by Luke Norris
His poor men! The ones near the launching pad were toast. No one survived that. Even all the way back here Oliver felt minor burns from the heat. All they’d worked for, all up in flames in an instant. His dreams and ambitions of getting into to orbit went along with it.
Zeb screamed and went to scramble out of the ditch, but Oliver pulled him back down. The man felt the same heart-wrenching tear, at seeing his work being turned into scrap metal.
Oliver peaked over the ridge at the destruction. Everything in the vicinity that was marginally flammable was burning, and large puddles of jet fuel burned along the concrete causeway. It was still obvious where the main structure of the rocket was. Melted and mangled structure stood, but only to a third of its original height. Dense dark smoke blotted out the morning sun and obscured his view of the five landing craft that were surely about to descend upon them.
This will be my best chance of cover, Oliver realized. The heat from the fire will mask my heat signal, and they will have no visual because of the smoke. They probably have a thousand other ways of identifying me, but it’s better than nothing.
“Zeb,” Oliver ushered the engineer in close, “Lie flat and wait for my orders. If you don’t hear from me once they land, retreat along the drainage line and make your way to the monastery.”
Oliver scrambled out of the trench, ignoring Zeb’s protests, and sprinted across the yard toward the smoldering wreckage of the rocket. Smoke swirled thickly and blew against him. He glanced up just in time to see the bottom of a metallic landing craft emerge from the grey, about to crush him from above. He dove. And the vessel touched down inches from his leg.
Instantly upon landing the hatch opened, smoke rushed in the door as if being inhaled by the vessel, and from the dark clouds in the hatchway emerged soldiers. Dark shadows in the smoke. Silhouettes of lethal hardened men, programmed to lead, programmed to be obedient. Programmed to fight methodically.
These drivers could make calculated decisions about battle tactics, so disconnected from emotion that their own lives were simply a factor in the equation—they would be forfeit in an instant if it meant securing victory.
Oliver had hazy memories of being a driver. Being effective. Compelled. His men cowering in the ditches around the perimeter, had no chance, zero, in open combat with any one of these men.
Shadows continued to jog past.
Oliver felt the air from another ship land not far away. It was not visible through the roiling sooty smoke, but he heard the hatch door hit the ground, and then the sound of booted steps on the ramp. More drivers!
He could use his firsthand knowledge of drivers, he had but moments to act. He boosted deeply and sped into the smoke. A driver’s shadow was brought to the ground quickly and silently. Oliver dragged the man around the ship and then began stripping him of the familiar white jumpsuit. He’d worn such an outfit on many occasions he’d rather not remember. He shed his clothing and put the driver jumpsuit on himself. Lastly, he donned the thin white helmet, then dashed back to the landing craft’s hatchway and filed in behind the drivers that were assembling.
“Drivers!” the voice of Command was clear in his stolen earpiece. “Secure the perimeter for our ship. And blazing hydrons, don’t cluster and make targets of yourselves.”
Oliver instinctively knew how to take his place in the formations, in the familiar patterns, just as the other drivers knew. Most were obscured in the haze, but bulky shadows of the burly drivers reminded him of being a junior in high school and seeing the first-fifteen senior rugby team.
Smoke swirled and began to clear revealing the scarred, battle-hardened faces of the men around him. Men pulled from their homeworlds. They looked focussed, yet somehow not cognizant, not aware of their alien surrounds. All wore the close-fitting white driver helmets and would be hearing the same instructions as Oliver.
Soon the source of the wind became visible. It was a larger landing craft, descending slowly towards the tarmac between the four smaller ships. Before it had touched down the ramp was descending, and figures began marching down towards the approaching ground. Second-stagers.
It was a strange composition of figures that emerged. Two were in green suits, robust and bulky, with ponderous looking masks, almost inhuman with their protrusions and tubes. To the left was a lean, wiry man, with a long narrow face, nearly as pale as the loose white Sharkian robes he wore. Shadowing him protectively was a driver.
This driver was different. His jumpsuit had the sleeves completely removed, and ripped off in a hurry by the looks of the uneven and torn seams. Oliver could see why. The driver’s arms had metal ligaments and tendons poking perversely out of his skin and re-entering at a different point. They were like the lewd hydraulics of an excavator.
As the driver slowly scanned the other drivers along the perimeter where Oliver was, his head turned to reveal metal plates running up his neck and covering his temple.
That man’s face, Oliver thought. Where do I know it from? The wall painting in the residence. That’s Arif Zewka.
At that moment the driver’s impassive gaze stopped on Oliver and lingered there. The man that once was Arif was completely gone, in his place a shell. Obedient and deadly. Oliver kept his expression stern, not wavering under the scrutiny of this implacable and efficient adversary who bore terrifying potential. The driver stepped towards Oliver still eyeing him with the unwavering focus of a stalking cat.
Oliver began boosting. If he uncovers me now, surrounded by these drivers, I’ll never get within ten meters of the second-stagers. Even if he were to sprint while boosting, the fifty plus soldiers would shoot him down. Another step in Oliver’s direction. There was nothing for it! Arif suspected him, he had to move. Ludy luck had finally left him. Oliver clenched his jaw for one final dash and the gauntlet of blaster fire that he would draw upon himself in his attempt to cross the yard.
“Expand the perimeter!” The command language of the drivers crackled in Oliver’s earpiece.
Arif’s gaze turned away from Oliver, to the man he was standing beside. Had the thin second-stager just spoken? Oliver’s attention was momentarily drawn back to the pale, gaunt man, whose mouth moved in sync with the instructions in his earpiece. He was Command. The thin voice sounded again in the speakers of Oliver’s helmet.
“The enemy are hiding in trenches along the north and east perimeter of the yard,” the second-stager said. “They are clustered on the ends mostly. Remember, do not kill them until the drones have identified the target. Hold each face clearly to the drone for identification. I want him alive!” He paused, then turned to his companions in the green suits, switching easily to the second-stage language and speaking softly. “If he’s not among these men then he’ll be with the larger group. They are not here, they’ve separated and are taking transports to the temple in the mountains. We can search there next. Once I have him, we can leave this planet.”
The shock of those words froze Oliver in place. The other drivers around Oliver started grouping themselves instinctively into small assault units. They wouldn’t understand what had been said last, but Oliver understood the second-stage tongue, and knew exactly what that meant––Shael was in danger! Oliver should’ve known these second-stagers would know the exact movements of everyone, probably knew long before they were even on the planet.
It wasn’t only Shael who was in danger, but also the families that made up the community. Right now all the men who had stayed, and lay unwittingly in ditches only hundreds of meters away, would be dispatched quicker than a thief disappearing in second eclipse. The facial recognition drones would do a careful scan of the faces, faces of his friends and colleagues, before the drivers would execute them. They obviously had Oliver’s face in the database. All this to find me. They would tear apart the lives of these people without a second thought, just to root him out
That man wants me, Oliver realized. Seeing what had become of Arif’s body made it was clear what his intentions were. He wanted to dissec
t Oliver, lay him open and analyze him, understand why he was different.
He wants me as a guinea pig, to experiment on. I would be cut open, and it wouldn’t be with the care and precision shown by Lego and the robotoids. One look at Arif’s perversely disfigured body told Oliver there would be no thought spared for the patient.
Once the body had been opened and tampered with to the man’s satisfaction, the would delve into Oliver’s mind, ruthlessly probing his deepest sanctums. He would be conditioned, undergo complex psycho imbuement. And then, finally, when his body and mind were torn apart, and the last tortured vestige of him clung to sanity, he would experience the loss of self. His conscious will would be removed, and Oliver would become a vessel, a tool, to act out the depraved compulsions of these criminals.
Even Lego had managed to keep his mind intact and had freedom of thought. Although Lego’s fate was wretched, in some ways, it was not as tragic as a driver’s.
The intimate knowledge of a driver’s fate terrified Oliver. Adrenaline coursed in his veins, causing him to boost automatically. The mantra ‘do not be taken alive’ echoed in his head. Except, if they could not have him then Shael and this whole planet…
The drivers moved toward the perimeter silently. Expert hunters. Lethal. Giving rapid complex hand signals to each other. All were familiar, or even instinctual to Oliver. Would his men cowering in the drainage ditch get a single shot off against these drivers? Would it matter if they did? Drivers felt no pain, no fear, just focus.
Oliver stood in place and did not move with the others. Slowly he became isolated, solitary. The remnants of smoke swirled and cleared to reveal him standing by himself.
Everyone he knew, and meant to protect would be wiped out because of him. Would they really leave this planet if they had Oliver? Would they let all the inhabitants of Laitam live on in peace? Would they leave Shael? His life was forfeit, either way, she knew that. She maybe just didn’t want to admit it to herself.
The smoke screen was now completely gone, and Oliver stood stoically alone. A solitary disobedient driver, facing four figures at the base of the ship’s ramp. The driver, Arif, locked his attention on to the anomaly instantly and alerted the robed second-stager with a word Oliver could not hear. The man’s body language immediately became tense as he noticed Oliver. The other two in their alien looking combat suits assumed similar hostile postures.
“Drivers!” the order came through Oliver’s helmet as the second stager spoke uncertainly. “Halt the assault and return to the inner perimeter.”
Yes. He had to draw them away from the others. It was working. Oliver’s path suddenly became clear. There was one thing he could do. One chess move left to him. Being an augmented driver would offer him one last avenue to remedy this.
Oliver reached up and unclipped the close-fitting headgear. He slid the helmet off and threw it symbolically in front of himself. The instructions being issued by the second-stager crackled thinly in the earpiece on the ground, but he could no longer make out the words. He didn’t need to hear them, he knew what the instructions were. There would be blaster guns from dozens of drivers trained on him right now.
As confirmation, Oliver heard the sound of booted steps, and in the haziness of his periphery vision saw the grey silhouettes march back out of the smoke towards him. The crunching footsteps stopped behind him. They were waiting. He threw the driver issued blaster on the ground near the helmet and raised his open palms in the universal symbol of surrender.
Instantly, several small drones, each as big as baseball, whizzed out of the smoke, trailing vortices. They came to an abrupt halt, hovering in front of Oliver’s face. Scans were being made, and his identity confirmed.
I can’t save every world from these pirates, Oliver thought, walking slowly towards the people that would subjugate him a second time in his life. But this one I can.
Lego and Toro had simply delayed his destiny when they delivered him from the chemically induced sleep. The robotoids had given him a gift—a second life half a millennia ago. He’d been fortunate enough to win the love of Verity, and of a nation. Now, he was somehow on a third life. Once again, he’d found love and a sense of family. The idea of returning to Earth was always a fool’s hope, but it had a been a hope he’d shared with Shael. It was, in many ways, more than anyone could ask for. But a final payment was required for the fortuitous gift of freedom.
I will return to being Cougar the mindless driver, Oliver knew it. A soldier on the next world that these second-stagers decide to target. I can’t stop that, but I can protect this one and these people.
Oliver stopped twenty paces from the second-stager. He was close enough to see the seam detail in his Sharkian robes that rippled in the light breeze, and the man’s angular, almost skeletal features.
He watched Oliver with the serene gaze, it had a commanding hypnotic effect. The full circle of his blue irises were completely visible, giving them a directness and debased kind of honesty. The eyes looked through Oliver, without empathy and recognition for another human. Eyes that had taken the souls of so many men and made them his puppets, like the abomination of the man that stood beside him with the posture of a loyal dog.
So this would be his new oppressor. Oliver held the man’s gaze steadily, even as Arif stepped up beside him, and looked at his master for instruction. The second-stager watched Oliver curiously for some moments before nodding silently to Arif.
Oliver felt the driver’s crushing steel grip take hold of his wrist. He knew at that moment that Arif’s strength and speed were greater than his own. Had he tried boosting to evade the driver, the slight advantage in speed would not have not helped him. He was so unevenly matched against the powerful machine-like limbs.
Oliver screamed out as the vice grip caused bones to fracture and splinter, making shards pierce skin. Arif forced Oliver to his knees still holding his hand at an awkward angle.
“Let me see his body,” the second-stager ordered Arif.
Arif turned back to Oliver and took hold of the driver jumpsuit with both steel hands. The material the driver suits were made of was extremely hard wearing and almost impossible to tear with your bare hands. Oliver could testify to the durability after the crash landing and the trek through the jungle. Even the utility blades had taken some coercion to cut through when Oliver made a bandage for his leg.
Arif’s steel hydraulic arms tore the jumpsuit material open as if it were paper, and peeled it down exposing Oliver’s chest and then abdomen.
*
Shael waited for Krin to catch his breath. The lanky blonde man was sweating after climbing the ladder to the roof of the residence building. The dark face paint Oliver had made them wear was smeared.
“Lenat said I should tell you that Oliver has gone in on his own,” Krin said puffing.
Shael turned to Eorol. “I told you he’d do that. Can you see him.”
“I just see a bunch of soldiers,” he scanned the binoculars across the yard. “There are lots of them, Shael. They look like they mean business. Our boys don’t have a chance. Wait…” he stopped and focused on a point. “One of their soldiers is not standing with the others. Something is going on. I have a bad feeling about this. Oh, Ponsy’s hammer!” Eorol said softly, handing the binoculars to Shael.
Shael snatched them from Eorol and found the lone soldier. “That’s Oliver. Why is he standing alone?” she demanded. “What on Laitam is he doing? He’s throwing his weapon away now. Move Oliver, move damn you.” she willed him to action. “He’s surrounded by drivers, Eorol.” Shael became quiet, and her brow furrowed in distress. “He’s going to them. What kind of plan is this? He is walking straight to the second-stagers. Krin, what did Oliver tell you the plan was?”
“He told us that if he doesn’t return we were to make our way back and escape to the monastery with the others,” Krin recited the orders back to her.
She watched in horror, as the man she cared about most came to a standstill, weaponless and
prone before the enemy. When Arif crushed Oliver’s hand and forced him to the ground, Shael let out an involuntary cry of despair to see him subjugated in such a way. It was a sound void of form, of cold realization dawning.
“Sweet Verity, he’s giving himself up to them,” she sobbed the words, as Oliver’s intentions became clear to her. “He thinks he can save us by giving himself up. That is his genius and fantastic plan, to sacrifice himself. No Oliver, no!”
Arif stripped Oliver’s torso bare, then twisted his wrist at an unnatural angle, snapping the bones in the forearm. Across the yard, Oliver’s faint cry of pain could be heard. But he didn’t try and fight back or run. The sound tore at Shael’s being, cutting right to her soul. There was no escape for Oliver. She felt herself shaking uncontrollably.
“Shael!” Eorol pointed to the transport ship near the fuel tank hanger. “Look at those drivers. They are entering the landing craft.”
She couldn’t bring herself to draw the binoculars away from the man she loved, but Eorol’s comment confirmed Oliver’s justification for giving himself up. They wanted him, the mystery driver, the anomaly. Now they had the thing they wanted, there was no reason to linger. They had called their drivers back and would leave, taking Oliver with them.
Shael was not able to reconcile the obvious rationale of Oliver’s choice. He knew what they would do to him, as sure as the mountain’s shadow. He’d told her about the dreadful things that happened to people taken onto those ships. He’d gone to them now anyway.
Tears blurred her vision, but she could still make out the strange figure in green; presumably another second-stager, step over to Oliver and kick him to the ground. The motion was abnormally fast, and it spun Oliver around, lifting him slightly. He landed in a crumpled pile, and Shael saw the dark red drool coming from his mouth as he attempted to raise himself. The figure in green was boosting the way Oliver did.
