by James Axler
Jak ran over to him and the two were about to head to the next wagon when the roar of several engines drowned out the shouts and curses of the fighters nearby. A second later, spotlights burst to life from the south.
The bright lights illuminated the area around J.B. and Jak as three of the six-wheeled trucks roared toward them and skidded to a stop. In the back of the vehicles, two men holding M4s steadied them on the cab as they aimed them at the two men. Another leaned out of the passenger window, also holding a carbine, and pointed it at them. The two other trucks were outfitted in the same manner, and within ten seconds, J.B., Jak and the other members of the collective were facing the muzzles of nine assault rifles.
“People of the Silvertide collective, you are ordered to surrender immediately, or we will be forced to open fire!” The voice that boomed over the loudspeaker sounded familiar. “You have ten seconds to comply!”
All through the camp, fighting men and women looked up at the voice. When they saw the overwhelming force arrayed against them, they looked at J.B., who shook his head while pulling his hands from his pockets and raising his clenched fists over his head.
“Stop! It’s over,” he shouted.
“Not serious,” Jak muttered as he raised his own hands.
“For the moment, yeah, I am,” the Armorer muttered back. “But stay ready.”
“Always.” Jak flexed his wrists, making the hilts of two taped throwing knives creep up to where they could both be grabbed and thrown in an instant.
“Lay down your weapons, put up your hands and come together to the sound of my voice,” the speaker continued.
“Can’t let that happen,” J.B. said. “If they get us all together, we’re sunk.”
The driver’s door of the main truck opened and a tall man stepped out into the light. When they saw him, both J.B.’s and Jak’s jaws dropped.
The newest leader of the kidnappers was Ryan Cawdor.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Mildred was returned back to her room, she staggered to the toilet just in time as the vomit coursed back up her throat and out onto the porcelain. She crouched there, choking and coughing, until she was fairly certain nothing more was going to come up.
Watching as the parasitic slug had oozed its way toward Ryan’s open mouth while he sat helpless before it had been one of the most horrifying things she had ever witnessed. When the creature began sliding down his throat, she had let out a howl of rage and despair. Her knees weakened, and she would have collapsed if Morgan had not been holding her up.
“He is partaking in one of the highest honors a person can receive from the Mind,” he said. “Usually, a new member receives a new symbiote. The Mind thinks very highly of Ryan to send an experienced one into him for the first time. And you...” His flat, emotionless gaze turned to her. “You truly have no idea of the honor that is to be bestowed upon you—to be the host for our next queen. You will carry our colony into new lands to bring them into our fold. Long have we worked and planned to bring this to fruition, and now the time is at hand.”
All the while Morgan had been talking, Mildred couldn’t take her eyes off Ryan’s bulging throat as the slug entered his body. In a few more seconds, his neck shrank back down to its normal size, and his head slumped forward.
“Assuming the dose was calculated properly, it should be able to gain control of him fairly soon,” Dr. Markus said.
“Of course it was calculated properly,” Dr. Phieks replied with a hint of disdain. “I have been doing this for the past nine years. During that time, I have not erred once.”
Markus turned to her with a mildly confused look on his face. “I was not calling your competence into question, Doctor, merely remarking that Mr. Cawdor’s body may react differently to both the drug itself, and how the symbiote takes control of him, that is all.”
She nodded. “My apologies for leaping to an erroneous conclusion, Doctor.”
Mildred had watched this byplay with a frown. Was that a real disagreement, or were they simply going through the motions? If this was truly a hive mind, there should be no disagreement or dissonance, yet she was pretty sure that was what she’s just seen.
Her train of thought was broken by Ryan’s head snapping up and him rising to his feet. His head and limbs moved around jerkily, as if controlled by an unseen puppet master. Mildred had to stifle a crazed giggle at the thought, since that was exactly what was happening. And they want to put one of those—slimy—things—down my throat? Hell, no. I’ll off myself before that happens.
Still, she held out some small ray of hope that Ryan would somehow be able to fight off the parasite’s control. Mentally, he was one of the strongest people she had never met, and if anyone could do it, he could. As she watched, she thought there might be a chance of that happening. Come on, Ryan, fight it.... You can do it....
Ryan raised his hands and looked at them as if he had never seen them before, staring at the suntanned fingers, the callused palms, the nicked and battered nails. He flexed them, and somehow Mildred knew exactly what was going on. Her theory was confirmed when he raised his head and addressed the Mind.
“It...” Ryan croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “It is a good body—a very good body. Thank you for placing me in it, Mind.”
“I AM PLEASED THAT YOU ARE PLEASED,” the Mind replied. “FOR I HAVE AN IMPORTANT TASK FOR YOU TO CARRY OUT.”
Ryan bowed his head. “I am yours to command, Mind.”
“YOU ARE TO TAKE WHATEVER SECURITY FORCES THAT YOU NEED AND GO TO THE ENCAMPMENT WHERE YOUR BODY WAS TAKEN, AND BRING AS MANY OF THEM TO ME AS POSSIBLE. THEY WILL ALL BE BROUGHT INTO THE FOLD.”
“As the Mind commands,” Ryan, Morgan and the two doctors intoned. He turned and strode by Mildred without even a glance in her direction. Mildred’s heart sank when she saw that.
“There is much to do. I’ll take you back to your cell,” Morgan said as he held her elbow and ushered her toward the elevator.
“Why?” she replied dully. “Isn’t your overlord going to shove a queen slug down my throat now?”
“The Mind will bring you into the fold when it chooses, not before,” Morgan replied. “Until then, you shall wait. Do not worry, you shall be well cared for.”
Of course I will be. Sacrificial offerings usually are, she thought during the trip back to her room. Once there, she had embraced the toilet, and now sat on the floor, her mind churning as she tried to figure out what to do.
Well, I could simply not give them the option of using me by killing myself, she thought coldly. Although there weren’t a lot of options in the room to harm herself with, Mildred was pretty sure she could figure out something before they came to get her for the joining.
But what will that really solve? she wondered. If Ryan’s now under their control—and it sure looked as if he was—and he’s going to take more of the collective, no doubt they’ll find someone else who will host their queen, and I’ll just have delayed the inevitable, and be dead to boot. That won’t do. Indeed, the very thought made her angry. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Looks as if I’m going to have to figure out a way to take these things out.
Mildred got up and stepped to the sink, rinsing out her mouth and splashing cool water on her face. She stared at her scared, jumpy self in the mirror, then reached out to tap the glass, but found her fingers touching polished metal. Damn, that could have been useful.
Feeling a little better, she walked back out to her bed and sat down, reviewing everything she knew. One question kept popping up in her mind: What is the big brain waiting for? Why didn’t it throw a slug into me right away?
Because it couldn’t, the analytical part of her mind answered. Mildred continued with this question-and-answer process, which often served her well in problem solving. Why not?
Because a queen slug is
not available for you right now, her mind answered.
But shouldn’t there be one?
Yes...unless one was already created, but it was used on someone else.
Right.... Mildred filed that piece of analysis away. It seemed important somehow, but not at the moment. The analytical part of Mildred’s mind waited patiently for her to catch up. It has to make another one.
Exactly...which buys you some time.
Mildred nodded. Now...what to do with it? She rose and walked around the room. If I could get out of here, I could try to stop the Overbrain, she thought. Crossing to the door, she looked out the wire-gridded window into the hallway.
Sure—all that entails is getting out of your room somehow, finding some way to kill that big brain in a jar, getting the needed materials and bringing them to the thing to kill it. Oh, and all while trying to get past everyone in here, all of whom have a slug inside them that lets them talk to everyone else all the time—
Wait a minute.... Something about that was important. If they can talk to each other or somehow communicate among themselves, then I’d probably get caught as soon as one saw me, since they wouldn’t “sense” me as part of the group mind. But that also means if I can somehow get out of here but remain undetected, I’d effectively be invisible to them, since they probably rely too much on their slug sense, as it were, and are so connected to each other that a non-slug-controlled mind would probably have a better chance of getting around them undetected.... It’s crazy, but it just might work.
And let’s face it, what other choice do you have? the other part of her brain chimed in.
“None, that’s for damn sure,” Mildred muttered as she paced back and forth. “One problem at a time. First up, how in the hell am I going to get out of this room?”
She began walking around the perimeter while creating, evaluating and discarding potential escape plans. Because she wasn’t sure whether she was being monitored or not, she kept quiet as she thought through the various scenarios.
The only problem was, every one she came up with turned out to be unfeasible for one reason or another.
Stop up the toilet and knock out or kill whoever came to repair it? Not likely that they would be alone, since she was a high-ranking prisoner, so there would be guards accompanying the repair person. Armed guards. Mildred was decent in a fight, but she was no trained chiller like Ryan or Jak. That wouldn’t work.
Break out through the door? Well, since the window was unbreakable, and there was no access to the lock mechanism on this side—only a polished steel plate where the knob should have been—and the hinges were on the outside as well, that was also impossible.
Crawl out through the air ducts? For a moment, she gave that one some thought, since the one in her room did look large enough, and unlike in most normal buildings, actually seemed sturdy enough to support her weight. However, the grille that sealed it off was firmly bolted to the wall, and the wire latticework was thick enough that she couldn’t break it. There was also nothing in here or on her that she could use as an improvised file, either, so scratch that.
What about faking some sort of injury or illness so you can at least get out of the room, and then maybe you can do more from there? Mildred didn’t pause as she considered the idea. Sure, it was a movie cliché back in her day, but these folks had probably never even considered that someone would actually feign an illness in order to go to the infirmary.
The more she thought about it, Mildred realized that could be her way out. After all, getting into the infirmary would potentially give her access to drugs, scalpels, practically anything she could need to execute the rest of her plan.
There was just one problem with this first part—as she recalled her conversation with Ricky after he’d almost been kidnapped, she remembered him telling her that they could apparently tell when a person was lying with a fair degree of accuracy. Therefore, she couldn’t simply pretend to be sick...she actually had to make herself sick enough to warrant transfer to their infirmary, but not sick enough to incapacitate herself.
Again, Mildred scanned the room. They’d left her nothing to clean herself with, and the drinking cup was made of a soft plastic that, while it probably wouldn’t cut up her insides, might bind in her intestines, which would be the last thing she’d want to happen to her. She supposed she could drink too much water until she poisoned herself that way, but it carried its own risks, as well.
She was so deep in thought that she didn’t hear the door open, or Morgan step inside. “Mildred...Mildred?”
Blinking, she looked up at him. “Oh...Morgan. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That is quite all right.” He had a small bundle under his arm. “It occurred to us that since you will be staying with us for a while, we thought you might wish to clean yourself. Our shower facilities are sanitary and comfortable. A good shower would probably help you adjust to your situation.”
A glimmer of hope sparked in Mildred’s mind. “Thank you, Morgan. I would like that very much.”
“If you’ll come with me, then.” He turned and walked out the doorway. Mildred followed, seeing the ubiquitous pair of guards flanking the exit. She didn’t even glance behind her as one of them fell into step in back of her as she trailed Morgan through the halls to the other side of what she now assumed was a detention or security level.
He stopped at a white door with the universal symbols for man and woman on it and held out the bundle to her. “You’ll find everything you need either in here or inside. Just let the guard know when you’re finished, and he’ll escort you back to your room.”
“Thank you, Morgan. I must confess that I’m looking forward to this.”
“I know you are.” He started to turn away, but stopped. “I do hope you will come around to our way of thinking, Mildred. It really is for the best—no violence, no fear, no lust for conquest or power. We have the chance to usher in a whole new age of peace and enlightenment—if we can just set down the right roots. You could help be a part of that process. A hero to future generations, who could grow up in safety and comfort, instead of terror and fear.”
“It—it sounds very attractive, Morgan.” And indeed, she wasn’t lying; it did sound appealing. But at what cost? her analytical mind asked. Only your very individuality...your soul, if you will, that’s all.... “I’m...going to think long and hard about it.”
“Good. That’s all we can ask for after all,” he replied. “Enjoy your shower.”
“I will.”
And when she stepped inside and saw the gleaming tile walls and floor, and the bright chrome nozzle—and what she would be using to clean herself with—Mildred allowed a broad smile to spread across her face.
The last bit of the first part of her plan had fallen into place, and it had just been unwittingly provided by her captors.
Chapter Thirty
J.B. shook off his surprise in a heartbeat. “There are going to be some casualties,” he muttered. “When I move, do not run toward the truck.”
Jak merely nodded as Ryan waved them both forward. “All right, John, Jak, walk toward me, and don’t try anything—”
Even as he said it, J.B. armed the two mini-grens he had palmed in his hand. He let them cook off for a critical second before tossing both at the truck, one underhanded so it skittered beneath the vehicle, and the other one overhanded so it would go off above the two shooters.
The instant he started his two throws, Jak had crossed his arms enough to draw both throwing knives from his sleeves and hurl them at the heads of the two riflemen pointing their assault rifles at them. He didn’t plan on hitting them; he only wanted to distract them enough to spoil their aim for that critical second so J.B. could get his munitions off.
When both of them had emptied their arsenals, they dived to the side, J.B. to the right, Jak to the left, each
hitting the dirt as the two grens detonated. J.B. had grabbed his Mini-Uzi as he went down, and aimed a burst at the truck on his right, while Jak had drawn his Colt Python and was blasting at the truck on the left.
The bomb under the truck was the high-ex gren. J.B. had pitched it just close enough so that it exploded underneath the front end, blowing out both tires and disabling the engine. The blast wasn’t quite enough to flip the truck over or make it explode in a fireball, but it did raise the front end a couple feet off the ground—incidentally lifting the two shooters into the blast radius of the second gren.
As Jak had figured, each man had been able to dodge his blades. The implo gren, however, was another matter entirely. J.B. suspected that the whitecoats had somehow figured out how to stabilize a gram or two of antimatter until the initial blast exposed it to the outside air, setting off the reaction. Not even Doc knew how they worked; just that they operated in exactly the opposite way a normal gren did. When they went off, they created a localized area of extremely high, inverted pressure that drew everything in the blast radius toward the center of it.
When the truck fell back onto its shattered front axle, what looked like two lumps of stretched and pulverized meat came back down with it. From their waists down, they still looked relatively normal. But the upper half of each sec man’s body now looked as if it had been pressed through some kind of giant machine that had both crushed and stretched their heads, arms and chests to incredibly painful proportions. Their carbines had been pulled and fused with them as well, so that they clutched misshapen lumps of plastic and metal in their crushed and flattened fingers. The only relatively good thing about getting killed that way was that the shock was probably so great that they’d never known what happened to them—just an enormous feeling of pressure, and then blackness.
As he rolled toward the now-disabled truck, Jak sure hoped the damn parasites inside those two were dead, as well. Blasterfire from elsewhere in the camp was keeping the two riflemen on his left busy, and Jak gave them something else to think about as he blasted away at their vehicle.