Ravagers [05.00] Eradicate

by Alex Albrinck

  Micah and John exchanged a glance and then laughed. “When all of you showed up here, you said you felt your old powers returning. John had done research on the Great Battle and the aftermath, and noted that the weapon, whatever it was, didn’t seem to work here.”

  Miriam nodded. Others had moved closer, listening in. “Right. Everything just blinked off.”

  “Nothing worked in the air, either, right? I mean, it’s not as if you’d hop in a sphere and fly somewhere and suddenly your powers returned, right?”

  “Sure,” Miriam said.

  “But everything worked in space,” Mary added. She smiled.

  Miriam tried to work it out. Then she spread her hands. “I’m not understanding this.”

  “The weapon wasn’t detonated,” John explained. “It was turned on. And it’s still on.”

  “It uses a signal, like the nets, to turn off power on the surface,” Micah said.

  “But not in space?” Miriam asked.

  “Correct,” Mary said. “That’s because the weapon is based in space and aims that signal back at the surface.”

  “Think of it like a giant nano swarm surrounding the entire planet at an orbit several miles outside the atmosphere,” Micah said. “The signals cross and overlap in a way that leaves the entire surface covered. If you looked long enough and flew high enough, you might find pockets where the signal didn’t reach.”

  “But this is the interesting part,” Mary said. “You felt it yourself. When you travel beyond that lattice web of trillions of tiny satellites blasting that signal at the surface…”

  “It doesn’t affect us,” Miriam said. She and many of her friends nodded. “So that explains why we couldn’t do anything on the surface, but could operate at full power here… until it turned off again.” She snapped her fingers. “You hacked into that lattice and… backed it further away from the surface until it was beyond the space station!”

  “Almost,” John said, grinning. “Still haven’t found a lattice network. But there’s a network here that lets me control the altitude of the space station.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Sheila grinned. “He orbited the space station closer to the surface until we passed inside the lattice.”

  “Why?” Miriam asked. “We were winning.”

  “Math said that it was a tossup,” Micah told her. “You started with greater numbers, but they were taking out three or four on our side for every person we eliminated on theirs. There was a very real risk all of you would be dead and still leave one or two survivors behind.”

  “And don’t forget Oswald Silver is still out there somewhere,” Mary added.

  “We knew you had the nano swarms, and you’d also learned Roddy’s technique to activate your powers, even in a limited sense, in conditions like those on the surface,” John told her. “Take away the powers available to everyone here, and you win overwhelmingly.”

  “And you did,” Sheila said.

  “Oswald is the last one,” Miriam said. “If Deirdre—or Roddy—can eliminate him… it’s really over, isn’t it?”

  Mary’s face clouded, even as Miriam smothered her in a celebratory hug. “As long as Deirdre doesn’t turn on us, as long as Oswald doesn’t escape…”

  They all turned to John. “Any news?”

  “No. Nothing from New Phoenix. Still no update on your assassin in New Venice, but Miriam’s backup should be there soon.”

  “So there’s nothing to do but wait?” Miriam asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Mary said.

  They waited, feelings of tension all around, for news from New Phoenix.

  Only time would tell if that news was good.

  And who would survive long enough to send it.

  Chapter 22

  New Venice

  Wesley wanted to sleep, but an alarm kept beeping at him, disturbing him, keeping his mind from settling enough to reach the sleep stage he desperately craved. The pace was slow, steady, a rhythmic beat that might have been hypnotic and relaxing—even sleep-inducing—were it not for the high-pitched nature of the beep.

  And he still hurt. A lot. Sleep would be better than waking up right now.

  At least he knew he wasn’t dead.

  The beeping continued, and Wesley finally realized it was a heart rate monitor, probably hooked to him. He felt odd sensations on his skin, a strange pressure near the crook of his arm, and realized it was a needle. They’d hooked him to an IV. It was probably a drip pumping in fluids to replace what he’d lost in the fight, probably some kind of painkiller at a low dose. Maybe some sort of truth serum. The IV meant they were making an effort to keep him alive; even if it was just to formally execute him later, it gave him a chance at surviving beyond just the next few minutes or hours.

  All he wanted was a chance.

  Much of that depended on how much control Roddy’s parents exerted here, and if they’d understood the message he’d passed them before losing consciousness. They’d not used video during the call between Roddy and his parents while he’d been flying in the sphere, and he wasn’t sure if he’d said anything. They wouldn’t recognize him, wouldn’t know his voice… and would thus have no reason to read from his words about their grandchildren that he was friend, not foe, someone delivering a message of comfort, not a threat.

  Had they understood correctly?

  His life depended on it.

  He let his eyes flicker open, gradually adjusting to the light levels in the room, and looked around.

  The IV pole was next to the bed; the label on the IV bag faced away from him so he couldn’t read the text identifying the contents. The liquid was inside was clear, which didn’t tell him anything about the nature of the contents.

  A half dozen people were in the room with him, and four of them were heavily armed. Conversations were muted, mumbled, tense. Wesley wasn’t sure why they were armed; he’d been unconscious and under sedation, and they’d no doubt removed every weapon from his body after they’d stripped him down and put him in a thin gown. He wasn’t a threat to anyone in this state. But the tension in the room was palpable. Wesley guessed they didn’t have mass murders inside this facility very often.

  He turned to the opposite side and studied the other two people in the room. Jeffrey Wiley, Roddy’s father—though he looked no older than his son—chatted with one of the guards whose unblinking eyes were on Wesley. Desdemona, a woman of a similarly youthful appearance, stood near his bed. When she saw his opened eyes, she leaned close to him. Her eyes shone with a deep intensity, but he couldn’t read any emotion in them. They suggested she was withholding judgment on his actions, which increased the chances that he wouldn’t be summarily shot in the next few minutes. “Mr. Cardinal? Can you hear me?”

  Wesley nodded.

  “Can you speak?”

  That was a good question. His mouth was dry and his throat felt like sandpaper. But he managed to croak out the words “I think so” with enough accuracy that she could understand him.

  “Good.” Desdemona looked up and motioned to one of the guards, who moved to the drip and made adjustments. Were they going to poison him now? “Let’s go.”

  He didn’t know how to interpret that; where, exactly, were they going? And were they expecting him to walk?

  Jeffrey moved behind the bed, and Wesley listened as they released the wheel locks, causing his bed to shake slightly. The four guards led the way, followed be Desdemona. Two guards held the doors open as Jeffrey wheeled Wesley out of the room, then fell in behind them.

  Well, he decided, nobody else is going to shoot me right now. He still didn’t know what the people transporting him planned to do, but he felt as safe as he possibly could at the moment, given the circumstances.

  They approached a set of double doors, and as Jeffrey pushed the bed through behind Desdemona, the guards held the doors and rebuilt the formation after they’d gone through. The doors led to a ramp leading down, and Wesley coul
d feel a deep tension and an undercurrent of anger rising up the ramp toward them. Perhaps they were escorting him directly to Hell to pay for his crimes. He found it an odd transport method for a dead man, especially one attached to so many wires and tubes.

  He thought about the underground hangar he’d used to enter this fortress, and realized that they’d have to roll down this ramp quite a while to get that deep. So probably just a minor level of Hell.

  A few minutes later, they rolled him out onto a stage inside a large amphitheater, which looked to have a thousand seats. Every one of the seats was full. None of the occupants looked happy. The few glances offered in his direction were full of the malice and hate he’d not seen in Desdemona’s eyes.

  He looked around as best he could, and caught sight of a man sitting near the front of the amphitheater. This man kept his eyes on Wesley as well, but there was no malice there. The eyes were deep, intelligent, taking in information. He didn’t look to suffer the same fury afflicting the others. So his allies included one non-hater in the audience and possibly the six people on the stage. Not great odds. But at least it wasn’t the world against him. He looked around again, and this time found another man who looked out of place here. His clothing was different. His movements as he took a seat near the front were of a different sort of fluidity than one normally saw, almost predatory in nature. And he didn’t seem familiar with those sitting near him.

  Interesting.

  Jeffrey rolled his bed to the center of the stage and turned him so he faced out at the crowd. He felt himself lurch as Jeffrey and one of the guards propped the back of the bed up. He felt briefly lightheaded before acclimating to the more vertical position. He glanced side to side, noting that there were two mammoth view screens mounted above the stage. He could see just enough of the screen at his angle to realize what was displayed.

  Him.

  He saw the cameras set up in front of him, one on either side.

  His every move was shown on massive screens from multiple angles. And when the bright lights turned on, nearly blinding him and preventing him from seeing the crowd, he figured out what was happening.

  A show trial. They would make a fuss about trying him before executing, keeping just the bits of video and audio footage that impressed upon any watching in the future that they’d not only given him a fair trial, but that they’d correctly judged him guilty.

  Maybe they’d be sympathetic at the sight of his brutal injuries, the scars and deep gashes, the bruises and pale skin indicating blood loss. He blinked a few times. Did that mean his transport team was on his side, presenting the raw reality of his physical condition as a means of eliciting a sympathetic reaction?

  Time would tell.

  Desdemona stepped to a microphone that seemed to appear from nowhere. “We thank you all for coming. We ask for a few minutes of patience from you before we begin; we’re still confirming full attendance.”

  Wesley heard the murmurings in the crowd and caught the meaning: attendance hadn’t been optional. If the crowd voted his guilt or innocence, he hoped they didn’t hold the mandatory participation rule they’d instituted against him.

  He watched as several people left the area, and then saw them return a few minutes later, prodding several additional attendees into the arena. Desdemona gave a nod toward a group of people Wesley couldn’t see, and a moment later, he heard and felt deep booms resonate across the stage.

  They’d shut the doors and, if he was correct, had locked them as well. Armed guards stood nearby, posture set in a manner that begged anyone to try to leave.

  This was just getting better and better for those who wanted him dead.

  Desdemona pinned a smaller microphone to her blouse, tapped it a few times until she heard the thumping sound echo across the sound system, and then began pacing the stage. “You have all by now heard of the tragic events that took place two days ago. New Venice has served as host to several visitors from the highest reaches of the Phoenix Group for the past week, here to verify our readiness for the beginnings of terraforming activities following the eradication of the virus.”

  Wesley blinked. Virus? His mind connected the word to a memory, the story they’d told him to get his willing cooperation to his innovative imagination in the field of robotics to make a breakthrough that had thus far stymied them. A breakthrough, they said, that literally could make the difference between long term survival of the human… or its extinction.

  A lie.

  “The massive swarm of tiny robots, which we’ve dubbed Cleaners, have scoured the surface and completed their work, eradicating any living thing encountered that acted as a host. Without those hosts, without homes in which to set themselves up for life and growth, the virus has now been confirmed as destroyed.”

  Cheers erupted. Wesley felt like joining in, adding his voice to the exuberant energy flowing in the arena at that instant.

  And then he remembered what he’d actually be cheering.

  “Our visitors were here to perform that final confirmation, to give New Venice the all clear signal to begin rebuilding this planet.”

  She paused, took a deep breath, and looked directly into the camera, eyes wide, puffy, verging on tears. “And in a blaze of gunfire and a rush of stabbings, we lost all of them. All of them. Dead.”

  The crowd, so joyful a moment ago, had gone silent as Desdemona continued speaking, but Wesley could feel the anger start to crescendo. When she pronounced the visitors dead, the dam burst and the anger burst forth, fury and shouts and angry fists waved in his direction.

  Desdemona held up her hand, waiting for silence. When she had their attention again, she lifted the microphone toward her face. “One man was responsible for that carnage. One man.” She pointed at Wesley, but held her hand up for silence once more before the boos began again in earnest. “We will show that he acted willingly, without compulsion either positive or negative, and planned this murder spree in advance. As is our custom, the accused will have an opportunity to speak in his own defense. We will render the verdict by vote and the sentence, when carried out—sorry, if carried out—will happen immediately.”

  Well, at least they wouldn’t make him wait to die for years. So he had that going for him, at least.

  Desdemona walked to her husband and handed him the microphone.

  Jeffrey moved to his bedside. “First, what is your name?”

  He tipped the microphone toward Wesley. “Wesley, sir. Wesley Cardinal.”

  “Where do you hail from, Wesley Cardinal?”

  “I have lived just beyond the walls of the LakePlex, to the west of the this facility.”

  “And what do you do in the LakePlex, Wesley?”

  Could he claim his work was classified and refuse to answer? He didn’t think so; there probably wasn’t a government or military left with secrets needing protection. “I was a member of a branch of Special Forces, watching video screens for any sign of Eastern aggression into Western territory, or any signs that they were mobilizing for such activity.”

  “Why did you choose to live outside the walls? Were you not aware of the dangers?”

  “I felt more at home outside the walls than inside. Regarding the danger… I lived outside for over a decade. I heard howls perhaps twice per year. Nothing ever attacked me, nor did any of the creatures outside approach my home close enough to cause concern.”

  Jeffrey nodded once, stroking his chin. “You aren’t lacking in courage, then.”

  “I suppose that’s true, sir.”

  Jeffrey paused for a brief moment. “What is your opinion of the Phoenix Group, Wesley Cardinal?”

  And so it began. His eyes roamed the thousands of people who owed their livelihood—and, quite literally, their lives—to that organization. “That’s a complicated question, sir.”

  Jeffrey tilted his head. “It is? It seems a rather simple question to me.”

  “It is a simple question, but the answer isn’t.” He looked around again. “I believe
that Phoenix provided humanity with many great services, and bankrolled inventions that changed the course of history. Medicines. Technologies. They even funded the creation of some of the most popular art and entertainment enjoyed by our society. They have, in short, been responsible for bringing to the world things that save lives and make life better. That is admirable work.”

  “But…?”

  Wesley ignored him. “A threat was discovered, one that threatened the survival of the entire species. The Phoenix Group approached the brightest minds in the world—West and East alike—to diagnose the threat, to figure out how to detect it, to find those who could and couldn’t be saved, and to create the technology that could end the threat forever. Like the people in this room. I…” He paused.

  “What is it?”

  Wesley noted that the angry tension in the room had subsided to a large degree. He’d never struggled to tell a tale, to gather an audience’s attention, to hold that attention until it was no longer of use. That would probably change soon. “I was one of them. One of you. I, too, learned of the threat, the effort to vanquish that threat, the manner in which my particular gift could contribute to the overall success. I agreed. I taught the robots to detect the energy signature of a given molecule of mass and, with that information, determine if that molecule should be left alone or… separated.”

  The crowd had shifted now. They’d almost forgotten what he’d done more recently, the source of the visible bruises and scarring on his face. The murmurs weren’t malicious now; they were complimentary.

  “So… you weren’t just part of the Phoenix Group. You played a key role in the mission we’re just now completing.”

  “Yes.”

  “You understood the threat and helped develop technology that would allow the overall Phoenix Group plan to succeed in ending the threat.”

  He paused. “Yes.”

  “Yet now, after the Cleansing; now, after we’re finalizing preparation for making the surface habitable again; now, when we’re waiting for the official all clear to begin the work that will allow our people free and safe access to fresh air and the outdoors once more… you show up, sneak in, and murder in cold blood five of our most prominent leaders.”