by T. M. Catron
Calla led the way. “Your praise for them borders on blasphemous, Dar Ceylin. We are servants only.”
“It's better they are caught up in a little praise. It will keep them busy.”
Calla snorted. They came out of the tunnel into a weapons room, its vast walls lined with gun racks and knife cases. Most of the arms were gone, issued long ago. Calla picked up a sharpening stone for her Condarri knife—none of the rocks on Earth were dense enough to sharpen it. She tested the edge of her blade—it wasn't dull, but she ran the stone over it all the same.
The Factory had no direct route to its core, so they made their way through immense dark corridors and narrow tunnels, training rooms and empty dormitories. Everywhere the walls were made of black stone. Soon, all doors opened into tight, narrow corridors. The adarria here were dense, and Calla felt their pull as they questioned the two intruders. Why did she feel like an intruder? Was this really the only way to destroy the hybrids?
The darkness in the corridor was complete, but they turned down another tunnel and a blazing light blinded them. Calla had never imagined the core of the ship, and when she stepped into it, she gasped at the brilliance before them. A giant, fiery vortex spun upward—the opposite of the dark aether in other parts of the ship. Calla and Doyle stood side by side, taking it in, united in their admiration.
“It's as if they captured a star and put it on the ship,” Calla said, shielding her eyes.
“More like a solar flare, feeding the Factory.”
Tendrils of gas and fire reached out from the vortex, entering the adarria on the walls. The adarria here were unlike any Calla had ever seen—ancient, yet very much alive, and colossal. The entire wall was one hieroglyph encircling the vortex, with gases pouring into the giant grooves. Calla and Doyle both could have stood inside one of them.
“They are the same, yet different,” Doyle said as he slowly turned to look. Calla knew he spoke of the bunker in West Virginia. She could not help but compare the cavernous, round room inside the mountain to this one. Where the bunker was shrouded in darkness and aether, this one blazed with bright energy and hot, viscous light.
“How are we not burning?” Calla asked.
“The adarria protect us, I think.”
“Could the aether have contained this if we had destroyed the Factory?”
Doyle gazed into the streams of yellow and orange gas. “I don’t know, but the rogues would love this information—the light, the similarities between the two locations. There has to be a connection.”
“They already have it,” she said grimly. Doyle looked at her. “Think about it. Why else have they worked so stubbornly to get access to that bunker? Why have they thought they could control Condar with it? It must have something to do with the Factory core, or the core on Condar, for that matter.”
“You think Halston’s been gathering hybrids who can help him work it out?”
“Halston could have been here years ago, before we were activated, or someone else told him about it. He was stationed at the bunker when he deserted. That’s when he started asking questions. They’ve figured it out.”
“Which means now we have them all heading for the bunker. We may have inadvertently set their plan in motion.”
Inadvertently or on purpose? What was Doyle really thinking? Looking around, Calla forced her thoughts back to their task. “Where are the controls for the aether?” The hologram had not described them. The two hybrids split up to circle the room. The walls gleamed yellow, red, and orange. Calla examined them eagerly, but all was smooth stone and deep channels.
“Here,” Doyle called. She found him standing in the middle of small adarria cut into the floor. This mark was not connected to any other. A lone symbol of power, it clearly forbade any to commune with it. The surrounding gas grew hotter as Doyle closed his eyes and meditated. Calla sweated silently, unwilling to break his concentration. Nothing happened. Doyle opened his eyes and turned toward the vortex, thinking. Obviously the adarria chose to remain closed. Then with a grim face, he closed his eyes again.
The adarria grew angry. Calla vaguely thought this could be considered an act of treason before a small flare lashed out of the vortex, its heat reaching for them. Doyle stood his ground as the flare whipped around him. But Calla, standing closer to the vortex, caught the full force of it and flew backward into the wall, her entire body on fire.
Another burst shot straight for Doyle, and Calla’s warning was lost in his scream of agony. He sank to his hands and knees within the circle, the flames engulfing him. Calla struggled to rise.
“Look at me!” she called into the flame. “I am Calla! 31, 331! Do not kill us. We are on a sacred mission to defend Condar! Look at me!” Another burst of light struck her, but she would not give up her position.
She was loyal.
Her body shook and burned. She screamed, not in pain, but in triumph. She would not move. I am loyal.
One last flare lashed at her, and Calla floated above the adarria, lifted by the vortex. She knew nothing except fire and light. The light—it screamed. Or was that her? Then she lost consciousness.
When she came to, she lay on the floor next to the vortex, her pain gone. The flares were gone. Calla raised her hands to her face. They were not burned. Slowly, she turned to see Doyle on his back a few feet away, gasping for air. Calla’s pain may have been gone, but so was her strength. Breathing heavily, she crawled across the adarria toward Doyle. Like her, he was not singed.
He coughed. “Is it done?”
“Yes.” Even as she said it, Calla knew her words rang true. The aether was free.
He gazed into the vortex again. “How long?”
“I don’t know. We may be too late.”
Doyle’s bloodshot eyes looked strange against his black irises, and when he turned them on Calla, they reflected the fire nearby, making them look fiery red, not black. He shifted, and they returned to normal. Doyle hauled himself to his feet and held out a hand to Calla who was still trying to catch her breath.
“Now, or never,” he said. Ordinarily, Calla would have ignored his hand, but her joints ached as if the fire wanted to return, so she accepted his help. He pulled her up and led the way out. Calla stumbled after. Once inside the corridor, they stopped to listen, but the same barren silence greeted their acute ears, so they ran on, expecting to see the aether at every turn.
Calla was just beginning to feel better, her legs moving less like jelly, when they burst out into the armory. The aether had beaten them there. Its wispy coils glided along the floor, filling every crevice. Keeping the aether in her line of sight, Calla skirted the edges of the room with Doyle right behind her. The wide corridor beyond the door was almost full, but when they approached, the aether parted.
“The adarria still have some control,” Doyle said. They passed through another corridor without trouble.
Then they heard the screams.
Calla glanced at Doyle whose expression was of grim satisfaction. Pockets of released aether floated through the corridors, expanding, crushing, tearing. Without the Condarri protocols, it would kill everything in its path.
The screams grew louder as they exited the old barracks. Hybrids ran in every direction, fighting and clawing away from the black mass. When they passed the arena, it was completely shrouded in darkness, and thousands of voices carried through the gloom. A band had evaded the aether and rushed out. Seeing Calla and Doyle, the hybrids ran at them, waving their arms, giving warning.
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Calla drew her knife and slashed at the first one to reach her. He crumpled, bleeding profusely. Confused, the others halted in their tracks.
“No!” commanded Doyle. “Get out of here!”
Calla didn’t know if he spoke to her or the others, but they all scattered. She raced down the corridor to the vortex with Doyle somewhere behind. Then someone grabbed her legs and sent her sprawling across the hard floor.
One of the hybrids had followed—a big one with long brown hair. He almost slit Calla’s throat with her own knife before she could roll out of the way. She aimed a well-placed kick to his head, and he narrowly missed her again.
Calla fought the urge to grab her gun. Even now, discharging a weapon in the corridor so near the adarria, seemed forbidden. The big hybrid had no such qualms and drew his own gun as two more hybrids came up behind him. The aether followed.
Doyle had disappeared.
“No one here to protect you now,” one of them said. Calla backed away, feeling in her belt for the throwing stars she kept hidden there. “Do you know,” he said, “Morse was a personal friend. I swore I’d find a way to avenge him, and here’s my chance, just when I thought it was gone forever.”
Morse was the reason most hybrids hated Calla. Preparing to take aim, she slowed her erratic heartbeat. She almost had her finger on the star. The big hybrid hadn’t noticed. “Morse died a coward,” she spat, hoping to enrage him so he would make a mistake. His faced turned red, and a vein bulged near his temple. Then the hybrid raised his gun, but Calla had her weapon. She threw the star and rolled away. It lodged in the hybrid’s throat as the gun went off.
Then Calla picked up her knife to fight the other two who had been slow to attack. Killing them was quick work. Soaked in the blood of the others, she stood over the long-haired hybrid. Calla picked up his weapon, pointing it at him as the aether glided over the other bodies. He choked out something as he tugged the star from his neck.
“Morse was hybrid scum, a traitor, and deserved what he got,” she said. Then Calla leaned down to whisper, “And so do you.” Instead of firing, she backed away and let the aether envelope the hybrid. His raw, hoarse screams echoed through the corridor. Then she turned and ran. The aether followed, hunting her.
When she reached the hall, over one hundred hybrids fought one another off to the side. Their reason for fighting was unclear. Calla looked to the middle of the room. The vortex was gone. Doyle stood at the edge of the hole in the floor. He wouldn’t wait.
She took off at a dead sprint for the opening, thinking to evade the large, crazed crowd, but she was too late. A pack of hybrids spotted her and broke off from the rest, moving between her and the exit.
The hair on the back of Calla’s neck rose as she realized just how many hated her. They probably didn't even know she had set the aether free. But their hostility mattered little to her and gave her no reason to hesitate when they attacked. These opponents were not armed, and that was lucky, Calla thought as she sent the first flying.
“Come get me!” she taunted. “You'll die now, instead of when the aether finds you!”
The rest attacked at once—five battle-hardened hybrids—and Calla killed two without trouble. But as her last stroke fell, the remaining three found their opportunity. She yelled a battle-cry as they grabbed her arms and overwhelmed her with sheer force. One twisted her arm until it dislocated with a pop. She kicked another’s throat, crushing his windpipe.
Then Doyle was there, and they let her go to defend themselves. Between Calla and Doyle, they finished off the remaining two, Calla wielding her knife in her left hand, her right arm hanging at her side. The commotion drew the attention of others, and more broke off from the main group.
“Go!” yelled Doyle, and they sprinted for the hole in the floor. They reached the edge and reeled back. The absence of aether meant nothing protected them from the hangar bay far below, two levels down. Calla had never leapt from so high. But they didn't have a choice. Other hybrids closed in as the black aether swept into the room.
They jumped.
Calla rolled when she landed, colliding with Doyle and banging her dislocated shoulder on the ground. She gritted her teeth in pain as they scrambled to their feet to race for the Nomad. The ship's door opened for them on Doyle’s command. A couple of stray hybrids tried to beat them to the ship, but Calla and Doyle threw themselves into the hold as the Nomad took off. Calla registered the betrayal on the hybrids’ faces as the hatch closed them out.
As the ship left the hangar, they lay panting on the floor. After a few minutes, Calla sat up. Every inch of her body felt weighted down, her energy spent. Doyle stared at the blue light of the hold and then rubbed a hand over his eyes as if they hurt.
Calla gripped her right arm, ready to relocate her own shoulder. When Doyle saw what she was doing, he sat up and took hold of her arm. “I’ll do it.”
“You were foolish to come back for me,” she said as Doyle rotated her arm.
“You’re welcome,” he said. With a push, he popped her joint back in place.
***
“Hey, can I get some water?” Lincoln called into the t-shirt. Someone, Baker or Halston, hit him in the chest with a full bottle. It bounced off and rolled somewhere down by Lincoln’s feet. When neither of his captors bothered to untie his hands, which were attached to the tree at his back, Lincoln sighed and leaned back. “Thanks.”
Halston and Baker had mostly ignored Lincoln. Their companion had left after they’d marched into the woods that first day. Halston and Baker had moved Lincoln blindfolded through the trees, and his bloody, bruised knees ached from falling on them.
Baker had made an irritated scoffing noise every time she had to stop to wait for him to rise. After three or four falls, she began heaving him up by the shirt collar or arm to get him moving again.
“Believe me,” said Lincoln after landing on a sharp rock and feeling blood trickle down his leg, “I’m not falling on purpose. Just take off the blindfold.” All he’d earned was another shove. They had removed the hood a handful of times, and each time Lincoln saw nothing but dense trees and rock.
Day nine of his captivity, and the group had finally found a suitable place to camp. Relieved, Lincoln tried to sleep in the stuffy, sweat-soaked t-shirt. With every breath, the fabric brushed against his mouth.
Baker and Halston spoke little, so when Baker left that morning, Lincoln didn’t know until midday when Halston removed the hood for water. Lincoln heard Baker return sometime later, and then Halston swore despite the fact Baker hadn't spoken.
“That's not any good,” said Halston. “Good thing we kept him.”
“We’ve got the bunker covered. Even if someone else gets those plans, they’ll have a hard time getting in there.”
Lincoln tensed at the thought of other people looking for his friends, but pretended to sleep so he could listen.
“How many?” Halston asked.
“Five I recognized. Three females. Two males.”
“Did they recognize you?”
“They didn’t see me.”
“Hope not. Loyal? Who were they?”
“Morrison, Hadley, Smith, Iverson, and Gault.”
Halston sniffed. “All questionable, which means we can’t trust them. Have you had any contact with Simpson?”
“No.”
Lincoln remained listening for a few more minutes, but Halston and Baker had ended the conversation. Where had Baker gone that morning? Lincoln thought of the silo and wondered if his friends had tried to go back there. It made sense they wouldn’t wander far, but if they realized strangers were looking for them, they might have left.
The drawings—Baker had called them plans. Maybe they were some kind of blueprint. For what, Lincoln had no idea. The tall, nameless man who’d left said he had a copy. How had he managed that? Was he able to take a picture with a camera that had escaped the EMP?
Lincoln had spent hours upon hours studying the symbols, and he and h
is team had concluded they must be alien. If so, it troubled Lincoln that Halston and his friends could read them. Humans were not supposed to be able to read alien writings, or blueprints, or whatever they were. If so, ARCHIE had kept him in the dark more than Lincoln had dared imagine.
When Lincoln and his friends had been brought to West Virginia, they were puzzled and frustrated at the lack of information Colonel Nash provided them. Lincoln had often wondered if Nash were as clueless as he. Now he would never know. Nevertheless, the Alien Research Center for the Hostile Invasion of Earth, or ARCHIE, must have known much more than they had communicated to Lincoln. When he first discovered the silo, Lincoln assumed ARCHIE had studied it extensively, but all materials were either lost or buried in bureaucratic red tape when Lincoln arrived. Obviously, ARCHIE had deciphered more than Lincoln had hoped.
If ARCHIE understood the silo, why had Lincoln, Nelson, Alvarez, and Carter been held against their will and then chased through the forest? Why were they here in the first place? Shouldn’t the Department of Defense or Department of Homeland Security have cast all secrecy aside in the event of a real alien invasion? And what could Lincoln possibly do that hadn’t already been done?
Someone interrupted Lincoln’s thoughts by pulling off the t-shirt. He exhaled in relief. Baker picked up the water bottle, unscrewed the lid, and held it for Lincoln. He didn’t waste any time, almost draining the bottle before she took it away. The warm water on his empty stomach made him queasy.
“I won’t help you find my friends,” he said again.
“Don’t need you to,” answered Halston, walking over. “We know where they are.”
Lincoln’s stomach churned. Halston and Baker didn’t have the plans yet, which meant something had stopped them. Maybe those five they mentioned were in between Halston and his goal. Lincoln didn’t know whether to be grateful or worried. “This makes no sense. You've been down in the silo. Many people have, all these months it’s been open. Why guard it now? Other people could have already made a copy of the symbols. Your friend did. You have no way of knowing how many copies are floating around out there.”