by Rachel Aukes
“I don’t like it,” Heid replied, her voice sounding tinny since she was speaking through her wrist comm. “There are too many variables we can’t control.”
“I don’t like it either, but I also don’t see an alternative. Seda’s lined up the chess pieces. He’s waiting to see if we’ll play.”
“We can’t trust Seda until we know who he really is. Are you sure he didn’t drop any hints as to his Founder pseudonym? Besides Vym, there’s only one Founder in the fringe I’d consider trusting, and that’s Aeronaut. The odds of Seda being him are low.”
“Just do a search on Seda Faulk in the system. See if you recognize him as one of your Founder buddies.”
“It’s not that easy. I’ve only ever met a couple of Founders from the fringe in person, and they both wore cloned skin. Until we know for sure, we have to assume Mason is pulling the strings of any Founder you meet.”
“I said we’d play along. I never said I’d blindly follow Seda’s plan, let alone trust him. Hell, I’m assuming he’s playing us. When he makes his move against us, I am going to make damn well sure we’re ready to fire back with moves of our own.”
“I can’t believe Critch let himself get arrested. He’s going to get himself killed pulling stunts like this. I’m going to strangle that infuriating man for not talking it over with us first.” She sighed. “I can have the Arcadia prepped and on the way to Terra in under three hours.”
“No way. You know our rule. After the Matador mess, we can’t risk all three of us in the same place at the same time. Besides, we need you at Tulan Base. If we lose the Base or the Arcadia, we lose everything.”
“Then send in the specters.”
“Not yet. We’re even keeping the Gryphon and Honorless off the surface for now. Bringing in more of the fleet will only raise suspicion and draw Ausyar’s attention. If the armada moves in on Terra, we’d be stranded here. Besides, the fleet can’t be of much help. This is a ground operation, not a fleet op.”
A long silence.
“You still there?”
“…Yes.”
“Listen, we don’t even know if Critch is still alive.”
Another silence.
“The chance that he is—or Vym is—is well worth the risk. Believe me, I understand why you have to go in. I’d go in, too, if I were there. I just don’t like how the odds are stacked against us.”
“Trust me, I don’t like the situation any better than you do. If Critch volunteered, he had a backup plan. Hell, that guy has backup plans for his backup plans. He wouldn’t have let himself get arrested unless he was sure he had a way out.”
“Except, knowing him, that fool probably thinks he can just walk right out of the Citadel.”
Reyne chuckled, picturing exactly the same thing.
“Keep me posted. I’ll have the Arcadia prepped and ready to jump if you need assistance. Oh, and Reyne? Don’t you get yourself killed.”
“Take care of yourself, kiddo.”
He turned off the comm. His jaw tightened, and then he hit his console. “Damn it.”
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and leaned back in his seat. Reyne, Heid, and Critch had formed a leadership triad to ensure the Uprising wouldn’t fail if one—or even two—were killed. But that oversimplified the truth.
Reyne and Heid were expendable. Reyne would forever carry the weight of being seen as a traitor, even though the truth was very different. Heid was a citizen, and would never be accepted as a colonist. Critch never thought himself any more important than them, but he was the heart and soul of the torrents. Critch was the only leader who’d never ceased embodying the true torrent spirit.
Critch had served alongside Reyne as a torrent marshal in the first Uprising. He’d then changed his identity to escape the CUF when they searched to arrest or kill all torrent leaders. He became a pirate, spending the next twenty years stealing from the Collective and planning a new rebellion. Every torrent trusted Critch, and would follow him anywhere. If he died—and the torrents were left with a rumored traitor and a citizen as their leaders—the fire that had been building for the new Uprising could all too easily flicker and die.
If there was any chance that Critch was still alive, Reyne had to go in. That knowing part, deep in his gut, warned him that trusting Seda could be a deadly mistake. Seda Faulk had become rich off the Collective. The stationmaster was a Founder, giving Reyne another reason to not trust him. Could Reyne keep one move ahead of Seda?
He wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t have any other option.
Chapter Nine
Fresh Meat
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
Critch motioned to Chutt’s face. “You’re wriggling your nose. It’s annoying.”
“My face itches.”
“If you keep acting all twitchy, you’re going to draw attention to us.” Critch’s face also itched, but he was careful to not scratch at the cloned skin they each wore to disguise their features. He scanned the open prison area where they spent twelve hours each day.
It was a drab, desolate place. Terran stone floors and walls, populated by thousands of prisoners in the same gray garb. They stood, sat, and lay around—often in small groups—and passed the hours with talking, invisible games, or simply waiting until it was time to return to their cells. Some worked out to stay fit. Others were about to pass through to the abyss. Still others wore shifty expressions, as though planning an escape. The Citadel provided the minimal requirements: food, shelter, baths, and clothing. Beyond that, the prisoners were left to their own devices.
Critch maintained a stone face so as not to betray the real reason he and Chutt were in the Citadel. He nodded to one of the food lines. “Let’s grab some grub.”
Like everything in the Citadel, the food lines were automated. Prisoners got one ration loaf per day. If a prisoner tried to take someone else’s ration, the drones shocked him. If a prisoner didn’t take a ration, the drones didn’t do anything. Within the Citadel’s walls, life had no value. If prisoners rioted, drones did nothing. If one gang attacked another gang, the drones did nothing. If a prisoner was caught trying to escape—which seemed to be a daily occurrence—the drones shot him.
As they proceeded to the line, Critch felt gazes upon them from the other prisoners, especially the gangs. The pair hadn’t been at the Citadel a week yet, and Critch imagined they were getting sized up for what kinds of problems they might cause, or if they’d make potential allies. Either option made sense. Critch and Chutt were both obviously fit, though Chutt had over fifty pounds of muscle on Critch. Most of the prisoners were scrawny from years of surviving on too few calories and not enough activity.
Critch knew that no one recognized them because of their cloned skin masks. If someone had recognized him, he had no doubt his notoriety would end him up in Ausyar’s torture chambers in no time flat. However, Critch recognized plenty of his fellow prisoners. He estimated about half of the prisoners had served in the Uprising, with the other half being political dissidents, those who got in the way of the wrong person, and even a few criminals.
Critch had seen dozens of faces that brought back memories of the Uprising. The gaunt prisoners were nearly unrecognizable after twenty years in prison. Even so, Critch had no problem spotting the torrents who’d served under him. And it damn near crushed his soul seeing those brave souls in that hellhole.
They grabbed their rations and sat down at a small table. A man and a woman sat eating their rations at a nearby table. Critch didn’t recognize her, but seeing the man was a punch to the gut. Luther had been only sixteen years old when he signed on as a torrent in the Uprising. The young boy had been full of energy and passion, though Critch was only five years older than him. Critch had seen him perform admirably in several battles, and had always hoped Luther was one of the lucky ones who escaped the CUF.
He wasn’t.
Luther was thirty-seven now, though he could easily pass for fifty-seven. He held the wo
man’s hand while they each chewed on their ration loaf. The rations obviously contained more than just a hash of cavote and philoseed because, with all the sex and rapes that happened around the prison area, Critch had yet to see a pregnant woman, let alone a baby.
Critch made eye contact with Luther. The man’s gaze narrowed briefly before he shook off whatever thought he’d had and returned his attention to the woman.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out,” Chutt began, his rough-voiced whisper sounding like sandpaper. “And, the drones stay off our backs. It wouldn’t be too hard for someone who really knows demolitions to make some serious product here.”
“Someone just like you, I’d wager,” Critch said softly before taking a bite out of the oily, chewy loaf that tasted a little of nuts and a lot of nothing.
Chutt hefted his ration. “Take this brick, for instance. It’s got enough philoseed in it that if you rolled out a decent length and dried it out, you’d have a flexible wick. Steam the soap and you have yourself highly combustible gas. I’ve seen plenty of usable containers around here that are being used for moonshine.”
Critch considered for a moment. “You could build a bomb for the generator.”
“Of course. And building an EMP for the overall prison will be even easier. All I need is at least four of those humidifying coils in the showers to extend the range of this little baby.” He held up his forearm where the micro-EMP had been implanted.
“That won’t be easy. Then again, things never are. So, you’d work on Plan D while I scout the generator situation?” Chutt’s personal favorite plan was Plan D, which stood for Plan Destroy. Critch liked having more than one plan. The more options available meant the better their chance at succeeding.
Chutt’s lip curled upward. “I tell you, it’ll work. I’ve had plenty of time to work out the details in my head. We could have everything set to blow and then call Seda for pickup. If things hit the shitter, we just call Seda for pickup and then go through with his fancy plan.”
“It could work.” Critch thought about his friend’s idea. If they took down the Citadel from the inside, the CUF would be none the wiser that he or Seda were involved. Seda’s plan, on the other hand, guaranteed the CUF would know the prisoners had outside help and would send in plenty of heat, making it a challenge to leave Terra quietly.
Chutt shrugged. “Hell, we’ve been in here six days, and I’m already dying from boredom. I can’t even pass the time with sex because I can tell you I haven’t been here near long enough for any of the women around here to look attractive.”
“How soon can you make it happen? Whatever we do, we need to get it done and get out of here fast. I don’t think we can keep avoiding the gangs trying to recruit us, and I get the feeling they don’t take rejection well.”
“I could have the bomb built tomorrow and the EMP the next day, assuming you create a diversion when I go for the coils.”
“A diversion I can handle.”
“So what do you think?”
Critch glanced over at Luther before turning back to Chutt. He tore off a portion of his loaf, made sure he wasn’t in the line of any drone’s sight, and slid it over to Chutt. “Let’s do it.”
Chutt grinned and grabbed the extra food and smashed it into his loaf. He stood. “I think I’ll go get myself some supplies so I can start making my toys tonight.”
Critch stood. “Meet here fifteen before shift change to debrief. I need to scout out the generators. If you don’t need my EMP, I’ll put it to use.”
Chutt waved him off. “Have fun with it.”
The men separated. Chutt headed off to the showers while Critch headed to the alley that led to a door that no prisoner was allowed to go through—alive, anyway. It was the “back door,” the one where all deceased prisoners were brought for incineration. It was also the only door Critch knew wasn’t locked.
Critch approached slowly. He knew from running tests yesterday that if he walked slow and meandered his way toward the door, he could touch it before waking a drone and getting shocked. But the shock hurt like hell.
He paused every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t being watched and that no drones had woken. With five meters to go, he moved even slower, taking small bites out of his loaf. When he was less than a meter away, he leaned against the wall near the door. Pretending to be lost in thought, he closed his eyes and focused on listening to the constant humming of the drones in the open area. He could hear many layers of hums, some closer, others distant. Only one hum remained constantly near, roughly ten meters at his two o’clock high.
He was being watched.
Drones were easier to handle than human guards. Drones were purely rational and reliable. They would react the same way to the same situation every single time. It made Critch’s job easier.
He reached out for the door and heard the drone zoom in. According to Seda, the micro-EMP in his arm was weak enough that it wouldn’t raise alarms. If a single drone dropped, the Citadel’s human techs would assume the drone had broken down. They’d come to repair it rather than call in backup.
In a rush, he grabbed the lever and slid the door open just as the drone fired a shocker blast. The door stopped the blast, and Critch squeezed his arm. Critch waited for the shock, but instead heard a thump as the drone fell to the ground. His micro-EMP had worked, though it was good for only one shot. He scanned the area for more drones coming at him, but the fallen drone hadn’t alerted others. Critch stepped out from behind the door, saw the dead drone, and kicked it through the door and into the darker hallway beyond.
He was about to step inside when he froze. At a table in the distance, an old, frail woman watched him intently. She hadn’t been frail the last time he’d seen her, only a year ago. But, her eyes were as sharp as ever.
Vym.
Critch took a step toward her, but stopped himself and pulled the door closed, cutting him off from Vym and the open prison area. She was alive—that was all he needed to know. If he didn’t find the generator, he had no chance of getting her out of there. He had to focus, even though every bone in his body was shouting at him to go talk to her, to reveal his identity so she knew she’d soon be safe.
Instead, he bent down and examined the spherical drone. It had no eye mechanism, only a body heat scanner. On its back was a triangle-shaped patch, the same patch on the vests worn by the Citadel’s human staff. He peeled off the beacon and stuck it onto the front of his shirt. Then, he took off at a run.
He ran as quickly as he could down the hallway while still taking in anything that hinted that a generator may be near, such as cables or signs. Small drones perched near the ceilings but none woke, thanks to the gamble he’d made that the patch he wore was an all-safe signal. He ran past the incinerator and continued. He didn’t have much time before a tech would come for the drone, so he pushed himself, even after his breathing became ragged.
Just as he began to doubt the direction he’d chosen, he came across the generator. A massive engine sitting within a large cage—a Faraday cage. He frowned as he memorized all its features. While the generator was large, it wasn’t big enough to power the entire Citadel. He scoured the room, but saw nothing.
With a curse, he spun on his heel and sprinted back to the dead drone. By the time he reached it, he could hear talking down the other hallway. He tore off the patch and stuck it back onto the drone, careful to place it in the same location as it had been before. He pressed open the door and kicked the drone back outside. He’d not long shut the door when another drone shocked him.
Agony tore through Critch and he fell to the ground in a spasm. By the time he recovered his senses, the dead drone was gone, taken by the techs. He was still alive, which meant they’d suspected nothing. Idiots.
He pushed himself to his feet and saw that Vym was nowhere to be found. No one seemed to be watching him, though he had no doubt he’d been seen by many. He stumbled his first few steps until he found his bearings, and then walked toward his and Chu
tt’s table. Critch was a bit early, but Chutt was often early. There was no sign of him.
Critch looked across the wide open area, looking for Chutt’s larger, taller figure in a sea of gray. Finding nothing, he began to walk around, careful to ignore any gang members he came across. When he heard a yell, he veered toward the direction of the noise. He didn’t have to go far. The activity was near gang that provided all the population’s moonshine.
Mingh had been a torrent who served under Critch during the Uprising. Critch had never liked the guy. He’d had a mean streak then, and seemed to have become meaner from his years spent in the Citadel. Critch had caught his gaze once, and had seen the truth. Mingh missed war. He’d been looking for it ever since.
Right now, Mingh was focusing his rage at a prisoner his gang has grabbed. Critch approached with trepidation, already suspecting what had happened. His gut instinct didn’t fail him. Sure enough, Chutt was lying on the ground, bloodied from taking a solid beating.
Critch took a step forward, but someone pulled him back. “Don’t do it. They’ll just do the same to you.”
He turned to find Luther. The man didn’t show any sign of recognizing Critch.
“The Minks caught him trying to steal,” Luther continued. “It’s already too late for him. Look.”
Critch’s looked back to his friend to find him panting hard, harder than Critch had ever seen him breath. He then noticed the bloodied puncture marks in Chutt’s shirt, nearly hidden by all the blood from Chutt’s beating.
Critch’s jaw and fists clenched as he watched his friend drown in his own blood. It took nearly ten minutes before Chutt suffocated, and Critch never took his eyes off him. Once Chutt’s body relaxed completely, the prisoners dispersed. Critch didn’t leave. He stood there until there was only one other person remaining, watching him. Mingh.
Critch wanted to slam into the bastard and tear out his throat. He could easily kill him before Mingh’s gang killed Critch. But if Critch died, all hope of freeing the prisoners died with him.
