Ain't Talkin'

Roche cut the bindings from Doctor Weaving’s wrists himself with his bootknife. That grin had been painted on his face for a good two minutes now, eerie as a mannequins expression.

“Alright. Weaving you’re coming with us, Markus too. Briggs, grab your four best and you move with us.”

“Sir, Miner gave us specific orders-”

“Don’t know and I don’t care what your orders were.” Roche spat. “You’re with me now.”

Briggs nodded quietly and checked the slide on his rifle. “Got it. Palmer, Welkins, Riley and Torrence, you four with us. The rest of you,” He shouted a whisper to the remaining soldiers, nearly two dozen silent watchers in battle-dress uniform with Resistance armbands. “Break into two. Keep at our four and eight, stay in the shadows and keep formations tight.”

Soldiers nodded, saluted with fists across their hearts and strapped their rifles tight.

The docks were quiet. Silent monolith factories hung low in the sky, moisture in the air making their brick siding shine. Artificial light darkened out the stars, and clouds of underlit steam rose from the center of the city from a dozen vents.

Roche spat chew in a brown wire. “Where we goin’, shithead?”

“To the coll-” Markus started to instinctively answer.

“Not you, idiot. You’re not shithead anymore. The good doctor is shithead now.”

Markus seemed deeply appreciative.

“You, doctor shithead. Where we goin’?” Roche drew his gun and held it at his hip, threatening without aiming.

“Those steam vents are from the college. We make for those.” Grin, grin.

“Right then. S’go.” Roche stood and hauled Weaving up from under his arm. The Resistance soldiers fell into place behind them, moving along the dark streets of New San Fran.