Ravagers [03.00] Deviate

by Alex Albrinck

  It didn’t take much imagination to identify his current sleeping quarters as part of a medical facility. Sterile white walls, aluminum examination table—occupied by him, the patient—and a thick antiseptic smell dominated his surroundings. He noted the excessively large container of sanitizer near the sink, and a depository for used examination gloves. He tilted his head back and looked up—and wobbled a bit more as he did—and noted the large, bright light attached to an adjustable arm.

  Yes, it was definitely a medical room.

  He wondered what illness or ailment they’d claimed before admitting him to the room. His limbs felt a soreness he associated with grueling physical activity. Nothing he’d done would generate such a result, which suggested possible physical torture he couldn’t recall, all in an effort to force to the surface his missing memory.

  Given the callous attitude about killing a few million people, a round of torture to answer an idle question about his earliest childhood memories seemed tame.

  A clicking sound snapped the silence. Startled, Roddy lost his balance and fell off the table. The floor tile was cool to the touch, something he found advantageous in soothing the new ache in his sore muscles and wounded pride. He twisted his head around, searching, trying to find the source of the noise.

  The door to the room opened.

  Roddy, from his low vantage point, could see little more than two legs. Two feminine legs. He arched his head, trying to remember if he’d seen any women on the station. Admittedly, he’d not been looking, having been primarily preoccupied with survival during his times outside medical bays and the meeting room doubling as a mental torture chamber. She was the first woman he’d noticed, at least.

  He watched as the legs turned around as if searching for something—him, perhaps?—before turning and moving back through the open door with an audible “harumph.” Roddy pushed himself up to his knees and used the stationary table to pull himself to his feet. He fixed his eyes upon the woman as she reentered the room.

  She was petite, one of the shortest women he’d seen in quite some time. Her hair was long, nearly to her waist, and a dirty blonde color, worn in a crisp braid. Her eyes were sharp, clinical, and they found and took him in, a single appraising glance. She nodded at him once. “Your dinner, Mr. Light.”

  The food smelled exquisite, the vapors floating in the air. With his hunger so overwhelming, the scent seemed almost visible. Yet he hesitated. Was he a prisoner? Was it safe for him to eat the food before him? Or would Silver and Delaney use his food for the injection of drugs… or poison?

  He regretfully opted for discretion. “I’m not hungry.”

  His stomach growled, and he glared down at his traitorous torso. He looked back at the woman, who arched an eyebrow. Roddy shrugged. “Well, perhaps just a nibble.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Light, that the food is nutritious, tasty, and free of all potentially harmful additives, especially those which might rob you of physical consciousness or a pulse.” She gestured at the utensils near the covered dish. “Eat.”

  She spun around crisply and marched from the room. He watched her receding form, wondering if he ought to feel guilty noticing another woman, then remembered that Deirdre was both a cheater and likely dead, and then he felt guilty for her death… and noticing another woman so soon thereafter.

  It was only when the woman started pulling the door shut behind her that he recognized the opportunity.

  The earlier clicking noise signaling her entry came from the release of a locking mechanism. If he’d been locked in this room, it meant he was a prisoner. He’d leave here only when Oswald Silver and James Delaney decided he could leave, and not a moment before… and he’d leave in whatever physical condition they deemed appropriate.

  Unless he broke free before that time.

  Roddy sprang at the door, stretching out his arm, trying to wedge his fingers into the shrinking gap between door and frame. The floor rushed up at him, triggering a brief bout of vertigo as the mental fatigue of Silver’s torture resurrected in his body. He hit the tile for the second time. His head spun, but even with his disjointed vision he could see his fingers fell several inches short of the now-closed door. He heard a cannon-like click as the lock activated.

  He was trapped once more.

  He lay there for some time, even drifting back to sleep for a short time. He woke, finding his mind now cleared, the ache in his ribs slicing into his consciousness, punishing him for his ill-fated dive toward the closing door.

  He shoved the pain aside, put his hands on the floor tile, and pushed himself to his knees. He gave his swirling head thirty seconds before pulling himself to his feet using the door handle. The room spun around. He staggered back toward the center table where he’d slept, toward the covered food plate. He fell atop the thin mattress and held on until the room stopped spinning. His bleary, unfocused eyes found the covered plate once more. With little else to do, with the scent of the food driving him mad, he moved his arm toward the cover, hand swerving as though he was drunk, until his fingers hit the smooth metal, and he threw the cover to the floor, ignoring the head pounding clang it made as it fell. His attention focused on the delicacy on the plate before him. He didn’t know what it was, only that he’d be here for a while. Even if they’d drugged his food, he’d need calories at some point for survival.

  And he might escape.

  He eschewed the utensils, grabbing the first foodstuff his fingers located, shoving it into his mouth, savoring the flavor of whatever vegetable it might be. His stomach growled its pleasure, and his head gained a semblance of normalcy. Emboldened by his rapidly improving condition, Roddy ate with reckless abandon, shoving the meat and vegetables and bread and butter into his mouth, pulling the plate closer to speed the consumption. When what remained eluded his grasp due to its minute size, he seized the plate, bent over, and licked it clean.

  As bizarre as the act might be, it was necessary. He’d accepted the fact that Silver and Delaney could easily slip drugs or poison into his food. He also knew that it might be his final meal for quite some time. It all depended on whether Silver and Delaney thought satiation or starvation a better means of compelling from his mind the memory of the place they sought.

  Roddy walked to the sink, carrying the plate with him. He set it down on the countertop before turning on the water and rinsing the juice and bits of butter from his fingers. He found a towel and dried his hands. He found a second towel, adjusted the temperature setting until the water reached its coldest, then splashed the icy liquid onto his face, into his hair, onto the back of his neck. It had the desired effect, shocking him to full levels of alertness. He used the second towel to dry the excess moisture, then moved back to the bed. He lay down, arms behind him, hands folded under his head like a pillow, and considered his predicament.

  He forced the emotions of each memory aside and focused on the facts. Oswald Silver’s secret aircraft held secrets even from its pilot. Silver was involved in—no, probably directing—a massive conspiracy by the world’s elite, consisting of men and women from both Alliances working in concert in an effort to cleanse the world of those they deemed undesirable. He didn’t know what characteristics or behaviors they considered expendable or desirable; they’d never actually told him. From the ashes of a civilization destroyed, they’d rebuild the world with themselves as the handful of human beings living to enjoy lives of luxury. They identified themselves as Phoenix, combining the name with Group or Plan or perhaps even Conspiracy depending on the context. Perhaps the word Phoenix held a deeper meaning for those who’d lived before everything fell apart after the Golden Ages. Men like Silver and Delaney, who’d confessed to being many centuries old each, who’d been alive to see the fall of one great civilization, and were now around to direct the downfall of this one.

  Roddy frowned up at the ceiling. If they’d survived so long and amassed such great power… why did they need him?

  It was clear they did need him. He’d certai
nly been troublesome since Silver summoned him for a flight to an unknown destination, letting Deirdre walk away, lying to his boss, making his presence here quite well known with his dramatic run into the living area of the space station. It couldn’t be a good thing for Silver. They’d told Roddy—and Roddy believed them—that he’d not made the list of the Select, those chosen to live through the carnage and repopulate the planet after its destruction. Silver had used his considerable clout to get an exception, apparently by breaking Delaney’s engagement to Deirdre so her new husband wouldn’t be left behind.

  And that all happened because Delaney noticed something about Roddy. Something Roddy didn’t recognize or know about himself. Something that made his place of birth an incredibly valuable data point, one worth keeping him alive this whole time, one worth keeping him alive even now.

  Which made the trip back to the surface even more confusing.

  Delaney, an able pilot, was perfectly capable of scouring Deirdre’s last known whereabouts, scanning the scorched planet for her, all of which would likely confirm her death. If Roddy was so valuable, why risk sending him as well? Why not let Delaney find Deirdre and keep Roddy here, safe and secured—incarcerated, more accurately—so they still had access to him and the valuable secret buried beyond his memory?

  Roddy sat up. There were only two reasons they’d send him back to the surface.

  They thought that the return trip and the search for his estranged wife might trigger the memory of his birth locale, that perhaps he might even lead Delaney there directly. That didn’t make much sense. Even if he could remember where he’d been born, wouldn’t he only remember that location based upon buildings and landmarks now destroyed?

  No, that couldn’t be it.

  The only reason it made sense to send Roddy was that he was the most likely to find Deirdre… likely because of that special trait Delaney noticed.

  Roddy frowned. It made sense… except that Roddy didn’t know what it was that made him special. That would make it difficult to use that skill in the search for Deirdre.

  Nor did he want to help Silver and Delaney, even if it meant finding Deirdre. He swallowed. Not the most gallant thought he’d ever had. But if finding Deirdre alive in that carnage on the surface required aiding those evil men… he’d do his best to fail in that mission.

  He heard another click.

  This time, he was ready. He sprang off the bed, positioning himself toward the spot where the door would open. He’d grab the door once she’d unlocked and opened it, pushing it wide, force his way through, and then make a run for it. He’d not seen the entire space station, but knew he’d passed through a medical bay during his run from the ship. With any luck at all, he’d find himself back where he’d started, able to board his aircraft.

  Getting his ship launched might prove a challenge. But he’d work on that once in the pilot room on the ship.

  The door cracked open, not much, but enough. Roddy grabbed the edge with both hands and threw it aside, then burst into the opening, not wanting to give the woman a chance to prepare herself to shout and announce his escape, even if it meant knocking her to the ground as he passed.

  But he didn’t run over and through a small, petite woman.

  He ran directly into Delaney.

  Delaney’s eyes burst with malicious glee, and Roddy felt his former colleague’s iron fist slam into his stomach.

  Roddy crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

  His plans for escape were ruined. For now.

  —4—

  WESLEY CARDINAL

  IN WHAT HE fully expected to be the last moments of his life, Wesley Cardinal realized that he’d made a mistake. One that might cost him his life.

  He’d taken the dramatic and dangerous approach to solving a problem, rather than the practical one.

  The bike hit the smooth stone near the water’s edge. The angle propelled the scooter into the air, out over the river’s surface. And Wesley, who couldn’t swim, would land far away from shore, far from his canoe, and without any type of floatation device.

  Why didn’t I just push the scooter into the water and let the river take care of it?

  Perhaps it was some hidden character flaw, a need to replace the mundane with the challenging. Whatever the motivation for his decision, regardless of the rationalization he’d done to justify the dramatic leap over the simple push… he had mere seconds to figure out what he’d do to avoid death by drowning. The river, once such a source of tranquility with its rippling currents and gentle sounds, now terrified him.

  As he looked down from the lofty height he’d hit, he realized that the surface would mimic the glass it resembled in more ways than one. Contact at a high rate of speed would hurt.

  He glanced down at the scooter. If he’d been concerned—rightly or wrongly—about the Ravagers detonating the engine and spreading themselves into the air and across the river… what might happen when that same engine collided with the marble-like surface of the water? And what would such an explosion do to him?

  He felt a cold sweat. His suspicion of an explosion might well be wrong. But he’d not go down without a fight. He had to get away from the scooter before a potential engine explosion on impact killed him.

  He’d definitely drown then.

  His thoughts happened in a near instant; he’d flown barely ten feet when he pulled his right leg over to the left side of the scooter, released the right handlebar, put both boots on the side of the bike, and pushed off.

  The bike moved right. Wesley angled to the left. The gap widened. He hoped it would be enough.

  As his descent began, his focus snapped from exploding scooter engines to the impact he’d feel when he hit the water. His body reacted with an instinct he didn’t recognize, pirouetting in mid-air until his feet led the way toward the surface, the rest of his body a straight line and angled to match his path of descent. The impact might ripple through his body, but the boots should disperse and absorb most of the initial force.

  As his boots neared the water, Wesley instinctively sucked in a large volume of air and forced his nasal passages closed. Where did he learn to do—?

  Smack.

  His boots slammed into the water, and his body shuddered. The boots, as expected, dampened the impact and tore through the surface tension, further limiting the sting of impact. The water rushed toward him and he realized that if he’d not tightened the inside of his nose, he’d be swallowing the river water even now.

  How had he known to do that when he didn’t know how to swim?

  Whatever the answer, his body knew. Just as his head went beneath the surface, his arms spread wide, acting as drag on his descent, slowing him down even further from the entry speed generated by his foolish leap off the large stone. He slowed to a halt. Even now, he wanted to expel the air in his lungs and gasp the oxygen. He allowed a small batch of air out, then forced his eyes open. The water was hazy, but he could see, and he forced himself to look toward his target, toward the surface.

  Though he’d slowed his descent, he was still perhaps a dozen feet below the surface. Below his freedom. Below the fresh air he’d never again take for granted.

  He bent at the waist and at the knee, fully halting his momentum, pointed his arms straight up, then spread them wide, pushing the water down and forcing himself up. He kicked his legs in unison, the effort a greater struggle with the boots weighing him down. He’d seen people swim before, and they generally avoided wearing much clothing and definitely avoided footwear. He’d previously found that fact interesting only because he saw more skin than was generally revealed in public. Now he realized there were practical reasons.

  The clothes were wet, but the boots were the largest drag on him. He considered reaching down, undoing the laces, and kicking them off. But the water would make the knot impenetrable, and he’d waste time trying to force the footwear over his ankles and heels.

  There was nothing to be done about it. He’d just have to reach the su
rface fully clothed.

  Each additional stroke, each supporting kick, seemed to consume a greater quantity of energy. He let out a small bit of air every other stroke, but at this point he only kept the air in to prevent himself from trying to breathe water. He didn’t know when or why or how he’d learned to swim; he knew only to let that dormant instinct take over and lift him to the breathable air above.

  The hazy water and the lack of fresh oxygen combined to create strange hallucinations in his mind. The surface looked crusted over. Had it frozen? Then it seemed dark. Had the Ravagers somehow mutated and decided that devouring water was an acceptable practice since he struggled below the surface? He forced himself to continue in the direction he’d been pointing. Stroke. Stroke. Exhale a small bit of air. Repeat.

  Then he breathed out the last bit of air in his lungs.

  The urge to inhale overwhelmed. His lungs begged for air. His muscles screamed, demanding oxygen to replenish that which had been lost due to the exertion. His mind couldn’t deal with any more pressure and trauma.

  Perhaps he ought to accept his fate. He took one last stroke and opened his mouth.

  The water in his mouth mixed with air as his head broke the surface.

  He coughed and spluttered, feeling the light breeze generated by the current graze against his dampened hair. He spluttered out the water he’d inhaled down his air pipe, gasping and wheezing, trying to get the water out and the air in. His arms kept moving, changing the movement to one more horizontal than vertical, holding him above the surface as he fought to vacate liquid from his breathing passages.

  At long last he spit the final bit of water out. Snot poured from his nose and dripped into his mouth. He spat it out, then ran his hand over the space below his nose to try to remove the slimy ooze, hoping he wasn’t ejecting Ravagers stored inside him, primed for activation only when his nose expelled excess contents.