Like a sand castle caught in the rising tide, the middle of the dam washed away, exploding out in a gush of rushing water and rock. The ledge lurched, threatening to topple under the weight of the A-5. Pumping their legs for all they were worth, the team got within range and dove for the stairs.
When a second rockslide claimed more of the dam, it took the braided nylon line with it. The force ripped the cable from their hands, bulleting its reckless passenger toward the ground.
“Oh, hell no,” Houston grunted through his teeth. He threw himself at the plummeting line, sliding on his stomach to catch it. It hissed through his hands, burning through layers of flesh without slowing. A scream tore from his throat as his upper body disappeared over the ledge. Hooking his feet on the top stair was all that prevented Houston from doing a nose dive into the torrential storm below.
Augusta unclipped the grappling hook at his waist and fastened it to Houston’s belt. He held tight to the line, assuming a wide-legged stance to brace them both. “I’ve got him. Help pull her up.” The flare of his nostrils was the only outward sign of his struggle.
Scrambling on their hands and knees, Detroit and Reno edged up alongside Houston. All that remained of the ledge of the dam was the roughly three by three perch they stood on, leading down the teetering stairs. Tendons of his neck strained in thick ropes beneath his purpling skin, Houston bellowed a potent war cry. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he lifted the rope battling against him. Catching hold, Reno and Detroit bared their teeth and joined the fight. Palms bloodied in a matter of seconds, their feet scraped against their narrow pedestal in a hunt for traction.
Inch by torturous inch they raised dead weight. The line swung like a pendulum counting down to heartache.
“Juneau, I need you to talk to me!” Houston demanded, his tone tight with equal parts concern and exertion.
Silence. Not so much as a whimper floated up from below.
“She’s okay, right?” The panic in Reno’s voice dialed up a few desperate octaves. Blood dripped from the folds of his fist, yet his grip didn’t loosen. “She has to be!”
His face paling, the skin of Houston’s hands hung in flayed ribbons as he continued to pull. “There’s too much dust and debris. I can’t see anything.”
“She could be under water! Keep pulling!” Throwing his slight frame into the task, Reno leaned back against the rope and pulled in a steady hand over hand rhythm.
Knowing Houston would need time in the regeneration tube before he would ever be able to squeeze anything again, Detroit picked up his slack and joined Reno’s efforts. “Houston, we’ve got this. Let go of the rope and just watch for her.”
He needed no second invitation to release his battered hands from the bite of the rope. “Nothing yet. Just a thick cloud of dust.”
Her gaze drifting to the landscape, Detroit watched as the freed water squelched what was left of the spreading blaze. Their mission would officially be labeled a success, but at what cost?
“There’s still weight on the rope,” Auggie whispered, primarily for Reno’s benefit. “Had it broken, we would know.”
A slight nod was the only response the fretting boy could manage.
“Wait!” Hopping to his feet, Houston pointed down. “She’s there! I can see her!”
The haze rescinded to reveal auburn curls and a wide grin. Dripping wet and covered with sludge, Juneau kicked off the wall and turned in a victory spin. “And you all doubted my plan would work!”
“Yeah, I don’t know what we were thinking?” Houston grumbled. He hooking his forearm around her waist and pulled her up.
Only when her feet were under her did Juneau see the wounds that now branded the palms of her eldest teammate. “You did that for me?” Blinking up at Houston, her eyes swam with tears.
“In together, out together. That’s the deal.” A sheen of sweat coated Houston’s chalky complexion. A red light flashing on the cuff on his wrist issued an alert at the state of his vitals.
Fearing it wouldn’t be long before they had to carry him out, Detroit eyed a route back to their pods where the water, at its highest, looked to be little more than knee deep. “We got our girl. Let’s go home.”
Chapter Three
“Who caught that mission today?” Chancellor Washington asked the sea of glamorously groomed bodies filling the AT-1-NS ballroom from his perch on the elevated stage.
Polite applause and whistles lifted in response.
Rubbing a hand over his well-trimmed beard, Washington allowed his citizen’s celebratory cheers to fade organically before he continued. As the only surviving member of the original Apocalypse Five, he was truly a man of the people—a fact that had allowed him to move up the political ranks from soldier to chancellor.
“It was a good one.” He agreed, brushing a manicured hand down the lapel of his sterling silver hued tuxedo. “Our team fought against a chemical based wildfire and doused it with breathtaking theatrics.”
A second, more exuberant, round of applause was accompanied by the clinking of glasses.
Behind the chancellor, a curtain of hand-strung crystals hung from the soaring ceiling to the floor. The glittering stones transitioned from gold to deep sea blue on their descent to the ground. When the light hit them, the effect came alive like a shimmering waterfall.
Caterer androids, easily distinguishable by their rubbery sunshine yellow “skin” weaved through the crowd. Balancing trays on their palms, they offered decadent hors d’oeuvres and chilled champagne to all those in attendance.
“They risk their lives and bring us hope.” Resolute conviction tightening his jaw, the chancellor paced the length of the stage. “That hope is that we may, one day soon, return to Earth. When we do, it will be because we have succeeded in our mission aboard this starship. That we have trained a team so strong and formidable that they can keep the Earth safe from any doomsday threat that dares challenge us!”
To that, the crowd exploded in uproarious cheers at the mere idea of a life lived outside the walls of the AT-1-NS. While it was lavish and had every extravagance they could possibly want, it wasn’t outside. It wasn’t fresh air blowing on their skin, nor sunshine on their shoulders. Both were concepts they had only ever read about.
A small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Washington nodded to the floor and waited for their enthusiasm to quiet.
“Never,” he continued when a suitable hush fell, “has there been a team that has lasted as long as our current A-5. Eighteen months without a death! That’s unheard of! It’s nothing short of an eternity for a team that is risking their lives day after day. Make no mistake, friends. That is exactly what they do. They tirelessly train, for mankind’s sake, time and again, thereby allowing the rest of us to enjoy our way of life and rest a little easier.” Throwing his hands out wide, Washington’s shoulders sagged. “Maybe I’m an arrogant man, but I like to think I play a small part in their success, thanks to the strategy I implemented. I sought to have them each educated in specific areas of study, along with their tactical training. If you remember, I added specialized courses for each—one in mechanics, another in botanicals. And let’s not forget engineering, explosives, and nautical navigation. Not that I mean to impede on their accomplishments in any way.”
“It’s all thanks to you, Chancellor!” a voice in the audience sang out, churning up a fresh wave of accolades.
In the backstage prepping area, Auggie scoffed and let his head thump back against the wall he was leaning on. “Ya hear that?” he slurred. “June-bug could have been blown to bits, but it’s Washington who truly gets the thanks for today’s job well done.”
Auggie’s Undertaker, Saco, twisted the ends of his faux-hawk into a punk masterpiece. Her hands moved with a smooth, robotic purr. When each new teammate was granted a name, so was their android Undertaker. Team members’ names came from state capitols, their handlers’ towns from those same states. The Undertakers were distinguishable by the color of
the metal plating that ran across their torsos. Saco’s was gleaming emerald.
Satisfied with his hair, the titanium tips of her fingers clicked together as she swept her hands down the lapels of his burgundy suit to straighten the cut of its lines. AT-1-NS designers fought tooth and nail for the chance to dress the team. Their fashions for tonight were sure to be tomorrow’s next hot trend, no matter how seemingly absurd.
“Augusta, your speech is impaired, and you are exhibiting poor muscle control by your need to steady yourself against the wall’s stability. Have you been drinking again?” Saco asked, gears whirring as her head tilted.
Pulling a flask from his inside breast pocket, he twisted off the cap and treated himself to a swig. “Again would imply I stopped at some point. You should know by now that in my off time I like to keep myself blissfully numb.”
“You being a moderately intelligent human, I suppose I don’t have to point out that you are underage.” Cocking one curved hip, Saco jammed a hand to her side in what resembled a human-like gesture of annoyance. All of the Undertaker’s human response programs were upgraded to maximum level in hopes of achieving more of a bond between with their charges. In many cases, it also allowed them to exhibit a healthy dose of sass. “Let me instead remind you that all of AT-1-NS has turned out for this event, and public perception plays a large part in keeping you alive. Do I need to reiterate the cautionary tale of Dover? He made himself so publicly hated with his antics that the people requested more dangerous and hazardous missions for him. They wanted to watch him get killed off. As he isn’t on your team, or in the retiree archives, we know how that turned out.”
With a groan, Auggie slapped the flask into Saco’s waiting palm.
“Thank you. I will dispose of this and confirm when you are to make your entrance.” Saco’s body swiveled, her face staying locked on Auggie for a beat to add, “You, try not to break any laws or insult anyone while I’m away.”
Not waiting for an answer, her head caught up with the rest of her. Saco moved away in a mechanical stride, quickly disappearing down the stairs that led to the gala.
Reaching into his back pocket, Auggie pulled out a second flask. “That’s a tall order to fill. She should probably hurry.” He punctuated the statement with a long pull from the container.
“Saco should get promoted to starship flight deck just for having to deal with you,” Detroit muttered, careful to stay still while Lansing, her Undertaker with red plating, arranged double-sided tape to prevent her from spilling out of the white silk gown chosen for her for the evening. Plunging to Detroit’s navel, it left little to the imagination. It also ruled out the possibility of dancing, sitting, or bending for the remainder of the night.
“With every drink he takes, Augusta increases the likelihood of a public spectacle by six-point-seven percent. If such an event were to occur, Saco would most likely be melted down and recycled. She could be a can-opener.” Her head turning with a stiff twitch, Lansing’s stare met Augusta’s with robotic detachment. “Would you like that, Augusta? A Saco can-opener you could open your alcohol beverages with as a reminder of how she tried to save you from yourself?”
With his lips pursed tight in annoyance, Augusta replaced the screw on cap and tucked the flask away. “I’m trying to cope, just like the rest of you. They tried to kill us only a few hours ago. Now, we’re being paraded out like prize space pods. We all have our vices for dealing with this shit. I just have the balls not to hide mine.”
“I’m not hiding anything. I like comfy clothes and streaming old movies from the pop culture archives.” Juneau’s nose crinkled in the direction of Anchorage, her Undertaker with the glossy purple breast plating. “This bra you forced me into is boob jail. It makes my chest sad.”
Anchorage paused in her task of piling curls on top of her charge’s head. The look was a tribute to old Hollywood glamor, just like Juneau liked. “The cotton pajamas you love are already laid out on your bed, Miss Juneau.”
Juneau lifted one brow in mildly piqued interest as her candy apple painted lips twisted to the side.
“I have also alerted the kitchen staff you will be placing an order upon your return to your room for something covered in cheese and/or chocolate.”
Her miniature silver-screen goddess get-up was diminished an iota as Juneau bounced on the balls of her feet, seizing her android in a tight bear hug. “Moons of Mercury, Anchorage, you just get me.”
Eyebrows lifting to his hairline, Augusta turned his hand palm up as if his point had been made for him.
“That’s not a vice,” Juneau huffed, suddenly looking every bit her thirteen years. “It’s good taste.”
“I don’t need any kind of coping mechanism,” Detroit boldly declared, silently envying the guys’ tuxedos, which appeared far more comfortable than her binding gown. “I have a job to do, which I take seriously. Simple as that.”
That claim caused all those who heard it to pull up short. Teammates and androids alike flinched in her direction as if unsure they heard right.
Detroit shrank back a tick as a hot rush filled her cheeks. “What? I don’t.”
Reconsidering the decision to be good, Augusta pulled out his flask and drained it of its contents. “You don’t have a crutch, huh? So, that rippling six-pack and those killer guns were gifted by genetics? You kill yourself in the gym to distract yourself from the realization that any random mission could do it for you. That’s how you maintain control, mon capitane.”
Detroit’s mouth opened and shut in search of some sharp retort to shut him down. But what could she say? He was right. Following that day’s mission she’d pounded out her frustrations on a treadmill until her sweat poured as freely as her tears.
“Leave her alone,” Houston rumbled in her defense, his chest swelling protectively. Thanks to a few hours in the regeneration tube, all that remained of his injuries was puffy pink skin. He was unmarred perfection in a tailored white shirt topped with a tuxedo vest and neck-tie. Plano, his Undertaker marked by black plates, arranged his onyx hair into slick waves that tickled his collar.
Eyes crinkled mischievously, Auggie’s stare lobbed from Detroit to Houston, and back again. Sucking air through his teeth, he chuckled. “Gotta tell ya, man. If she needs a little physical exertion, there are way more fun ways to accomplish that.”
Blushing clear up to her earlobes, Detroit fought back her embarrassment by flipping her blunt bob and glaring him down with expertly make-upped eyes. “Go ahead, keep trying to get the people who fight alongside you to hate you. Maybe that’ll earn you the way out you’re trying so hard to find.”
“Enough,” Reno interjected with his silky-smooth voice of reason. Arms pulled back, he allowed Sparks, his yellow-plated android, to slide his suit coat over his arms. “We get through tonight, and we can each escape into whatever it is that gets us by. For now, we are a team that stands together, if for no other reason than not wanting to die alone.”
“The blood pressure of every human in the room is elevated as if agitated,” Saco stated, reappearing at the top of the stairs. Her digital eyes blinked, a fun little nuance to make the androids seem more life-like for the comfort of their charges. “Is everything okay?”
“Couldn’t be better!” Augusta exclaimed. His smile was just a touch too wide, his eyes not quite focused.
Under normal circumstances, Saco would have noticed his increased state of intoxication and intervened to shield him from the public’s watchful stare. Unfortunately, she came to them under orders that took precedence over her standard programming. “Chancellor Washington requests your immediate presence. He is moments from announcing you.”
“Oh, goody!” Augusta pushed off the wall and stumbled toward the stairs. Catching himself on the railing, he erupted in peals of laughter. “Is he done taking credit for all of our accomplishments, then?”
Lifting one foot, Detroit adjusted the strap of her gold stiletto ankle boot. “We’ve all suffered from reentry sickness. We
could say he’s puking his guts out and can’t make an appearance. It’ll save our fans from knowing he’s a drunken ass.”
Detroit wobbled and the cold metal of Lansing’s hand caught her elbow to steady her. “While A-5 appearances are mandatory, certain circumstances are allowed where absence is permitted. An extreme physical ailment does qualify.”
“This isn’t a circumstance!” The side of Auggie’s hand smacked Houston in the chest as he flung his arms out wide. “It’s an opportunity. One I plan to seize.” Before anyone could move to stop him, he stumbled down the stairs, making a less than grand appearance that still earned thunderous applause.
Gritting their teeth, the rest of the team sullenly followed.
With heads held high, they forced smiles and swept down the grand spiral staircase. Having been cut off mid-speech, Chancellor Washington’s mouth pinched tight with annoyance he fought to keep in check.
Ever the showman, he let the cheers fade before once more asserting his command over the room. “It seems our team is anxious to get the celebration started. And, I couldn’t agree more. We need music, and dancing! Before we do, I’d like to take a moment to say a special thank you to our Apocalypse Five.” Blinking hard, he choked down a manufactured emotion. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips, pausing long enough to force a couple of tears. Eyes now glistening, Washington raised a hand in the direction of his stunning wife and the cherub-faced infant cradled in her arms. How old Mrs. Washington was remained a mystery. Like many other residents of AT-1-NS, she spent so much time in the regeneration tube she could pass for twenty or forty. “I see my beautiful wife, Liberty, holding our infant son and I know I only have the security of love and family thanks to the tireless efforts of the five of you.” Clapping his fist over his heart, the chancellor bowed his head as a show of respect to the A-5. “Your heroic efforts allow us the blessing of a future for our families, and for that we are exceedingly thankful.”
The next chorus of applause was interrupted by Augusta falling down the last six steps of the staircase. His boisterous guffaw was smothered by the heavy cloak of awkward silence that blanketed the ballroom.
Apocalypse Five: Archive of the Fives Book One Page 3