“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“What security level clearance do you have?” Brayn asked, knowing the answer would fall short of satisfaction for both parties.
“Level Five, sir.”
“Level Five? You’re at least ten levels short. You need to know what you need to know, and you don’t need to know what’s inside that damn package. All you need to know is you have to get us back to the institute within fifteen minutes, or you’ll be out on your ass.”
“I only asked.”
Brayn snorted and felt his trigger finger itch.
“Step on it, and less of your liberal remarks.”
“Yes, sir.”
The mega-vehicle picked up speed along the interstate and shot off into the distance.
USARIC Research & Development Institute
Port D’Souza
(Ten miles northeast of Cape Claudius)
The wheels of the mega-vehicle crunched across the road leading to the gates at the Research facility grounds.
Several drones buzzed around in front of the reinforced metal gates. One of them peeled away from the swarm and took an interest in the vehicle.
Biddip-deep.
“Name and registration, please?”
Brayn poked his head out of the passenger window and thumped his fist on the door, “USARIC call sign. Oh-One-Five.”
The drone threw a blue beam over the side of the mega-vehicle.
“One moment, please.”
Brayn peered through the windshield and saw a giant forklift-like android survey the scores of mercenaries walking across the courtyard.
“That thing never fails to scare the hell out of me,” Brayn said to the driver.
“Yeah, really. You wanna see that new thing they have over at Cape Claudius.”
SCHTOMP — SCHTOMP — SCHTOMP.
The android in question stormed forward, almost cracking the ground as it moved. It twisted its head and flashed its eye bulbs at the mega-vehicle.
“Jesus Christ,” Brayn gasped.
The death droid turned forty-five degrees and stormed towards the entrance gates.
“Open up,” it growled as the gates separated.
Biddip-deep.
The drone fluttered away from the window and scanned Brayn’s face with its blue beam.
“Confirm your identity, please.”
Brayn trained his eyes on the imposing death droid, “Brayn, Jager. R. USARIC Infantry. Command code one-seven-zero-niner.”
The driver rubbed the stubble on the side of his face and took in the sheer size of the droid. “That’s DD-12. Went haywire during the media conference the other day.”
“I know. I just hope he doesn’t freak out and think we’re a damn mouse, or something,” Brayn muttered before turning to the drone, “Hey. You.”
“Yes?” the drone asked.
“Can you get that big piece of junk away from us, please? He’s not helping.”
“I’m afraid security is at maximum capacity. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” Brayn snorted. “Christ, if that big bastard keeps looking at us like that I’m going to need a convenience to empty my bladder.”
DD-12 tilted his bulbous head to the side and appeared to mock Brayn.
The fat cylinders on the end of the droid’s right arm spun around. Brayn knew it was a mini-gun, and elected to keep quiet.
“Security clearance has passed,” the drone said. “Please make your way to the Research Facility building.”
“Good. Thank you.”
The driver applied the gas with great caution.
As the mega-vehicle entered the complex, DD-12 took two steps back, causing the vehicle to rock across the ground
“Damn, that thing’s heavy. I’ll be glad to see the back of that guy, I swear,” Brayn muttered.
“What’s that?” the driver asked.
“Nothing. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”
Brayn surveyed the complex. Building after building lined each side of the road.
Hundreds of USARIC officials made their way from one dwelling to another.
Most of them stopped and looked at the mega-vehicle in awe.
Some even knew what it contained, and of USARIC CEO Maar Sheck’s strict policy of not getting involved unless they had the appropriate clearance.
Most of whom did not.
Disappointed, all they could do was gossip amongst themselves and watch the hunk of armor roll past them.
Brayn shook his head and half-chuckled, “Look at them, all rubbernecking like we’re some kind of car crash.”
“Yup,” the driver said. “They all want a piece of history.”
Brayn stared into the rear view mirror to find DD-12’s gigantic body enveloping most of the view.
“Bye-bye, bad guy.”
***
BEEP — BEEP — BEEP.
The mega-vehicle rolled back and slammed to a halt a few feet away from a pair of shiny black brogues.
“You made it.”
Brayn stepped out of the passenger side and thumped the door.
WHUD-WHUD.
The back doors flung open and released its metal ramp like a giant tongue.
The salvaged pod rested atop the giant trolley.
The black brogues walked around the back wheels and stopped.
The shoes belonged to Maar Sheck.
The package belonged to him, too.
He’d risked his freedom and life for this moment.
His wife, and many of his closest allies, had given their lives for it.
A thought entered his mind as the mercenaries wheeled the package along the ramp and into the building.
How could an entire crew fit inside a pod measuring twenty-by-twenty feet?
“Hmm. Not as much damage as I was expecting, though it must have been a hell of a squeeze,” Maar mumbled as Brayn ran over to meet him.
“Mr. Sheck, sir. We have what you asked for.”
“Very good.”
Maar followed behind the medicians pushing the trolley into the D’Souza complex.
“Make sure you get in touch with IMS and thank them for the heads up.”
“I will.”
A holographic image of a cone-shaped spacecraft named Space Opera Delta rotated in the middle of the reception area.
Dramatic music accompanied the soothing female voice drifting out from the transparent image, “Welcome to The United States and Russian Intergalactic Confederation.”
The mercenaries pushed the trolley through the image and over to the double doors.
“Space Opera Delta is the new wave of space exploration,” the narrator continued as the holograph expanded, outlining the features of the craft. “A new, reinforced carbon exterior. Sixteen chambers for armory, weapons, and scientific testing.”
“Ugh,” Maar shook his head as he walked through the enlarged Botanix diagram, “We need to update this PSA. It still says USARIC.”
Brayn waved his boss through the door, “I’m sure Arden is on it, sir,” he said as they pushed through the door.
The mercenaries turned a corner and met with two female medicians in lab coats. The first, a young woman with brown, shoulder length hair and spectacles, ran into their path and held out her arms.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Where do you think you’re going with that?”
“Bay Seventy,” the mercenary said.
“On whose orders?”
“Mr. Sheck’s.”
“What? Are you crazy?” she turned to Maar and stopped him from continuing. “Mr. Sheck, please. Bay Seventy?”
“What’s wrong with Bay Seventy?” he asked. “What’s your name, young lady?”
She thumped her USARIC-issued name badge, “Julie.”
“Listen, Julie, we’ve gone to great pains to—”
“—Look, I’m no rocket scientist,” she said. “But even I know you don’t perform an E-MRI be
fore decompressing those in a stasis pod. And certainly not before a routine quarantine inspection.”
Maar grinned at her fastidiousness, “Not just a pretty face, huh? Who assigned you to this project? Julie?”
“Overwatch at Minneapolis-Two.”
“Where is the rest of your team?”
“Over at quarantine, waiting for the package.”
“So, you want my precious package quarantined and then decompressed before we wake it up?”
Julie nodded, “If that’s not too much trouble, Mr. Sheck. Yes. It is standard operating procedure, after all. We don’t know what souvenirs they might have brought back with them.”
“Ha.”
Maar moved forward and allowed Brayn and Julie to catch up with him. He pointed at mercenaries to push the trolley down the adjacent walkway.
“Good, very good. Have them decompressed as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. Sheck.”
“If there’s more than one inside, I want them separated in different bays.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Maar stopped and took another look at Julie’s name badge. Her surname read “ar-Ban.”
“Ar-Ban, huh?”
“Yes, Mr. Sheck.”
“Where do I know that name?”
Julie smiled, “My sister, sir. Chief medician on Space Opera Beta.”
Maar felt the pit of his stomach drop to his knees but kept up his affable exterior, “Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Before she went missing.”
Maar exhaled and nodded his head.
“Yes, of course.”
Julie pointed at the pod and could hardly contain her excitement, “I’m rather hoping she’s going to be one of our guests.”
Maar and Brayn smiled as they watched her run through the quarantine door and join her colleagues.
“Yes, my dear. I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Maar quipped with a morose look in his eyes.
Chapter 4
Mesa Verde Rest Stop
Interstate 10
(New Los Angeles)
It was a sixty-hour drive.
A little over two days of rocky terrain, extreme discomfort, and insufferably dull company on the IRI van.
The International Repatriation Initiative vehicle transported those who were turned away at Tin City before crossing the Bering Strait on the Exodus vessels.
A much-needed comfort break had been afforded to the twenty passengers.
Ten-year-old Lydia Voycheck stood in the middle of the rest stop restaurant and slurped on her milkshake.
Her eyes focused on a holographic live feed in the corner of the room.
The footage displayed USARIC’s air attack on the tree that wasn’t a tree in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Lydia blinked at the awkward close-up of a fighter jet disappearing into the thick, pink beam of light and bursting into a brilliant white star.
“Just what is happening here?” a confident male voice crept over the footage. “Days ago, the Gulf of Mexico experienced what can only be described as an event of monumental proportions.”
The holograph split in two, vertically, to show two more trees in different locations.
“Along with the Gulf of Mexico, two identical structures appeared in the Yellow Sea in Asia and the Mediterranean. Attempts to make contact with them have all but failed. The question is, where did they come from. What are they? Who put them there?”
A ghost-like apparition of Santiago Sibald stepped out of the footage and held his hand at a new image of the Gulf of Mexico.
Footage of two helicopters reflected in Lydia’s eyes.
Santiago continued, “USARIC has found something in the water. What it is, we do not know. Rest assured, citizens, that USARIC has endeavored to investigate. This is Santiago Sibald. Stay with my Individimedia channel for exclusive updates as and when they come.”
The image froze before Lydia’s eyes. She didn’t know how to react to what she’d seen, and vacuumed what little remained of her beverage into her mouth.
Slurrrrrrp.
A seated elderly woman turned over her shoulder to investigate the irritating slurping noise.
Lydia released the tip of the straw and squinted at the wrinkles on the woman’s face.
“What?”
“It’s all going wrong, ain’t it?” she said. “You a Misfit, huh?”
Lydia shook her head and cleared her throat, “No.”
“I seen you on the coach out there,” the woman spat, unimpressed. “You and all your type.”
“I’m not a Misfit, lady.”
“You’re not welcome here. Go on, get out of here and get back on your damn bus.”
The patrons in the restaurant seemed to scowl at Lydia.
Infuriated at their racism, she released the milkshake from her grip and allowed the container lid to slide down the length of the straw and whip the floor.
She gripped the gunky straw between her fingers, threw the chewed end in between her teeth, and stormed towards the door.
“Sure. I hate this place, anyway.”
Moments later, Lydia traipsed across the gravel parking lot and made for the van.
The name International Repatriation Initiative was written on the side. Just looking at it made Lydia want to scream.
The front of the van was even worse.
“Ugh.”
A dull, gray machine of death advertised its destination in bright, pink neon lettering - South Texas.
The driver ushered passengers of all shapes and sizes into the coach, “Come on, come on. We haven’t got all day. We’re ten miles from the Manning border. We have a schedule to keep, people.”
Lydia didn’t want to return to the coach.
Her lips pinged from the plastic straw when she heard a shuffling sound nearby.
“Miew.”
A strange noise came from behind the trash can by the pillar outside the cafe. Lydia looked around for it, but instead of dinging the source of the call, she settled on a gaggle of children pulling faces at her.
“Misfit, Misfit,” they cackled like a group of witches, “Go back home, you stinkin’ Misfit.”
She scowled at them, forcing them to run off toward the restrooms, “Go away. Idiots.”
“Miew.”
There was that familiar noise once again. Lydia bit down on the end of the straw and peered behind the trash can.
Her face lit up when she saw what caused the commotion.
“Oh, wow.”
A white bobtail looked up at her with desperation in its yellow eyes. Her coat had seen better days, covered as it was in smog and soot. Her gaunt appearance suggested she hadn’t eaten properly in days.
Lydia crouched and held out her hand, “Hey, you. What are you doing here?”
The driver ushered the last passenger into the coach and spotted Lydia crouching beside the trash can.
“Hey, Voycheck,” he hollered. “Enough lessense, young girl. Get in the coach. Let’s go.”
Lydia ignored the driver’s orders and ran her hand over the Bobtail’s dirty, matted fur.
“Grrrrr.”
Lydia lifted her palm away from its back, “What’s scaring you?”
“Hissssss.”
“Aww. Don’t be mad. Look at you, you’re starving.”
Lydia’s bottom lip pinged away from the plastic, as she removed the gunky straw from her mouth
“Here, you can have some of this.”
She lowered the frothy end of the straw to the cat’s face.
“Miew.”
Bobtail moved forward to inspected the blob of cream folding out from the plastic.
“It’s okay. It’s yummy.”
Bobtail caved in and lapped up the creamy goodness. It began to purr, inviting Lydia to initiate a massage.
“Good girl,” Lydia beamed as she ran her fingers over the top of the cat’s head, “Good… girl?”
Lydia’s thumb pushed Bobtail’s right ear back by accident. A
tiny, black imprint reading Manning/Synapse nestled on her skin.
“Manning? Synapse?” she muttered.
Bobtail backed up once she’d heard Lydia say those two words, “Hisssss.”
“Huh?”
The driver clapped his hands together, “Voycheck? C’mon. Move it. Don’t make me ask again.”
She turned to him to find his hand on his waist, brushing his jacket back to reveal the firearm tucked in his belt.
“Are we ready to leave?” he asked.
“Oh. Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Get inside. I won’t ask again.”
“Okay.”
Lydia turned to face Bobtail a final time, but it had gone.
The milkshake remnants struck across the tarmac ground, bubbling away in the intense sunlight.
Confused, Lydia grabbed the end of her skirt, stood up straight, and ran over to the driver.
“You’re ruining it for everyone else,” the driver said as she stepped onto the coach. “If you keep holding us up we won’t stop again till we reach South Texas.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Just shut up and get in.”
WHUMP.
The coach door slammed shut.
Lydia, and her nineteen fellow travelers, turned to the front of the coach and waited for the driver to speak.
“Okay, citizens. Listen up.”
He pulled the metal barricade across the width of coach and locked it into place, sealing off any potential contact with the driver’s area.
“We’re a little over ten miles from the Manning. When we get there, I want everyone to shut up and not draw attention to yourselves. It’s very likely the Grand Canyon State will want to perform a routine check. If you have any contraband on you, let me know now.”
The passengers shook their heads. Most only had a small bag containing essential travel items, and certainly nothing illegal.
Lydia turned to her co-traveler, a dark gentleman in his forties named Suttle.
“Psst.”
“What is it, Lydia?” he whispered.
“I thought we were going through Arizona?”
“We are,” Suttle said. “But they renamed the state name to Manning a month ago or so.”
The driver started the engine and reversed the coach from its parking spot.
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