by Zen, Raeden
Hydra Hollow
300 meters deep
Verena looked upon the long and weary faces of the BP spread about the bazaar. They all sensed an inevitable end. She inhaled the earthen air mixed with smells of coffee, grilled sausage, and baked bread and cakes. Somewhere nearby, she heard children singing. Their voices commanded her attention and dissolved her waking fright: the thought that Nero would perish in Farino Prison.
Oh Nero …
She walked beyond a tented booth in search of the songs. She spotted the group, a unique and inspiring sight, for Verena rarely saw children in the commonwealth. A girl, in late childhood by Verena’s estimation, lunged toward her. She landed at Verena’s feet and scrabbled after a spiked cube that Verena had not seen. The child’s matted hair bounced as she scooped up her toy. “It’s mine!” she said, then spun and returned to her friends.
Verena smiled toward the children, then continued on to the meeting area and sat beside Jeremiah Selendia, leader of the Liberation Front. She contemplated her options. She couldn’t return to Beimeni, for Lady Isabelle would be monitoring her likely stops—Minister Charles’s citadel in Palaestra, her former gallery in Palaestra Hall, her former office in the Ventureño Facility. Where else had she to go?
How quickly it all came undone.
Not long ago, she’d returned from Vigna a hero with Brody and Nero. Now she sat at a table with strangers, terrorists she once reviled.
Green glowworms cast light into the cavern. The Leadership’s shadows danced over the limestone table and walls. Jeremiah rubbed a piece of parchment on the table. “I’ve called this meeting at our desperate hour,” he said.
He moved out of his seat, and the silence that descended over his council felt appropriate to Verena, for the hour was later than desperate. At any time, Lady Isabelle, General Norrod, or Lieutenant Arnao and a phalanx of Janzers might pour through their tunnels and take them all away, while Reassortment might seep from above, eat their nervous systems, and crystallize their blood. And without Aera, who’d procured resources for the BP from the RDD, they’d soon starve.
Jeremiah put his palms on the table, looking upon his council with those reddish-orange eyes of his that always made Verena uncomfortable. “We have but one choice.”
Verena sensed defeat in the Leadership’s faces, despair in their lethargic postures, much like the merchants and shoppers in the bazaar. Those who remained of Jeremiah Selendia’s elite couldn’t compare to Aera or Pirro or Nero or even Connor. From the snippets Verena knew of him, Connor seemed feisty, crafty, innovative, much like his father, but unlike his father, utterly unable to understand when he was in over his head. Why hadn’t he retreated from Faraway Hall? Why had Jeremiah pitted him against Antosha in the first place?
A girl emerged from behind a stone pillar and stared at Verena with lilac eyes. As soon as Verena returned her gaze, the girl disappeared.
Was that the same girl who spied on Nero and me before the doomed operation? Verena thought.
“Lady Verena,” Jeremiah said, “does something interest you more right now than our next operation?”
Verena turned from the pillars near the garden to Jeremiah. “I was just admiring your grower.”
Jeremiah glanced toward the herbs that lined the limestone, and so did the Leadership. There were plants and bioluminescence, but no grower. Chatter rose around the table, and Jeremiah called for decorum.
“What I know is that we’re all sitting here,” Verena said, “comfortable around this table, when men and women and children who’ve given this movement their souls are either dying or dead.” Around the table, heads turned toward her. “How could whatever operation you’re about to tell us about possibly matter at a time like this?” She threw her arms upward. “Will this operation bring them back? Will it reverse the chaos we’ve wrought on each other, the scientists who we’ve lost, the people from Blackeye Cavern scattering like rodents, will anything you say now fix all of that?”
“No, but what I have to say will be a start. You forget that my son is among those captured, along with Nero, still alive we hope, in Farino Prison under Lady Isabelle’s iron grip. And you forget that I, too, was in that grasp, not long ago, and look at me.” Jeremiah lifted his sleeve and displayed the T burned so deep by penetrative synisms that even his black-market reconstructive treatments couldn’t undo it. “I’ll forever carry the traitor’s mark.”
Verena nodded and folded her arms. “Carry on then.”
“Antosha’s been manipulating the Lorum’s and Marstone’s capabilities,” Jeremiah said, “enhancing his telepathic reach, and if we don’t act soon, he may be able to find us and attack us telepathically, wherever we are.”
Jeremiah brought up a rendition of Beimeni City on a Granville panel. The view zoomed out to a black-and-white map of the North American continent, including Beimeni, the thirty territories, and the spider web of transport and supply tunnels.
“We don’t have the Lorum, but we still have our network. Our field managers report to me that recruitment hit an all-time high in the last trimester after the recession deepened, and after penalties for underperformance and underconsumption increased.”
Now the safe houses—Beimenians allied clandestinely with the Liberation Front—were illuminated with white dots throughout the commonwealth.
“The final evacuees from Blackeye Cavern will join the rest of our forces scattered in the Great Commonwealth in what must be a simultaneous strike, one so overwhelming and pervasive that we can give our commandos a chance.”
“To what end?” Verena said.
“To carry out the assassination—”
“Of Chancellor Masimovian?”
“Of Supreme Scientist Antosha Zereoue.”
Verena thought on this. Antosha led the research into Reassortment, but did he act on orders from the chancellor or on his own? The answer could determine their survival. “What about the prisoners? What about Brody?”
“We’ll free them when we’ve taken the city.”
“They could be dead well before then, and regardless, your courier network will be overwhelmed before you set them in place.”
“We will neutralize Antosha first—”
“He’s not the present chancellor! And your theories on his advancement and on his desire to be so aren’t consistent with Chancellor Masimovian’s protection, with Lady Isabelle, General Norrod, Lieutenant Arnao, or the Janzers, none of whom would allow the whiff of a pulse blast to touch him—”
“Let us hope you are correct, my lady, because I believe that if Antosha moves in, and I suspect he will, the ongoing war with the Liberation Front will escalate—and it will be total.”
“You already face total war,” Verena said.
Jeremiah sighed and rubbed his temples.
“What’s your time frame?” she said.
“Chancellor Masimovian will announce a new expansion and economic plan at the Autumn Gala in Luxor this year,” Jeremiah said, “and this will present an ideal opportunity for us. The Janzers will focus their protection on Beimeni City and Luxor City. Their divisions are thinly spread as it is, and our people will be better positioned to strike.”
“A strike that Masimovian would anticipate,” Verena said.
“So he shall.” Jeremiah now peered to his leaders. “Get your commandos in order. Coordinate with your contacts in the territories. Assign the couriers. We move to take out all supply and electric lines in the Great Commonwealth and end Supreme Scientist Antosha Zereoue’s life.”
The chairs rustled and feet hustled. On the way out, Jeremiah pulled Verena aside. In her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of the girl grower hovering in the shadows near a limestone pillar.
“We’re not alone,” Verena said.
Jeremiah glanced to the child. “Go along now, Jocelyn, join your friends. You’ve spied on the grown-ups long enough.” He squeezed his forehead and lowered his voice. “Little Jocelyn is a natural, itching to get into the field
like her brothers, but far too young biologically, not even in adolescence yet.”
Verena agreed.
Jocelyn flew past them into the limestone tunnels.
“Do not take my harshness as a sign I don’t understand the challenge,” Jeremiah said. “I do. You’re now the most experienced strategist I have—”
“I’m your only strategist.”
“That’s true, and so I’ll lean on you more so than anyone in my senior Leadership.”
“I understand.” Verena leaned on her back foot and tilted her head. “Have you given second thought to the idea of securing Brody from the Lower Level? As sure as the Granville sun rises, the people would rally behind their captain at this darkest of times.”
Jeremiah exposed the hint of a smile.
“You’ve … already acted … haven’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not as foolish as your tone earlier suggested.”
ZPF Impulse Wave: Oriana Barão
Research & Development Department (RDD)
Palaestra, Underground Northeast
2,500 meters deep
“Aha, Miss Oriana, welcome to the RDD infirmary,” the medical bot labeled MARIA said.
“Where is he?” Oriana said.
“This way.”
Dr. Shrader lay across a levitating gurney, enclosed by needles, tubes, and wires, his face hidden by a cloth.
She stood before the Legend—the man who was frozen near absolute zero, who could be immune to Reassortment.
But was he, truly? Whatever he knew, she aimed to find out. Antosha had sent her here to gather intel for the mission.
Medical bots removed the wires, tubes, and the cloth that concealed his face. They adjusted the knobs and levers over several workstations. Dr. Shrader stirred. His heart rate accelerated and calmed. Silver wool concealed his pelvis. The rest of his skin was pale but not sickly, and his head was shaved. His eyes, crusted at the corners, shivered open.
This is historic, Oriana thought. I’m about to meet the man frozen in time; I’m about to meet the Legend.
He closed his eyes and writhed as if in agony. The holographic numbers displayed his heart rate: eighty accelerated to ninety beats, then one hundred, one hundred ten …
“What’s happening?” Oriana said.
Dr. Shrader’s face contorted with pain. Then his eyelids trembled, lifted and fell. He blinked again. He turned from the bots to Oriana. His blue eyes looked upon her suspiciously.
“Doctor,” she said. He squinted and moved his head side to side along the pillow. Oriana smiled. “Welcome back.”
He mumbled.
“What was that?” Oriana said.
“Where … am … I?”
“You’re—”
He closed his eyes, eased into the pillow, and fell asleep, snoring loudly. Oriana turned to Maria. “Was that normal?”
“Aha, who is to say what is normal in such an unprecedented situation?” The bot’s eye slit glowed, then dimmed. “He will awaken again, I’m sure, much as you do each day.”
“I haven’t been asleep for three hundred sixty-eight years, and I haven’t been held in suspended animation.”
“Aha, no, but for him, the world is new, his sight, his hearing, his touch, his memories. He is reborn, from a distant time, from when they froze him.”
“Who froze him?”
Oriana had learned from Ruiner that her father’s team had failed to reanimate the 335 scientists frozen near absolute zero, killing all of them except for Dr. Shrader. The failed Regenesis procedure had happened in 327 AR, after an apparent assassin had nearly killed Antosha. Eventually, her father had moved Shrader from the Cryo Room in the Ventureño Facility to a newly created Regenesis Chamber in the Tomahawk Facility. The supreme scientist Minta Pollopa hated her father for doing so. That was all Ruiner told her.
“The researchers, Before Reassortment—” Maria said.
“Where have you been?” Mintel said loudly. “We were supposed to begin hours ago.” He turned to Shrader. “Why isn’t he awake?”
“Aha, he opened his eyes for but a minute, then fell back to sleep,” Maria said. “Perhaps now’s not the best time.”
“We’re out of time. Antosha expects us to have the mission protocols complete within days, something I normally take twenty or more days to prepare.” To Oriana, he said, “But you know all about mission protocols, don’t you? You’ve been on, what, a hundred missions, so you know exactly how they work—”
“Do you think I want this?”
“I don’t care what you want.” Mintel retrieved a syringe from the medical cart and flicked the top. “He’s waking, and he will talk.”
He injected the syringe into the vial near Shrader. A glowing green fluid dripped into the tube on his arm, a stimulant, Oriana assumed.
Pasha should be here, she thought. He’d know how to search the doctor’s mind.
Shrader opened his eyes.
“Can you hear me?” Mintel said.
The doctor nodded.
“How many fingers do you see?”
“Two.”
Mintel adjusted the gurney into a chair. “Do you know who you are?”
Shrader waved his head back and forth. “I don’t know … who are you?”
“Damn it,” Mintel said. He moved closer. “We’re scientists, like you, and we want to help you.” He smiled, kindly yet mischievously. “Doctor, tell us everything you remember about your life before you arrived here.”
Shrader’s heart rate elevated again, and a beeping sound coincided with a flashing yellow light.
“Aha, this is too soon,” Maria said.
“Tell us what you remember,” Mintel said.
“What I remember?”
“What happened to the Reassortment Strain? How did it escape containment? What do you know about Hengill Laboratory and Hengill Power Plant? What happened during the war—”
The beeping changed to a siren. Three bots encircled Dr. Shrader, who thrashed side to side.
“Mintel, this is too much for him,” Oriana said. “Don’t—”
“Not a word from you.”
“If we don’t work together, your captain and my brother aren’t going to make it.”
“You shouldn’t be on this mission.”
Shrader puked, and the medical bots injected him with fluids.
“Aha, please, you’ll have to take this discussion outside,” Maria said.
“What do you remember?” Mintel said.
“I … don’t … I … don’t know what you want … where … where am I?”
“The Reassortment Strain.” Mintel raised his voice. “Tell me everything—”
“I don’t know what that is, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know—”
“You were there, they froze you. Why’d they freeze you?”
“Mintel!” Oriana said. “You’re going about this wrong—”
“Don’t know about a freeze, don’t know who you are, where am … I … I … don’t remember—” Shrader’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he passed out.
The Janzers burst into the infirmary, their pulse rifles pointed at Oriana and Mintel, who were forced to leave.
ZPF Impulse Wave: Pasha Barão
Research & Development Department (RDD)
Palaestra, Underground Northeast
2,500 meters deep
“We’ll begin with a twenty-kilometer jog,” Dahlia said, “then you’ll face the Graka training bot.”
“The Graka …” Pasha said.
“Training bot,” Dahlia said, as if he should know. “Standard rules, you jog, enter the arena, pin the Graka or it pins you. This is my first evaluation, so I don’t expect any heroics.”
Wonderful, Pasha thought. O should be here, not me.
Dahlia led him through the narrow hallways of the Montauk Facility, a maze as complex as any he had encountered during development, through an archway entrance with a golden sign reading MALCOMBE MINZIER TRAI
NING CENTER.
“This is the striker-aera training facility,” Dahlia said, “but most of us call it the Hive.”
She checked Pasha in with the Janzer guards as her shadow. The training center was shaped like a honeycomb. The trainees ran on crystalline treadmills that extended from and moved along the comb’s sea-green walls. The oval-shaped arena was at the base, where a Graka training bot, sculpted like a transhuman with a thin torso, wearing arm guards and carbyne shielding beneath, held a long alloy spike.
Falcon Torres, Oriana’s bane during development, jogged on a nearby treadmill. It descended to the wall’s base.
He burst off it.
The Graka swung the spike across its body and crouched. Its eye slit shone crimson.
Falcon orbited the bot and blocked its first and second strikes. On the third, the bot spun the spike through his legs, flipped him, and pinned him.
“All right, Barão,” Dahlia said, “get moving.” She tapped her foot.
Pasha climbed a ladder to a vacant treadmill facing the center of the room. Dahlia activated it and he sprinted. His and the other treadmills moved up the comb. One kilometer in, he felt the sweat drip down his face. He extended his consciousness and reviewed all hand-to-hand combat training he’d received in House Summerset. He watched the Graka. Five kilometers later, it had pinned twenty more neophytes, and Pasha couldn’t identify a weakness in the bot’s movements or design.
Fifteen kilometers and forty candidates later, no one had dented the Graka. It moved so quickly and swung the spike so rhythmically that Pasha wondered how anyone could beat it. His dark mesh shorts now dripped with sweat, as did his tank top. The Graka swept its spike around another neophyte and through her arms and spun her to the ground. Her sweat and blood splashed on the mat. Medical bots moved in to remove the neophyte and wipe the mat clean.
Less than a hundred meters left.
Pasha felt the burn in his arms and legs, a good feeling, one that reminded him of his days of development when he’d race his sister through forest, jungle, water, or frozen worlds, mazes created by the Summersets.
