by T. K. Toppin
“You’re outnumbered. You cannot win,” John continued. He’d moved closer, stalking. He carried no visible weapons. His hands were empty, fingers loose and curled at his side. He meant to use his bare hands and beat Ho to a pulp, that much was certain. Seeing it bolstered my spirits. If John—this had to be a dream that he was here—could fight with nothing but bare hands, then so could I.
“Stand back!” Ho gave my head a quick jerk, angling it so my neck twisted sharply, straining the tendons. If any more pressure were applied, it would surely snap. I let out a strangled noise but noted that John neither stood back nor stopped. If anything, his face grew darker and even more dangerous.
Ho shuffled me across the floor, inching around in a wide circle. Our general direction appeared to be the exit doors, which was now one massive, jagged hole, smoldering and sparking with pops of lights and smoke.
If we got closer, maybe, just maybe, I could run up the side of it and push Ho backward. But what about the krima trained at my face? I’d have to find a way to grip his hand and keep it away, and then hopefully John could move in. For the moment, both my hands were free and raised in submission. I’d have to be quick—very quick. I gave John a meaningful look, trying to erase the panic tumbling through me. He wasn’t even looking at me.
John! I called to him mentally, willing him to look. Please, look at me!
We were closer to the gaping doors now; I ordered myself to breathe easy, to remain calm. Another three feet and we’d be close enough.
I flicked my eyes to the krima, poised about five inches from my right cheek. If I was quick, I could grab his hand and push it away, then kick off from the side of the door.
Another foot and we’d be close enough.
They talked again, but I couldn’t hear. Every last bit of concentration was trained on the timing of my move.
A foot closer. I took a breath.
Now!
I wrapped both hands on Ho’s right wrist and dug into pressure points with my fingernails. Craning my neck back, I yielded to the angle he held it at. Tightening my abdominals, I curled into a crunch and whipped my legs out to the side of the door.
And pushed with all my strength.
We were airborne, falling. Ho grunted and his hand tensed in reflex, bringing the krima dangerously close to my face. I grunted back and pushed his hand away with determination. It gave a little, enough, so I pushed some more. His other hand released my hair—maybe to reach back and break our fall.
When we hit the floor, the crash took my breath away. Ho jerked into a twist, dragging me in his wake. He squirmed and rolled under me, wrapping his arm around my waist.
John zipped through the air, landed inches from me, and grasped Ho’s hand, the one with the krima. Together, we forced the weapon even farther away. John twisted Ho’s arm, turned it, and kicked him in the armpit. Ho shrieked and dug his fingers into my side. Yelling in pain, frantic, I wriggled like mad to escape his grasp.
And then, Ho released me. He just flung me off him. I crashed into John, who caught me deftly with one arm, the other still in a tug-of-war with the krima.
John let go the moment he was sure I was safe, and together we spun away like dancers. Ho came to his feet in an instant, the krima discarded on the floor, useless. He held his right arm with his left and snarled like a rabid dog.
It happened in a flash. Ho dipped his supposed injured hand into his breast pocket and, before I could even focus, the knife flew out of his hand, heading straight for me. We were too close—too close to react, dodge or deflect. It sank with amazing accuracy into my shoulder. Sudden crippling pain shot through me. A scream froze in my throat and my back went rigid as I teetered on my feet.
John shrieked, clutching me as I fell—sank—slowly to his feet. Ho no longer stood before us. He’d vanished.
“Get him!” I croaked to John. He seemed unable to hear me. His hands were suffocating me as they gripped my face. “Get him!” I tried again.
“He’s gone,” he replied, hoarse. “Josie!” His hands fumbled over my chest, prodding and touching, panic tightening his voice. “Where’re you hit?” The overcoat was thick and heavy, making his inspection difficult.
“I’m fine.” Weakness made my voice sound small. Something hot spread across my chest. Had I peed myself? “It’s up high…” My head dipped, tilting my world. “It’s fine—he’s getting away. He has Fern…”
And I fell into darkness.
* * *
John thought his heart was about to stop. Josie’s face, pinched tight, was covered with bits of soot. The explosion had been necessary, the only way those solid doors would open. Ho’s men had rigged the doors, making it unresponsive to normal override commands. And he hadn’t wanted to waste time trying to hack into them. Blowing them was also satisfying. He’d only hoped the people inside were well away from the doors when the blast took effect.
Seeing her alive settled the angst that had afflicted him. He pushed aside whatever fears he had so he could deal with Ho. Josie was locked in Ho’s grasp—a krima pointed at her face.
John had made his decision long before he blasted his way into the room. If it came to a fight and Josie was in danger, he would let Ho go. He wasn’t important. Josie’s safety was all that mattered.
The dance for control only stoked his anger. Josie was in terror—it seemed to clot her mind, making her babble. Something was troubling her and John could only assume Ho had tortured her. He hoped she could focus. If Ho meant to take his shuttle, he’d use her as a shield. The moment it was no longer necessary, he’d kill her without a second thought. Yes, Ho could run away for now, just so long as he let Josie go unharmed.
When John saw the obvious intent on Josie’s face, the sudden flash of determination—he knew. She was about to do something rash. He’d be ready for it. He’d let her—give her—a free rein. To get in her way would only make things worse. And the only way to get her into action was to ignore her. It would anger her and allow her to forge her own way.
It happened fast, but smoothly. Her actions were swift, sure, and effective. She toppled Ho, making him lose concentration for a split second. John’s only worry was that she wouldn’t be able to keep the krima away from her or fall onto it by mistake.
Then he saw his opening—and used it.
Trying desperately to keep the dangerous laser away, he gripped Ho’s arm, and sensed the moment Ho decided to give her up. So he was ready when Ho threw her off. Her body hit his with a reassuring thud. He clutched her hard and backed away immediately.
And then the knife came, and his heart did stop. The moment it hit her, it was like he too was assaulted. Her body tensed in his arms. Spasmed. All he could do was hold her. It was too late to do anything else. He didn’t know where it had hit, only that it had sunk in as easily as if she were made of air. Her breath caught in her throat as she wilted in his arms. He roared in horror.
Whatever she said he was unable to hear. He needed to find where the knife had entered. Nothing else mattered right now.
Please, he begged, not the heart. She would be dead already if it were, he argued with himself. Please, please, please.
Her overcoat—Where had she gotten it from? It wasn’t hers. Why was it so thick?
She spoke again. He answered without knowing what he said. It didn’t matter about Ho—who was he again?
John called out her name, more to assure himself she was still alive. And then she fainted.
“Aline!” he cried out. “Aline!”
All he could think of now was to lay pressure around the area where the hilt of the knife protruded from her body. Beneath his fingers, he felt the slick oiliness of blood, hot and angry in its rush to escape her body.
Aline, beside him now, took control. Reluctant to release his grip, she removed it with force and pushed him away. He moved, but stayed close.
Josie made a small noise, her eyes fluttered, and the vibrant green clouded over. Her hand twitched. John grabbed it and he
ld it tight. She made another noise; it was a tired sound. Her head came up and Aline eased her back, crooning softly.
“This will have to be done here. Now,” Aline said to him, “I can’t risk moving her, it might make things worse. I think it’s already nicked an artery—too much blood.”
He nodded without thinking. Aline moved fast, clearing away a desk with one sweep of her arm, sending items crashing to the already littered floor. She gathered up medical supplies along the way.
“Bring her here,” she instructed John. “Gently.”
The moment Josie was on the desk, Aline began cutting away at her clothing. Beneath the heavy coat, her chest was awash with blood.
John had seen a lot in his day and was no stranger to the amount of blood and gore a person could release. But this was not just any person. This was Josie—his wife. His. A part of him. He felt what she felt. He couldn’t suppress the gasp. She was semiconscious, moaning, moving her head back and forth and muttering incoherently about her long-dead niece, Fern.
Aline stripped her down to nothing, exposing her bare chest. The coppery tang of blood filled the air. She sprayed a numbing antiseptic solution around the wound, then placed a handheld medical scanner over it, her face tight with concentration.
“Hold her steady,” Aline instructed. “It’ll be fine, but a barb from the knife is stuck under her collarbone. It might take a few tries.”
She wrapped her hand around the hilt of the knife, gripping hard, angled down and pulled. Josie made a high-pitched whine but otherwise remained pliant. Aline tugged again, and the knife gave a little. She took a breath and pulled hard. It gave some more, then slid out with a wet sound.
The wound welled up with more blood in an instant and spilled over as Josie groaned weakly. John ran a soothing hand over her clammy forehead; her face had a pasty tinge to it. Josie’s eyes fluttered and swiveled around the room as she tried to focus. Her hand flew up in reflex to touch the injury.
“Hold her steady.” Agitation spiked Aline’s voice. She held the scanner over the wound and started rooting about inside the opening with a thin silver tool as she muttered, “Got it. Good, good…just a little more.”
After a moment, Aline eased back, smiling as she dabbed the open wound with thick gauze. The blood seemed to be slowing now. She reached for some skin sealer and sprayed the area liberally. It bubbled and frothed white, cleared, and sealed the gash. All that remained was a nasty red line about two inches long, just under Josie’s collarbone.
“She’s lucky I was here.” Aline ran the back of her hand over her brow, smearing it with Josie’s blood. “An artery was nicked, as I thought. The bone prevented the knife from moving—but it was close.”
“Thank you, Aline.” John let out a breath and reached to grasp his sister’s arm.
“Ho got away, but he forgot all this equipment. Here.” She handed John the remains of the overcoat. “Better cover her up. Keep her warm. I’ll go see if there’s any antibiotic and pain patches.”
With the utmost care, John wrapped the coat around his wife. She appeared to be sleeping, a little fitful, but already deep in the clutches of a bad dream. He scooped her up and, for the first time, took stock of his surroundings.
It was a mess. The room was littered with upturned tables, shelving, and equipment. Glass mingled with charred pieces of debris. The water sprinklers had stopped at some point, but inch-deep puddles had formed at his feet.
Kakuta, off to one side, stood guard with a large pulse gun in the crook of his arm. He’d averted his eyes from the emergency surgery and instead stared dispassionately at a cowering man who crouched under a table, whimpering.
“Who is that?” John asked and walked closer with Josie—safe, protected—clutched in his arms.
Kakuta shrugged. “Is Madam Lancaster decent?” He risked a sideways glance to make certain Josie was covered up before facing John. “Possibly a Dr. Caleb Maines, Head of Archives.”
“It is.” Aline hauled Ho’s forgotten computers up from the floor, tucking them under her arm. “Come, let’s move.” She glanced at Dr. Maines with consideration. “I’m sorry for all this trouble. I will speak to the directors personally. This was no fault of yours.”
Dr. Maines didn’t appear to have heard and continued whimpering. Aline frowned, staring at him a moment longer before turning to John.
“The Rogue has gone as well. Something curious…Josie said he was helping.” Aline tipped up a shoulder. “He said he made a deal with her.”
“Did he now?” John looked down at his wife. That was interesting. Rogues didn’t usually change sides so easily, unless it was after the contract was complete.
McLinney appeared at the doorway, a scowl smudging his pug features, followed closely by a bevy of Hontag-Sonnet security personnel. They looked excitable and most definitely offended. At the sight of the president, they froze and fell silent.
Explanations would have to come later. For now, they needed to leave. Quickly. John put on his most stern face and barreled his way through, followed by Aline. In their wake, McLinney gave sharp orders to the security team, who seemed to babble at once to him.
“We were never here,” McLinney barked. “Clear?”
As they left, Aline whistled low as she witnessed evidence of John’s passing. Dead bodies were dotted along the corridors. She smiled at one of them, a thin, wiry-looking man John had found particularly nimble and slippery.
John pushed up an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
“Not anymore.”
Chapter 26
The blast knocked them off their feet, shaking the room with tremendous force. Simon wondered if they hadn’t, in fact, spun clean away from the station.
He shook his head to clear it. His teeth hurt from the shockwaves and an offensive ringing blasted his ears. Nausea wobbled through him. Whatever that last explosive was, it was designed to have maximum effect on humans. Most of the equipment in the room juddered and made static noises, then resumed as usual. The men and droids took their time peeling themselves off the floor. One man retched up his dinner.
Barf bombs, Simon thought. Smart.
Known as the Rumble, just before detonating it emitted a pitched tone to unbalance the inner ear. Most droids used a balance chip to keep them upright, making them susceptible. Humans fell prone in an instant and usually threw up their stomach, hence the slang term.
Before they could collect themselves, a swarm of soldiers had surrounded them. They wore headgear and protective body armor and didn’t say much, but their intent was clear. Simon and his team were outnumbered three to one. Resigned, Simon raised his arms in submission. The others, taking his lead, followed suit.
“You will move into the storeroom. Now,” a woman, clearly in charge, bellowed. For effect, she let out a quick burst from her automatic rifle. A spray of bullets peppered the ceiling, sending down a shower of metal and plastic fragments. Someone yelped out in surprise.
Madds shot a quick glance to Simon, who shook his head a fraction, then gave a small nod toward Ox. Taking his cue, Ox puffed his chest out and cleared his throat. “You cannot do this!” he barked with feigned indignation.
“Silence!” the woman snapped back, marching up to Ox. “Are you in charge here? Are you Mwenye? If so, instruct your Junkies to stand down and…” she looked down at his black uniform, taking in the crimson trimming. “Elites. I should have known.” Darting a glance about the room, she tagged Madds and Simon, and snorted in disgust. Minnows stood hidden among his taller counterparts.
“Weapons, in a pile on the floor. Right here!” She pointed to the middle of the room. “Do it, now.”
With reluctance, weapons were tossed in the center of the room, but not before a quick scuffle ensued with a couple of Junkies, who considered it a personal insult to be parted from their weapons. Simon made a great show of relinquishing his pulse gun. It didn’t matter, since he had other weapons hidden about his person—and his fists. If everyone played along,
they might still have a chance. He gave the Junkies a gimlet eye in warning.
The woman turned to beckon someone, a reedy man with a ferret-faced look about him. With a belligerent shoulder shove, he brushed past Ox and darted quick, black eyes over the mainframe controls. From his pocket, he extracted a key card—the key card with the fake code. He inserted it into a slot, then tapped in a few commands on the console. He frowned, making his beady little eyes contract to slits.
“Where is the tech?” he said without looking up. “Bring him here, now.”
The others were directed by gunpoint to a small storeroom on the right. No one, technician or otherwise, responded to Ferret Face. All the Junkies sent murderous looks back, itching to start trouble. Simon had given them specific instructions that Ox was the only “tech” who would deal with the enemy.
“That would be me.” Ox stood his ground.
The thin man cocked his head. “An Elite? A tech? Will wonders never cease?”
“What is it you want?”
“What’ve you done with the commands?”
“Nothing.”
“Where is the governor?”
“No idea.”
The woman rammed the back end of her weapon into Ox’s back. He grunted, jerking his large frame, but held steady. He turned to her and smiled. “A little higher next time. It’s still a little itchy.”
“Idiot!” She slammed her weapon again, this time aiming for Ox’s head, but he ducked and whipped an arm out to grip it. A surge of men pressed forward, training their guns onto him. Ox calmly released the woman’s gun and resumed his impassive stance.
“Why isn’t it working, Cerevetto?” the woman demanded.
The ferret-faced man, Cerevetto, shook his head. “Someone’s been tampering with the commands. It’s open, but buried somewhere. If I touch anything else, the system will go into shut down mode. This code is useless!” With that, he flung the key card to the floor in disgust.
