Birth of Rebellion (War of the Three Planets Book 4)

by Justin Bell

  And I've only been doing it for a little over a month. There's something a little scary about that.

  "So, everyone seems to think I'm so important," I say. "Sooner or later you're going to need to find someone else to do this dirty work, aren't you?"

  "Perhaps your importance is related to this 'dirty work', child."

  I shrug. "So how am I getting to City Plaza?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  Segaris whips his hand forward and the brown blanket covering the strange contraption behind him whisks away revealing a slender, black vehicle, some kind of Reblon motorbike by the looks of it. A sleek cylinder gleams in the low light of the moon. It is contoured from front to rear like an elongated teardrop. Twin handles extend from the front, mounted on each side of a low-sloping windscreen. Thickly cushioned seating sits near the rear and underneath the vehicle is a single row of glowing blue thrusters.

  "Okay, that's pretty awesome," I say. It is. As an eighteen-year-old girl I've never had any desire to ride a hoverbike back on Athelon, but this is like no hover-bike I've ever seen.

  "Do you know how to ride one of these?"

  Of course I don't, I think but don't say. I'm a kid from Athelon. This thing was developed by Reblox engineers in some space age laboratory. I've got no clue.

  I don't say anything; I just take a step forward and place my palm on the rounded body of the narrow vehicle. I'm flooded with rapid fire images and sound. Schematics, velocity, rotations per minute, acceleration, steering radius, it all slams into my brain in one abrupt vomit of information.

  Dizziness swarms behind my eyes and for one frantic moment, I fear passing out. I take two uncertain steps backwards, pressing a hand to my stomach, but I catch myself, steady myself, and draw two deep breaths.

  "I do now," I reply.

  Segaris looks at me, his brow furrowing.

  "Stand back," I say and step back towards the hoverbike, swinging my long leg over the seat. It feels natural. My hands wrap around the rubberized grips as I settle back into the cushioned seat of the bike. My thumbs find the appropriate dials nested near the handles.

  Segaris continues staring, as if trying to calculate some complex mathematics equation. My right hand twists, and the engines roar.

  The bike rises off the ground and lilts to the left, so I compensate, ease back to a consistent thrum, and even it out to keep it steady in the darkness of the alley. I twist my hand again and it roars back in pleasant agreement.

  A large hand presses into my shoulder.

  "Take care, child," Segaris says. "This is not a game."

  I look back at him. "Just because it's not a game doesn't mean I can't have fun."

  He doesn't seem to know how to translate this phrase, but before he can even respond, I gun the engine again, lift the bike and release the brake, sending me and the slim rocket leaping forward down the alley, blue light from the thrusters streaming behind me.

  ###

  The bike handles like a dream. City lights stream around me as I roar past buildings and weave my way through sparse traffic. With a steep lean I guide the bike around another vehicle, slide it smoothly back into the lane, and accelerate again with the wind whipping around my face and biting into the gray skin of my cheeks. My hood thrashes as the long, dark cloak flaps out behind me as if I'm flying through turbulence. I recall the street map lodged in my mind, locate City Plaza, and sweep around a second vehicle to cross the lane of traffic.

  I ignore the flare of angry horns and the growl of Reblon curses I hear thrown across the street after me and twist my wrist again, engaging the thrust and picking up speed.

  As the lights scream around me I press myself low to the bike, cutting wind resistance and allowing the machine under me to increase its speed while leaning right, then left to navigate a double turn leading towards the home stretch to City Plaza.

  It rises above me. Spotlights surround the building, illuminating it in an isolated cone of light in the relative darkness of the surrounding pavement. After another sharp right, leaning close to the ground, I brake and ease the hoverbike into a concealed alley to the east of the Plaza, outside the reach of the pale light.

  I swing my leg off the bike, keeping my eyes focused on City Plaza, which is a tall, square building, standing up on an elaborate pedestal of stairs, extending from each side. The plaza is surrounded by tall structures, many of them too narrow to possibly be standing on their own. A dazzling amount of angled support cables and beams is scattered in all directions, emerging from the center of the plaza and blooming outward like a strange, narrow, metal flower.

  A patrol vehicle eases its way onto the parallel street, shines a light down a far alley, then continues on.

  The place is crawling with security. As soon as that vehicle disappears down the far end of the plaza, another appears to my left on the close side. How am I going to play this?

  "You there!"

  The voice blasts me out of my focus, pulling me from my attentive surveillance, like a bucket of cold water slamming into me.

  I turn and see the two Reblon security guards approaching, weapons in hand.

  This just got a lot trickier.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  From what Segaris says, the city of Von Grandeur is a melting pot. Bragdons, Reblons, Athelonians, all of them mix here and Reblon security stumbling upon a Bragdon isn't necessarily an odd occurrence.

  Reblon security stumbling upon a Bragdon draped in a black cloak, straddling a state-of-the-art stealth hoverbike, and checking out City Plaza, well, that could be a little out of the ordinary. The plaza is a wide and empty space in the middle of thick outcrops of structures. Tall, narrow spires reach high up into the sky with narrow steel support beams running diagonally down towards the thick surface of the plaza itself. The support beams are the width of about a dozen bundled steel cables and reach up and out over a block in all directions. They are, at once, an eyesore, but also a fascinating repeated pattern of glinting metal.

  "Stay where you are!" the lead security officer demands again, his voice a guttural bark. He and his partner both stand tall and wide, as most Reblons do, matted dark hair stuffed underneath his military uniform. They're both clutching those all too familiar double-barrel shotguns I had intimate experience with during my last little outing to that Braxis moon. A tight pang of sharp pain burns at my right side as if to remind me of the wound I'd suffered there.

  I lift my hands. "I'm not moving," I reply.

  "What are you doing there?" he asks, his weapon raising.

  I glance around as if not certain where I am. "Just going for a ride, I guess?"

  Even in the low light of the alley I can see the gleam of his eyes narrow as he glares at me. Yeah, he's not buying it.

  He and his partner are several yards away, but their weapons are trained on me. They saunter towards me at opposite angles to come at each flank. Smart move.

  "Just stay there," the officer says. "Hands up. We're coming to you."

  I remain still, my hands lifted, with the long cloak waving in the breeze at my ankles. I can feel the tapered ends brushing against my lower legs, then whipping as the breeze becomes a gust.

  The thought comes to me naturally, as so many have over the past month as the lead security officer takes one more cautious step forward, his weapon coming up into the crook of his arm.

  Without even considering the consequences, I pick up my foot and execute a quick, controlled spin, slipping my arms out from the cloak. Around me, the thick, dark covering spirals out, caught in the breeze, a slow motion fan of loose cloth, hanging in mid-air for a few precious seconds.

  Both security officers lunge forward, weapons drawn and pull their triggers. Shots thud and echo in the tight confines of the dark alley as the cloak spins above my head thrashing with the impact of blunt, tough rounds. In a low crouch I halt my spin and charge forward, staying close to the ground. My lithe Bragdon form allows for swift and flexible motion.

  The second
officer shifts, trying to direct his weapon towards this new threat, but I close the gap in a second, then leap into the air. My foot swings around in front of me, knocking his weapon from his grasp. Momentum carries me into a continued twirl, and I lift my second leg tight to my chest, then crack it out like a whip, pounding the edge of my curved foot into the side of his thick skull.

  As he drops to the pavement, I arc my body over his slumping form, tumbling sideways through the air. The first Reblon tracks me, swiveling his hips to get me in the line of fire.

  He fires again, but I've already fallen down out of the trajectory, and the bullets scream through the air above me as I hit the pavement low, bracing myself with my hands. I swing my leg back out around at ankle level, sweeping him behind his tree trunk knees. As the unexpected impact carries his feet off the pavement he stumbles backwards.

  Even as he's falling, I'm on top of him, throwing my palm into his twisted face to knock his head back hard, crashing it against the pavement and denting his helmet. I complete a forward somersault and come up on bent knees, whirling around, but both guards lay on the ground, unmoving.

  I listen. The gunshots were loud and abrupt in the late night air, but I hear no sirens and sense no dramatic alarm.

  At least not yet.

  Before I have second thoughts, my legs start pumping, carrying me over the road and up the stairs leading to City Plaza two at a time, darting between the sweeping lights of the perimeter towers.

  Up ahead I see two Reblons converging on a side entrance, looking out towards the alley. They are likely wondering what caused the commotion, but they're not looking at me. By the time they notice the dark blur of movement, I'm nearly on them.

  With a grunt, I shoot my left fist out to strike one of them in the midsection, then the other begins to raise his weapon. It's not one of the huge shotguns, but a much more manageable pistol. I swivel and wrap my fingers around his wrist, then pull back, placing my other hand against his broad shoulder. With a shift in momentum I twist and pull to yank him off his feet, wrenching the weapon from his hand, and sending him tumbling over my turned shoulder, all in one fluid motion. As he hits the cement pedestal head first, I snatch his pistol out of mid-air.

  The first Reblon recovers and turns towards me, but not before I pound him in the forehead with the butt of the pistol. His eyes turn glassy and he topples sideways, rolling head over heels down the dozen steps until he comes to a rest at the base of the large, elaborate pedestal that City Plaza rests atop.

  Cool air whispers at my face and hands, but the night remains still and quiet.

  As I survey the side entrance for a moment, I notice what looks like some kind of palm scanner at the right of the door. It takes me only a moment to drag the one Reblon guard that didn't tumble all the way down the stairs up towards the door and press his palm to the scanner. The sound of the clicking lock gives me great satisfaction.

  Only seconds later I slip through the door and press myself against the smooth hallway leading into the main building of City Plaza.

  Now I know why they call this city Von Grandeur. My boots are reflected back from a polished marble floor, gleaming under the rows of embedded lights in the ceiling. The walls are pristine and smooth as I walk from the side entrance towards a junction where one hallway crosses the other.

  As I approach the intersection, I hear the clapping echoes of shoes on marble. I slow my progress, tap a switch that turns down the lights in this access hallway, and drop to one knee.

  By the sounds of the footsteps, there are at least half a dozen of them, maybe more. As the steps grow closer, I make my move.

  I drop my head and place both palms on the floor, draw a deep breath, and relax my muscles. My limbs expand, bulge, and twist as muscle fibers rearrange and skin bursts with thousands of expanding hairs as they shoot out from within. Seconds later I'm a Reblon.

  I bring myself up as the first walker crosses the threshold. His appearance takes me by surprise. He is a Reblon that much is clear, but his trimmed hair is combed, smooth and stroked close to his skin. He's dressed in an elaborate and ceremonial bodysuit and looks downright refined. It's the first time I've ever seen a Reblon who wasn't one of their warrior class and it's quite a sight.

  "Who are you?" he asks, slowing his progress and cocking his head like an inquisitive dog. Two unkempt Reblons stand on either side of him, looking much more like the aggressors I've met so far. They have weapons hanging from their shoulders and are moving to retrieve them as I step forward.

  "I'm sorry, I must have gotten lost," I say.

  They're not buying it.

  It takes less than a second for the one on my left to have his weapon unslung, but I'm already moving. This Reblon body moves much more slowly and clumsily than the Bragdon form I was in, and those few seconds cost me.

  I feel the impact to my right as the second Reblon security guard slams into me headlong, knocking me to the floor. With a thud, I hit the floor and slide along the polished surface until my back slams against the wall. The first guard approaches, directing his weapon towards me as the second Reblon lifts his as well, coming at me from two angles. Behind the well-dressed Reblon three more appear, looking as nicely groomed as he does.

  Under the shining gleam of the overhead lights I press my back against the wall, brace myself, and swing my leg out in a tight, straight arc above the floor. I let my momentum swing me around as the second Reblon fires his weapon, smacking bullets into the polished floor and wall, smashing chunks from the smooth material next to me.

  My arcing leg slams into the knee of the first guard, taking his feet out from under him. I tuck my other knee tight, then piston it out, slamming my heel into the chest of guard two.

  He flies across the hall, whamming back-first into the far wall. His weapon flies from his fingers as the first guard hits the floor shoulder-first. The first Reblon starts to raise himself, but I slam my boot into his head and he slumps down still.

  Behind them, the four Reblon politicians are scrambling, but I charge forward, grab one of them, and throw him against the wall. I snag a second one as he turns, drag him back, then toss him tumbling back down the hallway where I entered. With a swift jump forward, I land on the back of another, bouncing his forehead off the floor. I wrap my thick arms around the last one, shoving him backwards to pin him against the wall.

  "Records room!" I scream at him. "Where?"

  His eyes are wide, but his teeth are bared in angry defiance. "We don't have one."

  A low and rumbling growl rattles from my throat and I can feel the sharpened edges of my own fangs poking out from around black lips. I glance up and down the hall and my eyes narrow on a computer console several yards away, bolted to the wall right at waist height.

  Thoughts run through my head as I feel the Reblon struggling within my grasp. I snap my head back towards him, mouth opening into a fierce and angry growl.

  "Last time I'm asking!" I snarl.

  The bright spark of a ricochet careens off the wall a yard above the politician's head. I whirl around to see three more Reblon guards emerging down the far hallway with weapons raised. Dark gray fur coats the one in the front who sports a black tactical vest and reinforced leg armor. On each side are more security guards. Their hair lighter in color, closer to light brown or blond, but they sport the same battle uniforms along with skullcap helmets.

  "Release him and surrender!" the first one shouts.

  The resistance didn't say anything about all of this security.

  I look back at the politician and sneer, then draw him close and shoot both hands out, pounding the back of his head against the wall. Spider web cracks splinter the material and as he slumps, I lunge to the left and leap into the air.

  The three security guards shift their aim to me. Even as I twist in mid-air, I concentrate on changing shape. My muscles twist tighter and withdraw into themselves. Turning sideways and pulling my legs into my chest, I swivel into a back flip as my frame shrinks b
ack into the narrow, elongated form of a Bragdon assassin. Guns explode in the hallway.

  I slide through the arcing streaks of gunfire as they scatter through the air and across the walls, cracking holes in lazy patterns as they go. Everything comes naturally to me. Even as I shed the extra mass and wither down to this narrow new form, things feel as if they're falling into place. My muscles know how to work, they know how to move and where to go next.

  Boots hit the floor as I charge, lurching left and right as security tries to track my movements. Before they can get zeroed in, I move within their arc of fire and throw a tight left hook, drilling leather skin and hard bone into the sensitive spot between the Reblon ribs and armpit. He growls and his weapon springs away as I torque and drive my second fist hard up into the underside of his broad chin.

  The guard topples over backwards as I pivot, jumping towards the second two guards, lashing out with a stiff right leg, and burying my boot in the padded tactical vest of the next guard to pin him against the wall.