“With Everly, you’re likely to get more than you bargained for,” Wyck mutters, giving me a sly grin. His hazel eyes glint, light against his tanned skin. His curly brown hair is flattened by sweat at the crown, and he works his fingers through it.
“Wyck’s got just as much insider knowledge as I have,” I point out.
“Wyck doesn’t have lab access. You do.”
Idris speaks coolly and I know right away what he wants me to do. “They might have deleted me,” I say. “That’s the protocol.”
“From what I’ve learned about Dr. Ronan, he’s not big on administrative protocols.”
“What you’ve ‘learned?’ Do you have a spy in the Kube?”
Wyck sits up straight at that, and I know he is trying, like I am, to work out who it could be. Proctor or AC?
Idris ignores the question. “The Defiance needs a dome, a food source.” He holds up the half-eaten turnip. “We can’t live or fight on the occasional vegetable or measure of flour. A dome has been my goal since I took command.”
Almost a year ago, after the massacre at the brothel.
“Here’s how it’ll work. There’s lots of moving parts, but with discipline, training, and a little luck, we can pull it off.”
He spends an hour taking us through the plan, how one force will hijack the train which delivers supplies twice weekly to the Kube, while I infiltrate via the lab and ensure the gates are open so the train can pull up at the platform. With any luck, Idris’s troops will take control of the main Kube building and dome without firing a shot.
“And if we’re not lucky?” Wyck asks.
“It’ll be harder,” Idris says with a shrug. Taking a last bite of turnip, he flicks the rest overboard. It hits the water with a plop. He returns the knife to the sheath at his waist. “But as long as we get the train inside the compound, the odds are on our side. The IPF will be at a disadvantage since they won’t be willing to destroy the dome to take us down.”
“It might work,” Wyck admits. “There aren’t any soldiers inside the Kube or dome, except the entry guard. They’re all on patrol or at the barracks, which is inside the compound fence, but not connected to the Kube.” He runs his finger across the map Idris has spread on the table in the pilot house. The fence is a circle bisected by the train track which runs through the bottom fifth of it. His forefinger circles the dome, and then traces the short connector tunnel to the main Kube building, before tapping the IPF barracks, and then a smaller square behind them. “The armory,” he says. “I did some work in there.”
Wyck is incredibly talented with weapons, tools, gadgets . . . anything with springs or gears or moving parts. He frequently worked on vehicles and weapons for the IPF contingent when we were ACs.
“That’s why it’s your job to capture the armory,” Idris said with a triumphant smile.
I remember studying him then, and wondering how he knew so much about Kube 9. It was a question that occurred again and again during the month we trained for the mission, put together my cover story, planned my disguise, and worked out my routes and timing. I knew before Idris told me that I’d have to kill the sentry.
Now, the young soldier chokes to death outside the booth as I scan the buttons and controls on a panel. Idris’s intelligence hadn’t been good enough to tell us what the inside of the sentry booth looked like, or how, exactly, to disarm the gates and admit the train. I try to make sense of the labels marking each switch and button, fighting down the panic rising in me. DA, OGA, OGS, LD, and more. I have no idea what any of the letters mean. A video screen shows the train’s approach. It is less than fifty yards from the outer gate. I only have seconds. If I hit the wrong button, it will summon the IPF. If I hit no button, the waiting train will signal that something is wrong. My hand hovers over the panel.
A man’s tinny voice sounds from a speaker. “Corporal, is there a problem with the codes? The 1302 train is approaching and the gate is still closed. Report.”
With the train’s engine only feet from the outer fence, I slam my palm down on the button labeled “OGA,” hoping it stands for something like Outer Gate Access or Open Gate A. If the A stands for “alarm,” we are well and truly screwed. Every muscle tightens as I tense for the shriek of a klaxon. Nothing. After ten seconds, the gates swing slowly inward and I release my breath in a long whoosh.
Chapter Two
The train noses past the gates, and draws up to the platform outside, rocking to a stop. For a heart-stopping moment, I wonder if Idris and his team failed to take the train, if I’m about to be discovered and captured by the train’s guards. Then the train doors snap open, and Idris bounds out, beamer held in firing position. Roughly fifty Defiers follow him, Rhedyn identifiable by the red hair streaming down her back, and Fiere by her economy of motion, her panther-like glide. I don’t try to identify the others; almost all are dressed in IPF-caliber intelli-textile jumpsuits, taken from a supply train another Defiance unit intercepted last month. I hurry past the dead sentry to the doors, activating the release.
“Good work,” Idris tells me, before motioning for his team to fan out. His face is taut with concentration, dark eyes narrowed and watchful. “Dome,” he tells Rhedyn, directing her to the left with a gesture. “Hold it at all costs.” She nods and trots down the hall, followed by two-thirds of the unit. “Floor by floor search,” Idris directs Fiere. “Secure everyone in the cafeteria.”
“On it,” she says. “Two of you on each floor,” she tells her team. A lock of short black hair flops onto her forehead, but she ignores it. “Use the stairs, not the elevator, and search every room, under every effing bed, in every cupboard, drawer or closet big enough to hold a six-year-old. We don’t want any would-be heroes sneaking up on our flank. God, I hate kids,” she mutters, moving out. “Give me real soldiers to shoot at any day.”
The sizzle of beamer blasts and a heavier weapon sound from outside the Kube and I know Wyck has initiated his attack on the armory. Idris tosses me the extra beamer strapped to his back and I catch it in both hands. “You’re with me,” he says.
Of one accord, we move toward the cafeteria where a babble of voices indicates the ACs and staff have figured out something’s wrong. Four other Defiers go with us, weapons held ready at waist height. Five or six ACs, distinctive in sky blue, boil into the hall, accompanied by two proctors. At the sight of armed invaders they stop, exchanging frightened and confused glances.
“Hands where I can see them,” Idris orders. “We don’t want to hurt any of you.”
Looking doubtful, all but one of the group raises their hands above their heads.
“You, too,” Idris gestures with his beamer at the proctor who has not complied.
The man takes a small step forward and I give him mental props for courage. He’s short, maybe five-foot-four, and totally bald. Ginger-colored eyebrows testify to the color his hair used to be, and poke out with wiry aggression over gold eyes. “What is the meaning of this? I am Supervising Proctor Dillingham. No one advised me of any drills today.” His voice is high-pitched and querulous, rather than commanding, and I can’t help but compare him to the tall, imperturbable Proctor Fonner—now Minister Fonner—who was Supervising Proctor during my time here.
Idris smiles coldly. “This is no drill. The Defiance is now in charge of Kube 9. So you can supervise yourself right back into the cafeteria and stay there until I say otherwise.”
Two of the Defiers behind us step forward, and Supervising Proctor Dillingham astutely reads menace into their movements. He scuttles backwards, gesturing for the others to accompany him. Before they can step into the cafeteria, a young AC, no more than four or five, comes running out, skidding to a halt when she spots us. Idris has instinctively raised his beamer, and the weapon is pointing down at her.
Her eyes get big and her lower lip trembles. Before she can burst into tears or turn tail and run, an older AC bursts through the door, saying sternly, “Ellenika, I told you—”
I gasp and
almost drop my weapon. The loam-brown skin, curly black hair, and rounded figure are familiar. But there’s no way she can be here. “Halla,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
Idris shoots me an annoyed glance as Halla Westin, my former best friend, looks up, puzzled but not outwardly intimidated by the sight of six armed people aiming weapons at her. Her eyes skim Idris and the others, stopping on me. Confusion gives way to wonder. “Everly?”
I’d forgotten for a moment that I don’t look like me. She has recognized my voice.
Idris shakes his head. “You can do reunions later. We’re going to be here a long time. Into the cafeteria now! All of you.”
The little girl, Ellenika, scuttles to Halla and takes her hand. Her grip is so tight that Halla’s flesh above and below the little fingers blanches pale tan. Halla hasn’t taken her eyes off me. In them, I read sorrow, anger, and, maybe, even a little gladness. Or maybe I’m just projecting.
“Ev—” she starts.
An explosion shakes the walls and drops me to my knees. It’s close. Too close. Inside the Kube. Booted feet pound down the corridor, coming toward us. Idris, one hand braced on the wall, bites out a sharp command into his communicator, summoning Fiere and her team. The others turn to face the first of the IPFers and let loose beamer blasts that send two soldiers reeling back and ricochet wildly off the walls.
Halla hoists a crying Ellenika with one arm, and hooks the other over the shoulders of another AC, herding them all into the cafeteria. I expect her to remain with them, but she closes the door, shouts for them to lock it, and returns to me. Her face wears a look of determination that is foreign to me.
“How the hell did they get in here so fast?” Idris asks of no one in particular.
“They connected the IPF barracks to the Kube proper three months ago,” Halla says.
“Damn.” Idris shouts again for Fiere, and spins to drop another soldier.
Halla stands in front of me, shouting to be heard over the din of beamer blasts and another, smaller explosion. “Give me a weapon.”
I don’t even hesitate. Yes, Halla betrayed Bulrush and got several of our friends killed, and, yes, she let the government fake her death so she could marry her IPF soldier, Loudon, and raise their baby. I have no idea how she ended up here when I last saw her in Atlanta. Despite that, despite anything logic would tell me, I know instinctively that she wants to fight with us, for us, and I slap my beamer into her upturned palms. With a nod of acknowledgement, she grasps it and uses it to rake another wave of IPF soldiers surging around the corner.
I grab up an IPF weapon that has skittered almost to my feet, dropped by a soldier trying to drag himself out of the line of fire. His comrades’ gloved hands reach around the corner and grab his uniform. Before they can pull him to safety, Idris takes careful aim and blasts him. His body bucks, and drops, still. The smell of charred fabric and skin darkens the air and sickens me. Pulverized debris and smoke drift from the explosions and suddenly it’s harder to see, to tell friend from foe.
“This way,” I yell to Idris. We need higher ground, a defensible position. I know the Kube’s layout like the back of my hand; he knows it only by map. After the briefest of hesitations, he motions for the Defiers to follow me. I lead them up the broad sweep of stairs leading to the landing that overlooks the atrium. The Kube occupies a pre-Between building that was an office complex, and the second floor offices on one side open onto a hallway that looks down into the atrium. I make it to the top stair, quads burning, and use the vantage point to shoot a soldier who has unwisely outpaced the rest of his unit. I wing him, and he spins, a line of red striping his upper arm. Damn. I was aiming for his torso.
Idris and the others join me and we spread out along the railing, blasting the soldiers as they appear. The weapon’s jolts vibrate up my arms to my shoulders, and I steady my aim by leaning my forearms on the rail. Even so, I miss too often. I’ve always been better at hand-to-hand than firing weapons. Just as my beamer loses its charge, Fiere and her force disgorge from a stairwell broadside to the IPF attackers and engage them. The noise is ferocious and my eyes sting from the mist of particulates floating through the air. I blink twice to clear them, and when I look again, two or three more IPF soldiers are down, and a half-dozen have dropped their weapons and raised their hands. I think I hear Wyck’s voice, and then he and three of his squad are striding into the atrium, herding a gaggle of IPF prisoners. Wyck’s grinning broadly. He looks around and spots Idris.
“Armory’s secure,” Wyck says.
His upturned face is smudged and sweaty as he scans those of us along the railing above. I can tell when his gaze hits Halla, because his eyes widen. His face freezes, and then he grins bigger than ever.
“Halla!” Joy rings in his voice and he bounds up the stairs, leaping two or three at a time.
Halla, an answering smile splitting her face, drops her weapon and runs toward him. The old jealousy prickles at me; their bond is as strong as ever. I banish the unworthy feeling. Halla’s only a step away when Wyck reaches the landing, arms wide for a hug. Her gaze moves past him and something in her face alerts me. The stairwell door behind Wyck is inching open. The muzzle of a beamer appears.
Before I can take action, Halla flings herself in front of Wyck, yelling, “Get down!”
The beamer crackles, the energy stream blinding, and everything seems to happen in slow motion, soundlessly. Wyck topples sideways, pushed by Halla, his mouth forming the word “No!” His hands grab at the banister. Someone—Idris?—fires through the stairwell door and the beamer bounces to the ground, followed by an IPFer whose hand and arm extend lifelessly on the carpeted floor; the rest of him is still hidden by the door. Halla’s momentum carries her to the ground. She lands hard.
I expect her to pop back up, or at least push to her knees, but she doesn’t. Only when I see the carpet around her turning red, the fibers wicking the blood in an uneven circle, do I realize she’s hit. Sound returns. My feet thud against the carpet as I run to Halla. I’m the first to reach her, but Fiere is right behind me. Together, we gently turn Halla so she is face up. Blood oozes from a spot low on her abdomen. Fiere yells for medical supplies, and one of the Defiers unstraps his backpack and roots through it. This all happens in my peripheral vision, though. I’m focused on Halla. Fiere slides a backpack under Halla’s feet to elevate them. Wyck is up now, unhurt, crouching beside our friend.
“Damn it, Halla,” he says, tearing at his brown curls with both hands. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Her eyelids flutter open.
“I’ve got to put pressure on this,” I tell her. “It’s going to hurt.” Folding a towel someone hands me, I place it against the hole in her abdomen. After a brief hesitation, I push down hard.
Halla gives a little shriek and bites down on her lower lip. Wyck cradles her head in his lap. The black corkscrews of her hair spiral across his thighs, springy and full of life. Halla’s skin seems to be paling under my gaze, her lips getting a blue tinge.
“We need Alexander,” Fiere says.
Alexander’s not here. He’s with the reserve force outside Jacksonville, waiting for word that the Kube is secure before moving in. No way can he be fetched in time.
“Find the nursing proctor,” I say urgently.
Idris snaps an order and booted feet thunder away.
Fiere hands me a cloth and I look down to see that the one I have pressed to Halla’s abdomen is soaked through with blood. Folding my lips in, I replace it with the new one, and Halla groans. Pressing down with one hand, I fumble for Halla’s hand with the other. Her fingers are cold, but they wrap around mine. “Fight, Halla,” I say. “Your baby needs you.”
“Cold,” she murmurs. “Thirsty.”
Wyck pulls a water tube from his webbed belt and holds it to her lips. Tears stream down his face. I’ve never seen Wyck cry and I look away. Halla takes a sip, but most of the water dribbles down her chin. Her eyes fix on mine. She has trouble focusin
g, I can tell. Blood trickles from her mouth. A bad sign.
“. . . though I walk . . . shadow of death . . . Ev . . . sorry. So sorry. I never meant . . . no evil . . .”
“Ssh,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.” I’m not sure what she’s sorry for—there are so many things we can both be sorry for—but it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
Her fingers tighten painfully around my hand, and I’m encouraged. She’s not failing. She’s going to be all right. Then, she speaks. Her breaths are labored and each word comes at a price, traveling on thin exhales. “Ev, promise me. My baby . . . take care . . . Jax, you . . . best friend . . . promise.”
Her fingers relax their grip and her hand slips out of mine.
“Halla! I promise, I promise, I promise,” I say frantically, like the words are a charm, a healing incantation. I lean in, closer to her face. Her breaths, too infrequent, puff into my face. Her eyelids flutter. “No, Halla, I swear. I’ll take care of your baby. I’ll help you take care of him. I promise.”
I’m still saying those words, “I promise, I promise,” when Wyck gently closes her eyelids.
Chapter Three
The nursing proctor arrives then, pristine in her white jumpsuit, a bag in her hand, concern on her face. She kneels beside Halla, checks her pulse and her breathing, lifts the blood-drenched pad, and looks up. “I’m sorry.” She sounds like she means it.
A sob rips its way out of me, starting in my belly, rasping my throat, and exploding with a burst of sound that makes people step back. Fiere clamps an arm around my shoulders, glares at everyone, and helps me stand. She’s talking to me, but I don’t hear a word. Idris is quietly issuing orders, and his lieutenants move to carry them out. Wyck is still sitting with Halla’s head in his lap, stroking her hair back from her forehead. His face is carved from stone.
I pull away from Fiere and go to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Wyck—”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t act like he’s heard me.
Regeneration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 3) Page 2
