The Master Key

by T. K. Toppin

  Stealth was the best option. But how was he going to get past without alerting them? There was no choice; time was wasting. He had to just barrel through and hope no more lurked around the corner. Taking a breath, he strode out from his hiding place and boldly greeted the group.

  Before they could even register his presence, Simon snapped his arms out and slammed his fists into two unsuspecting throats. He heard the dull crunch as their Adam’s apples broke, and satisfaction shot through him. With a quick shift, Simon grabbed the gagging man at his right and used his dying body as a shield. Another shift and he kicked out, bringing down a man with a deadly blow to his chest that crushed his ribs into his heart. The man was dead before he even fell to the floor.

  Without missing a beat, Simon spun with the body, dancing. Arching his left arm, he grappled the ear of a woman, who only had time to let out a startled yelp before he wrapped his arm around her head. He brought her head into the crook of his arm, gave it a sharp jerk and snapped her neck.

  And confusion broke out.

  Four were down, three of them dead. The other four finally snapped out of their stupefied shock and hauled up weapons to take aim. Simon threw the body he held, knocking down one man; the impact made the man squeeze the trigger of his assault weapon, spraying the area with bullets. Projectiles hissed by Simon’s ear as he dipped low and kicked at a man’s knees, bringing him down in a roar of pain.

  The first man down, still gagging, now scrambled to get up, shoving the dead body away from him. But Simon, forever moving with fluidity, had already flipped sideways. And in a graceful move like that of a courting heron, Simon rose to grasp the weapon from the other woman. Without a single struggle, he used her natural movement to point the gun aimed at him to his advantage. Simon pulled her forward, twisting her up and over his shoulder. She landed with a crash atop the second man he’d knocked down. But before she landed, Simon’s leg had jack-knifed out to kick the head of the last man standing, who was in an animated struggle to pinpoint the exact location of his target without getting his friends killed in the process. The kick took in him in the eye, and he hollered out in surprise.

  The first man stood now, taking aim again with his weapon. Obviously his throat hadn’t broken as well as Simon had thought. Whipping out his arm, Simon knocked the weapon away, but the woman was already up and pouncing onto Simon’s back, wrapping brawny arms about his neck. He struck out with his elbow and felt it smash into her ribs. She grunted in pain. He spun back to the first man and lashed out with a leg. It connected to something solid. Simon kept spinning, saw the man buckle over his thighs, then caught movement at his side as another man struggled with his weapon.

  Needing to shake off the woman, Simon jumped forward, curled, rolled in midair, and landed with a thud on his—her—shoulders. He continued the roll and felt her grip around his neck slacken as she took most of the impact. She growled. Moving fast now, he ripped her arms away, reared up and twisted, ramming her with a backhanded blow to the face. On instinct, he hauled her up before him when the second man started shooting from his gun. It was a Snare Gun 3, and the three-rounds per shot hissed out like a spitting cat. The woman screamed as the barbed bullets dug into her back. A second later, they exploded like firecrackers, and she jerked rigid before dying and collapsing back on top of him. Her burning flesh filled the air with stench of cooking meat.

  Reaching behind his back, Simon yanked out the knife he kept tucked in a special holster on his belt. From his reclined position, he threw it. The knife found its mark, dead center in the man’s neck. He gagged and choked, dropping the gun as he fell to his knees. Simon was up, hopped over the woman, and in two quick paces, removed the knife, spun, and sent it flying back to the first man. It struck him in his chest. The man stood grimacing for a moment, surprise on his face. Simon walked over to the man and grabbed the knife hilt. He locked eyes with the dying man before twisting it once, then pushed him off the blade.

  Simon was in no hurry to dispatch the last man, who lay on his back holding his eye and mewling like a cat. He grabbed a handful of the man’s hair. A brown eye stared at Simon in horror, the other eye rapidly swelling shut. With a neat thrust, Simon drove the knife up under the man’s chin, twisted it, then drew it out in a spray of blood. The last word uttered before the man died was a strangled “Oh.”

  Eight down and no more appeared to be materializing out of the woodworks. Simon paused a moment to collect himself, listening hard for any sounds while he calmly wiped the blood from the knife along his sleeve. He was certain the gunfire would’ve attracted the attention of others.

  Without wasting more time wondering if an army was about to appear from around the corner, he scrambled, following the corridor to the elevators and stairs. He chose the stairs and two-stepped it down toward the mainframe level on Level 5, Deck 2. He pulled out his communicator and contacted Renna, informing her he was out.

  Agnes, stationed at Level 6 on Deck 3, where he was now, was just one flight of stairs down. She’d been posted there to secure the launch chambers, but the sight of the eight he’d just removed meant she was either dead or keeping low. No way would Agnes have allowed them through had she been able to. He tried to tag her. No response.

  When he engaged the doors on Level 6, smoke and confusion greeted him—and the unmistakable stench of death. He dipped low, crouching, and squinted through the smoke.

  Level 6 was a circular room with several exits and ringed by a corridor that branched off into various smaller auxiliary rooms and elevators. The corridor held three exits, two to access the levels below, and one to access the launch chambers Simon had just come from. The room itself was a sort of command center with equipment and machines that controlled the launching sequences of the chambers.

  Simon heard a voice coming from off to one side and some distance away, speaking low. The dull shadow of someone’s head bobbed, partly hidden by the upturned shelving units and desks. Parts of machinery lay strewn across the floor, mingled with bodies and droids, ripped and torn. The carnage before Simon was the unmistakable work of Agnes.

  He found her sitting propped against a wall, facing the opening to one of the elevators, an array of heavy weapons before her. She snapped her attention to him, already aiming a pulse gun in his direction. Blood ran thick down the side of her head, matting her golden locks to her scalp. The front of her shirt was sticky with blood, glittering dark against the black of her uniform like macabre sequins. A small metallic object protruded from the top of her thigh, which was wrapped tight with a cord.

  “Took you long enough to get here,” Agnes accused Simon, her voice steady and calm. With her free hand, she tapped the earpiece communicator. “It’s gone dead—must’ve been the last explosion that did it.”

  “All right, Ags? Lower your gun, girl.” Simon glanced about, taking in the wreckage. He turned to her and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  She smiled and nodded. “Sorry. But I tried to make sure I didn’t hit any of the important-looking controls. We should still be able to perform an emergency-eject.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “I’ve two Junkies manning one elevator.” She cocked her head to the right. “The others are somewhere in there.” She pointed to the mangle of bodies and droids before them. “A few of them got away. Did you find them? They’d be the scared-looking ones.” She grinned and then grunted to chase away the obvious pain she was in.

  Simon nodded. “How long has it been?”

  He crouched down to inspect her head wound. Bits of metal and debris had tangled together with her hair. The injury itself looked rather deep but the blood seemed to be washing away most of the debris. He pulled out his skin-sealer and sprayed the wound. She flinched as the stinging antiseptic solution worked its way into the wound, dried, and sealed.

  “About thirty minutes or so. I’m fine. It’s the leg that’s bothering me. I can barely walk. I think the shard has touched bone.”

  “Hmm.” Simon peere
d at it. “Best to leave it be. It’s holding the blood in for now.”

  “I can manage things here. You need to get to the mainframe and help Ox and Madds. Just before I lost comms, unfriendlies had gotten through the secondary doors. Heavy casualties, droids and humans alike.”

  “I was just on my way.” Simon dug out a spare communicator and tossed it to Agnes. “That works on channel five.”

  Agnes nodded and affixed it to her ear, making small adjustments that made her mouth twist with effort. “Thanks. These guys, some are professional mercs. The others, I’m not so sure they even know how to handle a gun. It was like cutting through butter with a hot knife.”

  “Like the ones you left me to deal with. I know what you mean. I think Ho’s main interest is brute force. Skill, not so much.”

  “Well, he’s doing just that. Any word from Minnows?”

  “Not yet.”

  Minnows’s role had been to “float” around. His small stature and frame made him ideal to flit from one area to the next unseen. He was quick, nimble, and knew the art of disappearing.

  Last Simon had heard, Minnows was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with three mercenaries hell bent on getting through the last of the security doors that led to the mainframe, where Ox and Madds were holed up with Junkies and Scrap Yard personnel.

  * * *

  Aline Lancaster stared down her nose at the wiry man, keeping her pose impassive. The man stood an inch taller, but she adopted her regal and superior demeanor, which usually shriveled others. However, this man showed no outward sign of fearing her. That meant one thing: he thought himself superior.

  “You are a Rogue,” Aline said, knowing immediately. “What are the directives of your contract?”

  The wiry man, pleased to be recognized, smiled. “To acquire Aline Lancaster and escort her to the reception hall and wait. How I do so and what I do to get her there is entirely left to my discretion.”

  Aline nodded. At least she knew how far he’d go to perform his duties. After the reception hall, his work was done. And that was where he would die, hopefully by her hands.

  The reception hall of the Hontag-Sonnet Research and Archives Facility was immense but minimally furnished with glossy, ice-like marbled floors, as well as granite and metallic accents along walls and furnishings. It was designed to look like an underground ice cave. Small water fountains spilled over with lush ferns and plants, and special lighting effects were placed strategically to create mood and depth. The walls were slick with sheets of waterfalls, the water collecting at the base, where fat albino koi swam through a mesh of aquatic plants and under miniature ice bridges. A light chill frosted the air and a suggestive sound-clip of ice crackling and creaking completed the entire atmosphere of a frozen fantasyland.

  It was a far cry from the no-nonsense, industrially stark docking bays a kilometer away. The transport from there had been incident-free. Aline didn’t dare risk drawing attention to her escorts before she knew the full extent of her situation. She decided to attempt combat in a more secure environment. As it was, the entire docking bay seemed to have been overpowered by Rogues, mercenaries, and hired assassins alike.

  Having cleared the two security droids at the entrance to the reception hall with her facial and retinal scan, DNA imprint, and pass-code entry, they had proceeded along the massive stretch of the hall to the first checkpoint.

  Her two escorts, posing as her body-assistants, were required to offer their barcoded wrists to be scanned. When the light pinged green and they were given the all-clear, Aline raised a brow, impressed. How they’d managed to steal the identities of her real body-assistants was quite a feat. Ho must have planned for this a very long time, which meant his deadly fingers reached far and wide. She decided it was best not to put her trust into anyone at this facility for the time being.

  The group entered a spacious hospitality room and Aline turned to the wiry man before her. They’d cleared all three stop-checks without incident. Her appointment with Dr. Maines was scheduled on the log, so she had a legitimate reason to be there. A service robot scurried in and offered Aline and her escorts refreshments. She declined politely and watched as the little bot scuttled back out.

  Aline faced her Rogue escort again. “May I ask what is required of me once Dr. Maines arrives?” She’d already estimated the size and weight of both her escorts. The other man, taller and stockier, tended to favor his left side, suggesting he had a store of weapons on that side, which meant he was right-handed. The wiry man was quick and fast; he had to be dealt with first. He appeared cunning and full of tricks, with a shifty, edgy demeanor. Whether it was on purpose or not, Aline wasn’t sure. Like a cheeky, little monkey.

  “You will continue with your scheduled appointment with him.” Wiry Man gave her a coy smile. “But you must insist we wait until your other associates arrive.”

  “Ho.” Aline affected a bored tone and nodded.

  “Mr. Ho will be along shortly with a few others. It is his wish that you receive him graciously. And, please, do not try to alert anyone’s attention. It could prove to be rather fatal for a certain individual accompanying him. After that, your role here is done.”

  If Ho meant to come here personally, it meant he wanted something here. The DNA samples. But why would Ho need them? Was this all connected to Josie and her history? The possibility was quite high, but made no sense. It also meant Aline’s main purpose here was to get them in. After that, she was dispensable. And that usually meant dead.

  Hontag-Sonnet’s security was just about foolproof. They took no chances and took no invitations or requests unless specifically approved or accompanied by approved personnel or individuals—like her. And who better, of all the people in the world, to okay Ho than Dr. Aline Lancaster? Acclaimed physician and a prominent member of Hontag-Sonnet. And sister to the world president. A Lancaster. She felt used.

  A surge of anger speared through Aline. She took a steadying breath lest she dispatched these hired guns on the spot in a blind haze of rage. No, she ordered herself. Let it play out. That would be the safest way.

  She stole a brief glance at the visible security camera overhead and wondered. If Ho needed her to get in, it could mean he had no one on the inside. And her help might not be too far away. She needed to find a way to alert the security as discreetly as possible.

  Dr. Caleb Maines pushed through the doors to the hospitality room, and a series of rapid blinks conveyed Maines’ panic. She had that effect on people. She was a Lancaster, after all. For emphasis, Aline gave him her most severe scowl. Maines was in charge of the Archive Facility, but right now looked as if that honor was a curse. As if he would sooner work with a Petri dish with tissue samples than be required to exchange small talk with her.

  Maines cleared his throat, keeping his elbows tucked at his sides and hands fisted at his stomach. He’d been advised on the protocol, Aline mused. No touching the Lancasters under any circumstances.

  “Madam Lancaster—I mean, Dr. Lancaster. A p-pleasure.”

  Aline inclined her head and, with some regret, dismissed Dr. Maines as a feeble science-tech with no defense skills. Useless in her current predicament.

  “Dr. Maines.” Aline repressed a sigh as his elbow twitched at his side. She imagined a thin trickle of sweat running down his spine, his hand wanting desperately to staunch it.

  “I trust your-your, um, travel here was p-pleasant? Did…do you, ah, require any refreshments?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Maines cleared his throat again. How a person managed to look both petrified and uncomfortable at the same time was a feat. Aline suppressed another sigh. The rumors of her bold, direct, and frightfully severe manner seemed to have reached as far as Iceland. Her Rogue companions exchanged sniggers at Dr. Maines expense, further agitating the already nervous scientist.

  “Oh—well, ahh… Shall we proceed, then, to the reason for your visit? You had mentioned you wished to access some, some, ah, s-samples?” Maines stammered. />
  Exchanging a scowl with Wiry Man, Aline pursed her lips. “Yes, but, if I may request that we wait until my associates arrive. Could you please inform security? I do apologize for this new development.”

  Dr. Maines’ eyes almost bulged; his lips trembled. He clearly didn’t know what to do. “A-associates? There are—there will be m-more of you?” He blinked rapidly. “Oh, well—of course. If you will give me a moment while I contact security. H-how many associates, did you say? And, ah, the, the names?”

  With a deliberate raise of her brows, Aline glanced at Wiry Man. “My assistant will tell you, won’t you?”

  With an apologetic bow, Wiry Man made a great show of fumbling and rummaging into his jacket, where he extracted a personal unit and read off from a list.

  “Four individuals, two are body-assistants by the names of James and Lee. I will transmit their ID codes in a moment. The associates are Michael Ho, civilian and industrialist, and the other Madam Lancaster, wife of the President. I believe she will be cleared without question.”

  “Oh…” Dr. Maines all but withered on the spot.

  Chapter 23

  When I saw Aline, she looked ready to kill someone with her bare hands. The dig-out-your-heart-and-eat-it kind of rage while ripping your face off with your nails. I’d seen her upset before, even angry, but this went beyond that. I also saw a little fear. Like a boulder crashing down on me, I knew everything was my fault. In a way, it was.

  She gave me a friendly nod, glowered at Ho, and simply dismissed the presence of James and Ho’s body-assistant, Lee. A patently nervous Dr. Maines, who introduced himself to us, had a pasty pallor and trembled a bit. With some effort, he puffed himself up and directed us to follow him to the elevators that would take us to the underground archives.

  Ho made some sign to a skinny man—at whom Aline glanced with pure hatred—and his companion to remain behind, then joined us into the elevator.