Free Wings of the Magpie: Space Operettas by Loch Erinheart

Action Figure
     
    The boy scuttled, crablike, across the floor of the closet, scattering toys as he retreated into the corner. The soldier pressed her way through the door, pinioning the boy within the beam of the spotlight attached to her rifle barrel. She moved forward toward the boy, navigating her way through the plastic figurines and playsets spilled along the carpeted floor, noticing that he still held one figurine, a man in a red coverall, tightly in his hand. In the distance, an explosion sounded, shaking the room.
    The soldier dropped to one knee, to the boy’s eye level, then lowered the barrel of her rifle. She reached forward with a gloved hand, grasping him by the chin and staring into his face. The red crosshair lens covering her right eye flashed a light into the boy’s left eye and, after a moment’s pause, a tinny, electronic voice said, “Identified. Gilmour, Peter. Son of Commissioner Gilmour. Age six.”
    The soldier smiled. She spoke into the com unit attached to her shoulder. “Target acquired,” she said. “Requesting pickup.” She released the boy’s chin. “Hello, Peter,” she said, flipping the crosshair lens up onto her helmet. “I’m Lieutenant Mayr. My friends call me Magpie.” She picked up one of the figurines, a blond man in a blue jacket, and held it out to the boy. “These are some nice toys you have here,” said Magpie as the boy reached for the figurine. “Why don’t you tell me about them?”
    Magpie watched the boy’s face as he took the figurine. Much of his fear had fallen away. “This one’s called Numbers,” said the boy, indicating the man in the blue jacket. “And this one,” he said, holding up the little man in the red coverall, “his name’s Rackjob.”
    Magpie nodded, glancing at her chrono. Fifteen Minutes, she thought. Give or take. She backed toward the closet door, checking over her shoulder to make sure the room was still secure. She reached out her hand, tousling the boy’s hair. “Gather up your toys, Peter,” she said. “And follow me. Some very nice people are coming to get us out of here.”
    “This one’s called Trucks,” said the boy, holding up a figurine in a blue-checked shirt with rolled sleeves. “He’s a Teamster. I’ve got the whole set. Well, wave one, at least. I don’t have the Factory, since that just came out this year. And I sent off for the Buyer, but he hasn’t come in the mail yet.”
    “That’s nice,” said Magpie, picking up a handful of figurines and dropping them nonchalantly into the vehicle, a large multi-wheeled truck. In the distance, small-arms fire sounded, a series of pops followed by an explosion.
    The boy pointed. “They don’t go in there,” he said. “They belong with the Outlet.” He indicated a plastic building topped with a handle. “That one’s the Manager,” he pointed to a figurine of a balding man in a suit jacket. “And that’s his Assistant. I only got two clerks, one red and one blue, ’cause my dad only gets me one of each.” The boy picked up a figurine, a man in a green suit. “This one’s the Middle Manager,” he said. “He’s like my dad. He watches the other guys, makes sure they do what they’re supposed to.”
    Magpie forced a smile, glancing again at her chrono. “It’s okay, Peter,” she said in a steady, metered voice. “You can sort them out when we get to safety. For now, it’s okay if your little soldiers ride in Trucks’, umm, truck.” She glanced around, scanning the room, noting that the LED light on the corner security camera was dark. No backup power, she thought. “We need to get going.”
    Magpie and the boy loaded the truck and the playset with figurines and accessories, Magpie constantly keeping one eye tuned to her chrono. Soon, she was leading the boy, one hand on his shoulder, the other on her rifle, through the house. The boy carried the truck in one hand, the plastic building by its handle in the other. A high-pitched whistle