Retaliate

by Alex Albrinck

  John squatted low, just tall enough to reach the engine throttle and the wheel used to maneuver the craft. His breathing was heavy; his shirt was drenched. Wesley’s eyes trailed down and he saw the thick rope around the man’s ankles, the other end tied to the steering column. Wesley’s mind pieced it together. John had gotten this boat close enough and anchored himself, then dove in after Wesley. He’d then managed to haul himself and Wesley out of the water with only one free hand.

  Damn. Impressive.

  John felt eyes on his back and turned around, still panting, but with a pleased look pasted across his face. “Sorry about the rough entry,” he said. Shouted it, actually, so he could be heard above the cacophony around them. “Bad guys have rifles now and aren’t happy with us, so no time to prop you up and strap you in. Need to get back to the big boat.”

  A bullet clanged into the side. Another whizzed by over John’s head, missing him by inches. Wesley noted the movement of John’s neck muscles and realized he’d said something; what little reached his ears wasn’t fully intelligible, but Wesley discerned from the tone that John wanted to inflict severe pain on the people shooting at them.

  “I don't think they like us,” Wesley said, pushing his voice to its current volume limits.

  John chortled, eyes bright with exhilaration. “No, I don't think they do.” He twisted his head around and nodded at a box secured to the floor. “There's some salve for burns in the medical kit there. Once I’ve got this heading in the proper direction I'll get it out.” Bullets flew overhead again, and John began slaloming through the waves. “On second thought… if you’re up to it, perhaps you can fetch the salve yourself? Or wait until we’re back on the big boat; should be much better stuff there.”

  Wesley scowled. “You're supposed to be on the yacht. You could've gotten yourself killed coming back here. And then what?”

  “That's a funny way of saying thank you.”

  Wesley’s scowl deepened. “Thank you. You idiot.”

  John laughed. “You’re welcome, fool. We watched your performance. I thought you'd found another boat to make your way here, but when we scanned the pier more closely we didn't see anything. When the fuel tank exploded and they started shooting at you… I figured you could use some help. The troops directed me to retrieve you before we got too far away. The big boat can haul it, but we can catch up.”

  Wesley rolled his eyes. “Translation: you left without asking and they yelled at you as you drove away.”

  “That might be more accurate.” John rolled away from the wheel and released the snaps securing the medical kit. He slid it over to Wesley. Wesley opened the kit and found a tube marked salve. He stared at it, thinking about the ointment he’d applied following his battle with the Hinterlands beasts.

  John had crawled back to the control column before realizing Wesley hadn’t moved to apply the salve. “Need help?”

  Wesley shook his head, unscrewed the top, squeezed some out, and dabbed it against his face, arms, legs, anything that hurt. He avoided his hair, even thought that hurt as well. The ointment stung, but he could feel it working to numb the pain without deactivating his limbs, which seemed to gain more vitality as the boat bounced atop the waves. He recapped the tube and stowed it inside the medical kit, then crawled to secure the kit back in its spot. He didn’t look at John. “Thanks again. I owe you.”

  More bullets whistled overhead. “They didn’t want me to leave; hell, I didn’t want to leave, either. But I knew we’d never forgive ourselves if we'd just left you behind.” He managed to glance back at Wesley. “Probably not a good time to be keeping score, figuring out how many times we have to save each other. Don’t care what that count is. At this point, you’re family, and I’ll dive into the water after you every time I have to as long as I’m able.”

  Wesley grunted, which seemed a suitably masculine way to express appreciation and agreement with the sentiment. He pushed himself to his knees and rested on his haunches, using the pain to keep himself focused. “How are they shooting at us? We have to be getting out of range of anyone on shore or the dock, don't we?”

  John bobbed his head up high enough to see over the side before dropping back down toward the boat's floor on level with Wesley. “Not sure. Long range rifles with scopes, I’d assume. Perhaps some machine assistance with aim. Not unreasonable to think they’ve got a few snipers there. Some of those can hit targets a long way off. And that’s assuming they haven’t managed to find another boat to chase us.” He grimaced. “I’m hoping we’re rapidly reaching the edge of their range and pushing beyond.” He glanced up at the looming bulk of the super yacht, tweaked the steering wheel, and glanced back at Wesley. “Are you able to walk?”

  Wesley gritted his teeth as he tested muscles, trying to mask the wincing. “It'll probably sting a bit, but nothing structural. Numbness has worn off. I can walk. Not sure I could run just yet.”

  “That’s enough for now.” He nodded forward, toward the big boat. “There's a winch system that raises and lowers this boat up to the main deck. When we get close, we’ll cut the engine and drift in close to a set of four cables with carabiners on the end.” John motioned at four notches around the perimeter of the speedboat. “They attach there. If you can walk, you can stand, and we can work to get the connections made more quickly.”

  Wesley caught the unspoken message. Despite his outward calm and seeming optimism, John was worried. He’d not thought through the possibility of those back on shore retaliating against them for stealing the speedy mega yacht or the destruction of the dock and the deaths and injuries Wesley had caused. Now that the bullets continued to ping against the side of the smaller speedboat and whoosh past where their heads would be if standing, he knew the risk. If Wesley couldn’t help, and John was shot before completing the connection, they’d both be stuck in the water.

  Unless Mary or the kids somehow climbed down from the top deck.

  Wesley knew neither of them wanted to add more of their party to the high-risk pool. “I'll be ready.”

  Wesley spent the next two minutes crawling to one side of the boat; he didn’t know which way John would “park” the craft, but his intent would be to take the side away from the large ship and closer to the shore. If one of them was shot, it would be Wesley. He found the two attachment points and, as John slowed the craft to a crawl, he looked up. The cables were dropping down, and with them finally having a bit of distance from the shore, he could hear the mechanical gears grinding as the winch unwound.

  His muscles, still recuperating from burns and a paralyzing numbness, screamed as he moved from a kneeling position to a deep squat. Wesley shushed his muscles. Survival was at stake, and he had a job to do.

  The breeze caused the cables to swing about a bit, and Wesley knew he didn’t want to stand tall longer than necessary. He timed the cable’s approach and stood, snagged the end, and, while holding the side of the boat for balance, snapped the carabiner into the eye hole. Then he dropped to his hands and knees, crawled to the other connection on his side, and waited for the other cable to swing by. He felt the craft stabilize; John had attached the first of his two cables, and their boat was now less at the mercy of the bubbling, gurgling seawater. Wesley watched the random swinging motion of the second cable, noted that the latest swing away should bring it back in the correct direction, and waited. He bounced up, grabbed the cable, and repeated the reattachment move with the second, then dropped back down to the floor of the craft, turning to watch John.

  John had snagged his second cable as well, attached it quickly, and looked up. He stayed standing tall and held his arm in the air, thumb extended.

  Wesley heard the winch start back up and let his head fall back down, waiting for John to join him on the floor of the boat.

  He didn’t hear the crack of the gunshot until after he saw the blood splatter on the floor, until after he heard the cry of pain, until after he heard the screams of horror from above.

  But he heard th
e thump of John hitting the floor of the craft immediately, the victim of the only shot fired by those left behind on the island to hit its target.

  —16—

  MICAH JAMISON

  IF HE WERE HUMAN, Micah would complain about the agonizing wait between the mournful wails about the unknown status of his closest friend. He passed the time working, analyzing data, trying to find some detail missed as he gathered data from tens of thousands of input devices spread around the planet and beyond. The part of him that longed to be human pledged more processing power toward monitoring the space station for anything resembling news about Sheila, relying on the humans above the atmosphere to make mention of his invisible friend. It was unlikely there’d be any mention, though, unless Sheila made a mistake, because humans lacked the senses required to detect her presence inside the cocoon he’d taught her to build with the swarm of non-lethal nanobots.

  That’s when he realized what he’d missed in his search for Sheila. His communications scan would find her only if they spoke of her, but beyond any initial warnings of a dangerous stranger aboard the station, he doubted there’d be much chatter of any reports of her whereabouts… because nobody could see her. If she stayed well hidden, he’d never find her that way.

  He had to use a different type of sensor, of a type that natural human senses couldn’t provide.

  After an extensive review of his options, he found the answer in the most unlikely of places.

  The space station tractor beam.

  The sensors had to detect and locate approaching ships based upon signals emitted by the ships approaching docking bays. And they’d need to follow those unique ship-based signals until the tractor beam hooked its wave-based claws upon the hulls dragged carefully aboard.

  He hacked into those sensors—which were shockingly under defended—and found that he could adjust the signals being tracked. He could also adjust the powerful sensors to look for something inside the space station itself, rather than outside.

  Those invisible nanobots weren’t detectable by human eyes. But the power source gave off a unique signal that couldn’t be masked if you knew what to look for. Micah knew what to look for. And soon enough, he’d repurposed a portion of the tractor beam detection system to monitor the interior of the space station for the unique signal emanating from Sheila’s nano swarm. It wasn’t perfect—the sensors didn’t work well around curves and there would be interference from the other waves generated by the other systems inside—but it gave him something better than he’d possessed before.

  It didn’t take long before he got a match.

  He flipped full processing power to his ad hoc monitoring system, adjusting his code to detect the relative strength of the unique signal to triangulate her position. Sheila had taken temporary refuge inside an area dubbed Noah’s Ark, where Phoenix maintained a type of zoo, from which they’d source the grasses, plants, trees, and wildlife needed to turn the Ravager-scarred surface into their own private wonderland, another Eden-like paradise. It was one of the few things they’d done he thought Sheila—and Ashley—would applaud. Even if they’d not intentionally wiped species off the surface, creatures could and did go extinct. Plants might vanish as specialized habitats changed and unique conditions subsided. Having an off-planet habitat for everything—some living, some in embryonic stasis—meant the world would never truly see a living thing go extinct.

  He only hoped that the unique signal he’d tracked there was truly evidence of Sheila’s continued existence… and not Phoenix’s adoption of a power source he could only assume they’d never adopted. While it was true they’d use that power source in the Ravagers—they were just recoded versions of the same bots Sheila now used—he suspected that the Phoenix elite would keep that technology far away. Definitely not in the space housing the plant and animal life needed to build out the surface to their liking.

  Despite the inherent weakness of his hypothesis, he would work on the presumption that Sheila lived. He’d told her enough of the wicked ways of Phoenix that she’d probably spend her remaining time in space waging her form of guerilla warfare.

  He allowed his body form to purse its lips, grimacing. If she continued moving about invisibly, it might remind some of the ancient residents there about a group who could do the same even without the old magic. And if they remembered, they might recall just how to deactivate those devices… a situation that would doom Sheila to a terrible fate.

  Having confirmed Sheila’s survival from the kludged-together monitoring system, Micah pushed that bit of code to the background and resumed his review of his other active projects.

  His hidden cameras wedged into crevices on the island used by the Phoenix elite as a private enclave were working again, back online after temporarily losing signal in the aftermath of the missile crash. He put his visual sensor analysis systems to work to assess the impact. Large sections of the primary social beach were coated with the “remains” of his deactivated Ravager swarm, which spiraled out over what had once been pristine sand from the crater marking the missile’s impact point. If he were human, he might find himself nauseous at the gruesome visual evidence that his counterattack had been potent and deadly. Many of the elite lounging around had paid the ultimate price for their crimes against humanity.

  He’d coded the missile to adjust its route and speed to arrive at midday, the time when the greatest numbers would be on the beach, enjoying the perfect weather. He’d maximized the causalities, but wondered how many had escaped injury. They’d certainly have one or more modes of transport off the island, though many would have no reason to leave until their new Western homes were ready for permanent habitation.

  He switched off the camera bank showing the beach area and activated a set he'd mounted on one of the piers for a large, private dock near the primary beach area. The camera bank gave him a panoramic view of the dock, shoreline, and the surface of the ocean nearby.

  When the current imagery appeared, Micah allowed a humanlike gasp to escape his mouth. That wasn’t easy for a creature that didn’t breathe.

  The two-tiered dock—a lower tier for small boats, and an upper section perhaps fifty feet above the water for the oversized luxury yachts a few elites liked to use to make impressions—had been nearly destroyed. A huge chunk of the upper section was gone, apparently collapsing into the lower section. Fire raged despite the proximity to water, tongues of flame dancing off the pressure treated timbers comprising the dock structure. The fuel tank providing refuels spat greasy looking flames into the sky, and what didn’t burn leaked out of a huge hole in the side, adding to the heat of the burning timbers. Charred bodies lined the upper and lower sections, and he spotted dozens of injured humans trying to figure out how to leave the dock for the shore and some type of medical care with the standing sections of the dock now an island unto themselves.

  He couldn’t fathom how such a catastrophe happened. Had the beachgoers transported Ravagers to the dock, triggering an initial demolition and then an explosion as the Ravagers reached the fuel tank? No, the tank couldn’t erupt in flame like that just from exposure to the air.

  His eyes moved back to the dock… where he spotted a pair of humans aiming and firing tripod-mounted rifles at a distant target.

  His visual sensors picked up something odd atop the surface of the water near the top tier of the dock. A huge hose, like one might expect to transport fuel from a tank into a large ship.

  He pulled up the small mechanical mounting robot he’d set under the cameras, and twisted them around to show more of the horizon out to sea. There it was, probably the largest luxury yacht he’d seen, one that could probably haul the entire population off the island if needed.

  That same boat was the target of the snipers on the dock. But why? Why fire on their own? Perhaps an initial group had left and had burned the dock to prevent “overcrowding,” condemning those left behind to whatever fate had in store, and in retaliation the stranded were firing upon the fleeing ship.
>
  He made note of the hose again, the chaos on the dock, and still couldn’t make his theory work. They wouldn’t destroy the dock, no matter how much they wanted to get off the island, no matter their eagerness to flee.

  It was either an accident… or somebody not part of the elite had triggered the destruction with malevolent intent.

  He pulled up the imagery of the boat.

  And then he saw it. The speedboat being lifted from the water to the height of the main deck, where three other people waited.

  He froze the image, a single shot showing all five people. The people who had, he surmised, triggered the dock’s destruction as they’d fled with the yacht meant to hold all the evacuees.

  That explained the snipers. They weren’t angry at their peers. They were angry at the outsiders who’d stolen their escape route.

  He scanned the frozen image, checking first the three people aboard the yacht. A woman. A boy. A girl. All bearing a fuzzy, but still striking resemblance to the people he'd met on their mutual escapes from the Lakeplex at the launch of the Ravager swarm.

  The three people on the big boat were Mary and her children.

  Though their faces weren’t clear at such a distance from his camera, he could assess their expressions. They weren’t afraid of the two people in the boat. They were worried. Concerned about their well-being. Logical given that one of them had just been struck by a bullet fired from a long-range rifle.

  How had they gotten there? He’d modeled everything and projected that the most likely spot they’d get to was the island near the Lakeplex. If they had… was it possible they’d wandered into the portal door room and had the misfortune to wander through the door leading here? His robot staff wouldn’t allow it… unless the survival of the human guests was at stake. If the Ravagers had somehow been blown to the island and razed his house and possessions, the robots would spill the secrets of the portal doors to save their lives, to get them away from the island and away from certain death.