Resurrection

by Jeffrey Burger

  Jack turned to Fritz, “Did you know they were here with us?”

  The German Shepherd’s head tilted to one side, “You did not?”

  ■ ■ ■

  The subterranean emergency shelter buried in the rocky hillside behind the palace was no longer in use and had been walled off from the building during the renovation, but the air handling system still functioned and remained connected to the royal residence.

  “I found it by accident,” admitted Colton, “I was exploring,” he shrugged, pointing at the grate. “The biggest duct I’ve found is this one here, in the cellar.” He glanced around at the empty racks and rows of shelves that filled the room, “I think maybe all these were for food. Anyways, I’m pretty sure it’s the only one you’ll fit into,” he motioned toward Ragnaar, “except for him - he’s definitely too big…”

  Steele dropped to a knee at eye level, “Where does it take us, Son?”

  “A really creepy dungeon. But there’s nobody in there and all the doors are open…”

  While Sam and the Chief were busy removing the grate cover, Steele took the opportunity to take Ragnaar aside, “Looks like you’re here with the Volken, Fritz and my boy, Lieutenant. You OK with that?”

  Ragnaar eyed the deep black hole in the wall where the grate had been, “He will be safe with me, Admiral.” He hefted the machinegun, adjusting its sling, “I will protect him with my life.”

  Jack tapped the earpiece in his ear, speaking low, “If it gets bad, get yourselves out of here. Get back to the farm, and then get him off the planet, understand? He’ll be safer with the UFW.”

  “Understood.” Ragnaar, rested a heavy hand on Steele’s shoulder, “Go with Gods, my friend.”

  “And you as well.”

  ■ ■ ■

  The Chief went first, followed by Sam, Andrea and Jack, each pushing their gear along in front of them, the entire length of the three-hundred-foot belly crawl.

  “I know I complained about going last,” recalled Jack, “but I take it back, the scenery’s not too bad back here…”

  Andrea looked back over her shoulder, “Well, Mr. Steele, I am most certainly flattered,” she said in a decidedly southern accent.

  “Hey, that’s really good - where did you learn that?”

  “An Earth movie I saw once on InterGal Entertainment, it was about something they called the Wild West. I think it was called True Grit…”

  Steele smiled, remembering it well, “Wow, yeah, that was a great movie… the actor’s name was John Wayne, he was a major star… ‘Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!’” he added, doing his best imitation of the film star legend.

  “Hey!” snapped the Chief in a harsh whisper, looking back over his shoulder. “Zip it! Sounds will carry in here…” He turned back, continuing his crawl, “And were getting real close,” he added, seeing the dim square of light ahead.

  Having switched off their lights before they got to the end of the air conditioning duct, the Chief leaned over his pile of gear to peer through the grill into the dimly-lit room which stretched out for at least a hundred-feet. Open cell doors on either side, looked old and unused, two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling struggling to light the entire area. “Well we may have gotten into the vent at nearly floor level, but we’re about five feet off the floor - so let’s take it slow, and as quiet as we can…” He hooked his rifle sling to the grill before pushing it out, letting it tap gently against the wall as he lowered it down. His pack dropped softly to the floor before he awkwardly dropped out head-first leaving his long gun and the Airbow in the vent with Sam. “Watch my back,” he whispered, accepting the Airbow. Creeping silently, weapon ready, he checked cell to cell, clearing the entire space before returning. “OK, everybody out,” he whispered, accepting Sam’s gear and helping him exit. “We’re turning around and going back - right now…”

  “Steele watched Andrea disappear as he moved forward, “What the hell, Chief,” he hissed angrily, “why…?”

  Sam appeared in front of him, helping him climb down, “Oh, Skipper, it’s bad. Real bad.”

  “Comms, COMMS, turn them off!” insisted the Chief.

  Steele pulled his earpiece out, “What the hell is…” he stopped, open-mouthed at the first cell door at Sam’s direction, the small room stacked with blue barrels and grey boxes, wires running out the door into the next cell. The barrels were labelled with red and yellow stripes. “Is that…”

  “Starfighter fuel,” interrupted Sam. “It’s in every cell.”

  Darryl Jolly moved up next to him, “And the grey boxes are loaded with PX-43. It’s military high-explosives…”

  “How much?”

  “Every cell. Enough to make a crater a half mile wide and two hundred feet deep.”

  Steele plugged his comm back in his ear, “I need to tell the Lieutenant…”

  The Chief grabbed his hand, “You can’t,” he pointed with his free hand, a small box on one of the stacks, “that’s a receiver. There’s one on each stack. If I laid this out, each one would have a different frequency… If one goes off, they all go off.”

  “We need to get everyone out of the building,” insisted Jack.

  “You get caught and you tip our hand - we all die.”

  Steele took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, “OK. Then you guys head back. This is my fight, anyway. I’ll give you an hour to get clear with Colton - go back to the farm…”

  “Psh,” waved Andrea dismissively, “There is no way I’m letting you do this alone…”

  Sam folded his arms, “Yeah, if she thinks she’s staying and we’re not, she’s crazy.”

  “We…?” coughed the Chief. “Ahhh,” he sighed, “who am I kidding, I’m not going anywhere.” He knelt down and tore open his pack, pulling out a meter, scanner and tools, “Andrea, if you’re hands are steady enough for surgery, they’re steady enough for this - you’re with me. Sam, you’re with the Admiral. Don’t get caught or we all…”

  “Die,” nodded Jack, finishing his sentence. “I get it.”

  ■ ■ ■

  “Where the hell is everyone?” whispered Jack, crouched in a doorway at the end of the hallway on the main floor.

  Crouched in a doorway across the hallway, Sam shook his head, “Not a single person on the top two floors. What’s left, just this floor?”

  “This wing and the wing across the main entry foyer.”

  “Let’s get to it,” nodded Sam, moving up to the next door. Sliding a goose-neck camera stalk under the edge of the door he checked the live feed on his MOBIUS, the green night vision images showing another unoccupied room. He eased the door open to confirm and moved in, Airbow ready, checking behind furniture and inside closets. When he emerged, he shook his head no and Jack moved up to the next room on his side of the wide corridor, duplicating the effort.

  When they got to the intersecting foyer, the architecture was open enough to see the main entrance, the living room, main dining room and entrance to the kitchen, the corridor continuing on the other side of a large round table adorned with an extravagant floral arrangement. Steele nodded and Sam silently moved to cross to the other wing, making his way around the table, suddenly pausing mid-stride.

  “What?” hissed Steele.

  Sam grabbed something off the table and quickly retreated back to the position he held before attempting to cross to the other wing. His mouth dropping open while reading the hand-written note, he quickly crossed to Jack’s position…

  Greetings Admiral,

  Please, join us in the Rotunda. Come alone. Come unarmed.

  JS

  Sam moved around the corner to the left, swiftly covering the distance to the palace entrance, ignoring its opulent archway, discreetly peeking out into the courtyard and down the drive toward the front gate. What he saw was unsettling…

  Steele was standing at the French doors that led from the kitchen and living room out to the veranda and terraced garden, lights i
lluminating the various paths that weaved around the fountains, and topiaries, under a pergola, past a pond, out to the Rotunda.

  “This isn’t good, Skipper. There’s gotta be fifty guys out in the courtyard…”

  “Um-hmm,” nodded, Jack. “And another ten or twenty out here in the gardens…”

  Sam set the Airbow on the marble kitchen counter, unslinging his carbine, “So it’s time to go loud, then.”

  Steele didn’t look back, intently watching the guards mill about in the garden, his voice calm and steady, “No Sam, you head back to Daryl and Andrea - get them out. Get everyone back to the farm. Then get them off-planet to the UFW.” He adjusted the blue velvet jacket he hated so much, tugging the sleeves straight. “This is my gig…”

  “You ‘ll be along soon, right?” Steele didn’t answer and Sam set two extra slug-thrower magazines on the counter beside him. “Here, Skipper - never know when a couple extra mags might come in handy…”

  “Thanks, Sam,” Steele replied mechanically, picking them up without looking, stowing them in the coat’s big square pockets. Like you own the place… He reached out and swung the door wide, stepping out onto the veranda, “See ya’ around, Sam…”

  He strolled across the veranda without looking back, the door closing behind him and casually down the steps like he was on an evening stroll, his eyes constantly scanning. Taking note of every single mercenary guard, what they were carrying, their body posture and focus, he was careful not to make eye contact - like they were inconsequential. Because in fact, they were. While every nerve and impulse in his body wanted to put a slug in each and every one of their heads, they were a distraction, an obstacle to his real mission - and not worth his time or consideration. They would be the debris, the flotsam that needed cleaning up. Later. His mind was afire with intensity, seeing everything; the data tags he used to experience, gone, turned to a steady stream of information he understood to be fact. Filled with adrenalin and anticipation, his body felt electric, his heart pounding in his ears, everything around him razor sharp…

  Under the watchful eyes of other members of the garden patrols, two men converged on him, standing an arms-length apart, their laser carbines pointed at him. “Stop right there…”

  Steele stopped, “Alright,” he shrugged, “now what?”

  “We need to check you for weapons…”

  “Interesting, how do you know I’m not him?”

  “Because he’s in the Rotunda waiting for you,” motioned the guard. “So…”

  Steele shook his head, “I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that - being King and all… no offense,” he said with a placating wave, “It’s just not allowed.” The two guards exchanged confused glances. “Look,” he said, leaning closer, “I’m not an idiot, do I look like an idiot?” He shifted his eyes around in an exaggerated, theatrical manner, “You’ve got what, fifteen, twenty guys out here? Forty in the courtyard? Probably another ten or fifteen inside…?” He watched their faces for telltale confirmations. “You all have blaster and laser rifles, there’s a ton of explosives under the palace…” and there it was, the eye shift - they had no idea about that. “And here I am, barehanded,” he continued. “What could I fit under my coat, a slug-thrower, maybe? I’d have to be an idiot to think I could go up against all of this,” he swept his hand wide, “with a simple handgun.” He shook his head, “I will say,” he whispered, drawing them closer, “that your dedication is admirable… there’s no way I’d be standing over this much explosive for any kind of money. None of my people stuck around, they said it would make a crater a half-mile wide. Your guy wants the kingdom that bad? Fine, he can have it. I just want my wife and I’m gone,” he waved. “Tell you the truth,” he rubbed the heel of his hand on his chest, “my heart can’t handle all this stress…”

  ■ ■ ■

  The palace’s Rotunda Room was probably the most extravagant feature of the entire royal estate; a massive oval ballroom, one-hundred-feet long and fifty-feet wide, with a domed ceiling strung with elaborate chandeliers, an ornate painting of the sky and clouds on its surface. Jack Steele had never been in the room before, a building dedicated unto itself, separated from the palace residence by the terraced gardens.

  If he wasn’t so absorbed in taking in everything going on in the room, he might have been able to admire the beauty of how the light played across the ceiling, making the painting look truly dimensional - like no ceiling actually existed. Or the exquisite detail of the chandeliers and how they sparkled with a million little points of light. Or the wonderous sprays of brilliant flowers in the table settings, or the equally amazing aromas coming from the food being distributed to the tables around the hall by the wait staff.

  No. Instead, Steele saw a banquet in progress; tables full of people ringing the Rotunda, the center of the hall where he stood, open, unobstructed, its polished wooden floor gleaming. Heavy curtains blocked out the view of the meadow beyond the wall of glass doors leading to the balcony on the opposite side of the room from where he entered, guards scattered around the outer walls. He counted twenty-three in all. The most unlikely battlefield he could imagine. He was certain the Synth had no compunction about inflicting collateral damage or taking innocent lives, whereas Steele would do everything in his power to prevent it. It was his weakness and was fairly certain the Synth would not hesitate to use that to his advantage.

  On the small half-round stage at the head of the room, the man commonly referred to as the Liar, rose from his throne, dressed in the same blue velvet coat, ruffled white shirt, grey fitted pants and black boots as Jack. He waved his free hand, “Welcome! Welcome! Come right in, Mr. Steele… I’ve been expecting you,” he added, with a wicked grin. His left hand motioned loosely to his left with the barrel of a slug-thrower pointed at Alité in the throne next to him, bound to the seat, a gag stuffed in her mouth. “Please excuse my wife, she’s not talking to me today.”

  Steele’s entire body was burning like fire, every nerve buzzing, his skin crawling, wanting nothing more than to obliterate this… abomination. Was it possible it was exponentially worse because it was like looking in the mirror at an evil version of himself? He watched the Synth but concentrated on her, “I love you, sweetheart - are you alright? Are you hurt?”

  Her response was almost instant in his mind, “You should not have come. He lured you here to kill you…

  “He has already tried and failed. He will fail again.”

  “Colton…?”

  “He is safe. And remarkable…”

  “Colton needs one of us… get out while you can! Destroy this place - and this ‘thing’ from orbit…” her eyes darted to the right and Steele could even hear the desperation in her thoughts.

  “Colton will not grow up without his mother. When I leave here, it will be with you in my arms.”

  “Get out while you can. You cannot save me…” she insisted.

  Jack clenched his teeth, his eyes narrowing, his voice measured, “What is it you want…”

  “Your Highness…” added the Synth, indicating himself. “For you to die, of course,” he laughed. “This is my planet now,” he waved theatrically. “And unless you’re gone, I’m not going to get any peace and quiet. Because if I know you - and I do,” he grinned, indicating himself with a grand, self-appreciative gesture, “you’d be back - to rain on my pie.”

  “Parade,” corrected Steele. “The saying is; rain on my parade…”

  “I find it curious that it matters to you.”

  “What matters to me,” clarified Steele, “is that you got it wrong. Like these clothes,” he tugged on the lapels of his jacket, “I don’t wear stuff like this, I wouldn’t be caught dead in something like this. Which means you don’t know me as well as you think, and we aren’t as alike as you think we are…”

  “Isn’t it delightful?” grinned the Synth, “That you will die in something you wouldn’t be caught dead in? I love the irony. And I got you to wear it all on your own!” He tapped the m
uzzle of the slug-thrower on the side of Alité‘s head, “And she gets to watch.”

  Steele fought to control his emotions, his impulses for direct and immediate violence, knowing the Synth was playing to the crowd - he loved the theatrical. Jack directed attention to the crowd in the hall, sitting motionless, not eating the delicious food laid out before them; fearful eyes and resigned demeanor. “Let these people go, they have nothing to do with this,” he indicated the Synth and himself, “or to us.”

  The Synth laughed, “Oh, but I do so love an audience. And everyone is entitled to a last meal…”

  “Last meal - you intend to kill them?”

  “One, two, a dozen, fifty, all of them…” he shrugged, “It really depends on how things go here.” He shrugged, “We’ll just call it payback for all the inconveniences you’ve put me through.”

  “Put you through?”

  His temperament flared, “Do you have any idea, how much capitol and effort, not to mention time went into the Terran project? All the agents I lost?” He clenched his teeth, “The cost was insurmountable!” he screamed. “Everywhere you and your people go, you ruin something I have built… Amanpoor,” he spat, “the mines here on Veloria…” He grimaced, gnashing his teeth, “Then there was the fiasco at the Byas-Kuyol Clinic… not only wiping out my team and stealing my ship, but then I had to make some management changes as a result of it all, because your clone got loose…”

  Steele’s eyes widened, “I have a clone?”

  “Yes, and he’s almost as troublesome as you are!” In Steele fashion, the Synth ran his fingers through his hair, “Then the ambush in the Sulerian system… how you slipped through that…” he shook his head, “had to be incompetence. Nobody is that good. Or that lucky.” He smiled, “But, it’s coming to an end… I finally get to put you out of my misery. It’s a win-win-win situation.”

  Steele folded his arms, “Yeah? How does that work?”