And now me.
Lea walked through a maze of carbon-glass walls, tinted black so nobody could see into the cells beyond—cramped spaces like the one she had just left, which left her with the uneasy impression of a thousand eyes watching her from the other side. Even more disturbing was the utter lack of sound. Moans and screams would have been easier to take. At least it would have been something real, not the darkness of Lea’s imagination.
What difference does it make? They’ll never let you out of here anyway, so you better get used to it.
But when she saw Trevor Bostic waiting for her personally, she knew immediately that he had something else planned.
“Good afternoon, Lea,” he said brightly. He stood outside one of the cells, neatly attired in a silk suit and matching tie—the kind of ensemble a real gangster might wear. “Nice of you to join me. Sorry about the accommodations, but rules are rules.”
“You ought to know, Bostic,” Lea retorted. “You wrote the damned book.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, then flashed her a knowing look. “Still, I think we can make an exception in your case.” He nodded at the guards, who unchained her, then left the two of them alone.
“Aren’t you afraid I might try to kill you?” Lea asked, rubbing her wrists. “It’s not like I have a lot left to lose.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way. On the other hand, you could look at it as an opportunity.”
Lea slumped against the glass.
“Enough with the head games, Bostic,” she said. “I’m not in the mood.”
“No, I imagine you’re not,” he agreed, studying her closely. “Not after all you’ve been through.”
“So why am I here?”
“To make you see what you couldn’t see before—that you can still trust me.”
She laughed. “Like I trusted Tiernan? That was a good one, Bostic—almost as good as your peace offering. I gotta admit, I never saw it coming.”
“That was his choice, Lea.”
“And you had nothing to do with that, did you?”
“I took advantage,” Bostic explained casually, “the way any businessman would. You’re an investment, Lea—and I protect all my investments.”
“I’m getting all warm and tingly inside.”
He smiled crookedly. Apparently, he never got tired of this.
“If only that were true,” he lamented. “Still, it beats the alternative. Special Services has a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness, Lea. I wouldn’t treat that lightly if I were you.”
Lea folded her arms defiantly. “Save your threats, Bostic. I’m way past that.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Are you?” Bostic asked. “Are you really that sure?”
Subconsciously, she looked away from him for a split second. It was all the sign of weakness he needed.
“Let’s find out,” he said.
Bostic punched a key code next to the door where Lea stood. As she turned around, the opaque glass faded to transparency—fully revealing the horror within. Lea recognized the mosaic of video feeds plastered all over the cell, which floated on virtual mists that filled the entirety of the tiny space. They came from Osaka, uploaded from the Deathplay rip at the Kirin—the scene of the Goth massacre. In constant rotation, the victims died a hundred deaths, each time worse than the one before—projected with tec-fueled intensity at the lone occupant of the room, who twisted and writhed at the onslaught.
Avalon…
Stripped of her sensuit, she lay strapped to a bare table. Fiber protruded from her temples, carrying the Deathplay directly to her cerebral cortex. Her mouth opened wide in a guttural scream, muffled by the carbon glass—but Bostic wouldn’t let it go at that. He touched another button on the door panel and allowed Avalon to be heard, gradually increasing the volume until it filled Lea’s ears.
Shrieking like that you never forgot.
Shrieking like that you took to your grave.
“She’s really quite resilient,” Bostic observed. “Her condition prevents her from feeling the full impact of physical pain—which necessitated a more creative approach.”
Lea took a step back, unable to watch but unable to turn away.
“The Deathplay works wonders,” Bostic went on, “especially since she had personal involvement with the victims.” He glanced back at Lea. “Rather poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?”
“Turn it off, Bostic.”
“Don’t go soft on me, Lea,” he scoffed. “This is the woman you’ve been hunting down—the same woman who turned your life into a nightmare. Doesn’t she deserve punishment?”
“I said turn it off!”
Bostic seemed genuinely surprised. He waited long enough to be sure that Lea meant it, then killed the speaker. Avalon continued her suffering in silence, until the glass mercifully frosted over and faded to black.
“I see my point has been made,” he said, straightening his tie. “But I confess, I expected more of you, Lea.”
Lea burned in slow anger, clenching her fists.
“What are you going to do to her?”
“We’ll keep the pressure on until she talks.”
“She won’t.”
“Then there’s no harm in executing her, is there?” Bostic frowned at her questions, shaking his head incredulously. “Are you actually feeling pity for her? Have you completely forgotten what Avalon is?”
“Bad as she is, she’s got nothing on you.”
“Good,” Bostic said. “Then we understand each other.”
“Nothing’s changed, Bostic.”
“I don’t think so.” He walked over, driving Lea against the wall. Bostic took her by the chin, forcing her to look at him when he spoke. “That’s right,” he said coldly. “You still have a choice. One of them takes you back home. The other leads in there,” he finished, jerking a thumb toward Avalon’s cell. “Once you start heading down that path, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Lea yanked herself away.
“Think about it,” he said, when his phone rang. He retrieved the device from his jacket pocket, his attention on Lea while he answered. “This is Bostic.”
Lea heard only murmurs on the other end—but the corporate counsel’s manner told her that something important had happened. Bostic turned away from her briefly, keeping his volume low as he continued the discussion in brief.
“How could that be?” he asked. “Were you expecting any traffic?” Bostic shifted nervously during the long pause that followed, tossing several glances back at Lea. “Very well. Bring the necessary resources to alert, but quietly—at least until we know what we’re dealing with. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
He snapped the phone shut.
“Who was that?” Lea asked.
To her shock, Bostic actually told her.
“General Tambor at JTOC. A situation has arisen.”
Bostic was distant, calculating—and downright scared.
Lea pressed further. “What is it?”
“We don’t know yet,” Bostic said, putting his phone away, “but we need to get up there right now.” He reached for her arm to take her along, but Lea recoiled.
“Wait a second,” she protested. “First I’m under arrest, and now you’re taking me upstairs? What the hell’s going on, Bostic?”
“For once don’t argue with me, Lea.”
“Why?”
“Because I might still need you,” he said, and would explain no more.
JTOC was bristling with activity, in full combat mode. As Lea and Bostic walked in, the huge overhead screens displayed a range of star charts and near-Earth approach routes, while the operations staff ran from station to station and relayed all the tactical data in a dense stream of technojargon and military acronyms. Directing the effort was Curtis Tambor, the man who had spoken with Bostic earlier—a graying lieutenant general Lea recognized from the few times she had encountered him, and a man with no patience for spooks. He grimaced when he
saw Lea enter his domain—but even that couldn’t compare to Lea’s reaction when she saw the officer standing next to Tambor.
Eric Tiernan stepped down from the command post to meet them.
He barely acknowledged Bostic, except to show his disdain. Lea, on the other hand, brought out his guilt—a silent plea for forgiveness, though he didn’t speak of it openly. He just maintained a respectful distance, snapping to attention in the presence of his former commanding officer.
“Major,” Tiernan said formally.
“Not anymore,” Lea replied, trying to hate him. It was a lot harder than she thought it would be. “You made it out of there, I see.”
“The Zone Authority wasn’t too happy about it—but they wanted their fee more than they wanted my head.”
“Good thing you had the money to buy them off.”
Tiernan didn’t defend himself.
“I’m glad you’re alive, Lea.”
She pursed her lips into an ironic smile.
“We’ll see how long that lasts.”
That ended the discussion. Bostic led them up to Tambor’s perch, where the general was busy directing his people over the loudspeaker. “Isolate those transmissions from the background noise,” he said. “See if you can get a clear read on the next satellite pass.” He then turned to the corporate counsel, snapping his heels out of protocol but stopping short of a salute. Tambor had even less use for lawyers than he did for spooks. “Sir, we’ve picked up some intermittent chatter on hyperband, but we’re still trying to punch through some heavy interference. We got bits and pieces of it, though—enough to figure out what it is.”
A long pause followed as the general looked at each of them in turn.
“It’s a distress call.”
Lea took a quick glance at one of the screens, which showed a single large contact approaching from the other side of the moon. It appeared to be a space vessel, lumbering on a course that took it straight toward Earth orbit.
“What is that?” Lea asked.
“Listen for yourself,” Tambor said. He piped the signal in over his console speaker, a storm of static with intermittent breaks—random noise to Lea’s ears, until a human voice managed to break through. All of them leaned in close to listen, as the sound of abject fear overcame the distortion—a chilling call for help across the void.
“…anyone…in range…Directorate vessel…approach…”
“Clean that up,” Tambor ordered his communications officer.
With filters applied, the signal cleared up a little.
“Say again…this is…Almacantar, declaring an emergency…”
Tiernan frowned.
“Almacantar?” he asked. “Which vessel is that?”
Lea watched Bostic for an answer, because he seemed to know—but he remained silent, his features rigid.
Tambor nodded at the comm officer, who opened a channel. “Almacantar, this is the Joint Technical Operations Command,” he replied. “We read you. What is your emergency?”
The transmission lapsed into a garble, but one final burst came through loud and clear.
“…dead…God, they’re all dead—”
Then nothing.
“Get him back,” Tambor ordered.
The comm officer tried to reacquire the signal. He shook his head in frustration. “Unable to get a lock, sir,” he reported, scanning the full spectrum but coming up dry. “Looks like it’s been cut off at the source.”
“Jamming?”
“That would be my guess, General.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Lea said. “Why would he jam his own signal?”
Tiernan wandered away from the others, staring into the overhead screens.
“Maybe he didn’t,” he said, and pointed at the central monitor.
They all watched as the approaching contact suddenly broke in two. A small dot branched off from the larger one, picking up speed and leaving the other behind as it plunged toward Earth.
“Breakaway contact,” the comm officer said. “Could be a landing craft, sir. It’s heading in fast.”
“Like a bat out of hell,” Tambor agreed. “Estimated six minutes to atmosphere.”
Bostic jumped in, barely concealing his panic.
“Can you stop it?”
“Scrambling interceptors now,” the general snapped, giving the order. JTOC’s lights dimmed as the alert sirens wailed, putting the facility on a complete war footing. “They’ll hold off the lander, whoever the hell he is. If he doesn’t stand down, they’ll splash his ass before he can do any damage.”
“I don’t know about this,” Lea warned. “Shouldn’t you at least confirm his identity before shooting him down?”
“Almacantar,” Tiernan added, deep in thought. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Call up ship’s registry,” Tambor said. “Crew, mission profile, the whole works.”
Lea scrutinized Bostic, who held his tongue—but if the sweat on his forehead was any indication, he knew far more than he was saying.
“Who are they, Bostic?” she demanded.
He glared back down at her, a corporate man with corporate secrets—and one he could no longer keep.
“Mars,” he said. “The ship came from Mars.”
A feedback pulse nearly ruptured the cockpit speaker, so loud that Nathan’s eardrums almost popped. He yelped in pain, turning the radio down until the sound cut out a few seconds later. All he heard after that was dead air—a monotone of low static, severing the one link he had with the outside world.
“JTOC!” he shouted into the transmitter. “JTOC, this is Almacantar! Acknowledge!”
No reply. Nathan clicked through several different frequencies, trying to get a lock on something—anything to reestablish contact.
“JTOC! Do you read me? Request permission for emergency landing!”
Again, nothing. Every channel was the same.
“Dammit, JTOC! Where the hell are you?”
The voices were gone. Nathan beat his fists against the canopy, spitting a slew of curses, but none of it did any good. When the outburst ended, he remained all alone. Even this close to home, nobody could hear him.
And nobody was coming to help him.
Nathan cast a hard stare through the glass. Almacantar swung by the moon, the craggy gray surface gradually receding away to reveal the blue disc of Earth. He brought up a course projection on the inflight display, and saw that the massive ship had slowed considerably—preparing herself for insertion. The computer calculated a time of just over ninety minutes before orbit, but Nathan decided he couldn’t wait that long.
He had to get back and warn someone.
“Okay,” he breathed, sinking into his chair. He ran a quick diagnostic to make sure that none of the critical systems had been damaged during the jump. All the status lights came back green—though Nathan wished he could be that sure about himself. His hands still shook and his body seemed even more disconnected than before. The instruments blurred in and out of focus, his vision becoming worse the more he tried to fight—but he was determined to fly this thing one more time, even if he had to do it blind.
It’s just the betaflex, Nathan told himself. They’ll fix you up back home.
He grabbed the stick and throttled up the main engines. The roar inside the cabin grew louder until Ghostrider drowned out her mother ship, the tremor in her decks working its way deep into Nathan’s senses. That power became his own, giving him a tether to reality.
“Just a little longer,” he said, and released the landing gear.
Ghostrider cut loose. The ship immediately heaved away, pinning Nathan down under the stress of several g forces—drawn into the wash of Almacantar’s engines. He yanked back on the stick, standing Ghostrider on her tail and ramming the throttle full forward. The sudden burst of thrust worked like a slingshot, flinging the small ship into the void. She began to tumble, maneuvering jets firing as Nathan tried to compensate, the view outside the cockpit t
urning into a jumbled mass of confusion. He stomped on the rudder pedals, banking left and right as Ghostrider lurched from side to side, bouncing him around violently. Nathan’s attention darted between his instruments and the horizon, trying to make sense of both but failing utterly—all while the menacing form of Almacantar taunted him in flashes beyond the cockpit glass.
“Come on.” He winced. “You can do this.”
Off in the distance, Earth shot past in a blue flash. Nathan fixed himself on that point, pounding on the thrusters and keeping the planet in his field of vision a bit longer each time.
When it finally settled in the middle, Nathan punched it—opening the engines wide, gradually taking control of his roll and pitch. The altitude indicators on his panel slowly leveled out, the gravity spiral releasing him from its grip. Nathan relaxed as he became weightless again, while Almacantar receded like a bad dream.
Up ahead, Earth shimmered in the blackness of space.
The landmasses of the Western Hemisphere loomed large as he approached, the eastern seaboard carving a dark line through a sparkling Atlantic coast. Ghostrider buffeted when Nathan put on even more speed, easing off only when he hit the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Hot gases separated along the leading edge of Ghostrider’s wings, flooding the cabin with a pale orange glow. The stick became even heavier in his hands, sluggish under the increased drag of reentry.
Nathan tried the radio again.
“JTOC, this is Ghostrider, declaring an emergency. Do you copy?”
Distant whistles and crackling static mixed with sporadic voice contact. Nathan listened closely for any signs of cadence, but there just wasn’t enough to get through.
“Say again, JTOC. Can you read me?”
A low howl pierced the ambient noise, but nothing else.
Nathan snapped off the transmission as the air caught fire all around him. Ghostrider plunged into the atmosphere while he held on, wrapping the ship in an envelope of heat and ionization—shielding him from the terror he left behind.
Or so he prayed.
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