by T. K. Toppin
“Fuck,” Simon exclaimed. I beamed at him like a proud mother.
Deidre Moorjani was Chief of Communications and Technical Support, and she was pissed off. I’d heard of her, but we’d never had the pleasure of meeting. And I liked her immediately.
As Moorjani told us, nobody messed with her system and lived to get away with it. And now, to have some upstart come and hack into it, crashing everything she had in place; not only was she pissed off, but mildly impressed and curious to know how they’d done it.
“I’ll find you; I’ll find out,” Moorjani declared. “But not before I dole out some good, proper counterattacks of my own.”
She and Simon worked hand-in-hand, relying heavily on one another. For Simon to discover her here, now, was a godsend. Ignoring everyone around them, they whispered and exchanged information rapidly. Occasionally, Deidre flashed brilliant white teeth, cheered, “Yes!” and made a fist.
John tugged me away and leaned in to speak to me. “When we head out, I think you should stay here with Moorjani. If I know how they work,” he cocked his head to Simon and Deidre, “they’ll have a new communications network up and running, independent of everything, if she hasn’t got it already. We’ll not only have eyes and ears, but help. Will you please stay? I need to focus on what must be done. I can’t if I’m worrying about you.”
I did see the logic. In fact, I agreed wholeheartedly. For form’s sake, I put up a mild resistance and made a fuss about his safety, but agreed to stay behind. To be truthful, my body ached like a raw nerve, and I needed rest. Being up all night, running for my life, doing things I’d never done before—like killing people, getting beaten, shot at, mutilated by a throwing disc, being nearly strangled to death… It was getting to me. I was tired, very scared, hungry, and hurting.
While the group whispered and laid out plans, I half-listened. Finding a spot a few feet away from Deidre, I sat down stiffly. Instant bliss suffused my body. I may have moaned in pleasure.
Beside Deidre lay a large krima and a Snare Gun 3. Strange bulges protruded from under her shirt, suggesting more weaponry. The sight relaxed me; I was safe enough for the time being. One minister and Sobbing Man remained to stand guard, brandishing large pulse guns, fully automatic heat-sensing machine guns, several hand-held explosives, and an array of throwing knives between them.
Before leaving, Simon raided some boxes in the storage room, supplying everyone with a personal unit running on the rogue network signal Deidre and Banks used. At brief intervals, Deidre would communicate with the three groups we’d formed, keeping close tabs on the situation.
John led a group formed of the body-assistants and clerical staff. Simon was with the ministers and civilians, while Simon’s Elites, led by a man called Surrey, made up the last group.
Simon and Surrey’s objectives were to take back control of their offices, which, according to Deidre, was where The Path members were based. John and his group were assigned the task of releasing as many hostages as they could from the holding cells, which included the Citadel guards and security personnel, officials, and other staff.
Deidre was meanwhile busy trying to lock down the Primary Sub-Level from topside, but first she needed to shut down The Path’s network signal. And she wasn’t having much luck.
With everyone busy, I leaned back against a shelf, propped my head against a box and closed my eyes. Amid Deidre’s mutters and intermittent restrained whoops of triumph, I fell asleep. Soundly.
* * *
Gunfire and thuds from small explosives jarred me awake. For a brief moment, I forgot where I was until I saw Deidre. Her mop of thick black hair fell over her face as she sat hunched over the computer, fingers dancing and tapping a tune of their own.
“Has it started?” I asked, and was ignored. “Where’s everyone at?”
“Simon and Surrey have just entered Sector C,” the minister replied from near the door. She looked tense. She was the Junior Minister of Transport by the name of Troulan.
Sector C? I tossed that around my head. Where the fuck was Sector C? “And John?”
“No word from the World President as yet,” Troulan replied.
“But as for the new president, he’s just broadcast to the rest of the world that he’s taken over,” Deidre muttered from her corner. “I tried to jam it, but they have some serious magicians on their team.”
“What did he say?” I asked impatiently.
“Oh, the usual. Blah, blah, blah. End of tyranny and oppression…do not try to stop us. We will use whatever force necessary to blah, blah, blah.” Deidre jerked her head up to glare sharply at me. “So it’s true then? You and the World President are…you know…?”
“What?” I blinked. “Uhh, yeah. Yes. Why?”
“Excellent.” Deidre grinned, and drew her attention back to her screens to ignore me once more.
More guns sounded off—closer. On edge, I stood and paced, brandishing the Snare Gun and clutching my krima through the fabric of my pants pocket. Again, more gunfire, this time rapid and urgent. I resisted the urge to whimper. Sobbing Man gripped his weapon, knuckles white, and stared at the door as though expecting an army to come bursting through at any moment. Troulan rocked on the balls of her feet.
“Oh, no,” Deidre muttered from behind me. “Not good.”
“What?” Troulan hissed. She checked her personal unit as if it could tell her anything. Frowning, she shook her head.
Deidre frantically tapped her fingers on the console while biting her top lip and shaking her head. “They caught my shadow.”
“What?” Troulan hissed again. “Speak English, for bloody sake!”
“Shut down, shut down,” Deidre muttered. “Run alternative. Use Scurvy. Now. Bounce shadow—re-route, now. At you—run it!”
I realized Deidre had a small earpiece communicator, hidden earlier by her mop of hair. She was no doubt talking with Banks. Now she yanked it out and flung it to the floor.
“Folks.” Deidre was on her feet for the first time since we arrived. She stood only five feet tall—or less. She slammed her booted foot into the computer, smashing it to bits, then crouched down to scrabble through the mess. Taking out some small chips and metallic squares, she pocketed a few, then stamped and ground her heel into the others. With a quick snap of her head, she looked up. Just like a squirrel. Jerky, nervous energy twitched all through Moorjani. If the situation were any different, I would’ve been giggling at her antics.
“We should go now,” Deidre announced.
We exited into the corridor and I felt like a sitting duck. Everything in me said we ought to have stayed put or retreated back through the tunnels. Deidre insisted it was “a bad idea,” as the chips in her pocket sent off a faint signal. She meant to dispose of them outside to lead the enemy astray. Down the corridor lay another storage room we could hide in. That was our destination.
The corridor was quiet, save for the erratic gunfire and crashes nearby. Deidre dug out the chips, walked down the corridor, and paused. Indicating to us to remain still, she tossed the chips down to the far end of the corridor. She jogged back, urging us to follow her to the other side. We paused before a turn. Deidre held her gun at the ready, krima in her other hand. She nodded the all clear, and we skulked down about twenty feet, freezing when a round of gunfire erupted nearby.
“Shit!” I hissed. “We’re walking right to them. We should go back.”
Deidre dug out a device, aimed it down the corridor, and studied it for a moment. “It’s only three. All clear otherwise. We’ll take them.”
The others nodded while I gaped. “What? They could be our guys.”
“Let’s find out then,” Deidre grinned cheerfully, and strode out with the other two in tow, weapons in the ready.
I cast a quick glance behind, hesitated, then followed, digging out my krima and switching the gun to my left hand.
“Holy-effing-mother,” I muttered under my breath. “This is what I call stupid.”
We
reached the end of the corridor, where it turned right. Deidre, in the lead, nodded once to us, then casually strode out with her weapons behind her back. We heard a startled shout, a blast of weapons fire. The other two bolted forward, Troulan cartwheeling into the fray with her skirts hiked up to her thighs.
I came up from the rear, uncertain of what to do, but my krima was engaged and ready. Deidre, at that precise moment was mid-air, twisting like a gymnast. Her blazing krima, a foot and a half long each side, whirled and slashed in circles, deflecting bullets and slicing off a soldier’s hand. She landed on the other side as the bewildered man shrieked in horror. Whirling her hand out from behind her, she sliced him through his mid-section, not even looking back to see her work.
Troulan was in a fistfight with another; both grunted and snorted, blocking punches and kicks with ease, while Sobbing Man just shot at anything that moved. The third soldier Sobbing Man shot at was dead before he hit the ground, and still he continued shooting. Deidre swooped in from the side to halt him, then sideswiped Troulan’s man in the ribs with her krima. It was over in ten seconds.
I’d done nothing but stand, gaping at the whole scene. Everyone knew exactly what to do and how to fight. I was in the company of lethal assassins. And I felt useless, but more grateful I didn’t have to do anything.
“All right, then?” Deidre cocked her head to me. I stared back in return, still unable to shut my gaping mouth.
Troulan wiped a line of blood from under her nose. “They don’t fight that well, these ones. Must be lackeys.”
“I reckon they were running. At whom were they shooting, anyway?” Deidre pondered, dismissed the thought with a headshake, and beckoned everyone to follow.
Before we reached the door of the next storage room, we heard the thunderous drumming of many feet coming our way.
“Back-back-back!” Deidre whispered urgently.
Our group turned as one and fled back the way we’d come. A shower of gunfire rained past us. I yelped in surprise and tucked my head down. Sobbing Man extended a hand behind him and blindly fired a few rounds. There were shouts and return fire; someone yelled in pain.
Deidre had somehow managed to take the lead again and, sprinting like a little squirrel, darted down the corridor, zipping left and right at turns. Troulan took up the rear, firing and letting loose explosives—three small delayed rounds that boomed three seconds later. Those behind screamed in panic. Those who didn’t perish in the explosions continued their pursuit, with renewed vengeance, it seemed.
Something hollow and round ricocheted from the wall to my left and bounced along the floor before us. Deidre halted with a shout, did something like a pirouette, and kicked the object back down the corridor where it exploded in mid-air, sending hot gusts of smoke and wall-chips our way. Sobbing Man shrieked in surprise, then boldly turned around and emptied his gun at the oncoming men behind.
Deidre dug under her shirt and extracted a silver cylinder like the ones Aline had. She twisted the top and threw it over our heads straight into the throng of soldiers. A quick series of popping, firecracker-like reports punctured the air, followed by more shouts of surprise. With a hard yank, she dragged Sobbing Man backward, and together we all ran down the remaining length of the corridor.
A few feet away was a door; we barreled through it. The room was small, filled with cleaning supplies and a dormant service droid. Deidre, positioned at the door, shot randomly. Troulan beside her did the same. Sobbing Man leaned against the wall clutching his side; he panted and wheezed, but seemed otherwise unhurt. Uncertain of what to do, I crammed my krima down a narrow holster-pocket on the inside of my waistband, near the groin holster, and stood ready with the Snare Gun.
“They must be multiplying!” Troulan shouted amid a volley of gunfire that sent splinters of the doorframe every which way.
“What have you got left?” Deidre hunched as she dug out two more silver cylinders.
“Half a round of heat-seekers and a few throwing knives. That’s it.” Troulan gritted teeth. A thin trickle of blood oozed down her forehead; her nose had turned purple, and appeared terribly sore.
Deidre looked at me.
“Uhh. My krima and this,” I raised the Snare Gun 3, “plus another round.”
Deidre glanced at the small holster bulge at my lower belly. “Pulse?”
“Lost it.”
The small woman creased her nose with distaste, and glanced at Sobbing Man.
“I’m all out. Just these two knives,” he wheezed.
“Damn,” Deidre exclaimed. “Not good.” She quickly poked her head out, threw the cylinders, and ducked back in. “Close to fifteen of them.” Popping explosions sounded off to the yelps of the soldiers.
Troulan let out a short burst from her heat-seeking automatic gun, followed by return fire. “Reckon it’s more like ten, now.”
“Take position,” Deidre ordered, and shoved me to the door.
With a strangled noise, I stood before the door, took a breath and dipped my head out quickly.
Clusters of men were huddled together along the wall. Some used their fallen comrades as shields, propping up the bloodied, limp bodies and cowering behind them. But otherwise, they were unprotected. I determined they were busy formulating a plan.
“If I empty my gun at them, I can cut their numbers in half. We could make a run for it. Where’s the best place from here?” Troulan said.
Deidre nodded. “There’s a small staff lounge about six doors left of us—can’t miss it. If we got there, we’d stand a better chance.”
Troulan grunted in agreement, and looked to me. I nodded back mutely. “On my mark then,” she hoisted gun to shoulder and turned to Sobbing Man. “We need that droid for cover—bring it here.”
With the service droid placed before her, Troulan looked at me once more. “Ready?”
Troulan growled, pushed off with the droid half out the door, and emptied her gun at the soldiers. I followed suit, tucking in next to Troulan and behind the droid, not sure what I aimed at, but firing all the same. Deidre and Sobbing Man rushed out of the room and tore down the corridor, followed closely by Troulan and me running backward to cover them.
The soldiers ducked and shouted, firing back. Those unlucky enough to be tagged by the heat-seeking rounds fell to the floor. My explosive rounds found a couple of targets, judging by the shrieks as the barbs exploded.
We turned at a wide depression in the wall to the left; a double-door presented itself to us. Deidre kicked it down and we ran through. And froze.
Inside the room, four soldiers waited for us with weapons drawn, aimed and at the ready. The soldiers behind us soon caught up, guns raised and bloody murder in their eyes. My heart dropped to my feet and, instinctively, my hand went to the secret pocket.
Like the others, I made a great fuss of relinquishing my weapons, and allowed myself to be frog-marched out the room and escorted to the elevators. We were being taken to Section D.
Section D turned out to be a control room quite similar to Simon’s. It also seemed to be the main hub for the Primary Sub-Level, with monitors and surveillance feeds from each sector, as well as the main controls for the elevators, doors, holding cells, and exits. Several non-military personnel manned various posts and spoke in hushed tones. One woman, young and attractive—they were all young—stepped forward and gave the others and me a close look.
“Take those two,” she jabbed her chin toward Troulan and Sobbing Man, “to the holding cells, then rejoin the others at Section C and flush out those troublemakers. You,” she pointed to Deidre. “Stay here and fix the virus you dropped in our laps.”
Deidre affected a mildly disinterested expression and shrugged as if she didn’t have a clue about what was going on.
The woman then turned her attention to me. “And you. Take her to him.”
A soldier grabbed my arm and pushed me through another door and down a corridor to the left. He opened a door on the right and shoved me in. It was a commun
ications room of sorts, with just two people sitting amid an array of complicated machinery. Sleek helmets capped their heads, while their fingers tapped armrest consoles; they spoke in low voices to someone only they heard. My captor and I walked past them and into a quiet room, neatly furnished but spartan. On the desk, a picture of Deidre and an elderly woman had been knocked down and cast off to one side.
I gasped in surprise, not at the picture, but the man who stood before the desk. His hands were bound together in a solid metal brace behind his back, his head bowed, his face no doubt dark and ominous. Though he had his back to me, I knew him immediately.
“John!” I cried out, and made to go to him, but the soldier held me in place.
John turned. A long trickle of blood ran down the side of his face, but otherwise he looked unharmed. He shook his head in warning.
“Hello, Josie,” a voice said softly from behind. I jumped—nearly yelped—and turned.
Sitting in a corner, in a small armchair, Max Wellesley regarded me with an oddly dispassionate look. His hands were tightly fisted on his lap, belying the calm, reposed air he presented.
“I knew it was you!” I almost chocked. “Why?”
Max lifted a shoulder, dismissed the soldier with a look, and stood. His natural blond hair was longer now and pulled back in a ponytail, sleek and shiny—not the black I had expected. He seemed only a little older, mostly the hardness around his mouth.
“Why not?” Max replied, and circled around me once, distaste twisting his face.
John stepped closer to me and glared at Max, who shook his head in warning and returned one of his own.
“Harm her and I will kill you.” John’s voice was low and calm; he was beyond pissed off. Lethal.
“She deserves to die.” Max took out a small, square object, and waved it at John. “I’ll remind you to stay in your place. Wouldn’t want you exploding before your farewell speech, would we?”