by Russ Linton
"I'm on it, okay? We'll...I'll find him."
"Better. Get me ideas. Untangle this rat's nest," Hound sneered, jabbing again at the hologram.
"We follow the money, that funny money," said Eric between fistfuls of hair. Danger's scowl, Hound's continual poking and Ember's, well, heat, none of it was helping. Plus, they were keeping him from checking the chat window for any progress. "I've got this. Some, uhh, traces are running in the background. Give me some space."
The hard asses filed out, Danger the last to go. Suspicious mother fucker. None of them at all interested in the finer points of hackology. Eric swept the cursor toward the buried chat window. Maybe Spencer not being here wasn't so bad right now. He could survive a field op with Crimson. Probably having the time of his life. Father-son bonding, not something Eric had ever gotten out of the CO. Didn't seem fair, but what's there to do?
"WE'RE ABOUT OUT OF gas," I say.
We had a quarter tank when we started, but this Euclidean plane is a terrible place to run. I feel like a cockroach on a stove top that stretches into infinity. As soon as the sun crested the perfect horizon, the burner lit. No gas, just electric. Press your hand down, and eventually you'll smell flesh. By that time, it's too late.
Swimming in sweat. Air conditioning isn't an option when being pursued by a horde of bandit technicals because climate control loses to fuel conservation in this very special moment. No way this glass is bulletproof, but we've even been afraid to roll down the windows.
"Can't raise the base," Dad groans. "Haven't been able to since the hospital."
Mom—damn this is so weird—has bandaged Dad's shoulder. If we hadn't had this curb-free infinity, I would've driven off the road long ago trying to maintain a straight line while watching him bleed. An impenetrable wall of force and muscle that had been breached, multiple times, multiple places. Scrapes and cuts—lacerations and contusions. Bullet wounds.
With the sunlight, I can see it wasn't just the pale headlamps of our pursuers casting his ghostly pallor. Blood pools in his seat and trickles onto the floorboard. He hasn't said much since ordering our westerly course toward our initial LZ. But our pack of wolves herding the lone straggler have repeatedly corralled us. Staying ahead of them has meant driving south, further from the coast and further from anything resembling civilization.
"What do we do?"
Mom. Even if it isn't her, I choose to believe.
Dad did manage an explanation on how to load the belt-fed machine gun anchored to the turret, the PKM. He talked through the step by step as Mom played nurse. She nodded quietly like she was going to climb up there and feed the bad guys lead. We knew the truth. A few bullets weren't going to save us. Besides, they had yet to open fire.
"Sean." Cyrus again on the radio. Fucker.
Dad's knuckles go whiter than his already drained flesh. The walkie would have been a fine powder any other day. That toughened plastic housing proves too much and I watch him clench his teeth, bear down harder. He roars inside the cabin, loud enough to stab at my eardrums and smashes the radio onto the dash, again, and again. Tiny pieces flake off, mocking.
"Honey—" Mom says, her emaciated frame dangerously delicate beside the violence he's perpetrating. Antennae snapped, the digital screen a bruised mess, he finally stops when the battered hunk slips completely and tumbles to his feet.
Windows up, we spear ahead of our wake made into a towering plume by the pursuing trucks. Twenty, maybe more, and with the dawn's light I can see their dark flags fluttering. Terrorists man guns mounted in open beds, the same allegiance-less black of their banner concealing their faces.
An amber gas pump icon glows on the dash, reminding me we're nearly done. I'd hoped we'd have seen something by now. A village, an old fort, an airport similar to the one outside Sirte. Instead, I've driven us to Mars.
"We're going to have to talk to him," I say.
Dad clutches his arm and winces. Seat springs creak and snap as he straightens. "Stop the vehicle."
He doesn't have to say it twice. Tires skid to a standstill on the sand. We're not driving out of this. I've come to accept that. I don't know what that means, but I'll at least get a chance to stretch, get some feeling back in my ass before we're butchered.
"Connie, load the PKM."
Her eyes meet mine in the rearview. Fear, a raw dose of it no Augment pretending to have lost her powers would allow. This is his element. We aren't supposed to question but that directive went out the window when he emerged from the hospital looking worse than when he went in.
"Hang on. I'm not sure if they've seen you yet," I tell Mom. "Dad, we're not doing any blaze of glory bullshit."
Pain creases his forehead and he stays eyes forward. Pursuing trucks fan out and draw into a tight circle, conjuring a dusty cloud which wafts away as the ranks close. Men leap from the truck beds, slide out behind flung open doors. A loaded pin-cushion of barrels trains on us. One of the trucks cranks a freaking anti-aircraft gun into position.
"We're not doing any blaze of glory bullshit," I say again. More of a question this time.
"Be ready for whatever happens, Spence."
One of the men comes forward, two guys following with AKs readied and actual scimitars on their belts. He reaches up and unwinds his keffiyeh with the careful attention of a surgeon dressing wounds.
Standing tall in the gritty air, framed by the dusting of sand on our windshield and the unending sky, Cyrus belongs here. I'd never thought of it before. Practically painted on stubble and the combable mustache which even survived the experimental control tubes at Killcreek make him more desert nomad than doctor. Borders, boundaries, they never applied.
"Sean." His calm voice echoes into the open turret. "This isn't necessary. I don't wish to harm you. Please."
I remember him while recuperating at Whispering Pines. That same reassuring, professional tone. Reminded me of Martin. He'd been run ragged trying to help as many Augments as he could, or who would accept it. Removing the implants and patching up those who'd survived what nearly became World War the Last. Even before all that, he had a reputation as one of the "good guys."
"If this goes bad, he's our top threat, understood?" Dad reaches for his door handle before Mom can stop him. Committed to the momentum, he can't face either of us. "I'm sorry," he says. A flip of the latch and he's gone, out into the baking desert. Guns raise. Cyrus steps forward.
The blood-soaked leather of the passenger seat looks like a freshly skinned calf. I'm almost in shock. Then I see his comms. A tiny ear bud and a mike wire, he's left them in the seat.
"Go ahead and load the whatever it is, Mom. Try not to be seen. Give me a few minutes before you go full-on Rambo, okay?"
I slink out of view, behind the dashboard as she transitions to the turret. Maybe we do have a chance.
Chapter 18
I CAN'T HEAR WHAT'S being said. Cyrus keeps eyeing the SUV. Dad's got his back to me, hand staunching his wound. The ultimate healer, the guy you'd want on any raid, goes to lay on hands, and Dad doesn't want a damn thing to do with it. The Crimson Mask would've popped him like a zit already if he could.
More firepower right outside the windshield than an NRA convention provides both distraction and motivation. I’m trying not to worry about Dad. My full attention needs to be on figuring out what's keeping our comms from working. Even after my crash course in Augment relations a couple years back, it's tough. The insurgents, terrorists, rebels—whichever line you happen to be standing behind—all seem ready to unload. Seeing Dad step out for parlay, his arm oozing blood, apparently hasn't reassured them they've got the upper hand.
Then there's the heat. The idea of being in a pressure cooker is a bit too literal. I've got the windows rolled up, but the hair dryer breeze would only be slightly better than suffocating to death. A few minutes into the day, the sun a perfect sphere reflecting faraway, shimmering pools, and it's gotta be a hundred degrees already.
Mom pokes her head into the interior
from the turret. She's remained out of sight behind the shields, but can't help snooping. "I can't hear what they're saying."
I can only guess. Windows are up to let me pretend to cower under the dash in peace. The power to this miracle earbud is fine. Without a clean room and a microscope, I can't really "fix" it. As Dad might say, this is an operational problem with that fancy Beetle tech. Field repairs ain't happening.
"Can I help?"
Dash partly disassembled, I'm working on pulling the radio. All this while not jostling the car too much. "You could probably stick your head out the turret and yell 'help' and do more than I am right now."
"It can't be that bad." Optimism. Score one more for this being "Mom."
"We're being jammed, but this comm link can't be jammed. Not easily anyway. It cycles through frequencies under an encrypted layer. There's no way to know...unless..."
"What?"
"Cyrus. Maybe he stole the frequency ranges."
It felt odd. Even if he was a traitor, he wasn't the technical sort. He took to Polybius' bionics quickly but those were integrated with the flesh and bone he understood all too well. Communications frequencies would have been a highly specific piece of intel for him to target and not something Eric would willingly share. He must've been working on the inside longer than we knew and received instructions from elsewhere.
"Your father always spoke so highly of him."
"Yeah, well, Dad worked with Black Beetle once, remember?" The car radio releases with a solid yank. "He's not ace at picking his team."
"You've got to let the past go. All of it."
It's a natural reaction to look at her. The Asian features, the scalp knotted with scars and the black ports where hoses used to be, and I realize how impossible it will be to ever ignore the Crimson Mask's mistakes. I've gained a better sense of perspective since the event, but she's asking too much.
"Sure thing."
I'm back to work. Old beat-up SUV means analog radio. The kind you can do something useful with when you take it apart. My multitool, some copper wire I've cut from under the dash—might have killed the instrument panel lights but I don't have time to care.
"What are you doing?"
"This would be called a Hail Mary. Maybe a Hail Eric. It's my super power," I say as I slip the key into auxiliary and start probing my way around the radio's internal circuits with the loose wire. "I find ways to call other people to save my ass. I'm S.O.S Man."
"You can do that with a car radio?"
"Maybe. I'll transmit something out there. Maybe on a frequency where Eric is listening. Maybe he'll hear us. Depends on how tight they've focused their search and how desperately they're trying to find us."
"How desperate would they need to be?"
"Finding a mouse fart at a death metal concert desperate."
Aside from throwing paint on a killer robot, this is maybe one of my worst ideas. The signal will not only be weak but also outside the frequency range of our fancy miniaturized tech. Of course, if that doesn't do it, I can try and—
"Spencer."
"Not now. I think I almost have it."
"Someone's coming."
Dad's shouts sound through the windshield as garbled roars of anger. He's being held, held, by four men and one reels nearby with his hand to his nose, blood streaming out. Cyrus has moved in to help subdue Dad, and there's a new guy walking toward the SUV flanked by more masked goons with guns.
"Hide in the back!" I say. Pretty sure they know there are two people here; a getaway driver and Dad. They may not yet know of our third.
Mom slips over the backseat into the cramped cargo area while I try to reassemble the dash. I'm not even close to being done when there's a rap at the window.
The dusty, tinted window is difficult to see through. This guy is obviously not a native. He's wearing the same camo and head scarf everybody else is, but the sunburned skin and reddish-brown beard don't exactly fit in. Streaks of thready gray wind through his reddish facial hair. He's already seen my mess of wire and console. I slink into the driver's seat on the off chance he's blind and roll down the window.
"Was I speeding?"
No smile. He squints to where Dad is still trying to rearrange people's faces and waves his escort away. They back off. His silence is unnerving.
He peers curiously in the car. First at my hands, then at the floorboard. "Your last broadcast was on aeronautical radio navigation. A little further and you strike mobile bands. This might have had the effect you wanted."
That's why he's got the indeterminate age thing going. He's an Augment, and I know exactly which one.
"Shortwave. Nice to meet you."
"Oh, we've met, Mr. Harrington." He corrects me. "At your base in California."
There's a very peculiar accent, and I struggle to dredge up the details. Pitcher ERAs? I got 'em. All the Augment stats, that's Eric's ballgame. This guy shouldn't be able to remember his time at the base thanks to the cloak. And I shouldn't be able to see his files with such sudden clarity.
Maybe it was the odd way he said California combined with my Russian state television days. Shortwave was a low tier Soviet from when the Cold War had supposedly been put on ice. Jams shortwave radio signals with his brain. That was it. Everyone thought he died in Afghanistan until Beetle dredged him up and plugged him into Charlotte's little web.
"Right. It's been a while. And the beard is new. Trendy," I say, checking his entourage.
I get something of a smile this time. Only half his mouth reacts and it's almost as if he's in pain. He steps back and gives a sweeping gesture toward the sand. Fighting the urge to check on Mom, I swing the door open and hop down.
"You're a clever man, Spencer. Hopefully you have learned better manners than your father."
Dad's given up fighting but made quite a mess between his blood and nose fountain guy's blood. He's got the intensity of a dog waiting for a command to kill. I know he expects us to be lined up and slaughtered by these fanatics. He might be right, but me, going hand to hand? Isn't going to happen.
"I guess my manners depend on what you plan to do."
"Please," Shortwave says. He makes a plaintive gesture but his tone is cold. "You are guests. I will bring no harm to you."
"What about my dad?"
"Maybe you can talk some sense into him?" Cyrus crosses the sandy ground, stirring small dust clouds. "All we want is to talk. I think you especially might agree with what Sergei has to say."
"Why would what I think matter?"
Shortwave, or I guess, Sergei, breaks into an emotionless frown and shrugs. "It doesn't. You are a man and all mens' opinions matter as much as the next. No more will a single man or a privileged few lead the people astray." He walks toward the bank of vehicles and his escort follows. "Come."
"Cyrus," I hiss. "Tell me this is a deep cover operation, and we're not listening to Comrade Yoda over there."
"Don't make this difficult." He stoops and begins to pat me down. My multitool, the earbud, both get handed to a gun toter.
"Fine," I say. "But remember, when these monologues go down around me, the Big Bad Guy usually gets a bullet in his head."
"That's why I'm here," says Cyrus without looking. "To make sure nobody gets hurt."
"Great job so far."
"Sean didn't leave me much choice."
They're getting rough with Dad as they shove him toward a truck. He's got hold of the roof and the top of the door and keeping his eyes glued to me. I give a wave not as in "hello" but as in "knock it the fuck off, I'm fine." We're both fine. Breathing. For now. He disappears into the cab. Cyrus and I are nearly to a dinged-up beater of a Mercedes when a maniacal screech erupts from the SUV. It's enough to make your skin crawl.
"STOP! OR I'LL...TURN YOUR BRAINS INTO PUDDING!"
Cyrus turns and gapes. Shortwave freezes half way into his own chauffeured Thunderdome SUV and slumps against the door for support. Their men gawk, guns hanging in some indeterminate state of readine
ss. I don't dare look, just squeeze my eyes shut and lower my head, afraid to do anything that might give away the ruse. Why pudding?
Silence. Shortwave staggers out from behind the door, leaving it open. He seems the most taken back, as if he's facing a burning bush, waiting for some divine wisdom. But this isn't having the effect I think Mom wanted. No, not at all. He's ambling toward her with his two goons exchanging glances as they trot behind, hands on their rifles.
"My darling little angel!"
Mom raises her fist. It's a straight up anime move as if she's about call down a million daggers from the clear blue sky. Her new friend slows his approach, hands pulled tight to his chest.
"Back off! Let us go," she demands.
"But you must come with us." Shortwave gestures at the waiting vehicles. "You're the reason for all of this. The Collective. Our movement. It is all because of you."
Now I'm the one completely lost in the unfolding desert theater. No clue how long Mom can keep this up, or what it's going to buy us. My brain's busy trying to find another way out when Cyrus is suddenly at my ear.
"Why...how is she here?"
A series of gulps and grunts and half-formed words dribble out. I've got no good answer for this. None. It's very possible Mom's gambit has turned my brain into pudding.
"Spencer," Cyrus whispers. "You need to tell me right now or I'll deactivate her. Like I did your father."
He's the reason Dad is flesh and bone. If Char is really off on vacation and Mom's at the wheel, what the hell happens if he turns off those powers? Who's left standing there?
"Don't. She came down from her nest on top of Whispering Pines and needs help. Eric sent us to find you to get help."
"That isn't what your father said."
"Oh?" Well, fuck.
Chapter 19
WE DON'T TAKE OFF IN the direction of the hospital. Foreign, but even from my brief excursion in the parking lot, it's the closest thing to familiar I've got around here. Plus, they'd have A/C. Instead, we keep driving south, away from civilization and further into the desert.