Epoch (The Templar Future Book 1)

by Lowry, Chris

  “Open this.”

  He pounded on the plexi-steel canopy.

  “We’re too high,” she said.

  “Take us low,” he growled.

  She threw the car into a steep dive, hoping to knock him off guard, give Bram a chance to recover his gun.

  But he leaned like a cat, taking all she could dish out and looking ready for more.

  “Open this now.”

  They were still a hundred feet off the ground, whizzing between high rises. She hit the hydraulics and the canopy slid backwards.

  “Leave me alone,” the Templar warned them. He stood in the seat, testing his legs to make sure they had recovered from the energy bonds.

  “You can’t jump,” yelled Nova. “It’s too high. You’ll be killed.”

  “Let him,” groused Bram. “If he lives, I’ll kill him later.”

  “Shut up Bram. Let me go lower,” she shouted.

  The Templar leaped from the hover car and darted down.

  “Where is he? Find him. Find him,” said Nova.

  “There,” pointed Robe.

  She hauled the car around and hovered in front of the Templar. He was hanging on a thin communication cable that connected two buildings.

  “That won’t hold him,” said Bram, just as the wire snapped and the Templar fell.

  He caught himself on another wire, using the two to distribute his weight. It looked like they would hold, for a little while.

  “Have you ever seen anything like that before in your life?” Robe was awed.

  Nova had to agree.

  “He moves like a cat.”

  Bram didn’t seem to enjoy it.

  “He was trained like that. Anyone could do it with the right training.”

  “Don’t sound jealous,” chided Nova.

  “I am. I wish I could move like that. I wish he would teach me. It’d make it easier when it comes time for him to die.”

  “He’s not going to die,” she said.

  The cables holding him snapped again, but he held onto one and slammed into the side of the building.

  “At least not by you,” she amended.

  She positioned the car facing the Templar and fired a grappling hook into the wall just below him.

  She called over the loudspeaker.

  “Grab the cable. We’ll haul you in.”

  He stared at her across the distance, locking eyes.

  “He’s not going to grab it,” she whispered.

  He let go and fell forty feet into a pile of refuse below.

  “That had to hurt,” said Bram.

  “Go find him,” yelled Robe.

  Nova reminded him of his place.

  “Who are you addressing Trooper?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Check your teammate and control your patience.”

  “Yes sir.”

  But she was as anxious as the rookie and hoped it didn’t show in her voice. She dropped the car down on the garbage pile.

  “Darren’s fine. Just unconscious,” reported Robe.

  “Good,” she instructed. You and Bram flank the pile, flush him out. Do not engage if he comes at you. Understand.”

  She looked at her second in command and closest friend, forcing him to answer.

  “Yes sir.”

  The instructions were pointless. They moved over the refuse pile and found the Templar on the edge, blood seeping from a large wound in his head.

  “He’s alive,” Robe said, checking his vitals. “But he’s going to have a monster headache.”

  “Put him in the car,” Nova ordered. “Let’s get him back before he wakes up.”

  They crammed him into the back seat again.

  “And this time, keep a gun on him,” she said.

  Slowly, his senses came back, a tiny light at the edge of vision, a tingle in the tips of his fingers, a numb dull ache at his wrists and ankles. He did not move, gave no indication of his heightened awareness. Instead, he absorbed his surroundings, taking in the sounds and smell and feel of the place.

  It was clean, the slightly pungent antiseptic used to wash down the walls left a lingering odor. It was big, his breath echoed in a cavernous room, sounds of far off people filtered through the thick walls. And it was strange, a part of this new world he had been thrust into and now had to cope with. It was new and familiar at the same time, its strangeness in no way hiding the fact that he was imprisoned.

  The energy bonds had doubled in strength, stretching his arms and legs in a cross eagle fashion, pinning him against a wall. He tested them, clenching his muscles and tensing, but each time he pulled, a green light intensified and the hum grew louder, compensating for the added stress.

  He opened his eyes. She stood in front of him.

  “I knew you were awake,” she said. He recognized her voice from the hover car, the way she held herself. The bulky suit of armor was gone, replaced by a tight bodysuit that emphasized her athletic prowess. His appreciation was evident and Nova felt uncomfortable. When her confidence ebbed, she responded defensively, hiding behind arrogance.

  “The vitals told us when you awoke. You’ve been-” she searched for the right word. “Watching us.”

  “You’re not the one trussed up,” he growled, pulling harder at the energy bonds.

  “It speaks. The Doctor has been at my door all day inquiring about you, telling us what he knows. Do you know where you are?”

  “Not home,” he spat at her.

  “How did you break the energy bonds in the car?” she changed the subject.

  “You tied me up,” he strained against the restraints. The hum trilled up to a whine. “I had to get free. Fight.”

  She looked nervously over her shoulder. A minor technician at the Computer board typed furiously on a hidden keypad. He gave her a thumbs up.

  “We were just trying to ask you some questions, get you off the street for your safety.”

  He glowered at her.

  “You came at me in a fight. You were armed.”

  “Do you know who we are?”

  “Don’t care.”

  She stepped closer to him, within kicking distance if he got free, but she wasn’t worried about that. The energy bonds were on the highest setting, and the technician assured her they would hold, this time. And if not, she had her reflexes.

  “Please don’t fight us. We won’t hurt you.”

  He leaned his head out as far as it would go and sniffed her, drawing her scent deep in his lungs. It was warm and spicy, like mulled apples and cinnamon. The whine eased off as he released pressure on the shackles.

  “Where am I?” he asked slowly.

  “This is Troop Headquarters. You’re in a detention cell-”

  “No,” he shook his head. “Where-” it was his turn to search.

  “Where am I on my land?”

  She didn’t understand the question. She searched his face to find his angle, to comprehend how this would affect their negotiations. Then it dawned on her. He had no idea what really happened to him.

  “Do you know how you got here?”

  “Sorcery. Witchcraft.”

  “And do you know where you are?” she repeated.

  “Not home.”

  She leaned closer.

  “You’re still in your land. As far as I understand, you’re from the past. This is the future.”

  He shook his head.

  “Can’t be. World was coming to an end. This has to be Hell.”

  “What?”

  He looked at the bonds holding him, as if to will them off. The shrill whine edged up a notch or two as he stretched.

  A nervous technician cleared his throat.

  “I was on a hill, fighting the village. They wiped out my platoon. My Second bought it before me, fell across my leg and dropped a Plasma rifle in their paws. I was done for. Next thing I know, I’m here with that Doctor. And here, I got to fight all kinds of Hell. That crowd kept coming from nowhere and then your kind-”

 
“We didn’t attack you,” she said.

  “You came at me in a fight,” he spoke slowly, as if to a small child. “You had weapons I didn’t understand. In an unfamiliar situation, attack first, learn later.”

  She laughed.

  “You sound like someone I know.”

  “It’s a smart idea.”

  He smiled back at her. She felt something in her stomach, a quickening of the pulse, a nervous twitter, butterflies. She quelched it. This was a prisoner, or if not a captive, at least an unknown commodity. She would not let herself care for him.

  “If I let you out of your bonds, will you attack me? Will you agree to listen?” she asked.

  She had no reason to trust him. By all rights, she should have been scared of him, even bound as he was. He had demonstrated the ability to rip apart energy bonds and fight against impossible numbers. If he chose to kill her, she could fight him, but probably not to win, or even to hold him off without her Suit.

  She toyed with the notion of Suiting up, but tossed it aside. He could penetrate those defenses easily enough, if he chose. He was an enigma, stronger than any man she had ever met, had ever heard of. He was more seasoned than her oldest veteran, raw, powerful, faster than her greatest teacher. He reeked of being a warrior.

  But she had that feeling in her stomach. And if the Doctor spoke true, he was a Templar Knight, the model on which the Troops were founded. She had to gain his trust.

  Letting him go might be a start.

  He nodded.

  She waved to the technician. He didn’t move.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  “Do it,” she commanded.

  The tech keyed in a sequence. She noted the Templar watching him closely.

  The bonds faded from green to yellow to transparent. She held her breath.

  He rubbed his arms and legs, stretching like a cat and curled up on the floor with his back against the wall. Days of fighting, lack of food and rest had drained him. Passing out from shock and pain was one thing, sleeping was another. His body told him what it needed. Time to recover, time to knit and heal. He had pushed it beyond any measure of endurance, asked it again and again for more and each time it responded as he knew it would. It was time to reward the body. It craved sleep.

  With a knowing wink at Nova, the Templar showed her that trust was a two way street. He listened to his body and closed his eyes.

  She couldn’t believe he fell asleep.

  Harry slowly crept in the room and stood by the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He almost called for the computer to bring up lights, but didn’t want his prey to have the advantage. He had an itch in his throat and silently cursed the filters. They were supposed to clean all microbes and dust particles out of the air, but in this section of the tower, obviously they had gone lax. It made him want to cough and that mistake could cost him his life.

  Eyes adjusted, he moved forward, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, silently padding to where the captive slept against the wall.

  Pain lingered around his wounds, a throb even the medical computers couldn’t care for. He would be completely healed in a few days, physically. Only a quick beating could soothe his pride.

  Harry was an old timer in the Troops, seasoned soldier and pretentious to boot. He prided himself on keeping a cool head in all battle situations, something the younger rookies looked up to and admired. He relied on reputation mostly now, and the extra strength given to him by his Suit. His body betrayed him as he grew older. He treated himself right, avoided fights if he could, but his reputation as a soldier had to be maintained at all costs.

  Once he had been in a tavern on the Islands alone. The Troops had been sent to quiet a demonstration. After the quick dismissal of the protesters, Harry found a dingy hovel near the edge of town. It reminded him of the outskirts where he grew up. He moved in for a drink.

  A few of the demonstrators wandered in off the street to nurse their wounds and pride. Harry felt obligated to remind them of their beating at the hands of the Troopers.

  They laughed and agreed, buying him drink after drink of the potent local fermented beverage. He passed out.

  He came to behind the hut, the three demonstrators ripping at his Suit, kicking him, beating. The armor absorbed a lot of punishment, and his youthful demeanor probably protected him too. Without a helmet, his head took the brunt of the damage. He fell into the muck of the alley and passed out again.

  Hours later, he woke, head throbbing. He would have to live with it. The closest Medical Computer was at the temporary base and he had a job to do before he could go back. He climbed up the wall, propping against it until his vision stopped swimming. He stumbled back into the bar.

  He had to help the bartender remember him, but after dislocating his shoulder, he gave Harry addresses, last names, friends and relatives of the three assailants.

  He visited them one at a time that night, taking a few short minutes to talk to each while they slept. One of the kids died, on accident.

  There was a call for inquiry by the Island authorities, with a request for Harry to be removed from the Troops. But a young third commander, Nova Laud had fought beside him in several campaigns and fought for him now. Her testimony won him the right to stay a Trooper, but he would have to take medication to control his outbursts. The pill supplies were scheduled for six month intervals. Harry lasted two. But he carried the reputation with him and no one dared cross his path to test his new found attitude.

  Now this interloper had descended into their lives and threatened his reputation. Harry would have to prove a point. It wasn’t just a matter of personal pride, but sheer logistics. If this guy got away with it, then another young hotshot would have to try, and another and another until you had total anarchy, or an incident reminiscent of the Island debacle. Harry was too old to put each rookie in his place. So this one little session with the prisoner ought to do the trick.

  He held his breath, edging closer. He could make out the shadowed outline of the man shackled to the wall. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of deep sleep. The monitor on the wall confirmed, all greens. Harry adjusted the Suit strength level to deliver punishment, but no real damage. A broken bone or two wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  He drew back his leg, aiming for the stomach to steal precious air before the fight. He reached the arc of his kick, a thought hit him like a blow.

  He couldn’t hear the hum of energy bonds.

  It was too late to abort. He rocketed the strength level in his Suit and let fly. The kick didn’t even get the chance to land.

  A hand grabbed his ankle as it whistled through the darkness, jerked him off balance. The servo-mechs in the Suit counteracted, holding him up. Harry delivered a series of powerful jabs, roundhouse blows to the form below him.

  The prisoner shrugged them off, blocking what he could, absorbing what got through as if it were only so much wind. Harry landed a punch to the jaw, drawing blood. He knocked the prisoner’s head into the wall. This was the chance he hoped for. He adjusted the strength level to “Kill 3” and jumped on the man.

  He couldn’t hit him. A foot in the solar plexus knocked him across the room. Harry rolled as he landed, coming up in the classic defense posture.

  The prisoner wasn’t in front of him. He turned.

  Too late. The man lifted him overhead and threw him into a wall. Something cracked, Harry tasted blood. He tried to turn away from the stalking prisoner.

  The Templar stomped against his upper leg, breaking the Suit and the bone beneath. Harry screamed, rage, pain and fear driving him to madness.

  He keyed a sequence for a sonic grenade that spit out of one of the Suit’s portals. He covered his head with his hands.

  The grenade rolled over to rest at the Templar’s feet. It exploded, tossing him across the room. He slammed into the wall, crumpled, blood leaking from his ears.

  Harry dug in a panel and pulled out his plasma-gun. He dragged himself up the wall
, re-routing energy to his broken leg. The Suits components groaned, trying to find intact pathways to follow, trying to obey their commands. Pain dampers were injected into his leg, numbness seized him below the thigh and he was thankful.

  But the Suit could only do so much, torn as it was. Harry had to drag himself around the room and cursed the loss of time.

  “You bastard,” he spat.

  He almost chanced a shot from this distance, but he wanted to get close, watch the man die. No one had ever done this much damage to him in his career. No one could ever hurt a Suit. There were made to withstand an Auto Hulk assault. Yet this prisoner had crushed the defenses, and injured the man who relied on them too much. He would pay.

  The Templar didn’t move as Harry approached, dragging his leg, all semblance of subtlety gone. Harry leveled the gun, trying to hold steady his wavering hand.

  “You’re gonna die,” he warned him.

  The prisoner looked at him and smiled. Harry lost a millisecond, but in the end, that made the difference. The Templar threw the remains of the grenade canister at the gun, sending the blast high and to the right, just crinkling the air by the Templar’s ear.

  He leaped, flipping through the air to land at Harry’s side, shoulder tossing him across the room after the pistol. Harry lay in a heap, the clarion scream of alarms piercing his damaged skull.

  “Not supposed to shoot guns in detention,” he thought disjointedly and lolled his head to watch the prisoner walk up to him.

  “I’m not the one dying today,” he was saying.

  Harry tried to laugh, tried to be brave in the face of his doom, but his body wouldn’t respond to anything below the neck.

  “My necks broke,” he thought as he tried to wiggle his toes.

  “Go ahead,” he said aloud, wanting to die rather than explain this embarrassment.

  The prisoner raised Harry’s own gun.

  “Die slow,” he whispered.

  “No,” said Harry, vision of his life leaking away on the cold steel floor, being found too late by his beloved Troops. “Please.”

  “Please, don’t kill him,” Nova stepped through the sliding door, rifle held to her shoulder followed by a half platoon of Troopers in full Suit.