His wife stared at him, and the older Roddy winced at the deep pain in her eyes. “You're asking to walk away from me, now, and risk your life?” She glanced down at her belly. “And what about them?”
He took her hands. “You are the reason I must do this. The closer we get to exposing all of them, the more we expose ourselves, and that leaves all of us vulnerable to their vast resources and abilities to make people disappear. Forever. I cannot let that happen to any of you.” His eyes flicked briefly to his parents and then returned to his wife. “With me gone, with me playing my part in winning this war, it means that I’ll become the focal point for leaks if they ever detect any, because they’ll figure out quickly that it’s someone close to whichever elite I work for. And while that may make things difficult for me for a time, it also means the rest of you will be safe.” Roddy watched a tear trickle down his cheek in the video, and his hand instinctively went to his face… and found moisture there as well. “I must do this, and do it quickly, because I must be around when our child is born.”
“Children,” she whispered back.
His eyes widened. “I want to be there when our children are born, to raise them in a world free of the Phoenix scourge. We've reached an impasse, and if we fail to make further progress, evil wins. It's time for a bold stroke.” He studied her face. “Do you understand?”
The tears streamed down her face. “I do. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Young Roddy held her hands in his face. “I don’t like it, either,” he whispered. “But I’ll do the most unlikeable thing possible to keep you safe from harm.”
The scene changed again.
Electrodes covered his head to the point of saturation. He'd undergone cosmetic surgery, that much was obvious, and they'd altered the DNA encoding for hair and eye color. It looked like they’d pumped him full of muscle, for he’d bulked up significantly since he’d suggested this mission.
“Will it hurt?” he asked his father. His voice had changed to the one he knew now.
“It shouldn't,” Jeffrey replied. “Do you have any messages for your future self?”
“Yes,” young Roddy replied. He turned to face the camera recording the events. “Get the job done. And then get your memories back and take care of your family. That's an order, soldier.”
The screen went white. Then…
His parents stood before the assembled workers of New Venice, explaining that, to their great shame, their son had fallen victim to the lies of those opposed to Phoenix. They disowned him and disavowed his actions. His pregnant wife stated, through halting breaths, that she was thankful his treachery came to light now, before he'd corrupted her children.
Then he saw her again, this time straining through the throes of childbirth, sweat streaming down her face, and then she held the newborn children and smiled. “Hi, sweetie. Hurry back.” She gently held the tiny hands of each sleeping newborn, and made their hands wave. Roddy thought he saw one of the tiny babies smile faintly in its sleep, and he sucked in his breath. “We're all waiting for you.”
The scene changed again.
His wife was watching media coverage of his marriage to Deirdre Silver, and the pain and hurt on her face made him tremble to his very core. She wheeled on his parents. “You said you were going to make sure he knew he was married! You promised that you’d make sure that this couldn't happen!” she screamed.
Mona shifted uncomfortably. “He had to act naturally. If he acted married, suspicions might be raised, and they'd try to track down his former wife and then—”
“You lied to me,” she whispered. “You enabled him to cheat on me.”
“But he doesn't know that,” Jeffrey said, his voice trying to sound reasonable. “He doesn’t know about—”
“He cheated on me,” his wife said. “It doesn't matter if he knew. You were okay with him doing it. You enabled him to do it.” Her face tightened. “You probably wanted him to do it, because you knew it would drive me away from here.”
The scene shifted again, a still shot of a handwritten note from his wife, addressed to his parents. She'd left and taken the children, unable to trust them any longer. She didn't know if she'd forgive Roddy if the opportunity arose… but she knew she'd never forgive them. She and the children would get their appearances changed, making them as unrecognizable to old friends as Roddy Light was to those in New Venice, and the trio would forever stay away from their network.
Roddy’s tears made it difficult to see the final scene.
Micah spoke. “I'm fairly certain it was her, based upon the data I’ve seen. There are no photos, though. She displayed her competence and Phoenix got its hooks into her. She and the children are now aboard the space station. She'll never be loyal to them, of course, despite her anger. She’s more likely to spend her time there trying to carry out our work in her own fashion. But if she’s there, there's a chance she'll be discovered and imprisoned and then—”
“Get her out, Micah.” Mona's voice was pleading. “No matter the risk, no matter if you're never allowed back there. Just get them out, get them back to the surface and to safety. They don't have to come here, but get them away from those fiends.”
“I understand,” Micah said. “It will be done, and I’ll keep my eyes away from their faces to respect their wish to remain anonymous to all of us.”
The video ended.
Roddy put his face in his hands and cried.
He’d get his memories back and go searching for his family, with the hope that one day he’d be able to forgive his parents for driving his wife away.
And he hoped that, in finding a way to forgive his parents, his wife might find it in her heart to forgive him as well.
—10—
WESLEY CARDINAL
THEY MADE QUICK work of the remaining guard on the dock, a task simplified by the fact that the man had chosen an opportunity for a nap. Based on the preceding conversation, Wesley suspected that with his coworkers heading to investigate the disturbance at the beach, the man figured it was a good time to nap on the job. After all, who would know?
He only liked that theory because it increased the odds there weren’t others hiding about the ship itself.
The man’s eyes opened only when they’d crept down the long gangplank to the top deck of the large ship docked there, returned with rope and tape, and had him bound to the cot on which he slept. His drowsy eyes went sharp when he realized what was happening.
Wesley and John carried the cot with the lazy guard aboard back down the path to where they’d left the other men. Mary led the way, aiming the gun around to take down any immediate threats. The children walked backward behind their mother, eyes keyed on the dock and the ship for any motion that might suggest a straggler they’d need to deal with.
After the men dropped the cot in the brush near the others, Mary rammed the butt of her rifle into the man’s head. His eyes lolled back in his head.
“I think you hit him a little too hard,” John whispered.
“Oops.” Mary’s tone gave little indication of remorse. “Let’s get aboard before anyone decides to check out the boat.” She glanced at the ship. “Why does anyone need a ship that size?”
Wesley cringed. “This might be a getaway ship for a contingency like this one. It’s probably large enough to evacuate everyone on the island.”
The adults glanced at each other.
Then they ran back to the dock. Mary, still armed with the rifle, scoured the interior of the ship for stowaways and a supply assessment. John’s eyes studied the exterior. He pointed. “There. See that hose? Fuel line. They must be preparing to cast off any time. Which means either they’d gotten orders to get ready after the missile hit, or someone wants to take a three-hour tour around the island.”
Wesley nodded. “I’ll figure out how to shut off the fuel and detach the fuel hose.”
John nodded. “And I’ll start undoing the dock ropes so we can get out of here.”
Wesley shook his head. “Figure out how to get the engines started first. And perhaps check to see how full the fuel tanks are. I’ll work on the ropes until we’re sure the fuel tanks are full.”
John’s face tightened, and Wesley could read in the creases in his forehead the understanding that Wesley wanted John aboard the ship if all hell broke loose on the dock. His lips tightened, and he looked ready to argue. But he simply nodded. “I’ll let you know about the fuel right away.”
Wesley watched him walk down the metal gangway to the ship, boots clanging loudly the first few steps until he took more measured steps. He checked the structure and noted that the small bridge retracted back to the dock using a small hand crank. That meant somebody would need to be on the dock to operate the crank. Wesley sighed. That wouldn’t be happening here.
He stepped back away from the vessel and studied the dock setup. The dock was of a curious stacked design; they were on the higher level for larger ships, with a separate dock on the opposite side riding low atop the water for smaller, more personal craft. A stairway led between dock levels. Wesley noted a small gate atop the steps, likely meant to keep small children from wandering. He shut the gate. It wasn’t a huge deterrent; any able-bodied person could hop over it without difficulty. But it could still slow them down for a few seconds, and that might matter.
He checked the ship. A dozen dock lines ran from the ship and looped around the massive wooden posts forming the frame of the dock. The thick ropes strained a bit; the outgoing tide wanted to take the huge boat out to sea. The fuel hose John noted was closest to the shore. There was a metallic structure designed to hold the fuel hose when not in use. The hose itself snaked through a hole in the dock where Wesley suspected he’d find a tank of some sort with a pump. He squinted and found attached to the side of the metal structure a switch used to turn the flow of fuel on and off. There were likely to be similar setups below for the smaller bays used by personal craft.
He jogged closer to the seaside edge of the dock and began removing the dock lines from the pier. It was harder than it looked; the tug of the water strained the ropes and he had to try to pull in some slack to wrestle the nooses free. After the third one, he heard an odd tapping sound. He glanced toward the ship. John, standing inside what must be the bridge, held up eight fingers. Wesley nodded his understanding. The fuel tanks were eighty percent full. They could leave at any time.
He returned his focus to the ropes, continuing until only the last remained, along with the attached fuel hose. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
He heard a distant rumble like thunder coming from the island, and his heart skipped a beat before his pulse accelerated in anticipation. He squinted and looked back toward the island. Unable to see much, he shrugged off his pack and pulled out his binoculars. His eyes took in the magnified scenes of chaos on the beach. People continued to run around the beach in panic and terror, but it had changed now. They weren’t running from the dark ooze, but toward it, scanning it, looking for people or things trapped inside the dissolution zone. Wesley frowned. The Ravagers weren’t moving any longer. That was odd. How had they gotten them to stop? Had they dug trenches in the sand to bring in water and seal the deadly devices inside, trapped by code that forbade destroying water?
He saw no trenches.
And, come to think of it, there weren’t that many people on the beach. How many had the Ravagers destroyed?
His sense of panic rose, and he spun the binoculars back to his left, down the dock ramp and toward the path through the forest from which they'd emerged moments earlier.
The roar of the engines starting told him that John had seen it, too: a swarm of people racing toward the dock, fear and panic on their faces, like a human-based Ravager swarm. They were coming here to evacuate an enclave compromised by the weapon they’d built to destroy everyone else, here to board the huge ship created for that very purpose.
Wesley doubted he and his friends would be permitted to remain on that ship, and though they might stow away and hide for a while, death was still death. They might fake being the “new shift” of the work crew for a time, but three adults and two children wouldn’t pass as a work crew for people who’d demand opulent levels of service while operating the ship.
In other words, they were leaving now.
And Wesley decided it was his job, his destiny, to make sure that the four people aboard the ship now did so safely. And alone.
He tossed the binoculars in the bag and grabbed it, controlling the rifle in one hand and the bag in the other, and raced to the last dock line. No time to try to create slack. He pulled out the sharp knife, zipped the pack, shrugged into it, and began sawing the rope. Strands snapped, and the rope began to unravel. He glanced up. The crowd would get here too quickly. He sawed faster, arms screaming for rest, sweat loosening his grip on the handle. More strands snapped.
He glanced up again. Someone in the crowd saw him, saw what he was doing, and shouted something unintelligible. He couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was unmistakable.
Wesley wasn’t supposed to be there.
He had little doubt what they meant to do with him if he was captured.
He sawed faster, shocked when the last strand of the rope snapped. Wesley sheathed the knife and shoved it in a pocket, prepared to run to the bridge leading him aboard the ship and an escape with his new friends… when he remembered that the fuel line was still attached.
Not good.
He glanced up at the bridge and caught John’s attention. Wesley waved his arms frantically, motioning at John to start moving the ship away. John stared at him for a moment and Wesley pointed at him, staring at the man as if meaning to bore a hole through him by eyesight alone.
John turned away and moved to the controls. The engines revved up seconds later.
And… the fuel line was still attached. There was still some slack, but as the giant ship pulled further away…
Wesley slung the rifle behind his back with the pack and started shimmying up the fuel line toward the attachment point with the ship. He got there quickly, hearing the shouts from the angry crowd arriving and realizing that their getaway yacht was already getting away. He untwisted the end and felt a sense of relief as the fuel hose slipped free, until he remembered two things.
He hadn’t turned the pump off, and fuel was now spilling into the clean, crystalline waters. Dammit.
And he was still hanging on to the hose.
His legs squeezed the hose as he plummeted toward the water, and as he neared the bottom of the swinging arc, he grabbed hold with his arms as well. He reached the bottom of the arc and swung beneath the upper dock, noting with some odd calm that his assumption about the fuel tank and the multiple pumps for each of the smaller ship docking bays had been accurate.
The hose swung him near the underside of the upper dock, bathing the wood below in fuel, before his giant, environmentally unfriendly swing shot him back down toward the water and back out into the open.
The first bullets whistled past him.
They’d hit him eventually. Time to take action.
He shifted his body, bending it at an impossible angle, and as he began his next swing back toward the dock, he angled the end of the hose up toward his attackers. He didn’t manage to bathe the entire wooden structure in fuel, but he got good coverage on one of the large wooden piers. As he slid back beneath the upper deck, he angled the hose up and out, away from the shore, and sloshed fuel against the underside of the dock, where he could hear large numbers of footsteps. The crowd was growing. His only sense of relief was that there were no small boats docked below; they couldn’t chase after the yacht with any type of expediency.
As the hose swung him nearly horizontal again, Wesley let go of the hose and wrestled the rifle forward. Then he began shooting at the wood he’d just coated in highly flammable, explosive fuel.
Flames erupted. He turned his aim to the fuel tank, hoping it was pressurized in some manner to enable the fu
eling of ships, and hoping, in their arrogance, that they’d not built the tank of something bulletproof.
He opened fire.
The tank exploded and everything slowed down for him. Flames burst forth, out and up, and he could see the individual tongues of fire dancing, undulating, consuming and charring the wood. The nearest section of the upper dock broke free, and he could see the individual splinters of charred wood fall atop the burning lower deck. He winced as he careened away from the carnage, possibly because the explosion had hurt him, but more because he saw the human damage the explosion caused: those who’d died in the explosion, lifeless bodies falling into the inferno below; those still alive, suffering from burns made worse from the hotter flames below, trying to roll out of the flames into the salty waters of the sea to assuage the agony—and likely drown in the process; and the faces of those still above, many injured from wooden shrapnel, many suffering minor burns of their own.
Time sped back up, and only then did he realize his own predicament.
Some of those uninjured had weapons. They opened fire at Wesley in earnest now.
His eyes made note of the fact that, in blowing up the fuel tank, he’d also detached the hose he’d been hanging on to during his destructive attack upon the dock, and he now flew high over the clear water as the last of the fuel dripped lazily out of the mouth of the hose, no longer fed by the tank.
And it was only then that he realized how close he’d been to that explosion, for the pain of the burns on his skin finally invaded his mind, adding to the mental chaos as his body added the news of the burns to the even more problematic challenge.
The explosion had left his limbs numb.
He couldn’t grip the hose, but that didn’t matter.
The greater concern, he realized as he fell toward the water like a rag doll, was that his newly discovered swimming abilities would do him no good.
He crashed into the cool surface of the water, welcoming the relief from the burns, but wondering, as he went under, if he'd finally met his end.
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