by John Murphy
At the compound’s center was the headquarters building. It was fifty feet tall, ornate, and modern, constructed of beautiful glass panels at intoxicating angles. It would have seemed delicate on its own, and vulnerable, were it not for the surrounding compound walls. Killian had never seen anything like it. It stood in stark contrast to the destruction he’d lived in for nearly two years. He had never envisioned getting this far. Seeing the headquarters’ beauty felt dreamlike.
He trudged toward the building on bloodied, sandaled feet. His rifle dangled at his side, hidden partially by his blanket. Things grew quiet as enemies disappeared and roaring fires faded beyond the walls. The heavy cloud cover thinned, and the rain stopped.
Killian wondered if he was still alive.
He continued walking toward the magnificent building. If this was really happening, he’d walk in, kill anyone he found, and claim a victory for his small band of rebels. If this wasn’t real, then who knew?
Killian stood before the headquarters’ entrance in a stupor, unsure of anything.
Three invaders raced up from behind and prepared to enter the building. One stopped and looked at Killian.
“Wait right here,” the invader said over a speaker device in his helmet. He turned and raced into the building with the other two. The invaders’ red bolts of death flashed inside the crystal-like structure.
Moments later, the invaders came back out, herding two Global Alliance officers and one Carthenogen. They stopped ten feet from Killian and pressed the captives together, back-to-back.
This was the first time Killian had seen a Carthenogen in the flesh. It was unnerving. As vaunted and celebrated as the Carthenogens were, he’d half expected them to have an ethereal glow, to glide across the ground accompanied by an angelic choir. It was surreal to see the Carthenogen jostled about, its wrinkled, mottled gray flesh flapping about its long neck. It reminded him of a time he’d witnessed a Global Alliance soldier incarcerating an old woman. She had been nude, clutching some rags and crying in shame. Her skin sagged off her skeletal frame. Killian had felt tragically embarrassed for her. He felt a similar empathy for this Carthenogen.
But his emotions were split. Part of him was in awe. Another part of him wanted to take his rifle and shoot the alien. He had imagined taking such an action many times. But he didn’t take it now, too stunned by the unimaginable scene before him.
An invader motioned for Killian to come forward. When Killian complied, the invader snatched his rifle and flung it away, then pressed Killian against the other captives. The invader grabbed something that looked like a grenade from his belt. Before Killian could react, the invader stepped back and pointed the device at his prisoners. A black net sprang out and ensnared Killian and the others.
Within seconds, the attack craft returned and hovered above. Lines dropped down from the ship’s underbelly.
The invader grabbed a line and secured it through a handle on the net. The line went taut, and Killian and his fellow captives were yanked off the ground, scrunched together in the net, and whisked up to the waiting craft.
CHAPTER 7
INSIDE THE MYSTERY SHIP, Killian struggled on the floor against the tight net and the three other captives. He was squeamish at the Carthenogen’s flesh touching his face. It felt cold, thin, and loose over the top of the alien’s frail bones, like it was an octopus trying to maul him. The Carthenogen groaned in a raspy voice as it pushed back against the net. When it couldn’t break free, it bellowed into Killian’s face. Killian couldn’t believe the stench of its foul breath. It smelled of rotting corpses, an odor Killian had come to know too well.
It occurred to him that he might be as repulsive to the Carthenogen as the Carthenogen was to him.
Whizzing sounds arose from the ceiling. Ropes dropped, and seven black-clad invaders appeared from below. The hull closed behind them, and g-forces indicated they were on the move, up and away.
“What have we got?” a rugged man asked, entering the bay. He wore armor, but he had no helmet or weapon. Killian was immediately drawn to how clean the man looked. In a flash, he thought of Captain Leon’s precise decorum.
The other invaders removed their helmets. Though sweaty, they also looked clean and precise. Two were black, which made Killian long for Captain Leon even more. He wished desperately to be clean, suddenly ashamed at how filthy he was.
“We got General Czechen, General LeDeux, and Minister Yantza,” an invader said.
“Who the hell is this?” The first man pointed at Killian.
“Not sure, Skipper. A person of interest. Thought he might be able to tell us something useful.”
“Shit, Risky. You and your fucking stray animals. Sedate the officers and wrap them up. Have Doc check out your pet. If he’s sick with any bugs, we’ll have to throw him back.”
“Roger, that, sir,” Risky said.
The other captors stowed their helmets and rifles in cargo slots, then moved toward where the other officer had gone. They fought against the g-forces as they maneuvered around the netted captives.
Another man dressed in black pants, boots, and a form-fitting black shirt approached and held a yellow gun-like device against the Carthenogen. Killian heard a bursting sound, like pressure being released, and the Carthenogen went limp, its knobby, hairless head resting on Killian’s chin. Two more bursts, and Killian could feel the generals going limp as well.
“All right. Let’s see what we’ve got here,” the man said. “Do you speak English?”
Killian nodded. “Yes.”
The man was of Asian descent, but he didn’t have any kind of Asian accent, which struck Killian as a bit odd at first. However, he couldn’t stop marveling at how clean the man was.
“Are you Global Alliance?” Risky asked.
“No. I’m a refugee.” Killian didn’t blurt out that he was a rebel fighter, because he didn’t yet know his captors.
“You look and sound American,” Risky said. “What were you doing as a refugee in Bangkok?”
“My parents…my parents were working at the embassy when it was attacked.”
The man and Risky looked at each other. “Holy shit, Doc,” Risky said. “That was nearly two years ago.”
Doc turned back to Killian. “You’ve been in refugee camps ever since?”
“No. I got out of those. They’d come and empty out the camps and take the people away. I, well, me and my friends, wouldn’t go with them.”
The net was cutting into Killian’s face, dragged down as it was by the sagging weight of the other captives.
“Could you, uh, get me out of this thing?” Killian asked.
“Are you going to fight me if I cut you free?” Risky asked.
Killian tried to shake his head. “No.”
“I’m warning you, don’t fuck around,” Doc said, “or I’ll dose you, too.”
“I won’t.”
Doc cut away the netting and Killian rolled out from beneath the Carthenogen. He braced himself against the floor and wall, stabilizing himself against the motion. It had been so long since he’d been in a moving vehicle that he thought he might get sick.
Risky and Doc removed the net from the sedated captives.
“So, you said you didn’t go with the other refugees. Where did you go?” Doc asked as he worked.
“Um, underground, I guess you could say.”
“Were you part of the resistance?” Risky asked.
Killian didn’t say anything. He preferred to be known as a refugee, innocent of any crime against the Global Alliance.
“Huh, I thought so,” Risky said. “You guys put up a hell of a fight. Nobody wanted to be stationed in Bangkok because of the resistance. You guys were badass.”
Killian felt a twinge of pride. Many times, in futility and defeat, the rebel group had wanted to disband. It was a rush to hear this validation.
“But,” Risky continued, “I don’t think any of your friends made it today. That was kind of a clusterfuck.”
Killian’s heart plummeted. He had instigated the “clusterfuck,” and now all his friends and many innocents were dead. He looked down and covered his brow with shaking fingers.
“They started loading the transports early,” Risky said. “Thankfully, there weren’t any refugees on board or else thirty thousand people might have died.”
“We almost had to abort,” Doc said.
Risky glared at Doc. “Yeah, well, luck was in our favor, and whatever the fuck was going on, it caused people to run away from the transports.”
Killian’s emotions flipped again. He was high now, but tentatively so. Maybe his plan hadn’t been so awful. But he was wary for other horrible news.
“Who are you guys, anyway?” Killian croaked, trying to change the subject.
“How many friends were you working with?” Risky asked.
Killian became guarded, not wanting to say anything that could be held against him.
“Come on, kid,” Risky said. “You’ve got to admit—an American like you, looking all chewed up and spit out in the middle of Bangkok—we’re curious as hell.”
Killian folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall.
Risky pointed at the captives. “Look, kid, right there—two Global Alliance commanding generals and the Carthenogen district minister. Don’t worry; you’re safe with us. We just got you the hell out of there. Okay?”
“So who are you?” Killian demanded. “You look and sound American.”
“Sorry, that’s classified,” Doc said.
“We don’t exist, all right? This never happened,” Risky said.
“We don’t know who you are, kid,” Doc said. “Even if we did, we couldn’t tell you anything.”
He stepped out of the bay for a moment, then returned with two shiny foil pouches and handed them to Killian. “Drink these. They’ll make you feel better.”
Killian reached for the bottle-shaped pouches, his fingers shaking like sticks in the wind. He tore one open and tipped it into his mouth. It gushed sweet juice. A cough rumbled deep within his chest. He suppressed it and finished the juice within seconds.
“That’s an energy drink, full of carbohydrates and electrolytes. Drink a few of those, and then we’ll get you some food.”
Risky watched as Killian guzzled the second pouch. “We’ll feed you and get you cleaned up. But you gotta tell us everything or we’ll dump you back.”
Killian nodded emphatically, even though he was still drinking.
* * *
The craft cruised smoothly. Killian ate foil-wrapped food bars and drank four ten-ounce pouches of energy juice while Doc and Risky tended to the high-value captives. Doc and Risky stripped their uniforms, checked the captives for injuries, and then dressed them in jumpsuits. They put the captives on utilitarian transport bunks and strapped them down for safety.
As Killian’s hunger abated, he slowed his eating and answered his captors’ questions. He’d thought about the havoc wreaked on the Global Alliance and was convinced he and his present captors were working toward a common goal.
Killian told his story from the beginning: the ambushes, the firefights, and the time he’d been captured and tortured by anarchists—not for information, but out of sheer sadistic cruelty.
Killian paused, looking at his filthy hands. “Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday.”
Risky and Doc exchanged awkward glances. “Well, we got you out of hell. Happy birthday,” Doc said.
They shared a small laugh.
Risky squatted next to Killian’s bunk. “That’s impressive, kid. It’s pretty astonishing for an untrained resistance fighter. But you’re going to have to keep a lid on your story. You can’t tell anyone you’ve killed people—especially Global Alliance soldiers. The Global Alliance controls everything, and their soldiers are government soldiers. You get me?”
The realization struck Killian like electricity. The things he’d done to fight against the brutal tyranny and mass slaughter in Bangkok had made him a criminal.
Risky continued, “Folks won’t understand. You can’t tell them you’ve been in Bangkok, or that any of this happened. Don’t even tell people you think you can trust, because they won’t keep your secret. Word will find its way to the authorities, who will start asking questions and won’t stop until they find out you’re a killer. They’ll ask if you’ve killed women and children.” He paused a moment, then added, “You haven’t, have you?”
“No!”
“See what I mean?” Risky said. “It’s a natural follow-up question. Sorry.”
“More importantly,” Doc said, “you can’t tell anyone about us. This is all classified. We don’t exist, and this never happened.”
“So you guys aren’t with the government?”
“Can’t say, so stop asking,” Risky replied.
Killian’s hands trembled. He had been in many precarious situations, but he’d always shot his way out. He’d discussed things openly with his friends, because they’d been in the same situation. Guilty of killing government soldiers? His stomach knotted. Keeping that a secret seemed impossible.
Doc tended to Killian, checking him for bleeding and squeezing his limbs to detect any significant injuries. He grabbed a small can and sprayed Killian’s burned feet. Killian felt instant relief. Doc wiped the mud, blood, and layers of filth from Killian’s face.
Risky stepped in closer. “Holy shit, Doc, are you seein’ what I’m seein’?”
Doc furrowed his brow and leaned back, looking curiously at Killian. Doc wiped Killian’s face some more. “I don’t think so.”
“Look at those eyes…the nose…”
Doc shook his head. “Nope.”
Risky eyed Killian carefully. “You said your parents worked at the embassy. What exactly did they do?”
“My mom…was the ambassador to Thailand,” Killian said.
“Holy shit!” Doc muttered, dropping his hands to his lap.
“What’s your name, kid?” Risky asked.
“Vaughn, Vaughn Killian.”
Risky jumped in the air and spun around. “Holy fuck!”
“Mother of God!” Doc said.
Risky turned back to Killian. He was beaming, suppressing a grin against the back of his fist.
Killian was confused. He’d suspected they might be glad to find the son of a deceased ambassador alive, but this reaction seemed a little much.
Risky darted out of the room. He returned a moment later with the clean-cut man Killian had first observed.
“Take a look, Skipper,” Risky said. “See the resemblance?”
The skipper came close and held Killian’s chin, turning his face from side to side. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “That’s remarkable.”
Killian’s confusion increased. “What? What’s wrong?”
“This is Vaughn Killian, sir,” Risky said. “Son of Darla Jean Killian, the late ambassador to Thailand.”
That was all true, Killian thought, but the way Risky emphasized his and his mother’s names was weird. Based on his experience, he suspected there hadn’t been any kind of search for him or any others in Bangkok. Killian had presumed he wasn’t important.
“What’s going on?” Killian asked.
Doc gave the skipper an apprehensive look. The skipper frowned in thought. He looked at Doc and Risky and shook his head ever so slightly. “Everyone thought you’d perished along with your parents. We’re glad to have you aboard, Mr. Killian.”
Killian didn’t know if being in a war zone for so long had altered his sensibilities, but the exuberance Risky had shown didn’t match the skipper’s heavily guarded explanation.
“Clean him up as best you can, Doc,
” the skipper said, then went out.
* * *
“Holy shit, Vaughn. You sure have been chewed up and spit out. I’ve never seen so many scars before—on a civilian, that is,” Doc said.
Killian had disrobed and was rubbing his emaciated body with sanitizing towels. The ship didn’t have a shower, so foil-wrapped field towels, premoistened with a soapy solution, had to do. Killian was on his sixth towel and still scrubbing off more dirt. It was the cleanest he had been in a long time. He was surprised to see his skin was actually white beneath the months of grime.
“Where’d you get all those damn scars?” Risky asked. “Especially that nasty one on your back?”
“Firefights, mostly. Otherwise, there were a lot of sharp objects in the rubble. I got captured a couple of times by anarchists. They’re the ones who sliced my back.”
“Holy shit,” Risky said.
“Where are we, anyway? And where are we going?” Killian asked.
“That’s classified,” Doc said. “Skipper says we can’t tell you anything except that you’ll be dropped stateside.”
“How’s the war going there? Is anything left?”
Doc and Risky exchanged looks, as if they had bad news.
“What? Is it totally destroyed?” Killian asked.
It would be just his luck that, after escaping Bangkok, there’d be no safe haven for him.
“No, kid,” Risky said sadly. “There’s nothing going on there. There’s no war.”
“What? What do you mean?” Killian stopped scrubbing and stared at Risky.
“There’s no war in the States. There’s nothing going on in most of the world. In fact, I bet you couldn’t find anyone stateside that knows where Bangkok is, let alone that it’s a war zone.”
“What do you mean?” Anger and confusion battled for control of Killian’s mind.
“As far as the rest of the world knows, officially, there’s no war,” Doc said.
“How could that fucking be?”
“Because they aren’t told anything. The Global Alliance controls the news and they suppress anything about Bangkok. The most they let out is that there were some terrorist attacks a few years ago. Most people don’t even know that.” He shrugged. “Ordinary people just don’t pay attention.”