“Watched you pass by.”
“Yes.”
“Watched you not come back.”
Anne’s eyes burned into Mary with dark anger—just as they had on that day, when her gaze had dared the QB and her men to make one wrong step, to threaten her people in any way.
“Anne was my mother’s name,” Mary said. “I’ve always thought it was very beautiful. I’ve never met another Anne before you.” The girl’s eyes didn’t relent. Not sure she wanted to hear the answer, Mary asked, “What happened?”
“Transport killed most of us. And took the rest of us prisoner. That’s what happened.”
“And you’re mad at me. At TRACE. Because we didn’t come back and help you.”
“You could’ve stopped them. You could’ve stopped this.”
Mary closed her eyes, debating with herself. “Maybe,” she said. She pulled the blanket off and opened her eyes so she would see what the girl was seeing.
Anne gasped.
“Maybe not,” Mary said.
As Anne stared, aghast, Mary said, “I’m sorry for what happened to your people, Anne. But we’ve fought hard, TRACE has. For you. For the Amish. For everyone. Even for Transport’s own loyal citizens who don’t know what they don’t have. But we can’t be everywhere at once.”
“I won’t! I won’t!” shouted the girl. She kneaded the cloth in her hands furiously. “I won’t cry again!”
Mary threw the blanket back over her legs.
After a few moments, Anne’s anger subsided and she looked up at the woman on the cot. “Is that really true?”
“What?”
“That your mother’s name was Anne?”
“Yes. Anne Brenneman. And I had a father and a brother. I—I’m not sure if they’re still alive. I haven’t seen them in forever. Since I was your age.”
Anne began again to fold and squeeze the cloth she held so fiercely in her hands. “I lost my family too. My real family. When Transport attacked…” Her eyes threatened to overflow again.
“What’s that in your hand?” Mary asked, wanting to distract her. “Something from home?”
Anne looked down as if she’d forgotten she had it. “No, it’s a hat. The Man Mountain gave it to me before. He’s my friend now,” she said, not quite convinced of that herself.
Mary’s heart skipped a beat.
“The—the Man Mountain?”
“Yes. We called him that when you visited, remember?” Anne grinned slightly through her anguish, thinking of her time with Stug in the common room. Then she noticed a peculiar look on Mary’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“The Man Mountain is here?”
“Yes, him and the other man. His friend.”
Mary’s heart skipped two beats.
“Which man? What did he look like?”
Anne blushed and looked down at the floor. “Um…”
“Never mind. You’ve answered my question.”
“Are you okay?” asked Anne, moving toward the bed. “Did I say something wrong?”
Mary reached out, and Anne let her take her hand. The QB’s fingers lightly brushed the rough wool of the fedora, as if she were afraid, just by touching it, she’d make it disappear.
“Want to hold it?” asked Anne.
Mary looked from the fedora up to the girl’s eyes. Without waiting for Mary to answer, Anne offered it to her. Mary took Stug’s hat in her hand and smoothed the creases made by the girl’s kneading.
“Did I say something wrong?” repeated Anne.
“Oh, no, honey, not at all. Best stay here by me, though, away from the door. But keep your eye on it.” Smiling, Mary handed the fedora back to Anne. “Our friends are coming.”
“How long do we have to hang here?” whispered Bracer. “My arms hurt.”
“Quiet,” said Trick. “You complain worse than Stug ever did.”
The last of the prisoners were pounding down the ramp of the airbus. Bracer and Trick held fast to the vehicle’s undercarriage, waiting.
“I sure hope they follow protocol and stow this ship for the night. You don’t think they have more prisoners to pick up, do you?”
“Quiet.”
Pusher and Hawkeye had gone ahead. In all, three airbuses had landed near the fountain and offloaded more prisoners, who were herded into the Detention Center. After lifting off, each of the three ships had landed on the building’s roof to be refueled and readied for the next day. The sergeant and spotter had hitched a ride on the previous airbus; they should be waiting on the roof for Trick and Bracer to join them.
“It’s gonna be really loud when those anti-gravs—”
Before Bracer could finish, the airbus fired up its booster engines. The doors closed. Air rushed around them. As the craft overcame planetary gravity, the main anti-grav engines kicked in and Bracer watched the ground fall away. He closed his eyes and turned his head to stare at the bottom of the vehicle. His knuckles were harder than the reinforced aluminum frame he held on to for dear life. He hated heights.
Less squeamish as the airbus lifted off, Trick watched the Transport soldiers that had guarded the ramp follow the last of the night’s catch into the facility. Neither looked up to spot the infiltrators wedged beneath the airbus. Why would they? Their attention was focused straight ahead to ensure a prisoner didn’t get desperate before being locked away.
Transport had ramped up its roundup of dissenters in the last week; half a dozen airbuses had been offloading prisoners every night after midnight. Why, Trick had no idea. The Authority was abandoning the City to TRACE. So why go to all the trouble of gathering fugitives, Wild Ones, derelict TRACE operatives, and suspicious citizens? Why wasn’t Transport focusing its resources on securing the cities beyond the Great Shelf? It made no sense that Trick could see, either strategically or tactically.
Bracer hardly had time to be terrified before the bus began its landing approach to the center’s roof. A blast of the booster engines, and the craft descended. Though he was used to the rapid thrrrit-thrrrit-thrrrit of his 18-millimeter heavy machine gun, the screaming servos of the anti-gravs made him close his eyes in an irrational attempt to protect his ears.
Soon enough, both men felt the slight jolt of the hydraulic landing pads as the airbus settled onto its parking spot. A final blast of controlled air, and the engines themselves powered down.
“How long do we—”
“Quiet or you’re a private again.”
“How can you demote me?” Bracer whispered. “We’re no longer officially in TRACE!”
The doors opened above their heads, and the ramp descended again. The heavy boots of the flight crew tromped down the metal gangway, the man and woman murmuring to each other after a long day. Once they stepped onto the roof, the ramp automatically retracted and the doors shut tight.
Trick listened to the tread of the flight crew crunching away across the roof. Bracer started to move, but Trick made a sound that stopped him.
Just then, the sound of a fist making contact with a jaw. A startled half-cry. A grainy thud as one body fell to the roof, then another.
“Now,” said Trick, detaching himself. Bracer winced as he pried his white-knuckled grip from the airbus’s frame.
Crouching and keeping the row of airbuses between themselves and the roof’s access door, the two men made their way to their companions. A quick glimpse showed them that the plan was working so far. Pusher and Hawkeye were hidden behind the first airbus, the one nearest the access door; they had ambushed the third bus’s flight crew, stripped them of their uniforms, and were already almost fully dressed again.
Hawkeye motioned for Trick and Bracer to keep low, keep right, and advance. Trick went first, followed by Bracer.
“Hawkeye, report,” said the captain as Pusher zipped up.
“There are four cameras on the roof, each facing a different direction from the point of entry there,” Hawkeye said, pointing at the access door leading down into the facility. “But I found a blind sp
ot. Once we slip under their eyes, we ease along the building and we’re in. One AA Gatling laser, unmanned at the moment, protects the roof.”
Bracer took note of the anti-aircraft gun positioned near the door. “No need to man a gun when you’ve got air superiority twenty-four seven,” he said. “Guards?’
“None on the roof, just the cameras. Inside?” Hawkeye shrugged. “Unknown.”
“Transport’s bugging out,” said Pusher. “All day we sat at that café and watched them. I only saw fifteen different faces, even with the guard shifts. They were rotating personnel in half shifts to make it look like they have more soldiers on duty than they really do. I think they’re even sharing personnel between the prison and the military, two different branches of the service.”
“Skeleton crew?” wondered Bracer.
Trick shrugged. “Like Pusher said, Transport’s bugging out. Why not?”
“That’s a big assumption to make, sir,” said Hawkeye.
The captain nodded and paraphrased the manual: “Our plans are only as good as the intel we have.”
“And no battle plan survives contact with the enemy,” said Pusher, quoting battle wisdom much older than the TRACE Manual for Engaging the Enemy in the Field.
“So are we gonna try and impress each other by quoting Sun Tzu next, or are we gonna get them out?”
Trick granted Bracer’s point. “Lead the way, Hawkeye.”
“Only one direction sir,” said the spotter. “And that’s down.”
When Transport began escorting the survivors of Bedrock in ones and two to more permanent accommodations in The Dungeon, they took the children first—including Anne. Stug almost started the party then, but Hatch restrained him. There were still half a dozen guards on hand to control the holding room, but they knew as the room became less dense with prisoners, Transport would likewise reduce its on-duty force. Executing their plan too soon would end their breakout before it ever started. And civilians could be injured.
After prioritizing the children, the Authority began remanding prisoners based solely on geographical convenience; each time the guards returned through the door that led to The Dungeon, they just rounded up whichever prisoners were nearest and took them away. So Hatch and Stug simply positioned themselves on the opposite side of the room. They sat on the floor next to Logan, who floated in a sleep-sea of morphine.
It didn’t take long for most of the hundred prisoners to be removed. Soon, fewer than thirty remained. And only two guards monitored the room.
Hatch knew they needed to move quickly; he had no idea when Logan’s bomb would go off. Actually, he wasn’t even certain a bomb existed. Maybe it was a figment of Logan’s imagination—stirred up by hatred for Transport, his injuries, and the morphine. Or maybe the rumor from his fifth-column source had been planted by Transport to flush Logan and his salvager rebels out.
But Hatch knew he couldn’t take the chance that the bomb wasn’t real. And in his gut he believed Logan. It sounded exactly like something a desperate Transport—that petulant child with massive weaponry—would do in the wake of TRACE’s gains in the region. A way to demonstrate its power with a blatant disregard for life, all for the sake of maintaining a papier-mâché facade of absolute control.
It’s true, Hatch assumed. When will it go off? How can I possibly know that?
He suspected that, as long as there were more prisoners to bottle up in the Detention Center, the Authority wouldn’t set the bomb off. Perverse logic, that. It’d make a better public relations splash, a better object lesson, to have the highest death toll possible when the City was consumed. That might explain the constant influx of prisoners brought in by airbus every night. Transport was putting all the rats on the same ship before blowing a hole in its hull. The Authority prided itself on its efficiency.
“Notice how the same four or five guards are rotating back to pick up detainees and take them below?” asked Hatch. “And how they’re only leaving two behind to guard the room?”
“Now, yeah. Less bodies to cause trouble, less guards needed. Short-staffed, are they?”
“Yeah, seems that way. Easier for us.”
The room’s two guards were coming their way, escorting the doctor and his nurse who’d examined Logan earlier. Those four were the only Authority personnel left in the common room.
Stug rapped Hatch on the shoulder. Now’s as good a time as any, his look said.
Both men stood up.
“Any change?” asked the doctor.
“Still out,” reported Hatch, sounding concerned. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it, Doc. He was breathing pretty heavily before. Now he’s hardly breathing at all.”
The physician took in the information, then knelt beside his patient. Hatch nodded to Stug.
The sergeant stepped forward quicker than anyone his size should have been able to move. He grabbed the barrel of the first guard’s laser rifle and ripped it out of the man’s hands. Fatigued from long shifts, the second guard stood and gawped while Stug threw a haymaker with all the force his slightly off-balance body could muster. The man flew backward ten feet and landed heavily on the floor, his lungs whooshing out air.
Stug smiled. He recognized the man: the bully from earlier. It truly is the little things, he mused.
The doctor looked up. The nurse screamed.
Hatch dove on top of the first guard and delivered a right cross to the jaw. The soldier was out cold.
“Hey! I called dibs!” said Stug.
Hatch snatched up the unconscious man’s sidearm and pointed it at the physician. “No personal alarms, please.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows, like he knew something Hatch didn’t, then slowly raised his hands over his head. The nurse shut her mouth.
When Stug had knocked him to the floor, the bully guard had lost his laser rifle. He fumbled with his sidearm now, crab-walking away from the mountain looming over him. Stug took two giant strides forward and pulled the man up by his uniform collar. Feet dangling in the air, tired eyes terrified, the man dropped his pistol.
“Wise,” said Stug, grinning. He set the man lightly back on his feet. “Now see, wasn’t that easier?”
The guard half-smiled his relief.
“Not so tough when it’s not a little girl you’re facing, huh?”
The bully’s smile disappeared as Stug drew back his right arm. The blow shot out from the sergeant’s shoulder like a cannonball, and the bully guard covered half the length of the room, unconscious before hitting the floor again. He was quickly surrounded by fascinated Wild Ones looking down at his still form.
“I must be getting old,” said Stug. “That took two punches. Still … very satisfying.” He bent over and picked up the man’s rifle.
“Who are you people?” It was the older woman, the one who’d earlier protested Hatch’s attention to Logan.
“You’re too late,” said the doctor. “I’ve already alerted the entire complex.” As if on cue, the klaxons sounded around them. The ambient lighting snapped from standard to red.
Hatch stared at the doctor. The man had used his BICE, of course. Transport didn’t suffer the same restrictions TRACE did in the City; there was no dampening field inserting an annoying buzz into their brains. Their IP addresses were shielded and their BICEs worked perfectly. The doctor had undoubtedly sent an alert over the Authority’s security network the moment Stug had attacked the first guard.
A rifle butt found the back of the doctor’s skull, and he crumpled into unconsciousness. Hatch gave Stug a look that was both amused and annoyed.
“He was a douche.”
“Fair enough,” replied Hatch. “But we don’t have much time.” He nodded at the floor. Stug turned his weapon on each of the unconscious Transport guards in turn. Two blasts later, they were both dead.
“Did you have to do that?” the nurse asked, her voice bordering on hysteria.
“Actually, yes,” said Hatch. “And this, too.” She watched, petrified, as he m
oved behind her and wrapped his left arm around her neck.
“Please … please …” Her voice was weepy and filled with paranoia bred of the disinformation about TRACE that Transport fed its loyal citizens.
Hatch put his right arm behind her neck and captured her throat in the crook of his left.
“This won’t hurt.”
The nurse started to scream again, maybe even pray to herself for the forgiveness of sins.
“Please—”
Hatch applied pressure. In seconds, she was out.
“Did you kill her?” the councilwoman asked, horrified. Maybe she believed the rumors about TRACE too, Hatch thought.
“Of course not,” he said. “But she’ll wake up with a headache.”
“I like my way better,” said Stug.
Hatch ignored him. “Listen to me, people. We’re going to do our best to get you out of here, but you have to be patient. We all have people below we want rescued. That’s gonna take time, and we don’t have a lot of it. I need two volunteers—your best fighters.”
The crowd looked around uncertainly at one another.
“I don’t have all day.”
“Matthias,” said a weak voice behind him. Hatch turned. Logan was pointing blearily. “The thin man over there. And Bridget. She’s good too.”
Hatch turned around and motioned to them. “Matthias, Bridget, front and center.”
When no one moved, Stug barked, “Now, people!” in his best boot camp voice.
The two came forward.
“Take these rifles,” Hatch said, handing them the recent acquisitions from the Authority’s dead. “Guard the door at the east end of the room—the way we came in. Keep Transport out. We think they’re working with a reduced force. If we’re right, it’ll be a while before they can bring enough troops down to try an assault. By the time they do, I plan to have us all on the roof.”
“What about Logan?” asked the councilwoman. She was pointing at his cot. And his condition.
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