by James Walker
That should do it for her assigned items. Janice headed for the clothing department and approached from the men's section, making her way through rows of shirts and pants. She rounded the corner to the women's section when her flashlight illuminated a gargantuan chest. She stifled a scream and stumbled back, jerking her flashlight up to see the bronzed, jeering face of the one-eyed man.
“Get that thing out of my face,” he growled.
“S—sorry.” Janice lowered her flashlight.
“Cripes,” the one-eyed man snorted. “These other blokes have got their heads in the game. Probably ex-military or something. But you'd be screwed without the rest of us. I can't figure out why you'd even be in that pit to begin with. I'd guess prostitute, but you seem too prissy for that and besides, they only lock up violent criminals and subversives in that prison.”
Janice bristled. “I'm not a prostitute,” she snarled.
“Don't get your panties in a wad.” The one-eyed man gave Janice a scrutinizing stare. “Weird, though. I feel like I seen you somewhere before, but fillies like you don't usually hang out with the kind of company I keep.”
Janice said nothing. The very presence of this man, who by his own admission was probably a violent criminal, was intimidating enough to put her into fight or flight mode. She wished he would go away.
“I think I got it.” The one-eyed man snapped his fingers. “One of the wipes in my old gang used to have a poster of you on his wall. You're some kind of model or something. Jane... no, Janet...”
“Janice Runner.”
“That's it,” he exclaimed, grinning in satisfaction.
“And what's your name, then?” Janice asked.
“They call me Hector,” he said. “Hector One-Eye.”
“I guess I'll just call you Hector, then.”
“You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart,” Hector said. “And for blood's sake, wipe that scared kitten look off your face. I don't mind having a little eye candy around, but I've got more important things to do than fool around with a useless priss.”
With that, Hector brushed past Janice and headed deeper into the store, leaving her alone again. She watched him go with relief, then headed for the women's clothes and grabbed a jacket, shirt, skirt, some underwear, and a comfortable pair of shoes. She headed for the dressing room to change out of her disheveled prison clothes, pausing to examine the wound the barbed wire had inflicted on her leg.
The cut was long but not deep, tinged with dirt and still bleeding slightly. It was painful to the touch and obviously an infection just waiting to happen. She cleaned the cut as best she could with a tissue, then poured some disinfectant over the wound, gritting her teeth from the stinging pain. She concluded the treatment by wrapping a bandage tightly around the injury, then finished changing into her new clothes.
Her tasks completed, she headed for the meeting spot near the back of the store. She found the others all waiting for her, their prison garb discarded in favor of thick shirts, jackets, cargo pants, and boots. She could feel all four pairs of eyes on her as she approached.
“You're late, tulip,” came Hector's dulcet tones. “Try not to drag your feet so much.”
“What is that you're wearing?” Tinubu demanded.
“Um.” Janice looked down at herself, then back up at Tinubu in confusion. “Clothes?”
Tinubu sighed. “Well, let's have a look at what you've got.”
He took Janice's basket and looked through the contents. “Ditch the shampoo and deodorant. We've got bigger concerns than having glossy hair and armpits that smell morning dew fresh. We'll want to travel as light as possible.” He tossed the deodorant and shampoo bottles onto the floor.
“Sorry,” Janice said sheepishly.
“The rest of this looks good. Nice job. We'll divvy this up among the backpacks.” Tinubu set the basket down. “But go get changed again. Find something more practical to wear.”
“I thought this was practical,” Janice objected. “These are just normal street clothes.”
“Your legs will get awful cold with that skirt,” Tinubu said. “And that thin fabric will get torn to shreds by the first branch it meets. Go find a heavy shirt, pants, some hiking boots, and a real jacket, not that fashion brand crap. Get it from the men's department if you have to. Try to be quick about it.”
Burning with embarrassment, Janice ran back to the clothing department and followed Tinubu's instructions. For most of the items, she was able to find adequate replacements from the women's section, but she had to get the pants from the men's. Even their smallest sizes were too large for her, so she had to grab a belt to keep them from sliding off her thin waist.
Feeling awkward in such heavy clothing, she ran back to rejoin the others and found them in the final stages of stuffing their stolen backpacks full of supplies. Within a couple of minutes, they finished packing everything and distributed the packs. Janice found hers a bit heavy, but not unbearably so once she buckled the abdominal strap around her stomach.
“Light enough for you?” Cena asked.
“Yeah, I think I can manage,” she replied.
“Good, 'cause we made yours lighter than everyone else's,” Cena said. “Distributed some of your supplies among the other packs.”
“Especially mine,” Hector said in annoyance. “I knew this chick was gonna be a pain in the ass.”
“Hey,” Cena snapped. “Cut her some slack. She's an entertainer, for Light's sake. Ripped out of her world and thrown to the lions by the Concord on some bullshit charges. For somebody with no training and a privileged lifestyle, she's doing all right.”
“Whatever,” Hector shrugged. “Bleeding heart.”
Cena stormed up to Hector, stood on her toes, and jammed her finger in his chest. “Listen, Cyclops.”
“The name's Hector.”
“I don't care if your name is Grandee McLorderson. Now that we're out of prison, there's no need for you to keep tagging along with us. In fact, I think it might be better if you didn't. We don't know what you were in there for. For all we know, you might stab us in the back just for kicks.”
Several moments passed in tense silence. Then Hector sighed and scratched the side of his head.
“Seems like I need to clear something up here,” he said. “Look, no matter what you might think, I don't screw people over for no reason. Our best chance of getting out of this with all our parts still attached is by working together. So I'd rather cooperate with the lot of you, though I'm gonna keep bitching about the powderpuff here until she learns to pull her own weight. If we have any differences of opinion, I'd rather part ways peacefully than risk getting my shit ruined in a three-on-one scuffle. As for me, I think this group would benefit from having someone with my background in it.”
Cena cocked an eyebrow. “And just what is your background?”
“Former military turned criminal,” he said. “Much like yourselves, unless I miss my guess. But I get the feeling that I wade a lot deeper in society's criminal underside than you blokes. Since you were locked up in a Concord prison and you ain't tried to flag down the Union sweethearts torching this burg, I'd peg you as SLIC remnants.”
Surprise showed clearly on Cena's and Tinubu's faces, while Vic's expression grew more guarded.
“Bingo,” Hector chuckled. “I know a bunch of knight in shining armor types when I see them. Unlike you wannabe freedom fighters, I've got real military experience. I'm former Spacy.”
This elicited more surprised reactions from the others.
“Until I got captured by the worst kind of scum imaginable,” Hector went on, “and had to join a gang of ruthless drug runners just to survive. I know how to walk in a world that exists only in your worst nightmares. I can talk their language, and I know every dirty survival trick ever invented. You still want to kick me out of your group, with all I can bring to the table?”
“Former Spacy turned drug runner?” Cena replied. “Hell of a resume you've got there. Probably not
the kind of thing you want to go advertising to a bunch of SLIC agents if you want to earn our trust.”
“Look,” Vic broke in, “we don't have time to argue about this. Whether we can trust him or not, we'll be able to keep a better eye on him if we keep him close. I say let him come with us.”
“I'll second that,” Tinubu said. “Motion carried, discussion over. Now let's move it before somebody wins this battle and comes cracking down on looters.”
Cena looked unhappy with the decision, but she gave no argument as the group made their way out the back of the store and ran for the edge of town. Not far from the Spendlot, they found a slope that led up to a tangled black forest. At the top of the hill, they paused to turn back and survey the destruction.
Both the town and the prison were in flames. The flashing lights of weapons fire had subsided substantially, and the only sounds now were sporadic eruptions of gunfire. Then there was a loud crack, and a rocket shot up into the sky and detonated in a gleaming white flare.
“That's the surrender signal,” Cena exclaimed.
“But who's surrendering?” Tinubu wondered.
“The Concord,” Hector said. “No question.”
“Good,” Tinubu said. “Spacy will be less interested in pursuing escaped prisoners. Even so, let's put some space between ourselves and this town. We don't want to be anywhere near here once they start imposing martial law.”
They turned away from the vision of devastation and entered the forest. Janice had a brief moment of weakness where she considered turning back and giving herself up to the invading Spacy forces. Surely, with her record of helping to produce Union propaganda, they would be willing to provide her with shelter and protection.
But no: if they found out that she had spoken out in favor of the Concord after they took over, the fallout would be less than pleasant. Besides, now that she knew the tyrannical methods the Union used under the guise of order and security, she could never bring herself to cooperate with them again. Her trust in political authority to treat her fairly had been irrevocably shattered.
For better or worse, she was on her own now.
Fourth Escalation
The shapes... constellations
Captain Wyburn sat at the head of the table in his personal conference room, adjacent to his cabin. The arm that he had broken during the orbital battle was currently held in a sling, although thanks to generous doses of regeneration serum, it wouldn't be long until the bone was as good as new.
The holographic projection on the port side bulkhead depicted the curved surface of Chalice with its ocher halo. The moon was duplicated in miniature with a second projection that glowed over the table, showing the operational status of Chalice and its satellites. Most of the drop zones glowed with the green markers that signified successful capture. The Concord had mustered surprisingly heavy resistance at a few of the objectives, but some judicious orbital bombardments by the remnants of the reclamation fleet had taken care of that. Fielding armies in the open was nothing but an invitation for their destruction when the enemy held control of the skies.
But there were still a few objectives that glowed with the yellow light of uncertainty. Chalice's silence particles rendered long-range atmospheric communication impossible, forcing the ground troops to use land lines routed through the orbital elevator to contact the fleet. Irksome though it was, communication delays were inevitable under the circumstances. Wyburn counted himself lucky that they had succeeded in seizing Port Osgow and its attached elevator before the Concord could sabotage them.
Still, the landing forces had made sufficient progress that Wyburn was considering dispatching the Ikazuchi and its escorts to reclaim the Saris gas mines. Saris' atmosphere contained gases which enabled cleaner and more efficient energy reactions, and for the past century the Union's reactors had been designed on the assumption that this resource would be available. The Concord's embargo had forced Thera to fall back on older, less efficient reactor designs, which had kept the planet's energy economy functional, but it was not an optimal situation. Now that the rebels' main fleet had been shattered, Wyburn could go about the business of recapturing the mines without much fear of reprisal.
A knock at the door interrupted Wyburn's cogitation. Commander Belloc entered the conference room, carrying a digital clipboard in her left hand.
“Captain, I've brought the latest report,” she announced.
“Thank you, Belloc.” Wyburn gestured for her to begin. “Go ahead.”
Belloc activated her clipboard and glanced at the words glowing on its transparent surface. “First, a message from Command on Phoenix,” she said. “Given that you have become the de facto commander of all military operations within the Chalice sphere, you've been given a provisional promotion. Due to the present circumstances, the ceremony is to be deferred to a later date.”
She handed Wyburn a small box. He opened it and found the insignia of a rear admiral inside. A double promotion, straight past commodore. Unable to suppress a satisfied grin, he took out the stars and began affixing them to his sleeves. The task was made more difficult by his broken arm, but he managed.
Belloc snapped to attention and saluted. “Congratulations, Brevet Rear Admiral.”
“Don't get so excited,” Wyburn replied. “They probably aren't even going to give me the extra pay, just saddling me with more responsibilities. I'm sure it will be right back down to captain as soon as the Chalice sphere is declared secure. Still, I do like the sound of that. Rear Admiral Wyburn. It rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?”
Belloc relaxed and swept her finger across the clipboard, scrolling through its contents. “Next order of business. I have the latest security report from the surface.”
Wyburn leaned back and fiddled with the stars on his sleeves. “Go ahead.”
“The 323rd Brigade under Colonel Hoang has secured Artair County,” Belloc reported. “Report follows. The aerospace escort group ran into some of the thickest low-orbit resistance and suffered heavy losses, with twelve of twenty Slayers shot down, missile boat destroyed, and three of five augments killed in action. The dropships made it down with no losses. As with most of the drops, the surface defenders were caught off guard and routed with minimal casualties to our own forces.
“The remaining defenders rallied and took cover inside the buildings within Artair City. The contest for control of the city threatened to turn into a battle of attrition until the remaining augments from the escort group penetrated enemy lines, located their headquarters, and leveled it. Colonel Hoang's forces are now occupying the city and he awaits further orders.”
Wyburn tapped his finger on the table as he considered the report. “Who are these augments from the escort group?” he asked.
Belloc's fingers danced across the clipboard as she accessed the requested information. A second hologram appeared over the table, displaying two officers' photographs along with brief profiles.
“First is Lieutenant Omega, the final product of Chi Strain,” she said. “Their report claims that he represents the strain's perfected form. Given his performance report, I don't think they're exaggerating. These are the best training numbers I've ever seen.”
Wyburn studied the face shimmering in front of him. It was easy to forget how young these augments were. Omega's brown hair and officer's uniform were barely neat enough to be within regulations. But it was the eyes that really drew Wyburn's attention: wild and feral, like a barely restrained beast; yet simultaneously as still and deep as an ocean planet on which no wind ever blew.
Wyburn turned his attention to the portrait below Omega's. In contrast to Omega's indifferent bearing, she wore her uniform with grace, her voluminous black hair tied up to regulation length in an elegant ponytail. She exuded the dignity of ancient Eastern aristocracy. Wyburn found her placid expression inscrutable.
“What about the lass under him?” he asked.
Belloc frowned. “She's something of a special case. Unlike other products of the
augmentation program, she wasn't selected for candidacy from the lower classes. She volunteered. Normally entry into the program is by selection only, but apparently she bought her way in.”
This was so strange that Wyburn could only stare blankly in response. “Say what?”
“Her family became enormously wealthy by investing in colonial mercantile firms,” Belloc explained. “They also have a commanding stock in Voc Corporation's Red Sky arms manufacturing company, which has won the lion's share of Union military development contracts for the past several years. She used this influence to force the augmentation program to accept her.”
“She doesn't sound like a fighter so much as a glorified merchant's daughter,” Wyburn scoffed. “Still, based on her performance in this report, perhaps I'm mistaken. I can't help but wonder, though. What kind of screwball wants to become an augment so badly that they would buy their way into the program?”
Belloc checked the profile. “According to her psych eval, her primary motivation for joining Spacy is to exact revenge on the rebels responsible for her sister's death.”
“Is that so,” Wyburn mused. “Well, that's enough about that. Now, about those orders...”
“Colonel Hoang is on standby as we speak,” Belloc said. “I would recommend speaking with him immediately, before we lose contact. Concord saboteurs have been cutting comm lines all over the surface.”
“I suppose I'd better get to the bridge, then.”
