Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2)

by McCullough Crawford

  The walk light changes, and Sara walks casually across the street and into the turbulent body of people. As she zigzags her way towards a dark alley that leads to the backside of an apartment complex, and from there into a quiet neighborhood, she lets out a sigh of breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The chaotic jumble of people should have thrown off any pursuers, not that anyone should even be looking for her, but she can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching with malicious intent.

  The crowd seems calm and relatively peaceful until, with only one more knot of evening revelers between her and the refuge of the alley, a commotion erupts behind her. She turns to see what caused the disturbance but continues walking calmly away. From its dispersed state, the crowd appears to be coalescing into a stable ring surrounding what can only be two adversaries given the shouting emanating from the hollow space in the middle. The fascinatingly rigid structure that forms so rapidly from the chaotic distribution of bodies distracts her for a moment too long.

  She nearly runs into one of the group she’d been heading towards as they jog towards the ever-steadily increasing ring in the middle of the pedestrian way. Like a comet being drawn towards a flaming sun, their approach begins slowly but gathers speed until they are swallowed by the larger mass.

  Stumbling on a crack in the pavement, she looks forward again just in time to see two uniformed officers standing on either side of the alley entrance and glaring right at her. Like a deer caught in the sudden glare of a speeding car’s headlights, she freezes, staring at first one then the other of the uniforms. As if in slow motion, the one on the right reaches for the rifle slung across his back. While the other with a leering smile asks:

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  His movement breaks the spell that had bound Sara in place; she glances left then right before taking off towards the corner at the end of the street.

  “Halt!” she hears one of the uniforms yell after her. The other in only a slightly quieter voice shouts into his radio:

  ”We have an unidentified perpetrator fleeing south along the pedestrian mall. Backup requested.”

  She doesn’t pause to think why they are chasing her, even if she is unidentified. She just runs, arms pumping and knees driving, reaching, pushing for the corner of the buildings and the momentary protection it will offer.

  Just as she is about to reach the corner, an amorous and intoxicated couple rounds it, their intertwined arms turning their two bodies into an impenetrable wall. Sara is forced wide, skidding in the snow and nearly sliding into the street. She grabs the rim of an overflowing trash can and pulls herself through the turn. As she passes behind the couple she feels a warm spray across her face and feels a splatter on her jacket. Glancing back, she sees the uniform with the rifle standing, lining up a second shot now that the obstacle—one of the lovers—is down, bleeding from a wound in her side. But before he can fire again, Sara is around the corner and heading down the side street that she had crossed before entering the plaza.

  Her mind is as blurred as the brightly lit shop windows and the shadowed faces of the people she blows past. Without looking, she cuts into the street, right on the tail of a passing car. Sidestepping and jumping through the lanes of slow-moving evening traffic, she cuts across the street. She is moving fast enough that she is past the first car before anyone notices and the horns start blaring. None of the drivers bothers to slow, but once they realize that there is an opportunity to express their anger, they join in with much gusto.

  Of course their ruckus has no effect on the situation. Sara slips nimbly though their ranks, and they continue creeping along at the same pace that they were moving before the intrusion. Now across the street, Sara heads away from the bustle of the commercial district towards the quieter residential area that forms the rest of the town. The parked cars offer scant protection from the officers, who, having cleared the road themselves, open up fire. Glass shards begin to erupt from the car windows, causing her to flinch. She stumbles as the windscreen of the truck directly next to her explodes at the same time as the shop window directly ahead of her. The glittering glass shower pelts her face, leaving several stinging cuts across her nose and cheeks.

  The officers fortunately did not score high on any marksman tests, which means every stride that Sara takes widens the gap between her and her pursuers and makes each round fired after her farther from hitting her than the last.

  Despite their rapidly declining accuracy, the officers continue to fire after her, disregarding the screams of panic coming from the people trapped in the kill zone as the errant bullets crash through their cars. Sara’s long legs carry her quickly to another street corner where she is able to duck around the side of a boutique. She can hear the bullets continue to smack against the brick for several seconds after she is out of sight.

  With her adrenaline surging once more, the primal joy she had felt in the parking lot returns. A feral grin spreads across her face for the second time this evening. Hopefully everyone in the crossfire keeps their heads down, but every second wasted shooting at an empty street corner is that much farther behind they are going to fall.

  The blood pumping through her veins, the sting of the cuts on her face, and the thin cool air she sucks into her lungs with each breath is a visceral pleasure unlike any she has felt before. True, there is healthy dose of fear, but far from being paralyzing, it to urges her to push harder. There is no option to cower, no chance to cede action to a later date. Self-preservation demands a response, and it revives her inner animal: savage and free.

  The branding coating the store windows, cars, and nearly every other surface along the street loses its meaning. She doesn’t see a particular brand of car, only a relatively solid obstacle to dodge that might stop some of the bullets once the officers regain their line of sight. The services and culture behind each logo, which once dominated her thoughts as she would scan a street such as this, are pushed from her mind by the object’s real substance and its effect on her primary goal: survival.

  The store fronts are closely packed, each one fighting to maximize the impression it leaves on those passing in front of it. Their facades are so tightly packed they form an impenetrable wall down both sides of the street. She keeps running, searching for an exit, a way onto the quiet residential streets she knows are just behind the buildings.

  There it is. Her escape route. Another alley branches off this street, its entrance nearly hidden in the shadows cast by the awnings of the two adjacent buildings; the street lights’ glare only deepens the blackness of the alley. She dashes across the street, rolling over the hood of one car as it screeches to a stop and onto the sidewalk in its attempt to avoid hitting her. The driver starts to lean out of his window to yell at her, but she has already ducked into the alley.

  The driver manages to crack his door but promptly thinks again. At the far end of the street, an armored car with a roof-mounted machine gun rounds the corner. With a squeal of tires, he pulls his vehicle off the curb and drives away in the other direction, retreating from the approaching death machine.

  Fortunately for Sara, she has already slipped into the embrace of the shadowed alley by the time the armored car’s turret swings her way. The turret’s sensory suite is powerful enough to spot her through the walls and darkness that separate them, but its operator isn’t smart enough to differentiate her running form from the outlines of the panicked patrons sprinting for the nearest exit in the restaurant located between them.

  Utter chaos descends upon the street as the armored car begins rolling over several of the cars that are parked along the edge as it turns the corner. Ignoring any physical obstacles, it rolls slowly down the center of the pavement. Drivers jump free from their cars lest they be crushed, while patrons stream out of storefronts and stampede away from the destruction and mayhem.

  The close brick walls of the alley protect Sara from the full concussive force of the destruction and also distort the screams, filtering ou
t the low registers, leaving only high pitches; the crowd sounds like a bus load of school children hurtling down a cliff. Crunches harmonize with the tinkling of broken glass and the screech of rending metal. Then the armored car opens up with its machine gun and it all gets worse.

  Something about the cacophony clings to Sara’s soul, pleading that she turn and help somehow. Her pace slows, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t stop. Turning back to the chatter of the machine gun would only accomplish her own demise and wouldn’t help the poor people caught in the crossfire.

  The street beyond the alley is dark. The street light normally tasked with illuminating the pavement in front of the row of townhouses is only faintly flickering through the branches of a tree, casting jagged shadows like the fingers of a skeleton, reaching towards the carnage behind her.

  She jogs down the street, hoping that the approaching sirens won’t happen to come down this particular road. She continues to run, and several times as she passes through snow-covered intersections, the flashing lights of distant police cars reflect off the layers of dirty ice crystals, but none of them seem to be getting closer to her. The sounds of mayhem and destruction slowly fade into the background, and eventually Sara is surrounded by stillness with only her heavy breathing to break the silence.

  She slows down as she realizes she has made it to the outskirts of town. Here the houses are spaced farther apart, and there is only the moonlight to light the way since the street lights ended a long time ago.

  As she slows to a walk, the primal energy that had driven her through her flight fades, leaving her breath strained and her legs feeling like lead. The snow seems to drag at her feet, giving way as soon as she tries to push off. Each step is more of a stumble forward than the easy strides she had made earlier in the night.

  Ahead across a ditch, a small dilapidated shed is partially hidden by a snowdrift; its roof has sagged under years of snowfall and neglect. To Sara it looks more welcoming than the finest hotel foyer as she stumbles towards it. But rising like an impassable mountain range, a split rail fence sits at the crown of the ditch.

  The slope in the ditch is slippery, dragging her down to all fours. She digs her fingers into the snow, clawing at the earth beneath to drag herself up. Flopping against the rail, she pants, her chest heaving. It takes all of her willpower to heave one leg up and over the fence. She teeters for second, straddling the top rail before flopping into soft snow on the other side.

  She doesn’t bother standing fully upright, instead pulling herself along by her hands, dragging her feet. Her mind numbs as she struggles through the last few steps to the rotted door. Not fully aware, she stumbles against the soft wood. Coarse shards of the wood press against her cheek as she leans into it, her body sagging. Fortunately the hinges are well worn, and her weight resting against it is enough to force it open. With the adrenaline surge of running for her life completely gone, it is unlikely she could have pushed the door with any additional force had it needed it.

  The inside of the shed is musty but warm, smelling earthy and alive. The contents are unknown to Sara as she pulls the door closed and gropes blindly in darkness. Shuffling forward, her feet encounter something soft, and she stumbles to her knees. Reaching out, she encounters a pile of hay. The bristling coarse grass is the softest most inviting surface she can imagine as she leans forward and crashes face first into its embrace.

  The exhaustion that had snuck up on her so quickly pounces once more. She only manages a few deep breaths on the musty hay before sleep consumes her.

  Chapter 12

  Space

  Mountain Stronghold

  The dining hall is packed. Every flat surface either has someone sitting or standing upon it. Only the staff on duty are not present, but some quick-thinking communications officer managed to rig the base’s intercom to broadcast the speech through almost every room.

  General Lampard is standing before the assembled crowd with his hands raised, trying to quiet them down. It has been almost a solid twenty-four hours of hectic activity as everyone has been running around the base performing emergency repairs made necessary by the base’s new airborne status. During this time, rumors have been running rampant throughout the base as to why they are in a full lockdown and why there is a strange humming throughout the entire installation. None of the rumors, no matter how fantastical, approach the absurdity of the truth the general is going to share with them.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, friends,” the general begins once the crowd’s murmurs subside enough for his voice to be heard. “You are all wondering what is going on and why the base is sealed. Some of the ideas I’ve heard are certainly worthy of fiction, but the truth as I’ve come to know it is far stranger.”

  He pauses just long enough to take a breath of air and a sip of water. Not being one to talk around the point, he dives right in.

  “We, and this entire facility, have, as of twenty hours ago, left Earth’s atmosphere.” The crowd is so silent that despite the close to two hundred people filling the room, Gavitte can hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights hanging from the bare rock ceiling. There is a faint murmur as the initial shock fades, but it is a testament to how well respected the general is that there is no wide uproar as people are faced with the shocking news.

  “This mountain,” the general continues when it is clear there is not going to be a riot,” is the home of an apparently sentient computer that crashed here well before the advent of humanity. Its mission, one of scientific discovery, has remained constant as it has prepared for this day. This computer, who calls itself The Watcher, has decided we represent a worthy sample of what humanity has to offer.

  “I’m not going to sugar coat it. I don’t know where we’re going, what we’re going to find when we get there, or if we’re ever going to make it back. In fact I’m pretty sure this is a one-way ticket we didn’t buy… But we’ve now punched it. I’m not going to try and speak for all of you, but for my part I welcome this opportunity to leave something of value behind for all of humanity. Instead of fighting the system, we can free ourselves from it and make something better for ourselves and any who may follow in our footsteps.

  “We’ve been hijacked by opportunity; are we going to sit back and let the future come to us? Or are we going to grab the reins of this thing and make it our own?”

  Nobody in the crowd is speaking, partially out of respect for the general, whose measured and enlightened leadership so far has won over even the most jaded of the freedom fighters gathered in the hall. But the main reason no one speaks as the general scans the room is shock. Twenty-four hours ago, the focus had been on planning the next demonstration, freeing the next convoy of political prisoners. Then everything started to fall apart at once. The power kept flipping on and off, tunnels threatened to collapse, the chef’s soufflé collapsed in the cafeteria. Over the past twenty-four hours, everyone has been too busy managing crises to give much serious thought to the why behind the chaos, and now that things have settled down enough for them to catch their breath, they are being told that they are in space headed towards some unknown destination. Disbelief is rampant throughout the assembly.

  “Talk to your commanding officers or area managers,” the general continues after concluding there aren’t going to be any spontaneous outbursts. “We want you to speak your mind and let us know how you feel about our change in situation. I know a lot of us, myself included, originally came here because we were fed up with a faceless bureaucracy that ignored us, intent on its own agenda. Except, of course, for taking our money and giving us orders. Now I am the bureaucracy, and I refuse to let the injustice and corruption that drove us here follow us into the unknown.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do, but we will find solutions to our problems that make our lives better. Even if only a little bit.

  “In line with this, I plan on holding this same meeting every week for the foreseeable future. I will be here available for questions and comments from anyone about an
ything.” The general pauses for just long enough that the crowd assumes he is done and begins to shift from foot to foot. “Now,” he continues. “We’re in a two-hundred-year-old abandoned mine rapidly leaving Earth’s orbit. There is plenty we need to be doing just to make sure this place doesn’t fall apart. Time to get to work, but remember my door is always open; that is except for when it’s closed.”

  The crowd chuckles and begins to filter into the warren of tunnels. The tension caused by the unknown and panicked state of the last twenty-four hours has faded somewhat, eased by General Lampard’s personable manner and the faith they put in his assurances. A new feeling of trepidation is present in the crowd, though this one fueled by a foreboding springing from the fact that their lives have been wrenched onto a new course by some unknown force. The feeling is tempered, however, by a level of excitement born from the awaiting journey. Some of the murmurs coming from the dispersing crowd question the general’s sanity. Others are frustrated and angry despite his positive spin, but the tide is clearly in his favor. For every dissenting voice, three of its neighbors side with the general; so strong is their loyalty and kinship that there is no real dissatisfaction amongst the soldiers and scientists.

  Gavitte’s emotions mirror the audience’s as he stands slowly from the chair in which he’d been sitting off to one side of the podium. The general is surrounded by a group of scientists and soldiers eager to take a more active step forward. He’s patiently trying to explain that he’s barely had time to meet The Watcher and doesn’t know much more than what he said in the speech, but they are slowly driving him towards introducing them to The Watcher directly. Gavitte has seen many subcommittees formed out of just such a mob, and it looks like this time is going to be no different. The general has calmed them down enough to start building some level of organization amongst the random assortment of staff.