Raddocks Horizon (Godyssey Legacy Book 1)

by Duran Cross

  A grid pattern shoots out at a modest spherical distance; little bigger than half the floor space itself but the blast is powerful enough to push Isfeohrad out of the window as well as throwing Del and Caufmann down the stairwell with Rennin. Some debris falls on them but they’re relatively unscathed. An emergency message flashes on Caufmann’s forearm: ‘NAPA bomb incoming!’

  “Prototype threw another one. Move!” he yells, grabbing them both and hauling them downstairs just as the second blast tears through the walls of the stairwell, ripping it apart around them.

  ◆◆◆

  On the ground floor, Drake falls over when the second blast hits, vastly more powerful than the first. Mia Saker is stable in an emergency procedures ward, being tended to by an automated nurse. Several of the staff have come out of hiding to assess the damage and casualties of Isfeohrad’s sudden and ferocious assault.

  Drake braces himself, gritting his teeth as he hears several of the floors above come crashing down. He waits for several long moments after the initial collapse ceases just to make sure the ceiling isn’t going to cave in on him, then hurries for the stairwell.

  The first doorway he hurries past ejects a badly damaged Caufmann. His clothes are torn, tattered and on fire. Drake lowers his gun and is about to speak when Rennin and Del follow Caufmann out. Rennin doesn’t look much better than the doctor. Apart from being filthy Del looks fine. Drake wonders how they got down so fast but by the looks of them, they were assisted by the blast. Caufmann tells Drake to follow and the four of them head back down to the lowest level.

  Approaching Room XVI, Caufmann begins to explain to Drake and Rennin about Arca Drej and Amber Antares. Their level of surprise is mitigated by their exhaustion. Caufmann leaves out certain details about Antares, her marriage being the first and foremost. Rennin eyes Drej with his still blurry vision but can make out the unstable expression on the android’s face. Caufmann steps over to him. “How are your eyes, Ren?”

  “I think I’m coming out of it.”

  “We could have used your help out there before,” says Drake to Drej and Antares.

  “Your puerile insufficiencies are your own concern. And one CryoZaiyon should have been more than adequate,” says Antares looking over Caufmann’s worn appearance.

  “And Arca is in no condition to be thrown into a fight at a moment’s notice,” says Caufmann.

  Antares runs a hand through her thick cable-hairs. They look almost wet or glossy, like silvery snakeskin. “Now what are we going to do? People will come any minute and begin locking this place down to search it.”

  “You and Arca will go through the sewers with Drake and Saker, if she’s able in time,” says Caufmann.

  “She’ll be fine,” says Drake. “The machine said the tissue damage will heal in a few hours with that Regenus gel. What is that stuff anyway? How’s it work?”

  Antares looks to Caufmann, alarmed, “Regenus gel?”

  “It’s complicated and it’s better that you don’t know,” says Caufmann.

  “Top secret?” asks Drake.

  “No, just unpleasant.”

  Drej speaks, eyes darting around uncertainly, “I don’t want to go through the sewers.”

  “It’s the only way, Arca,” Caufmann points out wearily.

  “Something wants to get out of there. I can hear it calling for help.”

  Caufmann frowns and looks to Antares, “Have you heard anything?”

  She shakes her head, “No. He started hearing it before I was brought in. And he was adamant he’s been hearing it for at least an hour. He told me to listen, but I couldn’t hear anything. Nothing on scanners either.”

  “We have no other choice then, it has to be the sewer,” says Caufmann to Drej.

  Drej is wrapped up in his bed sheet, his armour piled in the corner of the cell. He looks at the floor. “I wanted to get out of here so badly; but I’m not sure I should now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I,” he stops, closing his eyes and tilting his neck to one side. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Arca, you have Antares and two others to guide you.”

  “I can’t go through the sewers, sir. I don’t trust myself. I’d rather be found and executed than do something a scared animal does.”

  Antares shakes her head. “If he can’t go through the sewers, it’s just that simple. We need another way.”

  Rennin speaks, “You’re sending Del to help with Horizon Military, right?”

  Caufmann nods.

  “Suit these two up in full combat gear, helmets, everything, and use them as Del’s support. They don’t have transponders, and as long as no one sees their eyes and they don’t act superhuman no one will be any wiser,” says the watchman.

  “Not a bad idea,” says Antares, her eyes questing to Drej for confirmation.

  “I could do that. Probably,” says Drej pensively.

  “Sequester a gunship and you can make your own team,” says Rennin to Caufmann.

  “I’m not sure I have that authority,” says Caufmann.

  “If they see what Del can do, they’ll give you whatever you want.”

  Caufmann looks to Del, who’s standing in the corner of the room silently, and smiles. “Alright, done. I’ll get them to assign you to me, along with Drake, Saker and a few others.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” says Rennin grinning.

  “The outbreak is already accelerating according to the reports,” Caufmann says eyeing his forearm display. Its flashing images indicate small firefights breaking out across the city, its military personnel milling around like ants. “We have to try and save Raddocks Horizon so you’ll have to make a stand. With the power we possess we can’t just abandon the people here. But once the retreat is called, that’s when you desert, understood?” he asks, making sure to make eye contact with everyone.

  Most nod but Drake doesn’t. “I don’t think Mia will ever desert.”

  “Her choice,” says Caufmann indifferently, “but remaining behind in the fire zone when the Desolator satellites activate is lunacy, and she can’t do anything once trapped inside the Centre-city safe zone.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” says Drake.

  “It’s also very important that you all get out. Avoid the Skyhook if you can, I’ll provide enough data on this infection to trade in case anyone picks you up; it’ll make it look like you had to flee for a reason.” His expression turns dark. “But if Godyssey make a move on you, shoot them down. No exceptions.”

  There’s a mild silence in the room after that statement but a rush of goosebumps makes everyone face Del. He is now leaning in Drej’s direction, as if sniffing. He steps off the wall and walks a few paces to stand in front of the HolinMech who looks up at him with wild red eyes. Del glances to Caufmann and his forearm display flashes text, Deserter is wounded.

  Caufmann looks over at Drej. “He looks fine.”

  Multiple lacerations to legs, arms and chest. Concentrations of Thermosteel under cot mattress.

  Caufmann looks from his display to Drej. “Stand up, Arca.”

  Drej does so but keeps the sheet tightly held around him. “What’s wrong?”

  Noticing the whiteness on Drej’s knuckles the doctor grows very suspicious. “Drop the sheet.”

  “Why?”

  Del rips the sheet out of Drej’s grasp with a lightning fast movement revealing Drej’s naked body. His sea of sliced flesh is exposed. Long scars run down his thighs and down his calves. Three gouges run across his chest, and others down his arms, always down the bone. The wounds are held together with extremely fine cable. Caufmann knows better. “Is that stitching made of your muscle fibre?”

  “I’m not finished,” says Drej simply.

  Drake takes a step back. “What the fuck have you done to yourself?”

  Even Antares is shocked. “I didn’t even know he was cut, there’s no blood.”

  “What were you doing?” asks Caufman
n slowly.

  Drej turns and lifts his mattress, producing a pearlescent bladed knife and the hilt of a sword with a partly formed blade.

  “I’m making these. I pressed the fibres into a shape,” his fingers glow with energy, “ then sealed it.”

  Caufmann is intrigued. The others are disgusted or frightened.

  “Thermosteel weapons?” asks the doctor.

  Drej nods, “Part of me.”

  “Why?”

  “The thing calling for help from under the city likes to talk. It told me that my swords aren’t enough. I must turn my body into a weapon. After a while I figured out how.”

  “You’ve been left in here too long, Arca, we’re taking you out of here,” says Caufmann shaking his head at how far gone Drej has become in the many weeks of solitary confinement.

  “I can feel with these blades. Not when they’re on the floor,” he says placing the bone-knife down, “but when I hold it,” he says picking it up again. “I can feel with the tip of it like it’s my own finger.”

  Rennin takes a breath wearily. “So you’ll be able to feel ‘yourself’ enter another’s body when you stab them, and you think that’s, somehow, going to help you become a more balanced individual?”

  Drej points at Caufmann, “He cuts into himself.”

  Suggestion: Let Deserter finish his construct, displays Del.

  “Why?” asks Caufmann.

  Then his insanity has run its course. More feasible therapy can begin. Swords made of self denotes need for defence, building own being into something stronger. I was told in my first combat protocols that a weapon must be an extension of oneself. Derangement has made statement literal; a confidence of body. If Deserter does not finish the sword, he will be incomplete.

  Caufmann looks at Del with something like pride in his scarred eyes. He looks to Rennin. “He works, Rennin.”

  The watchman isn’t sure how to react so just says the first thing he thinks of. “I know it.”

  “Alright, Arca, finish the sword, but that is all. No more cutting into yourself afterwards. We don’t have time. How are you growing it back so fast?”

  Drej shrugs. “I just think about it. They grow back like human bones, just faster. I try to imagine it growing back and when I open my eyes my bones where I started from were healed. Then I just kept doing circuits around my body, opening up the wounds in the order I made them and taking more. Sometimes thinking about it didn’t work and I’d have to really focus. Burns a lot of energy.”

  “How long before you finish?”

  “Eight hours if I really try.”

  Caufmann nods then turns to Antares. “Get back to the tombs and let the automated system scan you. It’ll open up a cache of your armour and weapons, then return here,” the doctor says, turning to Rennin. “Report to your barracks before you’re registered as AWOL,” he says turning to Drake. “Stay with Arca.”

  “What? While he’s hacking himself up? No way!”

  “Alright, alright! Go and talk to Mia, we’ll need her sniper rifle. Del will stay with Arca,” he says turning to his creation. “Make sure he doesn’t cut anything off that won’t grow back.”

  Acknowledged.

  “You’re joining the military?” asks Drej to Rennin.

  “Long story,” the watchman shrugs.

  Drej looks at Caufmann. “How will we contact him?”

  “Let me worry about that,” says Caufmann.

  Drej picks up the knife made of his own bone and hands it to Rennin who doesn’t make a move to take it. “If you carry this, I’ll be able to track you.”

  Rennin’s eyes are fixed on the knife. “Um… look, pal, carrying parts of someone else might make a good trophy but that thing looks like it’s alive.”

  “Of course it’s alive, it’s part of me. I’ll need it back but wherever you go, I’ll be able to find you.”

  Caufmann sighs, “It’s a good idea, really, it will make it easier for the group to come get you.”

  Rennin takes the knife carefully. “Can you feel me holding it?”

  Drej’s gaze turns distant. “No, but I can feel where the knife is, sort of like being unconsciously aware of where my hands and feet are when I’m not looking at them.”

  Rennin nods then looks to Caufmann. “You should get your wounds sorted out, I’m not sure if I’m willing to date you while you’re bleeding everywhere.”

  Caufmann nods, “Once I sequester that gunship.”

  10.

  The Roads Run Red

  Rennin is standing at attention in a warehouse converted for military purposes, while they prepare to make an incursion into several of the most affected areas. He has been newly attired in the black fatigues of the Horizon Military. Offsetting the matte black uniform is a dark grey armour chest plate, pauldrons, back plate, leg guards and arm guards. He feels like a walking cliché. This uniform is the absolute epitome of the first scene in homoerotic pornography to Rennin’s jaded mind.

  Some of my favourites start like this.

  His father used to say: ‘A man can mud-stab all he wants in my book, because it’ll keep him off your sister and your wife.’ Rennin unwittingly smiles at the memory of his less than subtle father, unfortunately drawing the attention of the loudmouthed full-patriot shouting his brick-brained motivational abuse at the hundreds of assembled recruits.

  “Did I say something funny, Fuckface?” the officer yells up at Rennin from more than a foot below his face.

  The former watchman looks to him with the kind of disdain one would if they found a gigantic cow pat where their breakfast should be. Rennin is in his forties, he doesn’t get spoken to like that by anyone.

  Little prick.

  “I’ve seen this episode before. It was on twenty years ago when I first joined up, do you mind if I fast forward?” he asks, getting a slight giggle from several of the others in earshot.

  The angry leprechaun’s face turns red. “You think you’re that slick?”

  Rennin shrugs, “Just point me in the direction that needs the bullets and get the hell out of my way.”

  “Don’t you make me break your head off to shit down your neck!” mister small-man-syndrome attempts to yell at Rennin’s neck, his redness only increasing from tomato to beetroot as Rennin parrots his mouth movements in perfect unison to this threat.

  “I’m telling you, I’ve seen this episode.”

  The officer lands a sudden blow to Rennin’s gut that almost doubles him over. “How do you feel about doing fifty?”

  Did I just sidestep to 1975?

  Rennin straightens up and sucks in a quick breath of air. “Alright, you lie down, relax, and I’ll climb aboard. If I take longer than fifty thrusts, I owe you a coke.”

  Pocket-rocket throws a vicious punch that connects sharply with Rennin’s cheek, nearly knocking him out. He manages only to stumble, groggily holding himself upright. His vision begins clearing and he sees the officer, or whatever he is, walking calmly away.

  Things are really falling apart if fists are already flying.

  He expected to be struck again, or shouted at or something. Rennin watches closely as the stars fade and remembers that his bones are now Thermosteel and that the screaming Galah must have shattered his own hand against his face. The punch still stings like hell though. Rennin believes he must be saving face by leaving gracefully, going to a storeroom and having a good solid cry alone.

  The next officer to address the recruits is more polite, though still full of the same dribbling garbage as the former.

  Rennin inwardly chides himself for being so undisciplined in front of younger recruits. The rest of these impressionable untalented rectal swabs would probably just follow the leader, and since his Sergeant status has been reinstated they’ll be looking to him for guidance. He may have heard all this crap before but the newer guys need a little cold hard boot put into them, it gives them the necessary fall back to brace their resolve. Rennin always saw it as hiding guilt behind purposeful ignor
ance or shrouding one’s own uselessness behind blind obedience. Heil Britannia!

  Despite his seemingly overbearing good humour, and abundant disregard for authority, his attitude is symptomatic of his severe unease. He hasn’t heard anything from Caufmann or the others to let him know when they’re coming to get him and he really doesn’t want to be stuck with the rest of the grunts when they get sent into battle. Rennin shudders, thinking how these kids will react when the contaminant rushing at them is someone they know.

  It isn’t long before they all receive their standard issue gauntlets, allowing them easy access to all the data they’ll need for where they’re assigned, their unit and where they’ll be deployed. Rennin flips his on, and reads over his assignment. His heart sinks when he reads:

  Unit: Nova

  Position: Point/Sniper Cover

  Call-sign: Longinus

  Deployment Zone: Centre-city Stadium.

  Current Objective: Immune personnel en route to fortified Whitechapel District. Protect at all costs.

  Report to Gunship: Dead Star.

  Rennin takes a deep breath. He decides that it’s best to meet these rejects as soon as possible to assess the exact odds that they’ll explode ten minutes after take off.

  He passes more troops, on the receiving end of their uplifting lectures from their respective leaders, all the while trying to ignore Arca Drej’s knife sheathed across his right shoulder. It vibrates momentarily from time to time. The sensation really does make Rennin’s skin crawl.

  He sees the gunship, with what was once an emblem of a supernova splayed across one side of its nose. Someone has painted over it with an image of the iconic Death Star. Rennin can’t help but laugh bitterly at such a colossal mistake.

  George Lucas is rolling in his grave.

  There are over a hundred gunships in total by the look of it but he isn’t sure how many will actually be flying. The power grid is still down, too. He gets to the gunship and the commanding officer salutes him, causing Rennin to metaphysically vomit. He raises his hand to his brow loosely. “Rennin Farrow reporting, your highness.”