Scorpion

by Deven Kane

  Megan levered herself up on her elbows, grimacing at the pain in her joints. Everything hurts. It’s like I’ve run a marathon or something. She nodded at the doctor and managed a weary smile. “I hear you fine, Doc.”

  Doc’s eyes widened, and Megan bolted upright. That was me. That was my voice. “Doc, you heard me, right—I’m not still hallucinating?”

  Doc laughed, her anxious look melting into delighted relief. “Yes, Megan, I heard you. Loud and clear. And if you’re using words like ‘hallucinate,’ I’d say you’re just fine.”

  Her laughter was contagious, and Megan’s grin stretched wider. “It worked. Mateo’s experiment, I mean. Listen to me—I can talk.”

  Doc placed a hand on her shoulder, her eyes full of merriment. “Yes. That crazy Tracker’s idea worked, after all. Everyone’s been worried sick about you. We thought Mateo killed you—Don almost took a prod to him. Wait here. I’ll go tell the others you’re okay.”

  She turned to leave, but paused at the door, looking over her shoulder with an impish grin. “I’ll just tell them you’re awake. You can surprise them when they get here.”

  Megan nodded with a smile, and Doc was gone.

  Megan sat cross-legged in the middle of the gurney, looking down at her hands. She flexed them over and over, grateful as the stiffness faded. She felt like she’d been run over by a truck.

  A heavy lock of her hair fell forward, covering her good eye. She pushed it back with one hand, tucking it behind her ear. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, despite the still-receding stiffness.

  She flexed her muscles. As she had feared, the enhancements no longer increased her strength. She remembered what the sensation felt like, and there was no evidence of it now.

  Still, to be able to speak again—that was worth everything. Even the nightmarish visions she’d been forced to endure were a small price to pay.

  She fastened on one specific memory. The final moments before the Givers had stolen her humanity and transformed her into a Tracker.

  Megan smiled again, a much darker smile than before. That voice she’d heard in her memory/dream. The one they called the Councilor.

  She knew him.

  Forty-Three

  “YOU’VE GOT A VISITOR, Garr,” Sheila called from the door, leaning into the mess hall.

  The Colonel looked up in surprise, pried away from the scraps of paper on the tabletop.

  We don’t get many visitors here. Aubrey was intrigued, understanding his reaction. Our Hub isn’t exactly a tourist attraction.

  Before Garr could respond, Sheila pushed the door wide open, and Enrico Torres took a tentative step into the room. He seemed ill at ease, and Aubrey recalled hearing about the mechanic’s reluctance to be associated too closely with the Hub. Garr stood, motioning for his long-time friend to join him at the table.

  “You’ve never come this far into the tunnels before.” Garr shook his hand and they sat down, facing each other. The Colonel leaned forward, elbows on the scuffed table, studying the mechanic with probing eyes.

  “I’ve never had a compelling reason to.” Enrico removed his weathered cap, twisting it nervously in his hands. “Until today, that is.”

  Aubrey thought she could guess the reason for the heavy silence following his cryptic remark.

  “Should we make ourselves scarce, Garr?” she asked, half-rising from the table and gesturing with one hand at Don and Sheila.

  Garr cocked an eyebrow at his guest. “You must have an opinion. Is this a private conversation or not?”

  Enrico glanced around the mess hall and relaxed in his chair with an audible sigh. “That won’t be necessary, Colonel. In fact, I’d rather all of you hear what I have to say.”

  He glanced at Don, who’d just finished cleaning the cooking unit. “Would you mind closing the door, Don? I’d feel better knowing it was shut.”

  Don wiped his hands on a towel, returning Enrico’s gaze as he shut the door.

  “I thought you wanted everyone to hear what you’ve got to say.” Sheila stood at the foot of the table, arms crossed. She could look intimidating, when she wanted to.

  “Yes, of course.” Enrico leaned back in his chair. “I’m just concerned about unexpected guests dropping in without warning. My reflexes are still good. All it takes is the sound of a door opening, and I’ll switch topics on the spot.”

  “That’s over-kill.” Don tossed his towel on the counter behind him. “You don’t need to be paranoid. Not in this Hub.”

  “Is that so?” Enrico didn’t sound convinced. He addressed Garr again, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “You’ve got a mole, Colonel.”

  Don crossed the floor in two long strides, seizing a chair at the head of the table and reversing it before sitting down. He crossed his arms over the back of the chair and fixed an uncompromising stare on the mechanic.

  “We already guessed as much, after the attack,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re a little late to the party, my friend.”

  Garr laid a hand on Don’s arm.

  “The one thing he swore he’d never do,” he said, nodding at Enrico, “was to set foot in our Hub. He wouldn’t be here now, if there wasn’t something we needed to hear.”

  Enrico nodded, stealing a nervous look at the door. “I’ve heard rumors. You’ve been warned to avoid contact with the other Hubs—they’ve been raided. They say you received an anonymous warning to that effect in your drop-box.”

  “Your intel’s pretty good.” Don drew the words out, his drawl more pronounced than normal. “Who’s your source?”

  Enrico shrugged sheepishly, looking at Garr. “I did some repairs at the Mission a few days ago. Uncle John and I had a chat. He filled me in.”

  He leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “Were you also aware there’s been a new Tracker sighting in the area? A young man, about thirty years old, I’d guess. Medium build, brown hair with green eyes.”

  Garr nodded. “Some of our people spotted him. We think he’s scanning for new Implants. The Hoarders seem to be intensifying their efforts . . .”

  Enrico shook his head emphatically, raising both hands to interrupt the Colonel. He reached across the table, jabbing a finger at the scraps of notepaper in front of Garr. “Who do you think put that anonymous note in your drop-box? Just after I left the Mission, I saw him with my own eyes. “

  Sheila raised an eyebrow. “A Tracker left the note?”

  Don snapped his fingers. “To isolate us from the other Hubs. Divide and conquer—it’s an oldie but a goodie.”

  Aubrey’s heart dropped. Was I followed? Am I the weak link after all? “We took every precaution, Garr. How could he find the drop-box?”

  Enrico locked eyes with Garr. “You’re pawns in someone else’s game. If I were you, I’d find out whose.”

  Forty-Four

  THE PAST TWO DAYS HAVE been an emotional—what did Doc call it—an emotional rollercoaster. Aubrey rubbed her tired eyes as she tried to sort out her thoughts.

  After Garr announced their imminent evacuation, she’d retreated to the relative privacy of the dreary room she shared with Sheila and Jane. At some point, she’d fallen asleep, but she didn’t have much energy when she awoke early the next morning.

  She sat on her lumpy mattress, leaning against the rough concrete behind her as she recalled Doc’s vivid description of a rollercoaster.

  Aubrey could understand why she’d chosen the antiquated metaphor. The preparation and dashed expectation of their hoped-for feast, the discovery of the Hoarder abductions, Enrico’s cryptic warning, and Megan’s dramatic recovery . . .

  If I had the choice, I’d rather ride an actual rollercoaster. At least I could get off once it was over.

  Her stomach tightened as she caught sight of the rucksack at the foot of her bed, packed and ready. Their rollercoaster ride was far from over.

  “You ready?” Sheila slipped through the door, leaving it open. The meager light from the hall snuck into the room, d
ispelling a portion of the oppressive atmosphere. She held her rucksack in one hand, hefting it as if testing its weight.

  Aubrey leaned away from the wall, gesturing to the pack at the foot of her bed. “As soon as Garr gives the word, I’m ready to go.”

  I’d prefer to sleep for about a week, but Doc might call that “avoidance.” She tried to shake the sense of foreboding that had settled over her like a damp blanket.

  Sheila sat on the edge of her own bunk, elbows propped on her knees. “Waiting is the worst, isn’t it? I’d rather be on our way, even if it means going back to the Enclave. With the Hoarders and the Givers. Just sitting here, waiting, drives me crazy. How about you?”

  Aubrey arched her stiff back, feeling with satisfaction the answering twinges of muscle and bone. “The Enclave—what’s it like? I don’t mean how sophisticated, or wealthy, or anything we discussed at the debrief. I mean, what’s it actually like to be there, surrounded by Hoarders?”

  Sheila pondered for a moment, gazing at a spot just over Aubrey’s shoulder. “It’s hard to put into words. I guess you could say it’s a society that prides itself on being superior to everyone else. At the same time, they’re paralyzed with fear over any threat to their way of life, so they’re obsessed about protecting their borders. As far as they’re concerned, everyone outside the Enclave is a potential invader.”

  She relaxed with a self-deprecating laugh. “You’ll have your own opinions, soon enough. And my observations are not neutral. I was trying to play nice with a sociopath, remember?”

  Aubrey laughed with her, glad for an excuse to let out her emotions—any emotions. “I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. Do you think he’s forgotten I tried to shoot him?”

  Sheila straightened, a sly look crossing her face. “Is that what you’re worried about? Okay, I guess if I were you, I’d be wondering the same thing.”

  She broke into a wide grin. “It’s probably safe to assume a mad genius like Darcy just might remember the ‘savage’ who dared to stick a gun in his face.”

  They both dissolved into laughter.

  “Keep a low profile.” Sheila’s eyes turned serious as their laughter faded. “Stick close to me, or Garr, or Jane—doesn’t matter. Darcy’s desperate. He needs our help and he knows it. He’s not going to make a move against you. At least, not until after we’ve dealt with the Givers.”

  She leaned closer, taking Aubrey’s hands in her own. “Doc told me about your little talk. Listen, Aubrey, we’re going into the Enclave together, and I have no worries—none at all—about you having my back. You’re not going to be a weak link. You’re too tough for that.”

  Aubrey smiled and leaned over to yank her rucksack off the floor. “Thanks, Sheila. I don’t know if I’m tough or just too dumb to know when to quit. But I’m going to see this thing through, no matter what. And you’re right—waiting is the worst.”

  They stood, adjusting their packs. Sheila gave Aubrey a mischievous wink. “Let’s round the others up. We don’t want to keep the Hoarders waiting.”

  Forty-Five

  “YOU’LL BE MUCH SAFER, once you’re away from the Hub.” Garr repeated his explanation as Doc assembled a pair of rucksacks, taking her most precious instruments with her. Enrico, waiting outside in the hall, had agreed to shoulder one of the packs, and Doc would take the other. “With all the increased traffic in the area—Hoarders and Trackers—I’m not comfortable leaving you here alone.”

  “I won’t argue with you there, Garr,” Doc replied, sealing the second rucksack. “On a personal note, I could probably do with a little fresh air and sunshine after living in this man-made cave for so long.”

  Garr grinned, reaching for the second rucksack. “It’s good to hear you’ve still got your sense of humor.”

  “It’s a coping mechanism,” Doc replied without inflection, abandoning her rucksack on the workbench as she blocked his exit from the infirmary.

  “Garr, listen to me,” she said, her eyes pleading. “You’ve pushed this team about as far as you can. I know what we’re up against, and I’m not second-guessing you or trying to change your mind. But I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I didn’t warn you. Your team is stretched, almost to the breaking point. That makes everyone vulnerable.”

  Garr leaned against the workbench, glancing aimlessly around the infirmary. “I won’t argue with you, either. We’ve been walking this knife’s-edge far too long. In the beginning, all I wanted was to find out where the Implants were coming from, and put a stop to it. I figured . . . no more Implants, no more Trackers.”

  He sighed, his eyes wandering to the makeshift surgical lamps suspended from the ceiling. “Things turned out to be more complicated. It never occurred to me we’d be partnering with Hoarders, or having to deal with their alien allies.

  "I didn’t set out to recruit this team, but here they are, anyway. But like I always say . . .”

  “You play whatever cards you’ve been dealt.” Doc nodded, finishing for him. “Well, Colonel, I hate to admit it, but I think we’re both just delaying the inevitable. You should be on your way, and I need to clear out of here.”

  She opened the door, and Enrico, leaning against the opposite wall, roused himself.

  Garr stepped into the hallway and handed him the second rucksack. “Take good care of our doctor. We’ll contact you when it’s safe to return.”

  Enrico shouldered the rucksack with a nod and a smile. “You have my word, Colonel. She’ll be safe with me.”

  “Ha—more like the other way around.” Doc extinguished the lights in the infirmary, gazing into the darkened room for a long moment before focusing on the Colonel.

  “Take care of yourself, Garr,” she said, her voice cracking. “Bring them home safely. All of them.”

  Garr snapped to attention and sketched her a full salute—something he’d not done in years. No words were spoken, but Doc recognized the implied promise.

  She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and patted him on the shoulder. Then she and Enrico began their journey out of the subterranean labyrinth.

  Forty-Six

  “NOTHING’S CHANGED.” Amos was adamant as they finished stowing field rations into their rucksacks. “It doesn’t matter if Mateo reappears or not. I remember the entrance he showed me. I can find it again.”

  Don held up his combat knife, admiring the razor-sharp edge he’d taken such great care to hone. The glowing lanterns in the mess hall created dancing reflections on the blade as he brandished his weapon this way and that, examining it from all angles.

  “I’m not worried about your sense of direction, Amos.” He squinted down the length of the blade at him. “My concern is whether or not Mateo’s told anyone else about his hidden entrance. Garr splitting us into two teams makes sense, but the last thing we need is to run into some nasty surprises in the dark underbelly of Hoarderville.”

  “Getting past the guards won’t be a picnic, either.” Jane finished packing and sealed her rucksack. Like her companions, she’d included one of the long-bladed knives with her supply of field rations. “I don’t know what’s more nerve-wracking—you sneaking through Mateo’s secret door, or Garr trusting a Hoarder to drive our team through Gate Seven as if we were legit Citizens.”

  Amos shrugged, unconvinced. “The Hoarders managed to get us out with no problem. Darcy’s name seems to have clout with the guards. They could be some of his supporters, for all we know.”

  “Darcy Peterson—everyone’s favorite psycho.” Don re-sheathed his knife, the wickedly sharp blade hidden within the scabbard. He stowed the weapon inside his rucksack, the handle protruding under the flap. “That must’ve been surreal, sitting in his living room, discussing strategy over drinks.”

  “You’ll get your turn soon enough, Don.” All heads turned as Garr entered the room, Megan close behind.

  “Keep your weapons packed until we’ve made contact inside the Enclave.” The Colonel issued his orders crisply, looking at each o
f them in turn. “Darcy’s people will provide us with new outfits, so we can blend in with the locals. This is terra incognita.”

  “Hidden in plain sight, Hoarder-style.” Don grimaced, shaking his head in resignation. “I’ll wear the monkey suit if that’s what it takes. I just hope some naive little Hoarder doesn’t ask me for directions to wherever they go for fun.”

  Who are you kidding? Amos’s inner voice sprang to life, invading his thoughts for the first time in days. Changing your clothes won’t be anywhere near enough. You could betray yourselves a thousand different ways. Probably the first time you open your mouth.

  He took a deep cleansing breath, refusing to follow that line of thinking. Rehearsing doomsday scenarios is a waste of time. Focus on solving problems, not imagining them.

  Megan spoke up, pulling his attention back to the mess hall. “You’ll be fine, Don. They’ll be too busy staring at me.”

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail, mimicking Sheila’s no-nonsense approach. Her eye patch, with its surrounding scar tissue, would be impossible to miss.

  Don glanced at her, fidgeting with his pack. He was, perhaps, recalling his former animosity toward the ‘mindless killing machine,’ and wondering if Megan was aware of it.

  “Is there anything you can tell us about the Enclave?” he asked at last, his voice subdued. “You got your speech back. Did any new memories come with it?”

  Megan eyed him coolly. “No. A few vague impressions of the Enclave, but nothing specific.”

  “Those Hoarders knew you,” Jane interrupted, her pointed words sounding like an accusation. “The blond kid called you by name. You must have some memory of them.”

  “We covered this during the debrief, Jane.” There was no recrimination in Megan’s voice, but Jane bristled at her answer nonetheless.

  Megan continued as if she hadn’t noticed. “Garr said the boy’s name is Connor. I accept this to be true, but it has no meaning beyond that.”