There was no alternative but to wait and see if he fulfilled his promise to take me to the refugee center or if he had changed his mind and intended to take me into custody. I would deal with that situation when, or if, it occurred.
We took off from the deck and skimmed dangerously low over the surface of the ocean, and although the speed and low altitude were disconcerting, it wasn’t long until land appeared. Our progress was phenomenal. I increased my previous estimate of the maximum speed capabilities of the helicar from very fast, to ridiculously fast.
Only half an hour after I spotted the green canopy of a dense jungle landscape, we descended sharply to an empty beach.
The helicar touched down on a white sand beach stretching along the coast for a great distance in both directions. There were no buildings visible. No people, either.
It seemed he was letting me go, as promised.
Flick gave me one last hard look before releasing my harness buckle. He considered me with an expression that was completely transparent. Wary/intrigued.
“The refugee center is about six kilometers from here. Just follow the beach that way.” He pointed, and then dropped his hand, watching me.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded once but didn’t say anything else.
I climbed out and shaded my eyes. The beach meandered in a fairly straight line directly into the bright morning sunlight. Walking into the sun without shoes and no water would not be easy.
The situation wasn’t ideal but it was better than being evaluated and possibly detained by Flick.
He already seemed to be wavering between stopping me and letting me go, but before he could reconsider his actions I walked closer to shore toward the vegetation, ostensibly to avoid the spray of sand from the rotor blades when he took off.
The spot between my shoulders itched and I could almost feel him staring at me, trying to decide what to do.
I turned when I reached the tree line and gave an appreciative wave, grinning with exaggerated gratitude.
He waved back hesitantly, squinting at me while he considered his options.
Then he dropped his gaze and turned his attention back to piloting, seemingly coming to the conclusion that detaining me would be more trouble than it was worth.
With a final glance in my direction, he nudged the helicar up to full power and lifted off. Sand sprayed in all directions and I ducked underneath the green canopy to avoid being showered with grit.
The beach sand was dry where Flick had let me out, so the blast of wind when the helicar lifted off erased my footprints, and I immediately started moving. It would be very difficult to see where I had entered the tree line, which was ideal.
The air temperature cooled instantly beneath the overhang of thick trees and I experienced another surge of urgency.
Flick had lingered for too long before taking off again. His last readable expression had been evident. Skepticism/curiosity.
He would undoubtedly be coming back.
That meant I needed to hide.
Quickly.
I pushed my way deeper into the vegetation until I was no longer visible from the air.
Walking in the smooth sand would have been far easier than fighting my way through the trees, but I couldn’t risk leaving any tracks behind. I scrambled through the jungle, trying to put as much distance between the landing site and myself as possible.
After nearly half an hour I’d managed to make good progress in spite of the snarl of undergrowth.
I was parched and becoming exhausted but kept pushing on.
When the familiar thrum of the helicar blades rumbled overhead I was not surprised.
I knew it was him. I recognized the familiar whine of the engine.
I needed to conceal myself.
Now.
Flick’s curiosity was triggered, and if he saw me again our encounter would not be cordial.
The image of his grey clothing flashed in my mind, and the visceral psychological response I felt only reinforced my urge to evade him. The color indicated something incredibly significant, and I fully trusted my instincts.
It was imperative that I escape.
I dropped to the soft soil, shoved rubbery leaves and vines out of my way, and dug quickly.
The sandy earth surrendered easily and I dove into the hole, hastily pulling cool material over my body. I covered my face as much as possible, leaving only a tiny opening for my nose, and snaked my arms to my sides beneath the sand while hoping it would stay cool long enough to screen my heat signature.
The helicar passed directly overhead and I froze.
Flick was not an average citizen.
Grey.
He was a Grey.
That meant he had access to unlimited information and vast resources, was highly trained, and extremely dangerous.
He also seemed to have decided that it was time to draw upon those resources and use them to locate me.
It was a mystery to me how I knew it, but I trusted the knowledge nonetheless.
I heard the helicar hover above my location and I expected it to slow down, but it droned on steadily and grew gradually softer.
Since movement and heat triggered the thermal detectors, holding still and masking my body heat had fooled the sensors.
For now.
Four more kilometers of jungle stood between the refugee center and me.
Although I would suffer for it later, I resolved to walk inside the tree line. It would be incredibly slow going, but I wouldn’t be caught out in the open.
As it happened, Flick didn’t return and I had no way of knowing if a slog through the vegetation had been worth the effort or not, but by the time I reached Hammermill, I was scratched, bleeding from a few minor cuts, and spent.
The noonday sun blinded me as I stumbled from the wilderness into civilization once again.
A massive wooden pier, fairly new by the look of it, stretched out into the ocean from the beach. I felt safe enough leaving the trees now and headed toward it.
The pier was connected to a gigantic ascending ramp, and beyond, lights shone brightly inside a glass and metal building large enough to hold over a thousand people with room to spare.
A boat engine gurgled close by and I saw an old fishing vessel bobbing away from the pier, fighting the waves as it tried to escape the harbor. It must have recently docked, and I turned my attention back to the building
As I searched the entrance, movement caught my attention. People were shuffling in single file up the ramp.
A hot breeze stole the moisture from my eyes, but even with blurry vision, I could see they were moving toward a wide doorway.
I scurried onto the pier and trotted to the back of the line. No one gave me a single glance.
Perhaps twenty individuals waited their turn to shuffle through the doors and I studied them discreetly.
Even a quick glance told me the people moving into the building wore a mish-mash of multi-colored and variably styled garments. Pinks and yellows swirled together, somehow offensively, and my brown on brown attire seemed monotone by comparison.
My attire was incorrect. It was obvious to me at once that I needed to alter my appearance quickly or risk standing out.
Without haste, nonchalantly, I worked my way along the line of people until I saw a young woman, attractive looking and approximately my size, who self-consciously clutched a torn shirt together around her breasts.
I eased into the line behind her and waited until we moved along a few paces.
“Your shirt is torn,” I said to the woman.
She glared at me with anger/shame. Her spoiled clothes upset her. That I would draw attention to that fact upset her even more.
“Take mine,” I said. “I have friends waiting for me. They have brought me new things.”
She gasped and nodded, relief/joy, flooding her features.
I stripped off my brown shirt and we switched quickly, not caring who saw us.
No one
bothered to say a thing, much less spend the necessary energy to look over at us. I wasn’t the only person here who was totally exhausted.
I pulled on the tattered shirt and hurried back into the line.
We moved along quickly, and it occurred to me that considering the size of the refugee center, the group of refugees ahead of me was very small.
There were twenty-two of us in total, but the Hammermill Center looked able to process hundreds without difficulty.
We entered the building and I saw dozens of processing stations. Little more than cubicles, the stations each held one processing agent, in blue, and the color told me at once these people were service providers, not professionals.
Not enforcers.
And not Greys. The first piece of good news I’d had in hours.
I watched the line, noticing each individual refugee could choose which agent they went to when their turn came. Our small group had access to six of them, two women and four men.
The first woman glanced up when she noticed me looking in her direction. Annoyed/bored.
Not her.
The second woman brightened up as an attractive man approached her station.
No, not her either.
Two of the men wore expressions of impatient/resentful. They were not happy about spending the sunny afternoon working.
Then I noticed the man furthest to the right, not attractive, but relatively animated. I flashed him a quick smile and he beamed hopeful/attracted.
When my turn came I walked straight to him.
As I sat down he leaned in, his pulse quickening noticeably. His eyes lingered on mine, and his voice came out a gentle purr. “Hello.”
“Hammon,” I said, reading the name stitched across the pocket of his blue jacket. “I’ve got a little problem.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t help you with.”
I leaned forward, my lips pouting. “I’m a citizen, but I’ve lost all of my identification.”
“Let’s begin with your name.”
This was problematic. Both Skee and Flick had called me Keeley. But using that name could be unsafe. There was a chance I actually existed somewhere in Hammon’s computer system, and my instinct was to hide, not announce myself.
My brain sifted through the events of the last day and a half. Images of the ocean base rolled through my mind and the items I’d used to survive there tumbled in my memory. One common element made up the vast majority of the base and that word popped into my head.
“My name is Steel.”
He typed on a screenboard. “I see twelve women matching that name. Are you Damia?”
I shook my head. “No, but my first name does begin with the letter D. Do you see me listed?”
He scanned the records, invisible to me from my side of the desk, but clear and bright from his perspective. “No other women listed with the letter D. What is your first name?”
I relaxed. Altering my accent to match his own was easy. “I’m Dess Steel.”
He smiled back. “I don’t see any record of you. You are a mystery, Madam Steel.”
“Then we should start me a file,” I said breezily. “I might be here for some time.”
He flashed eager/helpful and I knew this desk had been the correct choice.
As he typed, I watched his fingers and assembled the words in my mind, picturing the letters.
Adult Female. Well Spoken. Probable Citizen. Missing Records. Medical Missionary?
“I was working with the missionary.”
He glanced up. “You are a doctor?”
“No,” I said with a laugh. “Clerical.”
He scanned his side of the screen again. “That could be why you are not listed. Some of the medical missionary citizens who traveled to the refugee zone were not very accurate with their support staff records. How long were you there?”
A number sprang into my head. “Three years.”
He let out a low whistle. “That’s a long time.”
His typing told me he was removing the question mark from the word missionary and replacing it with the word clerical and a period.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” I said at once. Perhaps it was even true.
“Young,” he replied. “I’m nearly fifty.”
Something in his tone told me that 23 was quite young. It felt correct to assume middle age fit somewhere in the late 50’s.
“We will create you a new file,” he said.
The words came out of my mouth before I even understood exactly what they meant. “What level will you assign me?”
Level assignment was important.
Not simply important.
It was critical.
He tilted his head from side to side. “Well, without any previous records, we can’t go above a 9. Not according to protocols.”
This information offended me. Though I had no idea why, suffering at level 9 elicited a feeling of utter disgust. “I look terrible in brown.”
He laughed and I shot him my most seductive smile.
“I think you would look beautiful no matter what level you wore.”
“Since I was clerical for my work with the missionaries, is there any way that I could be set at level 19?”
His face moved from resistance/guilt, to desire/hopeful. “Well, it’s possible.”
This was now a negotiation.
“After I’ve passed the medical, of course,” I added, smiling suggestively.
He tapped a key on his screen and I knew he’d temporarily closed the file. “Conceivably.”
“You can’t possibly be expected to stay on duty after all the refugees have been processed?”
Saying the refugees instead of us disassociated me from the group, and his colluding grin showed me it was obvious he saw me as an equal.
Nearly equal, that is.
“Do they allow you to escort your clients into the city?” I asked.
He blinked with delighted surprise. “I leave after closing all of my files, which takes some time to complete. You may be my last client and then I can finish here.”
“I have no idea where to get my new uniform after leaving medical,” I said, pouting.
He beamed. “I could show you the perfect place.”
“Would you?”
Hammon tilted his head back and raised his shoulders. Protective/patronizing. “After you pass medical, I can meet you at the screening area.”
“You have no idea how much better I would feel having you help me.”
He pointed toward the hall leading to what I presumed would be the medical bay. “Go through and I’ll wait for you on the other side.”
As I stood up he flashed eager/hopeful and I placed a reassuring hand on his forearm. “You have helped me so much already. Put in my file that my middle name is grateful.”
He laughed and I sauntered to the medical bay. The moment I was out of his line of sight my knees virtually buckled. Dehydration, weakness, and hunger were taking their toll, and when a young man in a red tunic spotted me, he rushed forward.
“Lay down,” he said. “This way.”
He escorted me to a raised exam table and I collapsed.
“You should have come here first,” he scolded.
His dark eyes and olive skin told me he was a southerner. It wasn’t important information, but my brain managed to retrieve it for me anyway.
After forty minutes of IV fluids, pain gel for my feet and lips, a dose of immune system stimulating treatment, and a few bites of actual food, I felt almost normal again. At least I wasn’t sunburned, which was the only positive physical outcome of slogging through the undergrowth.
I managed to get ahold of oral rinse and clean my dry mouth, plus rid myself of the dead fish taste that had accumulated on my arid tongue.
The young medical aid helped me walk to the showers, but I managed to wash without his assistance and he seemed pleased at my quick recovery.
The oth
er medical bay staffers, universally dressed in red, were busy processing the remaining refugees and basically ignored anyone who didn’t look feeble. It was obvious they had performed this task many times.
After my medical record was added to my file, my blood analyzed for contaminants and infections and pronounced clear, I was free to go.
They gave me a brown uniform to wear, and slip-on shoes made of cork.
I scowled at the brown clothing and hurried to the screening area, which was nothing more than a staging area for released refugees. Two-dozen people dressed in brown milled around in a glassed-in room, waiting for a woman with a portable screenboard to usher them to who knew where.
The woman, dressed in a pressed blue suit, was interviewing each person individually. She then assigned the person a place to go and indicated which hallway to take.
I walked straight by her, past the hallways leading to the unknown, and headed toward the exit, searching as I went.
Hammon appeared and I let out a relieved sigh. “You came.”
He smiled with satisfaction. “Of course I did. Let’s get you out of those clothes.”
I took his arm after we had left the building, sensing that touching him inside his place of work would have been inappropriate.
The Hammermill Refugee Center occupied a large strip of beachfront, but as we left the building, the beach gave way to dense rainforest. We ascended a steep flight of metal stairs that took us up to a massive footbridge. The footbridge spanned the snarl of vegetation below, carried us over the jungle and onward toward a vast city.
For the first time since arriving, I noticed the city skyline clearly. The building outlines sparked some deep memory.
“New Dublin,” I said.
Hammon missed a step. “Have you been here before?”
I heard the speculation in his voice. “Oh no, I saw it once in a school presentation.”
He squeezed my hand. “There is no other place like it.”
He led me through a tall white arch leading to the city proper, and the phrase organic architecture came to mind.
The high-rise buildings sprouted greenery on every floor and boasted a combination of pastel porticoes, round balconies, and terrace after terrace of lush, manicured plants. The cultivated vegetation was edible, not ornamental. Not one sharp angle defined the outline of the buildings. Gentle curves and easy, sloping beams coupled with round windows, swooping ramps and soft hues of cream, peach, lilac, and blue gave the city a modern look without being dominated by the jagged oppression of overblown industry.
The New Authority Conspiracy (The Keeley Dorn Adventures Book 1) Page 3