by Grace Hudson
THE ROGUE THREAD
(Book 2 of FERTS)
GRACE HUDSON
ISBN: 978-1-68418-189-6
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright©2017 Grace Hudson.
Cover by Sanura Jayashan
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This book is dedicated to my partner.
He knows why.
– 1 –
Operator Quinton tapped the screen of his cracked monitor, the power stuttering as the image dimmed and brightened. The night was still and the moon provided only a dim source of light, with only a thin crescent visible above the tree line. Quinton had begun to squint and his eyelids were heavy from staring at the monitor. The young Operator checked his timepiece, noting the time of 20:00. Another thirty minutes and he would be back in his chambers sleeping after the long spell of watch duty. His eyes snapped open when a faint boom sounded in the distance.
He sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Many evenings were spent listening to the various rattles and booms from the different levels of Fertility Emigration Resource and Training Supply, or FERTS. He had asked Officer Cerberus for an explanation after a particularly loud roar some evenings back. Cerberus had attributed the sound to one of the furnaces. Quinton had never seen the furnaces for himself as he lacked the necessary clearance, but Cerberus had briefly explained that due to their age, the furnaces were prone to malfunction, much like the power supply.
Quinton believed he had a basic understanding of the difficulties faced by the complex. Traditional petroleum fuel was so scarce that it was now disregarded as a viable source of energy. FERTS ran on a system of linked solar panels, with the excess energy diverted to battery storage for night use. The backup generators contained a diesel hybrid, a remnant from the days before the war. The generators were rarely used, and the Operators were under strict instruction never to use the backup generators unless absolutely necessary. According to his superior, Officer Cerberus, once the remaining fuel supply was exhausted, the backup generators would be rendered useless.
Quinton sighed, tapping his monitor once more. He was certain there had been another distinct sound, marking the time at 20:03. The furnaces were well stocked with wood, supplied by the labor of Kappa circuit, but he supposed there was no predicting the nature of the furnaces once they were in use. If Officer Cerberus considered the sounds of the furnace to be routine, then he supposed he would learn to ignore them, along with the fluctuations in the power supply. He shook his head, tapping at the monitor again to bring up the image on his screen.
There had not been a disturbance since the attempted escape of Beth 259251 some months ago, and the Ward Beacon had been efficient in expiring the Epsilon Internee. A short charge of electricity activated by the Ward Beacon had sparked through her implant marker and rendered her immobile before her heart gave out. Quinton shivered, the memory unpleasant, though he should have been used to it by now. On the direction of Pinnacle Officer Wilcox, the Ward Beacon was the only security measure required to rein in any attempts at escape. The Ward Beacon was effective as an escape deterrent, and this pleased Officer Cerberus, which in turn pleased Quinton. That was all that mattered.
He checked his timepiece. The time read 20:05. Scanning the darkness, he searched for any sign of movement from his vantage point. The tower afforded a view of the tree line and the plains of the suspension zone, though little else was visible from this height. Quinton scanned the tree line once more, finding nothing. The monitor had not detected the signature of any implant markers outside the designated areas within the complex. He busied himself with filling in his log entries for the day, as Pinnacle Officer Wilcox insisted on precision in all records.
Another explosion sounded, jolting Quinton from his logs. The lights on his monitors flickered and faded to black. The overhead lighting cut out, leaving him in temporary blackness. The tree line was clearer now, the thin sliver of the moon watching over the rocky outcrops of the vast suspension zone.
The overhead lighting hummed, switching to the dull blue glow from the backup generator. Quinton tapped his monitor, brushing the thin layer of dust from the screen. This time, the monitors remained blank.
He reached for his radio but decided against it, reminded of Officer Cerberus’ instructions to restrict all use unless absolutely necessary. It was yet another restriction for Quinton to incorporate into his daily track and surveillance duties. The batteries for the radios were finite, and though a stockpile had been accumulated through Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s military contacts, their use was to be limited to official duties such as maintenance and Internee escape attempts.
Quinton checked the tree line once more, finding no signs of movement in the blackness, though visibility was next to nothing. Without the monitor, line of sight with the naked eye was essentially useless. He tapped the monitor with his fingertips. The monitors remained blank. He checked the wires beneath the console, affirming connections were secure. The Ward Beacon’s sensors had detected no movement from the Internees and no implant markers outside the ward zone had activated the siren. The beacon operated on the same radio frequency as the implant markers, injected below the collarbone of each Internee around the time of birth. In the event of an escape, the Ward Beacon’s sensors detected the location of the implant marker outside the ward zone and engaged the siren. An Internee was afforded a total of six minutes to return to the ward zone once the siren was mobilized. Historically, few had been prepared to take such a risk.
The Ward Beacon provided a colossal drain on power for the complex, most of its time spent in standby mode to conserve resources. Once the beacon was set in motion, statistics were engaged, feeding to the monitors various particulars such as Beth number, Y number determined by days since birth, and basic endurance data such as respiration and heart rate, yet none of these features had appeared on his screen. Quinton sighed, leaning back in his chair. This would not do. He would have to log the malfunction. Officer Cerberus frowned upon any kind of interruption to an Operator’s routine track and surveillance duties, and he had already displeased his superior Officer on more than one occasion.
He fumbled for his radio, pressing the button as the static hissed to life.
“Monitor malfunction, observation tower. Time of malfunction 20:05.”
Operators were instructed to keep radio broadcasts concise. Quinton resisted the urge to converse with the maintenance Officers, his only form of contact with others on this seemingly unending shift.
“Negative, Quinton,” said the familiar voice, crackling through the static. “Priority maintenance at Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s private elevator. Level five.”
“Received, Yarrow. Estimate time to attend monitor malfunction.”
“Time to attend malfunction estimated at forty minutes. Stand by for updates.”
“Proceed as logged. Standing by for updates.”
Quinton clicked off his radio, running his fingers through his neatly cropped hair. Forty minutes. Officer Cerberus would be displeased at the equipment malfunctions sustained during his shift, a
nd more so by the delay in maintenance checks. Perhaps there was some other way to fix the monitors. The backup generators could sustain a primary level of power required for the complex. The furnaces were fueled by wood from the forest and would therefore be unaffected by the unexpected power surge. This was a comfort. Quinton did not relish the idea of spending a night without heat in his quarters.
Yet another explosion rang out. Quinton checked his timepiece. It read 20:15. This time the sound undoubtedly came from the direction of the furnaces. Officer Cerberus was right. The furnaces were a constant source of annoyance to the efficient running of the complex.
Quinton checked the power requirements of the lighting, reading eleven watts at the base of the tube. He pulled the monitor to the side, cleaning away the dust with a rag as he scanned the numbers. Eighty-five watts. A larger drain, however not so large as to be prohibitive. He checked the connection once more, unplugging it and plugging the monitor back into the power supply. The standby light for the monitor returned, showing nothing but a blank screen.
This made no sense to Quinton. The backup generator was designed to power the monitor, along with the reduced wattage lighting for the entire complex. However the standby light remained on, which theoretically meant that there was nothing wrong with the monitor.
The furnace had malfunctioned, that was all. The furnace was old, as Officer Cerberus had said, and could be unpredictable in its daily functions. It was prone to frequent explosions, and was of no concern.
A thought was playing at the back of Quinton’s mind as the standby light glowed in his vision. Something about the explosions coming from the furnace, the resulting power malfunction and the monitor with its blank screen. The light glowed at him, remaining inexplicably on standby. Something was wrong. It made no sense unless...
The explosions didn’t come from the furnace.
Quinton stood, shoulders rigid as he reached out to manually activate the Ward Beacon. He lifted the casing and swung it around to reveal the rounded button inside. Closing his eyes he pressed.
Nothing.
He pressed again, sucking in a breath. The monitor remained dormant, awaiting the signal from the beacon.
The radio crackled beside the console.
“Sound the alarm!” The panicked voice distorted in his ears.
“Bonn? Is that you?”
“…the alarm!”
“What’s happening?”
“The alarm! Sound the alarm!”
“Where are you? What’s happening?” He ignored the crackles, focusing on the frequency of maintenance Officer Bonn’s hysterical voice.
“Alarm… elevator. Get down here!”
Quinton pushed his chair away, scrabbling for the air siren lever on the far wall. He felt along the wall, gripping the yellow handle and pushing the lever to engage. It would have to suffice, he thought, imagining the possible reprimands from Officer Cerberus. But there was no other choice. The Ward Beacon was silent, and the air siren was the only available means of alerting the facility.
The drone of the air siren blared towards the suspension zone, a warning to Internees not to attempt an escape. Few could tell the difference between the air siren and the Ward Beacon. Quinton could barely distinguish the sounds himself. He scrambled for the rear of the observation tower. As he sprinted through the walkway to the main complex, his radio crackled once more.
“Quinton! …down here now!”
– 2 –
The whip of the cool breeze swirled the green and purple leaves, sending sand and loose pebbles scattering across the ground. The rocky plains were deserted, save for a boot protruding from a large rock adjacent to a circular grove of shrubs.
Beth 259201 lay propped against the rock at the site of the designated safe marker. A glint of brightness flashed in her hand as she turned something over in her palm. The regulation nail file was sharpened to a deadly point, smeared with Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s blood. Her breath huffed in her ears, echoing out of time with the beat of her heart. The siren blared faintly in the distance, rhythmically breaking the oppressive silence of the arid landscape.
201 leaned her back against the large rock, looking up to the sky. The moon was a thin sliver, surrounded by an expanse of stars that seemed to stretch on forever. 201 dropped her head back on the rock, dark hair fanning out on the stone, watching as the stars brightened and dimmed above her.
Why am I not expired?
The siren continued its drone, sending a shiver through her. She placed her hand over her heart, imagining the implant marker burrowed deep within her chest. The siren should have activated her implant marker, sending a charge through her heart, yet this had not happened. The rescue group must have succeeded in blowing the beacon. She rubbed at her collarbone as she scanned the area for any signs of movement, finding nothing.
I am free.
201 let her arms fall to her sides as a laugh welled up within her. The faint sound of the siren punctuated her laughter as the winds blew gently through the rocks and shrubs of the barren suspension zone.
I am free.
201 slapped the rock with her hand, pushing herself to her feet. She ran her finger over the gash in her shoulder. The seeping blood had now slowed and had begun to dry and crust at the edges. She wiped her hands, the flaking clots smearing the dark bloodstain covering the front of her blue Omega jumpsuit, now dusty and soaked with sweat. The Vassal chain clinked against her insignia as she turned in one direction, then the other, finding no sign of the rescue group she had seen so vividly in her dreams.
The rocky plains stretched out from beneath her feet in all directions. The transport and its inhabitants were gone.
– 3 –
High Training Officer Reno peered through the gap in the elevator doors, mesmerized by the flickering of the backup generator lights. He pushed inside, turning sideways to squeeze through the gap.
The lights buzzed and flickered over the slumped form of Pinnacle Officer Wilcox. The pooled blood glistened in the light. Spatters had started to dry near the outer edge, forming hardened flakes on the ground below. His neck was bathed in blood, the dark red liquid forming a river snaking down his side. His trouser leg had soaked up the seemingly endless pool, whereas the other side of his uniform remained mostly unblemished. Blood spatters dotted his cuffs, rivulets striping the backs of his hands. His face appeared devoid of blood, the paleness of his cleanly shaven head stark in alarming contrast to the chaos of gore spread out beneath him. Reno examined the wall behind Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s crumpled body, scanning upwards. A smattering of blood gathered around a spot on the wall, at approximately Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s height. Another set of smears gathered at arms length above the first stains, smudged from side to side. Down from these marks a large, thick smudge snaked down to the floor to mark Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s final resting spot.
A small hole in the middle of the throat peeked through the front of his pristine silver collar. Reno avoided the glazed stare of his former Pinnacle Officer, eyes methodically taking in each detail of the elevator shaft. He found a broken section of what looked like an Officer’s radio in the far corner, the edges appearing splintered and jagged. The hatch at the roof of the elevator was firmly closed, a line of bloody finger marks marring the edge. A series of images filled Reno’s mind, flashing in rapid succession.
An unusual weapon. Perhaps one that is easily concealed.
Precise.
Pierced his throat. Perhaps used the element of surprise.
Swift.
Held his hands above his head as he struggled.
Strong.
Stole a radio from a guard Officer. Broke the radio. A tactic?
Smart.
Reno clenched his fists. This was no accident, no last moment decision. This was a plan. A meticulous, well thought out plan.
Reno edged out of the gap between the elevator doors, nearly flattening Officer Cerberus in his haste.
“Reno.”
&nbs
p; “Officer Cerberus. I was just coming to see you.”
Officer Cerberus’ face was impassive, staring through the gap at Pinnacle Officer Wilcox’s body.
“So. It is true.”
“How did you…”
“Operator Quinton. He will not be speaking to anyone about this, I have made sure of that.”
The skin on Reno’s forearms went cold, prickling from the draft in the hallway. He chose not to speak. There were some times when words were not required of him, and this seemed to be one of those occasions.
“Yarrow, Bonn, they were the only other Officers aware of this… incident. They are secure for the moment. This is not of your concern, of course, all will be taken care of as of tonight. Officer Reno, I don't believe I need to explain to you the penalty for speaking of the events of this night to a fellow Officer.”
“No, Sir.”
Officer Cerberus continued to stare through the gap in the doors, the dim blue glow illuminating his face. Reno checked his peripheral vision. Officer Cerberus head was still, his shoulders firm, body unmoved from his position.
“Sir?”
Officer Cerberus’ voice seemed to come from far away. “There is nothing to prepare us for the loss of a great leader. The mind that created such precision, such order, lost. All too soon.”
Reno bowed his head.
“Rogues, I am sure of it,” said Officer Cerberus.
“The shape of the wound is unusual. It was inflicted using a weapon I do not recognize,” said Reno. Officer Cerberus continued to stare past him at the form of Pinnacle Officer Wilcox.
“He made the Internees safe,” said Officer Cerberus. “Safe from the hordes, the mercenaries. Such a beautiful design… remove the enticement, the spoils of a female reward, remove the problem of invasion. And now this. So many processes, so much data to record, to correlate. He did most of the calculations by hand, isn’t that remarkable?” Reno kept his mouth shut, unsure of what to say.