Colony Assassin (The Elderon Chronicles Book 3)

by Tarah Benner

  I try to remind myself that he could still turn me in. Aiding and abetting is a serious crime. He’d lose his job if anyone found out — maybe even go to prison.

  To my amazement, the driver pulls right up to the terminal where I first boarded the Impetus. He stops the truck and clears his throat. He’s waiting for me to leave.

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling like a terrible person. Tonight this man will go home thinking that he came close to death. He’s going to have nightmares about this day — all because I used him to get into the base.

  I pull myself out of my hiding place, feeling the blood flow return to my legs. My hamstrings are still burning from my extended squat, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to disembark without my legs giving out.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I say, turning to the driver with a stern expression.

  I instantly regret it. The man nods quickly, his lips pursed in fear, and I realize he’s still completely terrified. I open the door and jump out of the truck, watching as he peels away.

  I’m left standing outside the terminal where Maverick once launched the first shuttle transporting civilians to space. Now that shuttle belongs to Mordecai — the most evil man alive.

  I stow the pistol and throw open the doors leading to the terminal. They aren’t locked. There’s no one here. The terminal is deserted.

  The last time I was here, the place was packed. Hundreds of people from all over the world were waiting anxiously for their flight to the colony. We were all making history, going to Elderon. The collective optimism was contagious.

  That day feels like a lifetime ago. Many of those people are dead. The rest are trapped in space with a madman, cowering inside their suites. I feel their fear in the wide empty room as I walk across the carpeting. The terminal was designed to hold thousands of people bound for colonies in space. Now Strom is gone — his company in shambles. The Maverick dream is dead.

  I walk up to the enormous window and see the Impetus being prepped for takeoff.

  Jared was right. The shuttle is here. Mordecai is waiting in space for his shuttle to launch, transporting bots and supplies to his fortress.

  On the tarmac, I can see several metal carts loaded with cargo, waiting to be wheeled onto the shuttle. They’re mostly the same plastic bins we were issued to transport our belongings, and they aren’t large enough to hide in.

  A few human baggage handlers are milling around, dressed in black slacks and orange mesh vests. They’re shouting back and forth across the tarmac, and I can tell there’s some confusion among them.

  The baggage handlers disappear through the door leading to the terminal, and my breath catches in my throat. I turn and make a break for the jet bridge. I can’t let anyone see me.

  The security booths aren’t up and running. There are no humans boarding the Impetus. I dart around the vacant booths and bypass the desk at the gate. There is no humanoid waiting to check my boarding pass.

  My heart beats harder as I thump down the jet bridge. The tunnel is dark and extremely narrow. I can’t help but feel that I’m walking to my death. If the bots are already on board, I’m officially out of ideas.

  I reach around to grab Jared’s tracking device from my belt, but my hand closes on empty air. The belt that held my stunners is missing. I must have left it on the truck.

  Swearing at my carelessness and stupidity, I take a deep breath and round the corner. I can see the entrance to the shuttle, but I have no way to fight the bots and no forewarning of those lurking inside.

  Skin tingling, I stop. This feels stupidly dangerous, but it’s the only plan I’ve got. Letting out a shallow breath, I climb aboard the Impetus.

  The shuttle is completely empty. Dozens of plush blue seats are laid out before me, and I can see more levels above. There isn’t a single bot on board. I can hardly believe my luck.

  Hands shaking, I open one of the overhead compartments and fumble around until I find a suit. It’s been expertly folded into a neat little square and secured with plastic buckles. I pull it on and locate a helmet, but I don’t allow my Optix to sync. I’m not sure what’s going on with the network, but Mordecai could be spying on me.

  Just then, I hear footsteps coming down the jet bridge. My heart leaps into my throat.

  I shove the helmet onto my head and reach up to close the compartment. I press down on the little door, but it stubbornly glides open again. I push the door down again, but it pops up on its own.

  Shit.

  I press the door down, but it won’t stay shut. The stupid thing is defective.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  The footsteps are growing louder and louder, and the compartment door won’t close. I slam it down with both hands and dive down the aisle to find a place to hide.

  There are several rows of seating and a little hostess galley, but there isn’t a single thing out of place. There are just four pull-down seats earmarked for the crew and a row of stainless cabinets. None of them is big enough to fit an adult human, but then I spot a glowing decal just above my head.

  It’s the universal symbol for bathroom. I feel a little sick to my stomach.

  Holding back a tremendous groan, I dart inside the lavatory and slide the door closed. It doesn’t snap shut all the way, but it’s too risky to fix. I can hear the footsteps coming down the aisle — the deadened thud of heels on carpet. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to calm my breathing. My panicky wheezes are loud.

  A second later, the footsteps stop. I sense a presence aboard the Impetus, but I don’t dare move a muscle. Blood is rushing in my ears, and my heart is thumping in my temples.

  Swallowing down my choking fear, I lean forward and peer through the gap. I can see the hem of a short white dress and legs that stretch for days.

  An impossibly tall woman with white-blond hair has stopped directly across from the lavatory. I watch with bated breath as she turns down the row and glides smoothly into her seat. The woman is a bot.

  One humanoid after another files onto the shuttle and takes a seat without a word. I count nearly two dozen. All of them are recognizable by their sheer perfection: unblemished skin, long silky hair, and pleasantly vacant expressions. Most of them are designed to look like women, but there are a couple of men in the mix.

  The women are dressed in crisp white dresses with jaunty blue scarves, while the men are wearing pressed white slacks with neat blazers over casual shirts. All of them are at least five foot ten, but then I spot a bot that is not like the others.

  This one is short — no more than five-four — supported by a pair of wedge heels. The shoes bring her up to the average bot’s height, but it’s obvious that the shoes are responsible.

  The woman has smooth dark skin and attractive features. Her long hair is styled in hundreds of skinny braids, but there’s something about her that doesn’t quite fit.

  She’s beautiful enough to pass as a bot, but she’s missing the bots’ signature expression. Her brown eyes are narrowed, darting around. She looks about as nervous as I do.

  As I stare, she files into her row with heavy, graceless footfalls and throws herself into her seat. She fidgets for a moment before settling in, tapping her foot impatiently.

  This woman isn’t a bot, I realize. She’s a human just like me. I don’t know if she’s a friend or foe, but she’s found a way to outsmart the humanoids.

  4

  Jonah

  If there’s ever a place to be in jail, it’s Mountain View, California. The cell where they’re holding me is ten by twelve feet, and it’s nicer than a lot of army barracks I’ve stayed in. It doesn’t smell like piss or puke. It smells like Pine-Sol.

  The young officer who booked me seemed excited. I’m guessing they don’t get a lot of honest-to-god criminals here — just the occasional DWI and a burgled mansion or two.

  The whole station looks brand new. I can’t imagine why a city would invest millions in a police station that doesn’t see much traffic, but as someone who represents Moun
tain View’s criminal element, I guess I should be grateful.

  By ten o’clock, there are just two guys left in the station: the young officer who booked me and the lazy asshat.

  The new guy — Lewis, I think — jumps up every time the phone rings as if he’s single-handedly responsible for saving the city. He’s tall and gawky and barely shaving, and his uniform hangs off him.

  The other side of the precinct is where the lazy asshat sits. I heard one of the on-duty officers called him “Fats,” which seems a pretty obvious nickname. In the ten hours that I’ve been here, I haven’t seen Fats get up once except to shuffle to the break room to get more food: a muffin, cold pizza, and some kind of gummy fruit snack in a crinkly plastic pouch.

  I don’t know what’s taking so long. I asked for a lawyer the second I got here, and I refused to talk without one. I’ve just been lying here counting ceiling tiles, growing angrier by the minute.

  I’m not the one who should be in jail. That fucking coward Zephyr Morgan is the only reason I’m here. If it weren’t for me, he’d be dead. All those founders would be. I should get a medal for saving his ass, but instead I get Lewis and Fats and ten hours behind bars.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Whenever something terrible happens, people need someone to blame. In the army, they needed a fall guy. I’m guessing it’s the same in law enforcement. As long as the public is out for blood, somebody has to pay.

  I guess I should be glad that they haven’t whisked me off to some CIA black site in the middle of the ocean. A lot of terrorists just disappear. They’re held offshore indefinitely with feeding tubes shoved down their throats if they decide they’d rather be dead.

  For now I’m living it up in Mountain View. I’ve got a cot, AC . . . Hell, they’d probably let me watch ESPN. I just hope Maggie doesn’t try to do anything stupid.

  If she gets it in her head that she needs to go after Mordecai, she’s going to get herself killed. I just need her to sit tight until I can figure this out.

  Once I get a chance to talk to a public defender, they’ll have to realize that I did what I had to do. If I can just get Van de Graaf to back me up, maybe they’ll release me. I can find a way to get to Vandenberg. And then . . .

  I let out a breath of exasperation. My plan always hits a wall right about here. By now my face will be all over the news. Everyone will think I’m a terrorist. There’s no way Sipps will let me back on base, let alone climb aboard a space shuttle.

  No. The only way I’m setting foot on a shuttle is if I steal the damn thing.

  Grand-theft shuttle. That’s going to look great on my résumé. I’ve probably already been dishonorably discharged from the Space Force. My face is all over the news.

  The only thing that could make this worse is if they turn up more bodies. I still don’t know if Teegan Henley or Si Damm survived. If they did, they can verify my story — if they aren’t too scared.

  The sound of a chair scraping the floor causes me to turn toward the source of the noise. Fats is on his feet.

  He throws me a dirty look before dragging himself across the precinct and back into the break room. I hear the crinkle of a cellophane wrapper and the slam of the microwave door. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  There’s a low groaning sound as the microwave starts cooking whatever Fats is on to next. Thirty seconds later, the scent of frozen sausage over egg reaches my nostrils. My stomach growls as Fats reappears jaw-deep in a breakfast sandwich.

  Breakfast? I glance at the clock to make sure I’m not imagining things. I haven’t been here that long. It’s twenty-two hundred.

  The second Fats takes his seat, I hear quick footsteps coming down the hall. I sit up slowly and deliberately, feeling a slight prickle of nerves. The footsteps could belong to the public defender. Or they could be someone from Homeland Security. Maybe they’ve grown impatient waiting for a lawyer. Maybe they plan to beat me until I confess.

  Fats makes a sound of protest, and Lewis jumps to his feet.

  “‘Ey!” Fats yells, mouth full. “‘Ou cah be in err!”

  I turn over my shoulder and see Jared striding into the precinct. He’s balancing a shallow white box in one hand and clicking an old-school camera with the other.

  I stare in disbelief as he turns and points the camera at me, and I’m immediately blinded by his flash.

  “What are you doing here?” splutters Lewis. “Who let you in?”

  “Oh, that nice lady at the front desk,” says Jared casually. I see that he’s wearing some kind of badge around his neck, but I’m guessing it’s his keycard from Vault.

  “Marge?” Lewis asks.

  “Marge went home,” says Fats slowly. “Migraine.”

  “You can’t be in here,” Lewis echoes.

  “Right. Sorry,” says Jared in a rush. “Just pretend I’m not even here.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “Okay,” says Jared, turning over his shoulder and taking my picture again. I see stars as the flash erupts, and I have to blink to clear my vision.

  I still don’t know what the hell is going on, but Jared is working my last nerve with that thing.

  “I’ll just leave these with you,” says Jared with a wink, dropping the box on Fats’s desk and opening it with a tempting flourish. “Jared Kincaid, beat reporter for Phat Scoop dot net.”

  The scent of donuts wafts toward me through the bars. They smell fucking delicious.

  “You need to leave before I arrest you,” says Lewis — the only one immune to Jared’s bribe.

  “I get that,” says Jared, holding up a finger to say he’ll just be a moment. He darts down the hall once again and reappears with a cardboard carton full of coffee. “Freshly brewed,” he says. “It’s an exquisite Ethiopian . . . Don’t want it to go to waste.”

  Lewis’s face undergoes an impressive series of gymnastics. He doesn’t quite know how to get rid of Jared. Fats looks nonplussed. Jared’s offering of coffee and donuts seems to have thrown him for a loop.

  “I’ll just leave it here, then,” says Jared casually, setting the coffee down on Fats’s desk and backing out of the room.

  I watch in stunned disbelief as Jared slides past my holding cell, bringing his camera up to snap a few pictures and waggling his eyebrows.

  I frown.

  I half expect the kid to toss me a nail file or a shovel to tunnel my way out, but he doesn’t. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. This all feels like some big joke that only Jared understands.

  I sit there feeling like an idiot as Fats extracts a donut from the box with two pudgy fingers. If Jared’s goal was to torture me, this was a pretty elaborate way to do it.

  I listen to the sound of footsteps fading down the hall and the slam of the station door. I’m left alone without a lawyer, without a clue, and without any hope of escape.

  A stunned silence settles over the precinct. I’m not sure what just happened. Surely Jared isn’t some undercover reporter who’s been tagging along this whole time for a story. The odds of that happening twice are impossibly long.

  He must have had a reason for coming in here. Trouble is he didn’t bother to give me the slightest clue.

  I watch as Fats takes a bite out of the donut he extracted from the box. He makes a kind of “meh” expression, takes another bite, and pours himself a cup of coffee. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Lewis gives in, too. He seems to be treading on a moral high ground just above donuts, but even he can’t resist the fresh coffee.

  My stomach groans in protest as I watch them help themselves. When was the last time I ate? I can hear Fats chewing all the way across the precinct. This has to be cruel and unusual punishment.

  Within a few minutes, Fats is slumped back in his swivel chair, one leg stacked over his knee. He’s watching a video on his desktop that appears to be a horse eating spaghetti. Fats trembles with laughter, and a few sprinkles fall from his mouth.

  “Lewis . . .”

  No response.

  “L
ewis . . .”

  “Hmm?”

  “You gotta see this.”

  Lewis appears to be deep in his work, but he looks up, tempted by the sound of Fats’s laughter.

  “It’s a horse . . . eating spaghetti.” Fats’s whole body shakes with another fit of laughter.

  “Mmmhmm.”

  I roll my eyes and lie back on my cot, trying not to think about donuts.

  The second I close my eyes, Maggie’s face appears behind my eyelids. I feel a slight tingle of worry, but it’s quickly snuffed out by a surge of heat. I picture her standing in the Vault cafeteria — face flushed, hair a mess, chest heaving up and down. She was so sexy in that moment that I just couldn’t help myself.

  The heat spreads down my chest and into my abdomen and sinks lower and lower in my body. Her lips, her smell, the way she felt — it was all overwhelming.

  Nothing about me and Maggie makes any sense, but damn she felt so good. I don’t know what it is about her, but she drives me fucking crazy. It helps that she’s completely oblivious to her own hotness. She’s got that sexy smart-girl thing that sends all my blood rushing south.

  But there’s something else about Maggie that goes deeper than her looks. She’s fearless and funny and annoyingly determined. She doesn’t even know how fierce she is, which only makes her hotter.

  Just as I’m losing myself in the rush of that kiss, I hear a loud smack out in the precinct. My eyes snap open and I look over to Lewis, who’s slumped facedown at his desk. The projection from his desktop is flickering around his body. He looks as though he was just hit over the head.

  I turn to Fats to gauge his reaction, but Fats is slumped back in his chair. He’s got half a donut sticking out of his mouth, but his chest and throat are rumbling through a snore.

  I sit up, nerves tingling. What the hell is going on?

  I get to my feet and walk to the corner of my cell, trying to get a closer look at Lewis. He isn’t moving. Is he even breathing? I glance from Fats’s sugar-coated mouth to the steam rising from Lewis’s thermos.