Uprising

by David Ryker

  “What are you looking for?” Ben demanded.

  “Uh, you,” said Schuster. “We needed to talk to you.”

  “I don’t believe you. There are a lot of wealthy people here right now. The ransom for this group would be in the trillions.”

  “Hmmm…” Gloom mused.

  Schuster goggled at her. “Seriously?”

  “What’s the big deal? It’s not real. It can’t hurt us.”

  Is she right?

  DO YOU REALLY WANT TO FIND OUT?

  Sloane’s words echoed in Schuster’s mind as he sent a light kick into Gloom’s ankle.

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t mind her,” he said to Ben. “She’s drunk. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “I ask the questions around here,” Ben countered.

  “Yes, you do. Because you’re Foster Kenya, and that’s what journalists do: they ask questions. Right?”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed, but Schuster couldn’t be sure if it was recognition or just confusion he saw there.

  “I need to take you into custody,” he said. “Mr. Bloom will know what to do with you.”

  Shit. “I can’t let you do that,” said Schuster.

  Ben’s eyebrows rose. “Is that right? And what exactly are you going to do about it?”

  Schuster looked at Gloom. “Hit the deck.”

  She flashed him a sour look but did as she was told, and the next moment Schuster snared Ben’s gun hand in his own and raised it above his head. With a single move, he twisted his body into Ben’s and secured his wrist so that he had both hands on the gun, then twisted and threw Ben off balance and onto the floor.

  “Sorry about that—”

  The words hadn’t even made it out before the hard sole of Ben’s shoe sailed into Schuster’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him and sending him staggering back into the wall.

  It’s not real, he told himself, but it didn’t help much. Ben tackled him quickly to the floor and wrestled his way onto Schuster’s back. As soon as he was there, he nabbed the pistol from the floor and pointed the muzzle between Schuster’s shoulder blades.

  “Ben, stop,” said Gloom.

  “Why should I?” Ben snarled. “You people are criminals.”

  “No, we’re your friends. Those people out there in that room are the enemies, not us.”

  Ben looked up and out into the room beyond the louvers. “They’re the elite,” he said. “The best in the world.”

  “People like them caused your mother to jump to her death and made you an orphan,” she whispered. “They believe they own people like us. That we’re their property.”

  “They send people like us to die in their wars,” Schuster grunted from underneath him. “All so they can have more money than they could ever possibly use in a thousand lifetimes.”

  Ben was silent for a long time—long enough to make Schuster wonder if he was thinking about pulling the trigger. Suddenly, a tall man with white hair appeared in the opening that led out to the drawing room.

  “Kill them,” the man said blandly. “They don’t belong here.”

  “You used to take down assholes like this in your sleep,” Gloom said, her voice louder now, almost mocking. “The elites would shake at the mere mention of the name Foster Kenya. Are you seriously going to let one of them order you around?”

  Ben didn’t answer. Schuster decided he had no choice but to try to gain leverage and get out from under him, hoping all the while that he didn’t get shot—

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  He saw Gloom’s hand flash in his peripheral vision and grab the pistol out of Ben’s hand. He took advantage of Ben’s surprise to twist onto his back, just in time to see Gloom level the pistol at the old man and blow his head into a cloud of red goo.

  Ben blinked savagely, rubbing his palms into his eyes. Schuster shoved him off and knelt next to him.

  “Ben,” he said. “Are you with us?”

  “D-Dev.” Ben looked around at him, then at Gloom. “Gloom. What the hell…?”

  “It’s a long story,” Schuster sighed. “And it’s not over yet. We’ve got one more stop to make before we figure out a way to get the hell out of here and back to the real world.”

  But the longer all of this went on, the more Schuster had to wonder if he even knew what the “real” world was anymore.

  20

  Quinn felt the kick before he saw it, and it sent him flying backward into the cryonic generator. His head connected squarely with a steel valve stem, filling his vision with a cloud of stars and sending a jolt of agony through the base of his skull.

  It was Purple Hair who’d tagged him; he knew because he could see a fuzzy cloud of purple floating above him, preparing to follow up with an axe kick straight down on the top of his head. He lifted his arms in a rising X block that managed to blunt the force, but the Yandare’s genetically enhanced musculature still gave the blow the force of a punch from Maggott. Quinn rolled to his left to position his back against the machinery so that he wouldn’t have to deal with an attack from behind, at least.

  “Sit still, you fucking rabbit!” Han screamed. An instant later, Quinn heard a crack that was almost surely Yellow Hair’s shoe connecting with either Han or Bishop in a painful way. He wished he could help them, but his hands were more than full with his own opponent. At least the others had a two-on-one advantage.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he groaned, struggling to keep his feet. “I meant what I said—we can get money. Lots of it. Just let us go.”

  This time Quinn heard the whistle of the spin kick first, allowing him a split-second to get his head down and keep the heel of Purple Hair’s shoe from connecting with his jaw.

  “You Americans and your money,” the woman spat. “You know nothing of loyalty. Nothing of honor.”

  A duet of grunts from the other side of the room told Quinn that both Han and Bishop had suffered painful blows. With Ulysses, they might have had a chance against the two Yandares, but as it was, they were in serious trouble. There was almost no way they could win a purely physical confrontation.

  The only hope was to try some psychology and pray.

  “I know of Yandare honor,” he croaked, trying to get into a defensive position.

  “You lie.” Purple Hair leapt into the air in a heart-stoppingly graceful flip and landed on her toes atop a wheel valve a few feet above him on the machinery. He almost fell over trying to keep track of her as she moved. “Many of our sisters were slaughtered when you and your fellow cowards destroyed Oberon One. They had no chance to defend themselves and die with honor. I regret that I can only kill you once; you deserve to be shamed in the annals of history for a hundred generations to come.”

  “You believe a lie,” he panted. “Your sisters died long before the station was destroyed. I fought alongside Senpai Sally when she killed two of them herself.”

  A blur of color spun past him as Purple Hair flipped effortlessly back down to the floor. He barely had time to blink before he felt the tips of razor-sharp fingernails pressing against his throat.

  “Senpai Sally is revered among our sisterhood,” she hissed. “The likes of you are not fit to speak her name.”

  “Sally sacrificed herself to save him!” Bishop hollered. It was quickly followed by a thud and a muted cry of pain.

  “Liar!”

  “It’s true!” Quinn held up his hands in surrender. “Aliens had taken over the souls of your sisters, and Sally released them from that shame. It was an act of mercy. She saved me so that we could escape and reach Earth, to warn everyone about the alien threat. Everyone on board Oberon One was a mindless shell when we blew it up.”

  Purple Hair’s huge eyes blazed as she stared into his, one hand at his throat, the other cocked for a killing blow. Quinn instinctively knew that if he blinked now, she would kill him, so he returned her stare for what seemed like eons.

  “What were Sally’s final words?” she asked finally.
>
  “One word,” he said. “Banzai.”

  Yellow Hair appeared behind her colleague, dragging Han and Bishop on their hands and knees along with her. Quinn felt ashamed at being beaten so easily, even though his rational mind knew that he and Bishop were exhausted from their time defending themselves in New Alcatraz.

  “Do you believe him, sister?” Yellow Hair asked. She seemed as conflicted as Purple Hair.

  “I’m sure you saw the video,” said Quinn. “It was all true.”

  “The ugly old man said there truly were aliens. Could it be so?”

  “He’s still out there,” Bishop groaned from the floor. “Him and another guy from Oberon One. They’re trying to bring an armada to Earth that will take over every mind on the planet.”

  Quinn kept his eyes locked on Purple Hair’s. “If we don’t stop them, Sally’s sacrifice will have been for nothing. So kill us if you must, but know that by doing so, you will dishonor her and everything she stood for.”

  He took a deep breath and bowed his head. It was a desperate gambit—she could easily sever his head if she chose to. He waited, feeling his pulse in his ears for long seconds as she decided his fate.

  “To spare you will break our contract with Oleg,” she said uncertainly.

  “Oleg is a pig,” said Yellow Hair. “We serve him out of duty alone. We are not bound to him by oath or honor.”

  “His lack of discipline is bothersome,” Purple Hair agreed. “And he treats his servants poorly.”

  Quinn took a deep breath. “We don’t have much time to find Frank King and get him out of here.”

  Purple Hair nodded slowly. “He is up those stairs, in a room to the right.”

  Another small favor, thought Quinn. But the big one, of course, was yet to come.

  “Will you release us?” he asked, bowing his head again.

  “Yes.” Purple Hair’s tone suggested she wasn’t completely sure of herself, but that she had no choice. “Do not make us regret this choice, Quinn. We will be forced to leave Oleg’s service, and very likely will have contracts put out on our lives.”

  “Or you could kill him,” Han offered.

  “Your sacrifice honors us,” Quinn said in a low voice, ignoring Han. “We can only hope to be worthy of it.”

  Purple Hair bowed in return, followed by Yellow Hair. Quinn noted that neither of them had even broken a sweat as Bishop and Han got to their feet.

  “We can retrieve King and get out through that elevator,” said Han, pointing to a door set into the wall. “It’s an express to the main floor.”

  “No,” Purple Hair said simply. “Only Oleg can operate it. It will not work if he does not enter the code personally.”

  “Should have known it was too easy,” said Bishop. “We’ll have to get out the way we came in, through the crowd.”

  “We’ll figure it out as we go.” Quinn turned to the Yandares and bowed deeply. “We are in your debt.”

  “Indeed you are,” said Purple Hair. “But I believe you are a man of honor, Quinn. Perhaps we will meet again.”

  He grinned. “And maybe next time, we can fight side by side.”

  She gave him a tiny smile, only a tiny fraction of how wide it could actually stretch.

  “Perhaps.”

  With that, they all headed for the stairs. Yellow Hair stopped at the first door to the right in the corridor and waved her hand at the panel set in the wall before continuing on. The door slid open, revealing a small room with sallow light coming from a panel set in the ceiling, illuminating a disheveled man sitting in a chair in the middle of the room.

  “Who’s there?” he rasped, raising his head to look at the people standing in the doorway.

  The trio entered the room and the door closed automatically behind them. Quinn knelt on the floor next to the chair and looked into Frank King’s eyes, watching them widen as recognition set in.

  “Quinn?”

  “Yes, sir,” Quinn said in a low voice. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Oleg Johnson didn’t get to where he was by passing up opportunities, especially when they dropped into his lap the way this one had.

  He led Ulysses Coker down a wide hallway that led to a living room in his personal quarters. It would be easier to talk there than in the party on the floor below, with no prying eyes to spy on them and wonder what they were up to. He firmly believed in keeping his enemies close, which meant there were eyes everywhere in the party. By keeping them focused there, Oleg managed to keep his relationships strong while simultaneously maintaining his privacy.

  “Damnation,” Ulysses breathed as they entered the room with its high ceilings and ultra-modern furniture. The entire west wall was a single window overlooking Moscow, in all its brutal, ugly glory.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Oleg poured them each two fingers of vodka. Ulysses took his, toasted and knocked it back.

  “I gotta say, yer sorta mah personal hero,” he said. “All us Saints look up to yuh. Yer iron will is legendary.”

  “Stop, you’ll give me a swelled head.” Oleg took a sip of his booze. “Since you brought them up, let’s change the subject to your friends back in the U.S. Are they looking for new opportunities?”

  Ulysses’ eyes lit up. “Always. Whut’s on yer mind?”

  Oleg motioned towards a wide sectional sofa upholstered in rich elephant skin leather that had cost him millions to smuggle out of Tanzania.

  “We were talking about war before,” he said. “And this time, I think it’s going to be pretty serious.”

  “Ain’t war always serious?”

  “This one will be different. More final, you know?”

  Ulysses shrugged. “Long as there’s money t’be made, I’m in for anythin’.”

  Oleg smiled. “I like that attitude. See, I have a feeling that my time in Russia may be coming to an end, and I might need to relocate back to my other homeland soon. I was wondering if maybe the South might be a … welcoming kind of place, if you get me.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me? The Saints’d treat you like a damn god, dude!”

  He chewed on that for a few moments. Russia would always be home, but he couldn’t be sure that there was any way to stave off the coming war, and if it came, Oleg was sure it would be the final nail in his homeland’s coffin. He was a patriot, but he was also a pragmatist.

  The last of his vodka went down his throat like warm air. “King is the key right now,” he said. “If we can get him back to the States, we can use him for all sorts of leverage. Obviously Zero felt the same way, or he wouldn’t have sent you here to collect him.”

  Ulysses shrugged. “Makes sense t’me. Ah’m like you, man, I got no problem screwin’ Zero over.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.” Oleg reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and withdrew a flat wristband. “I took this off Ms. Han earlier. Apparently she managed to smuggle it in somehow. What was your plan to get out of here once you’d freed your frozen friend?”

  “Get ‘im out to street level and onto the vactrain to Seoul. Rendezvous with the rest o’ the fuckin’ Marines there and head on back to San Fran with the ship we came in.”

  “Right,” said Oleg, nodding. “That magic disappearing ship. How’s that work, anyway?”

  “Don’t ask me, man. Ah don’t do tech shit; ah kill people.”

  “A man after my own heart.”

  Ulysses held out his hand and motioned for Oleg to give him the wristband. “Gimme that and ah’ll set things in motion.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Message the big idiot flyin’ our ship that there’s gonna be a slight change in plans.” Ulysses tapped over the keyboard. “The other three are dead an’ ah’m in charge now. He’ll be a fuckin’ mess over it, but it’ll keep the giant fucker from attackin’ me when ah show up with King. Once we’re back in the U.S., I’ll have him switch destinations to San Antonio. Put King into Saints custody an’ wait fer you to show up an’ give us orders.” He tur
ned to Oleg. “Sound like a plan?”

  Oleg had to admit, he had seriously underestimated his new friend. With King in the States and a toehold with the Saints, he could begin to make plans and contingencies for the coming weeks and months. It was time for Oleg Johnson to take over as Zero’s successor, manipulating people and events to advance his own goals, all while keeping himself off the board and a safe distance from the consequences.

  “It does sound like a plan,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  Ulysses nodded and hit send on the keyboard. “It’s done. All ah gotta do is get King to the vactrain and we’re on our way.”

  “You won’t even need that,” said Oleg. “I can keep the security system from tracking your ship. You can just fly back home, cut out the middle man.”

  Ulysses grinned. “See, that kinda thinkin’ right there’s why yer mah hero.”

  Oleg grabbed the bottle and poured both of them another two fingers. He raised his glass and touched it against Ulysses’.

  “Here’s to new opportunities,” he said, then tipped it back and drained it at a draught.

  21

  Chelsea was tired, but it was a good kind of tired. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

  Sure, it felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks, but that was to be expected. You didn’t get into the senate without long days and losing sleep, even if you were tied to one of the richest families in the world. It took planning, a team, hard work and even a fair bit of luck to organize a campaign that would galvanize the people to vote.

  So she sipped coffee as she circulated, instead of the vintage 2027 champagne that her guests were enjoying. The wine was the real thing, made in one of the last years before wildfires had ravaged the Champagne region of France and put an end to its production forever. It was a party, after all, a celebration to officially kick off her campaign, and she had to show her friends how much she appreciated their support.

  Friends. Seemed like every time she thought of the word these days, she felt a little wave of melancholy that she didn’t quite understand. She was surrounded by them, yet she felt as if she missed them all the same. Crazy.