by D. L. Denham
“Don’t be angry. Ends will do what is right. He always has.”
“If she’s there, I won’t immerse and blow her away like she’s some worthless alien.”
“I know.”
Reho left and ventured to the bow of the ship. The sun had set hours ago. He closed his eyes and let the warm ocean air caress his face. The night reminded him just how alone they were on this mission, how alone he would be inside the Mainframe. And Rainne. She was alone out there somewhere, imprisoned for involvement in a murder in which she hadn’t taken part.
***
Lights twinkled on the island as they approached.
Reho made his way to the ship’s stern and found most of the crew gathered there.
“Reho, you’re going in with Slater, Thursday, and me,” Ends said.
“Both of you are gunman,” Slater said to Reho and Thursday. “You don’t talk, and you don’t give up your gun no matter what they tell you. The guys we’re buying these weapons from will kill us unless we appear to be a threat. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, sir,” Thursday said. He lifted an assault rifle over his shoulder and lit a cigarette.
Reho shouldered a modified rifle, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. The thought of it exploding mid-fight would encourage him to use it more as a deterrent than an actual weapon.
“Tell Gibson to stop,” Slater said. “We’re launching the water taxi from here.”
He turned to Sola. “The fueling station is not part of Jag’s operation. A guy named Maxin runs it. Tell him Slater has business in Sentosa, and we need the ship filled.”
Sola nodded, cracking a half smile.
Reho thought back to how she had handled the Industrialists off the coast of New Afrika. He hoped Maxin wouldn’t put up a fight, not for her sake but for his.
Gibson joined Sola as the group dropped the water taxi into the ocean. Ends equipped them both with the same modified weapon Reho possessed. Like Reho, both were less than thrilled.
“We should be a few hours, at most,” Slater said. “My guess is that if we aren’t back by sunup, we’re dead. So, maybe come look for us before then.”
“So, wait here unless we sense that you’re in danger?” Gibson said. “Makes sense. Like Spider-Man, right?”
“Yeah,” Slater replied as he grabbed the ladder and descended into the boat. “Like Spider-Man.”
***
The waves crashed hard against their water taxi as Ends, Slater, Thursday, and Reho made their way to the docks.
“Jag is not like me or Ends,” Slater said. “He’s more a pirate than a merchant or mercenary. Most of his goods are stolen. He deals in guns, alien technology, and drugs, especially Cold-Blu. He knows we’re coming, so we shouldn’t have any issues, but remember what I told you. He’s not like us. Give him a window to screw us and he will. Keep your gun close and stick together.”
They docked and made their way to the other end of the pier. The smell of fish hung in the air. A mix of men crowded the nearby storefronts, their languages mingling in the air. Few lived in Sentosa. Reho sensed it wasn’t a safe community, and those that did live here were not the sort to settle down and raise a family.
Farther down the pier, Reho spotted two men in an oversized, open Jeep, each holding sizeable assault rifles that looked capable of shooting through tanks or ships.
“That’s our ride,” Slater said. “Remember not to talk.”
The first chance you get, you shoot them all! If you don’t, they’ll shoot you. And Rainne will remain forever in Omega. The voice was in his mind. Jimmy’s voice.
How am I hearing you? Reho was stunned when the voice replied to his thought.
Just be glad you are.
The two men addressed Slater in a language Reho didn’t understand. Thursday looked equally confused, but Ends surprised them both by responding to one of the men in the foreign tongue.
They climbed into the back of the Jeep and sped inland. The unpaved road wound through the jungle, the palm branches and thick tropical underbrush slapping at their faces as Reho and Thursday bounced about in the back.
Why can I hear you?
Nothing.
They stopped at the gate of what appeared to be an OldWorld military compound. The two men standing guard packed rifles like those carried by their escorts. The symbols on the posts and signs were characters Reho knew little about. Voices shouted from inside the compound. The heavy gate lifted. Its gears moaned like a dying animal.
Their ride veered right toward an open warehouse.
Inside, six men patrolled the cargo room. Crates, stacked floor to ceiling, filled the room. Reho had never seen this much inventory in one place before. He wanted to ask what was in them but could guess what most of it was: enough weaponry to start another war.
The drivers escorted them by foot through the warehouse and into a back room. Overhead lights flickered, casting shadows throughout the room like the last frames on an OldWorld reel. A trio of guards stood next to a lift door, smoking thick, round cigars that clouded their faces. Their unkempt beards reached their chest. Their escorts pulled a chain, rolling the doors upward.
Jag, his well-groomed, wavy beard longer than that of the others, waited for them at a cramped desk inside. His slate-grey eyes were bloodshot; scars crisscrossed his gaunt cheeks.
Jag launched into rapid-fire speech, his body language animated. Their two escorts stepped out of the room and stood guard outside the open door. Slater did the speaking for the crew. After their brief exchange, Jag walked over to a single-door cabinet, slid open a drawer, and removed a cigar box adorned with a dragon’s tail on its lid. He returned to his desk with it and sat. No one spoke, but Ends’ eyes were creased with annoyance. Reho wasn’t sure how things were going and wasn’t about to ask.
Jag removed a glass plate and one of the vials filled with blue power. He uncorked the top and spilled its content. He removed a knife from his belt and lined the powder with it. He spoke rapidly again, then sniffed the long, thin line of powder. Jag kicked back, causing his chair to scratch against the floor.
With a sudden yelp, Jag rushed past Reho and out the door. The others followed him to a corner of the warehouse, where an impressive array of weapons was strewn across a table: OldWorld assault rifles and pistols, digital optics with night-vision, and thick-barreled guns that resembled grenade launchers. Reho had seen most of it before, but some of the weapons had unique modifications. A separate canister had been strapped to most of the rifles and grenade launchers. Thin tubing ran from the canisters to the chambers. Even some of the smaller weapons had one, though Reho was unsure of their purpose. These modified weapons did not seem electric or steam pressured.
Stacked alongside the weapons and equipment was body armor. Reho had never seen full outfits like the ones here. Built into the suits were cylinder-shaped back pockets and a collapsible helmet that looked intended for something other than stopping a bullet. And next to the table, a container filled with dozens of energy cells was packaged carefully in an open crate.
Reho and Thursday stood by as Slater, Ends, and Jag talked, their voices hushed but serious. He couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but it was obvious to Reho that serious negotiations were in progress. Before long, another man approached. His face was younger and wasn’t hardened by years of pirating and killing. His hair and the trim on his uniform told Reho he was a businessman. He had seen men like this before. They were the opposite of the knock-down-drag-outs and crime bosses, but always surrounded men like Soapy and Jag. Businessman cowered behind fighters and negotiated for their own safety. He examined the inventory, then spoke with Slater. Slater removed a smartcard from his vest pocket and handed it the newcomer. He swiped the smartcard on a device that hung from a strap around his neck. He showed the number readout to Jag and then strode from the room.
Jag pushed a button on a device attached to his shoulder. A moment later, a pair of warehouse workers, guns slung on their backs, pa
cked the equipment into a rusty, green metal container on wheels. A compact, four-wheeled vehicle backed up to the container. Reho recognized it: an ATV. He’d seen one before on a poster out in the Blastlands. Two soldiers lifted the container’s hitch and latched it to the back of the ATV. Then it was gone.
The weapons secured, their escorts took the crew back to the Jeep.
They rode back to the pier in silence. Everything seemed to have gone smoothly. The language barrier and Jag getting high made the situation unpredictable. But Jag wanted what all men in his position wanted: more power and wealth. Slater hadn’t said how much they paid for the weapons and equipment, but whatever the number had been, Jag didn’t bother asking for more.
The pier was empty. The ATV hauling their merchandise was parked near their boat. As they got closer, Reho noticed it first: the two men driving the ATV were gone. Initially, Reho thought maybe they’d wandered into one of the shops nearby, but none seemed to be open now. Reho wanted to say something, but their escorts were still with them.
Reho thumbed the electric charger for his modified-rifle. He wasn’t sure if it would fire the shells without the device activated. He looked at Thursday, but his gaze was out at the ocean. It was Ends who noticed something wasn’t right.
Kill them all! Now! Do it! Jimmy’s voice was urgent.
“Get the equipment!” Reho shouted as he slid the charger and launched himself forward, twisting around and firing three shots into one of their escorts. The blue charges and OldWorld shells tore football-size holes through his body. Thursday instinctively fired once into the other escort, taking off the top part of his head with the OldWorld rifle.
“It’s an ambush!” Slater ducked as bullets rained down on them from the shops’ rooftops. Well-hidden gunners opened up holes in the pier as they ran to the ATV.
“I told you it went too easily!” Ends yelled to Slater.
Jag had no intention of letting them leave. They’d been hustled, and Reho hadn’t seen it coming until it was too late. Kill them before they kill you. Jimmy had known, had warned him.
Thursday and Reho fired onto the rooftops from behind a dried up, concrete fountain. Thursday took out two of the gunners, one falling to the ground in front of the shops. Reho estimated three other gunners still remained.
“Cover me!” Reho said as he propped his rifle next to Thursday.
Reho reached Slater and Ends who were suiting up with the weapons and body armor that had just been purchased. Reho strapped on a vest and took one of the grenade launchers, its strap holding a dozen shells.
“I’ll handle this. Get us ready to go,” Reho said as he slung one of the OldWorld assault rifles across his back and grabbed another for Thursday.
Spotting a gunner atop the roof of a tavern, Reho loaded one of the grenade shells into the launcher, snapped it closed, and fingered the trigger. The shell whizzed through the air, exploding as it found its target. Debris showered the street as the other two gunners paused.
Behind them, squealing tires announced the rapid arrival of a second Jeep. Slater and Ends were now rolling the containers across a ramp onto their boat. Reho cracked the barrel and shook out the shell. He replaced it and snapped it shut.
“You know it’s the rocket launcher that’s awesome and not you, right?” Thursday smiled as he fired a full burst into the Jeep’s windshield.
Reho fired the grenade into its side, and the vehicle flew in the air, crashing into what was now a burning building. Reho shouldered the launcher and equipped the assault rifle. One of the gunners had returned and fired a barrage of shots behind Reho, peppering the water.
Reho emptied the clip in the direction of the shots, picking off the gunman. His body tumbled over the roof’s edge.
“Let’s go!” Thursday said.
Slater and Ends had loaded the boat and were already pulling off as Thursday and Reho jumped on board. The yacht would be a few miles out.
“I have equipment to communicate with my men three thousand miles away but can’t communicate with our yacht three miles out!” Slater said. The waves jolted everything into the air, including them, as the water taxi raced to the ship.
The fire had spread to the pier. Reho watched as men scurried to put out its flames, but most just stood by helplessly and watched. An ocean of water at their disposal and it would all burn to the ground.
Less than a mile out, another boat appeared, its high-powered engine shooting its hull into the waves.
“They just don’t give up!” Thursday said. “We have company.”
“It’s Jag,” Slater said.
“How do you know?” Ends asked.
Thursday answered for him. “Because there is only one person driving that boat.”
A burst of bullets plucked the outside of their boat. One made it through the hull and struck Slater’s leg.
Reho and Thursday returned fire, sending sparks along the speedboat’s hull. Jag closed in on them at such a speed that an impact was inevitable. A wave sent him up and down, jamming the side of his boat into the water taxi. Reho’s assault rifle clicked, signaling it was out of shells. All he had readily available was the grenade launcher, and that wouldn’t work here.
Then Jag did something none of them expected. His body flew through the air, landing atop Slater. Both hands were equipped with military knives like Reho’s. One planted into Slater’s arm as Thursday grabbed the other hand and rolled Jag off him.
Jag’s boat quickly fell behind as Ends pushed the water taxi toward their ship. Thursday had successful pulled Jag away, but the man’s strength was incredible, his senses heightened by the drugs he had snorted. Reho unsheathed his own knife and stabbed him in the base of his skull. Jag’s body twitched as he struggled to stand. Reho twisted his knife, sending Jag’s lifeless body plummeting to the floor.
“What a freaking psycho,” Thursday said.
Reho removed his blade. Slater grabbed Jag’s arm and looked at Reho.
“Help me toss this piece of murk overboard,” Slater said, blood seeping through his shirt.
Chapter 18
Weapons, electrical devices, and armor sat on the cafeteria table. Thursday and Reho had taken the power cells down to the engine room to replace the fading ones. Sola and Gibson hadn’t had any issues refueling the ship with bunker oil. Something about paying twice the standard price seemed to make people agreeable. That is, unless you were doing business with Jag. But nobody would be doing business with him anymore.
A forty-six inch monitor was connected to Gibson’s laptop. Toasters with bird-like wings flew across the screen as slices of toast zoomed past them. Its black background reminded Reho of the night sky. Had the invasion of alien ships appeared this way? It must have been just this strange when those who had survived the Blasts looked up and saw the first of the alien ships fly across the night sky: landing and conquering; building and waiting. The ships had left long ago, but not all of the aliens had left with them. Reho looked up at the moon through the porthole. It was now a crescent in the sky. If Ends’ plan worked—if Omega is destroyed—Earth would be free again. Free to do what? Rebuild civilizations like before? And unless he destroyed Jimmy, he would never know peace. And Rainne . . . Would she arrive at Omega before they did? And if she did, how could he blow it? How could he destroy her? The answer was obvious and Slater and Ends knew it: he wouldn’t.
Gibson worked on a jigsaw puzzle he had started two days before. The image was unfinished. Its frame wrapped an archaic castle in the top corner; a skull face protruded where the castle doors would be. Opposite the castle was a tall, green volcano with blue wintry mountains in the distance. A tropical scene unfolded below the volcano, as several mythical creatures raced toward a waterfall. In the center, two male characters fought. A Herculean man, reminding Reho of Rocky but with a shield and axe in his hands, fought what appeared to be death itself, equipped with a short sword. The rest was unfinished. Everything about the image told Reho that humankind, before the invasio
n, had no clue what laid ahead for them. Lost in fantasies and the hopes that nuclear warfare would never come.
“What have you been up to?” Gibson asked.
“Thinking, mostly. Slater said we won’t be able to send another communication to Shibuya for eighteen hours,” Reho said.
“If she’s there when we arrive . . . I’ll support you with Ends. I don’t know about Slater. He can’t see the present, only the end. Just like that death trap back at Sentosa.”
Reho sat next to Gibson and took out the journal he had taken from inside Arcade. He tossed it onto the table. Its marble cover drew Gibson’s attention.
“The Incredible Journal of William III: Military Brat and Survivor of the Apocalypse, Year One.” Gibson read the title aloud then looked away. “What is it?”
“It’s a journal from Arcade. I took it,” Reho said, “but it wasn’t on purpose. It was in my hands when the chemicals wore off; I woke with it in my jacket.”
Yeah, I know,” Gibson replied. He fitted another piece, then stood. “I’m going to get something to drink from the galley.”
Gibson left. This didn’t make sense. He knew?
Reho grabbed the journal and followed Gibson.
Gibson uncorked a bottle of wine, then gave it a whiff.
“I should let it breathe,” he said, lifting it to the light.
He’s going to crack. He’s a danger to the plan. Jimmy had returned.
Why? Reho thought.
You don’t know?
“We can’t defeat them,” Gibson said, tilting the bottle and taking a long pull from it before slamming it onto the counter. “No plans or weapons or immersions. They don’t mean jack against them. We can’t win. We were never meant to.” Gibson swayed and dropped to the floor as his knees gave out. Tears streamed down his face and onto his Lakers Jersey.
Reho grabbed the wine bottle and plopped down next to Gibson. He took a long draw, then passed the bottle.
The beach. The dark bottle from the ocean. The wine bottle. The dream he’d had more than a month ago while at the Traveler’s Rest Stop. The dream on the beach had been long forgotten until now. Part of the message inside had been indecipherable but the first word he had been able to read: Kingdom.