The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3

by Alex Albrinck

  Wesley remained silent, watching as the General placed a box upon the roof of a car. Though the General showed little strain, the roof of the vehicle sagged under the weight. He frowned. What was the General taking with him?

  Wesley, why are you not responding?

  And where was Jamison’s driver? He squinted again. The car was unmarked, a private, personal vehicle. So Jamison was driving himself. At this hour of the night?

  Jamison unlocked the vehicle, opened the rear door, and moved the heavy box inside. He shut the rear door and slid behind the wheel.

  Wesley, I expect a response. If I do not receive one, I shall be forced to ensure your continued survival through unpleasant means.

  Jamison shut the door.

  Wesley exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d held. “Jami—”

  Jamison rolled down the window, and Wesley ceased speaking immediately.

  What was that? Who is Jamie, Wesley?

  Wesley grunted once. Jamison’s head snapped toward the stairwell. Damn. The man had better hearing than he’d thought.

  Wesley, I am disappointed with your lack of responsiveness. And…

  He didn’t hear the rest. Jamison backed from his parking spot and drove toward the stairwell. Wesley risked slinking further into the shadow as the General trained his headlights into the opening.

  …will initiate punishment in ten seconds if you do not provide a status. Ten… nine… eight…

  Wesley felt a bead of perspiration leak from his forehead. A second dribbled down his back. He tried to keep his breathing steady and silent, even as his muscles tensed.

  …seven… six… five…

  He could hear the vehicle inching forward, the tires rolling over the small pebbles and loose pavement lining the garage floor. He could almost feel Jamison straining his ears, trying to determine if someone watched from the shadows, or if it was mere imagination.

  …four… three…

  He risked inching his arms up to his head even as he slid silently to his knees. He would die here, killed by the General after he screamed in pain.

  …two…

  The car accelerated away.

  “Jamison’s here,” he whispered.

  The countdown stopped and the Voice went silent.

  “I think he’s gone now.”

  Are you inside the facility?

  Right. No apology for scaring him out of his wits. “Still in the garage. Had to wait for the General to leave.”

  If the Voice wondered why the General might still be here at this hour, she—or he—made no mention. Head to the first rendezvous point and communicate when you’ve arrived.

  He rose from the ground, raising his arms in alarm. Had he sweated that much in his thirty seconds of terror? He shook his head, checked that his pack remained affixed to his back, and walked at a brisk pace across the garage to the Bunker entry, his head swiveling around as he searched for any other surprises.

  He found none.

  Ten minutes later, he was in the hallway, breathing in the antiseptic scent of the cleaning performed after each shift change. He didn’t care. The nameplate on the door opposite him monopolized his vision.

  General Micah Jamison.

  “I’m here,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure why he bothered whispering. Nobody should be wandering the hallways at this hour. Of course, he shouldn’t be here either, but he had important work to do this night.

  Enter the following code to unlock the General’s door: two-four-six-oh-one.

  Wesley whispered the numbers back to ensure accuracy. He pulled the pack off his back and located a thin pair of gloves, which he donned before entering the code on the keypad by the General’s door.

  The lock clicked open. Wesley didn’t wait to be told the next step. He turned the handle, slid inside, and closed the door silently behind him. “I’m in.”

  Sit at the General’s desk. You will note a small drawer at the top of the right side of his desk. Open the drawer.

  Wesley did so. “It’s… empty.”

  The bottom may be removed to reveal what you seek.

  Huh? He reached into the drawer and pushed on a corner. To his surprise, the bottom moved. He maneuvered the bottom from the drawer, revealing a small foam container holding…

  “It looks like a security badge,” he said, frowning.

  Take the badge and move to the end of the hallway, Wesley. Ensure the door is closed behind you.

  Shaking his head, Wesley grabbed the badge and moved to the end of the hallway.

  “It’s a dead end.”

  Wave the badge in the precise center of the wall seven feet above the ground.

  Feeling more foolish than he’d ever felt in any of his limited memories, Wesley waved the badge, wondering if the Voice had him on camera now and was laughing.

  To his shock, he heard the click of a releasing lock. “It—”

  The badge reader is centered above a door with no visible seam. Push on the right edge of the door to open it.

  Well, every other foolish command had worked. He estimated where the “right edge” of the invisible door ought to be and pushed. He heard a faint whirring noise, and a seam appeared in the wall. The door slid away from him and then slid to his left, revealing an opening leading… somewhere. He scrambled through the doorway. Ten seconds later, the door slid back into position.

  Wesley glanced around. He stood on the slatted metal intermediate landing of a long staircase. The metal steps rose before him, seemingly without end, likely terminating at ground level. A secret escape out of the Bunker. He wondered if the General ever made use of this exit.

  To his right…

  Take the steps to your right down to the bottom. The badge in your hand will open the door there. That is your final destination.

  He shivered at the word final, wondering just how final it might be.

  He started down the steps at a brisk pace before realizing each footfall generated notable vibrations and excessive noise in the space. He slowed down, using the handrails to lighten his footsteps until he reached the bottom. A massive metal wall greeted him, with another door and badge reader in the center.

  He walked to the door and found the badge had fallen from his pocket.

  He growled and looked around, spotting the badge thirty feet away on the smooth concrete. He glanced at the metal stairwell as he passed, grabbed the side, and shook. It gave away easily. He wondered why Jamison didn’t get anyone to tighten a few bolts. It seemed like a safety hazard, and the excessive noise might be heard in the nearby offices.

  He snorted, realizing that was likely the precise reason the General left things as they were.

  He picked up the badge and jogged across the concrete floor to the door, swiped the badge, and entered after the lock disengaged. The space inside was nearly dark, with just a faint bit of track lighting on the nearest wall. He spotted a light switch on the wall and flipped it on, blinking as the lights burst to life.

  Are you in the room, Wesley?

  “Yes,” he replied as his eyes adjusted.

  The room was roughly a fifty-foot cube, the interior dominated by a large round holding tank. The upper portion, rising nearly twenty feet off the ground, was made of a clear material that provided a view to whatever might be inside. A quick glance told him that the burnished metal wall of the lower portion, like the clear upper dome, was nearly a foot thick.

  Whatever might be inside that tank had to be dangerous. He moved closer and saw large piles of a thick black ooze, a substance that looked like mold. Was Jamison running a science experiment in a secret underground lair with a tank that could withstand all manner of assault?

  “What are they doing with that tank? They could detonate small bombs in there without making a dent in the walls.”

  One must detonate the correct type of bomb to make a dent in those walls, Wesley.

  “But—”

  And then he knew. The bomb that he’d received in the mail. That was the “co
rrect” type of bomb to make a dent in the walls of the tank.

  Move to the far side of the tank, Wesley. You will find a deposit chamber there. The badge will open the door to the chamber. The chamber will seal before the package is delivered into the tank.

  He nodded, though the Voice couldn’t see him. He moved and found the deposit chamber, waved the badge, and watched as a door three inches thick slid into the ground. He cringed. They’d built this tank with metal, probably Diasteel, and had meant it to contain anything capable of threatening the populace.

  He pulled off his backpack, pushed aside the lock picking kit he’d not needed after the code to the General’s office worked, and found the bomb. The bomb was the size of a piece of paper, perhaps three inches thick. There was a small touch screen built in, with a faintly illuminated icon reading “Activate” in red text. The Voice had told him about the button on the ride here. He pushed his gloved hand against the button, and the Activate icon vanished. He placed the bomb in the deposit chamber, screen down, and checked the tank’s control panel. He tapped the icon to close the chamber and slid around the side, watching as the bomb slid out ten seconds later, landing in a pile of the black ooze. The coloring of the bomb made it nearly impossible to notice unless one knew where to look.

  “What is that oozy stuff? It looks like some kind of mold. What good will detonating a bomb do?”

  You do not recognize the oozy stuff, Wesley?

  He frowned. “Should I?”

  Return to the General’s office, Wesley, and replace the badge. You are then free to return home. Your work here is done.

  His frown deepened. Why hadn’t the Voice answered his question? The non-answer made him think he should know what the substance was, and his lack of knowledge was something the Voice found advantageous.

  He knew better than to ask questions.

  As he rode home in the crisp night air, another concern reared itself. His work here was done. He’d just planted a powerful bomb inside a hidden military base, no doubt meant to inflict casualties, and perhaps do something with the black ooze he was probably supposed to recognize and didn’t. He’d probably sentenced dozens or hundreds of people to death. His work here was done.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he wondered if he’d even make it home alive.

  —————

  RODDY LIGHT

  —————

  …wealthy employed small armies of personal assistants, bodyguards, and specialists, many of whom served only when summoned by their employers, lest their true numbers be known…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 434

  HE KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG the instant consciousness replaced sleep.

  He looked around wildly in the dark, expecting the deafening roar of gunfire, the shouts of soldiers and the screams of men dying. His muscles tensed as he prepared to meet the threat.

  As he woke to full consciousness, he realized he was sleeping in his own bed, and the only noise came from his imagination.

  Why had he woken up, then? He glanced at the clock. He’d awoken earlier than usual, before his mental alarm clock sounded. He glanced over at Deirdre.

  Deirdre wasn’t in the bed.

  He sat up quickly.

  The light wasn’t on in the bathroom. He took a deep breath, searching for any indicative odors, while he sprinted into the bathroom and closet area to search for her, flipping on the lights and blinking to help his eyes adjust. He detected no scent of food to suggest she’d woken up for an early breakfast, nor an aroma of smoke or fire to suggest some calamity.

  He hoped in the case of fire she’d think to wake him before racing to leave the building.

  Then he wondered if she’d set a fire. If his instincts were correct… she might feel pressure to leave him in any manner possible.

  He sprinted down the hallway and saw the light snaking from beneath the door to his office. He opened the door and jumped inside, prepared for the worst.

  Deirdre hung upside down from the ceiling, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

  He stared at her. Her body was slicked with sweat, and the combination of perspiration and light fabrics made for a look he found… alluring. It took him a moment to remember he’d been worried for her safety.

  She bent at the waist and curled her body up toward her feet, then slowly curled back down, accentuating every abdominal muscle in the process. He felt his jaw open. He’d never seen her exercise in such a manner before.

  Deirdre finally realized he was watching as she stretched out at the bottom of the crunch. “Hey,” she said, breathing heavily. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  He blinked, still distracted by her appearance and sudden interest in intense, early morning exercises that showed off her figure to the fullest degree. “Shouldn’t you?”

  She curled up once more and grasped the handle before unclasping her feet. Seconds later, she landed on the ground. She scooped up a towel and mopped the sweat from her face and neck. “Today’s supposed to be the last day of that huge project we’ve been working on, and I couldn’t sleep. I thought a Roddy-style workout might wear me out enough that I’d force myself to sleep.” She nodded at the clock on the wall. “But it looks like I need to take a shower and get ready to head to the office instead.”

  He nodded. She’d suffered bouts of sleeplessness before, generally associated with stressful periods at work. He wondered if the ending of the project might be a euphemism for ending the relationship with her lover, and wondered further if he could forgive her if she stopped before he ever proved her guilt. Could he find fault in her if he couldn’t prove anything? “I was worried when you weren’t in bed.”

  She reached out to him and patted his cheek. “You’re sweet to worry about me.”

  He smiled. “Anything you can talk about?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. We have to finish the testing for a new composite of our primary material.”

  “A new composite?”

  “Yeah.” Her face changed when she spoke about her job. “The standard Diasteel composite is designed for a very specific purpose, but from an engineering perspective, the key point is that once it’s poured and cooled, it’s not supposed to… flex. The new composite is designed to retain the same surface strength while bending.”

  He considered that information. “Couldn’t you just use a hinge if you need to separate pieces to bend?”

  She nodded. “You could, depending on the application. Sometimes, though, you might need a continuous single piece, one that can’t be bolted together.”

  He frowned. “But—”

  She looked down. “I don’t know why it’s needed. I just build the material to spec and let others decide what to do with it.”

  He hadn’t missed the fact that she’d looked away. Which meant she probably knew exactly what they’d build with the new material, and it was something she didn’t want him to know. Diasteel—the material, not the company—had been a critical component to the construction of the massive cityplexes housing humanity these days. The walls were brick and concrete, extended as population expansion demanded. But they ran out of willing volunteers to climb over the existing walls to lay the new boundaries. Cultural pressure to rebuild humanity’s numbers after centuries of excessive death rates meant they needed to add new living space on a constant basis. Those two factors gave them only one option.

  Build up.

  But they lacked material with the strength to support buildings more than a few floors tall. Oswald Silver’s grandfather, though, had hit upon a solution, one that blended various materials together to form a material of incredible load-bearing strength. Suddenly, humanity could build up, higher and higher, reaching for the sky, just as they’d done in the mythical Golden Ages. Mining was a high-risk job, calling adventure seekers out into the Hinterlands to risk death, and that was excluding whatever threats existed outside the mines.

  Now they wanted a new variant of that critic
al material, one that extended Diasteel’s reach in flexible, bendable forms.

  She’d given him a clue as to what was coming, intentionally or not. He couldn’t figure out what it meant.

  His efforts at quiet contemplation shattered when she stepped in close, pressing herself against him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I should… probably go shower.” She pulled his head down for a deep kiss before pulling away and arching a suggestive eyebrow. “Unless you have other ideas?”

  He had plenty of ideas.

  But he had to remind himself of the evidence suggesting she’d been unfaithful, and the likelihood that her secret flexible Diasteel project likely meant some fighting times were imminent. “I should probably get my workout in now. It’s been several days since Mr. Silver has required my services, and I suspect I’m overdue for a summons.”

  She backed away from him, pure confusion etched across her face. “Oh.” She looked down. “I… guess I’ll go get ready for work, then.” With a final baffled look, she turned around and left the room.

  His body screamed at his mind, not understanding why he’d failed to accept her proposition. He set to work, pushing himself harder than he’d ever pushed himself before, beyond the points of physical and mental exhaustion, and into a state of concentration so deep he barely registered the sound of her footsteps moving by his office on the way out the door.

  When he collapsed on the floor, he knew that it would be impossible to move even if a squad of Eastern soldiers burst through his door at that moment.

  Five minutes later, he found enough movement ability in his limbs to crawl down the hall into the shower. He flipped the water on cold, lacking even the strength to cry out as the icy shards blasted his skin. Gradually, he pushed himself to a standing position, letting the frigid waters soothe his aching muscles and cool the desire for his wife still so prominent in his mind.

  He finally emerged, dried off, and dressed in the loose-fitting tan uniform he wore during his working days with Oswald Silver. The man hadn’t summoned him in over a week, and Roddy knew from experience that the longer between summons, the more intense those summons would be.