The Master Key

by T. K. Toppin

  Doing what she did now with a sure confidence that others took years to achieve, she seemed oblivious of the attention, her mind fixated on her task with a sense of calm determination, conviction. Like she’d always been destined to be sitting here, next to him, ready to fight. Courageous, that wasn’t the word for it. Not even bravery. It was more a sense of purpose for her. Something she knew she had to do, and face, in order to move on to the next phase of her life. She may not like it, may not even want it, but she did it without complaint. Her life in this future was a far-fetched and stretched existence from the one she’d grown up in.

  Could he be so calm if he was in her position? He wasn’t too sure, nor could he imagine it. Because aside from the physical evils she had to fight, there were the phantoms that plagued her mind. And fighting ghosts wasn’t the same as fighting a real person.

  He knew she was scared, terrified. But she pushed that aside, knowing it would hinder her—and him. Instead, she used her anger to push herself on. More pride surged through him.

  “Give us a kiss, then,” he said softly. The room had blurred; he saw nothing else but her. He didn’t care who saw.

  “What? Now?” Josie gaped. “Jeez, John. Now’s not a—” She stopped, catching the look on his face. It was a rare moment for John to publicly show his concern and love, or even wear the silly, goofy smile he wore.

  Josie bit back a giggle. Leaning in, she held his face tenderly in her hands and gave him a heart-wrenchingly soft and slow kiss. John’s breath caught in his throat, and he did everything in his power to hold back lest he ravish her right there and then. With great effort, they parted and rested their foreheads together.

  “Are you ready?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he replied, hoarse.

  “Then so am I.” Josie grinned, her mouth twisted in a wicked slant. “Let’s go fuck up Ho’s day.”

  “You’re so charming, only your husband could love you,” he grinned back.

  “I know. Have you seen him lately? He’d kill me if he caught me kissing some lovesick, weepy man.”

  Chapter 30

  Renna Djankovskaya knew when she was outnumbered. More importantly, when the other side had bigger guns. With reluctance, she lowered her weapon and motioned to the Junkies to do the same. When Governor Mwenye didn’t immediately comply, she glared him down.

  “Unless you plan on using it on yourself, stand down,” she ordered under her breath.

  Affronted, Mwenye curled his wide lips into a sneer. “Are you suggesting I kill myself? It would save us all a great deal of trouble, wouldn’t it?”

  She raised a brow and looked away, seeing no point in answering a redundant question. People in command were always so touchy. Even Simon had his moments of fretfulness.

  One of Ho’s soldiers marched forward. “Mwenye?” Then he aimed his weapon at the governor’s forehead, jabbing the point between his eyes. “Drop your weapon and come with us.” Another rough jab. “Now.”

  Mwenye dropped the barrel end of his weapon as if to surrender it, then pushed it forward and slammed its butt into the soldier’s gut.

  “Dammit!” Renna hissed, blocking the soldier’s counterattack to protect the governor.

  Punches were exchanged and more shouting from the soldiers behind, belching out orders to stand down and surrender. In short minutes, Mwenye was dragged away from his sanctuary. Despite Renna’s attempts, and a burgeoning knot above her brow she received in the process, she couldn’t follow. Simon’s orders had been precise: Mwenye must not leave her sight. But, sometimes, orders were hard to follow. Simon would understand, then fret.

  Renna pursed her lips. At least Mwenye’s captors hadn’t realized the mainframe was no longer under their control. And in any case, they didn’t appear to be the smartest individuals. They could have easily killed everyone but Mwenye instead of risk resistance.

  Soon after Mwenye and the soldiers had exited, bright flashes caught her attention through the shuttle’s windows. The others holed up with her were already hissing with interest at the sight. They’d all seen the arrival of the gunship with a sense of dread. Then came the two heavy-artillery warships emblazoned with the Lancaster military color of midnight blue. Junkies and techs, even Mwenye, seemed to breath easier at the sight. But it seemed to take ages before either warship planned on doing anything productive.

  Now, at last, the warships had initiated an attack on the gunship, pelting it down from both sides with barrage after barrage of gunfire. The gunship had shields engaged, so the damage appeared minimal. It returned fire with the same temerity.

  With nothing else to do but wait, Renna, along with the others trapped inside, watched the show. Simon’s last order, while he still remained inside the storeroom, said to wait.

  She felt useless.

  * * *

  In a desperate attempt, Mwenye tried to run. It earned him a solid blow right between his shoulder blades and knocked the air out of him. He’d thought that, while his captors argued amongst themselves, he could make a quick escape. After all, he knew this place like the back of his hand. It was clear they didn’t.

  He was surrounded by five men; the rest stationed in the reception area of the upper deck were keeping guard. Judging from their disjointed conversation, Mwenye determined it had taken them a good few hours to find him. The sight of their fallen comrades in the lobby further agitated them.

  Mwenye learned they’d become lost and ended up in an observation tower on the far side of the upper decks. Backtracking, they’d then crossed to the other side, where they met a couple of Junkies manning the entrance to the upper deck elevators. It had been a massacre. Some deranged woman with a stack of weapons had cut down the majority of them. As Mwenye took in their agitated conversation, he found out they’d managed to kill her and were relieved. But the encounter had left them so spooked that every noise they heard had them jumping and training their weapons at the sound. After the encounter with the “devil woman,” they’d had to wait for reinforcements to arrive, which apparently took forever. After that, it had been the long task of deciding which escape chamber Mwenye might be hiding in.

  With each wrong turn they’d made, they’d encountered more hiccups and resistance from Junkies, droids, and techs alike. And now, their quarry found, they argued and bickered amongst themselves, each hotly insisting their own suggestion was better and sounder than the other and should’ve been followed in the first place.

  Despite the throbbing pain in his back, Mwenye chuckled to himself. There seemed to be no respect. And no order.

  Mwenye was a military man. He understood order and he understood respect. To witness an insult to both repulsed as well as inspired him. All was not lost. And he knew how to create disorder and lay seeds of mistrust.

  They’d just cleared the upper deck foyer when he acted again. This time, Mwenye used words rather than action.

  “Why are we going to Distribution?” he asked as if perplexed, pitching his voice to sound tired and half-uncertain of his fate. He liked that he made it tremble; that was a nice convincing touch.

  One man cocked his head at him in annoyance. Another told Mwenye to shut up. A third snorted and said, “This isn’t the way to Distro. He’s talking crap.”

  “Sure? We passed this before, right?” a fourth asked.

  “Idiots,” Mwenye muttered under his breath. “Fine, let’s go to Distribution, then. I assume you need me there to place official seals on the packing crates?”

  The group paused, glancing at him with suspicion.

  “He talk fool to save himself. We go right way.”

  “No, no. We came up from the other side. I don’t remember this paneling on the wall here.”

  “They all have this paneling. Are you running this or what? Last time I checked, Ming was heading our team.”

  “Ming got his head ripped by the devil-woman, remember?”

  “Where’s what’s-his-name? He should run this—he can take the blame. That Ho guy�
�s not right in the head. I’m not taking heat if this gets messed.”

  “I run this now so me get bonus.”

  “Since when? I’ve been doing this longer than you have, you runt.”

  “Listen, fellas. Stop wasting time. Let’s move. And bonus is being split five ways. Deal’s a deal.”

  “Other way. Distro this way—any idiot see that.”

  “Listen to the runt. It’s this way, I tell you. Don’t listen to him.”

  “Five-way split, remember. Or I walk—take my men with me. Show been cock-up from very beginning.”

  “Go ahead and walk, idiot. You can’t even find the exits. Means more money for the rest of us, you Slavic fool.”

  “Hey! No insult. Who think you are? We all equal here.”

  Mwenye listened as they argued, surprised at how easily they doubted themselves. These were not the smartest, even though they may be the strongest. Nor were they particularly loyal to the cause. It was clear Ho had needed as much muscle as he could get. Intelligence and allegiance were not key factors in his goal of taking over the Scrap Yard.

  He didn’t have a plan, but Mwenye had every intention of continuing to sow discord. Anything that kept him away from the mainframe helped.

  * * *

  If birth was like a spark of light igniting to illuminate a darkened room, then nearly five thousand sparks lit in the eyes of the droids, a dull orange that morphed to red, then dramatically flashed to green to indicate they were online and fully functional. The green light flickered for a moment to suggest instructions were being downloaded into their central processing units, then upgrades to their existing software were being conducted.

  The droids turned as one, their bodies and limbs strong and sleek, menacing, gleaming with silver metal. Their faces, wide and oval, were a smooth, dark, tempered glass, featureless except for the single green light dead center.

  These were the SD-M 3.1 security droids, designed and designated for military use only. Fully equipped with heat-seeking weapons, explosives, and possessing super-human strength, speed, and agility. Their bodies were made of modified, lightweight titanium casings to enhance speed, and increase their ability to withstand extreme temperatures and pressure. Full shields also encased them; though they weren’t indestructible, many humans wouldn’t linger long enough to find out.

  In a matter of minutes, the lead droids blew a hole in the locked door of Distribution and filed out, their feet drumming the floor like a thousand drops of rain on a tin roof. Once their targets were in sight, they plowed through, opening fire with canny precision. None were left standing for too long. Damage to civilians and Scrap Yard military—nil.

  * * *

  Surrey knew he’d made a mistake. It was necessary, he told himself, along with an admonishment for not thinking it through with more care. There was no way to sabotage the engine and get out in time to save himself. He weighed the odds with care, even trying to think of an alternative solution. He found none. There was no other way.

  Furthermore, he was too deep in now to turn back. He’d spent close to two hours secretly rerouting the engine room commands to suit him, and now everything was on track and ready. He could hear sounds of engagement. It was time. Before long, the engines would overheat, with the excess energy being routed to the shields. He’d shut down the coolants and extractor fans, and disabled their sensors, so no-one would suspect a malfunction. And with each new volley of weapons fire the command deck ordered, the engines had begun to overheat. Even the air seemed charged with concentrated heat. He’d disabled the fire safety alarms as well. No one would know when the engines reached critical mass.

  Returning to his small vessel was pointless, it would be too late anyway, Surrey stayed in the engine room to make sure all went well. The music in his head was positively deafening. It was the greatest composition he’d ever created. With some regret, he knew it would never be put to paper to be played again, even if only to himself.

  With a matter-of-fact sigh, he pulled out his communicator, sent out a call to Simon and left a message. He reasoned that once communications were back up, Simon would retrieve his messages. In the message, he apologized that he’d been unable to follow his orders and return to the Citadel. He explained why, and then thanked Simon for the honor of having served under him as part of the Elites. And now he would die.

  He signed off with a bowed salute of humility and prepared himself for death.

  * * *

  Under the cover of the artillery exchange, the shuttle slipped out from the far side of The Sloop. The gunship seemed uninterested in the shuttle, their attention focused instead on what lay in front of and right beside them. In a wide arc, the shuttle stealthily wended its way toward the Scrap Yard.

  John stood braced in the doorway of the cockpit, his eyes riveted on their progress. Captain Sandvik piloted the shuttle. It seemed he trusted no one to maneuver the craft undetected as well as he could.

  I sat on the edge of my seat, my heart thudding, not from fear, but from mounting excitement. I couldn’t even explain it, the lack of fear. Surely I should feel some trepidation about rushing headlong into the arms of sure death. But it seemed that the aura John emitted was catching. Though his eyes were dark and dangerous and the line between his brow deep, one side of his mouth curled into a wicked smile.

  “Coming into view,” said the young co-pilot, Lieutenant December. She flicked and tapped at some control. “Weapons are online and ready.”

  “Begin engagement in thirty seconds. Target bay doors—wait.” Sandvik inclined his head to the right. “They’re open. Use scatter-shots to draw them out, then target as we approach.”

  John nodded, silent, but watching everything. As if remembering something, he turned once to glance at me. I twitched my mouth in a quick smile. Though his expression was serious, he gave me a half wink before focusing his attention once more to the front. His hands gripped the sides of the doorway, his body taut but his knees a little bent—waiting for impact.

  Seeing the stance, I mimicked him and held on tight to the sides of my seat. I clenched my abdominal muscles, pressed my back against the seat and inclined my head forward a little.

  “Engage,” Sandvik ordered, as calm and cool as though we took a scenic tour of deep space.

  The shuttle seemed to vibrate with some wild, uncontained force. Beneath my seat, a rolling tremble tickled my feet as six successive rounds of scatter-shots barked out. It sounded muted, like a pane of glass being hit with a cushioned hammer repeatedly. Sandvik increased forward thrust and the shuttle shot forward with a jerk. The sudden acceleration pulled against my neck muscles, but I held them rigid.

  Return fire rocked the shuttle like a washing machine. I grunted and risked a look at the walls, imagining them to have ripped open from the attack. As the shuttle’s shield hissed and spat like a cat, I grimaced. The air seemed charged with static and the hairs on my arm bristled.

  Lieutenant December switched controls and brought the missiles online, letting them target in clusters of three before firing. She looked calm and seasoned despite the youthful plumpness around her cheeks, the only part of her face visible from under the gleaming black helmet she wore.

  The missiles ripped through Dock 4’s defense posts, scattering man and metal every which way. The shuttle zoomed through the narrow passageway of the docking bay, targeting more defense posts along the way. As the shuttle drew to a halt, December brought the manual weapons control online. Then, like an all-too-real computer game, she began firing at moving targets, one by one, using the mounted rotary guns. Her thumbs moved in a blur on the holo-trigger, her wrist twisting and turning erratically at the sensor-joystick. The shuttle resembled a strobe light as gunfire spat out in all directions.

  John whirled around, swept a glance at his Elites and nodded. Snagging my arm, he marched down to the exit doors, pressing me close to him. He let his Elites swarm around us. Two positioned themselves in front—McLinney and Kakuta. They exchange looks
, each trying to out-smirk the other. Whatever the joke was, John seemed to know it, and he grinned as well. Behind us, two more held Margeaux between them. She’d been silent since we’d left The Sloop, her expression unreadable.

  The shuttle landed with a dull thud. Sandvik flung himself out of his chair and crossed the distance to the exit in big strides. Outside, explosions, gunfire, and the general sounds of discord could be heard. December remained in her seat, still firing. Occasionally, the shuttle vibrated and its outer skin coughed and rang with shock as weapons fire pelted its shields.

  “Wait for my team,” Sandvik barked, beckoning to them. He stopped before John with a glower, the first real sign of annoyance. “I cannot let you engage ahead of my men. The risks are too great.” He shot me an irritable, somewhat disdainful glance before addressing John again. “Allow my men a fifteen-second advance.”

  John inclined his head, and I knew he was trying to be civil. He cast a look to McLinney and Kakuta, who stepped back without argument. They seemed a little disappointed.

  Sandvik and his team poured out of the shuttle amid a rain of gunfire. The din punched my ears. I began counting off the seconds and curled a hand over my Snare Gun, the other held fast in John’s hand.

  “Fifteen?” McLinney’s solid pug features turned to John.

  “Must be by now,” John replied with a grin. He leaned in to me. “I’ll be needing my hand, if you don’t mind,” he whispered to me. “Stay close, always to my left. Don’t forget.”

  I nodded and, without hesitation, turned to kiss him soundly. “Try to walk in a straight line then.” I grinned back at his reddening face.