He dared not open the doors, but current evidence suggested there was no one home.
Safety. For a while, at least. Until James Delaney returned from his excursion. Perhaps this James Delaney, like Oswald Silver, merely visited this space station and made his more permanent residence on planet’s surface. If that was the case, he had time to rest.
A tidal wave of fatigue swept over him.
Roddy moved to the sofa and sat down. He took his boots off—no need dirtying his unsuspecting host’s furniture—before swinging his legs up. He set a mental alarm. Twenty minutes. No more. With the mental alarm clock set, his eyes drifted closed.
He slept deeply. His mind, too exhausted, didn’t repeat the conjured nightmares from earlier, where he watched his wife and the man he knew only as Stephen doing things he didn’t want to see.
The alarm from the bedroom woke him.
Roddy sat up, briefly unaware of his location. It had been a dream. A terrible dream. Over the course of mere hours, he’d found evidence that his wife had killed her father’s lover and fled the scene. He’d confirmed that she’d been having an affair with some bastard named Stephen. He’d been forced to fly straight up in the sky by Oswald Silver, past the planet’s atmosphere and into outer space, and in the process they’d been captured by some gravity-like force that pulled him into a dock in a space-based structure larger than the Lakeplex. And he’d escaped capture by guards for his alleged role in the murder of Oswald Silver’s lover by hiding in the apartment of a man named James Delaney.
It had to be a dream. Nothing so crazy could be real.
The light in the room flicked on.
“Freeze.” Roddy heard the click, and he knew the gun was pointing at him.
Roddy put his hands up slowly. “I’ll leave. The door was open. I—”
“I’d been expecting a guest, but you certainly aren’t it.” Roddy heard the footsteps moving closer, but something distracted him. That voice. He knew that voice. In fact, it sounded like…
He turned around and stared. James Delaney stared back, his face likewise full of recognition.
“Gambit?”
Delaney, his old Special Forces colleague he’d previously known only by the pseudonym Gambit, lowered the gun. “Roddy?”
Roddy dropped his hands. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Delaney snorted. “What do you think? I had no interest in being on the surface with all hell breaking loose. Silver waited until the last minute to bail, huh?” He frowned. “No offense, Light, but I’d expected you’d be in your own apartment with your wife at this point, not breaking into mine to sleep on my couch.”
“I—” He paused. “Wait. You expected me to be here.”
“Of course.” Delaney paused, frowning as he studied Roddy’s face. “Wait. You don’t know why you’re here?”
“No. Do you?”
Gambit opened his mouth to speak, but a loud chirp from the phone on his belt captured his attention. He pulled the device to his face, frowned, and nodded. “I know why I’m here, Roddy. As to why you’re here? I don’t think I’m the best person to answer that question. But I can take you somewhere to get you the answers you seek.”
Roddy thought he’d detected a slight change in James’ tone, but couldn’t fathom what it might mean. His instinct said he ought to run, that he was no safer here with the man he’d known as Gambit than anywhere else. But he had no idea where he’d run.
If Delaney could get him answers… well, he’d have to take his chances. “Where’s that?”
James motioned to the outer door. “After you.”
Roddy put his boots back on his feet and fastened the laces. He watched Delaney warily. His former Special Forces pal bore a look of mission intensity, which only added to Roddy’s unease. Why such focus if Delaney was doing nothing more than acting as a tour guide?
He stood and headed toward the door.
James had him pinned against the door in an instant, a move so fast Roddy wasn’t sure he would have seen it coming even if he’d been watching. The elbow in his spine left him briefly immobile, and he felt the metal clasps snap closed on his wrists.
Delaney spun him around, and there was no mistaking the look of fury on his face. “Let’s go, you damned murderer.”
“I didn’t—”
“Save it for the judge, Roddy,” James spat at him. He flung the door open. “Save it for Oswald Silver.”
twenty-one
Sheila Clarke
It took Sheila several seconds to realize that she wasn’t drowning, wasn’t struggling to hold her head above the rising water inside the cabin, wasn’t holding her breath to conserve the last previous molecules of air needed to sustain life.
The cabin was dry. Bone dry. Even as the car continued to sink deeper beneath the surface, not a drop of water leaked inside.
She looked around, her mind freed by the realization that she wasn’t seconds from death. No water, no drowning. Air? She took a deep breath. No issues there. But if the car was now below the surface, the ventilation system should be flooded, prevented from bringing in fresh air from the outside and expelling her exhalations. She inhaled deeply once more. The air remained fresh and clean. She exhaled, then breathed deeply once more. There was no evidence in her lungs that she’d consumed a measurable portion of a finite volume of breathable air inside the cabin.
More full recognition. Jamison’s intelligent car could handle a full submersion.
How was that possible?
She felt her face tighten. Jamison was a man of many secrets. He’d seemed the ideal father figure until the many times this day he’d been proven a liar. He’d acted the part of the ultimate mentor and protector, especially at a professional level, until the many times today he’d thrust her into the teeth of death. He’d seemed a simple man, a man who traveled to his private residence each day for meals full of quiet contemplation, until he’d revealed today his knowledge of the imminent activation of a horrific weapon, until he’d thrown her in a car that navigated its way to safety by plunging her into the waters of the great lake. Even the car had new secrets… who’d ever heard of a car with life support systems for underwater travel?
She felt her eyes narrow. The worst truth? Jamison had seemed to be the protector of all, until he’d ordered the deaths of hundreds of his direct reports, until he’d done nothing to halt the advance of a weapon that now ravaged the surface, eradicating the massive walled city and the hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children who called the Lakeplex home.
She sat back against the seat, her eyes no longer seeing the darkening waters of the lake. The most bizarre contradiction of all? Despite revealing his true self—part of a conspiracy to eradicate the city he’d called home—he’d still made immense efforts to save her life.
She didn’t know why. She just knew that saving her life didn’t absolve him of his guilt for the growing numbers of dead she’d now left behind in this underwater car.
She heard the gentle thrum of the engines change tone. The car moved forward, maintaining a constant depth. She let her eyes focus again, leaving behind the painful process of realization as she watched the various types of colorful fish flitting around outside the sealed cabin, darting to the side as the underwater car sliced through the slightly murky water. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the comfortable air temperature inside the cabin. What would happen if the water leaked into the cabin? What would happen if the water cracked the cabin, destroying the top? Would she die instantly? Could she make it to the surface before drowning? Were there any predatory fish out there, biding their time until the fresh meat escaped the safety of the cabin for their underwater lair? What if…?
She leaned back against the seat, took a deep breath, and forced the thoughts of imminent death from her mind. She instead watched the colorful display, the fish in their brilliant hues made murky by the depth of the water, flitting about in search of food.
Fatigue claimed her at
last.
She didn’t know she’d drifted off to sleep until the car’s smooth progression halted with a deep shudder. She bolted upright, flinging herself uselessly against the ever-present restraining harness, her body still primed to fight the constant death around her. She smelled little in the cabin but moderately dead air with a hint of metal in it. Her eyes flicked down to the pile of vomit she’d produced earlier. How long had she slept? Minutes? Hours? Days? Whatever the duration, she felt she could sleep far longer, but the adrenaline poured through her system as she assessed the situation.
The clear top of the cabin revealed a wall of sand before her. The car’s momentum had carried it into the sand. She wondered if she’d become stuck, if that had been the cause of the jolt.
The tone of the engine changed once more, joined by a strange whirring sound and vibrations beneath her. She watched as the wall of sand dropped beneath her visible range, replaced by clear water. She began moving forward once more, and as the craft moved she realized what the latest change in engine tone and floor vibrations meant.
The car was rolling along on land once more, solid inasmuch as sand beneath the waves could be solid. Movement came, not from drifting water or the presumed use of propellers, but from the four wheels gripping the sand and moving the craft along. The ascent was steep and slippery; sand wasn’t much for traction, especially underwater.
Ten minutes later, the car emerged from the waters of the lake, water dripping off the sides. The light of the sun blinded her with its intensity, no longer blurred by the water of the lake made murky by the sand now beneath her. The car rolled along and stopped about twenty feet away from the water.
The restraint popped free. She heard a whooshing sound, and seconds later the door to her left cracked open.
She didn’t hesitate, shoving the harness straps aside and bolting out the open door before the car changed its mind. She pumped her boots along the soft sand, thwarted by the inability to get solid traction, but fighting nonetheless. She ran from the vomit-smeared interior, the stench of sweat and fear, from the water she’d thought her final tomb, and from the Ravagers laying waste to her entire home city. She covered thirty yards before she stopped and turned back, breathless, and stared.
The car hadn’t moved.
She growled and flicked a rude gesture at the car.
No reaction.
She rolled her eyes before turning away, quietly chastising herself for blaming her troubles on a car. Was the destination one hand-picked by Jamison? Or had the car simply taken the input variables, compared them to its known capabilities, and moved along until it considered her “safe?”
It would be one of many questions she’d like to ask him.
She glanced around. The great lake remained behind her, separated from the land by a shoreline that curved sharply away from her as she looked in either direction. Context and contour suggested she’d been moved to a small island in the middle of the great lake. Trees masked the interior. The soft sandy beach ringed the forest.
It seemed pleasant. And deserted. Or was it?
Time to find out why Jamison had sent her here.
She moved tentatively back toward the car, darting into the cabin just long enough to seize her personal satchel, holding her breath so as to avoid the smells she hoped to one day forget. After springing back out of the car, she eyed the door warily, ignoring the temptation to kick her traveling prison. She dropped to the soft sand and rummaged through her bag. She found the gun, checked to ensure the weapon remained operational. She stood and shouldered the bag before standing, brushing the excess sand from her clothing, and heading toward the tree line.
It didn’t escape her notice that she walked along the line indicated by the car. No doubt another gift from Jamison.
The island clearly had little in the way of human activity. Small wildlife darted away as she plunged through the trees, and she pushed aside branches that blocked her path. She wondered if the branches were there to prevent her from reaching her destination, or if they served as a warning to turn back.
She pushed forward. Her world was gone. There was no reason for caution or self-preservation at this point.
She emerged into a clearing and stared at a modest cottage. A house? She’d seen no indication that anyone lived here at this point. Had someone lived here before and left the cottage and island behind? She felt the sensation of eyes on her, watching her every move, and shivered.
Sheila swallowed, then moved across the grassy clearing toward the house. She put one boot tentatively on the first of three wooden steps leading to the door before pushing down. The step held firm. She moved methodically up the remaining steps, cringing as the third creaked at a shouting volume, then strode across the wide porch to the door. She knocked and waited, listening. She leaned toward the door and listened again. Nothing.
She pushed on the door. To her great surprise, it creased open. Sheila gulped and then stepped inside. The air was cool and fragrant, and she inhaled deeply, glad to be free of the mildly stale air of the car cabin and the humid air on the island. “Hello?”
“Hello, Sheila Clarke, and welcome!”
She jumped with a start and felt her heart race. The voice sounded tinny, like it came from a phone with a bad connection, and was unnaturally high. The hairs on the back of her neck stood as she looked around.
She saw no one. “Who are you? Where are you?”
Movement to her right attracted her attention. She pointed her weapon in the direction of the movement.
She stared as a squat machine rolled toward her. “I am here, Sheila Clarke. Are you well? Might I fetch you a drink?”
Sheila stared. The “mouth” on the machine lit up with each spoken word. She spied an “arm” resting motionless to the side. She realized her jaw had fallen open and snapped it shut, but her eyes refused to blink. A rolling, talking machine?
“Sheila Clarke, are you well? May I fetch you a drink?”
She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. Once she started, she couldn’t stop, and the laughter increased in intensity until tears rolled down her cheeks. She stumbled forward and collapsed into a lumpy sofa, sinking down into the comfortable, if dusty, cushions. “Yeah, I’ll take a drink. You got any whiskey?”
“Of course, Sheila Clarke.”
She watched as the squat machine spun around and rolled across the room to a well-stocked bar. The machine rose into the air as its “legs” extended. The arm pivoted, grasped a clean glass, and set it down upon the bar. The arm removed the lid from an ice bucket before selecting tongs and retrieving two ice cubes, dropping the frozen water into the glass with a pair of audible clinks. Displaying a dexterity she wouldn’t believe if she’d not seen it with her own eyes, the machine opened a bottle with a whiskey label and poured the liquid inside the glass.
The machine hadn’t spilled a drop.
The hand gripped the glass as the machine rotated away from the bar and retreated back to its usual height. It rolled to her and raised the glass. “Here is your whiskey, Sheila Clarke. May I be of additional service?”
She flipped on the safety and set the gun down on the sofa next to her before she accepted the glass and took a deep swig, letting the liquid burn her throat. “Where am I? Who lives here?” She paused, and with an embarrassment she wouldn’t have believed previously, blushed. “Besides you, of course.” Was she truly at the point where she worried about causing offense with a machine? It was possible. She wasn’t sure any humans remained alive.
The mouth lit up once more. “The General lives in this house during his infrequent visits, Sheila Clarke. He has not shared a name for this space with me.”
She froze. “The General? Do you mean Micah Jamison?”
“Yes, Sheila Clarke.”
“And… you said… he lives here?”
“This is one of his homes, Sheila Clarke. He visits only periodically. He has indicated that he intends to visit again within the hour. He will be very pleas
ed to see you safely here, Sheila Clarke.”
A steely look covered Sheila’s face and her eyes narrowed. She let her fingers move atop the weapon and wondered idly how many bullets she had left, and how many bullets she’d use to kill him.
She looked at the whiskey-fetching machine. “I can’t wait.”
She took another deep drink of the whiskey, and her lips curled into a venomous smile.
twenty-two
Wesley Cardinal
Wesley gritted his teeth as the scooter bounded over the rough dirt road. His left leg throbbed with the pain of the injuries sustained in the crash initiated by the Hinterlands alpha beast before Wesley had killed the creature in self-defense. The pack survivors chased him now, paws pounding into the dirt path. Wesley felt his heart beating against his chest. He’d seen what the pack had done to one of their own. He had little doubt that they’d offer him any mercy.
The scooter rolled along, rising and falling with the peaks and valleys of the dirt path. Gradually, the sounds of the panting and padded feet grew quiet, and Wesley risked a quick look behind. The beasts were gone. He didn’t know if they’d grown weary or merely found satiation from their cannibalistic meal.
Or perhaps they no longer chased him because they no longer existed. Had the Ravagers gotten so far already that they’d devoured the creatures who’d targeted him?
If that was the case, he had less time than he’d thought. He tried unsuccessfully to turn the throttle higher. The scooter already operated at its maximum speed.
His house came into view after what seemed an eternity in his mentally frayed state. The simple cottage looked poorly defended, but high frequency tones that blasted out into the periphery kept the nastiest creatures in the Hinterlands far away. He slept better each night knowing he was safe, even though he’d started to think the beasts didn’t exist.
Detonate (The Ravagers - Episode 2) Page 12