by Peter Clines
“Sir,” shouted King. “Get on your knees and place your hands behind your head.”
“If you start shooting,” the hero said, “odds are someone’s going to get hurt by a ricochet. And it won’t be me. So just put your weapons down.” A few streamers of smoke trailed from his nostrils for emphasis.
The soldiers didn’t budge.
“Fine,” said St. George. “Doctor, get behind me.”
The soldiers were tensing when the shadows in the room shifted. I thought I saw you in here, said Zzzap. He slid the rest of the way through the observation window. About frakking time.
King switched his aim to cover Zzzap. The wraith brushed the pistol with a gleaming fingertip and the weapon’s muzzle flared white hot. I wouldn’t fire that, he warned. Probably blow up in your face.
St. George held his hand out for the other pistol. Hardy resisted for a moment, then surrendered the weapon. The hero took it in both hands, folded it in half, and tossed it back to the soldier.
So, what’ve I missed?
“Shelly’s dead. Peasy’s not. He’s controlling all the exes on the base. Probably all the ones within a few miles if he’s still got the same range.”
There are exes on the base? said the wraith. Really? I didn’t see any.
* * *
They pushed Danielle down the hall. Her foot slipped, she couldn’t shift her weight quick enough, and she stumbled against the wall. She’d studied kinesiology enough to know just how much being handcuffed behind the back could mess up someone’s balance. She would’ve been fine with leaving that as textbook knowledge.
“Look,” she said, “if you’re going to lock me up at least listen to me first.”
The MP jerked her back to her feet and propelled her forward. There were three of them. Two kept her at gunpoint and gave pushes. She recognized the one in the lead as Furber, the lieutenant who’d taken Stealth’s pistols. The civility had dropped a lot since then.
“The Nest units don’t work,” Danielle said. “Every one of these things is smart and they’re your enemy. You’re in serious trouble. We’ve fought this guy before and he’s a murdering psychopath.”
They came to a metal door and a fourth soldier entered a code. The cell slid open an inch with the clack of magnetic locks disengaging. One of the MPs twisted her arms to release the cuffs.
“You’ve got protocols. Follow them. Now!”
They pushed the redhead through the door of the cell and pulled it shut behind her with a clang. One of the soldiers hit the lock button and the magnets kicked back in.
Her muffled voice came though the door. “Don’t I get a phone call or something?”
“Jesus,” muttered one of them, holstering his pistol. “Why can’t she be quiet like the other one?”
The MP across from him chuckled. “Why can’t she be hot like the other one?”
“We’re going to have to cut the other one out of that outfit of hers,” said Furber.
“Yeah, no shit.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “No, seriously.” He pointed down the hall toward Stealth’s cell. “We tried to strip her after they brought her in ‘cause there’s so many damned knives and tools in that harness of hers. We could get the belts and holsters and all the gear off her, but if there’re any zippers or anything in that outfit, we couldn’t find ‘em. I think she might actually be sewn into it. We couldn’t even get the mask and gloves off.”
“Goddamn,” said one of the others. “I don’t know if that’s hot or fucked up.”
“Little of both,” said another soldier with a grin.
Furber gave a sage nod.
One of the MPs swaggered two doors down the hall. “That suit of hers is so damned tight, bet you can see them tittays all nice now without the straps and shit in the way.” He slid the viewing slot open and peered into the bright cell. “Shit,” he muttered. He glanced at the armored door on either side. “Which one’s she in again?”
“She’s in five,” said Furber.
“Nah, five’s empty. Check the roster again.”
A moment passed. Then all four men pulled their weapons.
Furber shoved the lech out of the way and peered into the cell. It was a gray concrete room with a steel cot, a steel toilet, and a pair of fluorescent tubes ten feet up behind a wire cage bolted to the ceiling. The tubes washed out everything in the cell and made it look pale.
It was empty.
The cot was placed to make hiding beneath it impossible, and the sheets were still wrapped around the thin mattress without a wrinkle on them. The toilet wasn’t large enough to hide behind and was bolted in the corner, anyway. The cell wasn’t much wider than the door, but he craned his neck to make sure no one was pressed into the small space on either side.
“Shit,” he said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit.”
“Call it, Lieutenant,” said one of the MPs.
He dropped his voice. “Get ready to open it,” he said. “Jake, you’re with me. Kenny, Greg, you’re out here covering us. You see anything at all, don’t hesitate. She was out cold when they brought her in but this bitch can move, believe you me.”
“What if she’s not in there?” said Kenny, all lecherous thoughts gone from his mind.
“Then we call it in and we all get court-martialed,” said Furber.
They nodded and he tapped his code into the keypad. The locks clacked and the door fell open an inch. Four fingers tensed on four triggers.
The lieutenant inched the door open. It rolled back into the frame until it hit the full-open position with a thud. He mouthed a three count and he and Jake swung into the tiny room.
Nothing.
He gestured for Jake to cover him and crouched by the cot. The flashlight beam swept back and forth beneath the steel frame, highlighting areas he could already see by the light of the tubes.
“Shit,” Furber said again. He turned to the men in the hall to have them call in an escape and saw her over Jake’s shoulder.
The woman in black was upside-down in the three-foot space above the door. Her back was pressed against the wall and her feet braced against the ceiling. She balanced on the half-inch door frame on her fingertips.
By the time he realized what he was seeing, she was already in motion.
Her legs swung down and struck Jake between the shoulders. She knocked him onto Furber and launched herself into the hall. Her arms wrapped around and under Greg’s shoulders as she twisted over him. She rolled down his back, let momentum lift him off his feet, and flipped him into the far wall.
She whirled and her cloak billowed out. She grabbed the edge with a flick of her wrist and it snapped like a whip, catching Kenny across the eyes. He howled and fell back. By the time he blinked the shock away she’d disarmed him and driven strikes into both of his shoulders.
Furber and Jake untangled themselves. She grabbed Kenny by the back of the neck, yanked the nightstick from his belt, and pushed him forward. The two MPs collided and the nightstick spun through the air to knock the lieutenant’s pistol from his hand. He threw himself at her, but she ducked both of his punches and batted his grab away. Furber felt the palm of her hand as it touched his jaw and knew the blow was going to knock him out cold.
She spun from the unconscious lieutenant and brought her heel up to Jake’s temple. He slammed into the wall, his duty cap flew off, and he dropped. She brought the foot down and snapped a kick to the back of Kenny’s head. The blow left him senseless and his face hit the floor.
Stealth retrieved their weapons, standard 9mm Beretta pistols. They would not fit well in her holsters, and she paused to wonder why she had not been more insistent about getting her own weapons back. She flipped one of the nightsticks into a defensive position against her arm.
“Stealth,” shouted a muffled voice. “I know that’s you out there. Open this damned door.”
The nightstick smashed the face of the keypad and her fingers danced through the wires behind it. The door unlocked with a thum
p. “Good to see you,” said Danielle.
“Where is St. George?”
“He’s getting Barry. We were going to meet at my workshop.” She glanced at the MPs. “Did you kill any of them?”
“Of course not,” said Stealth. “They are still law enforcement officers.” She handed two of the pistols to Danielle. “You will need these.”
“You have no idea. You’ll never guess what’s going on.”
Stealth gestured her down the hall. “The Nest units have never worked. Rodney Casares, also known as Peasy, is alive and controlling the exes.”
“How do you always know this stuff?”
“You were very loud when they brought you in, Danielle. Did it appear as if any of the officers would heed your warnings?”
“Not a chance,” scoffed the redhead as they rounded a corner. “Did you attack Shelly?”
Stealth guided them past the elevator toward a stairwell. “Colonel Shelly was dead when I found him.”
“Dead? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Stealth. She reached around the corner to grab an MP’s wrist. Danielle yelped as the cloaked woman twisted the soldier’s arm, slammed the nightstick into his stomach, and dumped him on the floor. She did something fast with her fingers and he was unconscious. “Does St. George know of Peasy’s presence?”
Danielle shrugged. “No idea. I don’t think so.”
Stealth opened the stairwell door and peered out at a hallway. There was no sign of guards or other personnel. “You must keep your rendezvous at the workshop,” she told Danielle. “I will try to convince Captain Freedom of the threat Krypton faces.”
“I don’t think he’s going to listen. He’s furious about Shelly.”
“That may be, but we must try.” She gestured them out into the hallway and turned left. “There are over a thousand people here who will be caught off guard and slaughtered when Peasy decides to attack, and it is likely revealing himself to you has forced his hand.”
“What if I try speaking to John instead? He’s not part of the military. He might have a cooler head about all this.”
“Do you think he will listen to reason?”
“I think so, yeah. He can be a stubborn jerk, but he’s not stupid.”
Two soldiers stood guard in the lobby. Even with their backs turned, Danielle could tell they were both zombies. She turned to whisper a question, but Stealth was already moving.
The cloaked woman drove the tip of her nightstick into one ex’s spine, right at the base of the skull. There was a sound like driftwood breaking and the dead man fell forward. The stick whirled in her hand and smashed back and forth across the other ex-soldier’s jaw. She kicked its rifle into the air, dropped below its hands, and swept the legs out from under it. It landed on its back and she drove the rifle barrel through its eye, putting all her weight on it. There was a pop of breaking bone and the M16 sank into the dead man’s skull. It went limp.
She turned to Danielle. “Return to your workshop,” she said. “Meet with St. George and Zzzap. Apprise them of the situation. I will contact Agent Smith.”
“He might be more receptive to me,” she said.
“He might,” said Stealth, “but you will need the time to get into the Cerberus armor.”
* * *
“Good to go, sir,” said the sergeant.
Captain Creed nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “This is dry run number one for the Cerberus Battle Armor System. The pilot is First Lieutenant Thomas Gibbs. What’s the time?”
“Thirteen-thirty hours, sir.”
“Note it. Let’s see what this thing can do.”
The eight-man build crew climbed down and pulled their step ladders away from the armored figure. The hum of power leveled out just as it started to echo in the workshop. The armored collar snapped tight around the base of the helmet and covered the bolts securing it in place. The titan’s eyes lit up.
Creed stepped in front of the battlesuit and looked into the twin lenses. “Any problems with start-up, lieutenant?”
Inside the Cerberus armor, Gibbs checked over the multiple screens and readouts. “Negative, sir,” he said. He saw the soldiers around him flinch from the suit’s volume and searched until he found the control. “Seems like everything’s up and running.”
Gibbs took a cautious step. The reactive sensors tingled through his sock, like walking on a foot that was numb with pins and needles. He wiggled his toes and heard the plates on the armor’s foot scrape on the tarmac. Another step, this one more confident.
“The simulator was good, sir,” he said, “but the real thing’s very different.”
“Only to be expected.”
“Yes, sir. I think I’m overcompensating a lot when I don’t need to be.”
“Let’s hold off on movement for now. Do all systems check out?”
“One moment, please, sir.” The lieutenant tried to scroll through menus using the optical system. The simulator had been neat and organized, but after two years of field use Doctor Morris had personalized the Cerberus system’s heads-up desktop to match her own style and needs. To him it was a mess, and he had to search for each icon and file. She’d also re-keyed it to respond to two blinks, not one, which kept throwing him off. He needed to find the system menu that would let him reset everything.
The arms stretched out to either side and the steel fingers flexed. The suit made a few quick fists and shifted its weight from one foot to the other. It looked left, then right, and then down at Creed.
“Good job, Gibbs,” said Creed. “Seems like you’re getting the hang of it.”
“That’s not me, sir,” said the battlesuit.
“What was that, lieutenant?”
“It’s not me sir. The armor just started moving on its own. I’m getting yanked around in here.”
There was a flash from outside that was a little too much like lightning in a horror movie. The suit took three big, confident steps. It loomed over the officer and stretched again. Creed was very aware of how big the titan was. “Can it do that?”
“I didn’t think so,” said Gibbs. “Might be some start-up, shake-down protocol Morris created over the past two years.”
“Did you see anything like that when she demonstrated it earlier?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
Gibbs tried to scroll through the menus again. The system wasn’t responding. The optical system was on but the cursor wasn’t registering his eye movements at all. It drifted and bounced across the heads-up desktop.
A laugh echoed over the speakers and tapered off into a low whistle.
“Sorry, sir?”
“What?”
“I thought I heard something, sir.”
“No one said anything, lieutenant.”
“Nobody just laughed? Kind of a... a happy laugh?”
Creed looked up at the lenses and shook his head. “No one out here.” He looked around at the build crew and saw several shaking heads and a few shrugs. “Does the suit have enhanced audio?”
“I don’t believe so, sir,” said Gibbs. “I might be getting some radio bleed over the speakers.”
“Not exactly,” said a voice. “Christ, man, this suit is so fucking awesome. Should’ve thought of this months ago.”
The lieutenant tried to find the radio in the heads-up display. “Who is that?”
Creed raised an eyebrow. “Lieutenant?”
“An incoming transmission, sir. Voice only. It’s making reference to the battlesuit.”
“Dude,” said the voice, “d’you have any idea what it’s been like waiting for someone to put this thing back together again? Like having my arms and legs asleep, just stuck in here since yesterday.” Another low whistle echoed over the speaker. “Got to be honest—almost lost it, bro.”
There was another flash from outside.
“This is a restricted government channel,” snapped Gibbs. He wasn’t sure if he’d activated the radio or not, but it seemed like the speaker could hear
him. “You will identify yourself immediately.” His voice didn’t echo through the external speakers. They’d been shut off. He was trapped in the armor with no communication.
“Keep your panties on, G.I. Joe. Just gotta find St. George and Stealth and those guys.”
The battlesuit marched past Creed. The titan brought up its arms and tore through the doors like they were paper. It moved straight out into the sunshine and Creed followed behind with a handful of soldiers, shouting for the lieutenant to halt.
It broke into a run and Gibbs felt his arms and legs get pulled back and forth like a puppet. He had a creeping dread the battlesuit would move too far or too fast and leave him trapped inside with a bunch of broken bones. “How are you doing this?” he yelled. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m called the Driver,” said the voice, “and this, esse, is the coolest carjacking ever.”
Chapter 25
NOW
It occurs to me, said Zzzap, that someone’s probably going to notice us up here.
The two heroes hovered a few hundred feet above the grid of Krypton, Sorensen tucked safely under St. George’s arm. They’d left the old reactor and leaped into the air. Now they were trying to find landmarks.
“No time for subtlety,” said St. George. “Who knows how long we’ve got before Peasy decides to start letting the exes loose on the base.”
We should’ve stuck to the rooftops. All good superheroes use the rooftops.
“There,” said Sorensen. “I believe that’s her workshop there.”
“You believe?” said the hero.
Sorensen tried to shrug. He wasn’t dealing well with hanging three hundred feet over the base. “That’s Dust Road there with the Tombs on either side,” he said, tracing the road with his finger, “and that should be Sand Street. Granted, I’ve never seen them from this angle before.”
They sank toward the ground. No one had shouted. St. George wasn’t sure how he was going to protect Sorensen if someone started shooting. “Looks clear,” he said. “This has almost been easy so far.”
