Now Nelson joined them. “It’s practically a fortress. Surrounded by trees, on a hill, overlooking all its surroundings, high walls, only a few ways in and out. It has tech support. It has living quarters, troop quarters, a helipad on the roof of the Quad. It’s where I’d hole up if I was playing a tin God.” He grimaced. “It’s not all me. I put it together from POE comments while they were helping themselves to our crops.”
Coru raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Can it be breached?”
Nelson smirked. “Everything can be breached.”
“We have to cross water, either by bridge or by boat to get there first, if the bridge isn’t an option for whatever reason,” Wren cautioned. “If I were a gang, controlling a portion of the city, I’d control the bridges as well.”
Yes, Nelson had confidence, but she could see inside his head that he was a risk taker, and she wasn’t willing to take the chances with her people that Nelson was. Still, she knew he was an asset. He was fearless and motivated, and she could see already he knew the city well. Coru would have to rein the man in. Maybe pair him with Mattea? Mattea was a calming force.
Coru nodded his head to this thought. Her eyes widened in shock. Coru had heard her?
He nodded again, not meeting her eyes. The connection was back! She reached out to a nearby fence post when her limbs went soft with gratitude, then sought out Mattea, sent him a mental Ping. She got no reaction. Not all back, but it was a start.
She’d begun to believe she would never regain her telepathy—a skill, or, rather, a lifelong handicap that she’d always resented. Until the pandemic. So, so foolish.
It was only when she’d been ill last spring and lost her ability that she realized how fortunate she had been. Especially since she had been able to connect with Mattea and Nicola, Catherine and Coru, all of them communicating telepathically through her. That inner circle, communicating telepathically, had ushered in a brief golden time for the Drop Out Acres Family. It had saved lives.
She missed her little cabin and her family back at Drop Out Acres more every day. She’d been gone far too long and hadn’t found the sanctuary she’d hoped for. Catherine and Sandy would have much of the garden produce canned or dried, the leaves would be turning by now, cooler winds sweeping the fields. Dan would be drying meat and fish. Wyatt and Malcolm were in charge of Deklin’s bees and Sean had promised to make goats cheese just as Deklin had instructed.
The kids will have passed the summer collecting wild herbs for tinctures, for medicines, for teas, all closely inspected by Nicola of course, the most expert in the forest now, well taught by Mattea. All thoroughly mothered by Catherine….
What were the chances of Wren, Coru, and Mattea getting back home before the snow flew? And Deklin; they needed to pick up Deklin. Was he okay in Freeland, knowing what he knew now about Freeland? Deklin had no filters. Would he blurt out what the Bear Lake Outlanders were after? Was Gayle watching out for the boy?
Oh, how she needed to connect with Nicola, her closest friend and ally, her port in the storm. But that precious mental connection was gone. She’d been the conduit necessary for the link. When she was lost, they all were.
With the sporadic flashes she was receiving from the Indies, and now with Coru picking up her thoughts, she had reason to hope it wasn’t lost after all. Knowing your opponent’s motives, plans, history, truth telling…priceless knowledge in this unstable new world.
And seeing into Nicola’s sweet mind, conversing, caring, growing in friendship—all this was her happy place. She missed her friend so. Please, please let it happen.
There were silent, desperate goodbyes between the five men Garth had assigned to the New Pacifica mission and their women. One couple, the man named Smith and his wife—girlfriend? Yes, she was his wife, her name was Tabitha. And…she was pregnant! She had planned to tell him the good news tonight, when they returned to their own home, but now was afraid if he knew, he might do something rash…
Their parting was particularly poignant, especially because Wren knew that Tabitha would not flee to Freeland, but stay here and protect her home, and stand firm until Smith returned to her. They were so young, not yet out of their teens. She saw that Smith still bit his nails and the sight of his vulnerable hands clutched around Tabitha’s thin back pierced her heart. But there were no tears, just fierce hugs and promises to survive, to return. Wren’s heart went out to these people, ready to lay down their lives based on Coru’s word and their love for their families. These people, their strength and honor, were who would rebuild this world. We must prevail.
THEY STARTED off in three beat-up solar vehicles the Indies had collected over time. The Indies relied heavily on horses for much of the farm work, but horses wouldn’t get them where they needed to be nearly quickly enough.
Eleven strong, Nelson led them through a backchannel, driving the side-by-sides hard, cutting the travel time in half. Now Wren understood why the Indie’s trannies looked so rough, then laughed at catching herself thinking imperiously that she would never treat the Beast or Beastette in this manner. When had she become a trannie snob? The good news was they had almost doubled their numbers against Professor Red and the POE.
Coru had teamed Nelson with Mattea for the Indie to share his knowledge of the area, or so Nelson believed. The real reason was the need for Mattea’s calming influence over the fiery Indie.
Wren cast her sensors wide, wider, testing her newly regained ability, scanning for any signs of others in the area, hoping to help, to warn, to protect. It wasn’t working as she’d hoped. She was getting nothing, not because the area was safe, but because she could only pick up thoughts from those close to her, which was coming at her as a jumble of fear and anticipation.
Waylon was particularly stoked to finally being proactive rather than reactive—his words, not hers. She understood completely. Waiting for life to happen to you rather than running out to seize it was not how she wanted to live either.
Waylon wasn’t a hothead; Waylon needed to participate. And he had a huge, giving heart.
The good news was she could read him, and Waylon was riding fifty feet ahead of her. Inside the farmhouse, she had to be within ten feet of those she heard, so fifty feet away was an improvement, and a quick one at that, happening in a matter of hours. It was a start, but not nearly good enough. She needed to gain intel long before the enemy was this close to her team.
She kept trying, paying little attention to their route, leaving that task to her driver, Kelly Anderson, a man in his thirties with a wife named Jenna and two young children. Still, sitting beside the man, she was drawn into his story by his thoughts of his family and memories of how he found each of them, something he could not stop thinking about now that he was leaving them behind. His daughter Thorn was a three-year-old—they guessed. A native girl discovered alone on the road, with no explanation as to how she got there. His son, Jack, was ten years old and was of Vietnamese descent. He’d rescued Jack from a slave trader, killing the man with a shovel. He’d known Jenna from his old neighborhood, a fellow Boy Scout Virus survivor. They’d partnered up to nurse the sick and dying and this was the first time they had been separated since.
It was killing him to leave them. He loved his family fiercely. He and Jenna had already agreed Jack and Thorn could not be left to face a POE advance. They had both been traumatized enough. Jenna would be part of the team to bring the children to Freeland. Knowing Jenna would be racing East to protect their children drove him westward toward New Pacifica, preferring to meet his enemy head on while he was prepared, rather than leaving himself and his family open to a surprise attack. Within five days, all things going right, they would be safe inside the walls of Freeland, waiting for him at Freeland. He hoped the five-day trek wasn’t too hard on the kids, especially Jack, who still had nightmares about his time with the slaver.
Wren guessed that young Jack’s experience had echoed what Nicola, Catherine, and Malcolm had endured during their time with slavers. Poor child.
The side-by-sides were exactly where they had left them, tucked up against a wall of rock and debris the Indies had fashioned, a kind of mini box-canyon the Bear Lake Outlanders had fallen for— it was clever. Their vehicles were still packed up. They were ready to roll.
Unfortunately, there was an Outlander going over the gear with interest. A very well-equipped Outlander…something here wasn’t right.
Coru and the twins sprang from the Indie side-by-sides they’d been riding in and had the man on the ground in short order.
Tom’s knee was buried into the Outlander’s shoulders. “Why are you here?” he demanded.
“I’m a front runner. I’m… I’m scouting.”
“Scouting for whom? For what?”
“Stuff.”
Wren, the Outlanders, the Indies, everyone could see he was lying.
“We don’t have time for this,” Kelly Anderson announced, stepping forward with a knife and holding it to the Outlander’s throat. He said, “Sorry, bud, but you’ve been misled. The God’s Country Indies will no longer be stolen from. We worked for it and we’ll fight for it. You and your kind slink in like weasels looking for the spoils of our labor. No more. We’re done starving so you can grow fat.”
“We’re not coming for food,” the man blurted, his expression revealing instant regret the moment the words were out of his mouth.
Tom demanded, “What are you here for?”
The Outlander pressed his mouth closed.
Kelly leaned back, looking him over, and his expression abruptly changed. He called out to Smith, “Check his bag.”
The Outlander began to squirm, fighting for his life in earnest now.
Smith pulled out some clothing, some meal packets, then stopped, his hand buried inside the bag. “Whoa,” he breathed.
“What?” Gary Hanson demanded, his patience gone, jerking the bag from Smith’s grip and dumping the contents out on the ground beside the downed Outlander. There was the jingling sound of metal, of chains as a dozen linked wrist and ankle bracelets fell into the dirt.
“You’re slavers!” Kelly pulled back on the man’s hair, stretching his neck and his face skyward and roared, “You’ve come to steal our wives, our children!”
“You can’t touch me,” the Outlander screamed. “There’s lots more coming and if they find me—.”
One flash of Kelly’s blade and the Outlander was bleeding out in the dirt beside the slave cuffs he’d brought along, the shocked Indies staring down at him as he gurgled his last breath. Kelly stood, wiped his blade on his thigh and strode a blindly weaving path back to his ride. Wren could see he was alive with fury, his entire body shaking, his son’s frightened face the only thing he could see.
A flash burst across her vision. Light, then a cape of darkness rose up, swirled, brushing the light away. Something was wrong here. She closed her eyes and sent out her sensors, praying they would not fail her. Nothing.
But there had been something.
The edge of something, barely glimpsed, disappearing when she turned to look, always just out of sight. Only this was the edge of her mind—something hovering just outside of her grasp…
Coru was back at her side. He murmured, “What did you see?”
Wren shook her head and stepped blindly toward him, pressing her face against his chest, clutching his jacket. “Get me away. Don’t let them see.”
He put his arm around her and led her away from the huddle, to under some nearby trees.
“I’m sorry. I can’t—.” A slash of light and pain sliced through her head, ending in a blinding explosion that blew all her senses away. She fell against Coru, slipping down to the ground, clutching her head, alone and lost in the white light, the noise, the roar of hatred roiling everywhere. There was no escaping it, no fighting it, only enduring, enduring… The plan was horrific. She saw children crying, she saw houses burning, women dragged from their homes. They were to be captured, taken to New Pacifica, immunized and kept as… Her mind rocked away. “They’re here! They’re coming now,” she moaned. “Not for supplies; for women—‘clean’ women; ‘clean’ young girls. The women have to go now; run now!”
She barely felt being lifted.
“Who, Wren? Who!”
She gritted her teeth against the tsunami of gluttony and base desires tearing through her brain, tearing it apart. She panted out the answer Coru needed to hear before she was lost. “POE. Many POE. This is only the first wave coming for the women, there are plans for many more. The first party is only a day away. The Indies. Warn them before it’s too late…”
Wren dropped away into blackness.
SOBBING, Nicola jerked upright in her bed, fully, terrifyingly awake. “Wren’s in trouble! Mattea, Coru—they’re all in trouble!” She fell from her bed, jammed her feet into her boots, seized her rifle, and staggered out to the great room, where the dogs were up and milling around, their bodies rigid, on edge, Hero with his hackles raised, a low rumble coming from his thick chest.
Catherine was standing in her bedroom doorway, nightgown wrinkled, feet bare. Her long hair was dishevelled, and she was holding her head with both hands, swaying.
Nicola darted across the room. “We have to do something! We have to help them!”
“How?” Catherine wailed, her hands turning into fists, pulling her hair in anguish, all control lost. “How, Nicola!? How can we help when they’re thousands of miles away?!!”
11
MIKE: YEAR THREE: WEN 2038
MIKE TOSSED the last of his toast down and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. When Jessica moved to take his plate, he waved her off. “Let me at least drink my coffee before you sweep in. I’m not paying you for how fast you can grab and spit-shine my plates!”
Cherry rose from the table, her silk dressing gown falling softly around her plump body, her black hair upswept in an elegant twist, diamond earrings twinkling. “That’s fine Jessica. You go have a break in the kitchen. I know you’ve been working hard since six.” Cherry looked significantly at Mike.
He inhaled and rolled his eyes but glanced over at the silent maid. “Sorry, Jessica. I’m in a lousy mood and shouldn’t take it out on you.” He glanced at his wife, then added, “You do a good job here for us.”
Jessica bowed her head and backed from the room.
Cherry picked up her tea cup and saucer, prepared to glide into her study as she did every morning to “journal”—what she was journaling about he had no idea, nor interest in. Her latest subject might be entitled, “How I can continue to gain weight on every diet known to mankind”. Or maybe, “How I give away as much money as I can, as fast as I can, to any stupid cause that comes down the pipe in order to salve my guilty conscience”.
She raised her manicured eyebrows and said, “There, was that so hard, Michael?”
It was always Michael when she was pissed with him.
He wagged his head, no. Damned if he was going to say it.
Everything with Cherry was about being “nice”.
She was going to “nice” him into an early grave. Who was running the show here anyway, the Eggers or their servants? If Cherry had it her way, he’d be pouring tea for Jessica while thanking her for gracing him with her company every morning.
Con walked into the dining room as Cherry walked out, their eyes briefly touching then flicking away. Why didn’t they like each other, Mike wondered for the hundredth time. On paper, they should like one another just fine, but some sort of uneasiness lingered. It was subtle, but it was always there, an unspoken agreement to disagree. Lately, Mike had considered Cherry might be doing it just to piss him off. She’d gotten very good at it recently. That and secreting Godiva Truffles in her writing room. Journaling wasn’t the only activity happening out of sight here in their condo—Cherry had a serious chocolate addiction, thus the weight-gain neither of them spoke about.
She used to be so hot.
Before they got married.
Then that petulant voice that l
ived in the back of his head piped in. You mean before you got together and offed Bruce Trenholme.
Nice little life perk to slot into their history—Bruce Trenholme got dead; Cherry got fat.
Con grabbed a mug from the sideboard, poured himself a coffee and joined Mike at the table. “Good news, boss.”
Mike grunted, “What’s up?”
“I got you the invite.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. He lowered his cup, slopping its contents across the linen placemat, and stared at his closest friend in the world incredulously. “You’re freaking kidding me! How’d you pull it off?”
“Got him when he was feeling mellow. Talked you up, all your business interests, your interest in the environment—his sweet spot. That piece in last weekend’s paper didn’t hurt—‘Millionaire Donates to Inner Harbor Cleanup’. He went for it.”
Mike was on his feet, pacing the room now. He was finally going to meet Zhang, face to face after months of overtures. He’d inserted Con into the Zhang security arm over a year ago, complete with a boatload of made up references and had been biding his time as Con worked his way up the ranks.
What was in Mike’s favor was the fact that no matter how long it took for him to connect with Zhang, to stop Zhang, he would still be returning to Cloud Rez in WEN 2341 one hour after he’d left it. His mission here would take as long as it took, his return was ensured. Some days, that’s all that sustained him.
In the meantime, he had built his own reputation as a mover and shaker, a steward of the environment, tossing money at any eco problem he could name, and very publicly. He was gathering a bit of a following himself, his name appearing as part of the “good cause” whenever he could arrange it.
It had been easy. Money talked.
After a year in the Zhang Corporation, Conrad was now the head of a lesser level in the main office, with his sights on the next step up: The fourteenth floor. Corporate head office and two floors below Zhang’s actual residence. Good clothes, good food, the dreadlocks gone, his teeth all repaired and veneered—he still rocked that gold tooth like a rock star—Conrad was someone to contend with now. He was a big man, black, handsome, impressively built, with an intense gaze and air of self-control and confidence that caught your attention and held it. He was a natural. Still, even with his arresting presence, the fact he was even talking to Zhang was a miracle in itself. Moses Zhang was camera-shy and notorious for his need for privacy.
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 18