Lockdown (Fugitive Marines Book 3)

by David Ryker

  Sloane’s voice seemed to echo in Schuster’s mind. “They all have their own people, just as you have yours. Except they don’t have the means to fight for your species’ future. Only you have that, and yet you choose to ignore it.”

  Schuster felt a wave of shame run through his soul.

  “I’ve been afraid,” he confessed. “Afraid of what might happen to my mind if I came here again. Afraid that I might become like Kergan.”

  Sloane’s figure shone more brightly for a moment, obscuring his shape into an egg, then solidified again. This time, he looked almost human, like a bad 3D rendering of Kevin Sloane in a computer program. Schuster assumed it was because of his growing ability to understand this astral realm and translate it into images his mind could interpret.

  “I don’t know how this situation will progress,” said Sloane. “But we have no choice. You need the technical knowledge I possess to guide your intelligence and imagination in order to develop the technology you need. And it must happen quickly.”

  “I know.” Schuster wondered if Sloane could see his emotions, the shame he was feeling. “But I couldn’t shake the fear that I would somehow lose myself in the process. The thought of that—of becoming like Kergan—was worse than the thought of dying. Much worse.”

  “Nothing truly dies,” said Sloane. “But I understand what you mean. The Sloane half of us felt the same. Fear is a tool for species that exist in the physical dimension, as a means of safeguarding you from harm so that you may propagate the species. But the Gestalt uses that fear against its prey, because fear is necessary for anger, which is necessary for hate. Hate is the easiest to manipulate, and we use it to make war on those who can’t be attenuated.”

  “So is there any guarantee that I won’t suffer Sloane and Kergan’s fate if I do this?”

  “This is uncharted territory for the Gestalt as well. I can’t say exactly how much of us is Kevin Sloane, or even how much of the two of us is inside your mind. I do know that the rest of the Gestalt is unable to see us here.”

  “What about Kergan?” The image from Schuster’s dream of Kergan laughing and saying I see you appeared. “Can he actually see us?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say with any certainty. I am able to perceive vague images of him, but that may be because I’m not currently tied to the physical plane. It’s possible he can see us in the same way.”

  “Great,” Schuster said with the mental equivalent of a sigh. “So what you’re saying is that I have no choice but to let you dig further into my head, with no guarantee that you won’t take over my mind, and no guarantee that Kergan won’t see what we’re doing and be waiting for us when we come knocking on his door.”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Well, that’s nothing new. It’s about as good as any plan we’ve had so far. So how do I do this?”

  “Imagine a door.” A moment later, one appeared between them. It looked like a corridor hatch on Oberon One. “Your imagination is truly impressive.”

  “All right, now what?”

  “Invite me through,” said Sloane.

  Schuster felt his fear glow more powerfully, almost to the point where it was like physical heat, but the door slid open. The image of Sloane took a step toward it.

  “I should warn you we’ve got a bit of a situation back in the other place,” said Schuster. “Like a life-or-death kind of thing. Sorry.”

  A new wave of something from Sloane seemed to flow over the flames of Schuster’s fear, almost like water dousing a fire, and he suddenly felt better. He also realized two things: first, that no time had passed in the physical world since he had come here, and second, that Sloane knew about the situation because he could read his thoughts.

  Schuster felt the sensation of warmth increase. It was as if Sloane was smiling at him with his mind.

  “I would expect nothing less from you and your Jarheads,” said Sloane. “Let’s go.”

  14

  “Dev! We need you on this side!”

  The droids had turned their AI attention back in the direction of Quinn and his companions, huddling behind the counter. There was no way it could stop a blast from those cannons, so the urgency, combined with their current lack of a strategy, was alarming.

  “One second!” Schuster shouted back to Quinn. “I’m thinking!”

  The fact that Schuster was at least awake was better than nothing, except he was between them and the droids, directly in the the line of fire. Quinn turned to Ulysses, who was sitting on the floor next to him.

  “I’m going to order you to do something stupid.”

  “I kinda figgered that,” said Ulysses. “What’s the plan, man?”

  Quinn stuck the tip of his right index finger into the palm of his left hand. “This is the droids here,” he said. “You take the left flank, I’ll take the right.”

  “Then what?”

  “We draw their fire away from Schuster and the white coats.”

  Ulysses nodded. “How we keep from gettin’ blasted our own selves?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Y’know, Quinn, if we live through this, I jest might challenge you for leadership a’ this gang.”

  “If we live through this, I just might give it to you.”

  Quinn counted down from three on his fingers. When he made a fist, Ulysses bolted in a crouching run to the left, and Quinn did the same on the right. Within two seconds of them emerging from behind the counter, the droids had registered their movements and were tracking them with their cannons.

  “Now would be a good time, Dev!”

  “Gimme a second!”

  Might not have more than a second to give, Quinn thought as he leapt over a shipping crate that sat next to the lab’s north wall. Instantly, the wall above him exploded, leaving a white-hot hole that singed Quinn’s hair from two meters away.

  Another whine and another blast from the opposite side of the room and Ulysses side-rolled away from the plasma charge that had been aimed at him.

  “Laisse-moi, connard!”

  Ladouceur’s shout startled him. He looked over to where the white coats huddled on the floor and saw Schuster yanking the woman’s exoskeleton from her legs.

  “Sorry,” Schuster muttered. “It’s what he said to do.”

  What he said to do? Quinn hadn’t given him any orders. But he didn’t have time to think about that as his droid began striding toward him, each ponderous step sending a thundering crash through the room. The charging whine warned him that he had to move or be killed, so he moved.

  On the other side of the room, Ulysses was leaping from side to side like a running back trying to find the hole in the defensive line. The droid’s arm cannon followed his movements, but it was too slow. All in all, not a bad strategy, so Quinn decided to imitate it.

  He wasn’t quite as nimble as Ulysses, so his own droid got off a shot at the floor where Quinn had stood less than a quarter-second earlier, and he felt the heat sear his leg through his pants.

  “Fuck!” he yelped. But at the same time, he realized pain was a great motivator.

  “Yo, Schuster!” Ulysses called. “I’m in a holdin’ pattern and runnin’ low on fuel, man! Whatever yer gonna do, y’best do it!”

  “Ditto!” Quinn shouted, feeling his heart gallop with each jump. His ankles were already starting to protest against the angles they were forced to assume as he tried to keep low and wide. “We can’t keep this up for long!”

  “What is the matter with you?” cried Goodman. “What kind of person steals a cripple’s legs?”

  “I’ll give it back,” said Schuster. “But right now, I need it more than she does!”

  “Who are you calling a cripple?” Ladouceur sniped. “I have neurological issues—”

  “Shut up!” Quinn bellowed. His breath was already getting short. Too much time in the close confines of prison and spaceships had taken its toll.

  “I cain’t do this much longer,” Ulysses huffed a
n instant before his droid fired at the spot where he’d just been. It left a smoking hole in the floor, which forced him to jump backward at an angle instead, which shrank his field of movement.

  “Thirty more seconds!” Schuster called.

  From the corner of his eye, Quinn saw him fiddling with the control pack on the waistband of the exoskeleton. Then another whine warned him that he was moving too slowly and he ducked back to his left just as the blast tore through the air to his right. It struck the wall near the door, where the corpses of the two soldiers lay next to the remains of the MAG-16 cannons.

  “How about twenty?”

  “Got it!” Schuster looked up in the direction of Quinn and Ulysses. “I need you two to get together between the two droids!”

  “Are you outta yer cotton-pickin’ mind?” Ulysses crowed.

  Quinn rolled to his left, partially bridging the gap between himself and Ulysses.

  “Do what he says! That’s an order!”

  “Fine,” Ulysses grumbled. “But I meant whut I said ‘bout takin’ yer job, Quinn!”

  “You’ll have to live through this first.”

  “Cain’t argue with yuh there.”

  The two men met and took a few steps forward and to their right, bringing them into the area of the floor dead center between the two droids. The machines stepped to their respective sides, until they were facing their quarries, who stood there with eyes wide.

  “You damn well better have a plan, Dev!”

  “Steady!” Schuster called back. “Get ready to drop on my signal!”

  “How long?” asked Ulysses.

  “Five seconds.”

  “Jesus, Mary’n Joseph…”

  “Four.”

  Quinn heard the plasma cannons whine simultaneously on either side of them, and he resisted the urge to drop right that second. He had to have faith in Schuster, and he knew that if they couldn’t stop these things, he’d be their next target. That would end any chance that they could get back to Oberon One and stop the invasion.

  “Three.”

  The cannons moved slowly into position, until all four of them were pointing directly at Quinn and Ulysses. Quinn heard one of the women gasp from their place on the floor, while one of the men—he was sure it was Jackson—let out a low moan.

  “Two.”

  “I’d tell you to avenge my death,” said Quinn, his heart hammering against his ribcage. “But you’re going to be dead, too.”

  Ulysses punched his arm. “You should be one o’ them motivational speakers, Quinn. See yuh on th’other side.”

  “One! Drop!”

  The two men did as they were told, landing on their bellies and locking their hands on the backs of their heads, as if it had any hope of protecting them from a plasma blast. An instant later the two droids fired their cannons. All of the four shots hit home, each blasting the other droid’s torso into slag and pushing it backward about ten meters. The one Quinn had been up against slammed into the north wall before falling forward onto the floor.

  “Oh, dear,” said Lakshmi from where he sat trembling on the floor. “I believe I may have soiled myself.”

  Quinn risked looking up and saw that the threat was over. He slapped Ulysses on the shoulder.

  “All right,” he said. “You’re leader now.”

  “Pft,” Ulysses hissed as he got to his feet. “That’s a sucker’s job, hoss. I ain’t really interested.”

  “Uh-huh.” Quinn grinned in spite of himself.

  They made their way to Schuster, who was sitting with the exoskeleton a few meters from the white coats, who were all still in variations of the fetal position.

  “What the hell just happened?” yelled Jackson. His petulant tone made him sound like a bad teacher Quinn had had when he was a kid.

  “That guy you was makin’ fun of just saved yer sorry asses,” said Ulysses. “So show some respect.”

  “All because Dr. Lakshmi couldn’t keep his hands to himself,” said Quinn as he crouched next to Schuster. “And if you think the threat is somehow over now, think again. There are things out there that will make those droids look like kids trick-or-treating on Halloween. This guy here—” He pointed to Schuster. “He’s the key to making sure they don’t show up on our doorstep. Is that simple enough for you eggheads to understand?”

  The looks on the faces of the white coats showed that they were far from happy with the situation, but their nods were enough to convince Quinn that they did, indeed, understand.

  “Good,” he said, just as the rest of the guards poured into the room, rifles drawn, yelling for people to get down.

  “I got this,” said Ulysses, trotting toward the door with his hands raised.

  Now that the commotion was mostly over, Quinn took a deep breath and let it out. Schuster gave him an apologetic wince.

  “Sorry about that, sir. I didn’t really have time to explain. Thanks for trusting me.”

  “I’ve trusted you for seven years, Dev, I’m not going to stop now. But what exactly happened there? Why did those droids not blast us?”

  Schuster grinned proudly and held up the exoskeleton. The control pack had been opened in the back and Quinn could see signs of jury-rigging.

  “This was the key,” said Schuster. “It sends electrical signals to the nerves in Dr. Ladouceur’s legs, prompting them to move in a way that they normally can’t, because of neurological impairment. Essentially, it tells her legs what to do.”

  Quinn shrugged. “You lost me, Dev.”

  “It can be adjusted to boost the signal and interfere with the signals in the droids. Not for long, granted, which is why I had to get you two between them. I jammed their AI long enough for the basic programming—which is, essentially, shoot whatever moves—to override the logic programming that would have prevented them from shooting at each other.”

  “Jesus, man, how the hell did you figure that out?”

  Schuster’s face darkened, and Quinn suddenly had an idea of what his answer was going to be.

  “You talked to Sloane, I take it?”

  “More than that, sir.” Schuster’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow as he tapped his temple with an index finger. “He’s in here now, as in riding shotgun.”

  “Fuck me,” Quinn breathed. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so, but this is all new to me. Then again, we really didn’t have a choice. I mean, I can’t very well go into a trance every time I have a question about science, can I? We had to work together. Sloane convinced me of that.”

  This was all beyond Quinn’s ability to comprehend, but he couldn’t argue with that last point. The clock was ticking to get their assault on Oberon ready, and they had to do what they had to do.

  Of course, that was easy for him to say—he wasn’t the one opening his mind to an alien brain parasite.

  “I don’t know what to say, Dev,” he sighed. “The world is going to owe you more than it can ever repay, and chances are no one outside of us will ever know that.”

  Schuster smiled. “A couple of people have been talking to me about responsibility lately. They made good arguments.”

  Quinn didn’t know who he was talking about, but didn’t want to press him. All he cared about was the fact that things were going to start moving ahead. They would prepare their assault, get their pardons, end the alien threat and get on with their lives.

  He knew he was being ridiculously optimistic, and he didn’t care. They’d just beaten two heavily armed security droids designed by their arch enemy, and without any weapons of their own. It was worth celebrating.

  “How about we break for lunch?” he asked.

  “Good idea. It’ll give me time to talk to my new team. I have a feeling they’ll be a little more receptive now.”

  Quinn grinned and stood, extending a hand to help his friend up. Ulysses joined them.

  “Them fellers in black are gonna take care o’ the two men down,” he said. “So what the hell happened back the
re?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the way back to New Richmond,” said Quinn. “We should leave Dev to his work.”

  The pair said their good-byes to Schuster and headed for the door.

  “Oh, and sir?” Schuster called from behind him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sloane says he’s glad to be working with you.”

  Quinn didn’t know how to answer that, so he smiled awkwardly and left without another word.

  “What the hell’d that mean?” asked Ulysses.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Quinn. “And I’m definitely not sure if I like it or not.”

  15

  OBERON ONE – A WEEK LATER

  Butch Kergan watched with barely contained glee as Toomey stepped through the Raft’s hatch in the airlock and onto the gangway that led into the corridor from the docking bay. The doctor’s gaunt face and lanky frame seemed somehow smaller than he’d expected, but otherwise he appeared much as Kergan had expected.

  Toomey’s steps were slow and plodding, so Kergan rushed to his side and slid a supportive arm under the doctor’s arms.

  “Let me help,” he said. “Three weeks without gravity is hard on a body.”

  “I appreciate it,” said the doctor. “I’ve only ever been to Earth orbit before now. Space travel is a new experience for me.”

  “Hopefully the first of many new experiences.” Kergan turned to face the mezzanine that overlooked the docking bays, and Toomey’s gaze followed his to the honor guard of some thirty prison staff and inmates that stood at attention there. Many of their faces still showed the marks of injuries sustained during the riot that had led to their mass attenuation, and had resulted in the escape of Napoleon Quinn and his cohorts.

  Their eyes, of course, were as blank as their minds.

  “Good lord,” Toomey muttered.

  “What’s that?” Kergan asked, pretending he hadn’t heard.