by S. M. Nolan
Russell pushed through the next section of hallway, headed for a wing with “Operating Ward” stenciled above a second set of swinging doors. Two more men were posted on either side of the door. He gathered his calm, stepped through.
“Sir,” one man nodded.
Russell nodded back, passed them with his heart racing. The man called after him, Russell's hand twitched for his pistol.
The guard approached as he turned back, “Yes?”
“This room here, sir.” He pointed to the left side of the hall, “Other way leads to the O-R. Can't go in without authorization.”
He relaxed, “Observation then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Russell thanked him, stepped through into a darkened room. A light beyond a two-way mirror drew his eyes right; standing flood-lights were aimed at the center of a circle of nurses, a surgeon nestled among them with his head down. His magnifying lenses refracted light onto teal scrubs while a dozen machines, carts, and medical devices encompassed the group.
The staff obscured Maggie from view as Russell approached the two-way glass. His body trembled at glimpses of blood-stained cloth. A nurse edged sideways, revealed Maggie's anesthetized, masked face atop a surgical gurney.
A blow to Russell's chest staggered him. He stumbled back into a chair, immediately overcome with regret. His mind ran hurdles, sprinted between them while his body rebelled with each leap. He tried to still himself, couldn't.
The door opened to light steps that echoed tremors over his nerves. He placed his head in his hands to combat terror.
Here he was, deep in enemy territory, asking their help. He could only hope Reese's deception lasted long enough to keep Maggie alive. Anymore was too much to ask. His own, thin veil was barely enough to keep suspicion from him. Maggie was gentle, beautiful inside and out, and summarily had no place in Omega's revolting business—yet here she was.
Anger smothered Russell's fear; anger at Omega, the Protectorate, and Ryusaki for involving her, however unintentionally. She was sweet, kind-hearted, wanted nothing more than to live peacefully and strive for her due recognition. Ryusaki and Omega had ruined that. Still he sat, begging them to save her life.
The light steps deposited Reese's frame in a chair beside him. He remained still, his thoughts on Maggie. A second body sank into a distant seat with the light sound of a Laptop's whirling fans.
Maggie; to say he cared for her no longer felt strong enough, but to say he loved her felt too sudden. She deserved the most cautious approach, but he couldn't help sensing where things were headed.
But love wouldn't help. Both he and Maggie knew the reality of their world; it had changed, and such things might have no place in it. Sheltering her from that truth was impossible now. She needed strength to go on, alone should the worst occur. If they ever intended to make it home alive, they had to be equals. Singling out emotions could only further separate them.
The whirling fans spun higher with the low grind of a hard-drive that derailed Russell's train of thought. He heaved a sigh, looked up at the group clustered around Maggie. Reese watched his eyes bounce between the surgeon, the nurses, and Maggie between them.
She spoke with a gentleness whose sincerity was still questionable, “They're good doctors. The best. Trust them. Trust me.”
Russell snorted, questioned her logic, “How many times have you tried to kill us this week?”
Reese didn't flinch, “More than I've saved your ass in the last hour.”
“Convenient when we have something you need, isn't it?”
Reese saw where he was headed, “Moot. We have it now. Why am I still here?”
“Subterfuge. We lead you to what you want, you take it.”
“Then why are you here, in this facility? Why'd I risk my life to bring her here ?”
Russell was cold, “You need her alive.”
“For what and why, when I could easily take what I need from you?”
Russell searched for an answer. His accusations disintegrated the longer he pursued it. He settled into a stare. Maggie's face disappeared as a nurse side-stepped and his mind was forced away.
She caught his eye, “Well?”
“You tell me.”
She swept the room with a thought, relaxed in her seat as Thorne's head bobbed beneath his headphones, “I have reasons for leaving. They're my own. She… Ever heard of Androcles and the Lion?” Russell squinted. She nodded at the O-R, “She pulled the thorn out.”
Thorne lifted his headphones, “You say something?”
She shook her head and he replaced them.
Russell's eyes narrowed, “You beat the hell out of each other, and that was her removing a thorn?”
“Maybe one day one of us'll understand it. For now, you're an out. That's more than enough.”
Russell watched the surgeon toss bloody instruments into a bowl and turn to face the window with a thumbs up. The nurses removed the mask from Maggie's unconscious body and prepared to move her.
Russell rose but Reese stopped him, a warning in her eyes, “When she wakes up, she'll want to know where we are. We have to be careful what we say. Most of these rooms are under surveillance and Thorne can only do so much. We need to get out of here. A-SAP.”
“How?”
“We need to know where we're going first. We should have something soon, but she has to be ready whether we know or not.”
Russell understood her meaning; he could feel whatever he wanted, but they had to stay focused. Nothing was as important as being prepared for what lay ahead. If he allowed anything to weigh him down, they might never make it through. Fortunately, if Reese was honest, she was as much behind enemy lines as they were. Relying on her would be difficult, but Maggie was alive. His trust had not, so far, been misplaced.
He had twenty-four hours to rest, revive Maggie, and accept that Reese was on his side. Otherwise, he might be looking over his shoulder when West shot him in the gut.
28.
Tempus Fugit
October 8th
5:00 AM
Recovery Wing, Omega compound
Russell wrestled with sleep in a chair beside Maggie's bed, lulled between states of consciousness. Every so often she would stir or shift and his eyes would snap open. Only after he was certain she was still asleep would he drift back to his uneasy state.
Reese and Thorne had long ago disappeared to procure supplies and finish the translation. He hoped they might return with the weapon's location, but with Maggie yet to awaken, their ticking clock meant she couldn't fully recover regardless. If she wasn't awake soon, they'd have to awaken her artificially.
Imprisonment tightened Russell's chest, burdened his mind so heavily he missed the subtle stir that signaled her rise. She blinked rapidly to focus her vision, glanced sideways at him. She smiled, reached forward. Tightness in her side forced out a grunt.
Russell's eyes snapped open to see her doubled over. He slid to his knees beside the bed, “You okay?”
She replied with a dry throat, “Y-yeah. I guess.”
She lifted her blanket to examine her body, found herself in a hospital gown. The pressure of a bandage throbbed from her side, flooded her memory with images; they'd stormed the warehouse, and in the fighting, she'd been shot. The last thing she remembered was Reese trying to keep her conscious.
She grimaced, “I guess we did it.”
His eyes hardened, “Yes. Reese brought us to some friends. They cleaned you up.”
Maggie's face turned rigid, “When can we leave?”
“As soon as you're ready, Reese'll be on her way with our gear.”
Maggie groaned, angled to hang her feet over the bed's edge, “Bathroom?”
He gestured sideways, “You need any help?”
She set her feet on the cold tile, tested her weight, gave a yelp as she straightened. Russell reached for her. She swatted him back, straightened against the tightness in her abdomen to take a step forward. Wires tugged at her chest. She ripped
them off. Their monitors beeped rapid, high tones. She jerked an IV line from her arm, threw it aside. A pair of nurses suddenly rushed in.
“I'm fine,” she said, straining to straighten.
“You shouldn't be up,” a nurse urged with a forward step.
Russell intercepted her, “I'll keep an eye on her.”
Her eyes followed Maggie to the bathroom, “She needs to be careful or she'll split her sutures.”
“I'll make sure she bears that in mind.”
The nursed eyed him suspiciously, “I'll be back in a few hours for a post-surgical analysis.”
He nodded, saw the nurses out, and closed the blinds on the door's window. He lifted them to watch the confused the nurses wander away, and exhaled a heavy breath, “We need to get out of here.” He clicked the radio at his throat, “She's awake.”
Reese responded, “Heading up now.”
Russell stood in the room's center as he looked to the floor. He was exhausted, long past wishing for their misadventure to end. The bathroom door opened and Maggie leaned against the jamb, haggard but alert.
“Reese is on her way.”
With a careful motion, he stepped over, slid his arms around her. She reciprocated with a strained breath, burrowed her face into his neck. She exhaled heat that made him shiver.
“Thank you. I know you wouldn't have done this if it weren't for me. I'll be fine now.”
He gave a wavering smile, “I never had any doubt. You're a survivor.”
“I know, but I needed to say it.” She leaned back enough to kiss him. He sank slightly until she pulled away with a stuttering breath, “We need to finish this.”
He agreed with a nod and the door opened, parted them. Reese entered with Thorne at her side, the two freshly showered.
Reese was relieved, “Good to see you up.”
Thorne's brow furrowed at her. Maggie's rose, “You're… at ease.”
“Funny. I just like to know the person I risked my ass to save's grateful.”
“I am,” she replied sincerely. “Thorne, I'm sure you helped.”
He shrugged, “I called the chopper. Got bloody. That's about it.”
Maggie shot Russell a look but Reese slid Maggie's pack from a shoulder, “We'll reminisce later. Gear's inside. Get dressed.”
Maggie headed back into the bathroom. Reese put a finger to her lips, motioned Thorne to a chair. He sat to open his laptop, hesitated a moment before typing furiously, then gave a thumbs-up.
Reese peeked through the blinds, “We need to go.”
“What about the translation?”
Thorne explained, “I've narrowed it to a handful of passages and suspected locations. Each one's an ancient city in North Africa, but only one shows any promise. I haven't been able to get an exact fix, but it's in Libya.”
“What about ancient Mesopotamia? I thought—”
Thorne threw up a hand, interrupting him. “If the language is as old as we think, it probably didn't originate there. Christ, history changes everyday. If the civilization that built the weapon's buried, why wouldn't any indicator of its origins be?” Russell found himself in silent agreement. Thorne focused on the laptop, “We've got the info right here. You want to trust that or assumptions? If we're going by this, then no-one's known where it is for ages—or at least couldn't confirm it.”
Reese's eyes darted between the room's doors, “Look, we've only got a few minutes before someone comes in. Thorne's running interference, but they're going to start looking for its source. We need to know what we're going to do.”
“We're sure it's in Libya?” Thorne nodded without looking. “Then that's where we're headed. Organize transport. We'll figure the rest out along the way.”
“It's nine-and-a-half hours from here to Tripoli,” Thorne said with a quick, mental calculation. “That's cutting it close if West figures out what's going on before Hun reports to Black.”
“Can you monitor their comms?” Russell asked.
“I can try, but Black's sat-link won't be active long. If we miss the window, we miss the chatter.”
“We'll monitor it in shifts as soon as we're on the plane,” Reese said. “Thorne and I'll go see Hun and arrange the transport.”
“Good luck.”
“Just make sure Maggie's ready. As soon as we leave, the veil's broken.”
Thorne followed Reese out. Russell rubbed his forehead, stepped to the bathroom door and knocked, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
He turned away, “Let me know if you need anything.”
Maggie stood before a mirror over the sink, naked save the bandage around her abdomen. She examined her body and its injuries; her skin was pale, eyes dark-purple and lined with bags from stress and sleep deprivation. Her face was cut in places from glass-shards that had sprayed across its right side. Bruises peppered her head and body rom the fight with Reese while a bloody thumb-print faded from one edge of her forehead to the other. Her lip was fat, split in the center where her lip-ring had jammed into it and chipped a tooth.
She winced at herself, ran her fingers along the stranger's face in the mirror. Her long, disheveled hair fell around the gash from the Protectorate guard and her fingers followed it down to a large bruise on her cheek from Reese's fist. She shifted along her side to her abdomen, pressed at the bandage, sucked air as a finger neared the wound's epicenter.
Her long hair was ratty at the shoulders, matted with blood to frame a face she no longer recognized. She drew a long breath and looked to the pile of clothing; it bore none of her usual style, no low-necks, brand names, or slim-fit jeans. Instead, black fatigues, surplus, one-size-fits-most. Atop it was her leg harness, complete with the TRP and the knife from her jump-harness.
She stared at them with an emptiness in her gut, contemplated her image. The fire inside flared. Something about the way she stood now—naked, scarred, bruised—something had changed. She wasn't certain what.
The fire within threw white-hot sparks. Images of the warriors on her arm flashed with them. Russell's assertion was right. She was a survivor, like the warriors now super-imposing themselves around the fire.
For a long moment, she knew nothing but their presence and the dull pain in her body. Her eyes saw the haggard stranger reflected in the mirror with a face not unlike her own. In an instant, a new warrior emerged in the flames, one growing since that small spark in Oakton.
The flames became an inferno, a ceremonial bonfire enveloping the corpse of her past-self as the new warrior unfurled. It stepped into the circle with the others and she felt herself follow, sink into place around the fire where it stood.
Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed for a towel beside the sink to soak it, dab at her face and forehead, and wipe away blood from. In its absence, her matted hair looked out of place.
The stranger felt more familiar, but her eyes fell to the knife. She set the rag aside, drew it from her harness. Its blade reflected a dull, distorted image more accurate than any mirror. The knife mimed her every breath back as she tilted her head to one side and the other. With a hand, she drew her hair ponytail together and raised the blade.
A single flick of her wrist sliced through her hair.
She pulled the tuft away. The futility of life seemed surmised in the singular act; one flick and it was over. Her hair fell just above her ears and below her skull. She released the tuft into the sink. A hand rose, cut away small bits of hair. They fell to the floor with her last shreds of fear and desperation.
She kept slicing, evening out the image, finding satisfaction only when it no longer felt foreign. Instead it reflected back the turmoil forced upon her. Her eyes caught the warrior women on her arm, their images accompanied by new confidence in her chest.
She had once obsessed over the imagery to compel her through grief, sorrow, mourning but they'd been little more than symbolic then. Now, a true warrior had awakened, brought clarity to a question she'd once asked herself; How had they managed t
o survive, to live with the burdens placed upon them? The answer; they were forced to, for the good of themselves and others. There was no decision made. They were choice-less, like her. Survival happened on instinct, morality and duty compelling them in between.
Though the story's details were always different, their plots remained the same. The warrior kept the peace, fought to protect themselves and others and keep their aggressors' evils in-check.
Like them, she was required to keep the weapon from Omega for the good of all. If necessary, she'd give her life to do it, but she'd accept nothing less. Otherwise, nothing would stop her from destroying it.
She threw a final tuft of hair into the sink, wet her hands to flatten the rest against her head
A knock sounded and Reese intoned, “It's me.”
“Yeah, come in.”
The shock of Maggie's abrupt transformation was clear in Reese's stunned eyes. Apart from the pile of hair in the sink, and the dragon gleaming across her back, something about her was captivating. She seemed to hold herself differently, a newfound confidence in her stance.
Reese recovered. Her eyes darted over the room as she stepped in, shut the door. Maggie caught her roving vision as she began to dress.
“It's impolite to stare, you know.”
“I-I wasn't—”
She smiled, “You need something?”
She watched Maggie in the mirror, “We've arranged the transport.”
She slid carefully into her shirt, “Everything ready?”
“Yeah. Just waiting on you.”
She turned to leave, but Maggie spoke softly, “Stephanie.”
Reese froze, stunned by the formal use of her name. Maggie turned to hug her. Her body fought confusion at the intimacy of Maggie's touch. Maggie tightened around Reese as she cleared her throat. She hesitated, but put her arms around Maggie.
They embraced until Maggie pulled away and looked into Reese's eyes, “Thank you. I didn't know if I could trust you, but… I'm sorry I doubted you.”
Reese avoided her awkward confusion, “I don't blame you. Russell's in the same boat.”