Before Devon could draw his next breath, the world around him folded in on itself like some insane origami exercise, before bursting into hyperdrive. It was as if a million pinpricks of light spun all at once. He felt himself pulled forward at the speed of thought. There was no time to scream. There was only a sensation akin to rocketing down a drainpipe at warp speed.
A moment later, Devon McWilliams ceased to exist.
Vahn de Montague’s Story
Chapter Six
THE buzzing from the overhead lights fills the tunnel as I make my way to the arena for the final round of the Psi Games. My shoulder aches, but I ignore it. The pain’s there to remind me that my last bout in the pits could have gone a whole hell of a lot better. It had taken everything I had to keep my last opponent at bay; as a consequence, I’d been on the defensive throughout most of the battle. Twenty minutes into the round, I’d spied an opening and landed a blow to my opponent’s diaphragm. I followed it up with a shield sweep that slammed him hard to the ground.
Match, de Montague.
I shake my head in an effort to remain focused. I’ve made it to the finals. The first part of my plan is complete—only the team competition in the arena remains. My escape hinges on a Tiger Squad victory. Anything less, and I will lose Emily forever.
“Concentrate,” I say aloud as I suck in air through my tight-lipped grimace. The Alaskan Psi Facility director, Major General Allen, is well-known for changing the rules of the Psi Games as they’re being played. Surprise attacks are his specialty. I must remain focused and present at all times.
I pause when I hear a raucous cheer from the stadium echo through the tunnel. The sound races through me, touching me deep inside. The pit of my stomach drops, and instantly I know—
Something isn’t right.
Surely my Tiger Squad has emerged victorious from the early-round matchups—but if they have, why haven’t they waited for me to join them before stepping into the arena?
The pitch of the crowd rises even higher from the stadium above, and my insides grow cold with dread. I am certain now—
Something has gone horribly wrong.
This is no time for failure—especially during the last game of the season. Everything hinges on a victory!
I break into a run, but as the arena entrance comes into view and the roar of the crowd becomes deafening, I realize that there is no sign of my teammates.
“No…” I can’t be the only victor.
Sticking close to the shadows of the arena entrance, I can see the expectant faces of the baselines as they cheer ecstatically over some new Lion Squad arrival. The spectators have it easy, viewing the games from their luxury boxes and VIP sections, with their gourmet food and endless supply of microbrewed beer.
The Alaskan Psi Facility’s final-round stadium, known as the Imperium Arena, was built in the tradition of the ancient Roman Coliseum. The wealthy and powerful enjoy themselves as they watch the latest in psionic gaming warfare. From the comfort of their high-tech chairs, they can place bets as the games progress or request a special audience with a psi-blade of their choice—at an exorbitant fee, of course.
I sink deeper into the shadows as a hovercam zips past. The little round machines are as pleasant as overgrown gnats in the arena. They’re programmed to get the latest full-blown, in-your-face action for the government’s secure internet broadcast to its powerful allies around the world. I’m supposed to feel honored, but the idea disgusts me. It’s not their lives on the line. It’s mine.
“Vahn? Where are…” Diana says, trotting up behind me. She is my second in command, a fiery redhead whose skintight battle suit leaves nothing to the imagination when it comes to her curvy figure. And that’s on purpose. A cunning warrior, she uses all of her assets on the battlefield to keep her opponents distracted. Especially her cleavage.
The hesitation in her speech tells me all I need to know as she quietly settles into the shadows beside me. “We’re it?”
“Looks like it,” I say with a nod, though I keep my eyes locked on the arena. I am relieved that she has made it this far too. Diana is our unit’s best swordsman and she’s fearless on the battlefield. If there were anyone I would hope to have my back, it would be her.
Another cheer from the crowd reverberates around us, shaking the dust from the pipes overhead.
“What are the Lions doing out there?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s going to be hell for us.”
I can hear Diana stirring nervously behind me. “Surely Jason will be here… Maybe we could wait a little bit longer before stepping into the arena? You know, just give him some more time—”
“Time?” I say with a growl. It sounds threatening, but Diana has no idea how much this victory means to me, or what losing will cost me. “Time is not a luxury we have right now. If your boyfriend can’t fight his way out of the early-round melees, he has no business being out there with us!”
“Boyfriend?! Jason is not my boyfriend!” Diana is pissed; I can hear it in her voice. But she’s too much of a professional to reveal any more. She hesitates, retreating further into the shadows, and I realize what a complete ass I have just been.
I lower my head, pressing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, and release a long, pent-up sigh. “Look, Diana, I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it,” she says. “We’ve got heads to bash.” She pauses, then adds, “Two against what? Eight? Think we can overcome those odds?”
“Surrendering isn’t an option.” I glance at Diana, and for the first time notice the angry bruise above her eye and the blood oozing down the side of her face. “You get that in the last round?”
A ghost of a smile plays across her lips. “You should see the other guy.”
I force myself not to grin. Diana and I have been friends since she arrived at the facility ten years ago. When a situation gets tense, she becomes harder to read, and right now I’m not certain if she’s joking or completely serious.
Movement high up along the arena’s far wall catches my attention. The refs are taking their positions on the observation platforms. I turn back to Diana and retrieve a couple of butterfly bandages from my forearm pocket. “We haven’t much time,” I say as I rip them open. “You notice anything different about your opponent last round?”
“Other than the fact that he almost took my head off?”
“And that surprised you?” I say, but I realize my mistake the instant I look in her eyes.
She’s angry. With her hands on her hips, she frowns at me. If I were any closer, she would probably slap me across the face. “No one ever catches me off-guard. And you know it.”
“Yes, I do,” I say, meeting her gaze. “That’s why I’m concerned. I’d never even seen my last opponent before today. He called himself Skullcrusher, of all things. Was hell to bring down, too.”
“Skullcrusher…huh.” Diana winces as I squeeze the skin around her laceration and seal it closed with one of the small bandages. “Mine called himself Carnage. What’s up with that?”
“No clue.” I quickly secure the other bandage, then tuck the wrappers into a thigh pocket on my battle suit. “But they weren’t trained in our facility. So that could only mean one thing—”
“The rules have changed,” Diana says, following my thought.
I nod solemnly. “We need a plan.”
“I’ve got your back,” she says, clear-eyed and excited by the prospect of the overwhelming odds. There is very little on the battlefield that frightens Diana.
“Count us in, too,” says a voice from behind me.
I turn to find Michael Via slowly making his way toward us. A descendant of the famous Apache outlaw Geronimo, Michael is the youngest psi-blade in our unit at fourteen and a half, but he’s quick and crafty in combat, and he follows orders well. Despite the fact that Michael looks like hell and is bleeding from a cut across his cheek, he is half-carrying, half-supporting another kid whose
soil-coated hair and face make him hard to recognize.
“Jason!” Diana gasps, racing to help Michael with his burden. “What happened?” she demands.
“Don’t rightly know,” Michael says. “I found him unconscious on the tunnel floor.”
I step up beside Jason and lift him into my arms. He’s covered with dirt, as if he’s just crawled out of his own grave. I have never seen anything like this at the Psi Games. And that worries me. What the hell are we about to face in the arena?
“Careful,” Diana says, hovering beside me, and I can hear the concern in her voice.
I lay him down against the wall as gently as I can, then reach into the med-pouch at my waist and rip open a moist towelette. I start with Jason’s nose and mouth. His breathing is labored; I fear that he might have breathed some debris into his lungs.
“We need to run a vitals scan,” Diana says, rummaging through Jason’s med-pouch. “But where the hell’s his card?”
“Check his breast pocket,” Michael suggests, kneeling beside her.
Diana rips into his battle suit and withdraws the thin white card with Jason’s photo on it. “Got it!” She turns to me then, her eyes pleading for me to intercede. “Please,” she begs, and it is as if a hot blade has pierced my heart.
Only the squad commander can authorize a vitals scan… but in order to do so, we will lose precious time. What’s left of my Tiger Squad must step into that arena before the final-round cannon sounds. The referees have already taken their positions. We may have ten minutes—tops—before the final round commences. If I am not on that arena floor in time, I won’t have another chance to escape for a very long time.
And Emily’s trail is already growing cold.
Diana grabs my hand and presses Jason’s medical card into my palm. She doesn’t have to say a thing, because her eyes convey the depth of her emotion. And for an instant, I see Emily’s starburst eyes and her sad yet endearing smile. How could I deny her plea, when I am risking my own life for a woman I can no longer hold in my arms?
“Unzip his battle suit. It might help him breathe,” I say, and insert Jason’s card into my med-scanner.
As quickly as I can, I activate the oblong machine and let it go. It hovers over Jason’s body, projecting a bevy of colorful hard-light beams that scan Jason from head to toe. In a matter of seconds, it homes in on Jason’s ribcage and the beams give way to a detailed, three-dimensional, hard-light image of Jason’s left lung. It doesn’t look good.
“Right tension pneumothorax,” the med-scanner says in its dry, computerized voice. “Rib fractures detected—four, five, six. Heart compressed. Stroke volume down to thirty percent. Medical intervention recommended. Manual code 389.”
“What’s that mean?” Michael asks, tilting his head in confusion.
“It means three broken ribs and a tear in his lung that has forced air into the cavity between the lung and the chest wall. Right now, there’s too much pressure on his heart and trachea,” I reply as nonchalantly as I can. I don’t mention that there’s a chance his heart might stop. I’m not in the mood to stir up any more drama where Diana is concerned. I need her to be clearheaded in the arena, not stroking out over her boyfriend’s injury.
“Ah, geez,” Michael says. “That’s gotta hurt. Even if we release the pressure, he’ll be useless in the arena.”
In an instant, Diana is in his face. “Shut the hell up, Mike! You don’t know shit! There are worse things than a little chest pressure and a few broken ribs!”
“Not by much,” I say, in an effort to take the heat off of Michael.
Diana whirls on me. Jason’s body is the only thing keeping me out of striking range. “What’re you saying? You’re not going to revive him?”
“He can’t fight in this condition. We’ve got to call in the medical team.”
“And what? Take a forfeit?”
The idea of a forfeit makes me grimace. It’s the last thing in the world I want to do. “What choice do we have?”
Diana is outright glaring at me, and for a long moment, she holds my gaze. Then she slowly shakes her head. “No. No way. I’m not going to let you do this. Jason would want to fight. Release the pressure. Get the air out of there.”
“Diana, we don’t have time—”
“Do it.”
“He’ll be useless in the arena—”
“Do it!”
“No.”
“DO IT!!” She screams, her eyes wild with anger.
I stand my ground and glare at her in return. If I didn’t need her so desperately right now, I’d have her on KP duty for a month for insubordination. I’m about to inform her of this, when I hear Jason say—
“Yes…do…it…”
I turn to find Jason looking up at me, his face contorted in agony.
“Jason!” Diana cries in relief. “What the hell happened to you?”
His face is a mask of pain, but Jason manages to utter two words. “…earth…mover…”
Michael looks stunned. “What the hell are elemental psions doing in our games?”
“Kicking our ass,” Diana replies dryly. She turns to me, meeting my gaze. “It looks like we’re going to need all the help we can get out there.”
I know she’s right, damn it. Two teams of forty are whittled down to ten finalists in the final arena battle. Any team advantage depends on the number of one-on-one matches won in the earlier rounds. Four of us in here means six of them out there. If I turn Jason over to the medics, that would mean the Lions would be allowed to pick someone who had lost in the earlier rounds and add that person to their team. This being yet another example of the major general’s twisted little rules. In his opinion, a psi-blade too injured to fight after a preliminary round is no victor at all. I sure as hell think that four against six is much better odds than three against seven. Even if Jason can’t fight, if he can walk into the arena with us, then that would at least prevent the Lion Squad from adding Jason’s last opponent, an elemental psion, to their final-round roster.
“Override code 389. De Montague, Vahn. 5-6-4-4-4-8-5-9,” I say, addressing the med-scanner, which hovers patiently over Jason’s chest.
The med-scanner chirps, then says, “Override accepted. Needle thoracostomy commencing.”
I grip Jason’s right shoulder and place half my body across his because I know what’s coming next. When I see Michael and Diana hesitate, I frown and say, “Hold him down. This won’t be pretty.”
They spring into action. Michael throws his weight on top of Jason’s legs, while Diana takes hold of Jason’s left arm, putting all her weight behind it.
The med-scanner lowers a three-inch 16 gauge needle from its underside compartment as it hovers over Jason’s chest near his left clavicle. Everyone’s eyes go wide.
“You gotta be flippin’ kiddin—” Michael starts to say, but at that moment, the med-scanner drops down and inserts the needle into the second rib space in the mid-clavicular line.
Jason violently struggles as the pain shoots through him, and I lean my weight into him to keep him from smashing the med-scanner.
“Don’t struggle, baby,” Diana coos close to his ear. “It’s almost over.”
The med-scanner chirps again, and I close my eyes before the burst of air hits me in the face as the scanner extracts the air from Jason’s chest cavity.
“Aaaaahhhhh,” Jason sighs, both from pain and relief. “I—I…can…breathe!”
“Nanobots released,” the med-scanner says.
“Nanobots?” Michael asks dubiously.
“They’re the latest advancement in battlefield medicine. The med scanner has programmed them to close the tear in his lung from the inside to prevent any further leakage,” I reply, watching the med-scanner pull itself free. Its needle drips with a bit of blood as it retracts back into the scanner’s lower compartment.
“What about his ribs?” Diana asks. “Will the nanobots repair those, too?”
“In time,” I say quietly. �
�But just so you know, he’s going to be in agony out there in the arena.”
“Needle thoracostomy complete,” the med-scanner says, as I reach for it to remove Jason’s medical card.
“How you feeling?” I ask Jason.
He coughs deeply and grimaces in pain. “Like…shit,” he replies. “But at least…I can…breathe now.”
I tuck the scanner back into my belt and hand Jason his vitals card. “You think you can stand?”
Jason grunts in reply.
Diana and I each take an arm and hoist him to his feet. We’re cutting our entrance close and we all know it. There’s no more time for thinking—we have to move.
Michael leads the way to the arena’s entrance. He pulls his battlesuit hood over his head and powers up just as he arrives at the entrance to the arena. His armor takes shape around him—transparent plate mail that radiates a vibrant sapphire color with a roaring tiger, our squad’s insignia, depicted on the breastplate and his shield. As a tribute to his heritage, Michael manipulates his psi-energy armor to include dangling feathers on the sides of his helmet. Because no bladed projections are allowed in these games, he creates a quarterstaff complete with feather embellishments as he waits for us to catch up.
“Get out there, Corporal!” I shout at him. “What the hell are you waiting for?”
He turns back to me then, his eyes wide with surprise, but he knows better than to question a direct order. With one last glance, he strides forward, his game face on—an Apache warrior ready for combat.
The crowd goes absolutely wild when Michael emerges into the arena. The pipes above my head rattle, and more dust rains down on us as Diana and I drag Jason to the arena’s entrance.
“You sure you’re up to this?” I ask Jason.
He grunts in reply, and I level my gaze at Diana. “Whatever you do out there, don’t allow another hit to his chest. Have him kneel in forfeit as soon as the cannon sounds. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” she says, but her gaze shifts just slightly, and I know that her pride may not allow Jason to forfeit so easily.
Freaks of Nature (The Psion Chronicles) Page 6
