Silver rolled his eyes, apparently recognizing Roddy’s attempts to rile him. “Light, if you’ve been paying attention, you’d understand that Deirdre knows the capabilities and limitations of the Ravagers as well as anyone. She knows about the water. She knows the devices won’t harm anything composed of Diasteel, and I daresay she kept an armored suit of the material nearby once she seized upon her desire to smuggle her non-Select boyfriend off the planet on my ship.”
Roddy winced at the reminder of Deirdre’s infidelity, and sensed a similar flash of anger from Delaney. “So if she had such a suit, she’d be safe? How would she eat, though? Wouldn’t removing the suit put her at risk?”
“She’s a smart woman, Light. She knew about those issues, and even if she hadn’t she’ll improvise. She’s been planning this for a while in some fashion. Do you think it’s an accident that she stressed living so near the lake?”
Roddy sucked in a breath. He’d wanted to move away from the lake and the crowds, even outside the walls, where the rising unrest he sensed in the most populous areas of the cityplex put them—her, especially—at risk. She’d fought that, citing her desire to remain near the entertainment and dining options available within a short walk of their apartment home.
Was there a more critical reason for her desire to live where they lived?
He swallowed. “When I overheard her confession, she was at our apartment, hundreds of feet off the ground. If the machines took out the building, she’d need to survive a fall of some distance. Maybe your theorized suit of armor helps. Maybe she survives and gets buried when another building falls. If she survives all of that, hypothetically, she likely moves to the lake and the safety offered by the water.” He frowned. “Would she have a boat stowed there for that reason?” He wouldn’t doubt that Silver himself docked a yacht at the port, a boat Deirdre could use if it remained serviceable.
“Doubtful. She hated boats. And she wouldn’t think she’d need one. She wouldn’t expect to be left behind for long.”
Roddy frowned. “She’s expecting us to come after her.”
“Most likely.”
Delaney sighed loudly. “We should just pull up the images, sir. The longer we wait, the greater the chance something goes wrong in her survival efforts.”
Silver glared at Delaney, who lowered his head, acknowledging his sin in suggesting a course of action out of turn.
Roddy turned his shoulders and faced Delaney, highly aware of the fact that his hands remained tied behind him. “Images?”
Delaney said nothing. Roddy turned his attention back to Silver. “It’s useful to have visual imagery of the surface accessible here in the space station. We’ve used that capability to track our Select candidates and ensure they truly meet the profile built for them from our other data sources. We can pinpoint and watch areas on the planet. And we’ll use that ability to search for Deirdre. Like you said, she’s probably near the edge of the lake. And she’ll stand out in the newest images, because it’s not as if there’s anything there to hide her.” He smirked.
Roddy wished he could rip his hands free of his bonds and smash the man’s nose and knock out every one of his teeth.
Silver stood and moved to the wall behind him and tapped. An image appeared, showing the entire planet, a brilliant blue agate floating in the absolute darkness of space. Roddy had never seen such an image before; an actual rendering of the world from this angle would give away the existence of powered flight.
He stared in wonder.
His planet was beautiful. Full of vibrant colors. The oceans swayed, shades of blue and green mingling in a beautiful mosaic. White wisps of clouds swirled over the land and sea. The terrain exploded in vibrant greens, browns, and the small blue ribbons he knew to be rivers. He spotted the undeniable shapes of the great lakes, including the one he knew bordered the Lakeplex.
As his eyes moved there, Roddy cringed. The vibrant colors still evident elsewhere ceased near the lake and his city, replaced by a writhing dark mass that stretched out, hiding more and more of the vibrant colors of the living land.
Unable to do anything else, Roddy kicked the underside of the table. “Why?” His voice hissed, his throat and lips tight with his unbridled anger. “Why such thorough destruction? Why destroy such beauty?” His foot stung, feeling the impact of the kick even through the thick boot.
A dreamy look filled Silver’s eyes. “The phoenix was part of a mythology older even than me, Light. Its story is a lesson for all, the understanding that often one must die in order to reach one’s full potential. The planet looks beautiful from this distance, and yet it is sick, full of creatures who do little of use, holding others back. That version of our planet and the life upon it must die so that everything and everyone else can reach their full potential. We’ve selected those whose potential is greatest.” He narrowed his gaze at Light. “Like the phoenix, we will remake the world and everything in it, freed from the failures of the past, so that everything and everyone remaining might reach that full potential.”
Roddy’s teeth scraped together due to the pressure in his mouth, the only temporary outlet for the anger while his hands remained bound.
Silver motioned at the moving dark mass, a look of admiration on his face. “The coloring was my idea,” Silver chirped. “Having everything and everyone just vaporize without warning, with machines both tiny and transparent, seemed both dull and… non-sporting. I wanted to ensure that the swarm always remained visible. Survivors would see the Ravagers at all times, and know where they might flee to safety.” He smirked. “They change color, Light, to make them most easily visible based on the time of day. The machines are a deep black while the sun shines, and a white luminescent color at night.”
It wasn’t done for reasons of sport, though, Roddy realized.
Silver wanted people to know for the longest possible time that they’d die. Any survivor would eventually reach a point where they had nowhere left to run, and Silver’s idea meant they’d watch death approach.
“I won’t do it,” Roddy whispered, wishing he could kill both men by the fierceness of his tone and gaze. “I won’t go to the surface to look for her, even if it means she’ll die. I won’t let you discover the secret to my abilities. I won’t be part of this evil and madness.” He sat up straighter and returned Silver’s steely gaze. “Kill me now. Spare yourselves the illusion that I’ll live to help perpetrate this evil.”
Silver looked past him at Delaney, a look of grave concern on his face.
Then he burst into a raucous laugh, joined by Delaney’s booming chorus behind Roddy.
Silver wiped the tears from his eyes as he regained control. “Light, do you really think you can order us to do anything?” He shook his head. “You have no say in the course of your life, and that includes the decision to continue living.”
He fixed Roddy with that piercing gaze once more.
He knew it was coming this time. But that did nothing to prepare him for the excruciating pain erupting inside his mind. He welcomed the unconsciousness this time, having only enough mental control to hope that he’d never wake.
—————
WESLEY CARDINAL
—————
WESLEY WOKE SLOWLY, disturbed from his peaceful slumber by the sensation of something tickling his mouth. The sand remained warm and comfortable. His body still ached from the blood loss and bruises. General fatigue left him with no desire to escape his dreamless sleep.
The sensation of tickling increased, as if from a lover caressing his lips. That denied all logic; his luck of late offered no hint he’d find such good fortune.
The tickling sensation moved inside his mouth, squirming around.
What the…?
He shot up to his knees, fully awake, and expectorated the invader. He stared as the small crustacean landed on the soft sand, righted itself, and scurried back toward the water. He spat repeatedly, unable to get the sensation from the dry inside of his mouth. He raced
for the water, suddenly consumed with the feeling of other creepy, crawly creatures slithering all over his body. Or worse. Skin buzzing with a sensation of undesired contact, he hit the water running and dove beneath the waves, letting the water rinse away anything that might be using him as a temporary home.
He stood up, bent over, cupped his hands, and brought the fresh water to his lips, filling the inside of his mouth and spitting several times to make certain he’d cleared everything out. Then he drank deeply. He knew he must be dehydrated after a nap of unknown duration.
As he drank his fourth gulp of water at a more relaxed pace, he wondered how he’d performed the dive into the water with such effortless skill. How much of his former life and ability had they repressed?
He let his legs go limp, dropping below the surface of the cool water once more. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, trying to slick out the sweat and sand and dried blood matting it to his scalp. He finally stood back up and waded back to the beach.
The boat remained where the sandy beach merged with small patches of gravel interspersed with increasingly large spongy tufts of grass. He released the sacks from their restraints and removed one from the boat. After opening the flap, he pulled out clean clothing. With no one else around—everyone else was dead, he supposed—he didn’t concern himself with modesty, pulling the wet, bloodied clothing off until he stood naked. He pulled on underclothes and noted the scabbed-over gashes in his legs. Wesley dug out more healing ointment and slathered it on before donning the rest of his fresh clothing.
He looked better. But he still felt like one giant purple bruise.
The bags holding his food—the dried meat and vegetables he’d subsisted on during the grueling trip to the island—were torn apart. Local animal life hadn’t given him a break, availing itself of food sitting in the open without any sort of meaningful protection.
He glanced at the forest before patting the knife strapped to his leg. He’d get that stolen food back later.
Now, though, he needed to find the General.
Wesley saw two distinct sets of footprints leading from the sand into the forest. One, a larger, deeper print, no doubt belonged to the General. The second set suggested a smaller boot and a lighter individual. A woman, perhaps? Wesley frowned. He’d not considered the possibility that the General had female companionship here on the island.
Perhaps the General wouldn’t want Wesley around after all.
He sniffed out some of the water still inside his nose. Wesley sought a partnership intended for mutual survival. He’d not interfere with the General’s love life, if that’s what the dual set of footprints meant. There’d been no credible rumors of a romantic relationship involving Jamison, despite the fact that a modest percentage of those working for the General would gladly have served in that role. Wesley wondered if the General had been tipped off as to the imminent activation of the devices, or had undertaken his own preparations after seeing the test run that had robbed Wesley of his mind and his memories. And he wondered why a man like General Jamison, a man of such seemingly high character, hadn’t warned others of the attack.
He’d ask the General when he found the man.
Wesley moved onto the spongy grass and into the trees, following the footprints and noting the sudden microclimate drop in temperature. A shiver shook him, more from surprise than any deep chill. He remembered packing clothing for colder weather—one never knew when a disaster would strike and all clothing types were of potential need—but opted against moving back to the boat for a jacket. The cooler temperatures would aid his alertness levels.
He brushed aside spider webs that gave evidence to the rare human travel along these paths. Insects landed on him, attracted by the scent of the sweat surfacing despite the cooler climate. He brushed the flying pests aside, sliding his eyes back and forth between his forward path and the ground, intent on both maintaining his route and avoiding contact with branches above and anything that might slither or crawl below. Despite his wariness, he found the setting tranquil, a sharp contrast to the chaos and destruction back on the mainland. One could become accustomed to living here, thinking of it as home.
Perhaps, he mused, that’s exactly what Jamison and the presumed female companion had already established. A new home for a new world.
Anxious to know his standing, he pressed on, emerging twenty minutes later into a clearing. He felt a deep sense of surprise, shaking off his mild shock as he stared at his discovery.
Given the existence of a small bungalow here in the clearing, he shouldn’t have to worry himself about building a safe shelter for the evening.
The house had a quaint, old feel to it, standing two stories high with glass windows, a large porch that wrapped around the sides, and even a chimney for defending against the local climate’s wintery chill. Wesley tilted his head, noting the faint humming sound of electrical power generation and usage.
He frowned. This wasn’t something one built in a single day on a whim. This took time and planning. It took the money for the supplies and tools necessary to make it happen. Just how had the General managed to find the time to build this place while providing round-the-clock guidance for the Bunker?
More questions he’d ask. But given the oddity of the situation, Wesley decided that his safety could no longer be assumed. He pulled out the large knife, gripping it in a defensive fashion, eyes and ears alert to motion suggestive of an attack or a trap.
He took three steps toward the house and thought better of it, slotting the knife back in the sheath on his leg. If the General had prepared to such a degree, Wesley wouldn’t be able to defend himself from an attack with a knife. No sense inviting aggression by flaunting his weapon.
Or sneaking around. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hello? General Jamison? Sir? It’s me, Wesley! Wesley Cardinal!” He enunciated the words clearly, loudly, trying to keep the volume at a level that kept his tone from turning into a shout as that might be interpreted as a portent of ill will. He continued his casual, steady movement toward the house, eyes darting back and forth, looking for a sign of the General or the other person here with him. Perhaps there were multiple others here? It would certainly explain how the General had established such a substantial, complete home here on an otherwise deserted island.
He called out again as he reached the steps rising to the porch and front door. Receiving no reply, he climbed the steps, making no effort to silence his footsteps. The boots thudded loudly, echoing in the clearing, and the sound seemed an ominous omen. Wesley felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. He called out once more as he reached the last step and moved to the porch.
Still no sign of movement, no reply to his greeting.
He moved to the front door, noting the lack of squeaking in the boards of the porch. He took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound crackled through the clearing. “Hello?”
His voice echoed. But he heard no reply.
Strange.
His mind moved in a different direction. What if the second set of footprints belonged, not to a friend or lover, but an enemy? What if they’d waited here for him, taking him prisoner when he arrived, assuming himself safe on his private island?
Wesley bent down slowly and pulled the knife free once more. He stood up and grasped the handle before testing the door.
Unlocked.
He pushed the door open. It creaked loudly, filling him with a deep sense of foreboding.
Swallowing, Wesley stepped inside the house. He blinked; sunlight hit his eyes through upper level windows. The home included artificial lights as well, keeping the open floor plan well-illuminated. The large gathering space on this floor included a few sofas and chairs, and Wesley’s eyes snapped to them. The furniture looked somehow out of place, and when he glanced at the wooden floorboards, he saw deep gouges and scrapes, as if the furniture had been moved quickly and with little control.
As if there’d been a fight, a struggle. Was the
General hurt?
He glanced around the rest of the setting and spotted the recently patched small holes in the wall behind the most obviously moved sofa.
The patches covered holes similar in size to a bullet.
He gripped the knife more tightly, felt his heart racing and the cold sweat drip down his back. He fought to control the pace of his breathing. He had to stay calm. The General was in trouble. He needed to help the man.
A cold chill of dread creeped down his spine at the unmistakable sound of a gun hammer being cocked.
“Halt, stranger!” The voice gave no hint of evil or nerves. It was unnaturally high pitched, almost forced. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Was this the voice of the General’s assailant? The voice seemed at odds with someone able to set a successful ambush on an experienced soldier.
“I repeat: who are you? Why are you here? I require answers to my questions!” Despite the speaker’s efforts, the tone was anything but commanding. Wesley felt more amusement than fear, unable to ascribe to it any meaningful threat.
He felt like laughing.
Instead, he opted to comply with the requests. “My name is Wesley Cardinal. I work for a man named General Micah Jamison. A major calamity took place on the mainland, leaving it unsafe for human habitation. I moved to a boat I maintained and docked in the river south of the Lakeplex, floating into the great lake with the intent of locating an island, where I hoped to be safe until the end of this calamity. I spotted the General traveling in this direction, and managed to follow, hoping to join up and work together for our mutual survival.”
His confession was met with utter silence.
Wesley felt his nerves return once more. An immediate attack would be better; the waiting was far worse. He wished he could see the speaker and assess his ability to remove and disable the weapon aimed at his head.
The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Page 43