Infinity Rises (The Infinity Trilogy Book 2)

by Harrison, S.

The evasion technique seems to work as the persistent missiles lock onto the flares, speed in . . . and explode in a line of raging fireballs. Otto’s transport is buffeted by the shock waves, but it’s in one piece. Its engines flare back to life, but only for a moment before they cut out again. They fire up once more, burn for an instant, and then are extinguished again. Something is wrong. Otto’s transport is losing altitude fast.

  Both Gryphons are in dire trouble. I quickly look toward the other transport. Its engines are now at full power, and it’s speeding away with the three missiles still in pursuit. Two more lines of flares eject from the transport’s belly, but it’s too little, too late. The three missiles chasing it are far too close now to choose a warm appetizer over the piping-hot main course of the turbines. The curving trails of the heat-seekers become arrow straight as they speed past the flares and close in on their target. Everyone on that aircraft is as good as dead.

  I’m sure even they know it by now.

  No sooner does the morbid thought cross my mind than blooms of fire open up in the sky. The transport violently rocks and jolts as it suffers three successive direct impacts. All I can do is pray for the occupants’ deaths to be quick and painless, and by the time the gruesome rhythm of the explosions reaches the ground, the burning shell of the aircraft is already falling out of the sky.

  Otto’s Gryphon is still dropping, its engines firing in sporadic bursts as it tilts and sways through the air.

  The other transport continues plummeting toward the ground, but . . . it’s not falling the way I thought it would. Somehow, its turbines must still be functioning, because the transport is being propelled on a strange, twisting trajectory. A thick trail of billowing black smoke spews out from behind it as it zigzags through the air like a leaf caught in the wind. It’s coming down fast, and the closer the falling aircraft gets, the more it dawns on me that the wreckage might actually crash-land . . . right here in the courtyard! There’s no way of telling exactly where it will hit, but when it does, I sure as hell don’t want to be underneath it. I quickly turn and take off toward the row of buildings behind me as the labored whine of the transport’s engines gets louder and louder directly overhead. It’s coming down, and it’s coming down fast.

  Functioning on little more than pure adrenaline, I run for my life, vaulting over bench seats and dodging around tree trunks and lampposts. Panting at the air, I sprint along the line of buildings, heading for the only structure I know of with an open door . . . The command post. I’m nearly at the entrance to the stairwell when I look into the sky and spot Otto’s transport. It’s low, and it’s coming down over the buildings farther into the facility. I hope like hell that they’re able to land safely.

  The other transport has curved around and is coming in fast, right into the courtyard, just like I feared it would. It’s close enough that I can see that the bottom half of the Gryphon is almost completely gone, but three out of four turbines are still attached to the upper half of the crippled aircraft. Anyone in its cargo hold that survived the explosions would have fallen to their deaths, but I’m still amazed the whole thing wasn’t completely blown to smithereens with the initial strike. It’s moments from hitting the ground when suddenly the two front turbines roar to life. The nose of the transport pulls up at the last instant.

  It’s so close to the ground that it roves in between two trees as a huge swath of black smoke pours down behind it, dousing everything in its wake with a blanket of billowing darkness. I’m less than fifteen meters from the stairwell door when I suddenly skid to stop and stare in stunned disbelief. Incredibly, through the shattered glass of the Gryphon’s cockpit, I can see a man struggling with the controls. There’s no mistaking what he’s trying to do. He’s not trying to land the transport safely, oh no. If he were, he would’ve chosen anywhere else to attempt it. I only caught a glimpse of his face for a split second, but it was long enough to tell me exactly where he’s aiming that wreck.

  Directly at the line of six robots.

  The part of their programming that controls self-preservation must have suddenly kicked in, because all of them turn and break into a run. Three go to their left, and three lunge to their right as fresh sets of missiles launch from all of their shoulders. Heat-seekers fill the air, winding and spiraling in every direction. Some curve and head for the runaway transport, but, with the target so close, many shoot straight up and out to the sides before correcting their course, veering in wide, out-of-control arcs. One of the errant projectiles spirals and then loops around, hitting one of the R.A.M.s square in the center of its own head. The detonation rips open the green dome like a tin can, and the giant robot drops to the ground like a marionette that’s had its strings suddenly sliced away.

  There’s no time for celebration as missiles slam into the sides of buildings, weave upward, or head straight down into the ground. Some curve toward the transport and hit trees or benches, and some streak out of view into the black fog that’s steadily spreading across the courtyard. There are so many explosions that it feels like the fabric of reality is being torn apart around me. I dive at the ground, screaming as fireballs erupt in every conceivable direction. The noise is astonishing. It’s like an earthquake and a thunderstorm have combined and are raging into real life.

  Glass is shattering, walls are toppling, chunks of stone and concrete are raining down around me, and as the transport is hit by a barrage of missiles, it’s completely obliterated in a drumming pattern of colossal detonations. The first in a series of rolling shock waves scoops me from the ground and slams me against something hard as each successive wave punches every bit of my body in quick and brutal succession. I’m speared in my shoulder and leg by flying scraps of metal as thick, burning globules of concentrated aviation gel spatter the crumbling facades of the buildings like napalm.

  The shroud of black smoke engulfs me. I cough and retch inside the mire of choking darkness, desperately waving my hands. The only light I can see is coming from the patches of burning fuel and debris scattered throughout the courtyard, and the only sounds I can hear are the crackling of fire . . . and the heavy tromping of approaching footsteps.

  The R.A.M.s are heading in this direction. I need to move. I run my trembling fingers down my thigh and touch the sharp edge of metal sticking out of my leg. I grasp it tightly and quickly pull it out. A warm spray of blood squirts against my hand. I slap my palm against the open wound and will it to heal. The footsteps are coming closer; I need to hurry. I can feel the cut starting to close, but it takes every ounce of my concentration as each microscopic repair taxes my mental discipline to the limit. I’m on the brink of bursting a blood vessel in my brain when I finally stop the bleeding and only barely manage to close the skin.

  I reach across and pull the shrapnel from my shoulder. Even though the warning tones tell me it’s not as bad as the gash in my leg, I still don’t think I’m quite strong enough to heal it. I quickly tear a strip off the sleeve of my shirt, wrap it as tightly as I can around the cut in my shoulder, and, holding one end of the makeshift bandage in my teeth, manage to tie a temporary knot.

  The footsteps sound like they’re almost on top of me, so I try to stand. There’s movement, and I’m instantly gripped with terror. Through the oily black smoke, I can see the shadowy outline of three giant robots, the hazy glow of their bloodred eyes swiveling from side to side as their thunderous stomps shake the ground. My internal voice screams at me to get up and move. I grit my teeth, haul myself to my feet, and begin limping along the line of buildings. Tripping over fragments of dislodged paving and rubble, I reach the stairwell door that leads to the command post. I could climb the stairs, and I might be safe for a while, but I don’t go in. I shamble on past the door as the pounding vibrations of the robots’ footsteps spur me on, and while the thought of avoiding being crushed beneath one of their massive feet is all the incentive I need to keep going, that’s not the reason why I carry on.


  I need to know if Otto is still alive.

  I’m sure there’s enough cover between here and the buildings at the far end of the courtyard to stay out of the R.A.M.s’ direct sight lines. The patches of burning fuel will hopefully disguise my body heat; so as long as I’m quick and I stay in the smoke, I think I can make it. I find the right part of my foot to put weight on so I can move faster, and I’m covering ground at a decent pace when my plan immediately begins to come apart at the seams. The black smoke I was relying on to hide me is thinning fast. It’s too late to turn back now. I can see the shape of a tree up ahead. As I change direction and head toward it, my worst fears come to life as a voice suddenly booms out from the darkness behind me. It’s a deep, emotionless, robotic voice. It’s exactly the way I’d expect a robot designed for killing would speak, but inside it, I can hear something else: it’s as if two overlapping voices are saying the same bone-chilling words at exactly the same time.

  “INTRUDER DETECTED.”

  I’d know that other voice anywhere. It is Onix’s. It’s like his calm, polite tone has been wrapped in the other voice, folded into the guttural bass of those synthesized war machines. Onix’s virtual insanity is going to bring this whole place down, and if I don’t double my efforts, I’ll be taken down right along with it.

  Bolstered by the overwhelming desire not to die, I stubbornly deny the injury to my leg and quicken my pace even more, picking up speed as I near the misty edge of the dank fog. I glance back and see the hazy contours of the three mechanoids’ heads and shoulders, their soulless red eyes ringed with murky halos of scarlet.

  With a growing sense of terror rising in my gut, I limp out into the open. There’s no proper cover between here and the tree, which is nearly twenty excruciating meters away.

  A nightmarish scream cuts through the air.

  It’s the terrifying, high-pitched, ramping-up wail of the R.A.M.s’ weapons preparing to unleash hell. I’ve felt fear before. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but every mission I’ve ever been sent on has frightened me. I learned to control it, and even harness it and use it to make me stronger. But what I’m feeling now is pure, undiluted, and utterly overwhelming. Even the warning tones of my injuries fade behind the sounds of my heart beating in my chest, my throat, and my ears. The mild afternoon breeze feels cold on my lips as each breath is strained through my clenched teeth, the desperate rasp of every inhale vocalized with mewling, involuntary whimpers.

  I’m not afraid.

  I’m absolutely scared to death.

  My damaged leg is forgotten as I break into a scrambling, unwieldy sprint. The sound of the wailing guns begins to crackle with arcing electricity, and I know what comes next. I know that I’ve run out of time. I don’t look back; what would the point of that be? I don’t want the last thing I see to be those dead, red, glaring eyes. Tears of effort and dismay trail down my face as I grunt and stumble toward the tree.

  It’s so close . . . but I fear it’s just not close enough.

  The sound of blaring foghorns shocks the air as the robots’ weapons open fire behind me. I scream as I dive toward the ground and roll as the paving beside me erupts into a storm of dust and stone shrapnel. The burst of gunfire cuts off, and, filled to bursting with terrified panic, I try to push myself up. When my left hand hits the ground, it sounds like I’ve slapped the paving with a wet sponge. I look down and see why.

  My left hand is . . . gone.

  Rational thought leaves me completely. The tattered, fleshy stump at the end of my arm simply doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be real, so I tell myself that it isn’t as I scramble to my feet and desperately hobble to the tree. I collapse against the trunk, and the deafening foghorns blast again. My long, agonized scream is completely drowned out by the brutal sound of the R.A.M.s’ guns as pulverized wood chips and dust fill the air and thick, leafy branches thud on the paving all around me. I’m convinced that my eyes must be playing tricks on me when the entire massive shadow cast by the wide canopy of the tree suddenly begins to creep along the ground.

  A loud, slow creaking sound is soon followed by a jarring racket of snapping and splintering, and as I look up, I realize with horror that the large tree is tilting over. A meter above my head, the bark cracks, and then suddenly the trunk ruptures into a ragged line of fractures as the bulk of the tree begins toppling toward me. Scrambling and stumbling away from what’s left of the trunk, I only barely avoid being crushed as two-thirds of the tree comes crashing down around me.

  A ton of solid wood and leafy canopy hitting the ground sounds exactly like a giant wave breaking on a rocky shore, and I’m smothered in the outer edge of it. I shuffle on my elbows out from underneath the fallen tree. I’m completely exposed, and I can hear the thudding footsteps tromping closer. Dazed, I roll onto my back, and my defensive reflexes kick in as I raise my hand to shield my face. But no shade covers my eyes—instead, a steady trickle of blood splashes on my cheek as I stare at the empty space where my hand used to be. I feel sick. I lower my arm and see the towering robot come into view. It’s joined by another, then a third, fourth, and fifth, all of them standing in a line like gigantic, green statues.

  “INTRUDER DETECTED,” booms the center robot. It raises its massive arm toward me, and the metal rails of its weapon fizz with blue sparks as its wailing death-scream screeches through the air.

  So this is how it ends. I expected to feel some kind of emotion when I finally came face-to-face with the moment of my own death. Fear? Anger? Sorrow? Even rage would be appropriate. But what I’m feeling can really only be described as intensely . . . annoyed.

  Suddenly every surface of everything around me lights up with spots of dazzling blue light. They’re everywhere: on the ground, on the fallen tree, on my body, and all over the five huge mechanoids. They look like scattered, indigo-colored laser beams reflecting off a mirror ball. As the lights dance across the R.A.M.s, the one in the center starts to swing its massive arm from side to side like it’s trying to swat a fly. The rest of the robots begin acting strangely, too. Their domed heads swivel and tilt in every direction as missiles extend and retract haphazardly over their shoulders. One mechanoid turns and clunks into its neighbor as another giant robot just stands there staring upward, its glowing red eyes pulsing as if hypnotized.

  I don’t know what’s happening, but this may be my only chance to escape. I try to roll onto my knees so I can stand. The pain-suppressing properties of adrenaline are wearing thin as fresh warning tones sear through my mind and skewers of genuine agony begin stabbing up and down my left forearm. I feel dizzy. The loss of blood and the loud clanging in my head, mixed with the continuous screaming of the R.A.M.’s weapon, are taking a brutal toll. I’m weak and confused and disoriented. I feel so cold, but . . . my skin is also strangely warm at the same time.

  I’m trying to push myself up off the ground when I notice the whining sound of the robot’s gun is changing. It’s getting deeper and louder as my skin gets hotter and hotter. My vision fades in and out of darkness as I struggle to stay conscious. The wail of the mechanoid’s gun is engulfed inside a deafening roar, and I collapse onto my stomach as a scorching wind suddenly whips at my body. I fear that I’ve finally lost my mind. Either it’s that or the gates of hell are opening up to receive me. I’ve never believed in it before, but . . . after all I’ve done, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the deepest, darkest pits in the bowels of damnation has been reserved especially for me.

  I take a deep breath and try to shake off my ridiculous thoughts. My vision clears, and my eyes regain their focus on reality. There, less than nine meters away, I see the actual source of all this light and noise. A pure-black transport has landed in the courtyard. It’s much smaller and sleeker than the Gryphon 400s. On the nose of it, where a set of landing lights should be, is a rotating array of sparkling lenses, casting beams of blue light in every direction. A door slides open on the side of th
e transport, and three or four people wearing black uniforms leap out and come running toward me. I struggle to keep my eyes open, but they feel like lead, and I’m fighting a losing battle.

  Everything goes dark.

  Someone grabs me underneath my arms. Two more sets of hands cradle my legs, and I’m lifted off the ground. There’s shouting. I can’t make out the words over the noise, but the intense feeling of annoyance washes over me again, and this time it’s mixed with equal parts of worry and anger. I’m jostled as I’m carried and lifted. I’m laid down on a cool surface, straps are tightened across my torso, and there’s a sting in my thigh. I feel a sudden burst of energy, and when I open my eyes, there are people in gold visors and black combat masks all around me.

  The transport lifts off, and through the open door, I can see the ground moving away. One of the people flips up their visor and removes their face mask. It’s a pretty young woman; she may even be younger than me. She motions to someone, and they pass her two microphone headsets. She quickly puts one on, slips the other onto my head, and speaks. Her voice sounds tinny through the earphones, but I can hear her very clearly. “Welcome aboard, Commander. I’m Caitlin, but everyone calls me ‘Gazelle.’ It looks like we got to you just in time. It’s an honor to finally meet you face-to-face.”

  Commander? I’m no one’s Commander; she must have mistaken me for someone else. I ignore her and turn toward the door, breathing deeply to clear my head, and as the transport turns, I can see the little blue dots of light still dancing over the mechanoids below.

  A male voice pipes in through the earphones. “The electronic scrambler will lose effectiveness once we hit the fifty-meter mark. If those R.A.M.s start shooting, everybody hold on to something.”

  Someone grabs my left wrist and plunges the stump into biting coldness. I look down; the girl named Gazelle has stuck it in a container of pink gel. I inhale sharply as the warning tones and pain intensify for a fleeting moment . . . Then they’re gone. She removes the container, pulls an aerosol can from a med bag, and sprays the nub at the end of my wrist with a thick coating of liquid bandage.