by David Jones
From there the math got too complicated to parse. With six other men to contend with, Jake would have to deal with the situation as it developed. But he had every confidence he could come out unscathed. Well, at least un-shot.
Jake started. What was he thinking? Was that him, or the cybrid?
Was there any difference?
The captain seemed not to notice Jake’s reverie. He brought his rifle to his shoulder, finger on the trigger guard. “I asked you a question. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
A new plan buzzed through Jake’s head. Perhaps, with its initial violent option dismissed, the cybrid was forced to come up with something less spectacular and, mercifully, less bloody. Or, maybe this was Jake’s idea. Either way, it seemed at once insane and brilliant. If it worked, Jake figured he would take credit for it. If it failed, it was the cybrid’s fault.
“I don’t have to answer you. I have my rights. Suck it, mall cop,” Jake said.
One of the other guards, a much younger man than the captain, snorted.
“Turn around, hands on your head,” the captain said. “Now!”
Jake did as commanded. He even dropped to his knees. Rough hands took hold of his arms, forced him onto his stomach. Someone zip-tied his wrists together with practiced efficiency.
That hadn’t been part of the plan—maybe it wasn’t the cybrid doing the thinking after all. Jake had no idea if he could escape zip-tie handcuffs.
One thing at a time.
He glanced inside the building, but couldn’t see Tyreese from this angle. Good. He had worried the guard might hurry out to save him, which would unravel his plan.
“Central, this is Browne,” the captain said into his throat mic. “We’ve got an intruder down here at the front. It’s a kid, probably seventeen or so. He’s got no ID and he refuses to talk. I’m dispatching two men to escort him to det/ret.”
“Is he violent?” asked a voice in response.
“No, just mouthy,” Captain Browne said as a couple of men lifted Jake to his feet.
“Roger that,” came the voice. “We’re stretched a little thin with parameter-keeping. Make sure your guys get immediately back to their posts.”
“Roger wilco.”
The guy who had snorted at Jake’s earlier defiance, and a smaller man with a scared face, took Jake’s arms and guided him down the stairs to the black-topped access road in front of the Cymobius building. The grounds surrounding the main facility were covered in well-manicured lawns, with a few trees here and there providing shade for wooden benches. In the distance loomed the compound’s perimeter wall, its silver razor wire glinting in the sunlight.
They followed a cement path to an area cordoned off by a heavy fence, and entered what looked like a small utility building, the kind Jake associated with those enormous transformer farms you get out in the country. It was made of brown brick and it was tiny—far too small to contain detention cells.
Another security officer waited inside, a blonde woman whose name tag read Weed. She rested one hand on the handgun at her side, her face fixed in a disapproving scowl.
But that was all for show. Micro-muscular flexion in her neck and along her cheeks told Jake that she was barely containing a smile. It looked like she wanted to get a cheap thrill out of scaring some hapless kid who had bungled his way onto Cymobius property.
Jake decided to play along.
“Still not talking?” she asked, her blue eyes focused on Jake.
He ducked his face and shook his head, endeavoring to look mild-mannered and frightened. He pursed his lips like a kid refusing to answer a teacher’s questions about using his cell phone in class.
“He will if you get him started,” said one of the guards. “You should have heard him mouth off at Browne. Wish I had that recorded.”
“You gonna mouth off at me, kid?” asked Weed. She tried to get in Jake’s face, but she was about four inches shorter than him, which made the whole thing laughable.
Jake shook his head like a dog trying to get dry. He even manufactured a tremble in his shoulders.
“Lay off, Weed. You’re scaring the kid,” said the scar-faced guard.
Weed still hadn’t taken her hand off her gun. Part of Jake wanted to take it from her, just to see the look on her face. Of course, that would be hard since he was cuffed.
When Jake said nothing, Weed snorted derisively at him, turned, and palmed a pad on the wall. A circular door spun open next to it, revealing an elevator framed in shiny aluminum.
“Have fun in solitary confinement, stupid,” Weed said with relish. Jake didn’t need a cybrid to tell him she enjoyed locking up. It was one of her job’s little perks.
The male guards hustled Jake into the elevator. Thankfully, Weed remained in the little room, glaring at them until the door closed. No doubt she had a good laugh soon as they were out of sight.
They descended for over a minute, which told Jake two things. First, he knew the time without having to think about it. And second, Cymobius’s detention area was more secure than most prisons. At least in a prison you didn’t have ten stories of earth piled above you.
The door opened onto a corridor lined with cells, thirty of them by Jake’s count, its walls smooth steel painted white, the doors cobalt blue. A circular desk, like the ones nurses use in hospitals, stood at the entrance to the hallway. Behind it sat two more guards, one facing Jake and his escorts, the other watching the cell area.
Both men were huge, even sitting down. They wore the same navy blue uniforms as their fellow guards, except theirs were more thickly padded, and their helmets sported clear face guards.
The one facing Jake, a narrow-eyed black man named Filmore according to his tag, stood up. He was at least six feet, seven inches tall with shoulders like bowling balls, and frying pan-sized hands.
“Got any weapons on you?” he asked in a basso voice.
“We checked him. He’s clean,” said scar face. “But he claims he’s Harris.”
Filmore laughed.
Jake’s heart was hammering. Had he really thought he could just walk in here, get Anya and the others, and walk out? He didn’t care what his cybrid said, there was no way in hell he could take this guy, Filmore, let alone the walking dump truck behind him. They were giants. The fear he had feigned upstairs in front of Weed had just gotten real.
Filmore keyed open a section of the round desk which swung out on soundless hinges. He held a metal detection wand in one hand.
Jake froze. He could almost hear the whistling sound as his plan went sailing out the window. Of course he had only needed the plan to get down here, and that part had worked well enough. Once the detector triggered to his metal bones or who knew what else it might find in his altered body, he could go forward with his claim of being Harris.
“That’s old-school,” said Jake’s non-scarred escort.
“Yeah,” Filmore said as he moved the wand along Jake’s head and torso. “Nothing’s working right down here. Regular scanner’s on the fritz.”
Jake stood still, prepared to act indignant at having been detained by a bunch of Cymobius’s finest rent-a-cops the instant the metal detector sounded. Maybe if he blustered enough they would just give him the prisoners. Not likely, but worth a shot, though he doubted they would do so without informing their bosses. And that could complicate matters. He envisioned that female cybrid, Oliver, catching wind of Jake Harris helping the prisoners. She would be all over that. From the second he had met her, Jake had known she would like nothing better than to murder him. Best if he could avoid that one at all costs.
He cringed as Filmore waved the wand. For better or worse, he was going to be forced to play Harris. He just hoped he could pull it off.
Nothing happened. The wand made a slight humming buzz when it passed Jake’s belt buckle, which Filmore confiscated, but otherwise the metal detector remained silent.
“We need to get back up top,” scar face said.
“Yeah. We can h
andle it from here.” Filmore put one of his massive hands on Jake’s shoulder. While he applied no pressure, the message was clear. Jake was going nowhere.
The other prison guard behind the desk, who had been typing furiously when they entered, rose, and Jake goggled at him. The man stood two inches taller than Filmore and he was just as broad. His name was Sikes. He fixed two beady eyes on Jake.
“You behind the power outage?” Sikes looked perfectly serious.
Jake shook his head.
“Don’t think we’re less secure just ‘cause the power’s out.”
Jake shook his head again.
Fillmore placed a small, black square under one of Jake’s zip-tied hands. The thing looked like a computer touchpad. It was cold.
Sikes, staring at a monitor Jake couldn’t see, grunted. “He shows up as a super user in the system like everybody else. I told you, the computer’s hosed.”
Fillmore shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” He turned to Jake. “You going to tell us who you are, kid?”
“No.”
The giant man sniffed. “Cell 26B it is.”
He took Jake by one arm, opened a hidden doorway in the desk, and led him along the steel corridor. The lights were dim, no doubt from the power outage, their red glow bathing everything in sultry shades of pink.
Each cell door bore a window lined with squares of wire to prevent shattering. Jake glanced through these as they passed. Most were empty, but cell 22A contained two men Jake recognized from Anya’s crew. Cell 24B held Calvin, Anya’s brother, and another guy with his back to the door.
Jake saw no sign of Anya, but figured she was here somewhere. Regardless, his time was running short. He wasn’t certain if these cells had been constructed specifically to detain cybrids, but he was certain one could hold him. The steel doors were three inches thick. Internal locking mechanisms held them secure with double bolts as big around as Jake’s wrist. And as if that wasn’t enough, the prison’s designers had installed magnets at the top of the doorframes capable of supplying two tons of locking force according to their manufacture’s stickers.
No way was Jake about to let anyone shove him inside one of those. It was time to move. Jake just hoped his cybrid wasn’t overestimating his abilities with all these battle assessments it kept supplying.
He feigned a cough, and spun, catching Fillmore off guard.
The big man hadn’t seen Jake as a threat. His loose grip on Jake’s elbow fell away, and he was left standing flat-footed, quite unprepared for the muay tai kick Jake delivered to the outside of Fillmore’s knee.
Something snapped in Fillmore’s leg. Jake heard it let go as a separate sound from that of the actual blow.
Crunch! Pop!
Fillmore gasped in surprise and pain. He reeled back, saving himself from a fall at the last second by throwing his arms out. To his credit, he was only momentarily nonplussed, but his injury slowed him. He shifted as if he meant to barrel into Jake, but drew up short with a hiss of pain when he put weight on his injured knee.
Time slowed. Jake could see that Fillmore was fast, especially for so large a man, but his reactions were like those of someone deep underwater. Jake had time to glance at Sikes, who was only just now noticing the commotion at the end of the hall, and reaching for something under the desk. Probably a gun, but maybe just a Taser. Either way, the threat seemed a trifling thing. Strange that. It was just another factor in a cold sort of calculus playing out in Jake’s head. An X to be solved for. Just like Fillmore.
Jake considered planting a kick to the side of Fillmore’s head, precisely aimed to knock him unconscious, but dismissed the idea. Better to leave him standing. Sikes was less likely to start shooting down the hall that way. With a grunt of effort, Jake leapt into the air, simultaneously shooting his arms straight behind him while pulling his knees to his chest. He then slid his arms over his butt and legs, managing to land on his feet, zip-tied arms now in front of him.
This was not the sort of zip tie computer geeks used to secure pesky wires. It was military grade, thick and virtually unbreakable by a normal human. But as Jake was rapidly coming to accept, he was no ordinary human.
Jake lifted his tied wrists above his head and brought them down sharply against his sternum, splitting his elbows around his body. The zip tie snapped apart with a satisfying pop. The maneuver left bloody lines on the backs of his wrists, but that was all.
“Freeze!” screamed Sikes from down the corridor. He had come through the desk’s little doorway to take up a standard military handgun stance: feet wide, knees slightly bent, both hands on a SIG Sauer P229.
Jake got a shoulder under Fillmore, easily lifting the big man in a fireman’s carry.
“What the—” Fillmore grunted as his boots left the ground.
But Jake was already running, barreling towards Sikes.
Fillmore tried in vain to trip Jake, or at least stifle his progress, by grabbing at his legs. It was hardly productive. Jake had too much momentum, and his enhanced limbs were simply too powerful to counter from that angle.
Sikes froze, indecision written in his expression. Should he pull the trigger, trusting in his aim to hit what little he could see of this insane kid baring down on him like an eighteen-wheeler moving at highway speeds? Or should he try to get his over-muscled body out of the way?
Too late, he chose the latter. Sikes lowered his gun and tried to hop over the round desk, but Jake and Fillmore arrived before his feet had even left the floor.
The two huge men collided with a sound like two slabs of beef slamming together in a meat locker. Fillmore rolled over the desk to sprawl in a groaning heap. Sikes managed to remain standing, but the impact had left him off balance and likely dealt him some damage when the desk slammed into his kidneys. He had just reoriented himself and looked to be gathering his senses when Jake kicked him first in the crotch and then in the kneecap. Sikes went down howling, clutching both.
Jake retrieved Sikes’s SIG from the floor. Icy calculation told him he could put a bullet through the man’s throat beneath his face guard with little chance of the projectile ricocheting off the steel wall behind him. The same for Fillmore. That done, Jake would have no more worries about them tripping an alarm or signaling their security pals. He had already lifted the weapon when he froze, shaking.
What was he thinking? Was he about to murder these men? Jake backed up, dropped the gun to his side.
Sikes eyed him defiantly. “You’re dead kid. You just don’t know it yet.”
Jake said nothing. His heart was racing, his thoughts spinning and colliding. Somewhere, deep in his mind, his cybrid continued to analyze the situation, streaming hard facts into his swirling consciousness.
If he wanted to avoid detection without killing these men, then he needed to secure them. But first he had better check on Fillmore who was likely in a position to be calling for help if he managed to remain conscious after his fall.
That thought twigged Jake’s attention to the whispered voice coming from the other side of the desk.
“...been attacked by the kid. Need immediate reinforcements,” Fillmore was saying into a small radio transmitter.
Jake hopped the desk and snatched the thing from him, but it was too late. The transmitter emitted a soft click-click-click repeated twice. An acknowledgement? It must have been. He had to assume security was on its way.
“I don’t know if you’re Harris, or what you are,” Fillmore said. “But you’re about to have fifty heavily armed, heavily trained soldiers gunning for you. If you’re smart, you’ll put that gun down and lock yourself in an empty cell right now.”
Calm pervaded Jake’s mind and body. Was this some manifestation of the cybrid? He wasn’t certain. But for some reason the prospect of overwhelming odds focused his thoughts. In fact, he got the feeling that his cybrid was somehow intrigued by the notion of escaping this situation without dealing indiscriminate mayhem. It was like a seasoned Sudoku player who has been presented with an
interesting new puzzle.
“I don’t think so,” Jake said, though he did place the pistol out of reach on the desk before again lifting Fillmore. The huge man went with a pained groan, but no protest. He must have realized he was no match for Jake with a shattered knee.
Jake recovered the pistol and headed down the hall. The first cell in the block opened when Jake pressed his palm to its reader. Jake lugged Fillmore inside and went back for Sikes.
Sikes struggled when Jake tried to lift him, but a hard blow to the side of his neck rendered him unconscious. Jake had no time to play.
He retrieved Sikes’s gun and an industrial-sized pair of scissors from the guard desk. He then paced down the corridor, checking each cell until he found Anya’s. He had just palmed the door to open when the elevator at the other end of the corridor began to hum.
Someone was coming down.
Though logic told him no more than three grown men in body armor could fit in the thing, Jake’s heart gave his lungs a drop kick. If security felt confident enough to send troops down that meant they had a force of operatives holding the elevator’s upper entrance. Jake and his erstwhile friends were trapped.
The cell door opened to reveal Anya, her hands zip-tied behind her, a look of utter shock and puzzlement on her face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Best I can tell?” Jake eyed the humming elevator. “Ruining my own escape plan.”
Chapter 8
Buried
Jake pulled the cell door almost shut without letting it latch. He couldn’t see the elevator this far down the hall, but he could hear its door trundle open. He cut Anya free with his purloined scissors then did the same for her cellmate.
