by Ashanti Luke
Soldier 43235 and Quadrad Chaldea, the soldier that had ‘debriefed’ them on their first day, walked on either side of Cyrus. Cyrus’s heart was beating so hard he was sure they could hear it. Torus Denali himself walked directly in front of Cyrus, and Denali, Cyrus, and his escorts all walked in the front of the line of scientists toward the front of the building. The orange light that had flooded through the façade had been replaced with a veil of darkness. Most of the ambient light outside had also been extinguished, and the glare from what little light emanated from the city made the glass look as though the entire building had been submerged.
They continued to lumber toward the dais at the front of the building. According to Tanner, who had been conscious when they first entered the building, they had been brought up to the second level of lev traffic and had been ushered in through a docking bay high above ave level. Tanner had said the docking bay level was only one level below where they were bunking. So there was ave traffic one level below them, and another level of traffic on actual ground level, four to six levels below their bunk level. The dais must have been elevated over the lobby that led to the dock and the elevator down to the lobby must have been to the left, because Cyrus had been ushered to the right after his tantrum and had not seen any stairs. Tanner said they had been brought in from a freight elevator near the rear of the building. So the elevator they were being led to must be a general service elevator, and as the freight elevator was considerably out of the way of the one they were being taken to now, it must not have been able to accommodate all the scientists and soldiers at once when they had first arrived…
…which meant there was a gamble. In keeping with their normal modus operandi, The Flying Monkeys would want to keep the scientists separate. The question was, would they take them in groups to the same elevator, or would they, in the interest of time, take them to the separate elevators simultaneously? Or would they take one group, and then the other, and if they did, which group would be first…
…but at this point it didn’t matter. The ball was already rolling, and any second now, it would plunge over the precipice. Cyrus just hoped everything fell into place, and most importantly, that everyone stayed focused. But he had faith in them.
As they reached the dais, Cyrus could hear the garbled voices of men beneath them funneling into the lobby. That was when it began.
There was a pop, like someone had dropped a closed glass bottle, and then an odd crackle and a prolonged hiss. Winberg and the two Flying Monkeys that brought up the rear stopped. One of the men grabbed Winberg, while the other went back to look at the room the scientists had been kept in. Winberg managed to peek around the corner to see the images from the holovision contorting under bluish flames that erupted from the wall behind it. The flames turned reddish orange as they moved across a bed sheet that had been left on the floor inside the holovision image. The flames leapt across the sheet to a bed and began spreading.
“Someone stop him! He’s going to get us all killed!” Winberg belted down the hallway.
Fucking Winberg. What was he playing at? Why couldn’t he mind his own goddamned business? But Cyrus went on anyway. Soldier 43235 attempted to grab him, but Cyrus purposefully tripped over his own feet. He stumbled into Chaldea and they both fell. Cyrus landed on his butt and exhaled, pulling his knees into his chest as he had practiced for several DCs now. He looped the chain connecting his cuffs under his butt and behind his heels, but it caught on his right foot.
Soldier 43235 reached for the remote. He fumbled to find the number code of Cyrus’s cuffs, but he gave up. Instead, he pressed the button to select all the units, and then pressed the button to tighten the chains.
The chain twisted Cyrus’s body to the side as it constricted, but he instinctively kicked it with his free foot. The jolt sent a frozen shaft through his body as the arm he had dislocated a few years before slid out of its socket. For a moment Cyrus’s vision went hazy, but as he continued to spin on his hip, he realized both feet were free and his cuffs, which were now tightened to only a few centimeters apart, were now in front of him.
Cyrus extended his left leg into 43235’s knee, buckling him to the ground as Cyrus himself kicked his legs up and then down, bouncing his torso off the floor and landing on his feet. When he landed, he felt the tremor rush up his legs and into his shoulder as his arm drooped uselessly at his side. Denali was two steps away, moving toward him, and Cyrus could hear Chaldea behind him now. Soldier 43235 was prone between them, but it wouldn’t make a difference for long.
Uzziah had worried that he had not pushed the shaved-down bolt that Cyrus had slipped him far enough into the inlet slot of the holovision. The slot was much like its predecessors on Earth. It was designed to accept a video signal from an auxiliary device and to provide power to the device through a node nestled at the end of the circular input. He was worried that just before the men entered the room to usher them to the viewing of the Advent, that he had not had enough time, or had not applied enough force, to jam the bolt into the power coupling, but the chaos and commotion that erupted behind him allayed his fears.
When Dr. Winberg yelled, Uzziah did not even turn around. He kept his eyes on Cyrus who had dropped to the floor, stumbled two of the guards, and had slipped his chains in a move that seemed like it hurt him. Cyrus had then hopped to his feet as everyone’s handcuffs whirred and tightened. The two guards next to Uzziah split, one moving toward the fire, the other toward Cyrus. As the guard moving toward Cyrus turned his back, Uzziah clasped his hands together and launched his left knee into the soldier’s tailbone. As the guard stumbled, Uzziah brought his elbow around into the base of the soldier’s skull. The guard collapsed as Uzziah yelled to Tanner “La madregot!” To the stairs! Uzziah knelt as the other guard began turning. By the time he had spun around, Uzziah had grabbed the fallen guard’s weapon from the floor by its barrel, and had spun, bringing the metal stock of the assault rifle across the second guard’s temple.
Tanner was already moving as the man collapsed. Jang followed him, and Uzziah moved behind them both. Uzziah didn’t know what miracle Chamberlain was going to work to loose his chains, but chains or no, he and Tanner had to get Jang to the stairs and to the bottom floor.
Toutopolus’s teeth clattered together unexpectedly and he put his tongue between them to keep from calling attention to himself. He was so nervous that he didn’t notice the confusion that had erupted around him until someone bumped into him. He turned to see the guard that had bumped him crumple at his feet, and he realized the chain on his wrists was tighter than before.
Then he remembered; when all hell breaks loose, get to the next floor down. He had no idea what he was to do when he got there, or even how to get there, but he knew he needed to get there to help Cyrus. He took on faith that once he got there, what he needed to do would be clear.
Toutopolus saw Commander Uzziah turn, still holding the gun he had just used to brain the man at his feet. He then began running as he yelled something garbled that Tanner seemed to understand. He, Tanner, and Jang seem to have been moving with purpose.
When all hell breaks loose, get to the next floor down. To Toutopolus it seemed like an alarm should have been ringing. This was an emergency. Why were there no alarms? This was wrong. In the drills his lab conducted in the Arcology of Athens, through Laureateship, even all the way back to Novitiateship, emergency drills taught him there should always be alarms and order—and an obvious way out. The rules were odd but simple: no one responds to ‘rape’ or ‘help’, but everyone is afraid of ‘fire’; the elevator is not safe in an emergency, so always take the stairs; stairwell doors always swing, never slide; stop, drop, and roll. He debated running back the way he had come to the freight elevator, but he had seen Tanner, Uzziah, and Jang rushing through a swinging door, so he followed them. He followed them because they seemed motivated and orderly. He followed them because when all hell breaks loose, he had to get to the next floor down; but the elevator is not safe, an
d stairwell doors always swing, never slide.
Denali rushed right into Cyrus’s hands both figuratively and literally. The Torus stepped forward and Cyrus closed the distance between them, looping his cuffed hands over Denali’s head. Denali tried to duck, but Cyrus brought his knee up into his armpit. The force of the knee stunned Denali, but also sent waves of pain through Cyrus’s own shoulder—but the pain only his spurred his rancor.
Cyrus heard Chaldea come up behind, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Chaldea raise his rifle butt. Cyrus shot back the leg he used to knee Denali and caught Chaldea in his solar plexus. Chaldea’s knees buckled, but he stabilized himself by bringing the rifle butt to the floor. He leaned onto the rifle, but as he pushed himself up, Cyrus brought his foot down and across the improvised kickstand. As Chaldea fell over the rifle and caught himself before hitting the floor, Denali reached for his side arm. Cyrus lifted his left leg, stepped down onto Chaldea’s stooped shoulder blades, and still holding onto Denali’s neck, vaulted over the wall of the dais.
Davidson stayed close to Milliken, but had no idea what signal he should have been looking for. The ride down the freight elevator had seemed longer than it should have been even though they only went down one floor. They were being led back the way they had initially entered to watch the Advent—probably back to the lev dock they had set down on originally. Davidson and Milliken were at the head of the group of scientists being led two-by-two toward what must have been the front of the building given the amount of glass forming the wall. The guards that had applied their restraints led the procession. The one that had pulled Milliken’s hands behind his back and clasped the cuffs around his wrists had called him a pill-kicking puntmongrel. The smirk on Milliken’s face, even as his arms had been cranked uncomfortably behind his back, told Davidson that guard must have been the recipient of Milliken’s groinal assault.
Everyone else’s hands had been clasped somewhat loosely in front of them, and the guard now walking to the left of Milliken’s favorite guard was carrying the remote to the cuffs. Davidson figured if he could somehow get the remote, he could free everyone. But how could he possibly do that? His kung fu was good, better than he had ever imagined it could be, but he had never used it for anything other than sparring. Besides, even if he could release everyone’s bonds, what good would it do? He knew Cyrus had some sort of plan, but he had no conceivable idea what it could be. He had, however, seen enough of Cyrus’s tricks and schemes to know that the inconceivability of the results of his methods didn’t mean they were ill-conceived.
They had been only a few meters away from the edge of the overhead dais when it started. There had been a clamor above, and then almost simultaneously, the soldier with the remote received a message in his earwig radio, and the cuffs on their restraints began to pull together. There was yelling, a grunting, and a sound of metal clattering against concrete. It sounded as if someone had released an uberhound set to ‘angry’ in a conference room.
The guards turned and raised their guns. The remote guard looked over them, training the gun barrel on the whole group, but Milliken’s guard smiled and kept his barrel trained on him. Davidson didn’t know if this was the signal he was supposed to be looking for, but there definitely was not much he could do to further anything resembling escape at the moment. So he instinctively raised his hands above his head and hoped there was a better signal coming.
Torus Denali’s back arched over the rail of the dais as his neck, caught by the chain between the cuffs of Cyrus’s restraints, stopped Cyrus’s descent to the lobby floor. Cyrus’s right arm felt as if was being ripped from its socket. He leaned to his left, hoping to relieve some of the pressure as he looked at the ground beneath him. As he looked down, his heart, which was now beating as though it were bouncing around inside his rib cage, dropped into the pit of his stomach. He had expected the floor to be three meters above the lower level but it was more like four. There were agitated soldiers barking orders below him, and there was the din of general chaos above him as Denali clawed at Cyrus’s hands and cuffs to no avail. Out of the corner of his eye, before he had vaulted over the edge, Cyrus had seen Tanner and Uzziah scuffling as well, but he had no idea where Toutopolus, Torvald, Davidson, or Milliken were. No one had moved toward the dais beneath him. Cyrus could feel the muscles in Denali’s neck straining as a cough and then a gasp moved through it. Cyrus felt the flesh beneath his hands shudder and shift, and then he heard a hacking sound. Droplets of what must have been spittle or vomit cascaded across Cyrus’s forehead. There was another set of hands scraping at Cyrus’s now, and he heard someone yell, “Punt it, just do ’em all!” There was a short pause and another voice indecipherable in the calamity. Cyrus looked at the ground again in hopes that he had bought enough time before he had jumped, and then he heard, “All of them! Now!” and he knew it was too late.
Toutopolus threw open the door from the stairwell and rushed through into a mire of confusion. The state of affairs in this hall was very different from upstairs. Scientists stood confused, guns trained on them from all sides as Toutopolus barreled out the stairwell into one of the guards. The guard stumbled, tripped over someone’s foot, and hit the ground hard as all the other guards trained their guns on Toutopolus. Perhaps Cyrus’s plan included him being bait—he was fine with that—but that wasn’t what it had sounded like. It had sounded like Toutopolus needed to get Cyrus help before something bad happened. But now, as Toutopolus raised his chained hands above his head, it looked like all he was going to get was orchestra seats at an execution. What the hell were we thinking? ran through his mind so clearly he was sure he had actually spoken the words aloud. Five years of kung fu training and they thought they could escape from a military base with a harebrained plan organized in showers and through walls. Then his bladder released and cemented the whole notion creeping up from the base of his brain; this was not going to end well.
Cyrus lifted his eyes from the ground, and as his knee scraped the edge of the dais, he heard voices approaching from somewhere near the façade of the building behind him. Sound seemed to not travel as well here as it did on Earth, or at least as it had on the Paracelsus. It was hard for Cyrus to remember anything about Earth in detail, especially hanging here from a man’s neck, four meters from the floor, with guns most likely trained on his back. And then he remembered the one Earth detail most important to him at that moment.
Gravity.
Earth’s gravity was about one and one-sixth the gravity of Asha. A healthy grown man could drop from about three meters, or a little more, on Earth and catch himself, but here…
…and his restrains released before he could complete the thought.
The corners of Milliken’s eyes twitched as his frustration fumed out of them toward the soldier smiling in front of him. It was not the first time this man had put his hands on Milliken in a way he could not abide by. Euston was what they had called him, at least that was what it sounded like the day Milliken had buried his foot into the man’s crotch. And now, with Euston’s gun trained on him, a haughty grin across the soldier’s face as he tightened his grip around his weapon, he silently dared Milliken to make a move. Then something had come crashing through the door next to them.
Something or someone slid across the ground behind Milliken, but the steam seething from his eyes had filled his whole world now. Nothing existed but Euston, Euston’s rifle, and the odium that swirled around them. Milliken, weeks earlier, had wondered what had run through Cyrus’s mind the moment he had attacked the armed, trained soldier on their conveyance to this city. Now Milliken had trouble understanding how any self-respecting man could have done or felt anything else.
And then a sensation shot through the spite. The cold around Milliken’s wrists became just as hot as the fury swelling in his temples and behind his eyes. Relief came to the strain in his shoulders, the anchor at his wrists loosed, and as Euston’s eyes averted to the clatter on the floor behind Milliken’s feet, Milliken felt
his hands, now without restraints, launch in front of him toward Euston’s weapon and throat.
The ground moved up toward Cyrus with alarming speed and yet the fall seemed impossibly long. His muscles loosened, and as his feet touched floor, Cyrus allowed his body to compress, absorbing the shock in his legs and glutes as he breathed out in a grunt and braced himself with his left hand. Then, even as the tremor passed painfully through his shoulder, he gripped his right wrist with his left hand, restraints still dangling around his left wrist, and rolled forward toward the first khaki body he saw
It took a moment for Davidson to recognize the thing that dropped from the sky and rolled toward them. It wasn’t until his own cuffs slid from his wrists and bounced off his head that he realized somehow, impossibly, Cyrus had done it.
As the soldier in front of him began turning toward the strange splat and grunt that had resounded at the edge of the lobby, Davidson knew what help Cyrus needed—but his knees locked, his body became numb from the waist up, and he just stood there, hands above his head, anxiety vibrating his right cheek in pulse with his erratic heart.As the warmth spread across the front of his pants and down his thighs, Toutopolus took in the chaos. With the guns trained on him and the alarm on the faces of the guards, he had expected to reel backward as gunfire tore into his chest. What he had not expected was a flailing blob that he barely recognized as Cyrus to drop down like a spider at the end of the hall as his own restraints released.
Then, as the guard he had apparently tackled with the door began to rise to his feet, Toutopolus thought of his three daughters whom he would never again hear giggle until they shook and lost balance. He thought of his wife who would never again smile and kiss him to shush his rambling ad infinitum about some new nanotechnology. It was not the first time this lament had arrested his thoughts in this place, but it was the first time he realized his captors, these fucking guards—especially the podwaste motherfucker crawling to his feet in front of him—were to blame. He caught one loop of his cuffs in his right hand before they dropped and with force enough to reverse the fabric of time itself, he tried to kick through the motherfucker’s head.