by James Walker
A minute later, the hatch swung open and the guards returned. The leader eyed Pierson's and Vic's blood-soaked forms, then turned to Amos and asked uncertainly, “Um, how did it go, sir?”
“I couldn't get anything out of them,” Amos replied. “It seems they aren't Theran agents, after all.”
“Shall I try some of the other prisoners?” the guard asked.
“No,” Amos said. “I'm convinced that there's nothing to be gained from them. Besides, I'm in a hurry. Take them back to their cells. I'll report my findings and return to base.”
“Yes, sir.”
The guards released the restraints, then dragged Vic and Pierson to their feet and hauled them back to their cells. Unseen by the guards, they exchanged brief grins. For the first time since their imprisonment, they had a glimmer of hope.
66
The next day, the guards returned and marched the prisoners out of their cells, up the long stairwell, and out of the bunker. Outside, they found a large, Tribal-class transport helicopter and a gunship waiting for them. The guards placed shackles on the prisoners' wrists and ankles, then prodded them up the boarding ramp into the transport. Three guards clambered into the transport after the prisoners and seated themselves across from them, then the transport and its escort took off and turned on a southward course, churning up dust until they reached a higher altitude over the rocky dunes.
Vic traded meaningful glances with his comrades. Upon returning to their cells, he and Pierson had informed the others of their meeting with Amos and had discreetly distributed the corrosive capsules. They all knew that death awaited them if the transport reached its destination. They were tensed and ready to spring into action at the first opportunity, save for Celeste, whose injuries had barely allowed her to climb the stairs without collapsing.
The transport and its escort traveled for over two hours with no sign of rescue, passing first over many kilometers of arid barrens, then the rolling waves of the sea. Then they reached land again and entered a more fertile region of emerald green hills and forests.
One of the guards perked his head up and frowned. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” his companion asked.
“Sounds like an engine or something.”
“You probably just hear the gunship.”
The first guard shook his head. “It's not a helicopter. It's totally different, like a rocket or something.”
The other guard started to reply, then tilted his head, listening hard. “Hey, you know what? I think I hear it, too. And it's getting louder.”
The third guard stood up. “I'll check it out.”
He walked to one of the viewports and peered out. “I don't see anything out there. No, wait. I see a couple of flight-model exosuits. Pretty far away, but they're closing fast. Hard to tell from this distance, but I think they've got SLIC markings. Think they're additional escort?”
Vic took advantage of the guards' distraction to dig the corrosive capsule out of his clothes. He pressed his thumb to the seal, ready to break it at any moment.
An echoing crack answered the guard's question, followed by a howl as the smoke trail from a missile streaked by the window and detonated near the gunship, blowing it to smithereens. The transport pitched hard to steer clear of the explosion, causing the standing guard to slam into the floor.
“Holy shit,” the first guard exclaimed, “they're firing on—”
Vic took that as his cue. He broke the seal on his capsule and splashed the steaming liquid over the chains holding his shackles together. They hissed and bubbled and came apart in seconds. He leapt to his feet and ran at the fallen guard, who was struggling to regain his feet. He kicked the guard's weapon out of his hands and tackled him.
Behind Vic, his comrades sprang into action and fell upon the other two guards. Pierson and Cena quickly knocked one of them unconscious with a series of savage strikes to his head and torso. The other guard reacted more quickly and managed to point his rifle at Tinubu, who was forced to seize the weapon and push it to the side. The guard retained a firm grip on his weapon and the two of them wrestled for control of it, bouncing back and forth off the walls. The weapon went off, spraying bullets through the hull, forcing Pierson and Cena to duck to avoid having their heads filled with holes. Another wild burst ripped into the floor mere centimeters away from where Vic continued wrestling with his assailant.
Pierson and Cena tackled the guard, and together with Tinubu they all sprawled onto the floor in a flailing dogpile. The rifle discharged another wild burst, tearing holes in the hull and blowing out one of the viewports. One of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and grazed Tinubu, who fell back from the impact, gripping his arm in pain.
Finally, Pierson and Cena managed to pry the guard's rifle free of his hands and pummeled him mercilessly. He raised his arms to fend off their blows and kicked out with his legs. One of his blind kicks struck Cena in the stomach and threw her off. Pierson grabbed the guard by the collar, hauled him halfway off the floor, and struck him in the chin with such force that finally he was knocked unconscious.
At the other end of the transport, Vic continued wrestling with the remaining guard. Both of them had managed to crawl their way to the rifle. The guard got his hands on it first and began turning around. Before he could get a firm grip on it, Vic ripped it out of his hands and struck him in the face with the butt of the weapon. The guard flew back into the floor, his shattered nose erupting in blood, and started scrambling back to his feet only to find himself staring into the muzzle of his own rifle.
“Not a move,” Vic gasped, “or I'll blow your damned head off.”
The guard slumped back, never taking his eyes off the end of the rifle. Vic stepped back to join his comrades. Pierson and Cena swept up the remaining rifles while Tinubu pulled back his sleeve to examine his wound, which turned out to be minor. Celeste, too injured and weak to contribute to the fighting, remained in her seat. Vic glanced outside and saw the pair of flighted exosuits taking up position to either side of the transport.
“Attention, Rock Hammer Tribal,” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “Put down immediately. I repeat, put down immediately.”
Despite the command, the transport continued on its present course. Vic and his comrades exchanged glances.
“Rock Hammer Tribal, put down immediately,” the exosuit pilot demanded again. “If you don't, we will use force to bring you down. This is your last warning.”
“Wait a second,” Tinubu exclaimed. “If they do that, we'll go down with it!”
“It's a bluff, right?” Despite her words, Cena's expression did not look confident. “It's got to be a—”
“Very well,” the voice boomed. “You were warned. We will now commence our attack.”
Vic watched in disbelief as the exosuits pulled off to put some distance between themselves and the transport, then the suit on the left opened fire with a particle beam. The beam struck one of the transport's rotors, and Vic and his comrades were thrown to the floor as the transport went into a spin.
Immediately, the exosuits converged on the transport and grabbed it firmly on either side. Firing their thrusters at maximum output, they were able to guide the transport to a clearing and put it down gently enough to prevent disaster. Even so, the transport bounced off the ground, skidded a dozen meters, and then slowly tipped over onto its side. Everyone inside fell onto the wall, the prisoners landing on each other in a heap. Cena fell directly on top of Vic, nearly knocking the wind out of him; it took several moments of scrambling for them to disentangle from one another. By the time they finally got loose, they found that Pierson had already recovered his rifle and was using it to keep the lone conscious guard covered, while Tinubu was helping Celeste to her feet.
“Stay clear of the boarding ramp,” the pilot's voice boomed out. “I'm going to slice it open.”
The guard scrambled away from the ramp as a shimmering energy blade cut through once, twice, then three times, tearing
a hole through the hull. The large hand of a exosuit reached inside and pulled the plating away to open an exit that did not require wading through melted metal.
Vic picked up another rifle, aimed it at the remaining guard, and ordered him to use the spare shackles on his belt to cuff himself to one of the seats. The guard complied. Vic took the key from his hands, then filed out of the disabled transport along with his comrades. Tinubu continued to help the limping Celeste. They emerged under a crystal blue sky, with the distant sun shining overhead and Saris' face staring at them. The two exosuits that had come to their rescue stood to either side, gleaming in the light.
The suit on the left got down on one knee and the canopy swung open. The stocky pilot leapt out of the cockpit with surprising agility and approached the prisoners. As the pilot drew near, Vic recognized Amos' face through the visor of his helmet.
“Here.” Amos held out a duffel bag. “This bag contains everything you'll need to begin your lives under your new identities.”
Vic accepted the bag. “Thanks.” He eyed the suit behind Amos and said, “You seem pretty handy with an exosuit.”
“I've been a pilot since before the rebel cells united as a coalition,” Amos replied. “Though I haven't taken one of these babies up in years. Not since I was promoted to a senior command position. Good thing I haven't gotten too rusty.”
At the sound of approaching rotors, he looked up and said, “That would be your ride. It will drop you off at the nearby town of Garrett. From there, you're on your own. I've done everything I can for you.”
“You've done more than enough,” Pierson replied. “Maybe someday we'll be able to return the favor.”
“Maybe,” Amos answered.
“What are you going to do now?” Vic asked.
“I've taken steps to conceal my involvement in this rescue op,” Amos said. “That way, I can continue trying to fight Demir's despotism from inside. If that doen't work out... well, I'll cross that bridge when I get there.”
He threw the rescued prisoners one final salute, then returned to his exosuit. With a roar of their engines, the exosuits took to the air and flew out of sight. Vic briefly wondered who was piloting the second suit, but it was soon gone and out of his mind.
The next moment, a smaller transport chopper appeared over the treetops and set down near the edge of the clearing. Vic and the others climbed inside the transport, where they found Esther and Astral waiting for them.
“Glad to see you all made it,” Esther said with a smile. She handed a bag to Celeste and said, “Your nutrient solution. I'm sorry we couldn't get it to you any faster. I imagine you're starting to get pretty malnourished.”
Celeste accepted the bag, dug inside, and prepared a syringe. “Better late than never,” she croaked.
As the helicopter took off, Vic sat down next to Astral. He half-expected an emotional display upon being reunited with her friends, but she was strangely quiet. The look on her face was pensive and withdrawn.
“What's wrong?” Vic asked. “Are you unwell?”
Astral shook her head. “No, I'm OK.”
“Why so quiet?”
She paused. “Thinking back, this should have been obvious to me from the start,” she said, turning to Vic, “but evil dwells within other hearts besides Scathe's, doesn't it?”
Vic almost thought he could see the innocence fading from Astral's eyes. If only, he thought, there were something I could do to put it back. But innocence, once lost, can never be restored.
“Yes,” he said sadly. “It does.”
67
From the surface of DEEN station, Vic watched as the curved surface of an immense marble rose to greet him—Scepter, the Sarisan moon richest in mineral resources. Thousands of thin, silvery lines crisscrossed the moon's slate-gray surface, evidence of the water ice enmeshed amongst its crags and craters.
But the appearance of Scepter was only the prelude. Moments later, a second, far greater orb appeared beyond the moon's edge as Saris peeked over the horizon of its lesser child, its cerulean bands carving rivers through the aquamarine swirls of its atmosphere. Even now, it remained cold and distant, like an amoral god gazing upon the mortal realm—always present, always watching.
Watching. Vic wondered what that distant god perceived as it observed humanity from its cold throne. Did it see a race of intelligent beings, endeavoring to carve new realms out of the barren wasteland of space in their eternal struggle for life? Or a race of violent savages who slaughtered and dominated each other without mercy or hesitation, even out here in the frozen depths? Unconsciously, he released his grip on the controls and reached out until his fingertips brushed the viewscreen.
“Are you there?” he whispered. It was a melancholy call, a lonely voice cast into the darkness.
“Hey Chang,” the gruff voice of Foreman Crane crackled over the comm system. “What the hell are you daydreaming about? Sector Three ain't gonna build itself, you know.”
“Sorry,” Vic replied. “I'm coming right now.”
He looked around and spotted the rest of the construction crew congregating far away. He deactivated the magnetic grip on his suit's feet and glided toward the others, applying minute course corrections with the verniers. Once he drew near, he applied a final downward thrust and reactivated the magnetic grips, sliding to a halt near the crew.
“Not bad, kid,” Crane grunted. “Guess all that exosuit experience on your resume was no joke.”
“I told you, boss.” The winking face of Cena Northwood—A.K.A. assistant foreman Sally Fields—appeared in the corner of Vic's viewscreen. “Rick and I have worked together on way tougher projects than this. He can handle anything you can throw at him.”
“Is that so?” Crane said. “Well then, Chang, I'm sure you won't mind guiding the support beam into position. It's the trickiest job on the team, but it should be a piece of cake for someone like you, right?”
“Thanks a lot, Sally,” Vic said, then kicked off the surface and maneuvered his suit into position.
*
After a long day working on the outer hull of Sector Three, the construction crew returned to the hangar and lined up their exosuits in their designated positions. Vic lowered his suit to a kneeling position, then switched off the power and opened the canopy. The hatch swung open to reveal the dull, utilitarian interior of the hangar.
Vic climbed out of the cockpit and dropped to the floor. After hours in zero-g, it was a relief to be under the effects of the station's simulated gravity again. He broke the airtight seal on his helmet and pulled it off, then stretched his aching limbs and inhaled deeply. Despite the chemical odor of fuel and lubricants tainting the air, he enjoyed simply being able to breathe without his helmet.
The rest of the crew headed for the locker rooms, jostling and joking with each other. Vic fell into step behind them, trying to keep to himself; but Cena dropped back, clamped her arm around his shoulder, and pulled him forward with the rest of the crew. Vic had a hard time maintaining his usual reserve with Cena around. She liked poking her nose into his business. But thanks to her, the other workers seemed more willing to accept him as one of them, so he didn't resent her meddling too much.
After getting changed and saying goodbye to the other workers, Vic left the locker room and stepped out onto a grassy knoll. Ahead of him, a mixture of urban sectors and verdant parks, crafted and maintained to perfection, curved up and joined the opposite side of the tube overhead. Unlike Port Osgow, which was little more than an exceptionally dense commercial-industrial city crammed into an oversized can, DEEN was designed to be a paradise for its residents, boasting a self-contained ecosystem and garden sectors that rivaled Thera's little remaining wilderness in their beauty. A tiny artificial sun provided dazzling illumination that further contrasted with the darkness of Port Osgow. Normally, Vic and his comrades never would have been permitted to enter this sanctuary for Theran aristocracy, but the credentials Amos had procured identified them as experts in
station construction and design. Between their exosuit expertise and Esther's and Astral's technical brilliance, they were somehow able to scrape together the skills to fulfill their fictional roles.
“Daydreaming again?”
Cena appeared behind Vic and gave him a playful shove. He stumbled at the edge of the hill, then turned around and glared at her.
“What's up?” he said. “I thought you'd gone out drinking with the guys, as usual.”
Cena scratched at the side of her head. “Nah. I'm getting tired of those greasy twits hitting on me every time they get a little liquored up. Figured I'd just go home early today.”
“Good plan.” Vic started down the hill and gestured for Cena to follow. “Let's hurry so we can catch the six o'clock train.”
*
Vic sat next to one of the windows in the crowded train, watching a Lotus-5 virtual idol concert in the vid-lens on his left eye while admiring the pristine parks and beautifully landscaped residential neighborhoods through his right. Cena sat next to him in the aisle seat, watching the screens inside the train.
After several minutes, Cena elbowed Vic in the ribs. He paused the virtual concert and looked at her in irritation. She gestured to one of the screens, which was showing instant replays from a gravball match.
“Look at that,” she said.
“Look at what?” Vic asked.
“Thera won the championship,” she said. “Again. Talk about lame.”
“What's lame about that?”
“Thera wins practically every year.” Cena shrugged her shoulders in resignation. “I mean, come on. Thera's got a bigger population than all the colonies combined. It's hardly a fair match when you consider what a huge pool of players they've got to draw from.”