The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3

by Alex Albrinck

  Mission accomplished.

  The memories were there with crystal clarity, and when he squinted his eyes shut due to the bright light of the rising sun, the images were there. Weapons of incredible ferocity able to operate in defined regions without risking a single soldier. Dreams of that single enhancement that would turn a weapon capable of ravaging a building with ease into something far more powerful. He’d doubted they’d succeed with their development goals.

  The sight before him suggested such doubts were no longer pragmatic.

  The more immediate concern: had the enemy taken the weapon away? Had they packed it inside the box he’d sent with Sheila and the others?

  Or were remnants still around?

  He glanced at the crater before him.

  There was only one way to know with certainty.

  He circled the perimeter, looking, until he found a sizable rock. It wouldn’t classify as a boulder, but he required both hands and considerable strain to lift it from the ground. He spun once, twice, three times, gathering momentum, and released the rock. His momentum caused him to get too near the edge, and he windmilled his arms to restore balance, watching as loose dirt skittered down the smooth sides into the crater below, listening as the soft collisions of pebbles on the embedded rock below echoed loudly in the quiet of the early morning.

  He found the falling rock and watched as it landed, feeling the thud deep within, as if the reverberations shattered him.

  Jamison tensed, waiting, feeling his pulse race in anticipation of… what, exactly? He realized that he had no idea what the activated weapon might look like. Would he notice it in time to attempt escape? Or would he simply die in an instant?

  He waited. Thirty seconds. One minute. Three minutes. Five minutes.

  He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  Nothing remained outside that box.

  The memory of those few moments of waiting for his imminent death rooted deeply in his mind the rest of the day. He canceled meetings and returned to his home, spending the time to activate contingency plans of his own. Micah Jamison hadn’t risen to the level of General by allowing events to happen to him. He anticipated, prepared, and ensured that he wasn’t surprised. Ever. Much as he’d hoped this day would never come, he’d planned for it. And now he activated his own efforts against those who’d use that weapon. He couldn’t stop it if they’d already set things in motion, especially since he knew who had set things in motion.

  But he could have his own say in the final outcome.

  That was something they could never anticipate.

  As night fell, he drove his ground car to the now-empty office building. He’d gotten texts from Sheila, letting him know that they’d moved the box to his personal office on the top floor without “significant” interest. Her other text piqued his interest. She’d long shown a keen intuition, unraveling the complex from limited clues, and the fact that she’d ascertained that some part of whatever had caused the unusual evaporation of a large building might remain behind at the site was further evidence of that skill.

  His footsteps clattered on the marble flooring. He’d exchanged the heavy boots worn to the site of the incident for a more casual shoe, and each step echoed like the sound of a far-off gunshot. He could smell the chemicals hanging in the air. The cleaning crews had already gone, but not before leaving their mark—or rather, removing them—from the office tower.

  He rode up the elevator. He’d need to get the box to the holding tank, because—

  He froze as he opened the door to his office.

  Sheila Clarke was there, head resting upon the table in the corner of his space. The deep breathing told him she’d fallen asleep, waiting there for him. After a moment’s pause to get over the surprise, he adjusted his plans. Sheila woke slowly at his gentle prodding, then bolted to her feet as she realized where she was… and who had woken her.

  “General!” She snapped a sharp salute. “Sorry, sir, I… I guess I was tired.”

  He frowned at her. “Why aren’t you at home, Sheila?”

  “Each time I tried to leave I noticed people looking at your office and… well, I guess it became obvious that people thought the warning to stay away was some form of reverse psychology, sir.” She offered a sheepish grin. “They love you, sir, and each of them wanted to be the one to stage the new piece of artwork in your office.”

  He tilted his head. “Artwork?”

  She nodded. “That was our cover. You’d bought a new piece of art, a sculpture, and would be opening, unpacking, and displaying it in a manner of your choosing. You’d insisted on being the one to open the box for the official unveiling.”

  “So you decided to stay and guard the box? Even though I told you it was dangerous?”

  “I…” She frowned. “I guess I thought it best I keep others away. At least I knew it was dangerous. The others? They’d unknowingly unleash some catastrophe if I walked away. So I stayed.”

  He considered both the loyalty and courage demonstrated by her actions, and decided to trust her. “I need your help, then, Sheila. We need to move the box.”

  “I’d gathered that, sir. I just don’t know where. I know we could move it… below. That doesn’t secure the box any more than it is here, though.”

  He nodded. “There are secrets you’ve not yet learned about what lies below. There is a place where I know we can store the box and sleep soundly, knowing that we’re safe from what’s inside.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, sir, because—”

  “And once it’s in that storage space, we’ll open the box to be certain we know what’s inside.”

  She paused. “Wait. You want to open a box with contents that could… kill us all?”

  He offered her a grim smile. “Precisely.”

  —————

  WESLEY CARDINAL

  —————

  …lack of commercially available materials made explosive devices of any size rare outside the few active theaters of fighting among the two great global Alliances…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 727

  HE SAT UP IN BED, BREATHING DEEPLY.

  The dream faded from his mind. He’d relived the embarrassing moment from six months earlier when Sheila Clarke had loudly called for his immediate termination, leading to more than a few laughs at his expense the next week. His memory had shattered years earlier; his mind could not recall what he’d done—or not done—to draw her condemnation.

  He only knew that he hated Sheila Clarke.

  That hatred was tempered only by the fact that he found her wildly attractive. The few wisps of the dream remaining in his consciousness suggested that the two of them had acted on the latter in that dream world.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  The buzzing sounded once more in his mind.

  He scowled.

  His short- and long-term memory were both in tatters. He had some intangible, indescribable sense that he’d once possessed far more mental vitality than he showed in the present. That mental vitality was as fleeting as his dream world fixation on the beautiful demon-spawn known as Sheila Clarke, something others never saw. They saw only a man who talked to himself.

  But he wasn’t talking to himself.

  He couldn’t remember a time without the Voice reverberating inside his head. The sudden buzzing in his mind, as if connecting two mobile phones over extreme distances, signaled him that the Voice would speak. Wesley couldn’t initiate those connections. It was one aspect of the many he detested about that arrangement.

  Middle-of-the-night wakeup calls were another. He wished the Voice had a silent mode he could activate.

  Wesley.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes?”

  It is time for you to act.

  He glanced at the clock. “At this hour? It’s quite dark outside.”

  It is the ideal time to act for that reason. Dress, and inform me when you are prepared to
speak once more.

  He wondered if he could just go back to sleep. If he didn’t respond, would the Voice think he struggled with clothes selection? Speaking of which… “What should I wear?” He didn’t know what “act” the Voice had in mind; best to dress appropriately.

  Dress in your work clothes.

  Wesley rolled his eyes. “My work clothes? My shift doesn’t start for another nine hours, though. If I’m just going to work, I should just go back to sleep and—”

  The high-pitched shriek inside his head was like fingernails on a chalkboard, but far more potent. He screamed and grabbed his head with his hands and forearms, squeezing. This was the worst aspect of the arrangement. The Voice could activate a painful sound only Wesley could hear, and that pain delivery system meant the Voice could make Wesley do anything.

  The noise lasted just a few seconds this time. It was enough. Wesley found his work clothes and dressed without further protest. “I’m dressed.”

  You must pack supplies in order to complete your mission, Wesley.

  He felt his pulse quicken. Annoying though the Voice might be, he—or she—had proved useful in getting him the information he needed for his podcast and for the personal education sessions like the one in the restaurant the day before. “What supplies will I require?”

  Did you receive the package sent to your home?

  He felt a chill trickle down his spine and sucked in a breath. He’d thought the box had been delivered as a prank, for there’d been no sender name, no return address, no markings of any kind. He’d tossed the package into his trash bin. But it was salvageable. He wondered what the Voice would do to him—and for how long—if he’d discarded the box or rendered it unusable for his mission. “I got it.”

  Take the package, along with a flashlight and your lock picking equipment, and enter your place of work. I will be in contact with you again at that time.

  “But what am I supposed to do when I get there?”

  He heard nothing but full silence. The Voice had severed the connection.

  Wesley sighed. He found a backpack, dug a flashlight out of his nightstand drawer and tested the rechargeable batteries, and then located the lock picking kit he’d gotten… well, he wasn’t quite sure when he’d gotten it or how he’d learned to use the tools. It didn’t matter. He knew, and the Voice would make use of his talents.

  After a quick snack—for all he knew, the Voice would lead him directly into the hands of the police and he’d be detained for days without food—he set the alarm systems and locked the exterior door. He then headed to the trash bin and pulled out the package. He tested the weight. Then he tore the paper off the package and opened the box.

  Wesley sucked in a deep breath.

  The surface was smooth, a metallic material he didn’t recognize. But it was the digital readout and the activation button mounted flush with the surface that helped him understand what he was holding, and what it was he’d be asked to do.

  He put the device in his backpack, inhaled the cool night air, exhaled deeply to calm his nerves, and mounted his scooter. He drove off his property to the primary roadway, with only one question on his mind as he headed for his place of work.

  Where in the Bunker would the Voice ask him to plant the bomb?

  —————

  RODDY LIGHT

  —————

  …the inevitable intertwining of the production factories of the great corporations with the war-making organizations of each Alliance proved inevitable…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 499

  RODDY HAD NOTICED THE GRADUALLY deteriorating conditions and mood of the populace during his daily walks. His sense of foreboding grew, and with it his concern about his wife’s safety. They’d managed to avoid the common ostracism associated with their childless state; in a population still struggling to rebuild its numbers after the centuries of desolation, there were strong social pressures to generate many offspring. Oswald’s people had let the news leak that a childhood illness prevented Deirdre from conceiving. But this new feeling was something different, something not directed at them for their social improprieties. It was a sense and a mood that the populace’s rising anger at something might soon erupt into a state of war.

  He knew that feeling all too well, and had no desire to have his wife present inside a walled city should open conflict erupt.

  Three months earlier, he’d suggested that they move.

  “Move outside the cityplex walls?” Deirdre’s tone crossed between horror and bemusement. “Please tell me you’re joking. Whatever threat you’re overactive imagination is seeing develop inside the walls is nothing compared to what lies outside.”

  “Are you sure?” He’d seen a slight flicker in her eyes. “You notice it, too, don’t you? It’s not a coincidence that you’ve started taking that armored car—”

  “I have a car and driver because Oswald Silver finds it appropriate for a key Diasteel executive to have a car and driver.” Her tone had turned chilly. “We’re not moving to the Hinterlands, Roddy. My father would be very… displeased.”

  “But you’ve noticed the change in mood, the change in tone. You’ve been more skittish of late, more distant…”

  “I’ve been under quite a bit of strain at work. There’s a… project nearing completion that’s quite taxing and I’ve… not been sleeping well.” Her eyes switched from gloom to mischievous, and she ran her hand down his chest. “Help me out with that?”

  He’d helped.

  He’d finished his daily walk. He’d left Special Forces, but he still wanted to know the goings-on in his city. He watched how people interacted, watched their faces, listened to their words. Where the gleaming towers permitted, he basked in the warm sunlight, and glanced longingly at the walls. He felt caged by walls he’d been told were there to protect him from the Hinterlands, the space outside the walls where all manner of unspeakable danger rested. Roddy wondered if that unspeakable danger was freedom.

  As he sat in his office, listening to the silence of his empty apartment, he recounted that conversation with Deirdre, and others like it. His suspicious mind had moved unerringly to her general nerves and fatigue to the effort to have an affair and try to hide it from him, knowing as she did that he didn’t fool easily. As he reviewed the reports about troop movements, though, he considered an alternative, one less ego-damaging but far more ominous for the world at large.

  He’d made friends in his old life. Friends who had connections in the military and the government and the business world. Friends who knew that his employer was ensconced deeply in each of those areas. Oswald Silver might not be a man of evil intent, but his reach gave him power greater than any president or general.

  His phone buzzed, a unique vibrating signal identifying the caller as a friend from the old life. He had sixty seconds to find a secure space where he’d not be overhead before answering. His empty apartment qualified.

  “Gambit. It’s been a long time.”

  He didn’t know Gambit’s real name, nor did Gambit officially know his. Given his prominence in social media due to his marriage to the only daughter of the most powerful man in the Western Alliance, he doubted his real name—or the ironic nature of his code name—still escaped Gambit’s knowledge.

  “Matches, it’s never good news when we talk.”

  Roddy snorted. “Truer words were never spoken.” He frowned. “You saw the troop movements?”

  “Heard about it three days ago. I don’t think it’s a drill.”

  “Nor do I. I think they’re prepping an invasion.”

  Gambit inhaled a deep breath. “I don’t doubt that, but what makes it seem more likely this time?”

  “My wife.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Cut the crap, Gambit. You know damn well who I married.”

  He didn’t deny it. “May I ask how your wife has led you to the conclusion that East is heading our way with malevolent intent?”


  “Combination of factors. She’s been working far more than ever and seems highly skittish when she’s home. She won’t talk to me about what she’s working on. She refuses to acknowledge the deteriorating mood in the plex and get the hell out of here, telling me whatever’s in the Hinterlands is far worse than what might happen here. Couple that with East’s troop activity levels…”

  “You’re insane, Matches.” He could almost hear his colleague shaking his head. “Wife being busy at work means we’re going to be invaded soon?” There was a pause. “I don’t like to bring up bad news, buddy, but there’s another reason she might be acting that way.”

  Roddy felt his face turn warm. “The thought never before occurred to me. Thanks for making me think about it.”

  “You suck at lying, Matches.”

  Roddy growled low in his throat. “Ignoring your implications of my potential marital issues, let’s consider the larger picture. Papa-in-law will have his fingers in everything. He’ll know if something’s coming. He’ll be ramping up production of war-making machines and supplies, and everyone in his direct chain of command will get pulled in to make sure they meet the increased demand. With me so far?”

  “I still think you’re reaching.”

  “I challenged her on the idea she doesn’t notice the changing mood in the plex. She couldn’t hide the truth; she’s noticed it. Yet she still insists we stay put.”

  “So what?” Gambit sounded bored. “Daddy can put a squad of bodyguards on patrol around the clock. She’s got her big, strong, manly husband there to protect her as well. Why should she worry?”

  Roddy chose to ignore the jibe. “Exactly. Why should she worry? Minor social discontent shouldn’t be enough to worry a woman who can, as you say, get a squad of bodyguards to protect her.” He paused. “And that would be the case even if we lived outside the walls.”