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

by McCullough Crawford

  William steps through the portal and is shocked by the cold dryness outside. Snow can be seen clinging in hollows and behind scrub trees, but the majority of the plain they’ve walked out onto is covered in dead grasses and dirt, all with a light dusting of frost. His breath steams before him, scattering the sun’s low rays into a million tiny diamonds, but he quickly forgets the cold slicing through his jumpsuit because this is the first time they have seen the launch area.

  Before them rise seven enormous rockets. Each stands as tall as an office building and seems to be nearly as big around as one. Steam cascades off of them as the sun’s rays strike their cold metal sides, and fuel lines drip frost from where they attach to the behemoths. Beneath them, looking like a horde of scurrying ants, an army of trucks, carts, and workers seethe and roil, their movement seeming to ripple and undulate like the surface of a pond under a light breeze.

  Their guard is standing a short distance down the slope. He beckons for them to follow as the blast door begins to ponderously close behind them. He heads off at a light jog down the path as a faint breeze stirs up from the valley floor, bringing with it a mixture of smells. Fuel, exhaust, metal burning under a welder’s torch, fresh earth, and paint all assault William’s nose as the cool air coaxes an involuntary shudder out of his body.

  The path is dry most of the way down. Several icy patches nearly send William tumbling, but the slow pace set by the guard is easy for him and his teammates to maintain after the weeks of conditioning they have endured. Once at the bottom, the guard pauses at the edge of a paved road, glancing in both directions before sprinting across to where the path resumes. William starts to follow, but Florence’s restraining hand on his shoulder stops him. As he turns towards her to ask her reason, a truck barrels by, the wall of air thrown off by its flat nose nearly knocking him over. Her reasoning seems self-explanatory. This time he looks both ways before leading his team across the road to join their guard.

  The path leads down into a shallow depression with a large concrete bunker. The squat roof of the bunker is still shaded by the depression’s rim, and the entire hollow is shrouded in shadow. A thick chill is brought on by the frozen mist clinging to anything stationary. The bunker’s overhead doors are rolled up, revealing a shadowed space filled with shelves and bins containing various pipes, hoses, brackets, and other oddities that were manufactured to build the giant rockets that loom over them.

  At the door, a harried looking soldier greets them with a clipboard clutched in one hand and a pencil in the other. He exchanges a distracted salute with their guard while directing a truck that is backing up to the loading dock. His uniform bears the markings of a junior quartermaster.

  “I have the team bound for rocket number 4 to assist with the loading of supplies,” their guard informs the quartermaster. “They need to be issued their safety equipment.”

  The truck successfully reaches the dock, and the quartermaster stops his frantic arm waving before turning to their group.

  “About time. I need them here to help with the transfer of material. Private, you’re to report to central HQ to the east. They’ll be under my supervision for the remainder of the shift.”

  Their guard salutes smartly and jogs up and out of the hollow into the rising sun and towards the towering rockets. William glances around his team and realizes they are all looking to him for answers. The quartermaster has returned his attention to the truck now, haranguing the driver about his cargo. He points animatedly at his clipboard while the driver points at the back of the truck and the stacks of crates located within. It takes several minutes before the quartermaster throws up his hands and steps back, allowing the driver to begin unfastening the straps holding the crates in place.

  “What do you all think you’re doing? Get your butts moving and get this truck unloaded!” the quartermaster yells at William and his team. “I don’t have time for you to laze about all day in the sun. Another truck is due to arrive in five minutes!”

  He disappears into the darkness of the warehouse, yelling at some unseen poor soul and leaving William and his team to figure out how to unload the truck. The driver, having finished removing the cargo’s restraints, gives them a grin and walks over to a rock that the sun is just beginning to warm and lights up his pipe. He basks in the warmth of the sun and a haze of aromatic smoke while William scrambles up onto the dock.

  Spying a forklift and a pallet jack, he starts directing the others to start the unloading. He sends Jill to drive the forklift as she always seems to be at home with any sort of machine, and he sends Mike to the pallet jack mainly to keep him and Jackson somewhat separated. If the price of failure is as high for this exercise as the others before, being sent back to the manual labor camps, he doesn’t want anything messing up their performance. He organizes Florence, Jackson, and himself at the truck itself to shift the crates as needed and direct the unloading.

  The morning passes in a flurry of activity. As soon as the first truck is emptied, another comes to fill its place, and another, and another after that. The line is endless. Some carry crates while others are filled entirely with pipes and struts. The volume they unload is enough to fill the warehouse behind them twice over, but it remains half empty because for every crate or bundle they unload and place on the racks, another team removes one to load onto trucks bound for the rockets themselves.

  The sun is well past its zenith when they finally have a brief respite, though it is not because the guards actually want to give them a break but rather because there is a lull in truck activity due to a broken axle on the road into the valley. They are lounging on the partially raised forks of the forklift while a chill breeze dries the sweat on their foreheads when William’s stomach growls loudly enough for them all to hear it, even over the ambient rumble of the bustling launch site. Jackson’s stomach echoes his, except louder, and everyone grins at the humor of the apparent conversation.

  “I wish one of those crates was full of food, I’d eat the whole thing,” Jackson complains, indicating one of the massive crates they have just finished unloading.

  “Only if I didn’t eat it all first, you lumbering buffoon,” Jill teases through half-closed eyes, her feet propped on the control panel of the forklift and her arms crossed behind her head. Jackson stands up to playfully punch her foot and happens to look up at the road leading down to their loading dock.

  “Great, here they come again,” he complains, “and it looks like they’ve brought along more guards to yell at us to move faster.”

  The truck coming over the rise is escorted by three armored cars with their hatches closed and their weapons manned. The lead vehicle pulls up to the dock and discharges a squad of soldiers who fan out across the loading dock and into the shadowed warehouse behind them. William watches the precision and intensity of their movement. They are not the usual guard force, who are typically more interested in their next break than their orders; this is a highly motivated and trained force of real soldiers. Clearly this is not a drill, whatever this may be.

  Once the all clear is given, the truck begins reversing up to the loading dock while the other two armored cars retreat to the top of the rise surrounding the warehouse, their guns sweeping over the bowl menacingly. Hearing the blustering quartermaster approach down one of the aisles in the warehouse, William and his team stand up and make themselves look busy. He comes around the corner herding the other team who’d been handling the outgoing shipments, his voice raised at their apparent stupidity and lassitude. When they reach the dock, he turns and glowers at each of them in turn, but seeing nothing to berate them about, he starts issuing commands.

  “You and you,” he says, jabbing his clipboard in the direction of Jill and the other team’s forklift driver. “You’ll need to work together to offload this next cargo. I want the rest of you stabilizing it. If you even think about damaging it, you’ll be kicked back into whatever hole you crawled out of.”

  The forklifts approach from either side of the
trailer, easing their forks under the large unmarked crate. Jill feathers the throttle to lift it slowly, and the machine strains against the load, belching black smoke as the engine whines. Once the crate is clear of the truck, William signals the driver who, with a relieved wave, drives away out from under the threatening muzzles of the large caliber guns mounted to the armored cars. The crate is slowly lowered until it is barely off the ground, then the pallet jacks are slid under to allow them to roll it around the loading area.

  It takes all of them and one of the forklifts to push the crate up the small slope and into the warehouse, but after the most exhausting five minutes of the day so far they make it to the top where the quartermaster meets them.

  “This way. There is a place cleared specifically for this item.”

  They push the crate slowly across the smooth concrete floor, worried that any slight imperfection could jar the whole thing with disastrous consequences. The squad of soldiers follows around the perimeter, flitting between the rows of crates like a flock of birds following a man carrying a sack of corn.

  Arriving at the area designated for the crate is relatively anti-climactic. It is a simple matter to lower it the remaining distance to the ground and extract their pallet jacks before waiting for instruction from the quartermaster.

  “You,” he says indicating the other team, “are to continue with your duties. Another truck should be arriving momentarily, and it’s not going to fill itself.”

  They trudge off as the quartermaster rounds on William and his team.

  “The five of you are to report to the launch prep area. A car should be waiting for you by the office door.” The quartermaster indicates a dark corner of the warehouse where, despite all of their trips around the building so far today, none of them had managed to make it near. “What are you waiting for? Get moving!”

  As one they jog off, leaving their equipment where it is for the next set of unlucky souls to use. They make their way past rows of boxes that slowly get dustier and dustier. Their feet begin to leave tracks in the thick layer on the floor, almost like they are walking in snow. This corner, it would seem, is used to store items that are rarely needed.

  The office itself is locked and shuttered, its windows clouded with a thick coating of dust. Leading past the door is a clear trail through the dust that bends around the corner of the room. William follows it past stacks of crates until he reaches a door set in the outside wall of the warehouse. The door is labeled with the expected “Authorized Personnel Only” and “Do not Prop Open” signs, but contrary to these directives, a broken stave from a wooden crate is wedged underneath it, preventing it from closing all the way.

  William cautiously pushes the door open. Peering around the edge into the bright sunlight, he sees a small concrete set of stairs that leads down to a dirt lot with several vehicles parked along the side of the warehouse. In the middle of the lot sits a bulky military transport, the dust still settling from its recent arrival. As he watches, a woman in a lab coat jumps out of the passenger side and waves for him to come forward.

  “You’re Bob E2-05-X0-00?” she shouts over the idling transport, and William nods. “Then bring your team out here and load up. We need to get you all prepped for launch, the timetable has been accelerated.”

  They all pile into the back of the transport, which promptly tears off up a dirt access track to the main road. The ride is bone jarring but mercifully short as they are rushed towards another low bunker of a building situated in the middle of the looming rockets. All other vehicles seem to yield to their thundering truck as it speeds down the middle of the road, ignoring the oncoming traffic.

  The truck squeals to a stop in front an open set of blast doors, and they are hustled through by the lady in the lab coat. The shadow cast by the blast doors hides a second, glass, door that slides open automatically as they approach, the clean, conditioned air rushing out under positive pressure to keep the dust of the parking lot from sneaking in.

  They enter into a sterile white lobby with beige arm chairs and a screen on the wall projecting the latest news. Directly in front of them is a reception counter where their lab-coated escort is handing over a file folder and confirming her identity hastily. William feels like he has stepped into the foyer of a major hospital; gone is the remote military base with its noise and dust.

  His inspection of their new location is cut short by the sudden appearance of a small gaggle of lab-coated technicians who grab each of the youths gently but firmly and lead them off in separate directions. William glances back as he is propelled after Jackson and Mike in time to see Florence and Jill being led down the opposing hallway and a timer mounted behind the reception desk displaying a countdown:

  25 hours 13 minutes 17 seconds. 16 seconds.

  Chapter 10

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  Under a University Campus

  The mood in the small alcove off the main tunnel is somber. The only words the men have exchanged since arriving have been the occasional grunts of acknowledgement or dissent to silent questions. The alcove is tucked behind several large pipes, which were difficult for Ryan to squeeze through, his big frame almost too large for the opening. They are further shielded from the main passage by an electrical transformer and a large switchboard for the campus communication network. Their hiding place is an old brick half dome that must have been built at the same time as the oldest buildings on campus. The mortar has begun to turn to powder, but it is a testament to the mason’s craft that the neglected alcove is in slightly better repair than the newer concrete tunnels to which it is connected.

  Keith, The Professor, is sitting and brooding, his back turned to Ryan and Jon. Under the pretext of watching the tunnel for anyone approaching, he has secluded himself where a small gap in the equipment provides limited sight. After refusing some of the food that Jon had found amongst the gear stashed in the alcove, Keith had begun muttering to himself. Now several hours later, his internal dialogue seems to be building to a crescendo. Jon and Ryan exchange nervous glances as they begin to almost be able make out words.

  Without warning it stops, and he turns to face them. His expression is calm, almost relaxed, but in the orange glow of the tiny camp lantern his eyes seem to glimmer like he is possessed.

  “One of you take over watching,” he says casually. ”I need to get some rest before we move again.”

  Saying nothing more, he moves to the back of the cache and curls up with a backpack as a pillow. Still feeling like they are the students who should not question the professor no matter how strange his habits might be, Jon and Ryan both move to the spot he has just vacated.

  The stretch of tunnel that they can see is deserted, lit only by a dim utility light tucked in a small alcove. Beyond the light’s faint glow the tunnel quickly disappears into shadow around a gentle curve. As Keith starts to snore quietly behind them, it almost seems peaceful. The choking cloud of dust and the rumble of the tunnel collapse seem to be distant memories. Jon looks down at his clothes. Some were pilfered from the university’s equipment rooms that had supplied their previous hideout. His shirt is a new edition from one of the backpacks in the alcove, his old one still adorning Ryan’s shoulder. But his jeans are the same ones he’d been wearing that fateful day in his office when Ryan and Sara had interrupted.

  The jeans had been his new pair for the winter, still stiff around the seams, without any tears or scuffs. They were a testament to his attempt to keep up appearances. They might not have been as comfortable as some of his older pairs, but they were new, which had seemed to be important at the time. Now they are far from the crisp clean pair they were. The left knee is nearly torn through; only a crosshatch of threads protects the skin beneath. However, as he picks idly at the mud covering the other knee, he muses that it isn’t exactly visible how thoroughly worn his pants are, so completely are they encased in a fine layer of brick dust and dirt, which when exposed to the blast of steam that accompanied the tunnel col
lapse had turned into a hard shell that crackles and flakes off every time he moves.

  Jon pulls off an exceptionally large flake before tapping Ryan on the shoulder with his other hand.

  “What do you think happened to Sara?” he asks, peering down the hall.

  Ryan glances over his shoulder at the sleeping form of The Professor before answering.

  “Before the explosion, I’d heard some of the others talking like they knew her. At least that would explain why they separated us.”

  “But where did she go?” Jon wonders. “They might have trusted her more than us but how’d she disappear?”

  “I hope wherever she ended up she wasn’t caught by the army as they closed in on us. She may have been more interested in you, but she seemed nice anyway.” Ryan ponders. “I must be losing my touch. All my charms seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. She must have been focused on getting that boost to her grade, if you know what I mean.”

  Jon seems to ignore Ryan’s good-natured ribbing, instead staring down the hall with a glazed look in his eyes, but inside his mind is racing in turmoil. First of all, he can’t see that she was that interested in him. Sure she was nice and all, but with Ryan’s big clown attitude always in the way, he wonders if she even noticed him amongst the furniture. On the other hand, sure it would have been nice to have a girl like that checking him out, but that is really not important anymore. What is important is somehow getting himself and his friend out of this alive so they can worry later about who the cute girl really likes. The subject they should really be talking about is quietly snoring behind them. There is something is odd about him.

  They sit in silence for a few minutes while Jon continues to pick at the mud impregnated into his pants. Somewhere down the hall a steady drip of water echoes rhythmically. To their tired ears, its steady beat is soothing.

  “What do you think about…?” Jon asks, his sentence trailing off into a vague nod over his shoulder.