by Brad C Scott
“Not another word,” says the new voice. “I won’t allow this. Torture, Krayge? Torture? Take your men and go, get out. Now.”
A sigh sounds nearby. Someone pokes a needle into my neck.
◊ ◊ ◊
When I come to, I’m lying back in the old hospital bed again, the IV attached, a blanket pulled over me. I’m alone. By the clock on the wall, it appears another nine hours have passed.
They feed me again, the same process as before. The same young woman brings me my meal, but this time, she won’t meet my eyes. The guard looks at me with an expression of profound discomfort. When I ask what’s going on, neither answers.
I unhook the IV and hobble about some more. God, feels like I’ve been beaten with bags of rocks. The leg wound seems to be a bit better at least, though my head throbs like it’s counting down to explode with every shuffling step. For silver lining, at least I have something to distract me from the pain and worry over my squad. Rage is a great relief for such troubled times, a balm for the blighted soul. I’m going to kill that scarred bastard before I go. Thinking of creative ways passes the time.
When the door opens again, an older man with a bald head and full gray beard enters. Blood spots the upper arms of his long-sleeved, collared shirt. Following on his heels is my new best friend. The graybeard pulls up a chair and sits, motioning for me to do the same, while my tormentor remains standing to one side, arms folded. Good cop, asshole cop?
“I’m Doctor Ben Hancock,” says the graybeard, hands on his knees. I recognize the voice as the man who canceled the best parts of my torture session. “This is Krayge, whom you’ve met. First off: I apologize for the treatment you’ve received. Krayge?”
Looking down on me, he says, “My apologies.” The apathy in his eyes says otherwise.
Clambering into a chair, I ask Hancock, “Are you in charge?”
“The people here look to me for leadership, but I’m only in charge of my own skin. We’re just regular folks here.”
“Regular folks don’t torture people.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Krayge is helping us with security, but I didn’t realize he’d resort to such cruelty. I assure you it won’t happen again.”
Krayge’s eyes glitter – he’s not on board with the doctor’s beliefs. What else have they fought over? Makes me wonder who’s really in charge down here.
“And regular folks gained access to the assault weapons your guards are carrying?” I ask. “And were able to determine my identity?”
Hancock smiles. “Well, now, I didn’t say we were idiots, did I? A man must bow to necessity to survive. Especially in a zone. But you know all that, Redeemer.”
He’s good, this Ben Hancock. I wonder if that’s his real name or an alias. He doesn’t strike me as the criminal or violent type. There’s genuine compassion in his eyes, the kind earned from painful struggles with loss. Must be a family man. And despite the easygoing manner, his face is a battleground fought over by old scars and new wrinkles. Makes me wonder what he did to become the shot-caller down here.
I ask: “How long do you plan on keeping me here?”
He leans back, mulls it over. “Not interested in platitudes, are you? Very well. You’ll remain our prisoner until it’s safe to release you. Until then, you’ll come to no further harm.”
“If you and yours are just normal folks, why hold me at all?”
“Why, Redeemer, you invaded our city. You’ve killed or detained a lot of good people. Most of the undercity has been spared, but it’s only a matter of time. Put yourself in our shoes. If we let you go, what’s to keep you from coming back with your people and wiping us out?”
“You’re wrong. That’s not why we’re here.”
“Is that so? Krayge?”
Krayge uncrosses his arms. “Confirmed deaths at the hands of the enforcers and their machines are one hundred and twenty-eight. Extractions are at least triple that.”
“Over a hundred people,” says Hancock. “Some of them were friends of mine. Some of them were women. And children. And that’s not counting the dead from the Shanghai flu, the numbers of which… Well, we can only guess at. Don’t tell me you’re part of some sort of solution. You’re the problem.”
“We’ve set up distribution centers –”
“You brought the flu in the first place!” shouts Hancock, cutting me off. “Don’t deny it! It’s been hell, Redeemer. Around here, people take care of their own, so early on, most of the sick holed up with their loved ones before we figured out what we were facing. It helped slow the spread, but there are rooms throughout the city filled with the dead. Whole families. And nothing we could do but set up quarantines.”
“Where’s your evidence?”
“Evidence? The truth is all around us!” he yells before getting control of himself, the anger in his eyes diluted by moisture. “It’s all just a pretext so you could come in and take over. Vaccine. Do you even know what’s in it?”
“Nanobots,” says Krayge. “We had our own people tested.”
Hancock smiles, but this time, it doesn’t touch his eyes. “That’s the reason you’re here. To tag us like cattle. To get us all in line.”
I tap the back of my neck, where my ID is implanted. “Just like everyone else.”
“So, you admit this isn’t a free country anymore?”
I remain silent. He’s not wrong about the Administration’s desire to monitor the zone populations with neural interface devices. The rest of the country is already in that boat. As for nanobots, I’ve no idea what they’re talking about. But the IDs are something they’ll have to learn to live with. The price of liberty is high. Sometimes, lesser freedoms must pay for greater ones.
Hancock intuits my line of thinking, wrinkled cheeks drawing up beneath mournful eyes. “None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.”
I frown at him, unsure how to respond.
“Goethe said that. Faust? The man who made a deal with the devil, only to have all go to ruin anyway. A good parable for the state of our society. Do you believe that a free society would force its own people, irrespective of their wishes, to be implanted with invasive control devices? Not everyone wants to sell themselves so cheaply.”
“It’s been the law for more than a decade,” I say.
“Ah, the law. And I suppose all the laws passed by our federal government are just. Are you so credulous, young man? The interface devices are incompatible in a free society. Despite all the medical benefits, the loss of freedom inherent in their mandate is too egregious.”
I shift in my seat. “You sound like a revolutionary.”
“You mean terrorist, don’t you? That’s what anyone who questions the government these days is labeled. Yes, you know I’m right. That little microchip in your neck? We fought a Revolution over it. Seventeen years later, and here we are again.”
“What happened to my people? My reclaimers? Did you encounter a drone?”
Hancock leans back, hands on his knees, and shares a look with Krayge.
“Tell me.” Looking at Hancock, I force out, “Please.”
“You’re the only one we recovered,” he says. “We don’t know about your friends.”
“We heard the battle,” adds Krayge. “My people say there was a tunnel collapse somewhere above. After that, silence. Your men are all dead: shot or buried.”
No. He’s lying. Worthy is alive. Evans, Anderson, Murphy. Patton.
“I’m sorry, son,” says Hancock.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. I’m done speaking with these deluded assholes. Wait a minute, what did he say? “Your people?”
“I’m NDL,” says Krayge. “Unlike you, we’re fighting on the side of the people.”
That figures – we expected the New Dawn of Liberty would use the operation to gain more popular support. Seems we were right. Nor am I surprised at my typical good fortune, being at ground zero for the perfect embodiment of that expectation
. But does Hancock know what they’re capable of? Can he be that naïve? NDL agents may have fueled the protest outside Union Station. Hell, they probably had a hand in stirring up civil unrest and violence zone wide. With friends like these…
“He’s right, son,” says Hancock. “Krayge and his people have helped save lives since your invasion began. Can you say the same?”
Now I understand Hancock’s belligerence – he’s taking counsel from a snake. The New Dawn of Liberty might talk a good game, but the hundreds of corpses they’ve left in their wake, many of them innocent, tell the real story. The NDL and the jihadists, like all terror groups, have one thing in common: sacrificing innocent lives to fulfill their agendas.
“You think you’re different,” says Krayge, black eyes full of casual contempt.
I stare bloody murder. Bastard figured out where my mind was headed.
“Well, well,” says Hancock. “All right, we’ll continue this conversation later. Too much stress is bad for the recovery. Krayge, would you excuse us, please?”
Krayge turns on his heel and exits the room.
“All right, son,” says Hancock. “Time to get back in bed and allow me to check on you.”
“I thought Metcalf stitched me up.”
“That man is a veterinarian. We’ve not had much need for his services of late.”
While I clamber back into bed, an old woman enters with a medical bag, hands it to Hancock, and then departs. He opens the bag and stands over me. “Your friends have given me a lot of work lately.” He retrieves latex gloves and pulls them on. “Hold still.”
I clench my teeth to hold in a gasp. He examines the injured leg a bit too energetically for my tastes. But I’ll say this for him, he knows what he’s doing. The stitches are an expert job, and the flesh around the wound looks healthy. He appears to agree with my assessment.
“IDs and nanotech,” he muses while applying a new bandage. “Never thought I’d see the day. You’re playing a dangerous game, son. Has it occurred to you that the same nanobots that administer medical treatment can be programmed to do other things? It’s one thing to have a microchip implant, those can be removed. But nanobots? It’s got people in a panic.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
He finishes with the bandage and pulls a medical scanner from his bag. “So you say.” He runs the scanner over my head and chest. “I hope we’re just being paranoid. Nanorobotics has done a world of good for medical care, especially preventive. But used with the IDs, whose purpose is to monitor and control?” He gives a deep sigh and clicks the scanner shut.
“Thank you, doctor.”
He removes the gloves. “Son, I hope you won’t hold your captivity against us.”
“You’re consorting with a terrorist organization. You’re an accessory to the kidnapping and torture of a redeemer. You’re smart enough to know the consequences.”
“Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence in my intellect. Fact is, we had little choice. If the devil shows up at your door while the house is on fire, you don’t turn away his help.”
“Unless the devil set the fire.”
He gives me a speculative look. “Well. In any case, I believe you would have survived even without our help. A man who can survive a bullet to the head can handle almost anything.”
“That was a long time ago. I was lucky.”
“So your luck has run out, has it?”
“You tell me.”
That makes him pause. The humor drains from his face, but not the compassion. “Son, you don’t know me, so I’ll tell it to you straight. There were plenty of folks who wanted you dead. Or worse, in Krayge’s case. I wouldn’t hear of it. They’re right to be afraid, but fear is no excuse for murder. You’ll be fine.”
I believe that he believes it.
“Do you have any family, Redeemer?” His eyes cut briefly to my white gold wedding band, still hanging on its chain around my neck. “Has your wife passed on?”
Caught off guard, I blink and remain silent.
“I’m sorry, son, forgive me for prying.” He grabs his bag, turns, and walks out.
The bolt bangs home as the door locks behind him.
Doctor Hancock can’t save me. Krayge and his NDL cronies will see me dead before they let me go. The sort of hate I saw in his eyes won’t be swayed by words, no matter how influential the speaker. And New Dawn has its reputation to consider.
Escape is still my only option.
Escape or die. Or die to escape.
CHAPTER 10
“Wake up, Redeemer, it’s time to go.” What? Groggy, I come to – must have slept a while. The clock on the wall confirms it. At least there were no dreams this time, none that I remember. And I’m in bed, not tied to a chair. Should I thank God now or later?
Propping myself up on an elbow, I blink my eyes at the only visitor who’s spoken with me since the meeting with Doctor Hancock. It’s the veterinarian – Metcalf? – standing beside the bed, looking insistently into my face. Sneaky bastard, I didn’t even hear his approach, let alone the door opening. What did he say? He looks… different.
“You’re awake,” he states. “Good. Here, this will help.” He holds up a needle and moves to inject me in the arm.
I reach over and grab his wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Andronisol. You’ll need it if you’re going to get out of here.”
I swing my legs over the side and sit up, still holding his arm. This appears to be the young veterinarian, all right – same face, same clothes, same modded semi-automatic at his belt – yet it’s not the same man. The mildness and casual compassion are gone. A face stamped with an agent’s determination stares back at me.
It’s always the innocent-looking ones.
“Who are you? No games.”
“Sentinel. Deep cover. A cover I’m abandoning to get you out. You ready to go, or do you want to talk more?”
I let go of his arm, and he injects me with the andronisol. Almost immediately, my heart starts beating faster, my vision sharpens, my assorted pains dull. I’ve never used the stuff before – it’s illegal and addictive – but the situation calls for it. Usually reserved for special operators working overseas, it’s a potent combat cocktail used only in extremis. I can feel why.
I get my legs under me, crack my neck, and stretch. Should have assessed my physical condition before getting juiced, but nothing for it now. Everything works, the left leg included. Without the pain hobbling me, running about should be doable, though it may tear the stitches open. Might reinjure the ribs, too, if I’m not careful. So be it. Escape trumps everything.
He hands me a pack, and I start dressing in the hand-me-downs within. Beat-up blue jeans. A faded shirt. A light jacket. The battered work boots actually fit.
“Your hard suit is junked,” he says.
“Camera and listening devices?” I ask, lacing up the boots.
“Disabled. Camera’s looping. So’s the listener. You snore, by the way.”
Ah, my day just got brighter – there, in the bottom of the pack, rests my SWAT pistol and a trio of loaded magazines. I pull it out and check the action and battery. I haven’t used it much lately, but as a top-shelf tool of close-quarters debate, my Strategic Weapons Activated Technology pistol has yet to lose me an argument. It may not pack the punch of a coil rifle, but with its installed slug converter delivering onboard modding, it has answers for everything: stunshock, incendiary, armor piercing, illumination. And unlike coil and rail platforms, it will keep firing even after an EMP. I activate the readout and stow the mags in a jacket pocket.
“What about the guards?” I ask.
“Taken care of. We have,” he checks his watch, “six minutes before their next check-in.”
“So that’s our window. What’s the plan?”
He hands me a holopad. “Two exits, the pad has both routes. Checkpoints, surveillance systems, access codes. I’ve compromised the security systems along the best ro
ute, but it won’t last.”
The pad has the installation’s schematics, all right. I spend a few seconds to get a feel for the layout before stowing it in a pocket. “What about backup?”
“I got a call out through the scrambler net,” he says, pulling his pistol and installing a silencer with practiced ease. “One way only. ETA unknown.”
“What are we dealing with?”
“More than we can handle. Come on.”
I hope my luck is on vacation and this whole scenario is legit. If he’s not a sentinel, then he’s one of Krayge’s men, here to lead me into a trap – killed trying to escape, they’ll say. He could also be an assassin in league with the assholes who ambushed my squad, me being a loose end and all that. Well, we’ll see how this goes.
My menu of choices makes for a short list.
◊ ◊ ◊
The sentinel exits right, so I go left, pistol out. The long rectangular room outside my cell appears to be a holding area of some kind, consoles installed along its long axis with reinforced doors in the walls opposite them. No one in sight save the two guards sprawled unmoving on the floor. I check one – still has a pulse. Good, no need for more deaths on my account.
“Any other prisoners?” I ask.
“Not anymore.”
He leads me down a crossing corridor. From here, it should be only a few minutes to reach our exit. That’s assuming we encounter no resistance, which we will. No alarm klaxons or flashing lights yet, though raised voices echo in the distance.
“We have to hurry,” he says, breaking into a jog.
The walls, floors, and ceilings are old concrete marred by stress fractures with ceiling-mounted grill lights shedding intermittent illumination. We pass a series of closed doors and a room stacked with boxes. Reaching a T-intersection, we bear left, still jogging, weapons out, the sounds of activity echoing down the corridor behind us.
He slows and holds up a hand, holstering his weapon while pointing at a doorway ahead. I hold up and follow his lead. He changes into the meek veterinarian again, posture slouched and expression harried, before walking forward to stand in the opening.
