by A W Wang
Instead of responding, I break into a trot and grab Jonathon as we rush past him.
Loud, plodding steps follow. Although my non-augmented enemies’ lack of talent astonishes me, the cautious pursuit is a mixed blessing. We have extra seconds before they catch us, but it means they don’t need to be hasty and take unnecessary casualties.
We’re being funneled into a trap.
Someone thumps on the floor.
I pause and pull Jonathon to his feet. His breath comes in gasps, and a red flush covers his face. He’s far outside of his element. I want to give him encouragement but only whisper, “Keep moving.”
While he groans, an alert and ready Victoria takes him by the arm. I raise my already high estimation of her.
Because the delay may get us killed, I rush down the corridor, discarding any attempt at stealth. Despite the mental limitations from the unrelenting headache, my body moves flawlessly past fallen debris and hanging ceiling tiles with what seems like unlimited energy.
At least something from this whole screwy return to the real world came out right.
I pause under the spray from the busted sprinkler.
Everything’s clear.
When Victoria and Jonathon catch up, I step forward and duck under the cloud of wires.
Shouts come from behind.
“Hurry,” I say to them.
As we near the fallen beam, soldiers appear from the opposite intersection. A stray pulse nicks my armor, and a burst of heat flares across my ribs.
I charge and fire, ignoring the discomfort.
A hole sprouts from the lead man’s chest. As he crumples, I scatter his companions with accurate, quick shots.
When Jonathon and Victoria catch up, I push them behind the concrete block for protection. The cracked floor creaks but doesn’t break.
Pulse rifles appear from around corners, and hisses ending in heavy notes shred ceiling panels, melt plexiglass, and scorch walls. Burnt material flutters past and charred stenches fill the air. To make everything worse, the pursuers appear behind us.
Caught in a crossfire, I snap off return shots, swiveling in both directions.
Even though cries of pain erupt from both ends of the hallway, the effort isn’t enough. Superheated pops arrive courtesy of another volley, and more bits of wall and ceiling shower over us. Despite the danger, Victoria maintains her cool veneer and flashes a smirk.
Avoiding the levity, I tighten my lips and fire to the rear.
A shriek pierces the sounds of battle, and one of the pursuers staggers through the smoke, his visor melted into his face.
I blast him a second time, and he crumples just short of our position with a clatter.
More firing comes, the hisses searing ever closer.
Jonathon jerks as chips from the concrete block cut his cheek while a near-miss scars the floor next to Victoria.
I push them against our jagged cover and protect them with my body.
A pulse scalds my shoulder plating while a second creases my helmet.
As I wince, more faces and rifles peer around the corner, the men readying to charge.
My weapon operates with a two-finger trigger. One controls the duration of the energy surge, while the other releases the shot. A longer pulse has more power and can burn through armor, while a shorter one…
A wave of black armor spills from the front as men shout from the rear.
I shift into rapid-fire mode and use my pinkie to trigger millisecond bursts. The tiny pulses zing through the air and sizzle when they find gaps in armor and bare skin under faceplates. After a chorus of yips, those in front turn tail. I swivel and do the same to the pursuers.
The return fire withers as the combatants seek shelter from the rain of micro-bursts until the contest devolves into a series of haphazard shots.
A loud, commanding voice breaks the stalemate. “Everyone knock it off. Stop shooting!”
I keep a wary eye, but in a few moments, the aggressive actions cease, leaving only heavy breathing and painful moans interrupting the silence.
As the smoke thins and the dust settles, I check my rifle.
The lull hasn’t come a second too soon. The firing tube is overheating, and the charge is dangerously low.
There’s no way I can stop another concerted rush.
The voice booms, “The one doing all the shooting, I just want to talk.”
Jonathon says with urgency, “Don’t answer him.”
“Do you hear me?” the voice shouts. “The woman with the red hair.”
I remove my helmet and puff red strands from my sweaty face, weighing the options. Although I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear what he has to say, a few more seconds of not getting shot at is a plus.
“Fine, come out. I promise not to shoot you.”
A tangle of wires and foam leaking from the ceiling gets shoved aside, and a tall, thick-chested man steps into the hallway. His commanding presence is only overshadowed by his scarred-black armor, which is buffed to a lustrous perfection.
Jonathon puts a hand on my shoulder. “Nothing good can come out of this.”
“Would you rather be shot at?” I reply with a glare.
“But—”
“Let her talk,” Victoria says, overruling him.
I nod in appreciation and flick my eyes, indicating for her to watch my back.
After I stand, the huge man removes his gleaming helmet, revealing a golden insignia adorning his lapel and a scarred face covered by a trimmed beard.
Facial hair is unattractive.
I shake my head at the odd thought.
Although he doesn’t wear the trophy necklace every one of his soldiers seems to have, an unbridled violence simmers under his demeanor. As if reading my mind, he faces his empty palms toward me, but his dark eyes linger over the lower part of my body.
A queasy feeling rises in my stomach. It dawns on me; the man is full of lust because libido exists in the real world.
My unease stems from the morals of my forgotten life.
Was I a prude?
The thought annoys me, but this man annoys me more. I’ve beaten more formidable foes than the Liberation Front to be treated with such disrespect.
“Did you just want to stare at my crotch?”
He frowns, which I suspect comes from not eliciting any fear from me. “I am General Flying Eagle, the leader of the Liberation Front.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
His eyes narrow, but he recovers with a wide grin.
A slim woman in form-fitting battle-mesh steps past the hanging wires, and her cold gaze locks onto mine. It’s the augmented person who escaped from the first ambush.
The one I’m supposed to kill…
Although he tries to maintain an air of bravado, Flying Eagle’s stature ebbs in the presence of the smaller woman. He might be the toughest of his men, but she’s in a different league.
Flying Eagle says, “My friend here is very interested in you.”
“Why’s that?”
His eyes leer as he replies, “Besides your obvious attributes, you have no artificial enhancements.”
I shrug.
“Don’t play stupid. You defeated three of her kind by yourself, something which should be impossible.”
“It’s not that impressive,” I say with a bigger shrug. “I let your friend get away.”
The mystery woman doesn’t react to the taunt, instead cupping her hand over her lips and mumbling to Flying Eagle.
“She is very curious about who and what you are,” he says.
I’m wondering that myself…
“When you find out, let me know.”
He snorts. Then his yellowed teeth show as guffaws spill from his mouth. After a moment, a few of his men join in and forced laughter spews from the adjoining corridor.
The day just keeps getting stranger, and I’ve only been in the real world for maybe an hour. I have the urge to beat some explanation out of him, but
since I’m alone while he has an army, I unclench my fingers. “What exactly do you want?”
“I like your toughness.” He gestures in a circle with his hand. “You’re surrounded, and no matter how great you can fight, there’s no escape, not with the two you’re trying to protect”—he looks to the augment—“and not with her other friends who are waiting.”
My lips tighten as he pauses for effect.
“I’d prefer not losing any more men, so I’m offering to let your friends go in exchange for your surrender.”
Before I can answer, Jonathon rises, drawing his pistol.
“No,” I scream.
He aims at Flying Eagle and fires.
Eight
My hand whips up and deflects the gun.
The bullet smacks into the ceiling above a flinching Flying Eagle. Instantly, the mystery woman yanks him backward. Just before they disappear through the drooping cloud of wires, she flicks her wrist.
A slim knife speeds past as I jerk Jonathon to the side.
“I could have killed him,” he says.
My lips tighten while I struggle to form a reply. It’s not that I care about Flying Eagle—killing the creepy warlord and stepping on his smug face I’d do without any remorse—but we have a truce and I’m not breaking my word.
“Get them!” Flying Eagle screams from the adjoining hallway.
So much for the truce.
I snatch the rifle and power up the firing chamber.
Enemies spill around the corner, but before anyone shoots, I send a heavy pulse into the cracks spreading from the nearest support beam.
Concrete breaks with disconcerting pops, and the floor crumbles.
I toss the depleted weapon. As we fall through a cloud of dust rising from the tumbling chunks of building, I grab Jonathon by the scruff of his lab coat and hold him above my shoulder.
My straightened legs slam between pieces of ceiling scattered over the lower level. Although agony shoots through my knees and the strain of holding Jonathon threatens to rip off my arm, the awkward position allows me to save him from injury. Amazingly, everything works as I planned, and we’re both intact.
Even better, he’s lost his gun in the confusion, and I make a silent vow never to let him have one again.
However, the victory is only temporary. I set the pudgy scientist down and rush to a dust-streaked Victoria. To my surprise, although blinking and disoriented, she’s uninjured.
Boots clomp above us.
No time to waste.
I point down the corridor. “Move!”
Victoria’s eyes snap into focus, and she leaps to her feet, grabbing Jonathon.
While they bolt, I draw my pistol and step backward, peering toward the ragged hole in the ceiling.
As the haze dissipates, I aim, waiting for my chance to kill the augmented woman.
She’s too smart to show her face. Instead, industrious Liberation Front troops leap through the opening.
The first one, I nail in the throat. Blood sprays from his dying body as my next shot splits the visor of a second attacker. The following bullet nails the third in the crotch before his feet hit the floor. His fingers twitch as he crashes onto the other two bodies, and his rifle spits pulses into the eager faces crouched around the opening.
Flying Eagle shouts, and the craziness stops. An instant later, suppressing fire sprays everywhere.
I dash after Victoria and Jonathon. After a harrowing sprint through powdery impacts and whizzing specks of plaster, I catch up and take the lead. Although I have to turn and urge them to hurry at every corner, we scoot through the relatively undamaged seventh floor at a good pace. Since our enemies have concentrated on the higher level, it’s unlikely we’ll meet opposition, but I keep my senses hyper-aware for signs of an ambush anyway.
No surprises await and, after turning into the last corridor, I blast through a stairway door and sweep my pistol across the landing.
Nothing.
When a breathless Jonathon and Victoria arrive a moment later, I say, “I know this is hard, but we’ve got to keep moving.”
Jonathon dips his head while Victoria says, “Speed is of the essence, so let’s go.”
“Stay close to me,” I reply and rocket down the staircase in a barely controlled descent. As my pace increases, the gleams on the steps blur beneath my boots, until I’m almost jumping from landing to landing. When I swing onto the fourth floor, the solid wall gives way to glass, and I skid to a stop, staring into the cavern of a multi-story lobby. My super-detailed knowledge of the building belatedly informs me that the front of the second through fourth floors is devoted to this welcoming space.
Guards near a central fountain jerk up their rifles.
I pivot and run back up the stairs, grabbing Victoria and Jonathon before they speed past.
Energy blasts shatter the thick panels below, and disconcerting whomps pound the stairwell walls.
So much for staying hidden.
As I concentrate on creating a Plan B, hollers roll through the freshly created openings.
Precious seconds pass before my armed-with-every-last-detail-of-the-vicinity memories form a new escape route. “We go down to the basement. They’ll be covering the ground floor exits below the lobby.”
Jonathon says between gulps of air, “There’s no way outside from there.”
“I have a plan.”
“But—”
Victoria touches his shoulder and shakes her head, giving him an admonishing look. Although she isn’t a combatant, a coldness layers her gray eyes. She faces me with a calm demeanor. “We’ll trust your abilities.”
Happy for her common sense, I edge to the top of the panels.
The unmistakable voice of Flying Eagle wafts up the stairs, which means at least one augmented person, the female from the hallway, is with him.
I roll my eyes, not needing the extra challenge. I point past the broken glass on the steps and say to Jonathon and Victoria, “Run as fast as you can no matter what happens. Don’t slip, and don’t worry about me.”
When they nod, I jump to the next bend in the staircase.
A breeze blows from giant holes in the glass, and eight Liberation Front soldiers across the enormous lobby raise their pulse rifles.
I shoot, aiming at the visors of the nearest ones.
Two go down from the first four bullets.
Jonathon and Victoria brush past as return fire arrives. Chunks of safety glass rocket across the stairwell while impacts spray concrete from the other direction.
Ducking, I dash down to the landing as the crisscrossing debris rattles over my armor.
Pulses follow as I pull even with Jonathon. We don’t have time for his non-athleticism, so as he turns, I move to his window-side to protect him from the attacks.
It’s not a moment too soon. More plexiglass shatters as we reach the next landing. Shielding my eyes with my free hand, I catch sight of Flying Eagle and the augment. I empty the pistol at them, and they dive into cover.
A pulse creases across my back plating, leaving an angry streak of pain.
Wincing, I reload as we round the turn to the second floor, which is at the same level as the enemy. The wide bases of support columns restrict the fields of fire. However, we’re in full view of two men, who waste no time aiming their rifles.
As energy pulses splatter glass, I nail both with headshots. I make a quick check for any augments or a reappearance by Flying Eagle, but only a fresh wave of Liberation Front soldiers jumps out.
Before another volley comes, I duck and rush out of sight. At the first floor landing, I usher Victoria and Jonathon down the remaining stairs.
When we hit a dim basement corridor, Jonathon heads left.
“This way,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction.
“There’s something I need to check on.”
I glare. “We’re in the middle of a life-and-death situation. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“Jonathon, listen t
o her,” Victoria says in a commanding tone.
He sighs but follows as I head past several shiny doorways and a freight elevator to the last pair of locked, steel-reinforced doors.
“Here?” Jonathon says incredulously.
“Yes, here,” I reply with frustration infecting my tone.
“We should not be going in there,” he retorts.
The other storage spaces we’ve passed have the same general supplies and provide similar avenues to escape.
Yet, something’s tugging me to this place…
“This is the way out.”
“No, trust my judgment on this.”
I refrain from throwing my hands to the sky. “I need what’s in this room.”
“Jonathon,” Victoria says quietly. “Do as she says.”
His lips tighten, but he turns and presses shaky fingers onto the keypad.
Unsure of why Jonathon’s questioning my every move, I push Victoria behind me for protection and stay alert for the inevitable pursuit.
After Jonathon fumbles a few times, I hiss, “We don’t have all day.”
“He’s trying, Mary. Being impatient won’t help,” Victoria says in a calming voice.
Beneath the dust and blood streaks, she looks none the worse for the wear, not even breathing heavily or showing any signs of being nervous. Somehow, she’s a natural for handling the stress of combat.
I blow out a breath.
Jonathon’s just a scientist, and I shouldn’t be expecting so much from him.
Metal catches release with hollow clangs, and the wide doors recede.
As an olive branch, I mutter thanks before entering a dank corridor lined with gray blocks.
Why did I choose this place?
Nine
After the doors slam with a metallic thud and lock, circles brighten down the long ceiling, dropping dim yellow cones into the darkness.
Although only stillness rests between the gray walls, I’m not taking anything for granted. Too much has already gone wrong in this crappy return to the real world. I advance with the pistol at the ready, remaining vigilant.
Why is this place tugging at my soul?
The corridor leads into a square storage area, covered by pallets lying in a grid around a support column. A thick material drapes like a tapestry over the wall to my right while complex red and blue piping covers brown-stained concrete bricks high in front of us.