Aether (The Shadowmark Series Book 2)

by T. M. Catron

  “That’s funny, because Baker told me only you, your team, and another soldier knew where the second entrance was. You kept it secret too, didn’t you?”

  “That doesn’t mean no one else found it.”

  “They didn’t,” said Baker. “Two guards stood at the mine at all times with direct orders not to enter. Nash didn’t want anyone getting lost in there. And the refugees didn’t know about it. The only people who were in there extensively were you and your team.”

  “Are you saying,” Lincoln said recklessly, “that the people you don’t want to have the plans would know how to read them too? And how is that even possible?”

  Halston sat against a tree and chuckled. “You don’t want to know.” He nodded to Baker.

  “Yes, I do,” said Lincoln.

  “No,” she said, wrapping the t-shirt around his face, “you don’t.”

  They led Lincoln through the trees, this time over more forgiving terrain. All of his questions gnawed at him as they walked. The riddle had become more complicated. Lincoln pieced together what he knew, to make sense of what he didn’t know.

  In the 1950s, the United States Department of Defense had invested in ARCHIE, which had been mandated to aggregate any information about non-Earth life forms, build hypothetical scenarios with these life forms, and determine appropriate responses to contact with them. Lincoln now wondered if ARCHIE had been initiated after miners found the underground silo, or if it were uniquely positioned to step in after the discovery.

  Eventually, ARCHIE had lost its funding and remained classified, and dormant, for almost seventy years. When Lincoln and his team had become involved, they were asked to provide a program specifically designed for use in the event of alien contact. ARCHIE would use it in machines they would employ as envoys into enemy territory.

  Interface Labs hypothesized using their existing programs, building models that treated all new encounters as inherently hostile. The Lab’s innovation involved a program that predicted the potential for hostile engagement to within one-one-thousandth of a percent. It was based largely on Carter’s previous experience in building hostage negotiator programs.

  But Interface had never expected their specific models to be tested. And as far as Lincoln knew, the models were still waiting. The alien invasion had been swift and complete. No one had had time to ask the invaders if they were hostile; the invaders had been too hostile.

  Then the team had been brought to West Virginia. Colonel Nash had been evasive, Schmidt had been incorrigible, Baker had been eager, and now everyone in the camp was probably dead except for Lincoln, his friends, and Captain Baker. It was odd, Lincoln thought, that the only people who survived the latest attack were the four people who had studied the symbols and the one person in camp who wanted them. No, more than odd. Highly improbable.

  This new line of thinking brought Lincoln to more uncomfortable conclusions: Baker must have known about the attack beforehand, and she had known all along his team was planning to leave. She had let them leave, even made it convenient. And she had let all those people die.

  Lincoln’s next question was even more uncomfortable than his conclusions—how did Baker know about the attack before it happened? The same way Halston knew how to read the alien symbols. Both insisted Lincoln did not want to learn how. But he did, more than ever.

  ***

  In the hospital bay, Calla removed her knife and laid it on the table before easing onto it with her legs dangling off the side. With her right arm in a sling, she awkwardly prepared her left for intravenous electrolytes while the Nomad scanned her body for other injuries. Besides being exhausted, she was remarkably unscathed from the incident. Her joints still burned though, a remnant of the fire that had engulfed her.

  Doyle entered through the open door and rooted around in the cabinet along the wall behind Calla. He had been unusually subdued the last half hour. The Nomad had returned to low Earth orbit while they rested, but they would need to report in to Condar soon. How would their masters respond to the aether?

  Doyle pulled out a vial and a syringe, and Calla turned, on pretense of applying the tourniquet with her teeth, to see what he was using. E32, a strong painkiller of hybrid manufacturing. Calla didn’t gloat; instead she was relieved Doyle was feeling the effects of their experience too.

  She turned back to her IV, and her hand shook as she tried to insert the needle into her own arm. After a calming breath, she tried again. Then Doyle walked over. He took the needle from her, and she made a fist while he inserted it into her vein. After securing it with tape, he let go but remained close with a hand on the table next to her. Calla looked at it and then looked at him, suddenly wary.

  “You still don’t trust me, do you?” he asked. “One million hybrids dead. A task requiring complete trust and teamwork. At any point in there, you could have betrayed me, turned the tables, but you didn’t. Yet still you don’t trust. Was it duty or something else?”

  “You could have left me. Why didn’t you?”

  Doyle’s eyes flickered with something like amusement. “We make a good team, you and I. It would be a better one if you had confidence in me. When this is over, we’ll be the last of the hybrids.”

  Calla looked into his eyes. Doyle always weighed his words before he spoke, and once again she wondered if he knew of her orders to kill him, or at least suspected. He could not know—her conversation with the Condarri had been private.

  Unless the Condarri had given Doyle the same order.

  A chill ran through Calla’s body. Of course they had.

  Condar didn’t need loyalty from two hybrids, only one. But if both hybrids received the same order, the chances of them actually dying were greater. One of them would get the job done. Maybe Condar hoped Calla and Doyle would die together, locked in battle. Condar didn't view Calla’s loyalty as greater. They doubted her as much as Doyle. All of these thoughts raced through Calla’s head in the span of a heartbeat, and she reached for her knife.

  Doyle covered her hand with his. “Not yet,” he said, confirming her suspicion. “We still have rogues to find, remember?”

  Calla shivered.

  Doyle continued, “That’s why you won’t trust me, even now.” He leaned in closer, one hand still on hers, the other on the table next to her. “It’s hard to kill someone you trust, and one who trusts you.”

  “What is that word—trust?” Calla spat. “It’s a weak human emotion, one that sets you up for failure. The minute you trust, you put yourself on a path to betrayal. You jeopardize your goal.”

  “I couldn’t have set the aether free without you,” he said. He was still much too close, forcing Calla to remain where she was. “In that moment, in the core, I had to trust you to get the job done. Maybe you did it because of your own self-interest. A job well done from Condar. Or maybe, just maybe, you like being a part of something bigger than yourself. We make a good team, Calla. Do you really want to be the last one standing?”

  Something inside Calla stirred, an uncomfortable feeling in her gut. “You speak treason,” she said. She brushed away his hand and stood, ripping off the tape and yanking the IV out of her arm. Blood dripped from her vein to the floor.

  Doyle let her slide past but said, “It’s in Condar’s best interest we work together. The loyal hybrids walked right to their deaths, but the rogues won't simply allow us to round them up for slaughter. Perhaps the Condarri appointed me to lead this mission, Calla, because they know I’m able to see past my own loyalty to get the job done. They created hybrids to be loyal above all else, but something went wrong. My words aren’t treason if they mean I’m able to think like the rogue in order to defeat him. If you don’t trust me, if all you worry about is how you are going to kill me in the end, then you are useless to this mission.”

  His implied threat hung in the air between them. Would he abandon her or kill her? Calla preferred a straight attack to this game he played. He knew finding the rogues had been the most important mission
to her all along. She leaned toward him, her fists clenched in her temper. “I will hunt them down one by one if I have to.”

  “So you’ve said before, and I think you’ve spoken your new orders. Rest, Calla, because in twelve hours you’ll be hunting down as many rogues as you can find. Kill them when you do. However, I think you’ll learn that to find them, you’ll have to think like them.”

  “You think you’re going to teach me a lesson?”

  “I know I will.”

  Calla resisted the urge to punch Doyle’s smug face. “And what will you do?”

  “I have to report to the Condarri. Don’t worry,” he said when Calla opened her mouth in protest, “I’ll make sure you get the credit for the aether. Like I said, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Stunned, Calla stood in place as Doyle left. His bedroom door hissed shut. What would the Condarri say? Would he twist their mission, claiming Calla had acted out of treason? Had he needed help inside the core, or had he pretended to buckle so she would take the fall?

  Either way, Calla thought grimly, Doyle was in charge. He would receive the wrath if their actions angered the Condarri. And he would receive the recognition if they were pleased. But what would he really report about Calla? She picked up her sheathed knife and hurled it across the room, breaking the vial of E32 Doyle had left out. It steamed slightly as it hit the air, the strong, sharp odor filling the small space.

  Calla closed the door on the smell as she stormed out to her bunk. But when she closed her eyes, the image of the fiery vortex filled her mind. Again it burned and tore through her. Then it screamed.

  Calla concentrated a moment, sorting through the experience. The last scream had not come from her. Had Doyle screamed again as he lay on the floor? She searched the memory without success. If Doyle had been more cooperative, she might have asked him. As things stood, the last thing Calla wanted to do was discuss the increasingly personal ordeal. Calla’s curiosity robbed her of sleep, and she lay several hours, marking the time until she had to disembark.

  In the quiet of the Nomad, she found herself thinking more about their flight through the aether than the mystery of the core. Doyle loathed her, she was certain. Was it because of Morse? No one had dared mention that name to her in some time, but Calla had always been confused that the capture of a traitor had ignited so many hard feelings in otherwise loyal hybrids.

  Before the invasion, Morse had been the first rogue Calla had hunted. Indeed, he was the first rogue ever. Calla had tracked him down, hauling him before the Council when she was desperate for recognition. The first of his kind, Morse had been dealt with very harshly. His dying screams echoed through the Factory and were transmitted down to Earth through the adarria so all hybrids could learn from his error.

  From then until now, Calla’s reputation preceded her, a fact she had taken great pride in, but now it was troubling. Her new task to hunt the rogues seemed straightforward, yet she would find getting close to them challenging. Each kill would require the element of surprise. That, and she would have to locate them, something she had found difficult in the past, hence their current situation. Maybe Doyle’s advice was correct—but how did a rogue think?

  When the Nomad dropped off Calla and Doyle at the burned military encampment, she didn't have answers, only questions. Questions she dared not voice to Doyle. They split up, Doyle heading straight for the mountaintop and the entrance to the bunker. Calla skirted the trees, wishing to be on her own as quickly as possible.

  Halfway to where she knew to be an old mineshaft, she stopped and turned. The warm sun beat down through the trees, but the woods were silent because of the Condarri presence. Calla fidgeted, toying with her idea. If she could follow Doyle without being seen, she could hunt anybody. And she wanted, no, needed to know what he reported. Calla made her decision, backtracking until she found a good place to ascend.

  Although she was almost noiseless, her movement through the trees could still be detected by a hybrid. Despite her impatience, she slowed down. At the entrance to the bunker, Doyle’s fresh bootprints were like a warning sign, and Calla paused. If she entered, she would be willfully disobeying an order. Already she had chased the idea beyond her mandate.

  Making her decision, Calla pulled off her boots and tossed them on top of the entrance into brush. Then she crept around and climbed onto the smooth rock near the entrance, clinging with desperate finger holds, inching her way back to the opening. Finally, she swung down inside, her bare feet landing on cold stone. She paused, listening.

  Satisfied the tunnel was clear, she eased down the metal stairs. The adarria in the tunnel remained quiet—still hibernating. Under different circumstances, she would have attempted to ask them their purpose.

  Calla hid her body at the doorway to the large room, knowing Doyle and the Sacred One would see her if she made a mistake. Again, she listened and heard nothing. Even if Doyle were communicating with his adarre, she should still hear him breathing. Someone would hear her breathing if she weren't careful, but she was convinced the large round chamber was empty. Was another chamber within?

  She peered around, searching the area of the room. Yes. Empty. She could not even detect the aether, which usually presented as a deeper black inside the purple and blue of regular darkness. Where is he? And where is the Condarri he is supposed to meet? Condarri did not have a scent hybrids could detect, so she had no way of knowing if one had been here or not. Calla’s agitation grew as she stepped out into the chamber.

  Far to the right, a large arch in the chamber opened into a corridor. Blackened torches lined the wall, distributed evenly all the way around. Strange, the Condarri did not use them. The humans must have been in here. Calla sniffed and could detect their distinct scent. Many humans had been here though not very recently.

  The arching corridor was wide but not long. Halfway down it, a man-made opening lined with concrete opened up opposite a rusted sign. Calla ignored it and found stairs heading down. Was Doyle down there? She peered down, looking into a narrow tunnel. It was too narrow at the bottom for a Condarri to use. Anyway, Calla saw the bottom was small and empty.

  Despite her curiosity about the stairs, Calla could not smell Doyle here. In fact, she hadn't scented him at all in the bunker. She cursed silently at allowing her curiosity to get the better of her and hurried back to the chamber at the bottom of the stairs. Calla gazed at the adarria lining two other doorways. Had they gone in one of those? The symbols were too ancient for her to open herself, and waiting here to be discovered when they came out was unthinkable. Frustrated, Calla climbed the stairs again.

  At the top, the prints remained undisturbed. Calla didn't repeat her acrobatics to climb over the entrance to avoid leaving prints. She found her boots and took off. Doyle would know she had been there, but Calla no longer cared, thinking she would be long gone by the time he emerged.

  She couldn't help but feel uneasy. Had he really met with the Condarri? And why did they use a different chamber? Doyle could not have entered the other chamber on his own—he wouldn't have been able to read the adarria at the door. Then she thought about Doyle’s ability to communicate with the Factory adarria to move the ship. What else had he learned?

  Day 101

  THE SMALL GROUP HALTED BESIDE a trickling stream where Halston removed Lincoln’s hood to let him drink. Baker even untied his hands so he could wash his face and relieve himself. He didn’t dream of running—something told him they would catch him within seconds. Instead he cooperated, glad to have the use of his arms again, hoping to find a better chance later.

  The sun sank behind a mountain, and they sat in the long shadows of mature birch trees. Lincoln looked at Halston and Baker, both as fresh as they had been that morning, mixing some kind of powder into their water before drinking. Neither offered anything to Lincoln. His stomach growled. Halston must have heard it because he dug around in his bag for a half-eaten granola bar and tossed it to Lincoln.
He munched on the stale bar. It tasted like tree bark.

  “One thing I don’t get,” said Lincoln when he finished, “why’d you steal the map, Halston? You obviously didn’t need it.”

  Halston leaned back against a tree with his eyes on Baker. She smirked. They weren’t going to answer. But Lincoln was tired of the silence, and of being pushed around the forest. He wanted answers. “Hello?” he tried again.

  “Let’s just say I underestimated you, Surrey. With my knife in your side and no more map, I thought you might be less eager to run around in that mine.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “Apparently.” Halston shrugged. “Not too smart though, are you? Look where it got you.”

  Lincoln scoffed. Why didn’t Halston just shoot them in the mine when he had a chance? But he didn’t voice the question. No point in giving Halston any more ideas.

  Baker tied Lincoln’s hands in front of him and looped the cord around another tree. At least Lincoln could sleep lying down. He had just curled up as best he could when both captors suddenly stood, still as stone.

  Lincoln tensed, too. Birds twittered. The tops of the trees swayed in a light breeze. Wary and still, Halston and Baker acted like deer scenting danger. Halston took off, disappearing into the trees. Baker motioned for Lincoln to stay down, and she walked away from their camp to stand fifty yards away with her back turned to Lincoln.

  He looked around. Their packs lay a few feet away, and Lincoln reached for one. The rope prevented him from grabbing it. He cursed, wishing for a knife. He lifted his head a few inches to check on Baker who was now barely visible in the twilight.

  Maybe they were trying to trick him—let him sneak off and catch up with him later, like Baker had tricked the team into running off before the attack. Why though? Because they don’t really know where the others are. They want me to lead them to my friends. But Lincoln couldn’t figure out how to get free. And he had no idea where the team would be. He didn’t even know where he was. After five long minutes, Baker returned with Halston. They spoke in hushed tones.