Free Wings of the Magpie: Space Operettas by Loch Erinheart Page B

Magpie. “Not directly. I’m a Terran Fleet Marine, a specialist. My job, among other things, is to rescue misplaced little boys like you.” Magpie glanced at her chrono, then held out her gloved left hand so that the boy could see. “Can you tell time?” she asked.
    The boy leaned forward, examining the face of Magpie’s chrono. “Three twenty-three,” he croaked, looking up at her.
    “That’s good,” said Magpie, her voice calm, practiced. “You’re a very smart little boy. In two more minutes, my friends are going to pull their truck up in front of your house. It’s a Marauder. It’s a lot bigger than Trucks’ truck.” She reached out, touching the boy’s hand that held the plastic vehicle. “When they show up, I’m going to need you to run as fast as you can towards the open door. Can you do that?” The boy nodded. “But you can’t run straight,” said Magpie, pressing her index finger against the boy’s chest. “You need to zig-zag.” She demonstrated with the finger, marking an irregular path down to the boy’s navel. “Have you got that?” The boy nodded.
    A deep diesel rumble grew, louder, louder, until it rattled the windows of the house, followed by a shriek of brakes and a thrumming idle. Magpie stood, moving to the door, motioning for the boy to follow. She opened it a crack, then a bit further, then stepped outside, leading with the barrel of her rifle. Scents of char and carbon filled their nostrils. Magpie glanced from left to right to left, then up into the sky before shouting to the boy. “Now, Peter,” she barked.
    The boy ran, passing Magpie where she stood, rifle in hand, on the front porch, darting left, then jinking right down the stone-paved lawn toward the massive vehicle waiting at the curb. At its center, limned by red light, a pair of soldiers, dwarfed by the Marauder’s colossal tires, stood in a steel-framed doorway beckoning him, waving. “Come on, Peter,” they called. “You can do it.”
    A phosphorescent streak arced across the sky, then burst, turning darkness momentarily into daylight. A monumental explosion sounded behind the boy, its brisance knocking him forward. He threw up his hands, dropping the toys he had so lovingly clutched as he was driven down toward the ground. He felt his knees burn through his pants as he slid along the grass, felt cobblestone bite into his palm, tasted grass and dirt. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked toward the Marauder, through the toys scattered ahead of him.
    A hand grasped the back of the boy’s shirt, pulling him to his feet and pushing him towards the Marauder. “Get to the truck,” a voice shouted. “Now!”
    The boy looked up into Magpie’s face, backlit by orange fire. Her helmet was gone, her rifle slung across her back. Her short, dark hair was matted by darker, glistening patches that continued down onto her right cheek. Dark red flecked her teeth. “I dropped my Middle Manager,” cried the boy, turning, pointing back towards the toys scattered along the lawn that led back to the burning house. Small-arms fire echoed through the neighborhood. The boy staggered forward, crossing half the distance toward the Marauder before turning back to look accusingly at Magpie. “I dropped Trucks,” he said. “And Numbers.”
    “Move!” shouted Magpie, pushing the boy forward with a bleeding hand. “Forget the toys.”
    “B-But…” stammered the boy as Magpie lifted him up by the armpits, handing him off to the soldiers standing in the Marauder’s doorway. Jets streaked past overhead, releasing screaming missiles that impacted in the distance, shaking the world with their explosions. One of the soldiers mopped the boy’s forehead with a cloth as the other, along with Magpie, pulled the great door closed with a resounding clank. “But my dad gave me those,” said the boy, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I want my Middle Manager.”
    Magpie sank to the floor, leaning her back against the metal door.