by Legend Brook
"Are you alright, Mr. Smith?" One of the guards at the front of the car asks.
Robert looks to the guard, then continues to shake his head. "No." He gives a few more shakes. "No." His hand stretches out to point at the crumpled up jacket Samantha had moved. His hand is shaking from his discombobulated nerves. The jacket is draped disorderly over the top of the chair. "I need someone to take that, and just-" He takes a shaky inhale. "Just burn it, please."
Robert curls uncomfortably in his chair. He closes his eyes through an exhale. "Please, just- someone burn it."
---
A large black hovercraft pulls up to the After World Ocean docks. The space is wide and empty, as most of the vessels are underwater.
However, in the distance, there are several large water crafts that have not yet been given the approval to be taken out. They're still in testing, understand, due to the stabilizer's inability to keep the craft steady over large waves.
So, here they sit.
A wide housing unit for shipmates sits over by the unused water crafts.
Other than that, the lot is left empty. It's unused space that's been cut off from the outside world by tall, electric gates that zap any potential intruders.
A breeze drifts through the air and over mucky waters. It bites at the Captain and her two subordinates standing on guard before their mostly submerged vessel.
Beside the open hatch stands one more shipmate. His posture is as perfect as his captain's as they wait for their doctor and new archivist to depart their craft.
Captain Floran Jones stands tall before the dock to her submarine. Her cheeks blush from the bite in the air. The skin on her hands crack for the same reason.
She's pale. Very much so, almost translucent.
Captain Jones has spent a large majority of her adult life working on this project. It's her everything. And needless to say, allowing some incompetent archivist with no training aboard puts a crease between her brows.
Another push of wind sends the thin, platinum colored hair that's not caught in a pointed uniform cap or long braid, into her face. Blue eyes close in frustration.
Her on guard stance does not waver.
When the hovercraft door glides open, a deep, controlled monotone voice escapes the young captain.
"Welcome aboard the U.S.S. LUCE, the first ever After World battle submarine and your home for the next thirty days."
Robert shakily exits the craft. He's holding a suitcase in his arms as though it were keeping him alive.
Samantha walks around the hovercraft and past Captain Jones. She's sporting a large dark duffle bag around her shoulder. She removes it only when the man beside the submarine's hatch, Hector Todd, holds out his hand with a smile. The matching tug of lips could tell any clever observer these two are close.
Robert makes a choked noise at the back of his throat when he sees the massive top section of the submarine. It terrifies him to know this is just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.
"Robert Smith." Captain Jones calls.
Her deep, certain voice sends a shiver down Robert's spine. It's almost as terrifying as her vessel of choice.
"We are pleased to have you aboard!" She forces out. There is no emotion in her voice or expression. In fact, she's not even looking at Robert as she says this.
"Thank you." Robert coughs into his hand with the most subtle glance around the closed off space as he can manage.
The dock may be enormous, but it's security is well thought out. There's no getting out of this one.
The door to the bulky After World military hovercraft closes behind Robert.
He startles a look back at it.
He's outdoors, and yet... Robert suddenly feels he's suffocating.
"Wilson!" Captain Jones calls.
Her sheer volume is booming, deafening.
Again, it startles Robert.
The tall, broad shouldered man at the captain's right solute's the air. "Yes, ma'am!" He barks just as loudly.
"Situate our guest." She finally looks to Robert. The contact is hard, intimidating. It puts Robert on edge. "Our mission starts now."
Robert shuffles the tiniest of steps toward the retreating captain. To her back, he asks, "I'm sorry, what exactly is this mission? Where is it we're headed?"
Wilson walks up beside Robert and holds out his hand in a manner much like the other sailor had done to Samantha.
The difference in height makes Robert feel small, weak. He hugs his case closer and gives the slightest turn of his back on this so called "Wilson".
The naval soldiers still outside the USS LUCE stop their advancement toward their off ground home.
The group looks coordinated, official, well put together, one might say. But that doesn't change the fact that this is the first time an underwater mission is to ever take place. And no matter how synchronized their movements, polite their words, or clean their official blue and white head to toe uniforms may be, Robert cannot forget this fact.
Wind attempts to push Captain Jones back toward the archivist, but she holds her ground. Dully, she peers over her left shoulder.
"War, Mr. Smith." She explains.
Robert's heart drops at the word.
He's lost the air in his lungs. It sends a ringing through his ears and blurs his vision.
Robert stumbles a step back.
There's a hand on his shoulder, he realizes.
He jumps away from the touch and looks around.
He can't find his breath.
When did the air get so thin?
Robert looks around at all the distant ships and worried faces. They blend together.
"Mr. Smith?" A voice asks.
He thinks it's coming from the tan, dark eyed gentleman beside him, but he can't be sure.
There's a blackness creeping over the corners of Robert's vision.
He tries a shaky, startled inhale, but the air refuses to reach his lungs.
The world goes black.
War.
They're taking him to war.
---
Robert's eyes open with a gasp.
He blinks, rapidly, at the sight ahead of him.
Dull metal.
There's an ungodly creak that rings in his ears. It forces him to cringe and sit up.
He's on a thin mattress supported by the lowest standard of frames he has ever seen.
His jaw drops in disgust at the blanket's wiry feel beneath his fingertips.
Robert shoots his hands up to clench before his chest. With a gag, he stumbles to a stand and takes a step back, toward the center of the room.
There are footsteps sounding all around him, as well as the noise of distant voices.
The walls are distressed. Old, even.
The whole room screams salvaged material.
Robert turns and runs his hands through his graying hair. He tugs at the short strands.
There's the gentlest sway in his body.
The rooms feels as though it's alive.
Smells as though it's been buried at sea.
And looks as though it's been pieced together by scrap metal.
Robert gasps in a tight breath when he looks to the metal hunk of a doorway. The lock pad beside it is flashing a red light at him.
He's too scared to find out what that means. So, instead, he looks to the unstable desk that's been attached to one of the walls.
On top of it is a clear, computerized device and his trusty suitcase. He reaches for it.
There is a stampede of racing footsteps down the hall his room is connected to.
Robert stills until they pass.
Once they have, he falls into the chair at his new desk and unlocks his suitcase.
At the top are printed USS LUCE files. He grabs them with one hand and tosses them chaotically upon the ground. His fingers are jittery as they then pull out one of the many bottles of medical, top- grade sanitation cleansers he's bro
ught along with him.
He unfastens the cap and pours a generous amount into his hand.
There's a frustrated little noise that escapes his throat when he rubs the cleanser into his skin. It fades, with much of his unease, when the liquid begins to dry.
It leaves his skin tingling with new found cleanliness.
He sigh, and leans back in his chair.
For a moment, he just breathes and tries his best to ignore the sounds of the submarine. Then, he pulls it together and repacks the cleanser into his bag.
Carefully, he sets the case down beside him.
Robert frowns at the mess of papers on his floor.
He drops to his knees and re-stacks them.
After hitting the bottom of the stack twice against the floor, Robert rises to a stand and sets the papers gently along the left corner of the desk.
He pushes in his chair, then reaches for the clear device someone has left for him.
It lights to life at his touch.
Robert's brows knit. He looks the device over. "Just what are you?"
At the top of the screen read the words "HISTORY LOG: 12-12-2397"
Robert peers over the device, then opens what looks to be the top half of this notebook-style computer. It opens, and the words at the top corner transfer to the inside screen.
The archivist pulls out the chair, sets down the device, and takes a seat. He scoots forward and releases a breath.
His hands have gone moist with cold sweat.
There's another creak from the vessel. It's long and disturbing.
Robert's rather frail body shakes from the submarine's low temperature and his high strung nerves.
He scratches at his jaw and then rubs his sweaty palms across his pant leg.
"Right, uhh..." He clears his throat. "Here goes."
TO BE CONTINUED
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FROM THE AUTHOR
Hello,
I hope you liked the short story and ask that you please leave me a review on Amazon/Goodreads/Etc, so that I know what you thought of this insallment!
To be one of the first to read the latest updates on the AFTER WORLD ARCHIVE series, please subscribe to my monthly newsletter. The form for which can be found at the bottom of my site!
https://www.amserstudios.com
A couple of my novelette series include: "ASSEMBLY OF PLANETS", which is a fantasy/science fiction/mystery collaboration, and "HOPE", which is a science fiction/crime/private detective hybrid.
Other work you might be interested in is my "NEW WORLD" series, UNBELIEVE. It's Apocolyptic/Mad Scientist/Sci-fi, so if that's your kind of thing, please take a look!
Thank you again, and enjoy the rest of your day!
-Legend W. Brook