He says to the instructor, “Where the rebels go.”
The instructor reaches for the phone.
Dave advances on the desk. “Oh no, sir, please don’t report us. We missed class, I’m sorry, but you see, we’re here on our own time, making up the lessons.”
Missed class? He needs to shut up before he makes this any worse.
The instructor starts dialing. “Yes, it’s clear you failed just about every lesson, calling it ice of all things.”
This isn’t good. I get up and join Dave, facing the desk.
“Hello?” the instructor says into the phone. “Yes, I have an order.”
An order for our arrest. With a discreet nod, I signal Dave, and we creep toward the desk.
“Yes, the same,” the instructor explains to those at the other end of the phone. “But get it right this time—no onions.”
Poised to attack, Dave and I freeze, then exchange befuddled glances.
The instructor hangs up the phone. Shaking his head, he comes around the desk and leans against the edge. “Now look here,” he says, a scolding finger emphasizing his words. “You won’t get anywhere in life if you waste your time with needless activities other than class. This kind of behavior is not what the Association is looking for in members of the GP. You’re lucky you’ve even been accepted, now you’re throwing it all away. You had better shape up quick, or you’ll both end up losers, wandering the streets with the rest of the riffraff.”
Dave looks ready to rip the guy’s head off, but he resists. Instead, he hangs his own head. “Yes, sir.”
The instructor shifts to me, projecting a reprimand that needs no words.
I stare at the floor. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m sorry as well,” he says, “but I’m afraid this little mishap cannot go unreported. Let’s have your numbers.” He snatches the badge clipped to my jacket and studies it. “What is this? This isn’t student identification, not even cadet.” He looks up. “You’re veteran soldiers with security clearance. What’s going on here?”
We’re not talking our way out of this one. If not for the silly story about missing class, maybe, but not now.
Dave says, “Sir, I can explain everything.”
“You can start this instant, then we’ll have a talk with security. This had better be good.”
Yeah, Dave, it better, or an army of Bobs is next. The instructor goes around the desk, approaching the phone. Now’s the time, Dave, let’s have that good explanation. We don’t want him calling anyone else. I doubt the next conversation will be about lunch.
“We’re rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.”
Dave!
Equally stunned by the outrageous remark, the instructor stands dumbfounded. Then he lunges for the phone. In a blur, Dave slaps hands atop the desk and swivels horizontal, soaring across to plant boots in the instructor’s chest, knocking him back, his glasses off, and the phone from his grasp. The instructor crashes to the floor and struggles up to sprint for the door. I chase after him and slide across the smooth tile, crossing his path and tripping him as Dave catches up and secures him in a headlock. He fights to break free, arms swinging and legs flailing. Stop kicking me, you bastard!
“Intruders!” he hollers. “Sound the alarm!”
Dave ratchets down and flops over, the instructor atop his chest and facing me. A swift fist to his groin convinces him to think again about hollering, as his screams fall silent and he gasps for breath. I straddle them both and smother him while Dave tightens like a vise, restricting his airway. The instructor kicks and squirms, eyes bugging out, then fluttering lazy. His limbs calm and he falls unconscious.
Dave gets up and glares down on the instructor’s limp body. “Watch who you call a loser, asshole.” He straightens his crumpled jacket, then says to me, “Can’t talk your way around those types. Far too intellectual.”
* * *
My precious badge ended up behind the instructor’s desk. It goes in a pocket where it’s safe from grabby hands. Next we search the drawers for rope, wire, chains, anything to restrain our victim. All we find is a wimpy ball of string. Using a ridiculous amount, hoping to increase its effect, I bind him in so much that he appears outfitted in a custom-tailored suit of cotton twine, arms now a snug combo with his torso. Dave returns from the rear of the room with a wad of paper towels, and stuffs them in the guy’s mouth. A good idea. When he comes around, we don’t want him hollering about us rebel spies infiltrating headquarters.
With the instructor secured, we return to the computer terminal and resume our study time that was so rudely interrupted. The white arrow is back. Seems the running man gave up on whatever he was chasing after, or running away from. In either case, the choice didn’t produce any meaningful result.
“Try the bird,” Dave says. “Look, it’s holding something in its beak. Probably what we want to know.”
The metaphor does suggest the retrieval of something, most likely information, since this contraption isn’t capable of much else. I click the bird and a new dialog box appears.
Enter search pattern
“Bravo, Dave, now you’re the computer genius. So where do we begin?”
“What was the general talking about? Some kind of program.”
“R and R.”
“Yeah. Start with that.”
I enter the mysterious term and select the running man. The arrow changes to the animated figure as before, and a flood of text boxes begin filling the screen, and continue popping up one after another. Enough! The stop sign, duh. I click the red hexagon and the barrage ceases. The topmost frame contains the answer to our query.
Relocation and Rebirth program (R & R). Association directive 756915445862, approved 65675986. Due to economic hardship resulting from an extended war effort, the Relocation and Rebirth program exists as the final solution to the overpopulation of incurable subjects engaged in resistance. Nonconforming citizens will be conditioned and prepared for transport via body reduction and subsequent stasis within silicium containment fields.
Dave asks, “What’s the containment field?”
“Let’s find out.”
I’m getting the hang of this. Clicking the bird brings up a new search dialog, then after entering the term, I hit the running man. Again text boxes fill the screen and I must jab the stop button to halt the onslaught. After navigating through a ridiculous amount of text exploring the topic, a hyperlink leads to a definition.
Silicium Containment Field (SCF). Charged silica molecules embedded in glycol and trace lysozyme, suspended in a hydrogen-oxygen enclosure brought to a solid state by extreme low temperature. Functions as containment of subjects during relocation to the Restricted Zone. Dissolves on contact with sodium chloride residing in median temperature liquids.
“The ice,” Dave says.
“With a little something extra.”
“Yeah, like some poor fool trapped inside. But where does it go?”
“It says right there.” I point to the screen. “The Restricted Zone.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well duh, it’s restricted.”
“Then it’s a good thing.”
“What is?”
He waves his badge and grins. “Unrestricted computer access.”
His overzealous insistence for access is turning out to be warranted. I call up a new search dialog and enter the phrase. Another barrage fills the screen and again I must halt the flood of information, then sort through the mess.
Restricted Zone. Sector 177, level 16. Current destination for incurable subjects engaged in resistance. All access is strictly prohibited other than approved activities relating to the Relocation and Rebirth program. Currently limited to the transport of loaded silicium containment fields and the delivery of materials required to complete the conversion of existing civilizations that have been deemed incurable. Upon conclusion of the R & R program, this region of space is to remain restricted indefinitely.
All personnel will vacate and no further access will be permitted. Violation of this directive will result in severe penalty.
I point to the screen. “That’s where everyone is going.”
“Sure, but where is it?”
“It says right there. Sector one-seventy-seven, level sixteen.”
“That’s about as good as around the corner and over a few systems, then take a left at the next planet and keep going. Those numbers are meaningless, they’re Association identifiers. Don’t tell me you have a handy-dandy Association star-map in your back pocket.”
“No, can’t say that I do. But I do have an Association computer sitting right in front of me.”
All we must do is access a star-map, unrestricted as all the rest. But first these text boxes have to go. The clutter of overlapping frames is like a year’s worth of junk mail. I study the vertical bar loaded with pictures and search for the right metaphor. Someone should slap the guy who came up with this nonsense. Why not have the words? Do they think computer operators are illiterate? One button might be a paintbrush, or maybe a broom sweeping. Works for me—clean up your mess. I click the broom and the text frames vanish. Right again. Okay, this pictogram idea isn’t so bad, if you’re patient and use half a brain.
Next I call up a fresh search, this time for star-map. A program launches and black fills the screen. A single text frame appears.
Enter system identifier
We’re making progress, except for one problem—restored memories of geography are lagging behind all the rest. I haven’t a clue where we are.
“Dave, what system is this?”
“Orn.”
“That’s it? Just Orn?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot that systems are named after the star.”
“No.”
Even so, the name of our nearest star seems foreign. Probably because I think of it as simply the sun, regardless of the system. It seems goofy otherwise—an ornny day with warm ornshine begins at ornrise and ends with ornset. Sounds like nonsense from a dream. Regardless, I scoot the spid and click the bird, then enter Orn. Sure, and all that makes perfect sense.
The screen presents a diagram of the star and surrounding planets, along with a description.
Ornal system. Eight planets orbiting the yellow dwarf Orn. Three inhabitable: three, four, and six. Orn-3 primary base of Association operations.
Each planet is listed by number, its position counting outward from the star. But these planets have names, I know they do. I just don’t remember what they are.
“Dave, what’s this planet called?”
“You mean, the one we’re on now?”
“No, some planet halfway across the galaxy. Of course the one we’re on now, dumb-ass.”
“Like it says, Orn-3.”
“Yeah, I understand it’s the third planet, but what’s the name?”
“That’s how they do it, they don’t use names. They identify all planets by star and orbit number.”
“What about four and six? We don’t call them by number, do we?”
“No, we’re the rebels. Like I said, that’s an Association thing.”
“Right, I get it. So what are the names?”
“Four is Idan. You know, our planet.”
“Of course I know we’re from Idan.”
Huh? But I didn’t know a second ago. Strange to recall forgetting, now that I remember.
“And six?” I ask.
He chuckles. “The big one. I figured you’d get that all on your own, since you went there so much.”
“I did?”
“You know, coordinating affairs with a certain commander.”
Affairs? Don’t tell me I’ve been fooling around in another garden.
“Who?” I ask.
He stares incredulously at the idiot me. “Duh, you bonehead. Chris.”
“Oh. I mean, right. She’s from Theabis. I knew that.”
Memory is the weirdest thing. All it takes is one little tickle. But with the recollection comes a painful reminder—where could she be, and how will I find her? A search by eye color, hair, gender? I’ve nothing else to go on. There must be so many subjects. How will I find the single person I’m looking for?
Dave asks, “Why are you looking up Orn? I thought we’re looking for the Restricted Zone.”
“I want to see where it is from here.”
Searching the array of pull-down menus, I find an option for secondary location. Without a specific star name, all we can do is supply the sector and level, and hope that works. It does—the diagram scales down and the star-map presents the stretch of space between Orn and the Restricted Zone, complete with detailed measurements and astronomic trajectories. The distant location now included in the diagram appears empty, unlike the Ornal system, which neighbors a multitude of stars populated by a diverse collection of planets. The Restricted Zone seems a lonely corner of the galaxy, though a single star is listed, labeled Sol. I click the lone star and the diagram zooms in to provide details. A flashing message appears on the screen.
WARNING: Restricted Zone. Travel into or out of the Solar system is strictly prohibited without express authorization and is limited exclusively to activities relating to the R & R program.
Below the diagram is a description.
Solar system. Ten planets orbiting the yellow dwarf Sol. Three inhabitable: three, four, and five.
“That’s funny,” Dave says.
“What now?”
“The star name.”
“Why? What’s so funny about it?”
“It’s like an acronym. You know, S-O-L, for Shit Outta Luck.”
Perhaps an appropriate label, though I doubt our missing friends would find it so humorous. But then, stripped of their true identity, they wouldn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or be angry. Only to survive, in a world devised by our enemy, whatever that world may be.
* * *
We have a destination, now we need directions. Without a diagram listing specific coordinates, the mission has stalled. I search the pull-down menus and find an option for hard copy. From a slot below the screen, a screeching carriage plods side to side, and curly paper slowly emerges.
Dave says, “Ah, Adam . . .”
“What?” I ask, more interested in the flimsy scroll the computer is printing. The lazy pace it creeps out of the slot is terribly frustrating. I thought computers were quick. I could copy it down by hand faster than the damn thing.
He says, “Our friend seems to be missing.”
My attention rockets to our bound victim, who is gone. Only a pile of wimpy string and the paper towels.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
The bastard turned us in.
Competing with the droning alarm, an urgent voice booms from a loudspeaker: “Intruder alert. Security personnel to section C. Intruder alert. Security personnel to section C.”
“That’s us,” Dave says.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
We should hide. Then what? That’s stupid, they’ll find us and we’re toast anyway. What can we do? We can’t just stand here, they’re coming to get us.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
Out the door won’t work. The window? I’m in no mood for more of that. I don’t know what to do. Dave stares at me, expecting a solution.
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
Maybe I could think if that damn alarm would shut up—it’s driving me nuts!
BLAR, BLAR, BLAR . . .
The door is our only option. We’ll have to take our chances in the hallway. If we’re lucky, we may escape with what we’ve learned so far.
We sprint for the door. Wait—the coordinates. We need the diagram. I hurry back to the computer and tear the precious information from the slot. It appears complete. No time—the curly paper goes into a pocket and I catch up with Dave.
I crack the door open just a sliver. The corridor is stuffed full of Bobs marching past. I slap the door shut.
“This isn’t good.”
The door bursts open, nearly off its hinges. A cluster of Bobs stands in the doorway, loaded with weaponry.
We’re at the end of the line. There’s no talking our way out of this one.
* * *
Bob’s scorching glare says it all—something unpleasant is next, just around the corner. Torture, interrogation, and without a doubt, our fiery end.
Bob says, “You two, come with us.”
Others step forward and we’re hauled into the corridor. Oh man, we’re done. No ridiculous story will save us this time, not a chance. Goons close in to surround us, shove urgently, and coax us along. Another Bob approaches, pissed off and ornery like all the rest, but worse—armed with three blast rifles. He hands one to Dave, and another to me.
“Fall in, soldiers, we have intruders.”
The thugs charge away and join the advancing crowd, leaving me and Dave behind, stunned by the gracious gift of deadly weapons.
“It’s not us?” Dave asks, twisting his rifle to view all sides like it might be a toy.
I don’t know what to say, unsure of what’s happening, my confused thoughts racing to catch up with an unbelievable reality. Seems fate shines a good light on us today. Still, a fresh pair of shorts might be nice, and maybe that elusive bucket to catch the spew my stomach wants to hurl. I’m tempted to run and hide, but the Bobs expect our help with the intruders, who are, apparently, someone else besides us. Could we possibly be that lucky?
As terror subsides, rational thinking returns. We should follow the Bobs, to do otherwise may attract attention. Dave is already falling in and signaling for me to catch up. Except now is my perfect chance to exact revenge. As I contemplate how many Bobs this gift of a weapon might cut down, prudent judgment grapples with my thirst for vengeance. The plan is intact. We have to complete the mission. Cut them to pieces later.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 28