by David Jones
“What’s happened?” Anya asked. “What’s your plan?”
Jake put his back to the wall next to the cell door. Anyone peering inside would see only the women. He could hear voices outside. The newly arrived guards were interrogating Fillmore and Sikes, preparing to extract them for medical treatment.
“I think my plan is toast,” Jake said in a low voice. “Thought we could walk out of here undetected. I was wrong.”
Anya nodded. “You think?”
Was she really giving him guff when they were trapped and surrounded by Cymobius operatives?
“Look, I’m doing the best I can here. It’s not like I have any idea what’s going on.” Of course, that wasn’t technically true. With his connection to the web via Cymobius’s network, Jake knew more about this new world than ever before. Not that it did him much good right now.
“I wasn’t—” Anya started to reply but an amplified voice boomed down the corridor before she got the chance.
“Harris, this is Pete Rudd. I know you don’t remember me right now, but we’ve been friends a long time. In fact, you weren’t much older than you claim to be now when we first came face-to-face.” Cymobius’ CEO was moving closer, easing his way down the hall, probably peering into each cell as he passed it. Jake could hear a second pair of boots striking in time with Rudd’s. He had a guard.
Several scenarios played out in Jake’s head as he listened. Most were variations on a theme that went like this: Rudd and his escort reach the door, find it slightly ajar, and toss in grenades. They wait for the inevitable boom and then call in a company cleaning team to scour the walls of blood and gore. Problem solved.
“You need to get me to a computer,” Anya whispered.
“What?” Jake asked.
“A terminal or even a pad. I saw at least three of them at the guard desk when they brought us down.”
“Harris,” Rudd said. “I know you’re in one of these cells. You need to come out and talk to me. You’re probably scared right now. I don’t blame you. All this has got to be confusing to you.”
The elevator door spun open in the distance, disgorging what sounded like three more operatives. If Jake didn’t do something soon, Cymobius would have enough people down here to overwhelm him, even if he had Anya’s rebels to help fight, which he didn’t.
“A computer, now.” Anya made a face at him.
Though the scenarios playing out in Jake’s head were grim, he refused to give up. He gave Anya a nod. “Stay put.” He strode into the steel hallway, hands raised, and slowly placed his pistol on the floor.
“Good choice,” Rudd said. He and the man next to him trained laser-sighted rifles on Jake’s chest. “Are you starting to remember who you are?”
“Yeah, I think maybe I am,” Jake said. He eyed the three guards trotting up behind Rudd to reinforce their boss. Good. He could use a crowd.
Jake’s heart was pounding, but once again his mind was calm. Tactics for close combat poured into his consciousness almost faster than he could comprehend. It was like his cybrid was cramming for a pop quiz.
“Kick the gun over,” Rudd said, “then turn and drop to your knees, hands on your head. Kevin.”
“Yes, sir?” said the man next to Rudd.
“When he does that, I want you to—”
No one ever found out what Rudd wanted Kevin to do. Jake kicked the pistol as ordered, but with enough force and precision that it sailed end-over-end down the steel hallway to thwack against Rudd’s armored chest. The big man stumbled back, his rifle’s laser sight momentarily tracking onto the ceiling.
That was all the invitation Jake needed. He surged into the midst of the guards, his hands a blur. One thing about rifles, they were no good up close. Jake came in low, got a hand on the barrel of Rudd’s firearm, and delivered a thunderous knee to the older man’s gut. The fool wasn’t wearing a tactical harness like his minions, which meant if he lost grip on his gun it would eat dirt, or steel in this case.
But that wasn’t part of the plan.
Rudd doubled over and Jake ripped the rifle from his hands. He clubbed the back of Rudd’s neck where his otherwise thick body armor failed to protect.
Without pause, Jake mule kicked the guy next to him in the hip. This wasn’t a telling blow—it wasn’t meant to be—but it threw the guy off balance long enough for Jake to slam the butt of Rudd’s rifle into his face shield. The force of the blow carried him into the wall.
In the split second it had taken Jake to perform these two maneuvers, the third guard managed to raise his rifle, its laser sight painting Jake’s head. Was this guy a cybrid? Since Jake had time to consider this question, probably not, but he was quick.
The man’s movement registered on Jake’s consciousness like debris on the highway. He twitched his shoulders just before the guard could squeeze his trigger. The crack of the shot rang Jake’s ears, and the round passing blew wind against his cheek, but that was all. The bullet ricocheted off the steel wall behind him into the distance.
Jake brought Rudd’s rifle down like a hammer blow, smashing the shooter’s gloved hands, which he followed with a solid blow to the guy’s sternum. Mr. Shooter slammed into the steel wall, gasping for air.
Though he didn’t like doing it, Jake followed this up with a solid blow to his face mask, bashing his nose in the process. Blood plastered the shield. Lights out.
The fourth guard was smarter, or at least better trained, than his comrades and his boss. He had already dropped his rifle to hang loose on its tac strap, and pulled a knife from a sheath on his chest. By his body movements, he was obviously wary of Jake, but proportionally dangerous with that blade. He wasn’t going to underestimate Jake just because he looked like a teenager. And he wasn’t going to go down easy.
Fighting is the most primitive of all human instincts. It has been the hallmark of our species—any ambulatory species for that matter—since the dawn of time. If there was one thing Jake’s cyber-fed psyche took as truth about hand-to-hand melee from the ocean of martial arts thought and commentary at its disposal, it was this: the person willing to become most like a wild animal will always come out on top in a fight. This didn’t mean using wild attacks or losing control, it meant protecting your body by whatever means possible and observing that, in a life and death struggle, there were no such things as rules.
Jake wasn’t prepared to fight that way—to pit his life against that of his opponent with the outcome being death on one side or the other with no recourse. But the man with the knife, his name was Bixby according to his name tag, had no such reservations.
Bixby rushed Jake, seeking to tie him up with his free hand so he could attack with the other. For a non-cybrid, the guy was fire fast. He hooked his free hand under Jake’s arm pit, hugged him close, and went to work with the blade.
Despite Jake’s superior strength, he was a lightweight. Bixby probably outweighed him by nearly a hundred pounds. He lifted Jake off his feet, stripping away his leverage, and plunged the knife into Jake’s belly. Once. Twice.
Pain screamed momentarily through Jake’s body as every muscle convulsed in sympathetic spasm. He gasped, his mind reeling with shock and mortal surprise. Then, as suddenly as it had dawned, the pain ceased. Jake’s thoughts sharpened, growing cold, clear, and focused.
A third stab was coming. Jake observed the blood-slicked knife rising to invade him again, only now time had slowed and the attack seemed glacial. With this moment to consider, and the wealth of information at his fingertips, Jake realized his approach to this battle thus far had been, at least in some ways, juvenile. These men, Bixby in particular at the moment, held no reservations about killing Jake. In fact, just by this man’s demeanor, it was clear his foes relished the thought of taking life. Taking out a rogue cybrid would probably do much for Bixby’s reputation if not his career. Jake’s type were few in the world. In fact, judging from the tidal swell of information now brushing Jake’s consciousness via his link to the internet, he knew th
at many people didn’t believe in cybrids. Most chocked them up to conspiracy theories on par with extra Kennedy shooters, 9/11 truthers, and lizard aliens controlling world markets to guide human civilization.
But for those few who knew the truth, especially the regular men and women populating Cymobius ops teams, cybrids must have seemed like minor gods. If your job was mayhem—even a tamed sort of mayhem focused on protecting your company and its interests—and there was a better sort of human out there, one who had gained his superiority over you through surgeries and mental augmentations beyond your reach and understanding, you would want to best that person, show the cybrid he isn’t better than you in the most inescapable way possible.
By killing him.
For perhaps a hundredth of a second, Jake felt something akin to sympathy for Bixby. He would be a hero if he took down the vaunted Harris with none other than Pete Rudd lying unconscious at his feet. Imagine the accolades, the glory. Bixby might even get to become a cybrid himself.
Then something jolted Jake out of his reverie. It felt like a mental electric cattle prod to the brain. His cybrid, while it could not speak directly to him, was nonetheless screaming for him to stop thinking so much and do something!
Jake brought his free hand down on Bixby’s wrist with such force that he felt the bones inside shatter like crystal. Bixby’s knife spun toward the floor, but it hadn’t even hit before Jake delivered three pulverizing uppercuts to Bixby’s side. Even with Jake’s feet off the ground, the blows transferred enough force through Bixby’s body armor to crack two ribs on that side. Jake heard the snaps.
Bixby grunted and dropped Jake, but he managed to keep his hook grip, hugging Jake close with tenacious fervor.
Big mistake.
Jake smashed Bixby’s face shield with a head butt, and followed that up by crouching, then rocketing up to strike Bixby’s chin with the top of his head.
That last blow probably should have hurt Jake almost as much as it did Bixby, but pain seemed to be taking a holiday at the moment, and Jake’s skull was laced with steel. Bixby’s knees gave way, and Jake let him fall, unconscious, to the floor.
The entire fight had taken less than twenty seconds. Jake stood panting, clutching his mutilated stomach, and watching the fallen men for movement. There was none, but they were all breathing.
“Damn,” said the woman who had been locked up with Anya. They had both come out to survey the carnage.
“Let me see your stomach.” Anya made to lift Jake’s shirt.
He batted her hands away. “No time. Get to a computer.”
Anya hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Janet, help him move these guys into a cell. I’ll get Moore and then we’re getting the hell out of here.”
Jake felt no true pain, just a strange sort of discomfort in his belly that set off warning bells in his brain. He was seriously injured, and though the blood flow had already lessened markedly, it still oozed between his fingers. He tried to ignore the damage, reaching to pull Bixby into Anya’s former cell, but his body balked. His legs gave way, and he slumped against the wall.
“Hey, you okay?” Janet looked up from unburdening the guards of their weapons.
“Got to sit for a minute.” Jake slid down against the wall.
Moore and several others Anya had released trotted over to assist with the unconscious guards.
“What happened?” Moore asked, peering down at Jake with unveiled suspicion.
“He took out the guards,” Janet said. “Look, this one’s Peter Rudd!”
Moore regarded the unconscious tycoon with open surprise, which was immediately followed by a shrewd grin. “Bind him. Drag him over to the desk. Looks like we’ve got a bargaining chip.”
He turned back to Jake.
“You’re welcome,” Jake said. He was already feeling better, the non-pain discomfort receding from his guts. He probably looked like something from a living dead game with blood coating his shirt, his pants, and even much of the white floor beneath him.
“Why’d you do this?” Moore asked.
Jake shrugged. “I’ve met two groups of people since I woke up today. One that pulled me from a burning car and fed me sandwiches, and one that tried to turn me into someone I don’t want to be. Which do you think I would want to help?”
“Fair enough.” Moore’s eyes tracked down to Jake’s wounds. “You going to make it? Or do we have to carry you out of here?”
Jake rose. He felt light-headed for a few seconds, but that passed quickly. He would need to eat soon, get some calories back into the old repair shop, but he pushed that need away. It could wait. “I’ll carry myself.”
Chapter 9
Escape
Anya sat at the prison’s security desk, scrutinizing a tablet on a stand. Ten members of her—team? Gang?—stood around her, alternately glancing between the screen and the elevator door.
Though his feeling of immediate physical danger had passed, and he was no longer bleeding, Jake couldn’t help pressing one hand to his stomach. He kept expecting to feel blood flow over his fingers, or worse.
Moore, who had been interrogating the prison guards, approached. “What’s our situation?”
“They’ve got thirty armed guards stationed around the building up top,” Anya said without lifting her eyes.
“Oliver with them?” Jake asked.
Anya nodded. “In fact, she just climbed into the elevator with two heavily armed men.”
The elevator shaft hummed to life. Everyone tensed, including Jake. He checked the action on his handgun, wondering absently just how his cybrid supplied him with such mundane info. Before today, he had held a rifle exactly once when he had gone target shooting with a friend and his dad back in seventh grade. They had used an anemic .22 that sounded less powerful than a popgun and gave about as much kick. He had never even touched a pistol before. Except, yes he had.
With casual familiarity he cleared the chamber and ejected the magazine to check it. It held seventeen rounds.
“Can you stop them?” Moore asked.
“On it,” Anya said. “Just want to let the car get in the middle—and we’re, just, about... there.” She tapped her screen and the elevator fell silent.
“How did you do that?” Jake asked.
Anya shrugged.
“You’re Super User,” Jake said in awe. “The one the guards were complaining about.”
“Everybody’s a super user today,” Anya said, grinning. “I keyed every lock in the facility to recognize all users as full admins. A North Korean national could walk in here right now and steal every secret in the place.”
Faintly, Jake heard a woman cursing somewhere in the shaft. He pointed at it with two fingers. “Oliver’s trying to use her radio.”
“Won’t work,” Anya said. “I already blocked the continuous tone code. The guys upstairs may realize someone’s trying to talk, but what they hear is garbled nonsense.”
“Can we talk to them?” Moore asked.
“Only if I clear the channel,” Anya said. “Which would mean opening it for everyone, including Oliver.”
Moore cursed. “Phones?”
“There’s a landline to the surface.”
“Okay, get me in touch with whoever’s in charge when Rudd and Oliver out of play.”
“Why?” Jake asked.
Moore turned a disdainful look on him. “What? Do I need your permission?”
“No, but I’m down here with you. I’d like to know what you’re planning and if it’s going to get us all killed.”
Moore looked as though he might say something caustic then hesitated. By the tightening of skin at his forehead, which caused his ears to lift, it was plain to Jake that Moore was having second thoughts. He must have recalled that the kid standing before him was no kid, he was a genetically enhanced, cybernetically infused killing machine, one that had only moments before released him from a maximum security cell and defeating seven men.
“I’m going to negotiate,
” Moore said. “We’ve got Rudd. They’ll let us go in exchange for his life if we play this right.”
Someone laughed. Jake turned to find Rudd slumped against the wall, two of Moore’s people training pilfered rifles on him. He grinned at Moore, blood staining his upper teeth like red toothpaste. “Won’t work.”
“How’s that?”
“Kill order. It’s a protocol in case I, or one of my top people, is captured. Our teams will do everything in their power to retake me, but once all options have been exhausted to the current exec’s satisfaction, they’ll terminate all of us.”
“You’re lying.”
“Could be. But you know, whoever’s in charge up there—“
“Who is it?” Moore demanded.
“Whoever it is, that person currently holds all the aces. We’re sunk down here in a pit, and all they have to do is send down something nasty to clear us out. I’d do it with gas myself. Poison for preference. Fire’s good, but it’d ruin all the equipment and you can never get that burnt smell out.”
“Shut your teeth,” Moore said. “You’re lying.”
Rudd wasn’t lying. Jake could see that. Sure, Rudd’s good-natured shrug and seeming indifference were all for show. He wanted to put up a brave front in hopes of breaking Moore’s resolve, and thereby maybe save his own hide. But beneath that false bravado lay nothing but calm acceptance and firm determination. The man was fully prepared to die.
Jake was not.
“We can get out of this,” Jake said.
“Yeah, my way,” Moore said.
Jake shook his head. “No. The longer we’re down here the more prepared they get up top. I’m telling you, we’ve got to find another exit.”
“There aren’t any,” Anya said. “That elevator’s the only means into and out of this cell block. We’re not getting out of here short of digging our way out by hand.”
“Hand me a phone,” Moore said.
“Wait,” Jake said, leaning over the desk to intercept the handset before Moore could take it, and ignoring the big man’s scowl. “There’s a maintenance ladder on the inside of the elevator shaft. It’s on the schematics.”