Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2)

by McCullough Crawford

  “Alert! Unidentified hostile inbound,” The Watcher’s voice startles everyone busily brushing the dust off their clothes. “Impact in three. Two. Oh, shhh…”

  The Watcher’s rather human expletive is cut short by a rolling crash that sweeps through the base. The floor pitches and heaves, sending boxes, crates, people, vehicles, and everything in the base that is not nailed down, and a fair percentage of things that were nailed down, soaring through the air to land in generally upended conditions. Angelina and Gavitte find themselves ejected from their stone seat and sprawled in a jumble of limbs sliding across the floor to the far wall.

  The pace of their tumble quickens as the floor seems to list harder and the wall approaches faster. Gavitte manages to extract an arm from their tangle just in time to absorb some of their energy, but most of it is transferred into his shoulder and Angelina’s hip. The floor continues to tilt, pressing the pair more firmly onto their rapidly forming bruises.

  Eventually everything stops rotating, leaving them tangled in the groove where floor and wall meet and beginning to extract themselves. But before they get even a single arm free, the pressure increases on them and they’re pushed harder into the floor. It is like the entire mountain around them is accelerating at speeds the circling interceptors outside would have trouble matching.

  “Hold on everyone, we’re getting out of here before they try that again,” The Watcher informs everyone, its voice once again dropping back into a calm, authoritative, and informative tone.

  “What was that?” Gavitte asks, his voice muffled not only by the force of the acceleration on his ribs but also Angelina’s calf wedged against his head.

  “That, was an atomic weapon detonated at close proximity,” The Watcher responds. “If my calculations are right, it was one of the highest yield warheads your species has ever developed. It would appear to have performed better than its designers had predicted as well. I am quite impressed, and I hope they were able to capture enough data from this detonation to inform later designs.”

  “What!?! They just tried to nuke us?!?” Angelina’s incredulous voice comes from where she has managed to wedge herself partially upright in between Gavitte’s legs.

  “Yes, that would be a correct summary. I would further postulate that as their more conventional weapons were proving ineffective, and our exodus is deemed unacceptable, the command structure decided to employ any means available to halt our progress, despite any collateral damage.

  “Interestingly enough, the prevailing winds at this atmosphere should disperse the fallout across a wide enough area that there should only be minimal immediate harm to life in the area.

  “My previous threat analysis will need to be revised, of course,” The Watcher continues, beginning to ramble off into an academic analysis of the situation. “I had surmised a certain level of restraint where collateral damage was concerned. Additionally, my theory regarding human emotional connections will have to contain a caveat for this event, since the individuals managing the command structure appear to have had a blatant disregard for the pilots in the nearby vicinity or any of the civilians below. Most interesting indeed, I am continually fascinated by your species’ social and ethical structures.”

  The Watcher rambles itself to silence, its voice trailing off but clearly still thinking the problem through, as the acceleration holding them down slowly eases off and the floor begins to right itself. In the distance they hear a klaxon beginning to wail and people shouting.

  “Oh no, looks like some people are starting to panic,” a startled sounding Watcher says. “Don’t open that airlock, don’t…”

  “Hey! Watcher!” Angelina shouts as she runs over to the orb in the center of the room. “Can you patch me through to all the speakers like you did?”

  “Ok, you’re on.”

  She places her hands on her hips, draws in a deep breath, and, as she lets it out, stands up straighter, allowing her shoulders to slide down her back. She isn’t facing Gavitte, but he can see that her face calms as she dons her professional demeanor.

  “Attention all base personnel, this is Commander Badon. All personnel are to report to action stations unless currently occupied with emergency efforts. No personnel are permitted to leave the base; all airlocks are to remain sealed. I repeat, all airlocks are to remain sealed. General Lampard, report to Level 6 Section 4 Room 15 immediately for briefing.”

  She motions to the floating avatar of The Watcher that has appeared on the swirling surface of the orb to cut the microphone connection. Below the floating head, a hand appears and gives her a thumbs up before the face turns towards the center of the orb and away from her with a pensive look on its face. Gavitte, having snuck up behind Angelina, slides his hand around her waist and pulls her gently towards him while watching the hovering head.

  “Since we’ve probably got some time before the general gets here, why don’t you go back to telling us what’s going on here and why you’re kidnapping us?” he asks quietly.

  “What a great idea. Sorry about the turbulence, but my systems aren’t really designed for combat maneuvers so I may have overacted. Fortunately we’ve managed to clear the operating altitude of any of your species’ currently operational weapons platforms, and in a few minutes we’ll be able to hide behind the moon. The main drive overheated somewhat, as I wasn’t planning on activating it and had to bypass its normal startup sequence to maintain thrust after that blast. Most unfortunate, I’m glad there were only minor injuries sustained from the resulting overload shunt,” The Watcher rambles before seeming to catch Angelina and Gavitte’s expressions out of the corner of its eye.

  “Right. I must beg forgiveness again. Rambling off again like that. Now where were we? Ah, yes, the reason why I’m abducting the two of you and as a matter of convenience the remainder of your terrorist network presently within this facility.” Both Angelina and Gavitte bristle at The Watcher’s choice of words, but it continues unabashed. “The Gathering. A single happening that contains all the various Watchers that have been spread throughout the many dimensions. We are to return once we’ve successfully secured our knowledge, as I mentioned before, and I’m bringing the two of you along as a demonstration of the advancement of our knowledge that I have achieved here.

  “Physically, we will need to orient ourselves so we travel through the center of your galaxy in order to break through to the central plane where The Gathering is being held. Temporally, The Gathering is also centrally located, and we should be able to align ourselves with the others despite the rather long time I was disabled due to my unfortunately wild arrival. Speaking of temporal issues, I am going to need the assistance of several of this facility’s researchers to repair my main drive. While The Gathering may exist in a section of time that is relatively static, we do not, and if we were to continue on our journey with only my auxiliary drives while I utilized my internal repair mechanisms, I’m afraid neither of you would likely survive long enough to make it The Gathering.

  “In the meantime, we will continue out of your home system as planned before attempting to restart the main drives. It would be unfortunate if they were to backfire within range of a planet. Such a reaction could potentially damage my integrity and most certainly would damage that particular planet beyond repair. However if I’m not mistaken, the general is approaching with the intent of getting some serious answers out of you,” The Watcher says with a wink towards Angelina.

  As if on cue, the general bursts through the chamber entrance followed by a squad of armed soldiers. In a testament to his focus, the large glowing orb in the center of the chamber only gives him pause for a second. His men, on the other hand, are not quite as focused, and after scanning the room to ensure there is no recognizable threat, they each allow their eyes to be drawn back to the undulating surface and slowly lower their weapons as its beauty mesmerizes them.

  “Commander Badon, what is the meaning of this!?”

  “Well, sir…”

  Chapte
r 7

  The Capital

  Behind Closed Doors

  The mingled smell of stale sweat and fresh fear permeates the room thoroughly enough that the ventilation system only manages to mix it within the space. Each of the men and women seated around the auditorium is silently calculating the fallout from the slowly fading explosion on the screen before them. They are not calculating the damage from radioactive fallout that is going to blanket a large portion of their country, no they are calculating the political fallout that might blanket their prospects next time the elections roll around.

  In the excitement leading up to the order for the strike, there was a sort of harmony in the room, feedback between each of the individuals driving them towards a shared climax. Now as the soaring mountain slowly rights itself on the screen and continues its ascent, a shroud of guilt and worry descends over each of them. Standing in the center of the room, the general, who had officially issued the command and whose career is most certainly over, hangs his head, mentally listing the things that he’ll want to grab from his office on the way out. Because certainly he’ll only have a few minutes with a security squad breathing down his neck once the assembled politicians revive themselves from their stupor.

  The general’s list is nearly complete, having just remembered the picture of his granddaughter that he keeps tucked in a corner of the bookshelf next to his desk, when the brightest of the assembly begin to stir themselves. He braces himself for the fusillade of blame that is sure to tear the room apart. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t come. Something far worse is about to be released.

  “That did not work as planned,” one of the politicians says as he flattens the wrinkles in his charcoal suit jacket. “However, I think this presents us with a wonderful opportunity.”

  “How so?” one of the more incredulous members of his opposing party asks.

  “Look at it this way. We in this room are the only ones who know the origin of the attack. The pilots who were in the interceptors were destroyed in the blast, and the general’s secretary who actually passed on the order can be as easily silenced. I propose we simply rebrand the blast as an attack from the target itself. Clearly if we’d ordered the use of such excessive force, we’d have successfully taken out our target, wouldn’t we?”

  A chorus of assenting murmurs ripples through the room. Of course the most powerful military on the planet couldn’t blunder that badly. The speaker lets his point sink in for a few seconds more before continuing.

  “Our next move would naturally be to try any means available to avenge the egregious assault on our own territory. We can whip the people into a nationwide fervor without much effort; we’ve done it before after all. Then we simply re-task the COSIMO mission to carry out an assault on the target directly. They were being equipped with the skills and equipment for mining and excavation in a vacuum anyway. Then if in the valiant assault, the heroes of the mission happen to all tragically die, what could be more galvanizing and unifying for our positions than that?

  “If we sent the mission up with a couple warheads, we could make sure that they penetrated whatever defenses it seems to have before we detonated them. It’d be so much cleaner to just blow the whole thing out of the sky than have to capture it and then deal with it.”

  “Of course, the good general here should take command of the mission as an opportunity to prove his competency,” one of the other politicians adds, sensing the direction the plan is headed.

  The general blanches, his face draining of all color. Retiring quietly after a dishonorable discharge wouldn’t have been too bad, living off the money he’d hidden away in private accounts, finally getting to spend some time with the family he’d neglected on his rise through the ranks. True he would have been a pariah if he’d taken the fall, but in a few years there would have probably been a lucrative deal for a memoir that would have kept him from having to rely on his kids for support. But this, not only to have his career cut off, but to have it end in the fiery throes of heroism, this is not why he chose to play the game of politics.

  “We won’t have to motivate the general, will we? His patriotism and loyalty should be plenty of motivation,” the man who originally came up with the plan assures the rest of the room with a grin.

  The general mutely nods. His mind is still numb from shock, his focus is on the image of his granddaughter and how happy she was that day when the picture was taken. He’d been able to sneak away and meet his son and his family in a park between meetings. The leaves had just begun to fall, and the air had a slight chill. But nothing could detract from the warmth of her joy at seeing her all-too-often-absent grandfather striding across the grass. She had nearly tripped in the pile of leaves in which she’d been playing in her excitement to rush into his arms.

  He nods again, knowing he has no choice; men and women who would so casually discuss “silencing” his secretary for doing nothing more than his job would come up with some creative ways to motivate the correct level of patriotism in him if they chose to. With a sigh, he acquiesces, hoping that one day his granddaughter will understand, but knowing full well that all she’ll ever hear is the story the men and women in this room choose to tell.

  “I, General Phillip Long, volunteer myself and my staff to command this vital mission to avenge our beloved nation from this cowardly attack. We will stop at nothing to ensure that the great people of this nation have their rightful vengeance.”

  “Your name and those of your men will forever be remembered as the heroes you are.” The gray-suited politician smirks at the defeat in the general’s eyes. “We might even have a monument erected in your honor, if it fits into the election season, that is.”

  Over the laughter that ripples across the room, the suit continues.

  “See to it that you and your staff are prepared. The consequences if you fail will be most unpleasant.”

  Chapter 8

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  Under a University Campus

  It doesn’t take long for the heat radiating from the large pipe to Jon’s right to make him break into a full sweat. Wishing that he’d thought to take his jacket off at some point, he curses himself for the added heat its thick insulation traps near his body. His capture at gunpoint and climbing down the elevator shaft had been enough to get his heart rate up, but it wasn’t until he started running through the oppressive heat of the steam tunnel that he really started to sweat.

  Jon is near the front of the group, having pushed his way away from the elevator shaft as soon as he could to look for Sara. Behind him he can hear the unique cadence of the woman with the limp who had guarded the door. The sounds from the rest of the group behind him are too distorted for him to manage an accurate estimation of the number of “rebels” they are escaping with. He reaches up, trying to brush the moisture off his forehead in a vain attempt to keep any more of the stinging liquid from reaching his eyes, and his hand nearly brushes the pipe. Without even touching the surface he can feel the heat scald his hand; the hairs along its back feel like they’re shriveling and curling in on themselves.

  He tries to jump back away from the source of the heat, but in the narrow confines of the corridor he only manages to drive his shoulder into the opposite wall, earning himself a scrape and a bruise. The impact causes him to stagger for a few steps before he can regain his balance. As he is stumbling, he happens to look down one of the side passages connected to the one they are currently traversing and catches a glimpse of movement. He reacts.

  “Get down,” Jon yells, throwing himself prone on the floor of the tunnel. As his momentum carries him forward, he slides down a slight decline in the floor, and he sees Ryan ahead of him tackling the leader of the rebels from behind. He doesn’t have a chance to process anything more before his entire world is overcome with a wave of intense heat and a blinding light. The explosion’s overpressure wave drives him down the incline faster, leaving him with more scrapes on his arms and knees as he tries to control his
skid.

  The noise and light released are debilitating, giving Jon no chance of anticipating the bottom of the slope until his outstretched arm rams into it and he collapses. As his shoulder drives into the short curb at the bottom of the slope intended to redirect drainage into the scupper along the side, he feels rather than sees or hears a secondary explosion followed by an intense heat.

  The first explosion had hit him like a wave, picking him up and tossing him along as it passed him by. The second explosion, after its initial spike, is more like a steady application of pressure and heat slowly and relentlessly building.

  Stunned by the sensory overload, Jon simply lies in the gutter, attempting to resolve the ringing in his ears and foggy vision into some sort of coherent information. The heat keeps building around him, and he can begin to feel the moisture starting to drip from every surface.

  Blinking his eyes and opening and closing his jaw, he is able to bring his hand in front of his face into focus. The cuts and bruises already beginning to show are quite clear, but when he looks around, everything else is still shrouded in a soft white mist that seems to swirl and cling to the dark shapes within it. Suddenly realizing that the ringing in his ears has shifted tone and is remaining constant, he glances behind himself. Where the tunnel had once been a T-Junction, there is now a pile of rubble as part of the roof has caved in, and, spewing forth from amidst the dirt and brick, is the source of the constant hissing and swirling fog: a thin jet of superheated steam.

  With nothing behind him but rubble, and knowing full well that if any more of the steam starts escaping it won’t take long for it to cook him thoroughly, he crawls over the lip of the curb, wincing at the pain in his arms and shoulders, which bore the brunt of stopping his slide. He discards the pack he had been carrying, as the blast and slide down the slope have reduced it to tatters. Staying low to avoid the worst of the hot cloud that is beginning to fill the tunnel from the roof down, he hobbles through the fog.