“You okay down there, miss?”
She jumped, and her hand smacked the box. Ouch. “Stretching.” Why was it so easy to lie?
She leaned over once more, slid her hand down the box, and located the bottom of the cover. She slid it up, revealing the device. The box looked like a smooth metallic coffin—fitting enough—and she saw the touch screen controls before her, with one faint red touch button labeled Activate blinking at her.
Before she could think about it any further, before she could equate what she was doing with the death of the man who’d grown deeply concerned over her well-being because she’d given him water, she pressed the Activate button.
She’d ask for forgiveness for her part in this. But nobody would forgive her. Nobody would be around to forgive her. Her condemnation was sealed.
She wiped away a tear, pulled the cobweb from her hair, took a deep, dusty breath, and began jogging up the steps.
The man sat on the landing, watching her as she came forward. As she went by, he held up the water bottle and tipped it in her direction, a final thanks for a generous gift, a renewed belief in the goodness of humanity.
She made it up two more flights before she fell to her knees, dry heaving upon the cool, rough concrete of the landing, wishing someone would strike her dead in that instant.
eleven
Micah Jamison
…periodic rumors of Eastern incursions into Western territory have been proved false on every occasion, with studies showing the impossibility of such events prominent in government education programs…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 114
Micah Jamison’s eyes flicked to the clock, though he knew that the hour had passed midnight. His mind wouldn’t slow down, not with the images of the previous morning fresh in his mind. Memories from the past that he’d long suppressed flashed before his eyes.
They’d sailed across the ocean to a small subcontinent near Eastern Alliance territory, a tract of land largely uninhabited. The people he traveled with were familiar to him, the true power structure behind the government of the West. But he’d never suspected who they’d actually meet there.
They’d found something in the Time Capsule, something they’d redacted before it reached the masses, and the meeting enabled the power brokers to admit their knowledge of the weapon. They constructed buildings of various materials, and each took turns turning their variations of the weapon loose. The destruction was thorough and precise, leaving piles of dust where buildings, trees, and unsuspecting wildlife once stood. There were two limitations to the weapon. Production was a complex matter. And distribution to targets in enemy territory would prove challenging.
One man there said nothing, but his face showed he’d figured out a means of overcoming one of those obstacles. Given his background, they all knew which issue he’d solved. But he’d not be given the chance to put his ideas into practice, for the shadowy leaders of the two great Alliances made a pact there that day. The weapon was too powerful, too destructive, to unleash upon the world. They agreed they’d destroy their caches of the weapon and halt further research into the matter.
A year earlier, he’d gotten his first clue the East had broken that pact.
Twenty-two hours ago, he’d learned they’d gotten within a few miles of a major Western cityplex with caches of the weapon and set them off in a trial run.
Twenty hours ago, he’d visited the site. The coffin left behind was a message to him. They’d leveled a huge building and had sufficient volume of the weapon to leave some behind just for him. He’d nearly collapsed, so terrified that Sheila and the others were moments from death. He’d recovered moments later and knew they had time. He knew the weakness of the weapon because he knew who controlled its production and distribution. If he could get it back to the secret bunker beneath the Bunker, he could remove that cache from the East’s stockpile.
Sheila’s text question about what else might be out there had reignited his fear. She was right. If they’d dangled that clue in front of him, they had dozens or hundreds of additional weapons caches set and in place. He’d never find them all.
He’d failed to sleep as he’d remembered the images and understood the implications, and he remained awake as he pondered his next step. Escalation within his leadership structure would never work. Few knew of the research project—code-named Ravager—and those who did know of the project died years earlier. Most would find his claims ludicrous, pure fantasy. Direct appeals to the two people from the island he could reach would fail to elicit the type of response he wanted; he’d most likely die for making contact.
He could go public, tell the media what he knew, what his team had found. He doubted that a hole in the ground in the nearby Hinterlands would generate sympathy. And what would happen if people believed him? He had one coffin-shaped cache of the weapon, and no ability to locate any others. They couldn’t find everything before the enemy could activate the weapon. His words would do nothing but spark civil unrest within the Western cityplexes. People would die because of his words, not the enemy’s weaponry.
He could do nothing.
Or could he?
He drove himself back to the office. He’d be back long before his driver arrived at the established time to take him to the office. But this was a private matter, one he needed to do alone, just as he’d needed to visit the site without dragging his driver along. He suspected the driver would balk at traveling to the Hinterlands, even so near the cityplex. He entered his office and opened the drawer, removing the false bottom where the special badge rested. He checked the positioning as he always did, ensuring the badge remained in perfect alignment. He then grabbed the badge and headed back to the secret underground bunker, where he and Sheila had deposited the gifted box of Ravagers only a few hours earlier. The metal stairs leading down sounded like thunder reverberating with each heavy step.
He opened doors of the storage cabinets in the space, finally locating what he wanted: a small box made of Diasteel. He returned to the storage tank holding the Ravagers and put the open box inside. He used robotic “hands” inside the tank to scoop a portion of the material into the open box and then closed the lid before removing the box from the tank. He locked the box, wondering if any of the material coated the outside and even now covered his skin.
Too late to worry about that now.
They’d moved the material, had jostled the holding box, and had even opened the box. And yet the Ravagers material remained dormant, giving no indication that the material could visit the kind of controlled, complete destruction he’d seen at two sites separated by miles and years. They need something to wake them, to activate them. How had they done it years ago?
He nodded at the memory. If he was right, they’d put the material in precisely the correct place. No chance they could be activated from within the tank. And that meant that at least the people working here, like Sheila, would have a chance to escape whatever the East had planned.
He made one final stop that night, to a spot no one else knew about, not even Sheila Clarke, and left the Diasteel box there. He returned to his home not long after, a grim smile on his face.
The East might have them beaten before the war officially started.
But he’d ensured the fight would be anything but a massive victory on their part.
And they’d never see his strike coming.
twelve
Wesley Cardinal
…collective memories of human wanderings in the Hinterlands and the dangers faced after sundown led to a general cessation of public activity and business after dark in even well-lit city streets, with rare exceptions…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 1313
The Voice provided a detailed overview of his mission during the ride to his office space. The mission sounded suicidal, and he’d thought to protest, to ask for more time or resources. He knew the Voice wouldn’t listen, though, and had considered those objections in the timing of the d
emand that he act immediately. Protests would result in the migraine-inducing internal shrieking noise, pain that would undoubtedly cause a crash while cruising along empty streets at night on his scooter. He’d be unable to continue his mission if comatose on the ground.
He decided he didn’t trust the Voice enough to test him—or her—about the willingness to lose someone completing a vital mission.
The roads were dark and unoccupied, of course. Nobody left their homes after dark. A few people pushed the limits by ten or fifteen minutes, but there was little purpose in moving about at night. Restaurants, shops, and entertainment venues closed their doors at least thirty minutes before nightfall to allow employees time to reach home before the sun set below the horizon.
Still, Wesley couldn’t help but think he was being watched.
He parked his scooter in a restaurant parking lot a quarter mile from the building, pocketed his keys, and rechecked his backpack. He found everything in order, though he’d been tempted to suggest he’d left something behind. He suspected he’d wake up here hours from now in the broad daylight if he tried. Freedom of movement and expression when one possessed a disembodied Voice in one’s head.
He jogged at a slow, steady pace, through the brisk night air. In the emptiness, his gentle footfalls sounded like the beat of a bass drum, thumping away at a steady beat. He tried humming a tune in time with the beat, but soon became distracted by thoughts about the mysterious room the Voice claimed he’d visit that night.
The lights were out at Jamison & Associates. He ignored the building as he always did, moving past the lush landscaping and smooth walls to the parking garage entry beyond. He never parked his scooter here; it gave his employers too much ability to restrict his ability to leave when he desired. But on foot? He slid past the vehicle barrier, wondering if the badge reader would even work for him at this hour. He found the stairwell and moved at a brisk, silent pace down the concrete steps.
He froze before exiting the landing.
Someone was out there, moving in the parking garage.
He swallowed. They’d timed his arrival to ensure that those working the overnight shift—and only a secret military base would possibly have such a thing in this world—were all situated inside the Bunker. No stragglers from the previous shift ought to remain behind. Who could be moving in the garage?
He’d noticed the vibe of the population as he rode through the city from his Hinterlands spur to this one, a vibe suggesting imminent eruption of anger and despair in the form of random violence. Perhaps the first shots in that effort would commence in the parking garage of an accounting firm sitting on a spur outside.
Just his luck.
He squinted as the figure moved toward one of the dim lights illuminating the underground space at this hour, and nearly gasped. The General was here? What would rouse the man from his sleep at this hour? Or did Micah Jamison routinely test the general curfew observed by civilians?
It didn’t matter. His presence here put Wesley’s mission at risk. He couldn’t be seen or heard. Wesley slid slowly back into the shadows, never taking his unblinking eyes from the General.
Wesley, have you entered the facility?
Of all the times for the Voice to initiate a conversation…
Wesley remained silent, watching as the General placed a box upon the roof of a car. Though the General showed little strain, the roof of the vehicle sagged under the weight. He frowned. What was the General taking with him?
Wesley, why are you not responding?
And where was Jamison’s driver? He squinted again. The car was unmarked, a private, personal vehicle. So Jamison was driving himself. At this hour of the night?
Jamison unlocked the vehicle, opened the rear door, and moved the heavy box inside. He shut the rear door and slid behind the wheel.
Wesley, I expect a response. If I do not receive one, I shall be forced to ensure your continued survival through unpleasant means.
Jamison shut the door.
Wesley exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d held. “Jami—”
Jamison rolled down the window, and Wesley ceased speaking immediately.
What was that? Who is Jamie, Wesley?
Wesley grunted once. Jamison’s head snapped toward the stairwell. Damn. The man had better hearing than he’d thought.
Wesley, I am disappointed with your lack of responsiveness. And…
He didn’t hear the rest. Jamison backed from his parking spot and drove toward the stairwell. Wesley risked slinking further into the shadow as the General trained his headlights into the opening.
…will initiate punishment in ten seconds if you do not provide a status. Ten… nine… eight…
Wesley felt a bead of perspiration leak from his forehead. A second dribbled down his back. He tried to keep his breathing steady and silent, even as his muscles tensed.
…seven… six… five…
He could hear the vehicle inching forward, the tires rolling over the small pebbles and loose pavement lining the garage floor. He could almost feel Jamison straining his ears, trying to determine if someone watched from the shadows, or if it was mere imagination.
…four… three…
He risked inching his arms up to his head even as he slid silently to his knees. He would die here, killed by the General after he screamed in pain.
…two…
The car accelerated away.
“Jamison’s here,” he whispered.
The countdown stopped and the Voice went silent.
“I think he’s gone now.”
Are you inside the facility?
Right. No apology for scaring him out of his wits. “Still in the garage. Had to wait for the General to leave.”
If the Voice wondered why the General might still be here at this hour, she—or he—made no mention. Head to the first rendezvous point and communicate when you’ve arrived.
He rose from the ground, raising his arms in alarm. Had he sweated that much in his thirty seconds of terror? He shook his head, checked that his pack remained affixed to his back, and walked at a brisk pace across the garage to the Bunker entry, his head swiveling around as he searched for any other surprises.
He found none.
Ten minutes later, he was in the hallway, breathing in the antiseptic scent of the cleaning performed after each shift change. He didn’t care. The nameplate on the door opposite him monopolized his vision.
General Micah Jamison.
“I’m here,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure why he bothered whispering. Nobody should be wandering the hallways at this hour. Of course, he shouldn’t be here either, but he had important work to do this night.
Enter the following code to unlock the General’s door: two-four-six-oh-one.
Wesley whispered the numbers back to ensure accuracy. He pulled the pack off his back and located a thin pair of gloves, which he donned before entering the code on the keypad by the General’s door.
The lock clicked open. Wesley didn’t wait to be told the next step. He turned the handle, slid inside, and closed the door silently behind him. “I’m in.”
Sit at the General’s desk. You will note a small drawer at the top of the right side of his desk. Open the drawer.
Wesley did so. “It’s… empty.”
The bottom may be removed to reveal what you seek.
Huh? He reached into the drawer and pushed on a corner. To his surprise, the bottom moved. He maneuvered the bottom from the drawer, revealing a small foam container holding…
“It looks like a security badge,” he said, frowning.
Take the badge and move to the end of the hallway, Wesley. Ensure the door is closed behind you.
Shaking his head, Wesley grabbed the badge and moved to the end of the hallway.
“It’s a dead end.”
Wave the badge in the precise center of the wall seven feet above the ground.
Feeling more foolish than he’d ever felt in any of his limited memories,
Wesley waved the badge, wondering if the Voice had him on camera now and was laughing.
To his shock, he heard the click of a releasing lock. “It—”
The badge reader is centered above a door with no visible seam. Push on the right edge of the door to open it.
Well, every other foolish command had worked. He estimated where the “right edge” of the invisible door ought to be and pushed. He heard a faint whirring noise, and a seam appeared in the wall. The door slid away from him and then slid to his left, revealing an opening leading… somewhere. He scrambled through the doorway. Ten seconds later, the door slid back into position.
Wesley glanced around. He stood on the slatted metal intermediate landing of a long staircase. The metal steps rose before him, seemingly without end, likely terminating at ground level. A secret escape out of the Bunker. He wondered if the General ever made use of this exit.
To his right…
Take the steps to your right down to the bottom. The badge in your hand will open the door there. That is your final destination.
He shivered at the word final, wondering just how final it might be.
He started down the steps at a brisk pace before realizing each footfall generated notable vibrations and excessive noise in the space. He slowed down, using the handrails to lighten his footsteps until he reached the bottom. A massive metal wall greeted him, with another door and badge reader in the center.
He walked to the door and found the badge had fallen from his pocket.
He growled and looked around, spotting the badge thirty feet away on the smooth concrete. He glanced at the metal stairwell as he passed, grabbed the side, and shook. It gave away easily. He wondered why Jamison didn’t get anyone to tighten a few bolts. It seemed like a safety hazard, and the excessive noise might be heard in the nearby offices.
Activate The Ravagers Ep1v2 Page 6