Shedding the Demon

by Bill Denise

  Finally, the strike team arrived in system. Their ship was fast and well cloaked, they were not detected or challenged by the planetary traffic control. Ken knew that the tunnel must have been detected, but when the automated system did not detect a ship, it merely cataloged an anomaly for future reference. In most cases, it would never be thought of again.

  Ken smiled to himself as he imagined the strike team’s surprise when he hailed them. They probably assumed they would sneak up on the Abyss, proving their prowess and technology. Little did they know that the Abyss was outfitted with state-of-the-art military grade hardware that Ken had been meticulously improving as only he could. Ken told them to maintain their distance, just in case they were detected. He did not want possible observers to make a connection between them.

  The strike team received their orders from Ken, along with all the pertinent tactical information he had gleaned from the planetside systems. They wasted no time in deploying a dozen-man team to the area where Damon disappeared. It would take them a while to infiltrate successfully, since Ken wanted them to go in quietly.

  While listening to the radio chatter in the area, Ken had become convinced that the forces used to attack Damon did not actually acquire him. Apparently he made an unexplained disappearance, although the evidence was sketchy and Ken was afraid he might be interpreting it with wishful thinking. He wanted the strike team to track him down and report on who held him, if anyone, before attempting extraction. Ken wanted intel on the captors before they made any move whatsoever. He could only hope that the men were up to the task. He had found that all too often these teams were a little over-zealous and tended to shoot without thinking. He certainly paid enough to get a well-trained team.

  The next day, Camden Castenada, the BioSurgeon, arrived with his entourage. Ken had expected the small crowd of support staff, and had refitted a small cargo vessel for the occasion. In the last three days, an army of well-paid contractors had gutted the interior of the vessel, leaving only life-support and propulsion intact. Everything else was stripped out. They then rebuilt the interior to Ken’s design. It was now a self-contained, space-faring hospital complete with living quarters and mess facility for the support staff. Some of the welds were still warm when Camden and company toured the facility.

  The prima donna surgeon clucked and criticized his way through the tour, but Ken knew him well enough to see that he was impressed with the facility. Ken was not bothered by his drama, he found the man amusing, and enjoyed spending some time with him. Just as long as it wasn’t too much time. Camden settled in quickly, and began coordination of the delivery and installation of the additional specialty tools he would need for his work. Ken realized this part of the project was in good hands, and returned to the Abyss to contact the strike team.

  **** ****

  Jeffrey Allen sat at his desk in quiet triumph.

  ‘NO COMMUNICATION’ flashed on his screen in bold red letters.

  He’d been monitoring the control channels of the Demon for days now, and he was satisfied that this was finally the end. If the Demon had survived the fight, he would have come back online by now. The lack of communication, coupled with reports from Jeffrey’s strike teams, gave him enough confidence to finally believe it was true.

  The Demon was dead.

  All of his plans had come through in the end, executed to near perfection. I couldn’t save the factories, he thought, but everything else was nearly flawless.

  It had taken weeks to infiltrate the Pryke network. Countless hours spent intercepting communication, making changes in real time, and resending without being detected in order to create the disruption needed to reveal the people involved.

  Once he found a way into the network, it was easy enough to disrupt the process long enough to get the men and equipment on site to set the trap.

  The needle-flak guns, recently developed by Dr. Baksa’s team, were the icing on the cake. According to reports, they worked perfectly, and were instrumental in bringing down the Demon.

  Even losing the factory was acceptable collateral damage in light of the final result.

  Jeffrey couldn’t stop smiling as went to find Renard and report on his success.

  **** ****

  Leland returned from his foray into the Ruins and no one from the church asked any questions. Most of them knew something about his sketchy past in an elite military force, but they also knew he didn’t like to talk about it.

  He toured their temporary accommodations, and commended the leadership team on their quick work. He also took some time to visit the people who had been injured. He wiped his eyes often as he made the rounds, although he kept his voice firm and optimistic.

  Finally, they inspected the small storage building where Damon was hidden. He still had no idea what to do for the young man.

  “Hopefully my friends will be able to help—” Leland stopped in mid-sentence when a red telltale popped up on his HUD. He didn’t even have a chance to speak before the door of the storage building blew open behind him. He spun around and dropped into a crouch while roughly knocking his friends to the ground around him to give them some protection from flying wood chips.

  His HUD identified three targets, but failed to provide a lock on any of them due to their e-warfare defenses. This fact alone told Leland all he needed to know, and he raised his hands in surrender. As much as he wanted to protect Damon, he realized it was futile and would only put more of his innocent friends in danger.

  The attackers wore medium-weight state-of-the-art combat armor that shimmered and flowed as they moved, the absorptive surfaces playing tricks on his eyes and implants. Leland wondered if his weapons would have been any good, even when they were still functional.

  “Stay calm,” he said to the group, his hands held up in plain sight. “There are no threats here. I’m completely de-powered.”

  One of the soldiers looked Leland up and down, his head needlessly following the trace of his scanners. It was the first sign of rookie, and Leland noted to be especially careful around this one.

  “He’s cold,” the rookie reported, again showing his lack of experience by turning his head toward his commander while speaking.

  Many years of training took over, and Leland couldn’t help himself. “Son,” he said gently, “you just told me who’s in charge here, and if I had any weapons, I’d now know who to hit first.”

  The rookie flinched and tightened his grip on the autorifle pointed at Leland’s face. Everyone froze.

  Leland said a quick prayer of thanks that none of his people moved or spoke. The moment dragged on in tense silence.

  “Stand down, Fenton,” the commander said, lowering his own weapon, “and wait outside.”

  The rookie hesitated, then lowered his weapon and turned to leave. His shoulders drooped noticeably as he passed through the ruined doorway.

  The commander strode forward holding his autorifle casually, pointed down and away. His voice sounded slightly mechanical through his helmet. “I see you understand the situation at hand,” he drawled.

  “I do, but I don’t know why you’re here,” Leland replied.

  “Ah, but I bet you do, sir. There’s a certain, ah, package we’re here to collect. We know ya’ll got it, and we need to take him away now in order to save him.”

  “Him? Or it? What kind of package are you looking for?” Leland asked, doing his best to sound confused.

  The commander’s shoulders rose and fell slowly as if he were sighing. The armor and helmet gave the man no discernible features that Leland could read, and he had good control over his body language.

  Leland began to sweat, and realized his rising skin temperature would show up on the commander’s scanners.

  He tried to determine if he could send off a call for help, and if his allies could respond quickly enough to protect the innocent people in the room.

  He was in the midst of creating the message when the commander’s helmet split open and retracted, revealing
a surprisingly young face with black short-cropped hair and intense brown eyes.

  “I got someone who wants to talk with you,” he said as he pulled a small screen from a slot in his armor. He handed it over to Leland, and it immediately came to life.

  “Mr. McKrae,” the voice said, accompanied by a picture of a lean, angular man. “My name is Ken Westron and I’m a colleague of Damon, called The Demon, the man you rescued from the factory. We need to talk.”

  It took nearly thirty minutes of conversation for Ken to convince Leland that they were indeed friends of Damon, and his only real hope for survival.

  Now Leland reclined in a comfortable chair inside the shuttle, and listened to the mission debrief going on the adjoining room. He smiled knowingly as the commander explained to the rookies the importance of every mistake and misstep.

  “Had it been a violent encounter,” the commander said to them, “some of you would be dead.”

  Leland’s smile faded as he realized the truth in those words.

  Yet here I am again, he chided himself gently. Am I truly worried about this mysterious young man? His gaze traveled to the inert form of Damon on the gurney. Or do I just miss the action? He sighed deeply. Do I really think I can rejoin now, he said to himself, at my age? I doubt they have any munitions that will even fit my systems. He closed his eyes in silent prayer.

  This was one of those times when he had no actual words to pray, but cycled through his various conflicting emotions and laid them out before God. He knew he didn’t need to form words, his feelings would be telling enough. When he reopened his eyes he felt better, although apprehension lingered.

  As the shuttle slowly turned in preparation for docking, he was able to see their destination. He was used to utilitarian warships bristling with weapons, antennae, and other protuberances. They usually gave the impression of being stuck together randomly in whatever shape the various parts happened to form.

  This ship was altogether different. It was all smooth and flowing lines from front to back. Sensor pods, thrusters, control surfaces, viewports, and engine nacelles all blended into a burnished gold-colored skin. This was no warship. It was a luxury yacht unlike anything he’d ever seen. Leland whistled softly in admiration.

  “She’s somthin’ to see, hey?”

  Leland started slightly, since he had not heard the commander come up behind him. Covering his surprise, he kept his gaze fixed outside. After a moment he replied, “Who are these people?”

  “Honestly?” The commander chuckled as he spoke, “I 'ave no idea.”

  In the end, they flew past the beautiful ship, much to Leland’s disappointment, and they docked with a non-descript freighter. On their approach, Leland realized there was a small fleet clustered around the yacht, adding to his curiosity.

  Once inside the freighter, Leland laughed as he was surprised yet again. This ship might have been a freighter on the outside, but inside it was a state-of-the-art hospital.

  The hospital staff (Leland didn’t know what else to call them) rushed Damon off on the gurney through the doors and into the heart of the facility. Leland found himself standing in the vestibule with the commander.

  “You look tired, Pop,” the commander said after a few moments of quiet.

  Leland stretched and smiled, “I’m just old, son. Who runs this place?”

  “The hospital? It’s that doctor you just saw—the tall guy.”

  “No, I mean . . .” Leland waved his arms around, trying to indicate everything he’d seen. “All of this. The hospital, the yacht, the fleet, your strike team. Who runs all of this?”

  The commander shook his head, “We’re hired guns. We don’t talk 'bout our employer. Hell, they don’t even tell us who they are.”

  “But surely Damon must be a tool of the Council. Who else could afford to make a skin of D-SAP? But this,” he gestured broadly again, “and you—this can’t be government, it just doesn’t add up.”

  The commander laughed easily, a sound that Leland found comforting. “No sir. I know very little about our employer, but what I do know is that he ain’t no way attached to the Council!”

  The commander’s eyes closed slightly and he accessed his communication implants. After a moment, his focus returned to Leland and he said, “That was the boss, he’s comin' from the Abyss.”

  “The Abyss? You mean the yacht?” Leland shook his head as he followed the commander back to the shuttle. “Ugly name for a beautiful ship.”

  Leland was not impressed with Ken Westron physically, but he could tell immediately that the man was in charge from the moment he stepped out of the airlock. He asked pertinent questions of the commander regarding the mission, the “opposition” (Leland’s group), and the status of Damon. He talked a lot, but he also listened carefully and got himself up to speed quickly. Based upon this first impression, Leland couldn’t help but like the man.

  Turning to Leland, Ken thrust out his hand to shake. “Mr. McKrae? It’s nice to meet you.” He paused, his countenance softening, “And thank you. For saving the Demon.”

  Leland shook his hand firmly, “My pleasure, but I’d rather call him Damon. That poor kid is no demon, really.”

  Ken held his hand a moment longer, looking as if he might say something, but decided against it. He walked toward the doors to the hospital, and spoke over his shoulder. “Mr. McKrae . . .”

  “Leland. Or Lee, please.”

  “Sure.” Ken stopped and faced him. “Leland, would you like to come along and see how the . . . Damon is doing?”

  “Not sure you could keep me away.”

  Ken smiled as he led the way into the ship.

  Once they changed into sterile clothes they entered the main operating room. Equipment of every shape and size gleamed along the walls and ceiling. Screens, mounted on various stands, appeared to float around the doctor and his team. Leland looked around, his mouth open as he gaped in awe.

  Something, however, seemed out of place. Finally, he realized what it was—everything was quiet. He had expected beeping monitors, buzzing equipment, and other various alert signals to be clamoring for attention. But the room was eerily quiet. The doctor and his small team gathered in a group to the side of Damon, who was strapped to an articulated operating table.

  The group stopped talking as Ken approached. Camden Castenada answered the un-asked question. “We’ve got nothing. No readings, no monitors, no signals of any kind coming from him.” His speech began to speed up as he continued. “I can’t break through that Kyndra-cursed armor with anything I’ve got—lasers, plasma, nano-blades—nothing! And every other damn thing I could think of up to and including a machete!” He paused and ran a hand over his eyes. “I don’t even know if he’s alive in there.”

  Leland found it difficult to swallow after hearing the pronouncement.

  No one moved or spoke for a moment, all eyes turned to Ken.

  When he spoke, he started softly and everyone leaned toward him to hear. “I’ve brought in every piece and type of modern biosurgery equipment known to man.” His voice rose in volume. “I’ve even brought in some industrial-grade cutting equipment and modified for you.” Now he was even louder and few of the aides stepped back. “And that’s the best you can give me? You’ve only been at it for 15 minutes and you’re quitting? Why in Kyndra’s sweet embrace did I bring you here at all?”

  “I don’t know what else—”

  “TRY SOMETHING!” Ken yelled and everyone stepped back again, except for Leland and the doctor.

  Camden stared at Ken, his eyes burning. Leland saw slight tremors running up and down his body, as if he was quivering with the effort to restrain himself. Leland expected him to storm out of the room. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

  Ken spoke first, quiet once again while holding the doctor’s angry stare. “Cam,” he said. “I brought you here because you can do things no one else could even dream of. It’s not only your skill as a surgeon, but also your creativity and willingne
ss to try unorthodox measures that I value so highly. We have no idea what’s going on inside that armor, but I think he’s alive. If anyone can get to him and save him, it’s you.”

  Camden brought himself under control, somewhat mollified by Ken’s words. “I’ll keep working, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

  The group left the room and Camden returned to his examination of the Demon. Leland stood outside the observation window, watching him work. The doctor slowly circled the inert form on the table, consulting each screen as he passed by it. At times he stopped moving and stared intently at the patient, his face betraying his churning thoughts.

  Leland’s thoughts began to wander. Why do I care so much about this kid? I don’t even know him. Who’s controlling him, and who took him down? His weapons and armor are unbelievable, only the Council could manage that, and he’s certainly no more than a tool to them. I guess I hate to see people used and discarded this way.

  Not being able to offer any other help, Leland prayed. He contacted his congregation back on the ground and asked them to initiate a prayer chain for this mysterious stranger. He felt drawn to Damon and his plight, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

  Finally, after nearly thirty continuous hours, Camden sat down with Ken and Leland to discuss the next steps. The surgeon’s eyes were red and showed dark rings of exhaustion. Leland was tired, although he had been able to catch a few hours of sleep here and there. The prognosis was not good, since they could not find a way past the armor and its control systems.

  Into the uncomfortable silence following the doctor’s summary, Ken spoke, “Well, I didn’t want to bring in more people from the outside, but we have one more specialist we could contact for help. I spent the last day tracking her down because, although Damon had talked to her in the past, he never actually trusted me with her contact ID. But I was able to find it in his personal files. I didn’t think he’d mind under the current circumstances.”