by J. N. Chaney
"That's none of your business, but sure. Why not? Why would I think I might be beaten or interrogated or put in isolation? Like that’s ever happened," I mocked.
By the time I ended the conversation with my cybernetic monitor, I'd identified who was coming to see me. Made me proud, actually. It'd been a while since I'd identified a person by the sound of their footsteps.
Frederick Eugene Grady, one of my old spec op buddies, sent the guards back the way they’d come so we could have some privacy. He moved closer and talked to me through the bars.
"You can come in if you want," I said.
He laughed. "You never change, Hal. From what Briggs tells me, this is a waste of time anyway. I'm not sure why we bother to ask when we can just put a gun to your head."
I smirked. “You always were a smooth talker, Feg.”
“You know I hate that name.”
I shrugged. “Life’s hard, then you die in a maximum-security prison—as the victim of a scientific experiment. Or, best of all, fighting for the Union, who doesn’t give two—”
“You know you don’t have a choice,” he interrupted. “Take the mission or you’ll get lethal injections tomorrow—and they’ll be poorly administered. Sick bastards know how to make it pure torture. They saved you specifically for something like this. If you won’t cooperate, why bother with such a huge pain in the ass?” Grady asked.
“Fuck off, Feg.” I used his initials because he hated the nickname, which meant that was all we called him before dark ops recruited me from spec ops.
“Could you use my real name one time?”
“We’re done,” I said, firmly.
“Remember AIT? Those were good times,” he said. “Back when we were soldiers for the Union with nothing but bad pay to complain about.”
The room was too hot and I was tired of working out in the corner and staring at the ceiling after lights out. Talking to myself. Imagining life outside this cell. Dreaming of a chance to go on a mission.
“What’s it gonna be, Hal?”
“I don’t work for the Union anymore.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said with a huff, exasperation filling his voice.
“It is.”
SITTING on death row was one thing. Getting served notice was another. My seventeen-month-old appeal was thrust onto the fast-track—reviewed and denied about five seconds after I refused the suicide mission. Briggs woke a judge up with a secure gal-net link and put a rush on circumvention of every constitutionally guaranteed protection of my due process.
“Union prosecutors followed every law to the letter. But they know people and how to get things done,” Briggs said, leaning against the back wall like neither of us were killers and I wasn’t about to get tortured to death.
“How long, Doctor?” he asked.
“Not long now. I’m drawing up anti-anxiety meds to calm the patient before we begin.” The doctor looked like a mad scientist. He only worked about three days a year and didn’t shave or brush his teeth during his enforced sabbatical—or so it seemed.
“Inmate,” Briggs corrected.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Halek Cain is an inmate condemned to death, not a patient,” explained Briggs.
“Of course.”
“Tell me I’m wrong, Hal,” Briggs said.
I ignored him. Other things occupied my thoughts—restraints that were too tight, the exact layout of the rooms and hallways between my cell and the execution chamber, shitty food.
It was unfair as hell but no surprise. My last meal—steak and potatoes—had tasted bland and I was pretty sure most of the guards had spit in it.
Or worse.
There wasn’t a way to escape this. Once, about halfway here, I thought that if I could get past the cafeteria into the maintenance locker room…
“Hey, I’ve been thinking,” I said, suddenly.
The death doctor stopped with one hand on the lethal injection switch. Briggs glared at me. The audience behind the one-way glass probably put down their wine glasses.
“I’ll do it. Send me to Dreadmax. I’ll find your stupid scientist.”
Briggs almost looked disappointed, but I knew him well enough to understand he was pissed I forced him to take this all the way to the end of the line before giving in.
“Doctor,” Briggs said.
“Sir?”
“Get out.”
“I really can’t do that,” said the doc, shaking his head. “There are procedures. Concerns for the welfare of anyone about to be pardoned or otherwise take a plea bargain.”
“If you don’t get out, I’ll snap your neck,” Briggs replied in an emotionless tone.
That did the trick. The doctor scurried to the door. “Leaving now. Just don’t pull out any of the intravenous tubes unless you have the training to do so.”
“Out,” repeated Briggs.
Moments later, I was alone with the spec ops commander.
He crossed his arms. “No more games. If you take this deal, I expect your professional best until we’re done.”
“As long as you don’t ask me to kill anyone. This is a hostage rescue all the way.”
“It’s going to get rough. You may have to fight.”
“That’s different. I’ll do what it takes to keep myself alive, but I’m not doing political assassinations or cleansing,” I said.
“Fine,” he agreed with a reluctant, albeit relieved tone. “Be a killer with a conscience. Whatever flies your ship, but finish the mission and do what we need. That’s all anyone cares about.”
“I’ll get it done,” I told him.
“Excellent,” he said. “Then I guess I should say welcome to the team, you stubborn bastard.”
3
GRADY RETURNED with two guys I didn't know. I assumed they were on his spec ops team, part of a security element. Probably badasses who specialized in mixed martial arts and who’d been hired to kill me if things went south.
I hadn't been popular among my peers, even when I was spec ops, but I thought most of them could empathize with my situation. Their masters could turn on them at any moment, the same way they had with me.
Maybe not the spec ops guys, but definitely anyone who'd seen something the folks upstairs didn’t want other people to know.
All three of them were average height and build, unless you knew what to look for. Walking down the street, they'd look like normal guys. None of them had the over-muscled physiques of bodybuilders, but I had no doubt they were strong as hell and ready to throw down.
Grady's knuckles were covered with massive scars from all the fights he’d been in. He had another that ran from his upper lip down across his chin—not unlike the shrapnel wound ten years ago that nearly claimed the eye I was born with. We used to tell him he should grow out some facial hair and cover that ugly scar up, but he never did.
Death row wasn’t like other prisons, or other parts of prisons. No one cat-called me or harassed my escorts. We didn’t really know each other, and few of us had the energy for those types of shenanigans. We were doing our time and facing our end in our own way.
When the last prison gate slammed behind me, I realized this was actually happening. I was leaving this place, maybe for good, and it felt like waking from a long dream.
Grady and his two buddies escorted me quickly to a shuttle full of humorless soldiers. From there, we entered a slipspace tunnel. The pilot refused to fill me in on the flight plan, so I could only guess our destination.
Not that it really mattered. They handcuffed me to a table in a briefing room, forcing me to listen to the briefing we were about to have. I guess they knew me well enough to know I probably would have opted to crash in my room for the duration of the flight.
Briggs always entered a room the same way, fast and pissed off. He slammed down a pad on the huge table as other members of the team filled the room. These were officers and handlers, very important people who planned things so that other people could do th
e fighting and dying.
Grady moved to the back with a couple of other spec ops guys to listen and take notes.
“All right, Cain,” began Briggs. “This briefing is for you. Everyone else knows the whats, whys, and wherefores. So we’ll get down to the details you need to know and start getting you fitted for your gear. We’ll be entering a slip tunnel soon, which will take us to the system in question. Don’t ask. You don’t need to know where it is.”
“I know what system Dreadmax is located in,” I commented.
The officers and intelligence types murmured and typed alarmed messages into their pads. One put a hand to his ear and hurriedly left the room like the sky had just fallen.
Briggs leaned toward the table and stared down at me where I was handcuffed in my chair. “Thanks. For that.”
“No problem. When you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. I didn’t think that was a secret, or why would you have told me where I was going?”
What followed was an awkward silence. Maybe some of the officers were pissing their pants as their careers evaporated from what they already saw as a failure. Hard to say in a room like this, but one thing was certain: this mission was such that failure meant a lot of resignations, with enough blame to destroy lives.
And I was at the center of it.
None of them could imagine going in alone to Dreadmax and bringing out a hostage or prisoner or whatever this guy was. I’d been in dark ops long enough to know anything they told me needed to be taken with a grain of salt. And a shot of whiskey, if possible.
“Your mission is simple, or at least straightforward,” began Briggs. “Doctor Paul Hastings was lost on Dreadmax during a humanitarian mission. You were selected due to your training and specializations. We will insert you with a small team who will provide overwatch and extraction once you have located and secured the target.” Briggs flipped through several pages on his device to check details. Apparently, few of them were for my edification.
By team, Briggs meant the group of elite operators who would watch my every move without actually helping. I’d take all the risk and they’d do…whatever.
“This is a good deal for a retired spec ops guy like you,” I said to Briggs. “Giving out orders and walking us through it like a middle grade teacher. Probably makes you long for the good ol’ days.”
My old friend Grady suppressed a smile. Other operators laughed openly.
“I’m active duty,” said Briggs, curling his lip in annoyance.
“Hard to say with a face like yours,” I said with a shrug.
Briggs activated several screens. “Check yourself and pay attention. You won’t be able to come back and ask me questions when shit goes sideways.”
“Okay. How big is the quick reaction force if I find the principal and can’t rescue him unassisted? What if there are casualties? What’s the rally point?” I asked, firing questions at him.
An officer who didn’t name himself moved forward. “You’re putting too much thought into this. You go straight in, grab the target, and come straight out. That’s it. Don’t get creative.”
“Why don’t him and his guys do that?” I said as I hooked my thumb toward Grady and his squad of elite soldiers.
They gave me half answers and straight-out lies. I knew there were two reasons I was going on this mission. One, they didn’t care if I died, and two, there was going to be some killing involved. “Am I bringing Hastings out or taking him out?”
The unnamed officer went white as a sheet. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
A glance at Briggs, then Grady, confirmed my suspicions. Not everyone in this room understood what I was. The pretentious schmuck telling me not to get creative would probably shit his pants if he knew I was a Reaper.
Arguments broke out. Briggs glared like he wanted to throat punch me.
“Everyone settle,” said Briggs, casting a glance around the room. “Cain knows he’s expendable, and that’s a big part of the reason for his selection. But I can’t overstate the fact that his training and his track record in deep infiltration into hostile areas is unequaled.”
“All true,” I said, taking a paper cup and drinking its contents, which turned out to be water when I was hoping for coffee.
Briggs launched into his serious-as-hell commander’s voice. “I also know you’re too proud to do this half-assed and you’ll go all the way to get him back. The fate of the Union depends on his recovery, and that’s no shit this time. He has someplace to be. You’ll get him in twenty-four hours or go back on death row. Grady and his team are good, but not even they have that for motivation.”
“What happens after twenty-four hours?” I asked.
“People die. So don’t be late.” Briggs gave Grady a hand signal. “Get Cain kitted out. Make sure he’s proficient. Jerking off in a prison cell probably hasn’t done much for his combat efficiency.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said, right before I was escorted from the dimly lit room.
THE ARMORY on the ship said a lot about what type of vessel we were on. The UFS Thunder was far larger than I expected. I wondered if we were going to rescue a doctor or start a war. There were enough lockers to equip a company of soldiers. Fortunately, none of them were here now. We left our escort outside the door.
"I was getting worried," I said, walking around still handcuffed near my waist. After I counted the lockers and looked for various wear marks that might indicate the age of the ship, I faced Grady and his two tough guys.
He walked to a table in the center of the armory where the gear I'd be wearing was stacked. "About what?"
"I've got a better imagination than you, Grady. If I said I wasn't worried about getting stuck into some sort of experiment with a high mortality rate, I'd be lying."
"Get over here so I can explain this stuff."
I sauntered over, still deep in my assessment of this room. If I were to make an escape attempt, this place would be important one way or another. Whoever came after me would be armed from this room. There was a door to a powered-armor-equipping area and another to bots and drones.
“Why don’t you just send these soldiers down to storm the place and clean up with your spec ops guys?"
The slow look he gave me confirmed my suspicion. That was probably an option.
"Holy shit, Grady. What type of people are we running with?"
Instead of answering, he pulled out an HDK 4 with a silencer. A moment later, he placed a pistol, also with a silencer, down and lined it up precisely with the first weapon. I had forgotten that about my old friend. He was compulsive.
"I bet you still have three t-shirts perfectly folded in your locker on top of your other inspection-ready uniforms."
"You got a problem with that?" he asked, furrowing his brow.
"No. What about body armor?" I separated the stack of gear into equally neat piles and lifted up a ballistic vest.
"Put it on so Sergeant Crank can check the fitting. It should be pretty close, because we have your exact height and weight measurements from your CIM,” Grady said.
“How about we save some time and do it all at once?" When I'd geared up from head to toe, I turned around and spread my arms from Crank to check my work. There was a weird moment when I thought he might pat me down, but he checked all the straps and tie-downs with methodical professionalism instead.
"You're good to go. Looks like you stayed in better shape than the other assholes on death row," Crank said. Up close, he looked like he could probably deadlift two or three times his own weight despite his deceptively lean build. I made a quick note of his flexibility, because he seemed to have a hard time getting up and down.
Maybe that was from a recently completed workout or a nagging injury, but it didn't matter. If this guy came after me, I'd use the information accordingly. If he was the one coming to save me, I hoped he’d suck it up and get the job done.
"Happy?" Grady asked.
I wasn't happy because they knew they
could do better. "You took the stuff straight off the rack. The HDK has to be ten years old."
"Where we are going, simple is better. Get in, get out—"
“Take me back to my cell on death row," I cut him off.
Grady cursed under his breath and looked at his feet before meeting my gaze. "Listen, Hal, I'm not trying to fuck you. Believe whatever you want about Briggs and the mission planners, but you and I fought together and I'm not hanging you out to dry."
"He fought for this gear," Sergeant Crank interjected.
"There were several people who thought you could do this without being armed,” Grady continued. “It was a two-hour argument. I had to threaten to quit just to get you this much stuff. So stop breaking my balls. I'll be handling overwatch with my team, and believe it or not, I know how to run a QRF. This mission sucks, I'm not going to try and dress it up. But when was the last time you were on a mission that you felt good about from the beginning?"
"Touché." I spent some time playing with the guns: aiming, dry firing, taking them apart and putting them back together. The armor was what really pissed me off. It was dumb gear, no digital enhancements whatsoever. On the bright side, it was less likely they could track me remotely from the armor—or cut the power because it didn’t have power.
"How close are you gonna be, Grady?" I asked.
"You'll have sub-dermal monitoring implants for tracking. Comms will be extremely limited due to the environment shield holding Dreadmax together.”
"Sounds like an ankle bracelet for a parolee," I said, scoffing.
He lifted his hands in an oh well gesture. "Pretty much."
"For the record, the stuff is junk. When this goes sideways, and you know it will, you can tell whoever is in charge of this fandango it failed because they didn't let me plan it."
"I already told him you'd say that."
THERE WERE a dozen cafeterias on a ship the size of the UFS Thunder, some larger than others. Grady and his two buddies took me to the smallest and stood guard while I ate. I waved a hand toward the prepackaged food. "Help yourself."