Ravagers [03.00] Deviate

by Alex Albrinck

  Nor did he care; it didn’t matter at this point.

  The miles passed quickly. Though Roddy felt he was moving at a modest pace, the mechanical assists in the suit propelled him along far faster than he’d be able to sprint. It wasn’t a bad way to travel, save for the lack of suitable companionship or even the most basic natural scenery. The great lake rose above the horizon, and in another hour he’d reached the shore.

  He’d never been a huge fan of bodies of water, but he now found the sounds of the rippling waters—microphones planted in the suit’s exterior, he supposed—to be some of the most beautiful noises he could fathom. His eyes narrowed at the movement beneath the clear water. Fish, flitting and darting about. Food.

  His stomach rumbled.

  He eyed the water and the fish with deep longing, then looked down at the glowing sludge under his feet. So near. And yet so far.

  Or was he?

  He had no idea how far he might need to walk to reach New Venice. And he had no way of knowing if he’d passed the spot where New Venice once stood, before these damned robots potentially leveled it. He could try walking east, and might get lucky and reach New Venice before dehydration set in, but that was uncertain.

  And if he found New Venice, populated as he suspected by Phoenix sympathizers, he might be summarily executed anyway.

  He nodded once. He had to take this risk at some point. He could die tonight just as well as he could die tomorrow or a week from now.

  He moved to the water’s edge and knelt down, examining the shoreline. He’d expected a steep increase in the water’s depth, but found that the bottom descended gradually. He glanced at the metal suit. Would it rust over? He snorted at the irony. Ravagers couldn’t destroy a Diasteel suit or water, but water could destroy a Diasteel suit. Maybe.

  He knew lack of water would destroy him. He’d have to risk death in order to survive.

  He stepped into the water, which lapped up against the toes of his boot. No immediate rusting away into oblivion. He laughed at himself. They’d make Diasteel waterproof, right? They created buildings pummeled by storms at all times, and none of them rusted away. So this should work. Unless it was a special variant. He shook his head. He needed to stop thinking about this. He took another step, and then another. A few minutes later, he found himself nearly fifty yards from shore, fifty yards from the glowing nightlight of death writhing on the ground. He glanced down. The bright light revealed that he was covered in water nearly to the waist. Which also meant that if he felt any Ravagers on his skin, he could just drop below the surface.

  He’d feel them before they started devouring him, right?

  Stop it, Roddy.

  He reached up and found the latches on the helmet, released them, and pulled the helmet from his head. He sucked in copious gulps of fresh air, savoring each like a glass of fine wine. He’d never before realized how sweet the air could taste until he thought he’d live the rest of his life in a mobile metal bubble.

  Emboldened by the fact he’d not yet died, Roddy headed nearer to the shore; twenty feet from the Ravagers, the water was only a few inches deep, so gentle was the depth increase. He set the helmet down, twisting it a bit to burrow it into the soft soil under the water. He didn’t want the helmet floating away; he’d nearly died aboard the now-dissolved ship due to a similar mishap.

  Convinced he’d properly braced the helmet, Roddy headed back to deeper waters. When the water reached his knees, he stopped and, before his paranoid mind could offer illusions of imminent death, he pulled the flap open on the front of the suit, unzipped, and stepped out. With no fear of anyone watching, he pulled off the clothes he’d been wearing since… well, he didn’t know how long, only that they rankled the nose and might soon stand without requiring his frame inside. He waded a few steps away, then let himself sink beneath the water. The cool liquid soothed his skin; he let himself drink deeply, rehydrating his parched cells. He stood up and glanced back at the suit to ensure it hadn’t tipped over, then dipped below the surface again, using his fingers and nails to scrub the grime from his hair as best he could.

  Feeling as refreshed as he’d been in quite some time, he waded back to his clothing and the Diasteel suit. He pulled the clothing out of the armor and dunked it under, scrubbing the cloth against itself to eliminate as much of the sweat and grime as possible before wringing out the excess moisture. He donned the still damp clothing and then clambered back inside the suit. Thankfully, no water seeped into the legs; the water in the loose-floating torso and arms poured out as he lifted the upper section.

  When he stuck his left hand in the arm, though, he found a surprise. A small fish, still living, was caught inside the sleeve after the water vanished. He pulled his arm out, meaning to dump the fish out and back into the water… until his stomach rumbled again.

  Practicality overcame sentimentality. He grabbed the still-wriggling creature and pulled it out. Could he eat a raw, live fish?

  No. But perhaps he could cook it first.

  Roddy conjured the mental saw he’d used to sever the bonds holding him prisoner aboard the ship, and a second later he held a dead, headless fish in his hands. He’d only fished a few times, but he knew he couldn’t eat this yet, even if cooked. He pulled out the bones and other undesirable bits, then focused once more. Could he make those mental waves turn hot, hot enough to cook food? He wondered how strange this scene must look: a man standing in the shallow part of the great lake in a suit of armor covering him to the waist, as he held and stared at a headless fish in his bare hands, all while glowing death machines writhed and swirled on the land behind him.

  He kept his focus on the fish.

  Moments later, he felt the warmth, but more critically, he smelled it. The scent of baked fish wafted through the air and infiltrated his nose. He breathed deeply. The fish looked more edible at this point, and with nothing better to do and no utensils, Roddy bit in. It tasted delicious. He devoured the rest, biting off huge chunks and chewing the savory meal. Much as he’d like to stand here, he had to recognize the risk posed by the waiting Ravagers. He finished chewing while he wriggled his arms into the sleeves, chewed more as he zipped the suit closed and sealed the covering flap, and swallowed the last bits of the fish as he turned and marched back toward the shore. His helmet hadn’t moved. He picked it up, moved to deeper water to rinse the mud from the bottom, and used the opportunity to wash out the inside. Then he took a few deep breaths and reattached the helmet.

  Roddy clambered back to dry land, snickering as the glowing Ravagers dodged the drops of water falling off the suit, and began walking to the east. The wet suit became annoying, and he worried about chafing. With his walking movement well-perfected, he used the same heating energy trick previously used to cook fish, but this time within the suit and at a much lower temperature. When he started sweating, he adjusted his focus, centering the heat specifically on his clothing. The warmth inside the suit dissipated, and his clothing dried out.

  He offered a grudging bit of thanks to Silver and Delaney. Without them, he’d never know about this incredible skill he had.

  And, like them, he wondered exactly how it was that he’d developed that skill.

  He walked for six hours before fatigue set in and he realized he needed sleep. Though it didn’t matter, he used the boots and metal gloves to build a trench from the lake around a spot of dry land. The land dropped off suddenly here; dry land, then water ten feet deep right next to it. He surrounded his sleeping ground with the small moat, then splashed water over the ground until it became saturated. The glowing Ravagers, once doused, went dark, apparently disabled.

  Water killed the Ravagers. What he wouldn’t give for a massive flood right about now.

  He settled down on the ground. Sleep proved difficult inside the suit; it wasn’t built for such purposes, and it was incredibly uncomfortable. But his fatigue overwhelmed him; all too soon, he blinked his eyes, shielding them against the bright mid-day sun. He’d slept well, too
long, perhaps. There was no real timetable for survival, though. The fact that he’d woken up meant he’d won another day.

  The Ravagers beyond the moat had returned to the oily color of the daytime. Roddy could get into the lake here, but safely stowing his helmet and suit and then climbing back out, all without suffering an attack, could prove disastrous. Steeling himself against every learned instinct, he relieved himself inside the suit, not bothering to use the heat energy to remove the moisture. He didn’t know what baked urine smelled like, but doubted it would be anything pleasant.

  He walked east once more.

  The sun neared the horizon behind him, and his hulking shadow moved before him. He looked up from the ground… and saw it, a strangely shaped building in the distance. He saw no shortage of Ravagers here; the oily glaze stretched around him in all directions as far as he could see. Had the machines left the structure ahead untouched? Had they not yet reached that far east? Was he seeing a mirage of some kind?

  He walked, quickening and lengthening his stride.

  The only light now came from the Ravagers as they lost their oily hue and turned luminescent, but the eerie lighting revealed the unthinkable: a small, domed city surrounded by walls bathed in a constant flow of water, protected by an incredibly wide, shallow moat.

  This must be New Venice.

  He felt a lump in his throat. Delaney thought Deirdre would try to make it here; had she succeeded? Would he see her again?

  This city, so clearly designed to survive a Ravager swarm, gave Roddy his clearest indication yet of the massive conspiracy associated with the devices. Construction must have taken years, from the final design of the tiny robots to the planning and eventual construction.

  He wondered if anyone still lived here. Wondered if they’d all decided that any risk was too much, and instead boarded flying machines that didn’t exist to a space station that couldn’t.

  He ran, finding the walkways situated just below the moat water’s surface, sprinted toward the walls and under the falling water.

  Klaxons sounded. An alarm system. Why alarm what you didn’t plan to protect, and why protect anything left unoccupied?

  People clad in suits like his emerged from doors he hadn’t seen. He wondered if he’d be able to fire his mental bullets, but decided he didn’t care to try. The sheer exhaustion hit him, and he offered no resistance as they strapped him to a gurney, dousing him with water, and rolled him inside. They dumped him into a chute and he landed in a room where his suit was again blasted with water. Any Ravagers clinging to the outside of his suit ought to be destroyed by now. He heard a voice over a microphone barking orders, but he’d already figured out what they were doing, had already started pulling off the helmet and removing the suit. The voice demanded he strip out of his clothing as well, and he did so in silence.

  The blasts of soapy water took his breath away. He smelled something antiseptic in the air before fresh water rinsed him clean. Figures in oddly colored suits with helmets—suits far more mobile than the one he’d worn the past day—came to collect his suit, clothing, and him as well. They used high powered weapons to direct Roddy, but he needed no prodding, just direction. He walked through doors into a small, sterile white room. Through gestures, the people in the suits directed him toward a stack of clean, white bodysuits. Roddy held up several before finding one that fit. He pulled the clothing on, almost relieved that they offered no covering for his feet. He flexed his toes on the cool, smooth flooring, noting with surprise that his clothing had turned a deep green color after he’d put it on.

  It was time to move again. They exited out another set of doors into a major hallway. Roddy tried to keep track of the turns, but soon gave up. They reached an unmarked door and his guard used a badge to release the lock. His hosts pushed the door open and turned on the lights. Roddy had expected some type of interrogation room. To his shock, he found himself in a comfortable room with soft sofa and comfortable chairs with thick cushions. Without any prodding, he moved inside and settled into one of the chairs, letting his muscles relax and settle into the plush cushions. His eyes drooped lower and lower until they closed.

  He heard the door open once more and sprang to his feet, alert for any potential attack.

  A man and a woman stood before him with name badges identifying them as Jeffrey and Desdemona. They gazed upon him with curious expressions. They weren’t angry, and they didn’t want to kill him. They were… pleased to see him.

  What?

  Their gazes intensified until Roddy felt uncomfortable. Even with little malice, such unceasing stares kept him off balance. He looked back and forth between the pair, wondering when one of them would explain to him his circumstances.

  The woman moved toward him, slowly, as if not believing he was here. Roddy frowned, but didn’t move. She stopped when she got within a few feet of him. She held out her hand, but it wasn’t offered at an angle suggestive of a handshake. Her fingers reached out and touched his face, stroking his cheek with fondness.

  Then she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face into his shoulder, and began crying.

  Roddy had never felt more uncomfortable in his life. He glanced at the man, his eyes begging for an explanation, asking to understand why a strange woman touched his face with fondness and sobbed into his shoulder.

  “You don’t remember this place or us, do you, Roddy?”

  If he’d not been smothered in the embrace of the sobbing woman, Roddy would have jumped back. How…?

  “Yes, I know your name.” Jeffrey chuckled. “And yes, I know your memories end about the time you joined the Special Forces for the Western Alliance.”

  He could feel his legs waver. He supposed they might have some kind of visual identity program and thus knew his name. But the number of people who knew of his amnesia—and were still alive—was infinitesimally small. How could this stranger know?

  “I don’t just know about that amnesia, Roddy. I know how it happened. And why.”

  The woman called Desdemona finally pulled her head from his shoulder and stepped away, gazing at Roddy through her tears. “It was a terrible risk, Roddy, and it’s been a terrible ordeal for you. I don’t know if we’ll be able to recover those lost memories, but you knew that from the beginning. It was a risk you were willing to take.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “The important thing right now, though, is that you’re here. You’ve made it back.”

  Roddy blinked stupidly, staring at both of them. “I… made it… back?”

  Desdemona’s smile broadened. “You’re home, Roddy. Finally. You’re home.”

  Jeffrey stepped forward and clapped Roddy on the shoulder. “Welcome home, Roddy. Welcome home, son.”

  —24—

  WESLEY CARDINAL

  THE HOUSE SHOOK again, and this time the children whimpered.

  Wesley couldn’t blame them. He’d like to whimper as well. The sense of foreboding in the house began to overwhelm him.

  He’d shouted back and forth with Whiskey, trying to gather additional information about the storm. The robots projected that the storm would pass over the island during the next thirty minutes, bringing lightning, powerful winds, and potential torrential rains blowing in from the southwest. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, though.

  “Whiskey!”

  “Yes, Wesley Cardinal?”

  “You said you have sensors set up on the island checking for trouble?”

  “We do, Wesley Cardinal. They are one hundred percent accurate.”

  Wesley glanced at the Smith family. “You missed them, though.”

  “We do not miss humans arriving on the island, Wesley Cardinal. We do not assess them as threats until direct confirmation of intent.”

  “You seemed surprised when they turned up.”

  He heard Mary cough loudly behind him and craned his head in her direction. “Wesley, we’re at best looking at weathering out a severe storm and you’re arguing semantics with a robot.”

>   Ah. Fair point. “Whiskey, have your sensors detected anything dangerous on shore yet?”

  “Winds are gusting to sixty-one point seven four miles per hour, Wesley Cardinal. Such winds can cause extensive damage to property and—”

  “Anything other than wind or rain?”

  “No, Wesley Cardinal. Shall I alert you if the situation changes?”

  “Yes, please.” He wandered over to John and Mary. “I’d feel better if we got off this island.”

  “It’s too late for that, isn’t it?” John asked. “We can’t take a boat off this island in a storm like this. I know ours wouldn’t make it; we barely survived the last one.”

  Wesley considered his oversized canoe. “Mine either. I’m wondering if the General had any ships.” He’d queried the robot earlier; Whiskey said General Jamison and Sheila hadn’t departed via boat, but he’d not asked if such a ship might be available. “Even if he did, I don’t think I know how to operate anything bigger than a rowboat.”

  “It’s a risk leaving this space right now because of the wind,” Mary noted. “We’ll need to make do here.”

  Wesley turned away, seething. He would agree with Mary if they had nothing more than a severe storm with which to concern themselves. But what if the Ravagers came? This structure wouldn’t protect them. He’d seen enough of this building to understand that it hadn’t been sealed against Ravagers. Even if this underground space used Diasteel, it wasn’t sealed; the machines would rush through the gaps and get them eventually.