Man of War (Rebellion Book 1)

by M. R. Forbes

  That information had led him to think the enemy numbered in the millions or at least had millions of slaves. Maybe they had stumbled into a low traffic area, but millions of anything would be sure to make some kind of noise or be some level of obvious.

  "Maybe they don't use this area anymore," Diaz whispered, apparently thinking along the same lines.

  "Whatever that is back there is up and running," Donovan replied. "Which doesn't suggest it's been abandoned."

  "Then where is everybody?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  They had given up slinking along the sides of the hallways twenty minutes earlier, moving at a faster pace by walking right down the middle. It was so quiet Donovan was sure he'd hear something coming before it was able to sneak up on them.

  "We know the perimeter of the city is over one hundred kilometers long," Donovan said. "If the density is low enough it would make sense there would be nobody here."

  "Who maintains everything, then? Unless they have a central monitoring system."

  Donovan stopped walking, his eyes scanning the walls, ceiling, and floor around them. "Let's say that they do. Do you think they know we're here, and they're just watching us? Waiting to see what we'll do next?"

  Diaz bit her bottom lip, considering. "No. Why would they need to monitor inside their walls?"

  "We don't know where they came from. Just because human technology is inferior to theirs, how do we know theirs isn't inferior to someone else's? If there are two intelligent life forms in the universe, it stands to reason there are three or more."

  "You're reaching, D," Diaz said. "Besides, if they're watching us there isn't anything we can do about it. We have to find a way out."

  They started walking again, though Donovan paid more attention to the structure around them now, looking for anything that might resemble a sensor or a camera. Diaz was right. If they were being watched, so be it. The Dread had chosen not to intervene, at least not yet.

  Ten more minutes found them at another intersection. Donovan was about to ask Diaz which way she thought they should go when he realized the structure of the corridor had changed. The hallways on both sides of them were no longer completely straight, instead curving gently until they vanished into the distance.

  "I bet this corridor makes a ring," Diaz said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

  "Stay alert," Donovan said, moving to the inside of the curve. It wouldn't hide them for long, but it was better than nothing.

  They turned to the left and began following the curve. As they moved further in, new corridors began to appear on the outer side of the ring, while indents began lining the inner.

  "Doorways," Donovan said, feeling a sense of fear rising with his heart rate.

  "Somebody has to be here, don't they?" Diaz asked, taking her knife from her waist and holding it up defensively. Any of the doors could open at any time.

  They kept going. Eventually, the inner curve revealed a corridor that dove deeper into the center of the circle. Donovan could see what appeared to be a green laser stabbing through the middle of that hallway, signaling the center of the ring. He had no idea what it was, and he wasn't eager to find out.

  "Which way is north?" he asked. His sense of direction was fine outside when he could check the sky.

  "This way, I think," Diaz said, pointing toward the corridor across from them. It led away from the circle, down another long, straight passage.

  "Let's keep going north until we can't anymore. Otherwise, we'll be lost in here forever."

  "Agreed."

  They started heading for the northern corridor.

  A soft swishing noise sounded to their right.

  One of the doors was opening.

  There was no time to think. No time to consider. It was fight or flight.

  Donovan threw himself at the figure coming out of the doorway, hitting it hard with his injured shoulder, acting so quickly he never got a look at what he was attacking. He felt his arm smack against a rough frame, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out at the pain his assault caused him.

  Then he was falling, tangled up with the enemy and landing on top as they both crashed on the floor inside the room.

  Donovan squirmed and scrambled, trying to get his feet under him and put a few inches of distance between himself and whatever he had hit. He could smell the same sweet odor again, and see a small patch of stark white flesh and silver hair layered over a bony ridge.

  The alien hissed beneath him, trying to shake itself loose. Donovan lifted himself slightly, getting a good look at an orange, humanoid eye. Then Diaz was in the room beside him. She fell to her knees, her knife coming down hard, burying it in that orange eye. Cranberry colored blood began to run out, and the body went limp below him.

  "Take that you son of a bitch," Diaz whispered angrily, releasing a sharp breath.

  The door slid closed behind them.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Donovan rolled off the corpse below him, his shoulder throbbing. He came to his knees on the opposite side, his eyes only the second pair to ever take in the sight of the enemy.

  "I never knew what to expect," Diaz said, her body trembling.

  The pierced orange eye was matched with a second, anchored to a face that was decidedly humanoid. Between them was a tiny, flat nose, a small arc with a pair of nostrils that led down to very human-looking pink lips and white teeth, the mouth hanging slightly open in a forever silent scream. Tracing the outline, he saw the ears were also small and pressed tight against the head, while some small, bony ridges created an almost reptilian shape to the upper portion of the skull. Short, fine, silver hair grew from the scalp behind the ridges, giving the alien a near-demonic appearance.

  Except nothing about it suggested it was demonic. In fact, the white skin made it look more like an angel. Donovan's eyes trailed down a milky neck to narrow shoulders and a small frame, dressed in simple black cloth that appeared to be composed of a similar material to the unbreakable armor. A pair of slippers covered the feet while four-fingered hands lay exposed at the alien's sides.

  Diaz reached down, pulling at the cloth and lifting it away from the Dread's waist. The dead alien was clearly a male.

  "So much like us," Donovan said, barely able to breathe.

  "Maybe now," Diaz said. "We don't know what they looked like before. They've been using human genes to fix themselves."

  "I can't believe you killed one." He realized he was shaking, too.

  "Me neither." She pulled the knife from its eye. "I can't say I feel sorry for it."

  Donovan finally pulled his eyes away from it, quickly scanning the room. It appeared to be living quarters of some kind. A transparent enclosure sat in the center of the space; alien symbols illuminated in a grid against the surface and what appeared to be a mask dangling from the top of it. Behind the enclosure was a more traditional human mattress, complete with white sheets tucked into the frame it sat on, which blended in with, or was protruding from the wall behind it. A seam that suggested a storage area sat on the left of the enclosure, while an archway was on the right.

  They got to their feet. Donovan approached the enclosure, making as good of a mental image of it all as he could. He peered through the open archway into what had to be a bathroom. A small tube protruded from the wall at the right height for urinating into, while a second tube extended from the wall in a position that was clearly intended for defecation. It was both familiar and completely alien at the same time, a conjunction of advanced technology and crude adjustments in response to the form the Dread had taken.

  He couldn't help but wonder what they had looked like before.

  "I wish I could read this," Diaz said, stopped in front of the enclosure and staring at the symbols. They were simple lines in even, measured strokes that bore a very vague resemblance to the Roman alphabet.

  "I wish I had a way to record all of this," Donovan said.

  He returned to the body on the floor, patting it d
own. He felt an odd protrusion over the chest, and he pushed aside the alien's clothing until he found a round, flat, black pin the size of a fingernail.

  "I wonder what this does," he said, unclipping it and holding it up.

  "I wonder what any of this stuff does," Diaz said. She was trying to figure out how to open the seam in the wall. She ran her hands along it until it split in two, sliding apart to reveal its contents.

  "Their wardrobe is pretty boring," Donovan said, looking into the storage area. Shelves of black cloth lay inside.

  "No hobbies, either," Diaz said. "The room has nothing else in it. What do you think they do for fun?"

  "Destroy civilizations," Donovan said. "It's too bad none of its clothes are even close to fitting me. I could use a shirt."

  Diaz grabbed a piece of the cloth and unfolded it. It looked way too small for the alien. She pulled at it, finding that it stretched well. "I think it'll work," she said. She tossed it to him, along with a pair of the pants. Then she started unbuttoning her shirt.

  "What are you doing?" Donovan asked, catching the cloth. It was incredibly light and soft.

  "Changing," she replied, undoing the last button and holding the shirt open just enough that Donovan could see the center of her bare chest between her breasts. "You could try being a gentleman."

  Donovan had forgotten his manners, and he felt his face heating up as he turned the other way. "You could have warned me first."

  "You saw me unbuttoning. Don't turn around, I'm changing my pants. You should change yours, too. Leave the shirt. I'll tear some new bandages for you with this."

  Donovan did as she suggested, slipping out of his torn and filthy pants.

  He pulled the pants up, a little uncomfortable over the way it hugged against his groin, and then turned around. The black material had stretched around Diaz's form, pulling tight against her body in a way that likely revealed a little more than she wanted.

  "Try not to stare," she said, reaching into the closet and grabbing another shirt. She put the knife to it, intending to cut it into strips for his shoulder.

  It bent and shifted beneath the knife, but it didn't break. She tried stabbing it instead. It seemed to solidify against the force, not allowing the point through.

  "The compression should keep enough pressure on it," Donovan said. "Help me get the old bandages off."

  Diaz nodded and reached for the disgusting shirt. It was torn and soaked with water, sweat, and blood, and smelled awful.

  "When did you grow up?" Donovan asked as she dropped the soggy wrap on the floor. He knew Matteo's kid sister had held a crush on him for years, but she had always been Matteo's kid sister. It was the first time he had noticed she wasn't a little girl anymore.

  "Puberty was six years ago," Diaz replied. "Like I said, you've never paid me much attention before." She stepped away from him. "Maybe you see me now?"

  TWENTY-SIX

  Donovan tugged at the alien material that covered his arms. It stretched so easily, and yet when he tried to jam the knife into it, it became as hard as stone or steel.

  "I wonder if this stuff can stop a plasma bolt, too," he said. The material was incredibly comfortable though the nature of it did leave him feeling a little exposed. At least he wasn't alone in that.

  "What do we do now?" Diaz asked.

  "We can't stay here," he replied. "That thing was going somewhere, which means it's probably going to be missed."

  "First things first, then." Diaz pointed to the door. "How do we get out?"

  Donovan smiled. "Good question."

  He stepped over the dead alien, examining the hatch and the frame around it. Human doors had manual knobs or levers or a touchpad control. He didn't see either of those. He couldn't believe they were going to get stuck here, discovered and killed because they couldn't open it.

  "Maybe it's voice activated?" Diaz said.

  "I hope not. We don't speak alien."

  "Next time you tackle an alien, make sure you stay out in public."

  "Yeah, I'll try that."

  Diaz laughed softly, coming over to help him, running her hands along the wall near the hatch. "There could be a control hidden in the wall, like the symbols on whatever that enclosure thing is."

  "It looks like a breathing apparatus of some kind. Look at its face. That nose seems too small and improperly formed to breathe easily."

  Diaz glared down at it for a second. "It's disgusting."

  They spent another minute trying to work the door. Donovan slammed his head back against the wall, angry with himself for his ineptitude. "This is ridiculous."

  "What about sensors? Maybe it works by detecting that he's leaving?"

  "Only him?"

  Diaz shrugged. Donovan backed up and then walked toward the door as if assuming it would open ahead of him.

  It didn't, leaving him with his nose right against the metal.

  "Damn it," he cursed, tempted to slam his fist against it.

  "You can say that again," Diaz said. He could tell she was getting uncomfortable with the situation, and the earlier stress relieving lightheartedness was wearing off. "What if it only works when one of them does it?"

  "That would be good security, but I wouldn't think they need it."

  "You wouldn't want someone just walking into your room on you."

  Some of the humor returned to her eyes, and Donovan dropped his eyes to the floor. He had been fourteen when eight-year-old Renata had walked in on him unannounced and caught him masturbating.

  "I can't believe you remember that."

  "It was another two years before I knew what you were even doing," she said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people do it."

  "Do you?" he asked.

  "I don't think that matters, does it?"

  He wasn't sure if she was being dodgy because she was ashamed, too, or because she didn't want to make him more uncomfortable.

  "It might."

  She stared at him for a moment.

  A tone sounded in the room. It seemed like it came from everywhere.

  They both froze, their eyes darting around the space in search of somewhere to hide.

  There wasn't anywhere.

  "Mierda," Diaz whispered.

  Donovan looked at the dead alien, still sprawled on the floor. "There's only one thing to do," he said, moving closer to the door and crouching down, ready to attack.

  The tone sounded again. Diaz joined him, handing him her knife. "I'm with you."

  A muffled voice followed the second tone, more localized this time. Donovan returned his attention to the Dread until he remembered the pin. He unclipped it from his top. Someone was speaking through it. The voice was female, the words in a language he didn't know.

  "I think someone missed him," Diaz whispered.

  Donovan passed the knife back to her.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Change of plan if the door opens."

  "Yes, sir."

  They stood and waited. The tone sounded a third time, and the voice through the pin grew more concerned.

  A short hiss was the only warning they had before the hatch snapped open. Donovan didn't waste any time, stepping forward and grabbing the newcomer, yanking them inside and wrapping his arms around them from behind, his hand falling over the mouth.

  The alien struggled in his grip, making noises beneath his hand and trying to get away. The hatch closed behind them as he held on, her struggle causing his hand to slip.

  Teeth came down on his hand, biting through his skin and drawing blood. An elbow hit him hard in the gut, and he lost his grip. The woman pulled herself away, waving her hand toward the hatch. It slid open, but Diaz tackled her again before she could get out. It closed a second time.

  Donovan recovered, moving to help Diaz. She had the alien on the floor, her knees digging into its legs and her hands holding its arms down.

  "Stop moving," Diaz hissed.

  It wasn't a Dread beneath her.

&nb
sp; It was a woman. A human woman.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  She stared back up at them, her large blue eyes wide with fear, her body trembling in kind. She had fair skin and reddish-blonde hair that spilled out around her shoulders. She was wearing the same black outfit as they were though hers was more in the style of a dress and hung more loosely from her frame. She wore the same black pin as the Dread. She also had a second one next to it. It was the same shape and size, but a luminescent blue in color.

  "A clone," Diaz said to Donovan.

  "I saw how it opened the door," he replied.

  "Then we don't need it."

  She motioned her head toward her knife, which she had dropped on the floor.

  Donovan picked it up and approached them. It was obvious to him that the clone was terrified. It knew what he was going to do.

  "Donovan, do it," Diaz said.

  Donovan knelt down, putting the knife to the clone's throat. A tear rolled down the side of its face. They were trained from an early age to recognize that enemy humans weren't human. That they were made, not born and raised. There were stories of the early resistance, from before the Dread built their cities and the alien operations were more out in the open. People had seen the factories where the first clones were created, even if they had never seen the Dread outside of their armor before today. It was the scientists who had guessed what they were using them for.

  They had been taught that clones were as good as robots. They didn't think. They didn't feel. They followed instructions programmed into them. Organic machines that looked like you and me. To mess with our heads and make them harder to kill? Or because it was simply easier to make a person given the resources available on the planet?

  "Major," Diaz said, using his rank to appeal to the soldier in him.

  He was hesitating, and he knew it. The clone was crying. He had been raised to be a soldier. To do battle and fight a war. He had no problem killing the enemy when it was trying to kill him.

  This was different.

  "Give me the knife. I'll do it."