Then he sprinted up the stairs, past the landing to their offices, toward the opening to daylight far above.
She kicked her legs at him and pounded on his back with her fists. It didn’t hurt, but it hampered his progress. “Put me down, you murderer!” she screamed. “Those people are my friends!”
“Mine, too.” He shouted back.
“Then why did you order their deaths?” Her voice had lost all its usual calm. Every word was a scream masked with tears.
He opened his mouth to try to ask for patience as he tried to run both of them to the exit above and their sole chance at safety.
One hundred feet below, the timer on the bomb planted by Wesley Cardinal finished its countdown and he felt the reverberations of the explosion in the stairwell.
He lost his balance and fell backward.
twenty-two
Wesley Cardinal
…housed large pools of computing and data storage equipment in rooms designed to maximize air flow and combat the natural heat… physical access to the equipment severely restricted to prevent tampering and accidental loss of information…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 1,995
The reverberations of the closing door still echoed in the room as he began working the bonds loose. It didn’t take much time or effort, and he realized they’d not really meant for him to stay in that chair forever. Just long enough for them to leave and lock the door behind them.
He patted himself down seconds later after freeing his hands. Damn. He’d not been imagining things. They’d taken his badge, which might enable him to open the door, and his phone, which might enable him to call someone. He bent down, then sat back up as the cumulative injuries left him lightheaded. He took a few deep breaths before bending down to work his legs free. He stood up twenty seconds later and the room swirled, and he staggered into a nearby desk. A wave of nausea hit, and he vomited into an empty wastebasket nearby. He glanced around and found a small refrigerator in the corner. He swayed on his feet, gradually regaining his balance as he worked his way to the refrigerator. He found several bottles of water. He used the first swallow to swish the vomit taste from his mouth, then drank the rest greedily. He opened a second bottle and splashed the water on his face, shocking himself alert, before draining the remainder. He left both bottles on the floor, feeling guilty at the littering.
If he couldn’t locate an immediate means of escape, he’d have plenty of time here to tidy up later.
He needed to escape. He needed to get back outside. He needed to find out the topic for the next podcast from the Voice…
The Voice?
“I’m trapped!” he shouted. “Can you help me?”
The Voice had initiated their first conversation, making Wesley aware of the disembodied voice delivered into his head via a speaker implanted there in a medical procedure Wesley didn’t remember. The Voice could hear what Wesley heard through his ears but not his thoughts, and could only “see” what Wesley described aloud.
He found the conversations uncomfortable, and not simply because each conversation left him with at minimum a dull headache. He generally was asked to do some task for the Voice, to act as the hands the Voice couldn’t provide, and in general he did so willingly, seeing in the Voice a similar soul on matters of exposing the truths of the Western Alliance government and the controlling megacorps. Disagreement was rare given the Voice’s ability to silence dissent with a high pitched shrieking sound that drove Wesley to do as commanded to end the torment. For those reasons, he’d never tried to initiate a conversation with the Voice.
Not until now. The Voice surely belonged to a real person somewhere outside this room, and that meant the Voice might be able to aid Wesley’s efforts at escape.
He heard a scratching sound inside his head. And then: Wesley, where are you?
“I’m…” How to explain it? “I’m in the prison at my place of work. It’s… I think it’s an old data center room. They knocked me around after I attacked that demon woman, tied me up in here, and took my phone and badge. I’m trapped.”
Describe the room, Wesley, and explain why it is you’re unable to escape.
Straight to the point as always. “The room was built with the best security in this place because it once held all of the most critical data and computing equipment. They built a new room to handle the growth and turned this into the brig. The door is six or eight inches thick and made of solid Diasteel. You can’t break through that. If you have a badge I think you can swipe it and it might let you out. Without one, you have to figure out how to cut a hole through that door.”
Are there any tools in the room you might utilize, Wesley?
He looked around. “No, not really. Just the tile gripper thingy.”
Tile gripper thingy, Wesley?
He sighed. “All of the electrical equipment got very hot. They built a metal lattice about three feet off the main floor and covered it with heavy tiles in a grid. They ran cold air beneath the floor to reduce the temperature in the room and put all of the cabling there as well. The tiles fit the grid perfectly, so you can’t lift one with your hands alone if you need to check something underneath. The tool has suction grips you can use to lift the tiles. But that’s not going to help me break a hole through a Diasteel door.”
He waited, and heard no response. A tremor of panic ran through him. Had he lost the Voice? Did that mean his chance of escape, already slim, had plunged to zero? He felt a cool trickle of sweat run down his forehead, chilled by the conditioned air, and ran his sleeve to clear it away.
Wesley, is there a computer terminal nearby?
Relief. “Yes, but it won’t let me send a message to anyone, if that’s what—”
Go to the terminal, Wesley. You must enter the following command.
He blinked. What kind of escape plan was that? He’d privately hoped that, after all of his efforts, the Voice might reward him with something more tangible, like a massive force of Eastern troops overrunning the Bunker to set him free.
But… a command typed at a computer terminal?
He sighed and sat down. Perhaps he’d be advised to type “unlock brig door” to effect his escape. “Okay, I’m ready.”
He typed in the command as dictated, reading it back to the Voice to ensure accuracy, and then executed the command.
He heard no door locks disengage. Instead, a video feed appeared on his screen.
It was a grainy, black and white image of a large room dominated in the center by a circular tank. The top of the tank was clear, providing a view inside. Within the tank… He squinted, but the image wasn’t perfectly clear.
But something about the material inside that tank stirred a memory within him.
Movement on the screen pulled his attention from the dark substance in the tank.
He saw them then, two of the three people he most hated in the world. General Micah Jamison and Sheila Clarke scanned the interior of the tank, looks of frantic worry on their faces, as if trying to find something amid the ooze on the floor of the tank. He took some pleasure at their discomfort, but his eyes moved back to the substance.
Why did it look familiar?
Do you recognize it yet, Wesley? The material in the tank?
He shrugged, though he knew the gesture went unseen. “Should I?”
The pressure built inside his head. The pain didn’t resemble the deep agony inflicted by the shrieking sound. But he wrapped his arms around his head nonetheless. The pain felt ominous, as if some dreaded discovery lay just on the other side, and he hoped he might push that knowledge aside by gripping his own skull.
Images filled his mind.
The flow increased, like a water hose released of kinks. The memories long dormant resurfaced. He saw the experiments, saw the results, remembered his horror and revulsion at his participation and his contribution. He remembered the pain when they’d drilled the hole into his head, his screams… and he remembered the fog he’d lived in since that
day.
His eyes refocused. He no longer noticed Jamison and Clarke. He saw nothing but the material inside.
He sucked in a deep breath as another memory, a more recent memory, returned. He remembered where he’d been overnight, what he’d done. And now he understood the ramifications of his then-unknowing actions.
“Why?” His voice was a whisper, his knuckles white as he gripped the desk with incredible ferocity. “Why do you make me remember now?”
The laugh was harsh. Wesley, it would do us no good for you to remember when you’d have the ability to interrupt our plans. You’ve provided a useful set of hands to set our plans in motion, and for that, we thank you. But you have no place in the world we’re building, and your usefulness has come to an end. Farewell, Wesley Cardinal.
The click signaling the end of communications with the Voice was deeper now, and he knew he’d never hear that Voice again.
He looked at the image on the screen, watching as the General seized Clarke’s arm and hauled her from the room. The General had been there. He knew. If he was running…
Wesley gulped. He knew he had mere minutes to escape this prison, or he’d suffer a death too awful to imagine.
Just as the Voice had planned.
twenty-three
Roddy Light
…documented proof purported to show at least three different occasions when Silver was spotted in two far-flung locations without adequate time to make the journey, fueling rumors of some advanced travel technology withheld from the general public…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 890
Oswald Silver was a man who seemed younger than his actual years, Roddy decided. His hair retained its deep brown color throughout his shoulder-length mane, marred only by the appearance of a trace bit of gray. His skin remained flawless, a fact Roddy found disturbing. Given the number of lives he’d ordered terminated—and there were many Roddy suspected but hadn’t proved—he ought to show wrinkles out of a pure sense of guilt. Silver didn’t experience the emotions of normal men, however.
That lack of emotion enabled the man to smirk and order his son-in-law and daughter to avoid intimate relations while in close quarters with him—and do so with a smirk—before sending his daughter from the room with an exhortation to head straight to their departure point.
Silver waited until the door clicked shut behind Deirdre before spinning upon Roddy once more.
“Long trip this time, Light. Destination will be revealed once we’re underway. Ensure the tanks are topped off, and full spare tanks brought aboard.”
Roddy tried to avoid a sigh.
Silver had shown himself to be deeply paranoid, trusting no one with information until the last possible moment. Roddy bore responsibility for seeing the tycoon safely to and from travel destinations, and yet Silver refused to provide the final destination until departure. Roddy had come to know the man deeply enough to recognize it was a sign of that paranoia. If Roddy knew the destination before departure, he might tip off Silver’s many enemies—as if Roddy knew who those enemies were and was on speaking terms—or he might be kidnapped and forced to reveal that destination under torture. Silver would ensure such torture could never reveal his final destination as Roddy wouldn’t know. With nothing to reveal, Roddy’s hypothetical torture would eventually end in death, but Oswald’s travel destinations would remain secret.
Roddy said nothing. He nodded once to express his understanding.
Silver leaned forward, elbows and forearms resting on his desk, studying Roddy’s face for signs of distress and reaction. Roddy forced a look of resigned boredom on his features. After a moment, Silver seemed to see whatever he’d been looking for. He sat back in his chair, rubbing his left hand with his right through the always-on gloves, and considered his next words.
“Light, I’m a bit concerned about Deirdre.”
Roddy startled. Silver never expressed concern about anyone. “Oh?”
“She’s been… unfocused of late. When she received my reminder that we needed to meet to discuss our objectives for this trip, she ignored my summons, then arrived late and appeared quite flustered during our discussion. This is… unusual for her.” He glanced at Roddy, a curious look on his face. “Have you any reason to believe the doctors misdiagnosed her?”
Roddy blinked.
In a society still looking to rebuild its population after nearly going extinct a few centuries earlier, cultural norms dictated couples produce many children, bolstering the numbers of the population. Roddy knew there were alternative reasons. The Western Alliance government also wanted increased numbers to augment its military prowess. In polite society, no one dared mention such crude motivations.
In the hours before their marriage and its consummation, Roddy had been informed that his wife had undergone a medical procedure for a rare health issue in her younger years. The procedure saved her life, but doctors declared she’d never bear children. Roddy had been devastated; in this culture, failure to produce descendants would be a badge of dishonor. But he’d stayed with her, and over the course of their marriage, despite their constant efforts to prove otherwise, the medical assessment had proved accurate.
Oswald, in his indirect though unsubtle manner, wanted to know if his daughter’s recent behavioral shifts were explained by an unexpected pregnancy.
In answer to Oswald’s question, Roddy shook his head. “No, sir.”
Privately, he wondered if Deirdre’s infidelity might provide that final proof of the medical diagnosis.
One way or another.
Silver opened his mouth to speak once more, then paused, his eyes turning briefly distant. He frowned and looked at Roddy. “Did you hear something? A thumping noise, perhaps?”
Roddy frowned and listened intently into the silence before shaking his head. “No, sir. I don’t hear anything.”
“Odd,” Silver said. “It sounded like something fell.” He set his hands upon the desk once more, and Roddy noticed how a deeper thump sounded from the man’s right hand than the left, a mystery he’d never solved. “It’s no matter, I suppose.” His face turned serious once more. “Light, regardless of her current mental state, it is imperative that Deirdre join us for this trip. No excuses, no exceptions. I’m making it your responsibility to ensure she’s aboard when we leave. Am I clear?”
Roddy nodded. “Certainly, sir.”
“Dismissed, then. I’ll see you on board in thirty minutes.”
Roddy rose and left the room, taking a deep breath as the door clicked shut behind him.
It was time to face his wife. He didn’t yet know if it would be a meeting or a confrontation.
He took two steps before realizing something was out of place in the reception area.
He looked around, noticing the complete silence before realizing that Audrey wasn’t at her desk. He shrugged. Perhaps the woman had gone to grab a bite to eat.
Roddy walked across the lobby and moved to the door on the opposite side of the building. A palm reader controlled access to what lay beyond the door. Silver had insisted upon this singular variant to the badge reader system in operation throughout the rest of the Diasteel compound. This door provided entry to the most profound of Diasteel’s secrets. Silver didn’t want something as simple or likely as a lost badge to put that secret at risk of exposure.
Roddy put his hand on the reader, feeling the cool surface on his skin, and watched as the screen turned green and the door lock disengaged. He pushed the door open and jogged up the steps, rehearsing his comments to Deirdre. He’d have to play it smooth for now, and confront her when they returned home. He wasn’t sure it was a home now, though, just a shared address.
He swallowed.
He reached the top of the steps and pushed the door open.
The hangar rested upon a mass of Diasteel beams and reinforced concrete, thick enough to prevent the sounds of the secret from reaching the masses below. They’d designed the tower to hide the secret from everyone, ev
erything from the empty floor between Silver’s personal suite and the rest of the building to the artificial cloud machines, all to ensure no one saw what rested before Roddy now.
A flying machine.
To the world, this machine was mere myth. But for Roddy, the myth had been quite real since he’d been introduced to the Special Forces fleet years earlier. He’d learned to fly the craft, soon becoming the most skilled of a minute number of pilots. His skillset meant he’d gotten to do something else most humans had never considered.
Armed military combat.
Water travel was slow and expensive. They could hike across the expanding polar caps, but one could never tell when the ice turned thin, and exposure put soldiers at risk. Invasions, of an offensive or defensive variety, were thus little risk through conventional travel methods.
The air force changed that.
Roddy flew hundreds of missions in his years with the Special Forces, depositing fresh troops on the ground in Eastern territory, picking up the wounded for their often-final return trip. On more than a dozen occasions, he’d come under heavy fire while working with his passengers to remove their supplies from hiding for the flight home. In one case, those he’d come to rescue died in a firefight before he ever got them aboard. He’d watched as they’d exploded from the hits from the explosive weaponry, and had been forced to shoot his way back to his craft and fly in a reckless manner back home.
He’d gotten awards for that one, and he’d thrown them all into the ocean.
When Oswald Silver told him he’d purchased a similar craft for his business travels and asked if he’d run clandestine flights for Diasteel, he’d jumped at the chance. Flying—something he loved—without the unending stream of bullets and death? And a generous paycheck? How could he resist? He’d gotten cruel notes from those left behind, cries of treachery and treason. Many refused to speak to him ever again. Even those who would, like Gambit, reminded him of his “betrayal.” Roddy didn’t care.
Activate The Ravagers Ep1v2 Page 12
