by Ryk Brown
Neli was startled by the quickness at which the lieutenant had responded. “Oh, good, you’re not asleep yet.”
“What can I do for you, Miss Ravel?”
“I’m worried about Marcus,” she replied. “It’s not like him to be out this late without calling.”
“Have you tried contacting him, yourself?” the lieutenant queried.
“About a hundred times,” she insisted. “I think his comm-unit is turned off.”
The lieutenant stepped back, returning to his nightstand to retrieve his own comm-unit.
“Why would he do that?” she asked, following him inside.
“I can think of several reasons,” the lieutenant assured her, hoping to calm her nerves. The truth was that none of the reasons that came to mind were very good. After a moment of working with his own comm-unit, he announced, “His comm-unit is not turned off, it is disabled.”
“What?” Neli was nearly beside herself with concern. “How can you tell?”
“The tracking chip in the Sanctuary-issued comm-units continues to work even when the device is powered down. In order to disable the chip, you must remove it, which is not something that is done accidentally.”
“Why would he do that?” Neli wondered.
“He would not,” the lieutenant replied as he picked up his data pad.
“You think something is wrong?” Neli asked.
“It is possible,” the lieutenant admitted.
“I knew it was a bad idea for him to go to the Jungle,” Neli said. “Why did you let him go by himself?”
“His reasons for wanting to go alone were sound,” the lieutenant explained, “and no one is more qualified to read that particular situation than Marcus.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, noticing how intently the lieutenant was studying his data pad.
“All Ghatazhak wear a ring.”
“Yeah, I noticed, but what does…”
“It contains a small transponder, which emits a signal that can only be detected by our tactical awareness systems.”
“I don’t understand,” Neli said, frustrated. “What does that have to…”
“I gave Marcus one of our rings before he departed. This data pad is tied into my tactical helmet,” the lieutenant explained, pointing to his helmet hanging on the wall. “He is still in the Jungle.”
“Then, he’s alive?” Neli asked, hope slipping into her voice.
“I cannot determine his condition. However, he has not moved in more than an hour, which is not a good sign.”
“You don’t know Marcus,” Neli said, struggling to hold onto the hope that he was all right. “That man can sit in one place and watch the world go by for hours on end, as long as he doesn’t need to use the toilet.”
“Then, there is hope,” the lieutenant said as he picked up his comm-set and placed it on his head. “Attention all Ghatazhak. Condition Three. Rally in the main living area in two minutes.”
“What are we going to do?” Neli asked with pleading eyes.
“We’re going to find him,” the lieutenant replied confidently.
* * *
Blood and sweat were making Marcus’s eyes sting whenever he opened them. His wrists were sore from the restraints holding his hands behind his back, unable to defend himself. He had lost count of the number of blows they had inflicted upon him and the number of times they had made precise incisions in locations designed to elicit maximum pain but minimal bleeding.
“It is only a matter of time before you break and tell us everything we want to know,” Mister Koren said from his comfortable vantage point a few meters away.
Marcus forced his left eye open, followed by his right, suffering through the stinging. “You know…nobody beats…information…out of people……anymore,” he said, barely able to get the words out through the pain. “They use…drugs……or tech…… I guess…you’re just…too stupid…to know that.”
“Let’s just say I prefer the old-school methodologies,” Mister Koren replied. “You see, there’s a psychological aspect to physical torture. It creates fear, both in the one being tortured, as well as his cohorts. It is always there, silently gnawing at their consciousness, affecting their decision-making processes.”
Marcus laughed. “The joke’s…on you…asshole…… I ain’t…that deep.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Besides…” Marcus continued, “I already…told you…”
“…That you work for the Karuzari Alliance, and that you need weapons for the people of Orswella, wherever the hell that is, so they can police themselves after your people so heroically liberated them from Dusahn subjugation. Sorry, Mister Taggart, but I’m still not convinced.”
“That’s your…fucking problem.”
“Again, I beg to differ,” Mister Koren replied, signaling one of his men to continue the torture.
Marcus screamed as another electrical shock coursed through his body. His fingers outstretched, his toes curled, his neck tensed…every muscle in his body cried out in protest. It was only for a few seconds, but each shock seemed to last an eternity. The only thing getting him through the pain was knowing they had no intention of killing him, not if there was any chance of making a profit from him. “God damn you!” he cursed once the electricity was shut off again.
“You have spirit, old man,” Mister Koren congratulated. “Most men would not have lasted as long.”
“I already told you……I work…for the…Karuzari…Alliance!”
Mister Koren rose from his seat, strolling casually toward Marcus as he spoke. “We have run your DNA through our database, Mister Taggart, or Wallace, Hayes, Tedan, or one of the many names you have used throughout your remarkably long life. You know, you may have done business with my great-grandfather. He sold arms to the Crispin Rebellion, of which you were one of its more ruthless members. In fact, there may still be a reward for your head on that world.”
“You should…give them…a call,” Marcus replied, trying to sound indifferent.
“Oh, I have, I assure you,” Mister Koren replied. “Fortunately, the hour is late in their capital, so we have time to explore the possibilities.”
“Possibilities?” Marcus wondered, spitting blood from his mouth as he spoke.
“Yes, you see, it has been some time since my men have had the chance to torture someone. So, they’ve had ample opportunity to discuss various strategies of physical abuse and its effectiveness in the retrieval of information.”
Marcus smiled, spitting more blood. “Lucky me.”
“Continue,” Mister Koren said, turning to return to his chair.
Marcus forced his eyes open wide, first studying the man to his right, then to his left.
“What are you looking at, old man?” the man to Marcus’s left asked.
“Just gettin’…a good look,” Marcus replied, “so I know…who to kill…later.”
CHAPTER SIX
Buildings, a dozen stories tall, lined the streets of Orswella’s business district, each of them interconnected by a myriad of overhead breezeways at various levels. Traffic ebbed and flowed around them, pulsing through the intersections in disorderly fashion as Orswellans went about their routines.
Despite the previous day’s terrorist bombing of the common markets, the business leaders and industrialists were determined to restore their newly liberated world to its former glory. The Dusahn were gone. All that remained were their covert operatives, bent on punishing the rightful occupants of the planet. But their numbers could not be many, and the Orswellans were determined to outlast them, no matter the cost.
Corporal Venezia and Specialist Brummett walked along the main street of the business district. As always, their heads were on a pivot, and their vision was split between their tactical displays and the view beyond.
“I coul
dn’t do it,” Specialist Brummett said.
“Couldn’t do what?”
“Work in the same place every day. Do the same thing every day.”
“Isn’t that what we do now?” the corporal wondered.
“You know what I mean.”
“It doesn’t seem so bad to me,” Corporal Venezia said.
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“How do they do it?”
“Just different kinds of people,” the corporal replied. “My father was like that. He was an accountant his entire life.”
“What does he do now?”
“I have no idea,” the corporal admitted. “I haven’t spoken with anyone in my family in years. As far as I know, my father could be doing the Dusahn’s books right now.”
The tram, connecting the western residential areas to the business district, pulled up to a stop at the elevated platform. The doors opened, and more than a hundred people disembarked from every car.
Orswellans in business attire flooded onto the platform, spilling down the stairs that led to the street below. Among them were eight men in dissimilar dress, their only similarity being the matching satchels they carried.
“That’s funny,” Specialist Brummett said.
“I wasn’t kidding,” the corporal insisted. “He could be…”
“No, I just picked up a weapons signature, but it disappeared a moment later.”
Corporal Venezia tapped the side of his helmet, activating his comms. “Faulds, Prisk, you guys picking up any weapons signatures?”
“Negative,” Specialist Faulds replied.
“You got something, Vinnie?” Sergeant Morano asked, picking up the comms traffic.
“Brumms did, but only for a moment.”
“Direction?” the sergeant asked.
“Tram platform south of us,” Specialist Brummett replied.
Sergeant Morano checked the tactical display on his helmet visor as he stood in the central square, visually scanning the passersby. “That would be the one at Parker and Alla,” he decided. “Faulds, you and Prisk head toward the platform. Take Wellesly to Alla. Once you round the corner, you should have a clear sweep.”
“You got it, Sarge,” Specialist Faulds replied.
“Vinnie, you guys backtrack. See if you can pick up the signature again,” the sergeant added.
“Two Blue Alpha One and Two are backtracking south on Parker,” the corporal confirmed.
“Don’t forget to call out your locations,” the sergeant reminded them. “Until we figure out what it is about the Orswellan’s communications gear that’s fucking with our tactical sensors, we need to call out everything.”
“Brummsy just farted,” Corporal Venezia announced, smiling. “Did you want me to report that, as well?”
“Funny.”
A man in a dark business suit, carrying a satchel over his shoulder, exited the stairwell on the sixth floor, pausing to orient himself, and then strode across the hallway into the nearest office.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the young lady behind the reception desk greeted. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man stated as he walked around the desk.
“What are you…” The young lady never got to finish her sentence; the attacker grabbed her head, snapping her neck with a quick, expert twist.
He dropped her onto her desk, quickly heading into the corridor behind her. As he passed the side offices, a few people poked their heads out, curious about the thump they had heard.
He continued down the corridor, paying no mind to the onlookers as he opened the door to the office at the end, stepping inside and closing it behind him.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman behind the desk objected as the unknown intruder locked the door. “You can’t just come barging in here like this,” she continued as she stood.
The man turned around, his right hand flicking something toward her. A small, disc-shaped object zipped across the room, six tiny emitters popping out as it spun. The emitters charged the instant they deployed, creating a blue halo around the disc as it sailed across the office, separating the woman’s head from her body before deactivating and bouncing off the window behind her.
The man stepped behind the desk, pushing the headless corpse aside, and kicked the disembodied head to the corner of the room.
Placing his satchel on the desk behind him, he opened it and pulled out two identical devices, which he stuck to the wall on either side of the window overlooking the street below.
After activating the devices, the man reached into his satchel and pulled out two more objects: a window cutter and a folded-up laser rifle.
A red triangle appeared on Corporal Venezia’s tactical visor, along with descriptive symbology indicating the type of threat the icon represented, along with its position and elevation. “Hot target,” the corporal announced. “Are you seeing this, Sergeant?”
“I am,” Sergeant Morano replied over comms. “Looks like the target’s in a building at two four five Parker, six floors up. Weapons data indicates precision laser. Probably a sniper rifle.”
“If he just charged up, then he’s about to…” Another triangle appeared. “Second hot target,” he announced, quickening his pace. “Opposite side of the street, same altitude.”
Two more triangles appeared on his tactical visor. At the same time, the high-pitched zing of laser fire could be heard as tiny bolts of bright red laser energy began dropping people in the streets below.
“Active shooters!” the corporal reported, bringing his weapon up to his shoulder and breaking into a combat jog.
In the streets, people scrambled, screaming in terror. Tiny red bolts of laser fire slammed into one victim after another, boring holes through their heads, shoulders, chests, and abdomens. Some were killed immediately; others fell to the ground, crying out in agony. Those who bravely tried to help the injured were rewarded with their own injuries, becoming easy targets for the snipers above.
People began running into buildings, seeking shelter through any open door, but the laser fire followed them, burning through windows in order to find their targets on the other side, driving the people deeper inside.
“How many?” Telles barked as he entered the makeshift command center in the Orswellan capitol building.
“Four active shooters,” Sergeant Spira replied. “Two on either side of Parker and two more on Alla. Sergeant Morano suspects the shooters came from the tram platform at Parker and Alla. Blue Alpha is responding. Gold Alpha and Charlie are en route. Alpha is three out, Charlie is five.”
“Shut down the trams,” General Telles ordered. “I don’t want any more shooters joining the party.”
“You want EMS to stage?”
“Not yet,” the general instructed. “Put them on alert, but tell them to wait for orders before they roll. There could be additional shooters waiting to ambush them as they approach.”
“We’ve already got dozens of casualties,” Sergeant Spira said.
“Have both Diggers pick up squads from quiet areas and bring them in. Put them on the rooftops. Get all the civilians inside, and then lock down the buildings.”
“If we get a shooter moving around in a locked-down building, it’s going to be a bloodbath.”
“If they get out, it would be the same result, just over a wider area,” the general pointed out.
“Digger Two, evac One Blue Charlie from LZ one eight two, to rooftop of one four five Parker,” Sergeant Spira instructed over comms.
“Digger Two, copy evac squad from LZ one eight two to rooftop of one four five Parker,” Captain Orrock responded as he started his turn.
“Digger Two, destination is hot, four shooters. Suggest approach from southeast.”
“Digger Two will
approach rooftop from southeast,” the pilot acknowledged. “Got the jump plugged in, Hume?”
“Punch it.”
Captain Orrock rolled out of his turn, lining up his flight path indicator with the jump path line. Once the jump line turned green, the pilot pressed his jump button. A split second later, the cityscape below changed, and an entirely new set of streets, parks, and buildings were now beneath him.
“LZ one eight two, dead ahead, two clicks,” the copilot reported.
“One Blue Charlie, Digger Two, dropping in for pickup,” the pilot announced over comms.
“Digger Two, One Blue Charlie, ready.”
Corporal Venezia and Specialist Brummett opened fire on both sniper positions as they ran down the center of the street, moving from one abandoned vehicle to the next, using them briefly for cover as they advanced.
“We can’t get a clean shot from here!” Corporal Venezia reported as he peppered the sniper’s position on the right side of the street. “The building’s structure is blocking our angle of fire!”
Red-orange blasts of plasma energy slammed into the car’s rooftop and hood, forcing the corporal to duck for cover. “Where the fuck did that come from?” he yelled as a fifth red triangle appeared on his tactical visor.
“Two Blue Alpha One and Two are pinned down twenty meters north of targets one and two!” Specialist Brummett reported over comms as laser fire rained down upon their position. “We have a fifth shooter! Repeat! We have a fifth shooter, a heavy!”
“That’s no sniper rifle!” Corporal Venezia yelled, rolling away from the vehicle being torn apart by the incoming plasma weapons fire.
“He’s on the rooftop to your left!” Sergeant Morano warned.
“No shit!” the corporal retorted as he fell against the car behind which Specialist Brummett was taking cover.
“He can use the elevated breezeways to move to any rooftop,” the sergeant continued.
Another round of plasma bolts slammed into the car they were hiding behind, this time from the opposite direction.
