Allies and Enemies: Exiles, Book 3

by Amy J. Murphy

  He glanced over at Tyron to see her reaction. Nothing.

  Vin’s voice in his earpiece: “That old witch Techyan never said nothin’ about culler-mechs.”

  “Maintain.” Tyron’s voice buzzed via the vox. “It doesn’t change the op. Leave it to me.”

  As if this were the cue, a yellow-white ball of flame bloomed at the feet of the mech. The Heavy Gravs opened fire. Immediately two of the unarmored Guild skews went down like rotted trees. The other two tried to retreat into the runner when a line of strafing fire—Tyron’s work—forced them back. The guildsworn were forced to take up a defensive position behind one of the runner’s landing stanchions. They returned fire with impressive accuracy. Auto-targeting. Must be. Dex envied them their high tech equipment.

  “First squad advance.” Tyron’s voice was flattened by the tiny speaker in his ear.

  Three shapes moved from the shadow of the surrounding warehouses, firing at the two remaining men.

  A larger blast erupted in a rain of plasti-crete inches from his hiding spot. Dex realized it was heavy cannon fire coming from the downed culler-mech. The scutter mine they’d planted might have taken the metal beast down, but it was definitely not out.

  “Second squad. Concentrate fire on the mech. Avoid hitting the ship. We need it intact.”

  Someone nearby, probably Dussel, released a victorious yelp as the last of the guildsmen went down and stayed down.

  A small shape darted under and around the runner’s farthest stanchion. Dex glimpsed a quick flash of rust-red hair. Bix!

  She wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this. He’d heard Tyron tell her so himself. The girl hadn’t taken it well. He wasn’t really surprised to see her but dismayed at where she chose to appear. He watched as she advanced on the mech from the rear.

  “Hold fire!” Tyron barked. An edge of anger to it. He glanced over in time to see her hammer the side of a fist into the ground. She’d definitely spotted Bix and was not happy. “First squad. Flank anti-spin. Second squad on me.” Tyron didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She rushed out into the clearing, opening fire at the mech.

  He realized she was leading a distraction for Bix to do whatever she’d meant to. The turret head of the mech swiveled wildly. The first blast had compromised its targeting system. The whine of its servos likely meant it was recalibrating. Two volleys struck to either side of Tyron. She lunged ahead, not giving it a chance to correct its aim.

  Bix took this as her chance to move. She slipped under the belly of the runner to the far side of the mech. He caught sight of something boxy in her hand.

  For an agonizing moment, she was eclipsed by the hulk of the mech. Then he saw her sprint away with impressive speed into the darkness where she’d first been hiding. The mech did not detect her as it made wild ratcheting sounds. It tried to lumber back to an upright position and redistribute its weight on the remaining functional limbs.

  “Down!” Tyron bellowed. She dove aside, rolling up into a ball.

  An explosion ripped through the mech’s body. The curved sides split open to vomit more flame and billows of smoke before crashing to the ground with a rumble Dex felt through the soles of his boots.

  Like a crushed salt-spider, it pulled itself forward on two crumpled limbs. Another smaller shuddering blast erupted as its internal drives succumbed to the heat and flames. Finally, it was dead.

  Dex yelled in triumph, a throaty bellow fueled by nerves and adrenaline. They’d beat it. They’d done it. This was better than any raid ever done on one of Koenii’s small time hoods and outrated any simple smash and grab for supplies.

  This felt…right. What he’d been made for.

  He felt a crazed grin move over his mouth. Vin gave him a sharp nod. “Not bad.”

  Dex ignored his brother’s subdued response. Leave it to him to be a skew. He shook his head and jogged out to the clearing, catching up with Tyron. One glance at the flat line of her shoulders and thrust of her jaw and he felt his mirth evaporate.

  How could she be angry? It was sloppy, but they’d won. Well, this part, at least.

  “We leave in five,” she said, flatly. Then, shouldering the rifle, she added, “Find Bixtrenslor and bring her to me. Now.”

  Seventy-Four

  “The only reason you’re still on this op is that no one else here has been in a Resource Center. Got it? You go against orders again, and I’ll have Dex throw you in the hold, and we muck through without you,” Tyron raged.

  She knew the girl couldn’t be expected to understand the chain of command or the reasoning behind obeying orders. She was an impulsive, silly child who acted without a second thought. Her actions could have jeopardized not only her unit but also the rescue of her compatriots.

  “You can’t order me!” Bix spat. “Besides, it took out the mech, didn’t it?”

  Tyron was aware of a low murmur: the sounds of sympathetic groans from the direction of the troops wedged into the space once occupied by the culler-mech. It would not have occurred to them to even consider addressing her in such a way.

  Dex stared resolutely at the deck, finding it fascinating. His face had turned a deep red. It was highly probable he was infatuated with the girl, something Tyron could use to an advantage since it was likely Bix might stray again from taking orders.

  Tyron leaned into Bix’s frowning face and made her voice a low snarl. Bix met her with a fierce glare. “You asked for my help. This is what that looks like. You follow the chain of command.”

  The girl uttered a loathsome growl that Tyron decided to ignore. Instead, she returned to the control hub to inspect their progress with guiding the culler back to the Resource Center. As the one with the ability to read some of the Poisoncry printed language, Vin had been promoted to helm control. Thankfully, they’d discovered that the sequences were largely automated. It indicated a low skill set of the guildsworn and lower still the level of trust that Poisoncry placed in them.

  Returning to the Resource Center would be the easiest task. Getting out was another story.

  Seventy-Five

  They were poised on either side of the hatchway, split into small groups. Tyron, at point, glanced back, making sure that Dex was true to his word of keeping Bix out of harm’s way—something he had agreed to without hesitation. She caught a glimpse of red hair as the girl attempted to peek around his hulking form. Good.

  The gangway lowered. The brilliant light of the landing field’s floods temporarily blinded them. Tyron tensed. They’d wedged themselves behind the doorframe, but there was little in the way of cover in the vessel’s interior.

  She edged forward and scanned the landing field: a stretch of unmarred plasti-crete well-lit by the overhead floods. No movement. But also no cover for nearly fifty meters from where they’d landed. There was a cluster of crates, and beyond that stood a set of tall doors that were likely meant for the culler-mechs. That was where they took their captive cargo. She gestured for the rest to stay behind and crept down the ramp.

  Ducking behind one of the landing stanchions, she completed her survey. The landing zone held only one other runner. Its lights were dark, and the portals shuttered. No figures moved about. It felt strange, considering that the arrival of more “recruits” would have presumably triggered the response of some sort of dedicated personnel, even if it was just craft maintenance drones.

  She tapped her earpiece: “Bix, when they took you here, do you remember how they brought you inside?”

  There was a hesitation. Then, “Woke up in a cell with a bunch of other smalls.”

  Brilliant.

  Tyron looked back at the line of men awaiting her orders. She motioned for them to advance in twos with a swift set of hand signals. No one moved. She frowned as the Heavies exchanged confused expressions. Vin shrugged at her.

  Tyron shut her eyes, realizing that they had no idea what she was trying to communicate to them. Despite their appearance, they were not a squad of Volunteers. They were the dispossessed offspring
of those soldiers, ignorant of so much training and discipline, it was staggering.

  “Advance to my position by twos.” She did not bother to hide her annoyance when she spoke into the vox. “Keep to cover. Watch me.”

  They filed out in a sloppy approximation of what she’d ordered. Three and Seven would stay behind to cover their escape with the runner. With another irritated grunt, she pushed forward to the large mech-sized doors, clearing the open space in a sprint that made her impaired leg sing with protest. She leaned against the side and inspected the doors: heavy blast shielding. There was a scan code painted on the wall meant for a machine reader, like something the mech would have used to open it. Below it was a square panel.

  Using a combat blade, she wedged the cover open. A mass of black and silver wires greeted her. She prodded at the confusing lines, looking for something as promising as a manual activation switch. A low hum vibrated at her fingertips. She snatched her hand away. It was an unpleasant sensation, like touching something alive and squirming.

  The nest of filaments bulged. A black orb, like a sightless eye, erupted from the snaking surface. Tyron drew back just the orb emitted a tiny blue flash. Pain spiked the side of her head, centered in the scar that marred her left temple. It was a sudden jolt, gone just as quickly.

  A rumbling noise announced the parting of the blast doors. They rolled smoothly along hidden tracks.

  Rubbing her temple, she looked back to the Heavies that had positioned themselves nearby. She resisted an irritated sigh. They were clustered up and looked like they were waiting for formal invites.

  “Move in,” she growled. “Vin take point. Watch your spacing, morons.”

  Tyron covered their entry. Bix and Dex were the last to step across the hatchway.

  “That was some trick.”

  Tyron caught the girl’s suspicious glance. She’d been watching what happened with the access panel.

  “No trick. Just lucky.” She shooed the girl forward. “Perhaps the system shorted.”

  “Right. Lucky,” Bix mocked, staying in place. “That old hag said you likely had some of their tech in your skull still. It was that what done it.”

  Fear squeezed her lungs. A strange metallic taste filled her mouth. You know they did something to you. What else did they do?

  Tyron checked to be sure Dex was out of earshot. She grabbed Bix’s collar and pulled her close. “You don’t tell them a thing, read? They don’t need to know.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. She swallowed, easing out of Tyron’s grip. “Won’t say nothin’. Swear.”

  Seventy-Six

  The interior was lit for machines and automatons, not living things. It made sense, as the entrance was for culler-mechs and not the guildsmen who operated the Resource Center. She told the team to use their torches sparingly. There was no telling what might be disturbed by light.

  Tyron found herself absently wishing for night-vision tech. While she was at it, she told herself to wish for an actual squad of Volunteers. However, they’d been holding together well, save for the occasional break in the silence she wanted them to observe.

  They reached a set of blast doors with a nearly identical scan code on its surface. She regarded the access panel with dread. Touching the squirming mass of wires inside was bad enough, but she was in no hurry to experience another interaction with that sightless black eye from the outside door.

  She sensed Bix watching her in the cast-off glow of the torches. The girl was likely wondering the same thing. Tyron approached the access hatch, blade at the ready to pry it open.

  Before she could touch the hatch, the blast doors parted, snaring them all in a wash of sickly green light from the room beyond.

  The Heavies could be faster than they looked as they wedged themselves into the narrow space to either side of the door. Tyron grabbed Bix, pressing the girl behind her and likely squeezing the air out of her against the wall. She heard the girl give an uneasy grunt.

  A culler-mech clopped past them. The rounded carapace of its head remained still, its single sense-eye unlit. It appeared to be in some sort of automated mode, vigilance unnecessary in its own lair.

  They waited until the whine and tick of its actuators faded in the distance before moving from their hiding spaces. Tyron released her hold on Bix. The girl moved eagerly back to Dex’s side. There was no more grousing.

  Tyron took point. She moved slowly, ears picking up each foreign noise: the low hiss of environmentals, the occasional tink of metal against metal. No voices or sound of footfalls. The corridor split in two directions: to her right the staggering sight of a long row of culler-mechs, about ten deep. To her left the space ended in a set of doorways likely meant for the mechs’ masters. She drew back inside the door, gesturing for the men on the opposite side of the door to do the same. She waited, counting to ten.

  When nothing happened, she crouched down. She looked to the right as she leaned out.

  None of the culler-mechs had moved. Like the one that just passed, no lights gleamed from their shells. Powered down. She tapped the doorframe with the combat knife, watching the machines for the slightest move.

  The sound echoed in the large room. Impossibly loud.

  Nothing.

  Relatively satisfied, she stood.

  She motioned for Vin to get his attention. “Four and Six stay here. Hold this position. Tell them not to use the vox unless they have to.”

  “How will they know if we found the brats?” he asked.

  Bix made a throaty growl but abstained from saying anything after she caught Tyron’s glare.

  “Oh. I think it’ll be obvious.”

  Seventy-Seven

  The door was unlocked. Tyron found that it rolled aside with noiseless ease.

  There was a blank quality to the air as if it had once crackled with noise but now was dead. Long metal tables ran the length of the wall to her right. It had an industrial feel to it, like a processing facility. A similar set up she’d imagine for livestock—but this was for Eugenes. She suppressed the disturbing thought. Tubing, filled with fluid emitting a bluish glow, draped down in a dense jungle, their origin lost in the darkness of the ceiling. The air smelled of cleansers that barely masked the organic smell of decay.

  Nothing moved in the eerie stillness. Metal carts lay abandoned in the middle of the passages between tables, adding to the sense that they’d entered the wake of something hectic and frenzied. Poisoncry had evacuated this place. Why? If they’d anticipated their incursion, abandoning the facility was an unlikely scenario when leaving an active contingent of culler-mechs would have solved that problem.

  The skin along the back of her neck tightened. She was missing something, but what?

  Midway, she ordered them to spread out. She heard the scrape of boots across the damp plasti-crete floor as they moved among the empty tables and equipment. Tyron swept her wrist torch from side to side as she advanced down her aisle.

  Her light picked out a sad pile of ragged clothes. Bix unfurled a brown bundle to reveal a child-sized jacket. Her eyes widened. “This is Lana’s.”

  Bix cast about the table, digging through the clothes for more clues. “She was here.” Hope and desperation warred in her face. “They have to still be here. Right?”

  She rushed ahead to the next table.

  Tyron caught up with her. “Is there anything familiar about this place that can help us? Do you remember it?”

  Bix’s chin quivered. “A little. I remember lights, tall cages.”

  “Which way? Show me.”

  The girl cast aside the ruined clothes and slid along the aisle as if pulled by an invisible string. She took a deep breath, forcing the fear away. “Through here.”

  The aisles ended in a wall set with recessed doors. As they approached, the door closest slid aside. A musky animal smell rolled out to greet them. Vin was the first to reach the door. He leaned in then drew back, cursing under his breath.

  Tyron caught his gaze. He gave h
is head a slight shake.

  She forced Bix to stand behind her as she scanned the new room.

  Three large cages of thick mesh filled the space. Bodies littered the bottoms of the first two. She panned a light over the still shapes. Shadows shifted, giving the illusion of movement, but the quiet told her otherwise. These prisoners were dead.

  Bix gasped, pivoting away. She plowed into Dex and sagged against him. He stiffened, brows raised in surprise. His clothes muffled her anguished sobs.

  “What do you notice?” Tyron studied the pale, starved faces, the tangle of limbs and pale skin. All dressed in that same disposable paper clothing. The same clothes she’d had on from Before, the night of the runner crash. Was this the same fate that awaited me? Was I destined for one of these cages?

  Vin regarded her. “Don’t see no smalls.”

  “Where’s the how-come in that?” Dex asked.

  “Each one has a recent injury. Looks precise. Surgical,” Tyron added. A young male, barely out of adolescence, leaned against the mesh. He was missing an eye, the edges of the orbit singed black as if cauterized. A man with silver hair lay sprawled toward the center of the space. His right arm ended in a stump.

  Bix stepped away, pawing at her damp eyes with the back of her hand. Hope freshened her voice. “No kits here. They can still be alive. Just somewhere else.”

  “This is takin’ ages,” Vin groused. “You said we could take what of we found. That’s the deal. So far, all I seen’s dead folk—”