by M. L. Banner
Max looked up and clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping. There it was: their nemesis, Bios-2. It was huge—definitely bigger than Cicada. In many ways, it was like Cicada. It was on top of a mesa, accessible by an elevated road, and its complex was surrounded by a massive wall. But there was something peculiar over it and around it: a delicate transparent dome.
“It has some sort of resonating field above it,” said Pel, a particle scientist. “I’m guessing it’s a protective force field.”
“Great. Now what, boss?” asked Tom.
“Let’s move closer and observe. I’ll take the lead.” Max eyeballed Bios-2 and wondered how they would break into that.
Patrice Lazarro normally hated wall duty because it was so boring. No one could shoot at them with the EPF on and few of the Squatts ventured closer than the five-hundred-meter Death Zone, for fear of getting fried by one of their five EMAs. So her job of announcing any potential breaches to the Zone was superfluous, at best. Tonight was at least a little different only because the stars were out. It had been rare to see more than one or two stars at night; the brightness of the auroras that rolled in at twilight each night obscured the sky.
Patrice used to love watching the night sky and learned many of the constellations. For the first time in almost a year, she could see Ursa Minor with the North Star at the tip of its tail, and The Big Dipper as well. How beautiful, she thought. Based on the time of year—she drew her binoculars to her face—and the clear skies, I should be able to see Jupiter and maybe Ven—
To Patrice’s left, a small pop and a fire erupted about three hundred meters away in the open field. The fire quickly spread in a line, along a trail for maybe twenty feet. Then it appeared to go out a foot before a hunk of metal that used to be a car, which had long since been picked apart.
The car exploded, the boom thundering around them.
“Operations, I have a disturbance at three o’clock. Car fire. Reason and source, unknown.” Patrice lowered the radio from her mouth and thought about what else she could report. “Please advise course of action.”
Since all Bios-2’s sentries would be familiar with it, Max and Tom chose the abandoned car as their diversion. With all eyes on it, they would sneak in the back way.
Pel pointed out that they could see the dome with their night-vision goggles. It was blue-green and pulsated with electricity, similar to most auroras, only it was perfectly convex. The dome stretched in a nearly flawless hemisphere over almost all of Bios-2, except for where it ended just inside one corner of the wall. That was their entry point.
Max tossed a grappling hook up onto the wall while the guards were trying to figure out what to do about the exploding car. Sue held it for him while he shinnied up. Tom was going next and the other four would maintain a perimeter around the rope so that Max and Tom had a means of escape. It would have been nice to have some more bodies coming with them on the inside, but he didn’t trust them without being completely trained.
Their goal was to take a guard alive and force him or her to tell them where the device was and how to get in. It was a risky plan, but it was the best plan Max could come up with at the moment, and they had to do something.
He was halfway up the rope when he could see a guard running along the wall, past his location, probably to get a better view of the burning vehicle.
Max clung to the wall like a bug so he wouldn’t be seen.
Lunder heard Patrice’s announcement from the eastern wall and knew that Thompson had started something. Assuming he didn’t know any of the other entrances from below, he would scale the northeastern edge of the wall, where the EPF barrier didn’t quite reach it. It was the only place someone could breach their facility. But Lunder had a surprise waiting for them.
“Light ’em up!” he announced on his radio while he bent over the wall’s lip to get a better look at his operation unfold.
“This is Operations, you have permission to engage the enemy.” That was the official word to everyone waiting.
First, the EPF was switched off. Then there was a single shot and he watched the man on the rope fall to the ground. Then, one of the EMAs blasted its bolt at what looked like a man training his rifle on their shooter. Lunder closed his eyes before the corresponding flash and then waited another second before he opened them. He saw a smoking heap on the ground and two others scrambling. The automatic gunfire from their other guards cut them down before they could run far.
Lunder scoured the ground below for movement and saw none. “Thank you, Operations. Mission successful. Enemy has been neutralized,” he told the radio and then descended the stairs.
He glanced up and caught Westerling in his office, watching the whole thing behind his window.
Webber mouthed the words to “Hold On Tight” by ELO, part of a mix that included Chicago, Boston and Little River Band. During the chorus, he felt the console vibrate and saw the red flashing indicator on his smallest computer monitor. He slipped off his headphones, the tinny sound of violins still resonating from them, and opened the drawer.
It was definitely ringing, he confirmed. But who in the hell would be calling them?
He reached around and banged on the wall separating Comms from Preston’s office. “Preston! Come here. The phone is ringing. Preston!” he yelled at the top of his voice.
Preston blew through the door and huffed, “Who is that?”
“How should I know? Who else has a phone and is connected to us?”
Preston ignored the question. “Answer it.”
Webber hesitated, not sure what to say. He clicked on the speakerphone so Preston could hear and then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“This is Senator Brian P. Westerling, the leader of Bios-2, or what you might refer to as the other Cicada. Let me speak to Preston Tanner.”
Webber spun around in his chair and looked up at Preston, his face an image of stunned confusion. “How…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Preston grabbed the phone, stretching the cord to its limit. “This is Tanner. What do you want, Westerling?”
Webber was perplexed. It seemed obvious that Preston knew this man who led the other Cicada.
“I wanted you to know that Maxwell Thompson and the other men you sent to attack us have been stopped and killed.”
“Uncle Max?” Sally King yelped in the Comms doorway. “Oh my God.” Behind her was her father, holding her, trying to provide comfort.
Webber turned pale and looked nauseated.
“Assuming I believe you, what do you want?” Preston asked, the phone in his hand shaking.
“I have an army of over one thousand men headed your way now. They will give you one chance to surrender. If you do not accept it, they will destroy Cicada and everyone in it. Goodbye, Preston.”
The line clicked off, leaving only static.
Preston hung up. The room was silent, but for a few sniffles from Sally and Bill.
“I wish to hell we had some way to confirm if this madman was telling us the truth. If only we could get recon and then plan accordingly…” Preston paused, and then as if he had a thought, looked to the doorway. “Hey, Bill?”
Bill King was gone.
“He said”—Sally sniffled and blew her nose in a rumpled tissue—“he said he had to go see a scientist about a hovercraft.”
26.
Bios-2
“Simon Washington here, bringing back Mrs. Melanie Reid to see Senator Westerling,” he announced at the door’s intercom while looking down to confirm that the pressure on his side was, in fact, still his sidearm, now held by Melanie.
“Remember, Simon, I won’t kill you if you do what exactly what I say.” She pushed harder, signaling him to move forward.
The door buzzed open.
There were two guards by the entrance and one behind a barrier that would close if she took out the first two guards right away. She had to get through that barrier, and before that, take out the camera pointed at the
door so Operations couldn’t see, before it was too late.
The two guards approached and she walked past Simon toward them. He made a gurgling noise and fell to his knees, grabbing his neck, pretending to be choking. This wasn’t the plan.
The two entry guards turned away from her and ran to Simon’s aid, as unsure about him as she was. One was trying to administer the Heimlich. The guard at the barrier stood up from his seat and hurried past her, yelling “That’s not how you do it.”
While all attention was focused on Simon, she pulled out a small perfume bottle and aimed at the camera, spritzing a gooey dark paint-like substance on the lens.
Only the barrier guard remembered Melanie was there and looked up to find a gun pointed at the three of them.
“I don’t want to kill you, but I will if—”
“Put down your weapon,” said the barrier guard, now reaching for his sidearm.
“I mean it, I will drop you where you stand.”
The other two abandoned Simon. The one doing the Heimlich dropped him to the floor, where he writhed with some unknown pain.
All three were slowly reaching for their weapons.
“Please…”
She reacted without thinking, aiming for the center of mass as she was taught.
A hollow ringing followed.
One of the guards was still moving and looked like he was moaning, but she couldn’t hear him.
Simon was no longer feigning illness and slowly rose, semi-slouched above the injured guard—the others were no longer moving. She walked calmly up to the moaning guard, held the gun up and would have pulled the trigger, but she caught Simon’s face. His eyes begged why? They were almost child-like in their innocent plea, not quite understanding what it all meant.
She couldn’t do it.
Instead, she lifted the gun higher and brought it down upon the back of the guard’s head with all her strength. He stopped moaning. She grabbed his radio and the other then tied up Simon, so he wouldn’t be in trouble. Again, she felt a little sorry for him.
Lunder ran the last few steps, his boots squeaking on the concrete outside S227. The door was wide open, and a small amount of blood streaked the floor, indicating signs of a struggle. One of the guard’s radios lay against an opposite wall, by their sofa. He bent down to pick it up, but then remembered their hiding spot where they passed notes, hoping she had left one there. Reaching behind the table up against the wall, he couldn’t find anything.
He then pulled the note he had found left under a rock by Dr. Rush’s door. Of all the scientists, he should have expected Dr. Rush to be involved in the Reids’ scheming. In spite of Westerling’s belief, Lunder knew they couldn’t be trusted. He opened the note and read it once more.
They’ve been telling us lies. Cicada IS a reality. Westerling & Lunder took us from Cicada and are keeping us prisoner. They never intended to let us go. I’m going to stop them. Wait for my sign and we’ll meet at the rendezvous point.
Mel
Lunder scrunched the note up in his hand, angry that he couldn’t figure out where this traitor was. He thought he might get lucky and that she would meet Carrington here, but she’d been and gone. Then he thought she might try to take out their power, but now he realized where she was going. He tossed the crumpled note and darted out the door.
“Operations, this is Lunder Gufstafson. Dispatch security to Westerling and the Observation Tower immediately. I will meet them on the ground floor. Apprehend Dr. Melanie Reid. Consider her armed and dangerous.”
“Mr. Gufstafson, I read you—”
A piercing squeal bellowed out of the radio. Lunder yanked it away from his ear and turned the volume down to minimize the hit to his already painful headache. He dashed down the stairs and out the doors into the morning sunlight. There were already a few guards in front of the tower’s entrance; at least that part of his message had gone out before the loud noise. He turned up the volume, and the squeal still blared. Angrily, he turned it off.
“How the hell did you disrupt our radios too?” he said as he jogged. They had all underestimated Melanie Reid.
Carrington had been listening to the broadcast and knew he had to think quickly, before Lunder could give more instructions. He had been waiting for the right moment to carry out his plan, his resolve fading, when he heard the transmission and knew the window had opened but could slam shut without warning. Hiding behind a desk, he grabbed some tape from a drawer. Then taking two radios he had collected from two guards he had disarmed earlier, he taped them together and slid both mic buttons into the “On” position. With both transmitting at the same time, he whistled. The sound picked up and transmitted, resulting in both radios echoing a loud high-pitched feedback. That would take out all the radios on that frequency.
Now he had to wait for the time to spring.
He wished he could have told Melanie why he was going to do this. Of course she wouldn’t understand, and she would have talked him out of it if he told her. He wished their lives could have gone in a different direction. He wished they had more time.
The elevator door opened up and he shrank further behind the desk, gun ready.
“I wanna see Crapaw,” cried a little girl. It was Westerling’s granddaughter.
“We’re going to see him now,” said Deanna.
“I wanna show him my new necklace Mrs. Reid gave me.”
“You will. Here we are.”
There was a knock on the door and the sound of it opening.
“Crapaw… Crapaw. Look at my new necklace.”
Carrington peered over the desk and saw a woman and beyond the doorway, a little girl hugging Westerling.
“Dammit,” he breathed. He would have to wait longer.
The elevator door opened again.
Melanie slid out of the elevator and peered into the reception room. There was no one there and Westerling’s office door was open. He could hear voices inside. She slipped into the waiting room, and then slinked into the conference room, crawling underneath the long table, until she reached the end.
Lying sideways and boosting her head out, she scanned his office, clutching her gun.
He was standing right there and looking away from her, talking to someone out of her view. He was less than fifteen feet away from her: easy shot.
She slid the gun along the floor and brought it up slightly, acquiring a perfect sight picture. She aimed right at his head. Apply pressure to the trigger. Wait for the shot.
She took a breath and unwrapped her finger from the trigger.
Westerling held up little Leanne, his granddaughter, and spun her around. She was joyfully showing off the necklace Mel had given her. She couldn’t shoot and risk hitting the child. And even if she had a clean shot, could she shoot the child’s grandfather right in front of her?
She sighed, at a loss.
There was a commotion coming from the elevator. The waiting room door burst open and so must have Westerling’s office as he looked in that direction and let go of Leanne, who ran to her mother’s arms.
It was now or never. She fired.
“I’m sure glad I followed your recommendation and had the window walls hardened to withstand a bullet.”
“Well, as you can see, even these pacifist scientists can commit violence,” Lunder said proudly.
“Speaking of which, can you get my daughter and granddaughter down below and out of harm’s way?”
“Yes, of course.” Lunder turned to the guards and said, “Take them to their residence and post one guard there until I tell you otherwise. And leave me with Mr. Westerling.”
“Yes sir,” they announced and left, ushering Leanne and her mom out of the office and closing the door.
“What are we going to do with her?” Westerling motioned toward the conference room, where an unconscious Melanie lay on the floor, her hands and feet zip-tied.
“Until we find her husband, I’m going to do nothing. I’ll take her to my office and hold her there.�
�
27.
Outside Cicada
Flying a hovercraft was completely different from flying an airplane. Its inventor, Dr. Cockerell, said it would be the same, but he was wrong. Bill had had a few hours’ flying experience, courtesy of a close friend of Max’s who owned a private plane in Mexico and was certified to give flight lessons. Flying his Cessna was easy; this was not. All the controls in a Cessna were intuitive, designed by many engineers over a hundred years of trial and error; but the hovercraft’s controls, designed by a generous mad scientist and with no trial and error, took practice. Unfortunately, that was a luxury Bill didn’t have. With an airplane, there was an element of “feeling” the controls when you maneuvered. The hovercraft, shaped like a toaster, took lots of thought, which was not good for split-second decisions. He prayed that he wouldn’t make the wrong ones and burn himself to a crisp, as he often did with toast.
It would have seemed to the casual observer—who would supposedly think a flying blue toaster was normal—that he was on some suicidal quest during the toaster’s inaugural flight. Twice he almost crashed into the forest’s canopy below. He had brought the hovercraft so perilously close to the treetops that a couple of them slapped the craft’s underside.
Bill found that when he wanted to bring the hovercraft lower, a very light touch with one thumb on the stick caused it to descend very rapidly. But when he wanted to ascend, he had to pull. Side to side was easy, although he had to be careful not to toss himself off the damn thing. After getting the hang of the controls, maybe halfway to Bios-2, his next worry was being seen by the troops he was attempting to scout.
The oversized toaster was painted blue, not as some ode to a giant Smurf, but because Cockerell thought it would blend into the sky. He forgot that people on the ground would be looking up at its bottom, which was black. However, when he was closer to the ground, the blue made him very visible against the brown trees and gray-brown mountains. Fixing that was for another day, if he made it to another day.
