by Jacob Gowans
“You wait and see . . . You just wait.”
A beep from the cruiser console distracted Wrobel. Sammy kept searching for something to help him. That might do it, he decided when he saw a small fire extinguisher about a meter away mounted low on the wall.
“You’ve never been to Baikonur, have you?” Wrobel asked, his voice now quite pleasant.
“No.” From his geography instructions, Sammy knew Baikonur was the NWG Space Organization’s main launch site. No doubt the Artemis shuttle would be taking off from there.
Commander Wrobel smiled and steered the controls of the stealth craft.
“Hasn’t the launch been postponed?” Sammy asked.
Wrobel snorted. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to launch a space mission with hundreds of people on board?” As he talked, Sammy slowly rocked his body in the direction of the fire extinguisher.
“No idea.”
“Lots. They won’t be rescheduling. They’ll beef up security, monitor satellites and aerial stations, and consider themselves safe. Congress doesn’t consider information from a fifteen-year-old kid to be worthy of changing the date of a moon launch.”
“What time is the launch?” Sammy asked, moving centimeter by centimeter toward his target.
“1700,” Wrobel answered.
“And when is Byron supposed to kill me?”
Wrobel glanced very seriously at Sammy and went back to his controls. “Shortly after.”
“Going to be kind of hard, don’t you think?” Sammy asked, nearly halfway to his goal. “Seeing as how he’ll be busy if the Thirteens attack.”
“You’ll be surprised how things work out.”
“And what’s your role in this?”
“Let that be a surprise, too.”
“I don’t get it, though,” Sammy said, willing to say anything to keep Wrobel’s mind occupied while he got into position. “Byron saved my life, why would he kill me?”
Wrobel did not answer. Sammy wasn’t sure if it was because he was concentrating on flying or because he had nothing to say.
He rocked his body a little more.
“Walter killed three people several years ago,” Wrobel began. Again his voice was void of all charm or emotion. A dead man talking. “We were in the sewers in CAG territory trying to rescue refugees when the Thirteens attacked us. My fiancée was there with us. Her name was Claire. She wasn’t the greatest warrior on our squad, but she had many talents. Walter had split us up into two teams, the eight of us. One team to escort groups of refugees to the cruisers, the other to keep watch on the rest. Claire was in the watch group with me, Emily, and Blake Weymouth. Have you heard of Blake Weymouth?”
Almost there, Sammy told himself. Slow and steady. “No, I don’t know of him.”
“Because he’s dead,” Wrobel stated. The deadness in his voice fell to a new level. “Blake Weymouth could beat the living tar out of any man on this planet. He fought like a god among children. Watching him fight was like watching music being composed before your eyes. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen . . . except for Claire.”
Wrobel’s voice broke and he glanced back at Sammy, glaring. The hate on his face put a healthy measure of fear in Sammy’s heart.
“The Thirteens came. We fought them in that little sewer. We called for help, for Byron’s team to get back and save us, outnumbered three to one, trying to fight against the enemy and protect the refugees at the same time. I’ve never been anything but an average soldier—I admit that. My strengths lie in tactics and planning. Had it not been for Emily and Blake, I’d be dead, too. Instead, I watched as everyone else around me died.”
Wrobel’s empty eyes bored into Sammy’s.
“You know what that’s like, don’t you?” he asked. “How many people that you care about have died?”
“Six,” Sammy said. “Three of those were your fault.”
Wrobel nodded slowly and turned back around. Sammy knew he should start heading toward the extinguisher again, but he wanted to hear Wrobel.
“Our job is death. Even if we don’t die in battle like our loved ones, each loss kills a part of us until the only difference between us and those who die is the beating of our hearts. A Thirteen pulled the trigger on Claire. Her name’s Katie Carpenter. You met her. She killed your friend, too. In that hangar.”
Beauty.
“You’re asking yourself why I’d work with her now, but it’s easy. She can’t help what she is. Walter . . . he should have known better. If he had put himself or Zahn on watch instead of Claire, we could have beaten them. Claire and Blake and Emily would be alive. But even then, he still could have saved my Claire.”
“You think he wanted his wife to die? Are you insane?”
The look in Wrobel’s eyes answered Sammy’s second question. “Don’t ask me that again! I’ve been fighting to keep my sanity for the last several years. And believe me, it’s been difficult when dealing with Walter’s incompetence.”
Sammy said nothing, but resumed his efforts to get the fire extinguisher.
“You insist on trusting him?” Wrobel asked. “I guess I can understand. I trusted him, too. Let me ask you one more question. Why didn’t your mission team in Rio have any weapons?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Walter insisted that Beta missions not have any. He believed they’d be a greater danger than good. ‘A bunch of kids running around with weapons, ready to shoot at the first thing that moved.’ That’s what he said. You tell me, Sammy. Do you think Martin Trector would have survived if he’d had a weapon?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re wrong and you know it.”
“I trust Commander Byron.” Sammy got three fingers on the cylinder of the small fire extinguisher and pulled it from the mount, barely catching it before it hit the carpet.
“You’re going to be very disappointed then.”
“So what?” Sammy asked. “They came to you, offered you a job, and you signed up to get your revenge?”
“You think they came to me?” Wrobel replied. “I went to THEM! Three years ago. I’d had enough. If you stuck around long enough, you’d understand better.”
Sammy’s fingers found the pin in the firing mechanism, and slowly pushed it out. It was so quiet in the cruiser that Sammy heard the pin hit the carpet, but did Wrobel?
The cruiser began to descend. He tried to estimate when the appropriate time to act would be, but was afraid to trust his math without the aid of his Anomaly Eleven. He fumbled around with his cuffs, trying to find the keyhole. When his thumb brushed across it, Sammy fired a concentrated blast into it.
Nothing.
He fired again and again, focusing on making his small blast as powerful as possible. Still nothing. He gritted his teeth and pushed as hard as he could from his thumb. This time, something happened.
A burst of heat erupted from his thumb, something so hot, it burned him. He barely stopped himself from crying out in pain. An acrid smell reached his nose, the scent of burnt metal and flesh. But his hands were free. The scent, however, spread throughout the cabin.
“What is that?” Wrobel asked. He squinted back at Sammy, then kept looking around. It gave Sammy just enough time to pull the trigger of the extinguisher.
“What is that?” Wrobel asked again. Finally he spotted what Sammy was about to do. “Stop! Don’t do that!”
Frigid white fog filled the cabin. Wrobel cursed in frustration, and Sammy rolled toward the door. Wrobel must have thrown his body at him, because a tremendous thump shook the floor. His large hands scrambled to pull at Sammy, who was only just able to get on his knees and reach the releasing mechanism of the cruiser door. He gripped the handle tenderly with his burned thumb. The door beeped red in warning.
“Don’t open—!” Wrobel shouted as he clawed and grabbed at Sammy’s bound feet.
Sammy threw himself into the door again. This time it opened. The fog spilled out, clearing the air in the cabin. The g
round was far enough away that Sammy wasn’t sure if he’d survive jumping. Wrobel got a firm grasp on his ankle, but Sammy made the choice. He leaned forward, tipping his weight over the edge of the door, and fell, ripping himself from Wrobel’s clutch.
He knew there was no time to mess with his ankle restraints. Instead, he focused on projecting as much energy as he could into a landing blast. His ankles stretched against the restraints as he bent his mind on safely reaching the earth. Blast after blast fired from his palms and feet in rapid succession.
Fear gripped him as he imagined an ignominious death meters from the landing strip at Baikonur. Finally, he felt himself slow. He fired again and again, each time feeling the concentrated cushions of energy as they bounced off the ground and decelerated his fall.
The landing was still awkward, but not even painful. He immediately began fumbling with the metal cuffs on his feet, trying to find some way to get them off. Above him, the cruiser prepared to land less than a hundred meters away.
Placing his other thumb over the keyhole of the ankle cuffs, he fired another intensely concentrated blast, channeling every bit of energy he could into the tiny hole. He screamed in pain as he felt his flesh burn again. He looked at his thumbs, both now severely red with spots where the top layer of flesh had been charred. But it did the job, enabling him to run.
So he ran.
13. Artemis
May 5, 2086
SMALL CLUSTERS OF BUILDINGS stood along both sides of the landing strip that ran through Baikonur. Sammy had no idea what purpose they filled, but he knew he needed to find shelter and, if possible, come up with some way to get the attention of the Alphas in the area. The only idea that came to his mind was to set buildings on fire. Surely that would do the trick.
He jogged down the strip, staying close to the buildings on the right side. After passing the first bunch, he came to a stretch of land with no cover for about a kilometer. He stopped, afraid of making himself an easy target for Wrobel. The nearest structure was about the size of a modest house, flanked by two satellite dishes and a radio tower. He checked the double doors at the main entrance, but they were locked. Around the corner he found a smaller window partially covered by a tree. Blasts from his palms shattered the glass. Pain shot through his burned thumbs again when he blasted, bringing tears to his eyes.
The building was thoroughly modern and professionally decorated. Four rooms lined the main hall, each with large glass windows and doors and labeled with metallic plaques with the official NWG Space logo of the earth surrounded by a fiery ring. Quick glances through each glass door showed empty cubicles. Finally he came to an empty conference room.
Inside the room was a holo-screen. His curiosity got the better of him, and he turned it on. The channel was broadcasting live news coverage from the launch site. A crowd of thousands had gathered to watch the takeoff. Sammy saw no panicking, no fighting, only excited people anticipating the launch. A small countdown in the corner of the screen showed how much time remained: four and a half minutes.
As Sammy watched, his heart thumped madly. Any moment the CAG would attack all those people. He muted the sound and cranked the window open slightly so he could listen for sounds. Everything was quiet.
The excitement of the small crowd built into a fevered pitch as the few remaining minutes ticked away. Sammy, on the other hand, became more and more anxious. Would the CAG wait until the shuttle launched and shoot it down? Would they attack at the last possible second so it could not be aborted? Where was Byron and what was he doing now?
Only thirty seconds remained.
The reporters’ enthusiasm visibly grew as the last seconds ticked. Sammy could read the lips of the audience members as they counted down in unison. Every few seconds the camera cut to shots of the technicians seated at their desks. Would all those people die?
His eyes hardly blinked as he stared, forgetting to breathe in the final moments. He was about to witness catastrophic destruction.
Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .
Through the open window, Sammy heard the rumbling of the space shuttle’s gigantic engines and on the screen he saw the lift off. The shuttle launched into the sky, ascending on a perfect line. Billows of smoke and fire curled and blossomed around its base, following it past the clouds. He observed with fascination.
The attack didn’t come. Why? What’s going on?
CRASH!
Sammy jumped in his seat. An orange and red light streaked down the hall. Footsteps approached the conference room at a run. He snapped his body around, positioning himself with trained precision into a solid defensive stance. He hoped to see Byron, but he expected to see Wrobel. It was neither.
Katie Carpenter had arrived. And she toted the biggest gun Sammy had ever seen.
She wore the traditional uniform of a Thirteen, and its shiny metallic surface told Sammy she was more prepared than their last meeting. A blast suit. Her nose was slightly larger, still swollen. The thought of her broken nose put a sadistic smirk on his face, but he wanted to do more than that to her. Hatred boiled inside him as fresh memories of their last encounter flashed in his mind. Toad’s raw meat-like body being carried away by medics, blood trailing from the cruiser in the hangar to the cruiser on the runway, his glazed eyes and his face as pale as the sheet that covered him.
Katie pulled the trigger and he heard a loud FFSSS! like the sound of dumping cold water on a hot pan. In all the training Byron had put him through at headquarters, Sammy had never heard a weapon that made such a sound. He crouched low, and used a broad shield to deflect whatever projectiles this machine could throw at him.
The next thing he knew, there was a blistering hot pain in his left leg—much worse than what he felt in his thumbs. A shrill scream exploded from his mouth. He wanted to glance down to see what happened, but Katie rushed him, using the weapon as a club. He tried to stand, but the pain in his leg was too intense. Instead, he did a half somersault and used his hands to blast himself to the ceiling. Katie swung at empty air, and Sammy kicked at her face with his good leg on the back end of his flip. He had to use his hand blasts to soften the landing, but with them he rolled to the back of the room, away from Katie. An office chair provided him some cover. The pain in his leg throbbed mercilessly, fetid smoke curled off his skin, but he saw no blood. Whatever it was, it had instantly cauterized the wound.
Why didn’t my blasts work?
Katie whirled to face him and fired through the conference room’s glass wall, this time using a handgun. The glass exploded, but Sammy threw himself to the side. Pain shot up the entire left side of his body starting at his injured thigh. He yelled out in agony, almost falling backward.
She’s aiming low, he noted. Why is she doing that?
Katie stepped through the remains of the wall, crunching on the broken glass with her military boots. The angle gave Sammy a better chance to observe her weapon: an enormous black firearm with a dull red light on the top. Katie swung again, this time at his head, but he held the weapon at bay with a blast. The Thirteen almost lost her balance from the momentum shift, and the larger weapon knocked the smaller one out of her hand. He used that opportunity to straighten his legs, but found it nearly impossible to move his left leg laterally, even trying to do so made him want to scream again.
The red light on her gun turned green, and she took aim again.
FFSSS!
Sammy blast-jumped into the room across the hall and hit the floor next to her handgun. He jerked it around, flicking back the hammer, but Katie was not in his line of sight.
He remembered the red light turning green. She’s waiting for her next shot.
The smell of burned plastic reached his nose. He looked around and saw that part of the chair had been melted away from her last shot.
Sammy cursed softly. He dared not move first . . . not without some clue as to where she lurked. That gave him an idea.
“Not trying to kill me, Katie?” he asked in his
most juvenile voice. “Above such things now?”
She gave no reply.
“Who’s calling the shots now, Katie? You answer to Commander Wrobel? Old Vicky? Is he your new girlfriend?”
The words came out easily enough but they did not take away the horrible ache in his leg, the burning in his thumbs (compounded by gripping Katie’s fallen gun), or the piercing fear in his mind. Katie was the one Thirteen that Sammy wasn’t sure he could defeat.
He heard a tiny sound like weight shifting on a few slivers of glass. He was pretty sure it came from the other side of the wall to his left. Was she in the room adjacent to him?
Using his hands as support, he scooted his body to his right to give himself a better angle. Katie must have heard the changes in his breathing, because at that moment she attacked. Again, Sammy noticed, she aimed away from any vital organs. His arm moved out of the way just in time, leaving him no chance to return fire. He felt the heat of the projectile graze his arm hair, and the next moment half of a palm-sized disk protruded from the carpet, smoking and singeing the fibers. From the combined effects of the pain and the overpowering scents of burning skin, hair, rubber, and carpet, Sammy felt nauseous and hazed.
It’s a blitzer, he realized. Al had told him about it during their Rio mission briefing. Super-heated discs that can cut through a blast shield. If he wanted to block one of these, he’d have to use a strong, concentrated blast. The thought of doing so made his thumbs sting.
Katie hid behind the wall again. Sammy decided not to go on the offensive with so little distance between them. Instead he got his good leg underneath him, and maneuvered the bad one as best he could. If he needed to move quickly, he could use feet blasts. He held the gun in his hands with a steadiness that surprised him.
Katie whipped around for her next shot with breathtaking speed. Sammy fired three rounds right as she emerged. Reacting with perfect timing, Katie used the massive blitzer as a shield. Something inside the weapon ruptured and a billowing plume of steam erupted from the punctures. Katie aimed the jet of hot air at Sammy trying to cloud his vision. He used feet blasts to shoot over the growing fog, but Katie anticipated this and swung the blitzer hard.