Regeneration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 3)

by Laura Disilverio

  Wiping sweat from my forehead, I toss the shovel into the back of the ACV and clamber into the pilot’s seat. Alexander settles into the passenger side and takes long swallows of water. I think I shouldn’t have asked him to help me, that it’s too much for him now, but the look he shoots me tells me not to say that or try to coddle him. I set the ACV in motion, pointing it to the east.

  “This isn’t the way back to the Kube,” Alexander observes.

  “We’re going to the beach,” I say airily, spoiling it by adding, “You don’t mind, do you? The beach—it’s a special place for me.”

  “No, Everly, I don’t mind,” he says, relaxing against the seat. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen the ocean. At least twenty-five, no, thirty years. During the Between, my wife and I spent two nights holed up on the Outer Banks of what used to be North Carolina, evading an outlaw faction trying to kill us for raiding their supply depot. We could hear the waves crashing from the old grocery store we were hiding in. There was a hurricane blowing offshore, well to the east, but it stirred up the waves. We snuck out at midnight to watch them pound the shore. There was a full moon, and it outlined the foam curling at the waves’ tops and then spilling over as the waves curled and crashed. It was a magical night.”

  From the smile curling the corners of his mouth, and the far-away look in his eyes, I get the feeling there was more to the magic than a few waves and moonlight. The thought of him and Emilia Alden, my mother, making love on the beach makes me a bit queasy and I push the thought away. We’re almost at the beach now, and as the ACV crests a dune, we see the water. It’s a clear day, without the mugginess that usually thickens the air, and the water is an indescribable blue, sparkling like someone strewed a billion billion diamonds across the surface. A trail of shells scores the smooth white sand, running parallel to the surf, evidence of the last high tide. Barely waiting for the ACV to stop moving, I’m out of the vehicle, running through the soft sand to the water’s edge. I ignore the faded sign warning of mines and other dangers. I pull off my boots, roll up my jumpsuit legs, and wade in until the water laps at my ankles. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the salty tang, and lose myself in the waves’ rhythmic susurrations. Something tickles my toes, and I look down to see a school of tiny minnows darting to and fro. I smile.

  Alexander has followed me more slowly, but now he stands, hands planted on his hips, watching me as I kick at the surf. “Come on in,” I call, beckoning. “The water’s lovely.” It’s cool and refreshing.

  “I don’t think—” He stops. “What the hell.” He bends to remove his boots, stands them side by side above the waterline, folds his jumpsuit legs up in even bands, and pads toward the water. He lifts his face to the sun as he walks out until the waves nudge his knees.

  “You’re my father, you know,” I say to his back, the words conversational, unpremeditated.

  He doesn’t turn for a moment, but I know he heard me. I start to tense, but then he turns toward me and there’s a light in his eyes that makes me want to cry. Maybe I do. It’s hard to tell what might be tears and what’s salt spray.

  “I won’t ask you how you know that,” he says, sloshing toward me. “It’s the most wonderful news I’ve had in a long, long time. Did you tell Emilia?”

  “She knows. She’s always known. After you left with Idris, she brought me to the Kube, convinced that they would care for me better than she could.”

  “Convinced that she could advance her career farther without an illegal baby to take care of, you mean.”

  I nod, accepting his interpretation. I want to ask him why he left, if he’s missed me, why he took Idris with him instead of me, but all that can wait. He opens his arms and I move to him, letting him draw me close in a loving, welcoming hug. I finally have family. I rest my cheek on his shoulder and wrap my arms around his back. I try to think the word “dad” or “father,” but they don’t really work. He’ll continue being Alexander to me. “She still loves you, you know,” I tell him.

  He pulls his head back so he can look into my face. There’s a hint of sadness in his brown eyes, but his mouth is resolute. “I still love her, too, but that doesn’t change anything.” He cocks his head. “I assume you haven’t told Idris?”

  I shake my head, pulling out of his embrace. A humming noise, not nearby, filters into my consciousness.

  “It’s not that I loved Idris more than you, Everly,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking into my face with great earnestness. “But he was a boy, and older, and I thought his chances of surviving with me were greater. You were a week old when I left. I knew I’d be living rough, running and hiding. A fugitive with a price on his head. You know how that is. And I guess I thought it would be cruel to deprive Emilia of both our children. If I’d known she was going to hand you over to the Kube, though, I might have—” He breaks off and shakes his head. Droplets of salt water glisten on his beard.

  “What was my name?” I ask. I’d never thought to ask Minister Alden that question. Trying to survive trumps all sorts of things.

  “Isabel Rose, after her mother and mine.” His mouth quirks up. “Everly suits you better.”

  The humming noise is louder now, with a mechanical regularity to it. We both look around. A line of dark gray appears, chopping up the horizon line. It takes us both a too-long minute.

  “Ships,” Alexander yells, pushing me toward the shore. “The Prags are coming by ship. Where did they get—?”

  We’re both splashing toward the beach, desperate to escape the water’s clutch and reach the ACV. I hit the sand first and sprint toward the dunes. There’s a long, low shreee, and the dune to my left erupts, spraying me with sand. I crouch and keep going. The soft sand sucks my feet down, makes my calf muscles burn. If I can only reach the ACV . . . there’s the beamer . . .

  I risk a glance over my shoulder. My heart plummets. The ships are closer now, some large, some small, all the dark, dull gray of hail clouds. I can make out figures on their decks now, weapons trained our way. A blast sounds, and a deck-mounted beamer emits a pulse that turns the sand to glass only feet from where I’m standing. Alexander is laboring twenty yards behind me, and I take two steps toward him, planning to pull him along. He waves me off.

  “No! Keep going. Warn Idris.”

  I hesitate the briefest moment and then do as he says. I’ll get the ACV and swoop back for him, and then we’ll race toward the Kube. My mouth is dry and my heart pounds in my chest as I struggle up the last and tallest dune. There, the ACV. I slip-slide down the back of the dune and sprint for the vehicle. I fling myself in and ignite it. It rises with a puff of sand, and I steer it up the dune’s slope, into a barrage of beamer blasts. I slew it to the right and then the left, trying to dodge the blasts and spot Alexander. Fear clutches at me. Where is he? Has he fallen? I spot him, zigzagging down the beach to my left, apparently trying to draw our attackers away. I start after him, but even as I turn the ACV, he staggers and falls, blood blooming on his thigh. Nooo.

  I start toward him, hunched over the ACV’s controls. My gaze flicks toward the water’s edge as movement alerts me. One of the ships has landed and nozzles are deploying from its hull, pointing downward. There’s a spurt of water from them and then it’s hovering. It lurches, but then glides forward on the air cushion. It’s closer to Alexander than I am, bearing down on him. The other ships are still wallowing in the surf, but they’ll be here soon enough.

  In anguish, I try to speed up the ACV, but it’s already going at max speed. Alexander pushes to his hands and knees as the enemy ACV approaches him, and looks straight at me. He chops his arm forward, pointing inland. I can read his lips. “Go. Go.”

  An IPF soldier jumps off the ACV and runs toward Alexander, weapon drawn. The vehicle swivels toward me and a hull-mounted beamer tries to lock onto my ACV. There’s a sizzle and a splitting cr-rack, and polyglass from the ACV’s windshield rains in on me. I wheel the two-seater in a tight circle. I obey Alexander. Milking ever
y last ounce of speed from the ACV, I slither between two dunes, using them as cover, and then I’m going flat-out for the Kube. I’m leaving Alexander behind. I’m rigid, determined to carry out what might be his last wish, and warn everyone at the Kube. Warn Idris, Alexander’s son.

  There’s no sign of pursuit as the ACV zips toward the Kube. The IPF must be regrouping as the ships land the soldiers, but they’ll be here soon enough. Wind whips my hair and I narrow my eyes against it. I key the communicator, planning to get word to Idris of the impending attack, but all I get is static. The ships must be jamming our comms, which are spotty at best. Damn it. I make sure the ACV’s transponder is transmitting the right code, so the sentries will open the gates as I approach and I won’t lose precious seconds. Every one counts. Kudzu on both sides of the road flutters in my wake as I speed past. There’s the outer fence. The gate. Open, open, I command it silently. It swings inward. Without slowing, I blast through and the startled sentries bring their weapons to firing position. One starts to chase me. I slam on the brakes and cut the power simultaneously, and the ACV crash lands and slides sideways. I jump out, hands held up, yelling, “IPF. On the beach. Coming this way. Combat posture, now!”

  It takes the Defiers only a split second, and then they’re scrambling. A klaxon sounds the alert.

  “Where’s Idris?” I ask one man as he speaks into his communicator.

  “On his way from the armory,” he says.

  And then Idris appears, tall, commanding, calm. He issues orders clearly and the Defiers deploy as he directs them. He spots me and strides toward me. His eyes scan the ACV. They jitter back and forth in a way that belies his outward composure.

  “Alexander?” he asks.

  I shake my head, not meeting his eyes. “Wounded. Captured.” I hope it’s no worse than that.

  The muscles along his jaw bunch and he grips his lips together. I reach to touch his arm, but he backhands my hand away. “If he doesn’t make it—” His look promises retribution before he swings away to answer questions thrown at him by Rhedyn and Chrysto. As he walks, he barks over his shoulder, “Secure the lab. They’re already jamming our comms, so be prepared to operate on your own.”

  Glad to have something concrete to do, I snag a scooter and make for the lab. When I arrive, Jereth meets me with an excited, “We’ve got locusts in the trap already. They—”

  “The Kube is under attack,” I say, brushing past him. I’m still barefoot, I realize, as my feet smack against cool tile. My boots are on the beach. “Didn’t you hear the alarm?” The locusts don’t interest me at the moment. Unless we can hold off the attack, there’ll be no chance to work on the locust problem. Chrysto and his demolitions team booby trapped the outside entrance to the lab, the one I snuck in, two days ago, but I check it anyway. Still wired.

  Rhedyn has evidently deployed a handful of troops to the lab and they report to me when I return to the main work space. The surveillance cameras surrounding the Kube transmit to monitors in several locations, and I switch on the lab’s. Nothing shows on the screen but the fence and the swathe of open land beyond it. No movement. The lull before the storm, I know. Dr. Ronan approaches, assessing me from under beetled brows. He’s carrying a gun at his side, his finger looped awkwardly through the trigger guard. It’s long-barreled, clunky and rusted, and looks old enough to have been used at the Battle of Gettysburg. Okay, maybe it’s not quite that old, but almost.

  “What can I do?” he asks.

  For a moment, I’m distracted by his recognition of my authority in his lab, and touched by his willingness to fight. I say, “Don’t get killed.”

  His eyes gleam, then he nods. “Heed your own advice, Jax,” he says.

  “I’ll do my damnedest.” A grin overtakes me and suddenly, despite my worry for Alexander, and my fears for all of us if the Kube falls to the Prags, determination and a fierce commitment to this place and these people sweep over me. The only way the Prags will take this lab is over my dead body.

  It takes half an hour for the IPF boats-turned-ACVs to arrive and arrange themselves in a semi-circle facing the main gates, out beyond the minefield. Even from the lab, I can hear the rumble of the engines, louder and angrier than even the largest locust swarm. Jereth’s eyes widen with worry, and I set him to making first aid kits out of lab supplies, mostly to keep him occupied. I find paper booties, used as part of the decon efforts, and put them on, feeling slightly ridiculous. Dr. Ronan and I stand in front of the large screen, watching as the vehicles pull up side by side, forming a cordon of metal and menace.

  Suddenly, a man’s voice booms over a PA system. “To the criminals who have illegally invaded Kube 9: This is your one and only chance to surrender. You have half an hour to release your hostages and lay down your arms. I promise that you will not be harmed and will receive a fair trial if you do so. You have half an hour to respond. At the end of that time, we will unleash the full might of Amerada’s military upon you and there will be no mercy.”

  The “ee” sound from the last syllable is still vibrating in the air when the last ACV to the right explodes in a ball of fire. Startled, we jerk back from the screen, then simultaneously lean in again. I guess Idris has given them their answer.

  “Holy mother of God,” Dr. Ronan mutters.

  Jereth runs over, asking, “What happened?” His voice is a nervous squeak.

  Oily smoke boils around the wreckage and a body lies in front of it, flung there by the explosion. Another ACV explodes, this one at the rear of the convoy. Two more disintegrate, ba-boom, ba-boom, and the oily smoke fogs the battlefield, making it hard to see what’s happening. I don’t know how Chrysto has rigged the explosives, but the tactics are effective. The ACV line begins to waver, and then one shoots forward out of the smoke, beamer blasting at the gates. Two more join it, concentrating their blasts on a single spot. I switch camera views and get a close-up of helmeted soldiers deploying from the ACVs and running. Wait. More soldiers are coming from inside the compound. What—?

  The explanation dawns on me. Idris and Wyck have outfitted the Defiance troops in IPF uniforms. They blend perfectly with the Prag soldiers, making it impossible to tell friend from foe. At least, it seems that way to me. I trust that Wyck—I know it’s his plan—has concocted a way for Defiance members to identify each other.

  The battle rages. More ACVs explode as they try to cross the open ground around the Kube and hit the minefield. Soldiers crackle and get jolted back when they try to scale the electrified inner fence. I stop trying to count the bodies scattered on the ground. I chafe at the need to remain here, to stay at the post Idris assigned me, when my friends are in the thick of it, being shot at. Maybe some are already dead. Idris was right, though, that the IPF seems unwilling to attack the dome directly. Immediately following that thought, another series of explosions, closer than the others, makes the ground tremble and I grab at a counter to steady myself.

  My radio sputters briefly to life. “Breach!” a panicked voice cries. I hear scuffling and a metallic clang and realize they’re not coming over the communicator, but from the lab’s exterior door, the one I came through only days ago. I signal to the two Defiers standing guard at the interior door and we run through the lab, emerging in the hall that leads to the decon room and the outer door. A flicker of movement in my peripheral vision makes me turn and fire. One of a trio of IPF soldiers slumps against the wall. The others dive into the decon room.

  “Seal the door,” I snap at the female Defier closest to me. “There’s a control room—you can suck the oxygen out of the decon room and secure them when they pass out.” It’s too reminiscent of being trapped in the underground lab with Wyck and I shiver.

  “We could suffocate the geneborn bastards,” she suggests.

  “We’re not murderers.” My tone says she better not challenge me.

  She moves to obey while her partner locates the sentry who alerted us and begins to drag his body away from the outer door. “I’ve got you, Vik,�
�� he says. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.” Desperation rings in his voice, and I know they were close.

  One look at Vik tells me he’s dead, his throat slit. I wince, but tell the Defier to leave the dead man’s body and secure the exterior door. Chrysto’s explosives have knocked it askew and two more IPF bodies lie directly outside, victims of the blast.

  The man gently lays his fallen comrade down and springs to drag the door closed. Its weight is too much for him, its pneumatics disrupted by the blast, and I lunge to help him. We pull it closed, but we can’t secure it. I mentally curse Chrysto, and snap, “We’ll stand guard here. You get the welding equipment from the lab. We’ll have to seal it permanently.”

  He’s gone without a reply, pounding down the hall.

  The female Defier—I’m pretty sure her name is Anjeta—emerges from the decon chamber, having deprived the soldiers of oxygen long enough to clip flexi-cuffs around their wrists and ankles. She’s older than I am, almost thirty, I bet, with bright brown hair that scythes across her cheekbones.

  “What do we do with them now?” Anjeta asks, jerking a thumb at the prisoners. She’s missing the last two fingers on her hand. Scar tissues says the loss isn’t recent.

  My brow puckers. We’re not set up to deal with prisoners. “Leave them there for now.”

  The other Defier comes running back, portable welding kit strapped to his back. Without waiting for further orders, he begins to weld the door closed, sparks arcing as he works. They make the walls glow. Anjeta and I stand guard, ready to repel anyone who tries to get in. There are no further attacks as he works, and I breathe a bit easier. This was a small infiltration attempt, not an all out assault on the lab and dome. Thank God. The Prags haven’t totally lost their minds—destroying the dome would mean starvation for most of the population of Jacksonville and the surrounding areas because it wouldn’t take the locusts two nanoseconds to descend on the crops and decimate them. A large swarm can eat more than 420 million pounds of crops each day.