, he readied himself for the next apartment, his throat beginning to long for a cool drink, when he saw a figure dart by the doorway.

“Hey!” he called out, but there was no response.

He tried to move both quickly and cautiously, not wishing to cause walls or floors to crumble beneath him. The figure had made it to the end of the corridor and had entered the last room on the left. Skipping the ones in between, Kincaid stalked the person, wishing he had a pulser with him just in case.

Peering through the doorway, Kincaid was surprised to see the person was an old man, seemingly unharmed by the conflagration. He was wandering in circles, as if he was searching for something, looking increasingly confused. Kincaid took one step into the room, and the old man finally noticed him.

“Have you seen my reader?” he asked Kincaid.

“Sir, are you all right?” he asked the man, who looked anything but all right.

“Absolutely,” the man said distractedly as he opened a drawer. “Thank you for asking.”

“You do know this building is on fire? It’s unsafe, and you should come with me.”

The man paused in his search and looked at Kincaid as if for the first time. Studying him from head to toe, the old man gaped. “What are you?”

“Civilian Defense Corps, sir. I’m searching for survivors, and you look like one.”

“Survivors of what? Are the Skrel attacking?” He was clearly addled, perhaps even mentally ill.

“Not the Skrel; a fire. I need to get you out of the building.”

“I need my reader; I have to finish my book before class,” the man complained. Kincaid realized his argument was not getting through to the poor man. He still wondered how he was totally unscathed by the fire, but that was a mystery for another time. The one wall crumbling made him feel as if he were inside a ticking bomb. He stepped forward decisively, grabbed the man’s left wrist, and hefted him into the air and across his shoulders in the traditional fireman’s carry. He tested the added weight and the floor held, and so he took one step and then another to make certain they could escape. The moment the old man was across his shoulders, he became remarkably placid, like a kitten slumping when its mother carried it by the nape.

“McGirk, I have a survivor. An elderly man, physically unharmed. We’re coming down from the fifth floor.”

“Acknowledged. Medical corps will be standing by. Stay safe, kid.”

“No kidding.”

The old man stayed quiet as Kincaid made his way slowly down the steps until finally, several agonizingly long minutes later, he emerged from the building. Two members of the medical team ran to him and eased him from Kincaid’s shoulders to a stretcher, where he was quickly checked over.

Kincaid ripped off the mask and breathed in air that smelled of smoke.

“Nice work, kid,” McGirk said as he walked over. “What’s his story?”

“No idea,” Kincaid admitted. “Don’t know and frankly don’t care. The guy needs some help, and I’m too sore and tired to really think about it.”

“You’re done. They got the fire under control, and the firefighters can check out the rest of the place. When are you next on?”

Anderson thought a moment and answered, “Second shift.”

“Get some sleep and come in late. Marquez can keep the peace until you show up.”

“Nice work, Anderson,” she said, giving him a hug that lingered a bit longer than normal. He pretended he didn’t notice and thanked her.

Collapsing into bed back at his apartment, Kincaid thought that this was why he had signed up: to protect the people, to use his body in productive ways. It was a good way to live.

The following day, he reported for work and was heartily congratulated and razzed by the others for his heroism. He shrugged it off in the locker room but inwardly felt very proud of upholding the Ranger ideals even if he was still a corpsman.

On the street with Marquez, though, he felt he could really express those feelings. They’d been growing increasingly comfortable with each other, a true bond forming between them. Today he noticed she had done her hair a different way.

“I like it down like that even though it’s not regulation,” he said.

“Thanks, but there are few hair regulations. You keep thinking we live by the Ranger code, but we don’t. We are looser and have far more fun.”

“Just what do you do for fun?”

“Long-distance hiking. I really like getting out on the Falkor Desert, seeing what’s out there.”

“You walk far enough, you’ll get to New Earth City,” Kincaid said.

“No, I go looking for reptiles. I’m a secret herp.”

“Herp?”

“Herpetological, silly. Reptiles, snakes and things.”

“Really? That sounds really… different.”

“Says someone who has clearly never handled a snake,” she said. “Look, come over after shifting and I’ll let you have a feel.”

She was blushing as she said that, but he was certainly interested enough to accept her invitation.

It was a good way to live. Then why didn’t it feel like it? Anderson had grown comfortable with his life, and the year 997 AE had been a particularly satisfying one for him so far. He had the corps, he had friends, and his apartment was taking on his personality. Kayla was old enough to no longer be annoying but a loving sister and good friend. His parents continued to ask about a spouse, and his mother—still the city’s head physician—asked about grandchildren to occupy her during her impending retirement. But he was not interested. Not yet, anyway. He was twenty, in his physical prime, and creating new generations of Kincaids could wait.

Over the last few weeks he and Marquez let things take their natural course, and a romance was developing. She introduced him to her snake, Merlin, then let him feel the reptile’s skin and compare it with her own far hotter flesh.

Since that torrid night, the two were seeing each other both on shift and off duty. Now both were getting teased by the others, but all approved, even Alpuente, who seemed to have first dibs on Kincaid.

It wasn’t all Nirvana, though. He felt a great deal of affection for her, but it was clearly secondary to his mission, and that caused problems. The previous night, he had stayed at her place, and after they had made love for the second time in a few hours, she straddled him, her hair tickling his nose.

“Do you always do everything with military precision?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not at all. To be honest, you’re the finest lover I’ve had. You’re definitely a keeper, Andy.”

He frowned at her. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

She shook her head, but her eyes were no longer merry. “You are technically proficient, even creative, but you never feel fully committed to this… to us.”

He propped himself up on his elbows and stared into her eyes. Was she trying to break things off? She had just said he was a keeper, so what was happening?

“Andy, you have yet to let go of your dream. You’ve told me about being denied entrance to the Rangers, and I get how soul-crushing that must have been. But you have a good life, a good career. You have me. But that isn’t enough, is it?”

Anderson Kincaid had no proper response to that question.

Instead, he slid out from under her and hurriedly dressed, returning home to his place and his thoughts.

He was on second shift the following day, walking toward the huge outdoor market. Fresh produce and crops had been brought in hours earlier, and the place was teeming with people haggling, bargaining, and gossiping. In other words, another typical day in another typical week, and Kincaid was okay with that. He and Marquez could walk in comfortable silence and just soak in the local ambience.

As he pondered a choice between green and leafy or juicy and succulent for his dinner, their radios crackled to life.

“All corps, this is a priority alert. Ursa have been sighted in the city. Rangers are in pursuit, but we need to begin clearing the streets. The siren is about to go off, so be prepared for a panic.”

Marquez thumbed a button that acknowledged the alert and quickened her pace toward the market. “That place is a zoo under normal conditions; this is not going to be easy,” she said. “What was it you said a while back? Only a handful left from the last attack?”

“A few, but we have no clue if they breed or not,” he said, matching her pace.

“I’m voting for not,” she said, and her next words were cut off by the siren coming to life. It was long and loud and had the desired effect of catching everyone’s attention. From the speakers nestled within various structures, a recorded voice announced, “This is not a drill. All citizens are instructed to remain inside or report to the nearest shelter.”

Marquez understood the populace, and sure enough, people were moving in anything but an orderly manner. Some ran, some scooped up purchases, some continued to bargain. Awnings began collapsing, and goods for sale were being sealed in containers. People screamed in panic or shouted for loved ones. Everyone moved. Movement was good; all the corpsmen had to do was steer them to shelter.

Kincaid thought about the Ranger response. This was what they prepared themselves for and what each one dreamed about: killing an Ursa and claiming a prize, having a story to tell, or being part of a legend. He longed once more to be fighting alongside them but knew that was never going to happen. Instead, he would have to herd the people and keep the streets clear so that the Rangers could do their jobs.

Although it was not part of corps protocol, Kincaid maintained his own weapons training, making certain he could fire a pulser with either hand and be certain his target would fall dead. He was adept with various bladed weapons and had even dabbled in archery to perfect his eye-hand coordination. Aiming had to be precise, as it might mean the difference between life and death. In the case of the Ursa, it meant hitting their meat and not the smart metal that was bonded to their skeletons to give them a layer of protection. They were unearthly, hideous creatures, and in his mind’s eye he replayed the one that had nearly killed him almost two decades earlier.

A Ranger had died to save his life, and he owed a debt for her sacrifice and her memory.

Emergency shelters to protect people from sandstorms or lightning—and yes, Ursa attacks—dotted the city, marked with a glowing symbol that promised safety. Anderson windmilled his right arm while his prosthetic left arm directed citizens toward the nearest shelter. Marquez had jogged over to make certain it was open and powered. She then helped funnel the people through the dual doorways.

People continued to make noise, adding to the siren’s wail, and Kincaid wished for earplugs but gritted his teeth, ignored the discord, and kept directing them toward a safe haven. The great mass continued to flow from the market toward the shelter.

A roar, the sound of which brought back waking nightmares, pierced the panicky noises. An Ursa was close, and he hoped the Rangers were on its heels. He glanced over his shoulder and saw people fleeing in all directions away from the covered open-air market. The creature had to be in there.

Kincaid rushed to the space between the twin doors and entered a code on the keypad. A panel smoothly slid open, and he withdrew three pulsers. Tucking one in his waist and tossing another to Marquez, he felt better about dealing with the imminent threat.

A Ranger emerged from behind the shelter, out of breath and covered in dust. “Have you seen it?”

“In the market, I think,” Kincaid replied.

“Keep the people moving in there; we’ve got this,” he ordered somewhat needlessly. The comment bothered Kincaid, who took it as an insinuation that he wouldn’t do his job unless a Ranger directed him to.

The Ranger sprinted toward the Ursa and, no doubt, his fellow Rangers. If Anderson recalled correctly, the rules stated that—when available—a minimum of eight Rangers were required to confront one of those beasts. People got out of the Ranger’s way and kept streaming toward the shelter. Marquez continued moving them through the doors while Kincaid surveyed the scene. They didn’t need to speak; each understood the other well enough by now that words were unnecessary.

Kincaid watched as the cutlass-wielding Ranger dashed into the market, where sounds of destruction were competing with the siren. He wished there were an off switch for the alarm; by now, everyone had gotten the message.

A body came flying through an opening in the market and crumpled to the ground. It appeared to be missing a leg, and blood pooled around the figure. Marquez gestured for him to keep his position.

“Don’t go, Andy!”

“There are civilians still inside.”

She crossed over to him, eyes flaring. “It’s suicide! This is what the Rangers exist for. And you are not a Ranger. Let it go.”

“But they’re not here and I am.”

“Okay, Andy, so you live and breathe being a Ranger even though you’re not in uniform. What does the manual say about fighting the Ursa?”

“Eight Rangers, no less.”

“You are an army of one. How do you reconcile that?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“I didn’t know you had a death wish.”

“How can I face you tomorrow if I don’t go do this? How could I live a life with you if I knowingly let that monster kill the innocents?”

“If there were an army of us, I’d have your back, but right now it’s just us. We can’t go in there and survive.”

“Gin, I have to. I have to try or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Kincaid ran toward the body, but as he drew closer, it was evident the person was dead. He focused his attention on the market itself, an ever-changing cluster of prefabricated stalls and stands where every food and drink imaginable could be found. As he neared, the corpsman could see the creature, which was huge and moved erratically. However the Skrel bioengineered those things, they were far from elegant creations designed for maximum carnage. The six limbs ended in razor-sharp talons, and the maw was stuffed with pointed teeth. He knew they were sightless, using their other senses, mainly that of smell, to locate and lock onto their prey. Right now it was rampaging and destroying in search of human life.

He knew Virginia would do her job, protecting the perimeter while he went after the beast, but he had no idea if she’d still be there when the mission ended. A part of him was planning a future that included her, but with every step forward he was trampling that dream, risking the first tangible happiness he’d had in years.

The deserted stalls appeared to frustrate it, and the Ursa tore through thin metal and wood and Plasticine as if they were all cotton-weight fabric. Behind it, Kincaid could spot two more Rangers in addition to the one who had charged toward it. That one could not be seen, and he hoped the man was not dead.

He spied the Rangers deploying their cutlasses. Lightweight and versatile, cutlasses could quickly morph into a dozen or more shapes depending on need. Right now, all the Rangers’ weapons appeared to be in sickle formation, clearly intended to hobble as many of the creature’s legs as possible and bring it down. Of course, first they had to catch the thing.

Then Kincaid saw another Ranger spring from hiding, his cutlass shaped like a needle, and fly toward the beast, ready to pierce its tough hide. The Ursa, though, must have smelled the man and reared up on its hind legs, the forward limbs shredding him in the air. Organs and blood spilled to the ground moments before the dead body followed. The Ursa roared not so much in triumph but because it could.

Quickly, it turned around and charged toward the Rangers, who scattered out of its way. The creature chased the ones who ran to the left.

This was Anderson’s chance. He rushed forward and grasped the fallen Ranger’s cutlass. Now that he was wielding it, there was little to differentiate the corpsman from the Ranger, and Kincaid recognized he had a debt to repay, first to the woman who had saved his life and then to his family’s legacy.

He had to move carefully to avoid alerting the monster but also so that he wouldn’t slip on the messy pools of blood, viscera, and squashed fruit. The sickly-sweet smells made him want to gag, but he swallowed it down and kept approaching the beast as it continued its charge toward the Rangers. The other Rangers were out of sight; either they had run away or they were stealthily approaching it.

The siren finally cut off, and Kincaid whispered thanks to the heavens, just as his mother had taught him.

He focused his hearing and heard the clatter of taloned paws moving the Ursa along, the cracking of worn wood, and the crackle of the cutlass in his hand.

Then he heard a different sound, a low, plaintive resonance. Not human and most certainly not Ursa. It then struck him that livestock was also on display at the market, mostly as a petting zoo for the kids while the parents shopped. Demonstrations were put on to teach the children how the animals contributed to society. These were not happy noises, and he heard shuffling about. The animals were spooked, and that could only mean the Ursa had decided it was lunchtime.

Kincaid crept closer, hands tightening and retightening their grip on the cutlass. He had never hefted one before and had no real clue how to make it alter its configuration. If the scythe shape was particularly sharp, that might be all he needed.

An animal cried out, with others repeating the sound at a lower volume, and he knew the Ursa had slaughtered one, maybe a horse. He hoped to catch the Ursa unaware, preoccupied as it was with eating whatever poor animal had lost its life before its time.

He worked close to the pens, and as he rounded one corner, he came upon the remains of more Rangers. One’s torso had been torn apart; another’s head was severed from the neck. The man’s head had rolled a few feet away, the look of shock on its face frozen in place, a sight Kincaid wanted to forget immediately. Instead, it seemed to find a place in his mind, right next to the image of the charging Ursa at the playground when he was a child.

The Ursa paused in its consumption, suddenly aware of Kincaid’s presence. Sightless, it turned toward him but held its ground. Dim light reflected off the smart metal protruding in a haphazard pattern around its body. No way could a single shot from that distance take out the beast. Heck, pulsers were useless at point-blank range. Kincaid had to get closer but was having trouble making his feet move. Perhaps the Ursa would have to come his way; it was a terrifying thought.

He knew that if it imprinted on him and his fear, it would hunt him down until one or the other was dead. Kincaid had other plans for his death—first and foremost being that it would not be for a long time—and so he did the only thing he could: shuffled backward, away from the creature, hoping it would stay to finish its meal. There were still Rangers operating and no doubt more coming. The Rangers’ main mission was to protect the world; his primary job was to protect the citizens here, right now.

To his surprise, the beast took a bite of intestine and proceeded to ignore him. He couldn’t fathom it. The things were supposedly killing machines. The only thing he could surmise was that the Ursa considered him too puny or weak to charge right now. On the one hand, he was relieved. On the other, he felt vaguely insulted.

Making no sudden movements, Kincaid headed toward the periphery of the market. He heard human sounds and stopped to listen: They were coming from underneath a collapsed fabric stand. Judiciously stepping over debris, he approached the mound of colorful fabrics and sundries. Individually, each bolt of cloth was light enough, but one atop the other, they created a weight that clearly had someone pinned beneath.

He kicked over a few bolts and called out, “Who’s there?”

“Miranda,” a whimpering voice replied.

“Hi, Miranda. I’m Anderson, and I’m here to free you. Are you hurt?”

“My arm,” she said, and gasped.

He knew about arm injuries and quickly began shoving the fabric out of the way. As he dug through at least a yard’s worth of cotton, wool, linen, and other materials, he encountered wooden and metallic shelving that had gotten tangled up with the bolts and was not loosening easily. He strained at a particularly stubborn bit of metal, and his right arm ached.

Kincaid rarely thought about what made his left arm unique, but he knew that it didn’t tire, didn’t ache, and was far more durable than his right arm. He tried never to rely on its superior strength—he insisted his doctors calibrate it to male norms—but he also knew it was never a precise process and the prosthetic arm remained somewhat stronger. Now he wanted super strength, the kind he remembered from stories he had heard as a child of strong men such as Samson and Superman. He now wanted to be as mighty as they were for real and save Miranda.

As he applied all the pressure he could muster, the metal began to crumple in his hand, which closed viselike. He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles in his neck, chest, and legs begin to strain. Still, he didn’t let go, and bit by bit the metal began to give in to the pressure. With a popping sound, it twisted and finally came free, nearly pulling Kincaid off his feet. After regaining his footing, he reached within the opening he had created and continued to yank bits of metal and wood and cloth away. He managed to create an opening and paused to peer within.

Miranda had to be fifteen, if that, and was a redhead with long curls that flowed over her yellow dress, which was now bloody and torn. The arm she complained about was pinned beneath a sewing machine, and she was lying at an angle that prevented her from moving it herself.

“Hi,” he said to calm her.

She grunted and gave him a panicked look. “I can’t feel it,” she said.

That didn’t sound good at all. He renewed his efforts and managed to reach the machine from his side of the mess. Using the cutlass as a pry bar, he levered the machine high enough for her to move her entire body, taking the limp arm from underneath. She began moving toward the opening he’d created. He pulled her through and then stood her up. He gingerly reached for her to examine the arm, but she threw herself at him and gave him a one-armed hug.

He called in his find and asked for help so that he could continue his search. Once he closed the signal, he said, “Get out of here. There’s an Ursa by the animals, and I don’t want it finding you.”

“What about you?”

“This is my job. You go get that arm examined,” he said.

She wiped away tears with her good hand, hugged him a second time, and turned to make her way outside.

Within the next fifteen minutes, he found more dead bodies, crushed from machinery that had toppled on them, and the corpse of another Ranger. His entire body had long bloody rows carved into it by the Ursa’s talons.

With every step, his mind remained fixed on the Ursa’s noisy position. He kept his radio on low so that he could hear reports from elsewhere around Nova Prime City. It sounded like many Ursa had come simultaneously and were wreaking havoc everywhere, which might mean Ranger reinforcements would be delayed, especially if they didn’t know the Rangers at the market were among the dead.

He turned his back to the Ursa’s position and called in to the corps what he had discovered, insisting the information be relayed to the Rangers. They had to know he and Marquez were the only trained form of defense in this crowded part of the city. Of course, it didn’t feel crowded now as people huddled in shelters or hid within their homes.

As he turned back toward the Ursa, he saw Miranda standing in place. She was clearly in shock and hadn’t gone far. This was a complication he did not need.

“Go!” he said, waving his arms in the direction of the entrance.

“I’m scared,” she said, holding her injured arm.

“All the more reason to get out of here,” he said.

She hesitated.

With a growl all his own, Anderson grabbed the girl, picked her up, and began moving her out of the Ursa’s way. He didn’t have time to play games with her and couldn’t turn his back on the beast for too long. Sure enough, it took being moved just a few feet to shock her back to reality. Her eyes went wide; she let out a gurgling yelp and began running.

The Ursa roared, and Kincaid heard a thick wet sound as something hit the ground. Feeding time was over, the hunt was on, and they were the targets.

Then he heard the snarl, and it was closer.

Miranda was out of sight and presumably off to safety. That freed him to focus entirely on keeping the Ursa from hunting other humans. He looked left and right and noticed the roof. There were long sheets of pliable metal that helped shade the stalls. Fastened in place, they could provide support.

Powerful legs propelled him upward. He grasped an edge and pulled himself up. He then threw himself belly down on the roof, cutting his cheek in the process, and withdrew his pulser, taking aim. He fired a series of blasts that cracked in the air like fireworks, the bolts of energy filling the air between him and the charging Ursa.

Sure enough, it slowed the beast down as it emitted a noisy sniffing sound while its talons scraped the hard ground. Once it appeared to lock onto Kincaid’s scent, the creature sped up again. Anderson sighed at his plight, aimed, and fired again. Not that he could kill the creature with the pistol, or with both pistols if it came to that. He wasn’t even sure if the cutlass would be enough, but he needed to keep the Ursa occupied so that the Rangers had a chance to arrive.

His wrist gauntlet contained a small screen that usually flashed a variety of information; he orally commanded it to display a schematic of the market. He needed a plan other than blindly shooting at the Ursa until it leaped up and gored him. Bright red lines appeared on the black screen, and his eyes traced one pathway and then another. Below him, the Ursa snarled and roared, nearing his position and ready to leap up and meet him on the roof.

He saw a course of action and scrambled to the next slot in the roof to his right, leaning down and firing as he moved. The beast roared and followed, gathering enough momentum to leap off the ground and slash at him.

Kincaid kept moving in a diagonal path, leading the creature back toward the animal pens. It climbed neatly over the crushed booths, ignoring everything in its path, intent on reaching the annoying pulser and its owner. He hurried along until he reached the desired slot and then fired again.

The beast sped up, charging with abandon. As Kincaid ran, he fired a pattern of blasts not at the Ursa but at the roof in front of it. Without pausing, it leaped toward the roof, but it had the misfortune to land exactly where Kincaid’s pulser had done its work. The weakened floor buckled under the creature’s great weight, and suddenly it fell into a mound of rotting food and decomposing animal dung.

The beast expressed its displeasure with its loudest roar yet, and Kincaid covered his ears. Unfortunately, the pit was not deep, and once it collected its wits, the Ursa would climb back up. But at least it was preoccupied for a little while, giving Kincaid time to come up with a new plan.

“Kincaid here. Where are the Rangers?”

“Moser here,” came a voice he didn’t know. “They’re all over the city. Where are the ones dispatched to the market?”

“All dead. Where the hell are the reinforcements?”

“Coming.”

“Not fast enough. Please pass that along.”

“You okay?”

“For now.”

His fingers stroked the cutlass before pressing and squeezing random sections; sure enough, the device sprang to life as the strands of programmed metal altered at one end, curving and refashioning itself into a hook shape.

“Get me those reinforcements.”

“Roger that.”

The Ursa was not idle during the conversation. It regrouped and used its powerful legs to scramble out of the muck and back onto the ground, roaring with every step. Of course, now Kincaid could not only hear the beast but smell it, too; his nose wrinkled in revulsion.

The moment it settled on the ground, the Ursa tensed and leaped up, its short forearms grabbing the thin metal of the roof, its talons ripping into it. With an effort it made its way onto the roof, where Kincaid was already on his feet.

Now they were on the same level playing field, and the advantage had shifted from the corpsman to the foul-smelling creature. He started swinging the cutlass at the Ursa, connecting with legs, joints, clawed hands. But the Ursa continued plodding toward him. Realizing he wasn’t harming it at all, Kincaid turned and ran.

The Ursa charged.

Kincaid counted on the beast being too heavy for the wafer-thin metal roof. Sure enough, the roof creaked and groaned, adding to the Ursa’s bellowing tone. The beast had gone maybe another six feet before the roof began to buckle. Another few feet and the roof became wobbly. As the Ursa gained on Kincaid, the metal started coming free from its moorings.

What Kincaid did not count on was plunging to the ground with the Ursa.

Both fell with a loud crash, Kincaid’s right shoulder absorbing the impact. It took all his willpower not to cry out in pain as he landed atop the ruins of a shoe peddler’s stand. He scrambled to regain his footing, taking a moment to come up with a strategy.

The Ursa, despite its ungainly shape, had a good sense of balance and was upright and snarling, once more locked onto Kincaid’s position.

A plan, however sketchy, was still a plan, and Kincaid ran to his right, down a relatively unscathed corridor of the market. His shoulder ached as he pumped his arms; he had to push past it. Within several strides he could hear the great creature coming after him, screaming at the top of its lungs. It wanted him badly.

He darted down side aisles, jumping over boxes and leaping into a forward roll to avoid a pillar barring his path. All along, the creature barreled forward, tearing through one thing after another, unrelenting in its pursuit.

Kincaid was running out of the market. He’d be exposed soon, and then the creature could home in on him and end it.

That was when he remembered the park and quickened his pace. He emerged from the dim shadows of the market and into bright sunlight. Blinking repeatedly as his eyes adjusted, he kept moving forward, crossing the street from the market to the park. Fortunately, it was deserted.

Lining the park were old trees. Kincaid darted toward one and leaped, grabbing one of its thick limbs. His right shoulder complained, but he worked past the pain as he swung himself up and over, landing on the limb. He scrambled to the next highest branch, climbing until he was a good fifteen feet off the ground, ideally too high for the Ursa to reach with a single jump. His shoulder let him know he would be paying for this once the adrenaline rush wore off. He looked forward to being alive to enjoy the pain.

He finally was safe enough to look behind him, and the damned thing was out of sight. It had shifted to camouflage mode, blending in with the serene park surroundings. Kincaid hoped more Rangers would arrive soon, wondering just how intelligent the beast was, doubting anyone could say with certainty.

His entire life seemed to take place in a park. It was in one similar to this that he had lost an arm, saw the Ranger sacrifice herself, and begun on a specific course. Despite Velan rejecting him for the Rangers, Kincaid now found himself fighting an Ursa one on one. He idly wondered what Velan would make of that considering that he would first note that the regs called for a squad of no fewer than eight. Going solo against the creature might appear to be suicidal, but Kincaid was determined not to begin and end his life in a park. He would survive this—he was not done with life yet.

It was quiet. Too quiet. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but Virginia’s face kept materializing in his mind. He had to stay alive and apologize. Or own up to losing her.

His nose wrinkled in disgust, interrupting the reverie and warning him a second before a roar confirmed his sense of smell.

The still-invisible Ursa bellowed once more to attract his attention but mostly to strike fear into him. The more pheromones he released, the easier it was for the creature to lock in on his position. It struck the tree with its talons.

His arms wrapped around the tree as it shuddered with every stroke. Kincaid realized, as his flesh pimpled with goose bumps, that it intended to shred the tree until it collapsed and he fell.

He held tight with the artificial arm and began shifting his feet on the branch so that he could make the leap to the next tree over. He had no desire to be the Ursa’s victim and started scrambling as far from the creature as possible, taking it deeper into the park and away from the people hidden close to the park’s edge.

It didn’t take him long to travel six trees away from where he had started, although he could feel how weak his right side was getting. The Ursa, now fully visible in all its ugliness, dutifully followed, stinking and thundering and clawing the entire way. Running out of trees and out of steam, he considered his options. He had the cutlass, not that he really understood what to do with it; he had two pulsers, one almost out of charge; he had an artificial arm that might outlast one or two swipes of those claws. But that was about it. Peering past the monstrosity, he saw that no help was coming his way.

This might actually be the end.

His mind drifted back, and he considered what he had accomplished. Within the last few hours, he had saved some lives and kept an Ursa from harming others. He had served the corps with distinction, saving that man from the fire among other heroic acts. He’d laughed; he thought he might even have loved, even if he had screwed it up earlier that day. If it ended right now, it would be seen as a good life, one that honored his debt and respected the Kincaid family tradition even out of a Ranger uniform. If he was to die here and now, he could accept that.

The first Ursa had chased all the fear from him years before.

Following the Primus’s teachings, he prayed to the creator of the heavens and the universe, thanking the being for giving him a good life, one that honored his family name. He prayed that the creator would look after his parents and sister and that humanity would continue to thrive on Nova Prime.

His mind was so busy preparing for his imminent death, it took him a moment to realize it had gotten very quiet and his immediate world had stopped shaking. The Ursa was done with the tree and was skittering in a semicircle, seeking something. At first, Kincaid thought that help was coming and the creature had sensed it first.

But no, it was something else.

The creature seemed to have lost his scent, just as earlier it had turned right at him and hadn’t reacted. This was his chance to escape to safety. But that would mean the creature would be free to stalk some other living being, and that did not sit well with him.

Instead, he lowered himself branch by branch to the ground. The Ursa never noticed, intent on figuring out what had happened to its prey. Kincaid stalked the Ursa from the rear. He moved dangerously close, holding his breath from the stench.

There was no sweat, no fear.

The beast turned toward him, unaware of how close the human had come.

Kincaid held a pulser in his right hand and was hefting the hook-shaped cutlass in the other. He had been studying the creature and saw several spots that looked more vulnerable than others. He could strike from the rear. Although it would be inelegant and far from fair, this was war, and in war, fairness was a luxury.

Swinging with all his might, he hooked the end of the cutlass into the Ursa’s hide and yanked. Through the creature’s blood he could see a hint of tissue, and he pulled harder while firing a series of point-blank bursts from the pulser. The cutlass continued to tear into the creature’s hind leg joint, searing the purplish muscle and tissue. As the Ursa screamed in a tone that spoke of its pain, Kincaid turned and ran with whatever strength he still possessed. He did not look back, nor did he drop the weapons, clutching them for reassurance. The Ursa tried to run after him but was badly hobbled.

Kincaid kept running the way he had come, back past the trees and out onto the street. Looking left, he saw the street was clear, and then he looked right and spotted a Ranger speeder landing in the middle of the avenue.

Eight Rangers, cutlasses at the ready, were leaping out of the vehicle as it still kicked up dust.

“I wounded one of them in the park,” he said between gasps. They nodded in silent acknowledgment and rushed past him. Stretching out his artificial arm, he rested against the side of the speeder, sucking in warm air and trying to calm himself.

He remained where he was for several minutes, his breathing and mind calming down in unison. At last, a female Ranger emerged from the park, spotted him, and flashed a thumbs-up.

“We have it contained,” she said, smiling at him. “Lieutenant Divya Chandrark.”

“Anderson Kincaid. Did you kill it?”

“They’re working on it,” she admitted. “What happened?”

Kincaid gave her a report as if she were McGirk and he were delivering a formal after-action statement. She nodded, eyes widening now and then.

“You’re saying the thing looked right through you? And then lost track of you later? Ursa don’t do that. You do that to them. Sounds like you ghosted, just like the OG.”

“OG?”

“The Original Ghost. Cypher Raige. Made himself so disconnected from fear that the Ursa couldn’t find him. He was the first to take one out single-handedly.”

He had, in fact, known that, but he had failed to apply the notion to himself because it had seemed so distant to him. He’d been so busy trying to stay alive that he simply hadn’t questioned how he was doing it.

“Well, the OG still has one up on me. I just stuck it and ran.”

“Still, you got close enough to do that.”

He just nodded in amazement. Apparently the competition between families was still ongoing.

After the debriefing with the Rangers, they went their way and he headed back to headquarters. Along the way, he ran into comrades who already had heard about his accomplishment. He swore gossip traveled by smart fabric.

When he entered the locker room, Virginia stood by his locker, freshly showered and dressed in a clingy pale purple sundress.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied, her tone neutral. He couldn’t read her expression and had no sense if they were lovers, partners, or even friends anymore.

For a moment he paused and looked deep within. He’d been doing that all day, looking for answers, and this must have been his lucky day because the solutions were magically appearing.

“I’ve been a jerk,” he said.

At that, her eyes twinkled and she replied, “But you’re a talented jerk.”

“You’ve made me so happy, but I only realized that when I thought I’d chucked it away to go die fighting the Ursa. I risked you, risked us, to possibly die.”

“But you lived. Better than that, you ghosted. That is so freaking amazing.”

She hurled herself at him, and he caught her in his arms, letting the enhanced arm help lift her high off the ground. They laughed together as he twirled her about.

After he placed her back on the ground, they smiled at each other. “I need a shower,” he said. “Then we can go celebrate.”

Slipping out of the dress, she said, “I’ll scrub your back.”

Days later, there was a knock at his door, and Kincaid, recuperating from his injuries, answered it in his casual shirt, clutching a beer. Marquez, in a silk robe, lounged on the couch.

Cypher Raige, in his snow-white uniform, stood in the doorway, and his eyes rose and fell, taking in the sight. Kincaid nearly dropped the bottle as he snapped to attention.

Raige stood patiently in the doorway until finally the younger man realized what was going on and stepped back, gesturing for the Prime Commander to enter. He stole a glance over his shoulder to see Marquez frozen in place, unable to dash out of sight.

“Prime Commander Raige, may I introduce you to Virginia Marquez,” he said as formally as possible.

She clutched her robe tightly closed as she rose with as much grace as was possible and stepped forward, shaking the man’s hand. “A pleasure,” was all she could muster. Raige merely nodded in her direction. She then demurely took up a position on a chair, still within earshot of the men. Raige seemed fine with that although Kincaid was certainly feeling awkward, as if he were violating some rule he had forgotten.

“I hear you ghosted,” Raige said, his eyes now taking in the apartment, which Anderson was pleased to have kept neat. Not white glove neat, but good enough.

“So I’m told.”

“Nice work. Anderson… May I call you that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Anderson, ghosting is a rare ability. We’ve counted only a few who have managed it. Three during the recent Ursa attack, yourself included. That’s pretty elite company to be in.”

“Yes, sir,” Kincaid said, suddenly feeling years younger and burning once more with a desire to wear the uniform.

“We owe you a debt. Your actions kept people safe and allowed the Rangers to perform their duty.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“Nova Prime City owes you a debt of thanks. We’d like you to join the Rangers.”

At last, he thought.

And then a moment later, he realized it was a fine offer but a late one. It was all he had wanted—all he had needed—for so long. But now he had what he needed: a home, a career, and someone to share his life with.

Kincaid shut his mouth and took a deep breath.

Raige remained ramrod straight, his face unreadable.

“Your cousin Atlas asked me to preserve and protect this society when he left Nova Prime,” Cypher Raige said thoughtfully. “Of course, those rules were probably written before the Ursa even showed up here. Maybe even predating the Skrel. Things were very different back then.”

“Yes, sir, they were.”

“The rule, all the rules, I think, need a fresh review. Ones like this need to be looked at with our current society and its requirements.” Raige paused, letting the comments sink in.

“Thank you, Prime Commander,” Anderson said slowly, fighting to find the right words and to meet the man’s piercing gaze. “But I respectfully decline the invitation. The rules remain the rules, and they forced me to give up a little boy’s dreams and find a man’s dream instead. I found it, forged a path for myself, and I am content.”

Raige let that sink in and then looked directly at Marquez, who immediately blushed but was grinning with pride. He nodded once.

“You’re standing on your own two feet, and your accomplishments certainly allow you to make your own choices for the future. It’s a shame the Rangers will lose a ghost, but it’s the Defense Corps’ gain. Maybe one day the Rangers can steal you back.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kincaid said.

He paused, looked past Kincaid’s shoulder at Marquez, and nodded her way in farewell. “Good luck, Anderson.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A word of advice,” Cypher said. “The next time you answer the door, see who it is first so you’re both properly attired for the visit.”

As Raige stepped out into the night, Kincaid looked down to see he was still standing at attention wearing just a shirt and boxer shorts.

Marquez looked at him and smiled.

“White would’ve looked good on you.”