“Yes, Countess. Kill if we must, but preferably immobilize them or drive them out into the open where we can capture them,” answered Thalia in dulcet tones that mirrored none of the anticipation that Anna felt.
It must be both curse and blessing to never feel the crush of anticipation nor the rush of the hunt. “Affirmative. Let’s go.”
Philippe leaned against a tent pole, powerful arms crossed as he watched the ‘expert’ take down photographs from the display boards with hands that shook. The field operative’s first assessment of Stanford as he exited the aircraft had been correct. This man was running on fumes. Pretty soon, he’d fall over from exhaustion.
After a long night locked inside with the higher ups, the scientist’s eyelids drooped and his shoulders slumped forward enough to make Philippe wonder if he might fall over right there. Forced to cool their heels for a full day after trekking back to White River, Fox Squad’s patience was nearly spent. They’d waited in part to allow Stanford to sleep for a few hours, but it hadn’t revitalized him at all so far as Philippe could tell. In spite of the exhaustion, the man delivered a three-hour briefing that had rocked Philippe to his core.
It sounded impossible: these weren’t aliens, but invaders from another version of reality. An alternate timeline of Earth in which five people controlled the entire planet after finding something called the world keys, and one of these precious keys sat in a cave near White River.
Dr. Ellis gathered the photographs of the designated kill targets. No surprise that the bearded flamethrower on legs was on the list, nor his armored helpers, but the group of people hunted by the ship were not among the approved targets.
Is the enemy of my enemy my friend? Philippe pondered. Then again, we never really know, do we? Look at Afghanistan and Iraq. Even more so, that shitstorm in Syria. I wonder if the morons up top remember?
Philippe wasn’t convinced, but he was a soldier, used to following orders. When those orders came down from the highest authority, he didn’t question them. But he did have a question for this scientist. Now that the enlisted had left, heading for hastily set-up tents, he took his chance.
Pushing himself away from the pole, he walked over to help the scientist take down the last photographs and place them in the steel briefcase. Dr. Ellis started as Philippe entered his peripheral vision. He smiled his thanks as Philippe unpinned the photograph closest to him, but asked with a note of concern, “Shouldn’t you be packing to leave?”
Philippe shook his head. “It’s too late in the day to start trail breaking through the snow. We’ll leave at sunrise. Tell me something, Doctor Ellis,” Philippe asked with a sort of forced casualness. “If this world key is as powerful as these visitors say it is, why aren’t we trying to claim it for ourselves?”
The man nodded, “Well—”
“Shit!” One of the techs manning the computers in the HQ tent turned. “The ship has been spotted over New York!”
Dammit!
“Sire, the assassin drones are in place, we can triangulate their position exactly when you send out the pulse. No sign of the Rebels yet, but we have found three possible underground locations,” Countess Anna’s voice called out in anxious tones over the bridge.
“All hands: battle stations. Man gunnery positions and send the pulse. We’ll decloak and drop shields at the last moment. I don’t want any more damage to The Songstress. If you see a likely target, engage immediately,” Heinrich commanded over the ship’s broadcast system.
Out on the main deck, the crew scurried around to man the hastily set-up smaller energy cannons that Anna and her team had jury rigged, as well as the larger fore and aft gun placements. Heinrich frowned with discontent. His crew performed admirably and Anna’s repairs were astounding given the damage The Songstress had sustained. But his ship shouldn’t have been damaged in the first place. Prince Al Aziri. The very name grated on King Heinrich’s mind.
The brat’s mistake cost them half their major firepower and reduced their flanking capacity by nearly seventy percent in order to effect enough repairs to ensure The Songstress was still battle-ready. Thalia correctly assessed that they had lost little that was irreplaceable. Losing the ship’s main batteries, stability control, or Thalia … Heinrich shuddered, suppressing rage. He would have executed Ahmed within seconds of such a loss. And damn the consequences.
He pulled himself back to the situation. They were moments away from engaging a rather elusive and dangerous enemy. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.
“Ready for the pulse, Sire,” came the calm voice of Thalia.
Heinrich responded coolly. “Drop shields. Fire.”
The train slammed to a halt moments after leaving the station. The emergency brakes locked up, passengers screaming at the sudden darkness and deceleration. Despite violent and unexpected motion, China and Sarge managed to stay upright. Snake found himself clutching at Mack sitting next to him even as she lost her seat and fell to the floor.
A small shower of yellow and blue sparks fell from light fixtures while passengers practically threw down their cell phones with yelps of pain. Nothing electrical worked in the abrupt, pitch blackness, except for one light.
A green glow, like a comforting night light, bathed them in its radiance. Sheila was the only device not affected on board the metro subway. Sobs and screams sounded all around them. Snake didn’t need Jay to tell him that pain and fear ran rampant throughout the cars.
Helping Mack, he looked to Sarge and China, and saw that whatever that was caused its own special brand of pain. China crumpled to the floor and Sarge’s dim silhouette staggered forward, her synthetic arm twitching uncontrollably while she clawed at her cybernetic eye.
“Harmonic pulse. They’re coming,” Mack said, pulling on Snake’s arm.
They moved to assist their fallen companions. Breathing heavily, Sarge took a knee beside China. As Snake bent down towards them, a flicker of light from Sheila distracted him.
“Snake,” Sheila’s voice echoed more than normal and passengers backed away from them. “Snake. I need to reboot.” Her voice died as the glow from her battery increased and she flickered through her boot sequence.
Mack bundled up her jacket and placed it under China’s head. The din from the other passengers continued unabated and Snake asked her loudly, “What the hell is a harmonic pulse?”
Mack shifted to Sarge’s side, helping her upright, careful not to get too close to the rifle. “It’s sent from the ship, destabilizes electrical current and highlights crystalline power sources.”
“You mean—”
“Yes, they used it to triangulate Sheila’s position and with the train not running, we’re stuck. How are you doing China? Talk to me.”
“My feet feel like hamburgers,” he hissed between clenched teeth. His boots vibrated uncontrollably on the steel floor of the carriage.
“Your cybernetics need to reboot. There’s nothing I can do. Sarge, what—”
“Everybody shut up!” bellowed Sarge, her face and form intimidating in the green glow as she clutched at her right shoulder. She straightened with effort and a shaking left hand drew out another source of light.
That’s her energy pack, Snake thought as Sarge audibly ground her teeth. She started to assemble the rifle one handed. It was a monumental task. That the woman could function was a marvel.
“Mack, Snake, get ready. I’m not going to be much good. I’m blind in my right eye. I won’t be able to see them in this light, but they’ll head straight for Sheila.”
Snake watched in horror as Mack nodded, reaching into her pack and pulling out a large knife. Her golden bracelets gleamed in the dim light and she stretched as if in anticipation of jogging.
“Shouldn’t we just transfer the second Sheila reboots? C’mon guys, I’m a lover not a fighter,” Snake pleaded. His voice sounded tinny and frail to his own ears.
“Remember the plan. We have to give the Americans time to engage the frigate. Every strike they make
against the shields lowers their batteries. We need every advantage we can get,” Sarge grunted, the pain in her voice overshadowed by the determination written in the grim set of her jaw and furrowed brow.
Stanford stood next to the tall figure of Warrant Officer Leve, stunned at the news of the ship’s sighting in New York City. It’s like a bad dream. From the unblinking and gaunt expressions on the faces of the military staff around him, Stanford knew he wasn’t alone. Most of those gathered in the command tent were old enough to remember exactly what they were doing when 9/11 happened. Stanford remembered watching it happen over breakfast as the news repeated footage of planes crashing into the World Trade Center towers.
Like a ghost from the past, footage from a news chopper played on the central screen while the military techs searched for additional sources of footage with grim looks on their faces. The ship looked like a nouveau, modern skyscraper floating horizontally against the New York City skyline. Central Park was barely visible in the bottom of each frame. Within the screen, Stanford could see people staring, filming, and some few running away.
“Why?” Stanford asked, shaking his head at the screen in confusion. “Why’d they drop their cover this time? It doesn’t make sense.”
Beside him, Philippe grunted in agreement before expounding, “Agreed, a surprise attack while invisible would be devastatingly effective. There must be a reason for it.”
Another camera angle appeared onscreen showing a police cordon. A few officers struggled to keep the more adventurous onlookers at a safe distance and direct them away. Jesus, there’s no safe distance from those sky-borne death rays. It looks like something out of a comic book. Most of the visible officers donned tactical vests and aimed assault rifles at the flying behemoth.
The chopper’s camera panned along the side of the vessel to show crew in Prussian blue uniforms arrayed along the side. At some signal, they started firing at any and all moving targets on the ground. Stanford’s stomach cramped and he felt nauseous.
The warrant officer’s face was a mask of control as he leaned in. “Those crew aren’t snipers; there are very few direct hits.” His gaze shifted from the chopper footage to one of the ground camera angles and back again. “Look, those weapons they’re using. They’re slower than our own rifles. Targets are leaping out of the way.”
Stanford watched the projectiles strike objects. They popped like soap bubbles and tendrils of energy ripped apart anything caught in the small-diameter field, sucking all debris into the center. The implosion sheared perfect circles off metal and concrete before an explosion flung any nearby material in all directions.
“They don’t have to be perfect shots. Those projectiles act like grenades when they hit,” Stanford mumbled.
“They aren’t reloading, but there’s a delay between shots. They don’t have an impressive rate of fire,” came the response from Leve as Stanford averted his gaze, unable to witness any more without risking the possibility of losing his lunch.
“Son of a bitch,” came out of the Canadian soldier’s mouth. Stanford reluctantly turned back around to see what caused that reaction from the professional sniper.
The helicopter view showed a shimmering wave resonate out of a central, bulbous area on top of the ship, which Stanford thought was an antenna. Beneath the warship, the police returned fire on the crew of the ship. Impacts from the NYPD’s rounds barely dented the hull. At least one of the blue-coated crew took a round and collapsed.
The warrant officer grabbed Stanford by the shoulder. “Jesus. That’s why they were firing on the crowd and police. They’re driving people away. They aren’t shielded right now! They had to drop their camouflage and protection to do whatever the hell that was.”
Barely two seconds later, the camera from the helicopter fizzed out, as did several of the closer camera viewpoints. “EMP,” Stanford said as a number of screens showed static. As satellite images replaced closer camera angles he continued, “I hope the drones are in the air. If the shielding is down, we’ve got a chance to end this.”
Anna’s body was lit by a plethora of blinking blue lights encircling her cranium and tended by one highly trained physician from the ship’s crew. However, her mind was inside a drone, studying a wireframe model of her surroundings overlaid across the visual feed of drone 3E several hundred feet below her.
The wireframe display showed the pulse expanding out from the ship. Cloaked at the northern end of the park, drone E3 and Anna waited, stepping to avoid the fleeing civilians and the authority figures who attempted to herd them away from the ship. The drone’s sound suppression worked flawlessly. None of the locals so much as glanced in her direction.
The harmonic caused a fluctuation wherever it interacted with any electrical components. A blip in the spreading wave of harmonic pulse, which vibrated like a thread in the spider web of her wireframe overlay display. Normal electrical devices blinked out of existence on the wireframe as they overloaded. Her intended prey wouldn’t and she kept a sharp eye out for hardened devices.
As the wave expanded, it passed over Anna and made her momentarily visible as it interfered with her personal cloak. She cast her vision about to see if anyone spotted her. Some kind of local authority in a uniform lay unconscious on the pavement nearby with a second trying to rouse him. They’d already attracted the attention of the crew; the unconscious one was missing his right foot from the ankle down. But the man’s head was facing her when her cloak misted.
Damn, he spotted me. The blue-uniformed man raised a shaky hand, holding a primitive ballistics-based weapon and firing.
Anna stepped forward, mind mostly on the HUD watching for the spike in harmonics that would indicate the Rebels, ignoring the pangs of contact from the useless projectiles. She idly noticed his uniform was strangely close in color to Heinrich’s own livery. His face paled as he emptied his weapon. He’s a brave man, she thought as his weapon started to click, its magazine now as empty as its threat. That kind of bravery deserved a reward. Instead of a lethal response, she laid a shocking hand on his arm, driving him into unconsciousness next to his comrade.
That done, she refocused on the wave formation. There. Almost directly below her came the spike she sought, highlighted in the wireframe map. It wavered, but did not blink out like the local technology.
“Thalia, converge all drones on the signal spike,” she transmitted, already moving towards the nearest underground entrance, leaping and engaging the jump pack to speed her progress. She saw a set of concrete stairs leading underground. She disengaged the jump pack and sprinted forward. There was a sign in blue above the steps:
I believe in a society in which people can live like human beings on the basis of equality.
Malcolm X
Anna couldn’t snort in her metal drone body, though she wanted to. “Not everyone is equal.”
She charged into the New York underground, cognizant of the other drones’ locations on the HUD overlay. Need to be quick before the pulse wears off. The king wouldn’t be happy if the Rebels disappeared again.
She came to a section of straight tunnel, filled wall-to-wall with people. Blast. She engaged the jump pack and flew over their heads. There wasn’t room to completely avoid them in the narrow confines and she felt several impacts on her feet as she plowed through the crowd. She paid them no mind. Her attention remained on her targets.
According to plan, every drone converged on the Rebels’ location. The hunt would be over soon.
“Shitshitshitshit,” Snake swore, practically in her ear. “C’mon Sheila, reboot already, we need you.”
Mack watched him crane his head first one way and then the other as his gaze roamed frantically across the dark expanse of the train. He tugged in futility at the bolted down seats. Maybe he wants to make a barricade?
Mack felt her heart-rate climb and stretched, recalling the many lessons given to her by China’s father. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She repeated the thought like a mantra, trying
to remain calm as she kneaded China’s legs, working the cramping muscles and providing the poor man with some relief.
“Everyone listen up! If you don’t want to meet an angry, killer death machine in the next thirty seconds, get out of here. GO!” Sarge bellowed to a general sound of stumbling and confusion in the low light as the crowded carriage emptied.
Mack met Sarge’s one good eye; barely a slit, in her pained state. To all appearances Sarge functioned at great cost, slowly assembling the rifle, but China was still stiff as a board. Mack couldn’t ease their symptoms. Enough painkillers to negate the pain would render them unconscious.
The rifle was a legacy of Sarge’s time as a Royal elite. Keyed to the Lifer’s biometrics, Mack couldn’t use it. With their two best fighters and most effective weapon out of action, it was going to be up to her and Snake. And with Sheila offline, the musician would be worse than useless. It’s up to me. They are depending on me. C’mon girl, you can do this.
“Thanks for clearing out the innocent people Sarge. What do we do now?” Snake asked, breathing heavily.
Sarge slapped the eyepiece into the rifle before speaking. “I stampeded the sheeple. That might be enough to slow the drones down, or bottleneck them. There’s not a lot of room down in these tunnels between the train and the tunnel walls. They’ll try to board and will have to work their way through them.”
Snake stared unblinkingly at Sarge and Mack tilted her head as renewed screams sounded at the northern end of the train. Her pulse redoubled as a fresh burst of adrenalin coursed through her system.
His voice full of desperate pleading, Snake whispered, “No. No, you didn’t just send those people to their deaths. Please, no.”
Mack tried to shut it out. They might not survive this fight, depending on how quickly the drones arrived.
“Any advantage we can take, we use, soldier,” Sarge snarled, slamming home the battery pack of the rifle and picking it up left-handed, her right arm hanging uselessly at her side. She rested the long weapon against the back of a seat, aiming for the doors.
Suffrage (World Key Chronicles Book 1) Page 19
