Infinity Rises (The Infinity Trilogy Book 2)

by Harrison, S.

  So this is what happens when you decide to infiltrate a top-secret research facility with nothing but a computer geek and the flimsiest revenge plan in history. I’d like to say that I’ll learn from this experience, but, after the Captain is finished with me, I doubt I’ll remember my own name—let alone all the mistakes I recklessly made today.

  Ryan was right. This is the worst field trip ever.

  Our bizarre procession trudges on in silence, and it isn’t long before I’m led down three flights of stairs and out the exit into the warm afternoon sunshine. The air is saturated with the pleasant, savory-sweet aroma of aviation fuel. Otto and the others are standing nearby, observing the soldiers boarding the two transports. The priming, high-pitched whine of their idling engines is already quite loud, so the soldier beside the ramp of the nearest transport is guiding us toward the open ramp that leads up into the second aircraft’s cargo hold. A couple of medics and the last of the wounded are making their way up the ramp as the school group approaches the transport. With my hands still behind my head, I’m prodded in the back with a rifle as Captain Delgado strides ahead, glaring at me with contempt as he passes.

  As I grudgingly shuffle forward, a shiny glint of light catches the corner of my eye, and I turn to look back down the courtyard toward Dome One. In the distance are what appear to be six large, metallic platforms. They’re steadily rising from the ground in front of that tall angular sculpture. As they continue to rise, I quickly realize that they’re not platforms at all; they look more like boxes, or some kind of huge, rectangular containers. They elevate higher and higher, until soon they’re so tall that they completely obscure the sculpture altogether. It’s difficult to tell from here, but I’d guess each one must be at least eight or nine meters high. My eyes widen, and my mouth goes completely dry. There’s only one thing I’ve seen today that would fit in a box that size.

  “Sir!” shouts one of the soldiers. He points in the direction of the containers, and as soon as Captain Delgado sees them, he wrenches his walkie-talkie from his belt and bellows into it, the pain of his broken ribs instantly forgotten. “Fire up those engines; I want those birds airborne in sixty seconds!” His order is immediately carried out as both of the transports’ four turbine engines suddenly throttle up into a steady roar.

  The sides of the silver containers begin folding down in sections, and as they fully collapse to the paving, my already-racing heart begins hammering in my chest. There was no warning from Onix this time. Maybe he learned that it isn’t wise to tell your enemies what’s coming? Or maybe he did politely announce the impending arrival of those hellish creations, and we simply didn’t hear it over the sound of the engines. I guess it doesn’t matter now, because sending six Remote Articulated Mechanoids to kill us is going to be like squashing an ant . . . with a sledgehammer.

  And only two minutes ago, I honestly thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

  “Go, go, go!” shouts the Captain. Otto glances over her shoulder at me with a look of abject terror as the school group breaks into a run toward the transport.

  “Sir, what about the prisoner?” yells the soldier standing directly behind me.

  “Priorities have changed, wouldn’t you say?” replies Captain Delgado. “Leave her, and get on that transport!”

  My five guards don’t need to be told twice as they all turn on their boot heels and run toward the cargo door. With the threat of being shot in the back removed, I drop my arms as Captain Delgado glares at me with narrowed eyes, looking me up and down like he’s trying to decide what the hell to do with me. I have no doubt that the thought of leaving me here with those six robots is at the forefront of his mind, but as he draws his gun, I suddenly realize that he may be considering a more swift and final solution.

  My breathing quickens, and adrenaline courses through me as I stare right at him, almost daring him to do it. Go ahead, you bastard. Kill me. I can see in your eyes that you want to, so just get it over and done with. What are you waiting for? I ball my fists and tense my muscles, wondering if I’m fast enough to cross the distance between us before he shoots me in the forehead. But Captain Delgado doesn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he lets out a frustrated snort, and, to my surprise, he walks right up to me. He jabs the gun in my side and drags me by the arm as he hurriedly strides off across the courtyard. “For Finn’s sake, I’m pulling you out of the fire, but you’re still in the frying pan, Infinity One. I’m your only way out of here, so don’t try any funny business.”

  He’s right. He is my only way out of here, but that means leaving behind the only chance I might ever have to get to Richard Blackstone. I need to weigh my options. I glance to the left, knowing that there are paths winding among the buildings that lead to the rest of the facility. Somewhere farther in, Richard Blackstone may still be here somewhere, hiding like a rat in a maze they say he never leaves. But without Otto’s help, it could take hours to find him, and by then, Captain Delgado will be back with more soldiers and more firepower. I look toward the transport. If I get on board, I’ll most likely be thrown in a military prison or have my brain fried to a crisp. That would not be ideal. I look to the right. Six of the most advanced robotic killing machines in the world are booting up. They still haven’t moved, but when they do, they’ll tear this whole place apart to eliminate any threat, and I think it’s safe to say that would include me. So . . . I can either stay to be hunted down like an animal or be marched off to a prison for a lobotomy.

  Wow. My options really suck.

  The school group has already disappeared into the transport’s cargo hold, and Captain Delgado and I have nearly reached the ramp. The time to make my decision ends the moment I set foot on that aircraft, but . . . I suddenly realize there is another choice. A choice I’ve already considered once today.

  I can run.

  I can forget Richard Blackstone and run. I could take my chances out there in the big, bad world and hope like hell that stupid bitch, Finn, doesn’t wake up and march my body back into the arms of the authorities. If Otto was telling the truth, and I could make it back to her in time, maybe she could erase Finn before that happens? That’s a whole lot of “mights” and “maybes,” but what other choice do I have?

  I can easily disarm the Captain and duck around the side of the transport. I could make it to the buildings on the other side of the courtyard before the R.A.M.s fully activate. He wouldn’t dare risk coming after me. Not with the threat of those mechanoids hanging in the balance. After that, if I keep up a good pace, I could probably find a town somewhere around here before nightfall.

  OK. My mind is made up. I have to run. It’s my only chance at freedom . . . and I have to do it now.

  A few paces from the edge of the ramp, I thrust my arm forward, breaking Captain Delgado’s grip and knocking the barrel of the pistol away from my side in one slick maneuver. Caught by surprise, the Captain pulls the trigger, and the gun flares, but the sound of the shot is completely drowned out by the roaring engines, and the soldiers trudging up the ramp have their backs to us. No one is alerted. I easily twist the pistol from Captain Delgado’s hand and elbow him hard in his broken ribs. He doubles over and drops to the ground. I dart away and skirt around the transparent heat curtain attached to the side of the ramp. I immediately regret my rash decision when I’m blasted square in the face by the scorching downdraft of the turbines. Luckily, the engines aren’t directly overhead, or I would’ve been incinerated, but it still feels like I’ve stepped into a furnace. My clothes whip violently as the jet wash burns my eyes and throat. I hold my hand up to shield my face, and I stumble, dropping the pistol as I turn and run, half-blinded, out into the open, a route I most definitely did not want to take.

  I have no choice but to carry on running as fast as I can in any direction—it doesn’t matter where anymore, just as long as it’s away from Captain Delgado. I keep going, rapidly blinking my eyes in a desperate attempt to c
lear them. It seems to help a little, and I must have covered at least thirty meters when my shoulder suddenly jolts and blood sprays onto the paving in front of me.

  I’ve been shot.

  I grab the wound tightly and keep moving. I feel another impact, and blood bursts out from my stomach and speckles the ground. I zigzag, trying to make myself a harder target to hit, but it does no good as another bullet brutally punches through my left thigh. My leg buckles underneath me, and I reach out as I hit the ground hard, scraping the skin from the palms of my hands as I slide to an abrupt stop, facedown on the paving. Warnings throb through my head. I’m bleeding badly, but I’m thankful that whoever shot me has terrible aim. I roll onto my back and glare toward the transport. My vision is still poor, but I can make out blurry shapes of frantic movement on the cargo ramp. I screw my eyes shut and will them to heal. I can feel the damaged film on the surface of my eyes sealing over, and when I open them, the blurred shapes sharpen into focus, and I immediately see why I wasn’t shot straight through the heart.

  Swaying violently from side to side, trying to wrench a rifle from a soldier’s hands . . . is Ryan.

  Otto leaps from the cargo hold onto the ramp and joins the fight as she swiftly whacks the soldier on the back of the head with a computer slate. The soldier fends her off, and she falls awkwardly onto her bottom. Ryan saved my life, but when those R.A.M.s wake up, I’ll be the closest target, and all his effort will be for nothing. I turn to check on the line of robots and immediately feel nauseous. All six pairs of white-circle eyes have turned an angry shade of bright red. If they’re anything like the Combat Drones, it’ll only be a matter of seconds before they fully activate. I need to move. Thankfully, my friends are buying me some time. I focus on closing my gunshot wounds, but I’ve lost a lot of blood today, and it’s getting harder and harder to heal the damage, especially when it’s this bad . . . Wait a second. Did I just call Ryan and Otto my . . . friends? Is that really what they are now?

  They’re trying to keep me alive, so to my complete surprise, the answer to my question is . . . yes. They are my friends.

  Well, I’ll be damned.

  Suddenly much more concerned for their safety than I thought I ever could be, I look back toward the transport. Three unarmed soldiers have run down onto the ramp. One of them assists Captain Delgado, helping him up from the ground, as another roughly pulls Otto into a choke hold and drags her out of sight. Ryan head-butts the man he’s fighting, and the soldier reels from the blow as Ryan pulls the rifle from his grip. The soldier tumbles onto the ramp, clutching his nose as another soldier runs forward and sucker-punches Ryan in the side of the head.

  Ryan drops to one knee, but as his assailant steps over him, Ryan swings the butt of the rifle, catching the man in the groin. The soldier buckles at the knees and drops as yet another man appears from the cargo hold and strides angrily toward Ryan. Even though he’s putting up a hell of a fight, Ryan is eventually going to be beaten to a bloody pulp by those men. And it’s all because of me. I have to try and help him. Maybe if I can stand, he’ll see that I’m OK and surrender. My shoulder is fixed, and the holes in my stomach and leg are almost closed, but my internal injuries still need some time to heal, so my body protests fiercely as I drag myself up onto one knee. I raise a hand toward the transport to show Ryan that I’m alright, but his eyes are focused on his enemies, not me. The angry-looking soldier steps over his fallen comrade and is only a couple of meters away when Ryan hauls himself to his feet and pulls the rifle to his shoulder.

  No. Ryan. Put the gun down.

  Regulation requires rifles to be stowed for takeoff, so the soldiers standing on the ramp are empty-handed. They glare at Ryan, motioning at him to lower his weapon as he waves the barrel back and forth at them.

  That’s when I feel the vibrations.

  I turn to look back down the courtyard, and my stomach churns. The R.A.M.s. are awake and approaching, marching in a synchronized line like six giant, red-eyed monsters, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed them.

  Captain Delgado is standing at the top of the ramp, shouting and gesturing wildly to someone inside. The turbines throttle up, and the transport suddenly begins to lift off with Ryan and the soldiers still standing on the open cargo door. All of them sway unsteadily as the transport rises. The aircraft leans; Ryan loses his balance and staggers. He fumbles with the rifle; it slips from his grasp and clatters at his feet. Captain Delgado lunges and pulls a pistol from a nearby soldier’s hip. He raises the gun, and as easily as someone would swat a fly, he pulls the trigger . . . and shoots Ryan square in the chest. Ryan twists from the impact and topples backward off the edge of the ramp.

  “NOOOOO!” My scream is lost in the roar of the engines.

  Clawing at the air, Ryan plummets from the transport and hits the ground hard. His head slumps to the side, and his lifeless eyes stare into nowhere. The other transport takes off, following right behind Captain Delgado’s. As I watch both transports climb above the buildings, seething rage boils through my veins. I vow that one day, I’ll personally gut Javier Delgado and force him to watch as I make him choke on his own intestines.

  My gaze falls on Ryan’s body, and I quietly whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  The pain of futile remorse grips my heart as I watch the transports leave. Ryan was so close to making it out of here. He could’ve been on that transport, but now, because of me, he’s dead. I try to console myself with the knowledge that Otto is finally safe. And if I’m ever going to make Captain Delgado suffer, I need to save my own skin, too. I grit my teeth and turn my hate into the fuel I need to carry on. I look toward the mechanoids. They’re still far enough away for me to make a safe escape, and I’m about to make a run for it when I pause.

  The R.A.M.s have stopped walking.

  They’re all just standing there in a line with their domed heads swiveled upward. All of a sudden, like fingers creeping toward the sky, I notice five small missiles rising up over the left shoulder of one of the mechanoids. Five more rise over the shoulder of the next robot, then the next in line, and the next one after that, until soon the shoulders of all six R.A.M.s are bristling with them.

  I feel pathetic and useless, tortured by my inability to stop this from happening, but there really is nothing I can do. Before today, I’d never felt what it’s like to know someone you care for is moments away from dying. It feels like a fist is squeezing my insides and forcing them up into my throat. It hurts.

  First Ryan, and now you.

  You don’t deserve to die like this, Bettina.

  I’ll never be able to tell you how truly sorry I am.

  I watch helplessly as the missiles ignite and begin launching, one after the other, in rapid succession. The gut-wrenching sight fills my eyes as the missiles hiss and wind through the air like serpents, weaving a white lattice of smoke trails as they climb higher and higher into the clear blue sky.

  Please . . . forgive me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  All hell will be breaking loose inside the cockpits of those transports. Missile-lock alerts will be blaring, displays will be flashing, panic will be spreading among the passengers like wildfire, and the pilots’ nerves will be stretched to breaking point as they’re forced to choose from a very short list of split-second, life-or-death decisions.

  The first of the missiles has nearly reached the lower transport when multiple glowing red globes of light begin shooting out of the aircraft’s undercarriage. The pilot has activated the antimissile countermeasures. The red flares are designed to draw heat-seeking missiles away from the engines, and I can tell by the missiles’ vapor trails that the distraction appears to be working as one, then another, then four more projectiles begin swerving toward the lines of drifting red lights.

  There are multiple flashes, and I momentarily lose sight of both aircraft behind a swath of fiery orange and yellow. The transports are already q
uite high, so there’s a two-second delay before the resounding bass beats of the explosions echo loudly throughout the courtyard. A glimmer of hope ripples through me as I spot Otto’s transport emerging from high above the darkening, smoky stains of the explosions. It tilts to the left and begins curving through the air, inexplicably heading back the way it came as it shoots its own strings of flares out behind it. A group of heat-seekers takes the bait, and half a dozen bulbs of fire burst harmlessly in the sky far below the aircraft.

  The other transport roves into view as it breaks through the blackened cloudbursts of the first detonations. The smoke trails over the aircraft’s fuselage like a ghostly veil as it veers wildly to the right. I see the blue flames at the mouths of its turbines burn brighter as the pilot attempts to gain altitude. The shock waves of the first explosions took out a good number of the other missiles, but, unfortunately, they weren’t nearly good enough. It would only take one to bring that transport down, and the heat from its engines at full burn is drawing three missiles toward it like hungry piranhas to a bleeding carcass.

  Otto’s transport makes a sharp turn as more lines of flares spit from its undercarriage. Seven missiles veer toward the flares. Four explode, but the other three are merely knocked off course by the blasts. Their vapor trails twist and turn erratically for a couple of seconds before, to my horror, the tumbling missiles correct themselves and continue their deadly purpose, curving back toward their target. I see the glowing engines of Otto’s transport go out completely. Either the engines are malfunctioning, or that pilot is attempting some kind of desperate survival maneuver. It appears to be the latter as the Gryphon drops like a stone and more flares begin spouting out from behind it.