The Master Key

by T. K. Toppin

  John cleared his throat. “On my mark.”

  We sprang out of the shuttle like bouncing balls. Each Elite went off in a different direction, but fanned out to keep the central balls, John and I, protected. Margeaux was dragged along behind us by an Elite. She seemed reluctant but followed with surly obedience.

  I sidled into position to John’s left, a step behind. It was an agreed formation for when Simon wasn’t with us. John, right-handed, needed that arm free and clear in case of combat, in case he needed to protect me. It wasn’t a submissive move but a smart one. He had spent his whole life perfecting the art of combat relative to my mere year of befuddled training. He’d stated plainly enough he trusted no one else but Simon or me to watch his back. We were, after all, driven to protect him, and each other, for love, not duty. While he could train eyes to his front, we would always watch his back, allowing him to concentrate on the task at hand.

  As if to emphasize this point, I slid narrowed eyes back to Margeaux. Our eyes met, locked. Whatever thoughts passed through her mind then were unreadable, but we both carried an icy glare that spoke multitudes.

  The docking bay was a mess of chaos, noise, metal and smoke. Tucking my head low, I followed John as we dashed across the littered dock. We nipped behind smoking parts of shuttles, fallen equipment, boxes, and whatever else we could find for shelter. Before us, spread out at strategic points, were Sandvik and his team, mowing down those still left standing in the wake of December’s attack and trying to clear a path. Still in the cockpit, December continued to shoot at those resisting.

  Sandvik made a quick motion to John, who nodded. Like pieces on a chessboard, we moved forward in increments, taking up new positions. Our aim was the docking bay exit doors.

  Leaving four behind, including Lieutenant December, to secure the docking bay, Sandvik forged ahead.

  “It will take us roughly ten minutes to get to the mainframe, providing we’re not detained.” Sandvik spared a glance behind at us as he spoke.

  “Understood.” John, well aware of the fact judging from his terse tone, scanned beyond the exit doors, his expression taut.

  We stood about twenty feet from the glide elevators that would run us up along the arm to the main body of the Yard. Two of Sandvik’s team were neutralizing resistance from a lone mercenary still hiding behind the leg of a shuttle.

  “Hail the Renwick,” John continued. “Get Captain Grosjean to deploy. We need them to hold this docking bay.”

  “My lieutenant has already done so. They should be here shortly. Her scans indicate a large mass ahead of us, just outside the glide doors in the reception area. Approximately twenty to thirty men, armed. Be ready as the doors open.”

  John nodded and readied his weapons.

  We were sixteen-strong and armed to the teeth. With luck, we’d stand a chance. John glanced at me. I’d kept myself reined in tight like a coiled spring—ready. He shook his head a fraction, catching my eyes. I should not engage, he said.

  I inclined my head, relief washing over me.

  “On your mark, Captain.” John nodded again to Sandvik.

  The group marched out swiftly, stepping over fallen bodies, blood and gore, and into the waiting glide. Margeaux made an audible noise, a choking sound. Her eyes were riveted on the dead.

  “Not feeling well?” John asked, pushing up a brow. He pressed to the sides of the elevator, towing me in his wake.

  Margeaux made no response but wore a scowl, which failed to mask her obvious horror. She tossed her hair, wiped her features blank, and regarded him in cold silence.

  “Cheer up,” he continued with a flash of teeth. “It doesn’t get any better. Death is a messy business. Either you’re ready for it or not.”

  “Barbaric,” Margeaux muttered under her breath and turned away from him.

  I cocked an eyebrow and turned to stare at the girl. Before I could form a scathing remark, the glide sounded its arrival and the doors slid open.

  Sandvik’s men were ready. Crouched low, they opened fire on the mercenaries who scattered like birds, flapping for cover amid yelps of surprise. The Elites followed suit, John included.

  John pressed a hand back, shoving me farther into a corner of the glide. I would’ve joined in had I been able to see through the smoke. The stench of weapons fire surrounded me, and the crackling of static as body-shields repelled bullets and projectiles had me flinching. Maybe. But it was safer to mind John’s warning. I had no business engaging in war when it wasn’t necessary.

  Margeaux stood hunched in the corner opposite me, hands fisted over her ears, face tight with discomfort.

  Someone in the glide yelled in pain then dropped to the floor, followed by another, who curled into a ball. There were grunts, shouts, and directives. I focused through the confusion to see who had fallen. I knew it wasn’t John; he stood at my right, flanked by McLinney and Kakuta. It was a Space Militia, and half his left shoulder was gone. Those behind were covered in his blood. He was dragged aside, inspected rapidly to determine his condition—dead—then shoved in the corner. The other man who had fallen pushed up but listed heavily to one side; he crawled into position once more. He hadn’t lost his gun.

  Another fell, an Elite. His body-shield sizzled and sparked with smoke and pops of light as his chest ignited. The Elite who stood nearest flipped him over, snuffing out the flames. John cursed in rage, calling the fallen Elite by name. Margeaux gagged. I shut my eyes and took a breath, ignoring the smell of roasting flesh and blood. I knew I could never erase what I’d just seen.

  War was a messy business. I needed a moment.

  The exchange of gunfire was over in less than three minutes. It felt like half a day. Three more were dead, a total of five—two Elites and three Militia. Blood and bits of gore were splattered over John. Even I, tucked away in the corner, had not escaped the spray of blood as it released from the body at high velocity. Bright red splashes ran across my arms, and there were more on my neck and face. I wiped at them roughly, stamping down the rush of nausea by reminding myself they were from men—men who had been alive just moments ago, fighting and giving their lives to defend what was theirs. I forced myself to memorize their faces, hoping that by doing so, I’d be better able to deal with having their blood on me.

  Margeaux had thrown up at some point. She was sheet-white, her eyes glazed over, staring at a point somewhere beyond the glide doors.

  The other side hadn’t fared well. Sandvik trudged through the bodies, mercifully killing those that had no hope of living. Those who lived were hustled together, secured, and dumped in a corner for later retrieval.

  John flicked a glance at me. I nodded, and we filed out, slipping in blood and skirting the worst of the dead until we reached the far side of the reception area. The Elite followed, dragging Margeaux. Part of his pant leg was smeared with her vomit, which he seemed oblivious to.

  In silence, we proceeded through a door and then entered another elevator, a direct ride to the mainframe. Our scans indicated another cluster of men waiting just outside, not as large as the first. They also showed the telltale signs of a swarm of security droids advancing on our position with inhuman speed.

  John pulled out his communicator and called Simon. “Not quite an hour; we’re ahead of schedule.”

  Simon grinned, his face pale and clammy. “John. It’s about bloody time. Ho’s making a move. He’s got Mwenye and is heading this way. How far along are you?”

  “About seven minutes. A batch of droids will intercept some unfriendlies before we exit the ride. Be ready for us. Where is Ho now?”

  “Judging from the communications, he’s coming in from Distribution. There’s been a bloodbath there with some of our droids. Mwenye was the only one left alive, but he got caught trying to head back to the escape chambers.” Simon shook his head. “Ho is alone, it would appear. The droids didn’t kill him because he wasn’t wearing the merc colors. A slight oversight, which is being corrected as we speak…” Simon glanced to
one side, no doubt admonishing a technician with a look.

  “Simon…” John clamped his mouth into a line, unable to finish. He exchanged a look with me. I stood close by and touched his arm, squeezing it.

  I watched John studying his old friend. Simon’s face was pallid with a sickly sheen, his voice labored. Lowering his voice, John seemed to beg. “Wait for me.”

  John pocketed his communicator and glanced at me again. I gave him a small smile and leaned in closer to nudge his left arm with mine. He leaned in, relaxing a bit.

  “This time tomorrow, we’ll be home having a great big feast with Simon and Trudi and everyone else. You’ll see,” I whispered into his ear as he snorted out a chuckle.

  “I’m scared for him,” was all he said.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Chapter 31

  Captain Alanis Grosjean scrubbed her hand through her cropped dark hair. Spikes kicked up where her hand traveled. She directed a cold stare at her lieutenant, her brown eyes brittle and hard. “Repeat that?” she barked.

  While Sandvik was calm and collected, choosing his words with care regardless of his forceful nature, Grosjean was his opposite. She was loud, brash, scathing; a live wire, crackling and bristling with energy. Her delicate elfin features and flyaway eyebrows belied an unpredictable and deceptive temperament. Her heart-shaped face and creamy complexion conjured images of fragile women having tea and sharing gossip. Her voice, smooth and feminine, rang with the subtle tones of Euro-Gallic origins, yet was crude with authority. Her height was average, her build slight, but she carried herself in a manner as imposing as a giant.

  “The bay doors are jammed, Captain.” The lieutenant shifted with discomfort. “That last barrage was a direct hit. We’re grounded.”

  “Goddammit!” Grosjean shouted, flinging her helmet to the floor. It bounced high enough that another recruit had to dodge to avoid being knocked in the shin. “What about the secondary doors?”

  “No, sir.”

  “As in what? Have they been jammed as well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grosjean braced herself against the weapon’s room wall, pinching the bridge of her nose with gloved fingers. “Is there any exit we can use at this moment?” She paced her words, trying for calm. Any who knew her would know that was when to tread with caution.

  “No, Captain.”

  She inhaled. “Fine. Hail, December. Explain the situation.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied, then cleared his throat.

  “Yes?”

  “We could deploy from the rear escape pods. It will take some time and we won’t be able to carry as much weaponry—but it’s an out. Three to a pod, should take about twenty or thirty minutes for us to reach the Yard.”

  “Then what’re we standing here discussing it for? Ready yourselves—we leave in five. Scramble!” Grosjean snatched up her helmet and thrust it onto her head. “Minimize weapons for maximum effect. Necessities only. Now!”

  Grosjean began discarding her own gear, throwing down extra explosives and weapons that were too bulky or heavy for the lightweight escape pods. It pained her to do so, but she had no choice. They were wasting precious minutes. Sandvik and the president needed them as quickly as possible.

  Goddamn those mercs!

  She’d like nothing better than to pull a trigger and blow the gunship into the next universe. Oh, how she’d love to witness it.

  Harm my ship, will you? Ground us like simpering school children? We’ll see about that. Grosjean flung down the last of her explosives, ignoring the flinches and gritted teeth of her men as she crudely discarded the volatile items.

  * * *

  Seeing John flooded Simon with relief. The blood drained from John’s face as their eyes met, his jaw clenching as he paled.

  Simon stood, but propped himself heavily against a shelving unit. Madds hovered nearby. Following close at John’s heels were Josie, Elites, Sandvik, and the Militia.

  “Fucking hell, Simon!” Josie spoke first, barreling forward to inspect him. The bandages, wound tight around his waist, were already soaked through. He was on his third saline patch, and the painkillers and antibiotics seemed only to dull his awareness. Simon considered tossing his next dose, but Madds lingered close, refusing to leave him alone.

  “Are you…about to drop dead on us?” Josie’s voice cracked.

  “If you’d let me. But something tells me I won’t be allowed to.” Simon managed a smirk, but his face was starting to feel numb. Blood loss was affecting his extremities; his fingers tingling.

  “Sit.” John finally found his voice and, gripping his arm, urged him to a seat, a cushioned office chair on wheels.

  “Yes, Mother,” Simon muttered, allowing John to help him.

  Madds snorted and stepped away. “Oh, of course you’d sit for him.” Relief made him blow out a breath; he strode over to Sandvik to brief him on everything that had happened.

  “How bad is it?” John seemed recovered from the shock of seeing Simon so pale. “A gut wound?”

  “Mmm. I’ll do for now, but I’ll need immediate medical as soon as possible. Any ideas on when that will be? No pressure, just wondering.” Simon tried to keep his tone casual, but the beginnings of panic were setting in. Not about dying. He’d already come to terms with death years ago. “See, I forgot to kiss the wife and kid before leaving.” A weak smile pulled his mouth.

  John’s face tightened, and he worked his mouth.

  “I thought you were some super-duper ninja master. You’re not meant to get injured,” Josie accosted him, looking ready to smack him, had he not been hurt already. Her eyes were round and wide, and a little watery.

  “No fair. I hear you got stuck. That’s not meant to happen, either.”

  “That’s different. I wasn’t ready for it.”

  “And you think I stood still and drew a bull’s eye to my belly?”

  “Will the two of you shut up,” John hissed. “Now, where is this Jane? How is it she’s tracking Ho?”

  Simon pulled out Jane and explained. “She’s latched onto the Yard’s security cams—don’t worry, she’s invisible. We tracked him leaving Distribution about thirty minutes ago. It’s slow progress since the droids are hampering them from going the usual routes. They’ve got communications and are still in command of the control room. We’ve directed the droids and Junkies there. Minnows is with them, along with a Junkie called Russell—solid man. Now that you’re here, I need someone to spring Renna. She’s still trapped up in the escape chambers with a group of about thirty and close to fifteen unfriendlies on guard.”

  “I’ll spring her,” Josie offered. “I studied the schematics on the ride over. I’ll be fine. Sounds like Ho is heading here. He won’t be bothered with the escape chamber yet. I could take a few Elites with me.”

  “You will not,” John warned. “I will. You stay here with Simon.”

  “With him? Why me?”

  “Let me go.” Madds approached them. “If they see you two strolling through the Yard, that’s like double the pleasure for Ho and his lot. Best not let them get the advantage any more than they already have.”

  “Okay. Makes sense.” Josie nodded with vigor and added a “whew” under her breath.

  “Fine,” John replied. “Take two more. Keep out of trouble. Contact me as soon as you’ve got Renna via this…” He cocked his head toward Jane and read off her signature code.

  Madds left immediately, dragging two more Elites with him. They hopped over the makeshift barricade across the entrance doors, where Junkies stood guard with a few Militia and droids, and disappeared.

  Sandvik marched up to John. “Grosjean is fifteen minutes away. Once her team is in, we’ll rendezvous at the control room. Instruct the droids to hold fast until then. I’ll send her here with a few of hers to assist.”

  “Grosjean is coming?” Simon chuckled. An odd, drugged sensation shrouded him; it was like he had no filter over his thoughts or words. “Things shoul
d be quite interesting. Josie, I’d hold your tongue if I were you. She’s…what’s that term you like to use? A bitch on wheels, that’s it. Good woman, but hot-tempered…” Simon clamped his mouth shut, frowning. He was rambling. He gave John a meaningful stare, half apologetically, that said his time was near.

  John stared at Simon, and then cast a worried look toward Josie. He turned back to Sandvik with renewed anger. “Take two of mine as well,” John instructed. “I’m counting on you to take back the control room.” He motioned to McLinney and Kakuta. “Find a way to the Prosthetics Labs. Once there, make the remote surgery ready and hold steady until we open a link to Earth. I’ll alert you immediately. Once we’re back online, open a link directly to my sister and get the techs to assist and prep for surgery. I’ll send Simon in a moment so she can operate on him. Be quick, clear any obstacles, but be invisible.”

  “I forgot about that,” Simon muttered. His brain felt like mush. Coherent thoughts were a strain. “Aline. Ha, how is she doing?”

  “Simon, I want no arguments from you,” John growled. “McLinney and Kakuta will clear the way. I’ll send Josie with you if you can’t walk. But you are going.”

  Josie gaped at him but said nothing.

  “And what, leave you here having all the fun?” Simon grinned. “And please stop shouting. You’re giving me a headache on top of everything else.”

  “I’m not pissing about here. Aline can help via the remote surgery link. Just get there!” Real concern and fear etched John’s face; he leaned in close. “I’ll not see you dead, not if I can help it. Josie will keep you safe.” He glanced at her with pain twisting his face. “I want you both out of this mainframe.”

  “Fine, fine. But I can get there on my own, thanks. Going with her would only kill me further. Just give me a moment, will you. Let me catch my breath some.” Simon sighed. Sobering a bit, he tugged John’s sleeve. “I’ve informed Ox that Ho is after the cloning technology,” he whispered. “He’s been trying to create a virus that once—should Mwenye fail and talk—the files are accessed, will target that alone and destroy it. Unfortunately, it will leave control of the droids wide open.”