by Andria Stone
They moved around, bent over, kneeled, stretched, spared until Mark could accomplish these simple feats with comparative ease.
Sorayne emerged in her armor in time to see Mark thump Axel in the chest. “Dr. Warren, you break it—you buy it.”
“How much?”
“More than you can afford.”
“Maybe not.”
Axel shot him a questioning look.
Mark lowered his voice, “Remember the million credits in my account—courtesy of Coulter when she tried to blackmail me into giving her the data chip? I transferred them into a special fund. In case of my untimely demise, it goes to my family.”
Before Axel had a chance to comment, Sorayne motioned them over to a group of six soldiers, half of them women. “These are the officers leading my troops. They’ve been briefed about BioKlon—with schematics of the plant. You’ve both had experiences with the cyborgs and the agents she’s used that’s even more valuable.”
In a warning tone, Mark said, “Do not remove your helmets for any reason. It’s well documented that Coulter has a habit of using pathogens, viruses, tranq gas, paralytics, and lethal chemicals that liquefy human bodies. A dispersing system for any one of these agents could be triggered the minute you enter the plant.
“I understand no tunnels were found in Houston. Don’t let that fool you. Underground passageways exist all over Europe. Just because they’re not on the schematic, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
He covered every bit of pertinent information, finishing with, “…I’ve encountered these cyborgs three times. Never once have I heard them utter a sound. Which leads me to believe they were unable to communicate independently. They only followed programming. German cyborgs might be the same, or they could be upgrades.”
Axel stepped forward. “Coulter is treacherous, pathological, lethal—she will kill you. Don’t put anything past her. She’s about five foot three, weighs close to 150 and can disguise her appearance to look like a man as well as a woman, so you must disable everyone first, then faceprint all humans, without fail.
“Now about cyborgs—from experience, taking one down is not easy. Pulse weapons don’t seem to work. Projectile weapons do—so aim for the eyes. We’ve also seen evidence an old 12-gauge shotgun took off a cyborg’s foot at the ankle joint. Another option is the polymer foam setting on an M906. It worked to neutralize one of these cyborgs. Start at the head and work down—you might have to work in tandem.”
While Axel continued his briefing, Mark backed away from the group, looking for Sorayne. He spotted her leaning against a bulkhead double-checking her weapons while keeping an eye on the group dynamics. Not quite comfortable in his armor yet, Mark approached her with precise movements, careful not to trip in clear view of an audience. “Colonel, I’m sure you’ve been briefed on Operation Pandora—care to share what you hope to accomplish at Gerlingen, once we arrive?”
“Personally? I’d like to level the place. However, my orders are to secure all data, disable all personnel, segregate those with neural implants, and neutralize Coulter. Not necessarily in that order.”
“I thought this was a joint operation with the Euro Command?”
She snorted. “They’ve opted for a supporting role—the exterior is their AOR, area of responsibility and have set up a security perimeter surrounding the plant. They’re going to guard the gate and cut the power. Then after everything is over, pick up the prisoners. That way, if anything goes wrong, they can blame it on us.”
Mark had been scrutinizing her hands as they worked on the weapons while she spoke. “You’re augmented, and very adept at concealing it.”
“I wondered if you’d be able to tell.”
“I knew the minute you shook my hand this morning. I think you wanted me to know.”
She cracked a smile. “Dimitrios handpicked me for this operation on purpose. He was aware you designed human cyborgs—and I am one. He assumed I’d have a personal stake in making sure you stayed alive.”
“I’ve only been working in this field for about a year and a half. I only do upgrades.”
“I have your upgrades. New left arm and leg—six months ago. I am the product of your genius, Dr. Warren. You’ve made me what I am today.”
“Have you experienced any discomfort? Were there any problems with integration? Is there any slippage in the rotational torque?” He stopped short, realizing his rapid-fire questions had been unacceptable on several counts. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I…I rarely get to speak with a recipient.” He felt his face getting hot—his mom said his cheeks were the color of cotton candy when he got embarrassed.
“Not a problem, Dr. Warren. Ask away. I don’t mind at all.”
He hesitated, now more in control of his curiosity. Without hurrying, he paced his questions from a list that had been growing in his mind as he created new designs for limbs, hands, and fingers, always wondering about the actual assimilation of the new appendages. Sorayne even rolled up her sleeves so he could compare her arms. “The strength and elasticity in your subdermal tissue are incredible.”
“In the beginning, a few people were far less than complimentary of my new attributes. However, after a couple of broken arms, the message got around, ‘Don’t badmouth Maeve’.” A wicked smile tweaked at her lips. “Nowadays all the comments are positive. Oh, I’m sure some still say things behind my back—none to my face.”
Mark felt an enormous admiration for this woman; she’d triumphed over pain and ridicule to succeed where few others had. He also held the same admiration for Sgt. Kamryn Fleming, who’d overcome torture, then endured severe pain to earn a coveted position in the armored unit. Then there was Axel. Badass Sgt. Axel Von Radach. By now, he believed Axel had probably been born a badass. Mark admired—and respected—Axel. He was a friend…like a brother—a brother-in-arms. A brother with a gun, who had your back, was the best kind of brother to have. He had to tell these people, while he still had the chance.
“I’m sure Dimitrios has the greatest respect for you, as I do, to get the job done, ma’am. Regardless of any secondary motive, you might suspect. It’s an honor, Col. Sorayne.” Mark saluted her, not an easy thing for him to do in armor.
She waved back a salute, tilting her head; platinum hair spiked to perfection, staring at him with her green and blue eyes.
He returned to the group of officers, who were engaged in debating the finer points of urban warfare.
Axel drew him aside. “I saw you getting cozy with Sorayne back there. You planning on making a move?”
“No. Fraternization is a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Sergeant. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
“Well, it didn’t stop you on Luna with Lt. McDonnell—a general’s daughter.”
“Whatever happened between us was not entirely my idea.” A thought blossomed in his mind. “Wait…you weren’t watching me. You were watching the colonel; you have a thing for her? Oh, crap. That would be fraternization.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” He laughed. “It's written all over your face.”
Static buzzed from the ship’s PA system. A female voice warned over the comm, “Heads up people. Helmets on. Lock and load. Touchdown in five minutes.”
Sorayne joined Mark and Axel. “The comms in your helmets are synced to the officers and mine. Everyone has their orders. You two are consultants only. You’ll be the last ones off the ship and the first ones to return. You will not put yourselves in harm’s way, or I will shoot you myself.”
Soldiers hastened to their assigned seats preparing their troops for the chaos of combat.
Axel secured his helmet, instructing Mark as he completed each step. Mark accomplished the procedure without a mistake. Axel checked the connections, then spoke to him over the helmet’s comm, “Mark, no cowboy bullshit today—you understand?”
“Yeah—I got it. Just a consultant. No shooting. No killing.” Against his better j
udgment, Mark still found himself hoping against all odds that Beth Coulter was here. An overriding sense of excitement kicked in with the realization his journey for revenge might be ending.
Inside his helmet, Mark heard Sorayne’s voice issuing commands, “Touchdown in twenty seconds. Euro Command has just cut the power. The plant is dark. Set all your internal sensors to detect toxic compounds. Scan all doors for pathogens before entering. All Cybers to the mainframe server room. Alpha platoon will enter from the roof. Beta from the ground main entrance. Charlie encircling to the right. Delta to the left. No one leaves.”
The hatch opened. Black-clad armored troops spilled out onto the rooftop. The hatch remained opened as the ship angled around, descending to within inches of the ground. Armored soldiers poured out into the darkness of a German evening. The main artery of soldiers breached the plant’s front door. The other two branches split right and left, surrounding the building.
Mark followed the last soldier out. They raced inside. His helmet optics adjusted to the dark. Everything with a heat source glowed in night vision green. Bodies littered the floor. Since no fluids were present, he presumed they’d all been stunned, not shot.
A loud explosion detonated, drawing everyone’s attention to the far end of the building.
As he turned to look, Mark saw a movement in his peripheral vision. A streak of green fleeing around a corner. He spun toward the escaping form and raced after it, down a short hallway, around another bend and through a doorway, which was flung shut immediately. Mark reached the metal door. With one jerk, it came off its hinges. He was thrilled. He’d graduated to the rank of supersoldier.
From behind, Axel yelled, “Stop…”
But it was too late.
Mark had already taken two steps into the room and tumbled down a large open metal shaft.
Chapter 22
Axel had fallen for much too long. He was deep underground. As the angle of descent lessened, he slowed down, then shot out of the tube onto the ground, rolling twenty feet or more before crashing into Mark. He chinned a spot inside the helmet to comm in private, blocking any sound from escaping. “I told you to stop!”
“I would have—if I hadn’t fallen in the hole first,” Mark said.
“Where were you going?”
“I saw somebody jump up and run off. I tried to catch them.”
Sitting in the dark underground tunnel, they saw the green glow of heavily armed mercenaries running toward them. They couldn’t retreat. They couldn’t go forward. They were trapped.
“Don’t move. We’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Axel commanded. “Follow my lead. You’re a corporal. Use a fake name.” Axel rushed to send Sorayne a sitrep, including his armor’s internal GPS coordinates.
A large thickset man broke out of the pack. He motioned with his thumb for them to raise their faceplates. Moving the barrel of his rifle, he signaled for them to stand and walk in front of him.
The mercs were recognizable at a glance by long hair, beards, and facial scars—their employment benefits did not include military grade nanites. Ten of them carried rifles with bandoliers of explosives strapped over their paramilitary gear. No cyborgs among them.
As they trudged along, Alex stole a glance at Mark. He looked anxious, out of his realm, unsure of himself. It had to be an act. Mark swaggered when he was injured, sober, drunk—even after Axel had kicked his ass. Except…when he’d talked about his brother dying, and when he’d first seen his father in the hospital. This situation came nowhere near those, so yes, he was acting. Good. Theatrics could help when they created a diversion.
Axel kept searching for an avenue of escape. There weren’t any. Even if Mark knew how to use the weapons in his armor, they might have been able to take out some of the mercs, but not ten.
The leader barked orders. A few men ran forward to swing wide a pair of steel doors. They entered an enormous cavern where a pale bronze-colored spacecraft rested on pylons. He estimated it was fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, which made it a private business-sized craft. He looked up. Far above, stars shone through a large circular opening in the ceiling.
In less than a minute, they were all aboard. The elegant blue interior bore no resemblance to military ships; built more for comfort, with separate compartments to keep the lower echelons from interacting with the hierarchy.
The hatch was sealed. Time for a diversion had passed. Too late for an escape. Axel felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. They were seated five feet apart, with mercs guarding them at gunpoint. The ship vibrated as it gained altitude. It pitched right, nose up, with an increase in speed. These people weren’t wasting any time. No doubt about it—an emergency takeoff. He had no idea where they were being taken. Or why they hadn’t been questioned, much less interrogated. But he knew one thing. They were prisoners. Shit. Prisoners got tortured.
He caught a questioning look from Mark. Axel responded by mouthing “Sorayne.” He had to let Mark think help was on the way, if only to keep him from doing anything else reckless.
Coulter knew the TMD had seized the North American plant. She must have suspected the German plant was next. The fact people were still there mystified Axel. Everyone had more than enough time to run. Unless…the remaining employees had neural implants and been programmed to destroy data and inventory…at their own peril? Or to create her own diversion? Damn. A smoke screen. While she vanished.
Sorayne must have learned this by now. Axel had to figure out a way to send her a message anyway. He needed to wait for just the right moment.
***
The longer Mark sat with a gun pointed at him, the worse he felt. It was all his fault they were prisoners on a spacecraft bound for an unknown destination. To complicate matters, there was no way to tell if they were headed for another Terran location or outer space. But he needed to work on projected outcomes to this scenario, Rather than wallowing in self-disgust.
Had Coulter been at the plant, she would never have stayed until the last minute. She wouldn’t be on this ship. After the attack on CAMRI, she had fled to the Space Station. Coulter might go there again.
Most flights leaving Terra stopped at the Space Station before journeying to Mars. Maybe this vessel would meet up with her there.
No one here knew their identity—yet. When they did, his future would be very unpleasant. And that of Axel, too.
He’d gained insight to Axel’s aversion to torture. They must find a way to either get off at the Station, or cause damage to this ship to prevent it from leaving. In hindsight, he should have taken a few courses in Aerospace Engineering. Well, a hole anywhere in a spaceship would have to be good enough. He could jump the guards, grab two grenades. He stopped himself, stifling the urge to commit another stupid mistake when he remembered that Axel had said, “Follow my lead.”
The floor shuddered under his boots, forcing him back to reality. The ship had landed. The mercenaries’ stocky leader issued orders. Men responded by forming two lines in front of the hatch, except for the pair pointing guns at them. Were they offloading, or loading more people? On the outside chance Coulter might board this ship, Mark obscured his line of sight to keep from being recognized. He kept a watchful eye on Axel, waiting for him to make a move.
Through the opening, he caught the unmistakable smell of ocean air. Not much time had passed since leaving the German plant. They were on a coastline, he had no idea whether it was the North Sea, the Mediterranean, or the Atlantic.
New people climbed steps into the ship. The mercenaries separated into a barricade, forcing the newcomers to enter single file. They looked like teenagers but acted oddly dumbfounded and glassy-eyed. Several dozen dressed in white ballistic-proof jumpsuits.
In the flurry of activity, the men guarding them were distracted for a moment. He observed Axel flip down his faceplate, then a few seconds later back up again—just long enough to send a silent message to Sorayne.
A female wearing the same clothing as the youngsters
came from the front of the craft to meet them.
Mark was terror-stricken. His heart stopped. Beth Coulter stood less than fifteen feet away from him, except she looked thirty or forty years younger.
A clone. She had cloned herself. From her manner of greeting, the others too.
He turned to Axel for confirmation.
Axel stared in disbelief at this new version of Coulter, the color draining from his face.
Damn, damn, damn. The name BioKlon hadn’t been a misnomer after all, but a harbinger of prophetical magnitude. Coulter had added cloned humans to her list of malicious creations. He was almost afraid to consider if these were the only ones. What if she’d made not just one—but multiples of herself? Oh, crap. What a repugnant thought. And what of these other young people? They had no mothers, fathers, siblings, families. What futures awaited them? Holy…Coulter was literally planning on world-building with metal cyborgs, plus her neural implants—now add her clones to the mix—she planned to populate the outer reaches. She still needed Eva’s terraforming and his human augmentation research.
Waves of nausea struck Mark, pinning him back against his seat. A prolonged episode of hyperventilation followed. No, no, no.
It was all a hallucination. It couldn’t be real. He strained to open his eyes. A young Beth Coulter stood in clear view; a testament to aberrant science. Coulter’s Machiavellian aptitude was limitless. Mark bowed his head, vowing to Eric, that her crimes against humanity would not go unpunished. He watched as she led the group away.
The ship vibrated underfoot while it rose straight up for several minutes, then banked left and continued to climb.
His vivid memories of recent space travel told him they weren’t bound for another Terran destination. If they were headed for the Space Station—or father, he hoped the TMD wouldn’t blow this ship out of the sky with two of their own aboard, but would have a trap in place before they docked. Private spacecraft didn’t come with onboard weapons, although Coulter’s mercenaries might have found a way around that legality.