Psion Delta (Psion series #3)

by Jacob Gowans

  Al and Sammy walked back around the horseshoe to the orange-roofed house and cut through the lawn on a cement walk lined by bushes. A thrill of excitement shot through Sammy as he mentally prepared himself for whatever might come next. The sensation was quickly followed by a sharp throb in his leg that made him grimace. Al rang the doorbell and waited. When nothing happened, he grabbed the knocker on the door and banged it three times.

  He glanced at Sammy, his face set in a slight frown with uncharacteristic wrinkles on his forehead. “You okay?”

  Sammy nodded and let out a long breath. Not now. Please. Twenty seconds passed before Al rang and knocked again. This time they waited a full minute before Al breathed into his com. “No answer.”

  “Try the door,” Justice ordered.

  Al pulled down on the handle. “Locked. Thumb recognition entry.”

  Sammy closed his eyes and thought back to the cave. The mother and father propped up against the back wall, pale faces, hands resting at their sides. He could see them with nearly perfect clarity. No missing thumbs.

  “Any sign of forced entry at the back of the house?” Sammy asked Justice over the com.

  “Nope.”

  Sammy thought about the maps of the neighborhood they’d studied. “You want us to try to break in?”

  “Not yet,” Justice said. “We still have plenty of time to watch the area.”

  “You want to try a thermal check on the house?”

  “They could have a detector. It’d set off an alarm. Or they could have thermal proofed it. Oh, what the heck.” There was a pause on the radio, then, “Nothing. Either the house is thermal proofed or their clothes are, which is what Commander Havelbert suggested during the briefing.”

  Still thinking of the maps Justice had shown him the previous night, Sammy suggested, “What if Al and I expand our efforts into the next neighborhoods? If Al takes the street to the east, I can go south. That way we don’t blow our cover, but we’re nearby.”

  Al made a sound like he was going to object, but Justice cut him off. “Smart idea. Give me regular reports. Avni?”

  “Yeah?” Avni answered.

  “Walk laps around the block until I give you the say so. Stay casual.”

  Sammy walked down the street and crossed over into a much larger neighborhood. He was really only interested in one small area. A couple pushing a stroller walked toward him. When they got closer and saw his attire, they stopped and turned around to head in the opposite way. Sammy paid them no mind. As the afternoon wore on, the air grew warmer and muggier. The residents didn’t seem to mind. Children played outside on the grass and in the streets while parents weeded their gardens or mowed their lawns.

  Anna spoke over the com, “Spotted the boat traveling north in the bay. It’s mixed in with a party of four other boats. Six of us are in one cruiser with Garrett. Juraschek, Kolomiyets is on his way to pick you up. I want you and Maru on his team as our backup. Leave Berhane and Byron to watch the house.”

  “Copy that,” Justice answered. “Al and Sammy, head back this way. The rest of us will jump on the cruiser.”

  Sammy and Al acknowledged the order. However, something compelled Sammy to check out a hunch before returning to watch the orange-roofed house he believed to be empty. The map, as he recalled it, showed a dirt path that traveled right along the western skirt of the city. It nearly touched the backyard of the house with the orange roof, then continued south. He left the paved street and walked about twenty meters west until hitting the dirt road. He turned south and examined the path, noting several faint footprints along the way.

  “Kolomiyets is here,” Justice said. “Be back when we’ve rounded up the bad guys.”

  Sammy followed the footprints over half a kilometer south, passing several houses along the way.

  “Sammy, where are you?” Al asked. “I’m waiting for you near the house.”

  “I’m following a hunch,” Sammy answered. “Be right there.”

  “You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m on the west side of the city on a dirt road heading south.”

  “Yeah, I remember that road. I’ll take position west of the house so I’m closer to you. Keep me posted if you spot something fishy.”

  “Will do.”

  After walking a bit farther down the path, the footprints Sammy was following turned into the fence surrounding a backyard. There was no gate in the fence, no cuts or bends. It appeared the owners of the footprints had simply hopped it. Sammy did the same, putting one hand on the fence and using a light jump blast.

  You know, you could go to the front door like you did with all the other houses, a voice told him, but Sammy ignored that thought.

  A curtain fluttered in the upstairs window. He wondered if he was about to get chased off the property by an angry homeowner or have the police called on him. As he approached the sliding glass back door, he noticed the large doghouse in the corner of the porch. Food bowl full. Water bowl empty. A doggie door had been installed into the back wall of the house, right next to the sliding door. No dog ran out to investigate or bark. Sammy hesitated, then took a step back.

  “At the boat,” Anna announced. “They aren’t answering our radio transmissions, so we’re going to attach a cable and overload the circuits.”

  Once again, Sammy sensed movement in the house. He considered knocking on the back door, but didn’t.

  Where’s the dog? He weighed his options, staring at the doggie door as he thought. A dark voice spoke in his mind. Dog meat is better than human meat.

  “Cable attached. Jolting the boat. No one emerging from below deck.”

  The curtains covering the glass door swayed gently. A small crack appeared in between the pieces of green-gold fabric. Sammy tried to see into the room, but couldn’t distinguish anything. The wood surrounding the glass door bore small scratches and dents, possible signs of a forced entry. A bead of sweat formed on his brow, and he brushed it up into his hairline. What do I do?

  “Jolt worked,” Anna said. “Boat is stalled. Preparing to board.”

  Sammy chose to act. He pulled on the door handle and found it locked. Movement came from within the house; this time Sammy was sure he’d heard it. He took three steps backward, shielding lightly. The next moment, two things happened.

  A thunderous sound came over his com, startling him enough that his next step back caught on the porch, tripping him. At the same moment, the sliding glass door shattered as a gun fired. As Sammy fell back, a searing pain tore through his left arm, then a second in his left leg, and he cried out.

  “Sammy!” Al shouted. “What’s going on? Did you hear that?”

  “The boat was rigged!” Dinsmore cried. “It exploded. Three down in the water. Three down in the water. Sending three more to recover and rescue.”

  “I’ve been shot!” Sammy yelled. “I’m down.”

  “I’m coming,” Al told him.

  Sammy tried to put both hands up to shield, but his left arm burned in pain. He looked at the wound and saw a bloody mess where the bullet had torn a chunk of meat from his shoulder and bicep. His leg, however, was unwounded. The curtains flapped in the light breeze and one of the targets stood just inside staring at Sammy and pointing the gun at his chest.

  Across the lawn at the house next door, the neighbors came running outside to investigate. “Did you hear that?” one asked.

  “Sounded like a gunshot,” another answered.

  “Get inside!” Sammy ordered them. “Call the police!” Two more shots were fired. One from the man in front of him, the other from the second floor window where Sammy had seen movement earlier. He shielded both of them, scooting himself along the ground as he did so. Voices from the rest of his team yelled over the radio, but Sammy couldn’t focus with all the noise in his ear.

  He reached the side of the house, out of the line of sight of one shooter. From the upstairs window came three more shots. Sammy caught a glimpse of
the scared face of Dr. Junko Sokama. Using his bad arm to shield, he slipped off his backpack and removed his syshée and a small med kit. He let the med kit fall to the ground. Then he rolled onto his back, used his feet as shields, and returned fire at the target in the window. Dr. Sokama ducked back inside.

  Sammy worked quickly. Still keeping his feet up to blast, he rested the gun on his chest, opened the med kit, and retrieved a syringe of antibiotics. He jammed the needle into his wound, drained it, and threw it aside. Then he grabbed the tube of paste that the Elite affectionately called “orange barf,” and squeezed it over the bleeding tissue and muscle. Once he’d finished, he slapped a bandage on. The whole process took him about fifteen seconds. During that time, Al ran up to the fence.

  “Al, take cover!” Sammy warned. Then in a quiet voice, “Go around front, I’m heading inside.”

  “Your arm okay?” Al asked over the com.

  “It’ll be fine. Let’s get these animals.”

  “You got it.”

  As the orange barf took effect, the pain in Sammy’s arm transformed from a sharp, burning agony to a dull, throbbing agony, but at least he could now move it without wanting to die. He got to his feet and checked every angle around him, then limped toward the back door again. My leg is fine, Sammy told himself repeatedly. There’s nothing wrong with my leg. None of these thoughts made the aching go away. As he re-entered the porch space, his boots crunched on the shattered shards of the glass door, announcing his return. He shielded high and low, crouching slightly to be sure his whole body was protected from the front.

  “You are surrounded by agents of the New World Government!” he called out as he neared the doorway. “You are ordered to give yourselves up without further altercation. Any more violent responses will be met with lethal force. Do you wish to surrender?”

  Of course you’re not going to surrender. You’re sadistic sociopaths bent on killing as many people as you can.

  No response came from beyond the billowing curtains. He blasted the curtains inward and saw nothing. When they swung back and out the door, he grabbed them and ripped them down with his good arm. Again, he checked from every possible angle. Seeing no one, he went in the house.

  The back door led directly into the family den. A couch stood against the wall, facing him. Flanking the couch on each side were reclining chairs. Opened food containers and food littered the floor. Mud had been tracked on almost every surface. Dried blood spots speckled the walls and floor here and there. Sammy listened carefully for any noises, shielding himself on both sides, waiting patiently for Al to arrive.

  Muffled steps came from upstairs. Muttering voices followed.

  “Upstairs, Fourteen!” a male voice shouted. “We have two hostages. A girl age ten. A boy age six. We demand passage off the island. We demand a boat with an emergency vessel. Once we have crossed into our own waters, we will release the hostages into the emergency vessel unharmed and leave under escort of our own people. Those are the terms!”

  Sammy swung his syshée back into his grip using his gun ring. “How can I agree to your terms if I can’t see you?”

  “We can see you,” the voice replied. “The camera above the holo-screen is transmitting your every move to us. If you put one foot on the stairs, we shoot the girl. Put a second foot on the stairs. . . . ”

  “My com isn’t functioning!” Sammy lied. “So I can’t give anyone your terms. Another Psi—Fourteen is on the way. Can I ask him to do that?”

  A long pause preceded the answer. Sammy could only assume the targets were conferring amongst each other. “We accept that proposal.”

  Sammy tried to think of a solution before Al arrived. Bits and pieces of a plan floated into his mind, a really good plan, it seemed, but the thing wouldn’t come together. It wouldn’t let itself be seen. Every time he tried to pull all the bits together in his brain, he thought of the two children, what they had already gone through, and what they might go through if he didn’t outsmart the five targets upstairs.

  The NWG does not negotiate with terrorists, the voice in his head reminded him. These people must know that.

  So what do they really want? Sammy asked himself.

  He thought of a chessboard and some of the tricks his father and Justice had used to beat him. The memories helped him focus better. He looked around the room. On the wall hung a portrait of a handsome family: Mom, Dad, and four kids. Four kids. They smiled happily. The little girl’s focus was slightly off-camera. The little boy grinned, showing off his missing teeth. What about the two older boys?

  “Let me speak to the kids,” Sammy called upstairs.

  “No, we will not agree to that.”

  “Then let them speak to me.”

  “No.”

  The tone of the Thirteen’s voice confirmed what Sammy had expected after seeing the picture. Rage replaced his fear. The whole family is already dead. He took a deep breath and released it very slowly. Control your emotions, Sammy, Byron had told him. He shook his head. They killed one family, stole their boat, abandoned that house and walked over here, then killed this second family. How many more people would they have killed before deciding it was time to try and escape?

  Quietly, Al entered the home through front door. Sammy didn’t spare him more than a glance. Carefully, Sammy reached into his backpack and pulled out the automatic with an extended magazine and tossed it to his partner. Next, he checked the syshée. Without moving his head, he glared up at the ceiling, calculating. Al’s fingers counted down from three . . . then the Psions opened fire.

  The targets upstairs returned fire down through the ceiling, punching holes and raining plaster and dust down on him. Sammy shot the camera atop the holo-screen and took cover behind a chair. Large gaping holes appeared between the two levels of the house. Sammy could see chunks of rooms above him, but no enemies.

  Al signaled to the stairs, and Sammy nodded. His leg protested angrily as he stood. They darted out from their cover, ran to the steps, and quietly climbed them. Each stepped brought more pain up his left side. Stemming from the hallways, Sammy counted four bedrooms. He went to the closest one and kicked it open while Al did the same to the next. They cleared every corner of the rooms. Nothing. A study with a large desk, a bookcase, and a pinball machine. Next was the two older boys’ room. The boys’ bodies were in the closet. The stench was awful. The next one, he guessed, must be the master bedroom. A truly horrible smell greeted him when he opened it. He found the parents’ bodies in a scene too horrible to put into words. Sammy tried not to think of his own father and mother, but couldn’t help it. Pain burst up and down his leg at the sight. Fire erupted in his brain. How could Byron expect him to control his emotions in the face of such revulsion?

  There was only one room left. Sammy walked toward it, flipping his gun back on the ring to use his blasts. He had only a slight limp though the pain was excruciating, like a bolt of lightning firing off every time he moved. On Al’s face, Sammy saw a grim expression, and he imagined what his own face looked like. They stopped at the door and listened. Sammy could hear them all inside, breathing, hearts racing, waiting, guns pointed right at him.

  Let them be scared of me.

  He relished the reversal of this moment. A little under a year ago, he’d been holed up in a bathroom terrified out of his mind. Him and one other person, huddled together, waiting for the Thirteens to come and kill them. He wondered what the Thirteens inside the room were thinking.

  Here come the Fourteens.

  He knocked lightly three times and then threw the door open. The room belonged to the ten-year-old girl. The walls had been stenciled in purple flowers with white polka dots. Many of the toys and decorations in the room were pink or purple, including the bed sheets and pillows. On top of the bed lay the girl, her mouth covered in tape, her hands bound, her face bruised and bloody. Sammy had been wrong; she was alive. He wasn’t so sure about her brother next to her.

  Al went inside first, and Sammy followed.
One of the Thirteens had thick black hair that had recently been styled into horns. His eyes were dyed red, and he had minimal scars. His gun was pointed at the girl. The second Thirteen Sammy recognized now that he saw him up close. It was the same Thirteen he’d seen long ago in a video shown by Byron on the day of his orientation into Beta. This enemy wasn’t particularly tall, but had a bald head covered in dark scabs. The two Aegis had guns trained on Sammy. So did Dr. Sokama. Not one of them had anything more powerful than semi-automatics. Sammy’s eyes flickered back and forth between the faces of the targets and the poor girl. Her eyes were wide and fixed on him. In them Sammy saw the same pain and horror that he’d experienced in his own past.

  “New deal,” he told the criminals, “you surrender and I let you live. You shoot at me or her, you all die. I swear I will kill every last one of you.”

  “Put down the guns,” Sokama told her group. “It’s over.”

  The Thirteen with the scabs jerked his head several times and made a high-pitched sound. The second Thirteen responded while the two Aegis watched their leaders for marching orders.

  Just surrender for once. Please.

  A gun went off. The girl on the bed jerked as the bullet entered her. Sammy looked down at his own white shirt and saw her blood on it in several small red spatters. He had thought nothing could affect him anymore—not after his parents and Toad and Dr. Vogt and every other thing he’d witnessed—but something broke inside of him at seeing such an act against a child. His face screwed up as tears threatened to come to his eyes.

  “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU FREAKS?” he bellowed at them as he charged into the room.

  Al shouted something that Sammy couldn’t hear—didn’t want to hear.

  He went for the bald Thirteen first, blasting the two Aegis aside like dolls. The other three guns in the room fired at him, but Sammy was too fast. He blasted the bullets away without trouble. When he reached the Thirteen, he did what came naturally. The pistol in his left hand fired a bullet into the Thirteen’s left knee, then crossed over and put one into the right. The Thirteen dropped to the floor. Still, shielding with his right hand the gunfire from Sokama, Sammy shot the second Thirteen in the arm that held his weapon. The Thirteen’s gun clattered to the ground. He turned to Sokama, who immediately dropped her pistol.