Psion Omega (Psion series Book 5)

by Jacob Gowans

  “Wait!” Byron said, now through thick blood covering his lips. “I will tell you! I am a decoy.”

  “From what?”

  “The white floor. They wanted access to the white floor. Needed a high profile target to draw your attention.”

  “No one can get to the white floor, poet,” the Thirteen growled. “Not without our knowledge.”

  Byron said nothing. Instead he met the Thirteen’s gaze and waited for him to make the next move.

  “If what you say is the truth,” the Thirteen growled, “you’ll get a quick death. If you’re lying, the creams … and a death as slow as I can make it.”

  “The team is already there. Check for yourself.” Byron’s voice carried a mixture of distress and pride, hoping to convince the Thirteen that what he said was true.

  Triangle-Face growled, frustration in his red eyes. The white rooms had no cameras, no surveillance systems. A team would have to go down and check the doors for signs of forced entry. Commander Byron watched him closely.

  Following a series of jerks and shrieks, the Thirteen left the room. If Byron had to guess, he’d say Triangle-Face’s orders had been to kill the prisoner if he moved. All the Aegis kept their guns trained on him. The bloodlust shone in their eyes. They may not wait for an order to kill me, Byron thought as he counted methodically in silence.

  When he reached one hundred, he smiled at the Aegis around him. “I thank you all for being so hospitable. I feared my interaction with you would leave me much more injured than a simple nose piercing job gone bad.”

  A couple of their fingers twitched.

  “But as I simply cannot sit here all day, I leave you with one parting word … Emeralds.”

  A soft click came from one of his bionic legs resting two meters away from him. Byron doubted anyone else heard the sound. He took a deep breath through his nose and then counted upward from one, praying that the Aegis didn’t stab him before he reached ten. At eight, everyone in the room except himself dropped to the floor. He took another deep breath through his nose, clogged with deeply implanted nasal filters, and waited until the gas dissipated enough that he could safely speak.

  “Albert,” he ordered the com built into his bionic leg. He waited half a minute, but no answer. A brief flare of worry rose in his chest. He quickly extinguished it by reminding himself of his son’s skill and capability. “Albert.”

  Still no response.

  “Albert.”

  Byron pulled at his restraints while his stubbed legs dangled over the end of the chair, the metallic attachments gleaming whenever they caught the light. Each second that passed without an answer felt like an hour.

  “Albert.”

  He tried to tug himself free again but lost his balance and fell to the floor, his face smacked hard on the tile. Stars burst in his vision and pain blossomed in his skull. He lay on the ground unable to move, his cheek mashed against the floor. He could do nothing but hope the Aegis did not wake. Byron had never felt so helpless or pathetic. It can’t end this way. Sammy and Jeffie are counting on me. Their deaths will not be in vain.

  The door swung open. He strained his muscles to get free, but it couldn’t be done.

  “Dad?”

  “Hurry!” the commander hissed.

  Several rounds were fired as Albert gave a bullet to each of the Aegis in the room. Then he uncuffed his father.

  Byron rubbed his wrists where the skin had peeled away from his attempts to wrench himself free. “What kept you?”

  “It’s only been a few minutes, Dad. I gassed the Thirteen, cut off his thumb, and shoved him up out of the elevator hatch. Then I got here as fast as I could. I thought I worked pretty efficiently, thank you very much.”

  “Is everything in place?” the commander asked as he reattached his legs to their mechanic joints and donned the uniform of a dead Aegis.

  “Yep.”

  Albert had been atop Elevator 13 for hours. While Byron had entered the lobby dressed as a belligerent homeless man, Albert had killed an Aegis patrolling outside the building, taken his clothes, and entered the tower in the Aegis’ uniform. Once inside the elevator, Albert had covered the surveillance camera with a tiny screen that showed a twelve-hour recording of people getting on and off an elevator from the same angle as the existing camera. Then he slipped through the top elevator hatch and waited for the signal. Emeralds not only triggered the gas from the bionic leg, but told Albert to come immediately to the black floor and retrieve the commander.

  Byron checked the time. “Two hours until launch.”

  They left the room with the black door and checked the rest of the cells on the floor for prisoners. They found none. Albert had propped open the elevator with the body of Triangle-Face. Using the dead man’s finger and eye, they ordered the elevator to take them to the white floor. Just before the elevator passed the red floor on its way down, the lift abruptly came to a halt.

  “What’s going on?” Albert asked.

  “I think our plan has failed.”

  Albert grabbed his pack still atop the elevator, next to the dead Thirteen, and retrieved from it the plasma blade. He fired it up and jammed the blade into the floor where it slowly began to cut through the thick plate of tempered steel. The commander’s son was nearly halfway done cutting a hole when the elevator began to move again.

  “Hurry,” Byron muttered.

  Albert looked up. “What’s happening now?”

  “They have taken control over the elevator.”

  The lift finished the descent to the red floor. Byron jammed the DOOR CLOSE button, but it didn’t stay closed. As the commander crouched low and took cover behind the right door side panel, his son did the same on the left. A grenade flew toward them just as the doors opened, but Byron blasted it back the way it came. The shrieks of Thirteens followed.

  BOOM!

  Debris and smoke filled the air accompanied by a heat wave that dampened Byron’s face with sweat. Using a flexiscope from Albert’s pack, he peered around the corner. Through the smoke and ash he saw figures moving about. Some Thirteens were dressed in their red-melting-to-black uniforms, jagged 13 symbols blazoned over the breast, others had fully mutilated bodies in wanton displays of undress.

  “Finish cutting the hole,” the commander ordered. “I’ll keep them back.”

  They were a swarm of bees, angry, humming, and constantly moving. Each time the commander thought he had one in his sights, he fired his syshée, but missed. With his other hand he blasted a shield wide enough to protect himself and Albert, who crouched behind him. Not for the first time, he wished he had his real legs, and the ability to jump-blast. He was an old man now, slow, and needed every advantage he could get.

  Albert resumed cutting with the plasma blade. Meanwhile, the nearest Thirteens worked their way in closer. Byron finally clipped one of them in the leg, but she hardly reacted. Two more Thirteens launched into the air trying to jump over his shield. Commander Byron shot at one, but the Thirteen twisted around before the gun even fired. The other he blasted back with a strong hand blast, leaving Byron momentarily defenseless. In that instant, a bullet punched through the tricep of his left arm.

  “Albert!” the commander cried as the nearest Thirteen kicked him in the face, breaking his already badly cut nose and sending an explosion of sparks through his vision.

  Before the commander could recover, a gun was in his face. Without hesitation, the Thirteen holding it began to pull the trigger when his head jerked and blood spattered in the commander’s bleary eyes. The Thirteen fell on top of Byron. If not for the gore pouring from the Thirteen’s head, Byron might have left the body there for cover.

  Albert had their attention now. The commander’s wounded arm burned and ached, but he used both hands to blast the Thirteen off him. Albert had already managed to kill two enemies, but more remained.

  “You finish cutting, Dad!” Albert said. “I’ll handle them.”

  Byron tried to use the plasma saw in his i
njured condition, but between his hurt arm and his need to keep an eye on Albert, he did a poor job. I should not have come. I am too old, too slow. My pride may end up getting both of us killed.

  Using their bizarre, animal-like communication, the Thirteens cautiously advanced on the elevator. They could not all attack at once for fear of being bottle-necked and picked off, one by one. Two more grenades flew at the elevator, immediately followed by two more. Albert blasted all four back with reflexes that would have impressed an Ultra. A bullet ricocheted off Byron’s bionic leg in the process.

  “Watch those shields!” he told his son.

  The explosion from the grenades was tremendous. Black smoke filled the air, and the last thing Byron saw before the cloud filled his vision was two Thirteens torn apart from the detonation. Albert was shoved to the back of the elevator where his head slammed into the wall. A female Thirteen attacked through the haze. She had a shock of red hair styled in a Mohawk and a face tattooed to look like it was covered in rivulets of wet blood. Byron dropped the saw and drew his gun, emptying his magazine, but missing every shot. His left arm was weak and unable to keep the gun steady. Rather than trying to reload, he abandoned the gun and focused on blasting her. She attacked between his blasts, weaving in, out, and around to get in close for hand to hand combat. Just as she got near, Byron used one hand to blast himself off the ground and slammed his weight into her.

  His momentum drove the Mohawk Thirteen out of the elevator and into the wall, cracking ribs and plasterboard alike. She tried to sink her teeth into his neck but bit down on his shoulder when he jerked backward. Commander Byron brought up a hand to blast her head at point-blank range, but she spun away only to attack again, knocking Byron to the ground. His shoulder, arm, and face roared in pain.

  Struggling to beat just one Thirteen, the commander lamented. What good am I?

  He jammed his hands up under her ribs and blasted her up into the ceiling where she hit the remnants of the plaster and crossbeams. As she fell she reloaded her gun, fast as anything Byron had seen. He raised his hands to shield, but the bullet cracked his collarbone and exited through his back, like a torch blowing through his body. He blasted again, blindly, and forced her back, her head smacking wetly into the stone wall.

  Commander Byron lay on the ground, fire spreading through his shoulder and back. Failure. He had volunteered for this mission to prove something: to show himself and the other Psions that despite his age, despite his mistakes, despite his injuries he was still useful. But all he had done so far was prove the opposite.

  No. I am not useless.

  He tried to pick himself up as the smoke choked his lungs. Around him he heard more gunshots. Firing at Albert! Between the bullet hole in his left arm and his right clavicle, Commander Byron could not get up. He gritted his teeth and tried again. At least four Thirteens remained. Albert could not handle them all by himself. The harder he pushed the more agony he created until something popped in his shoulder, and he blacked out.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  When Byron opened his eyes, Albert was dragging him back into the elevator. He looked much messier than the last time the commander had seen him. “How long was I out?”

  “About fifteen minutes. Don’t move.”

  Albert removed an orange goo dispenser from the med kit and a syringe full of antibiotic. As Albert jammed the orange goo into his father’s wounds, Byron tried not to react but the pain was unbearable. His son’s wide eyes, pale face, and pinched expression told him the damage wasn’t insignificant.

  “Maybe give me the anesthetic first next time …” the commander muttered.

  Albert grimaced as he retrieved the second syringe from the kit. “Sorry.”

  The anesthesia brought a wave of relief. The commander sighed. “Patch me up. We need to go.”

  “You’re a mess, old man.”

  “You should find a mirror, kiddo. Is your head all right?”

  “Tender, but in one piece,” Albert answered. His face was covered in a reddish pink mess which had once belonged in some Thirteen’s skull. Commander Byron winced and grimaced as his son worked quickly to stem the flow of blood and get his father in stable condition. When Albert finished, he helped the commander to his feet.

  “Thanks,” Byron said. The anesthesia was kicking in, leaving his body stiff but pain-free. “How much time do we have?”

  Albert checked his com. “An hour and a half. Almost on the dot.”

  Byron took a step which immediately transformed into a limp. He hadn’t even noticed the pain in his uppermost thigh until now, his shoulder and arm had hurt so badly. But when he looked down at his leg, he saw the slice through the fabric of his pants and a line of blood seeping through his torn skin, just above the joint where his bionic leg met his own flesh. A graze. Byron had never taken three bullet wounds in one battle until today. Seeing his own blood in such quantities starkly reminded him of his own mortality, and he yearned for the days when he thought himself invincible.

  “Elevator’s still not responding,” Albert said, punching the DOOR CLOSE button repeatedly. “They disabled it.”

  “You took on four Thirteens by yourself,” Byron said as he counted the bodies on the ground.

  Albert sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Remember I did it in the sims before I graduated. Sammy worked with me.”

  “I remember … I just—I am impressed. You are better than I ever was.”

  “The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner. Now I am the master.”

  Commander Byron looked at his son. “Is that a quote?”

  “Dad … Star Wars. Come on.”

  “Star Wars?”

  “That movie you showed me when I was little. I watched it about ten times. Don’t you remember?”

  “We need to finish cutting the hole.”

  “I’m on it,” Albert said. As his son resumed working with the plasma blade, Byron kept a lookout for any surviving Thirteens who might try to surprise them. The biggest surprise, however, came when the elevator gave a sudden lurch. Albert’s head jerked up. “What was—”

  The elevator plummeted.

  “Out! Out!”

  “You first!” Albert said. “I’ll boost you.”

  The commander stumbled on his wounded leg and caught himself on Albert’s shoulders. Lifting his injured leg was not easy. He put that leg down and tried to stand on it instead, but that was worse. Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself up and let his son’s blasts force him through the hatch and out of the elevator. Right before Albert jumped, the elevator crashed into the bottom of the shaft. Albert’s head hit the ceiling, the skin split open, and he fell back to the floor. Blood snaked down over his face.

  “Albert?” Commander Byron asked weakly. “Son?”

  23. Drones

  Tuesday, November 11, 2087

  THE WHITE ROOM was white. For some reason, Sammy hadn’t expected that. The black floor in Rio hadn’t been all black. Nor had the red floor in Detroit been all red. But this one had white floors, white walls, white ceiling. The elevator doors opened to a small anteroom, which he could tell would seal off the main room from the elevator when the kill code was triggered. The room itself was large but not huge. About eight meters by ten meters according to his estimates.

  “I—I thought you needed me to get in here,” Vitoria said.

  “Not in here,” Sammy responded. “In there.” He pointed to where a small door occupied the center of the back wall of the white room.

  On the right of the door was a thumb and retina scanner. Following Trapper’s instructions on how to recode the door, Sammy found a tiny switch on the underside of the scanner panel and flipped it. This revealed a port into which he slid the data cube prepared by Trapper to recode the door with Vitoria’s retina, thumb print, and voice.

  As the data cube did its work, Sammy checked his com and saw that they still had over two hours before it was time to send the signal. He walked around the room, his fingers b
rushing the flat smooth walls. Then he stopped and pointed to two spots close to the center of the room. “There and there. Company may be coming.” He nodded to Jeffie and Vitoria. “Set up the projectors.”

  “This data cube has passcode protection,” the panel next to the door informed Sammy. “Please state the passcode to activate your cube.”

  “Repentance,” Sammy muttered.

  “Passcode accepted. Please submit retina for scanning.”

  Sammy looked back where Jeffie and Vitoria were assembling two holo-projectors in the middle of the room, one nearer to the left wall, the other to the right. “Vitoria. It’s time.”

  For an instant, Sammy saw some of that old rebellion in her eyes. “And then you’re going to send me away?”

  Sammy nodded. “Just like we agreed.”

  Vitoria locked eyes with Sammy, her expression stoically blank. Jeffie stopped what she was doing to watch. As Vitoria stepped closer to Sammy, her lip began to tremble and a tear leaked from her eye. “Sammy …” she whispered. “Please don’t make me go.”

  “Vivi—”

  “Let me die with you. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t—can’t live that way.”

  Sammy’s voice broke as he asked, “Will you open the door?”

  More tears streamed down her face as she put her thumb on the scanner. A green light showed that her thumb print was accepted. Then she put her eye over the retina scanner. A second green light appeared. Finally she said her name, “Vitoria Prado.” A third green light blinked on and the door in the back of the white room opened.

  Behind the door was a small alcove less than a meter wide and two meters deep. Inside was one screen and one keyboard on a desk. The cursor on the screen blinked next to two magical words:

 

  Sammy hugged Vivi. “Thank you.” He held her out at arms length. “Now listen. Today is not your day to die. I want you to take a gun—”

  “No—”

  “Take a gun. Get out of here. And don’t look back. Go to the safehouse and call the resistance operator. They will take care of you.”