by VK Fox
The jump gate slid open to the freezing night outside, greedy wind curling through the cargo bay. Megan rubbed her gloved hands together. Cold wormed around the edges of his wetsuit. Fingers ached, shoulders trembled, teeth clenched as they all diligently inhaled.
Everest ran the math again. Megan was sure about the rebound and timing, but they were cutting things terribly fine. Of course, Everest was assuming Sana Baba’s Y2K reboot would go off without a hitch. Maybe they’d all get lucky and the system would freeze, but it didn’t pay to count on a fluke.
Dahl squeezed his knee, bringing him back to the moment, and signed, “Happy new year. Love you,” before buddy checking Everest’s equipment.
“Love you back.” Everest forced nerve-riddled hands through the gestures.
Dahl slipped something in his wetsuit zipper pocket and signed, “Good. Think about it?” Everest pressed his fingers to the fabric, mapping out a coin-sized circle with a hollow center under the neoprene. He couldn’t make sense of it—what was he supposed to use this for? Everest unzipped the pocket, peeking inside at a simple band of white gold and... Dahl had given him a ring. Everest glanced up in shock while Dahl tugged Sister Mary’s straps, his neck flushed red. His love in life had put a ring in his pocket and asked him to think about it. Everest carefully closed the zipper with trembling hands before pressing the band through the fabric again: tangible and real and true.
“Breathe, Everest.” Sister Mary’s sun-worn voice rumbled through her chest behind him.
“One minute,” Everest’s headset buzzed. He climbed to his feet in concert with Sister Mary. Were they really going to jump? Maybe he was in one of a hundred routine stress dreams and he would wake before taking the plunge.
“Thirty seconds.” Sister Ruger’s voice sounded again. Dahl stood in the open maw of the exit, a last check for anything that might snag jumpers on the way out. For a brief moment Everest imagined being hooked on a cable and trailed alongside the aircraft, buffeted by freezing wind against metal siding as wrenching velocity shattered his joints. He carefully pushed the brutal image from his mind while he waited behind Megan. Wake up. Wake up.
The overhead light flipped from red to green, and Megan was the first to hurl herself from the plane. Everest and Sister Mary duckwalked to the edge and jumped in an out-of-control instant: bodies tumbling into the abyss. Everest was caught by glacial air pushing hard against his frame, the neoprene suit rippling and tugging. It didn’t feel like falling, with no landmarks to mark their descent—the sensation akin to standing in a hundred-and-twenty-mile-an-hour wind in the dark. Pinprick lights from the prison rig were so far below they were unreal: tiny stars in the sempiternal black.
Everest forced himself to suck in lungfuls of oxygen. Decompression sickness was ghastly—nausea, unconsciousness, confusion, and paralysis while potentially lethal nitrogen bubbles formed in the bloodstream—but slamming into the ocean at a hundred and twenty miles an hour would be worse. Sister Mary’s altimeter was out of view, and he couldn’t decide if ignorance was better than anticipation. Breathe. Breathe and don’t panic.
Somewhere below, Megan should be hitting the surface of the obsidian water and rebounding, her kinetic magic saving her from becoming a broken girl in a liquid grave. Even with a low altitude opening, the rest of them would be minutes behind. Jumping without a parachute took a kind of headspace Everest ordinarily categorized as suicidally insane, but Megan had giggled and rocked on the balls of her feet at the opportunity. Everest prayed to every god he could think of that her confidence was justified, the cargo would survive the fall, and the rest of them would land safely on target.
A rotten, pulsing fear clawed around the edge of his mind like a revenant while spellbinding darkness yawned below. Was this real? Had he closed his second eye? Once when he’d taken heroin while using his power, Everest had lain on the floor with his magic pouring out and no filter on what poured in. What if he was too deep inside his own future sight to find a way back? What if he was lying on the ground somewhere with his white eye burning bright and his body wasted? Everest’s fingers pinched the metal band in his pocket. Solid. True. This had to be real, because he hadn’t seen it coming.
Everest’s body jerked when the parachute deployed, a marionette on a leash, curbing him to non-lethal velocity. Two minutes until he hit the thirty-eight-degree water at twenty miles an hour, but the worst was over. Sister Mary was a solid presence, a stabilizing frame at his back, and the moonlit ocean glittered below them like another galaxy. The tension in Everest’s chest eased and breath came in easy, long pulls. The world was ludicrously beautiful.
The pressure of the water on his feet registered an instant before his face was plunged through the insatiable surface. Individual sensations whirled together, and Everest clung to rehearsed steps to stay in the moment: the internal CO2 canister activated and puffed his life jacket full of buoyant gas; their heads and shoulders broke the water; Sister Mary unbuckled from the harness and they swam clear of the entangling mess of straps, cords, and fabric. This was normal, practiced, according to plan.
Dahl arrived after Everest had lost track of time, the world dominated by umbratic night. The inflatable raft nearly knocked him sideways before he made sense of the gentle hum of the motor. Dahl’s strong hands hauled him on board.
Everest peeled off his oxygen mask and tossed it in the bottom of the boat. “I’m alive.”
“So you are. Everything go well?” Dahl was checking him over with assessment pats, tiny spikes of blond hair peeking out from his neoprene hood, framing his adrenaline-flushed face.
“I remembered to breathe and didn’t panic.” Everest’s wetsuit was warm, but his teeth were chattering so hard it hurt.
“I saw you. That jump was fucking solid. Quick and easy, like the professional badass you are.” Oh, he would do it again for that grin.
“I guess the supply drop was successful,” Everest murmured as the inflatable turned gently in the dark water.
“All according to plan. Megan’s already on board.” Dahl was opening a forty-six-inch repurposed rifle case. “I need you to deploy the electrivore. It wasn’t responsive to us. The rig’s still on emergency lights, but we are...” Dahl checked his watch, “two hundred and sixty seconds into the reboot window, so we have to mangle something vital, double time.”
“Yessir.” The deference expanded Dahl’s grin. Everest examined Blue’s and his creation resting in bumpy packing foam. He found no apparent damage; the rigid plastic and padding had cushioned the golem’s steel body as well as they’d anticipated. The electrivore was a thing of beauty: eight five-inch round metallic segments linked with ball and socket joints. Each piece had been individually molded and fitted with flexible U-shaped wire brackets to clasp the metal sphere at the back of a new section. A flexible design allowed the electrivore to snake through water like a spinal column, achieving astonishing speed and dexterity. Dummy legs served no functional purpose, but Blue couldn’t manage the words of life without some kind of appendages, so four small protrusions had been added to the otherwise serpentine design. Steel jaws that had once been a pair of cable shears opened and closed with extranatural strength, and its conical, titanium-coated drill tail gleamed brassy in the dark.
Everest stroked the cold metal body and hummed an allegro tune. The electrivore spasmed: joints kinking and relaxing, drill tail spinning lazily, jaws snicking open and closed.
“Are you hungry?” Everest pulled a handheld battery-powered circuit, interrupted by an open tap key, from the case. They’d used electronics like this to acclimate the golem to its purpose. Pressing the tap key, Everest completed the circuit. Since they’d omitted a light or buzzer in favor of stealth, the only indication that current was now flowing came from the electrivore. It thrashed, snagging foam padding, lunging like a cobra at the circuit, and Everest jerked back. His fingers were whole, severed, whole. His hand was out of focus, like there were several film frames overlapping. Oh gods, it was happ
ening again. Everest shoved the confusion aside and closed his eyes, mapping the digits with his other hand. No blood, and his fingers seemed connected. He didn’t look at his hand anymore.
“Mary, cut the engine.” Everest kept his voice low and clear. The hum of the motor sputtered out a few seconds later. Singing a few final stanzas to the flailing golem, Everest shoved the electrivore, wriggling in its open case, over the side. If it came back around and nicked the raft, they would have a serious problem. After counting to ten, the danger was past. Everest exhaled and clapped Dahl on the shoulder. “A sixty-second delay before turning the engine back on is prudent. We want the golem to get some distance. The subsea cables from the rig are a much stronger pull, but to be on the safe side we should wait.”
For sixty seconds Everest huddled in the bottom of the boat, imagining the electrovore speeding through the water, razor jaws yearning for tingling current. Then the engine quietly kicked to life, and Sister Mary steered the inflatable towards the edge of the looming prison like a shadow. No alarm was raised, so Megan must have successfully cleared the guards on the west side.
As they slipped under the belly of the rig, Everest craned his neck in the salt breeze, glancing at the top-story penthouse four hundred feet above, a blocky shadow against the stars. What a funny thing, something as simple as locking Zack up and ignoring him negated his link. Everest knew a few agents who needed special circumstances for their magic to work: Card required organic material to manipulate, Ian needed an unconscious mind to prophesy, and Zack Slaughter had to have an audience or he was just a skinny man with a sanity bending smile. The bigger the audience, the more wild the magic. The live broadcast at the Rio had been his perfect storm.
Dark water lapped the sides of their tiny craft, thick with oily sewage and a gagging, adhesive stench. Everest clamped a gloved hand over his mouth and nose as Sister Mary maneuvered them beneath one of the on-deck garbage chutes. They drifted towards an X of thick support beams draped in cable bundles down the side of the rig and stretching into the sea.
“See you in a few minutes.” Dahl thumped Sister Mary’s shoulder.
“God bless you on your mission,” she returned.
Sister Mary cut the motor, and Everest and Dahl began to climb.
Hand, foot, hand, Everest picked his way up the treacherous, salt-crusted cables. Patches of filthy sediment flaked away from spray-slick rubber and metal. It took a few heartbeats to find the rhythm of it, but once he did, the climb was exhilarating. Hauling and pushing his body along the vertical face reinfused his mood with solid confidence that had drained out during the jump. There were enough hand and footholds to avoid dicey moments, and darkness comfortably shrouded the height. In minutes he was pulling himself over the lip of the platform. Dahl’s gloved hand grasped the edge and, a few seconds later, they were both on board.
The prison rig deck was washed in faded, bloody floodlights, but the windows were dark. No successful reboot then, since the red backup lights were still on. The electrivore must have found its mark. In a few minutes the technical crew would follow protocol: switch to the backup generator and try to figure out what went wrong. When that happened, they needed to be ready.
“We’re past ten minutes.” Dahl whispered. “Megan should be here any second.”
Everest nodded the same instant a black-clad guard turned the corner. He took aim, but a petite blur bounded behind the man and he began to struggle: silently clawing at his throat with gloved fingers, back arched. After an hour-long minute, his left foot kicked frantically and he went limp. Megan bundled him onto his side on the deck.
“It’s all clear, boys!” Megan’s eyes sparkled, her grin a mile wide. Everest snagged the guard’s badge and tossed the man’s gun overboard. Megan rolled the limp body out of the security camera’s arc so when they activated again nothing would appear amiss. Everest checked for a pulse and found nothing, so he joined Megan and Dahl at the door.
The card reader flickered to life, and Everest swiftly slotted the badge. The red light on the door turned green and their trio hustled inside.
They swept through a staff room and turned left to security. The layout was efficient and simple: enough drywall and furniture to give the ambiance of an economy hotel. Megan scanned the access badge while the PA system cycled through a generic message for staff to stay in their current locations and keep calm. Somewhere down the hallway, a boombox was blasting Prince’s “Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1999.”
The door swung open, and a guard speaking into a satellite phone froze for a split instant before going for his gun. Megan smothered him: launching herself forward and hitting his diaphragm with enough force to end any hope of a scream or report. Dahl cut the satellite phone while Everest closed the door, not pausing to see how Megan was getting on, and hurried past the dark wall monitors and over to the keypad, white eye flickering.
Without applying his conscious mind, he let his fingers find the keys that had been touched over and over—the buttons irritation- or worry-stained. The first attempt flashed red, and Everest frowned. He must have miskeyed the order. Closing both eyes, he focused and made a second attempt. As the light flipped green, Everest shuddered through a surreal sensation—were they on the prison rig, or was this still mission prep? Dahl was securing a waylaid guard’s wrists in zip ties with deft hands. This was probably real. Everest couldn’t remember hiring guards for practice.
“You got it?” Megan was at the open door in an instant, squeezing into security. “Give me a second. I’ll change the codes for the lift doors.”
Everest handed off the badge and watched the doorway while Dahl cut the security video feed and verified Zack’s cell location. Pounding bass still bounced through the hall, along with the swell and flow of chatty voices. Nothing amiss. Not yet.
“Ready.” Megan buzzed in his headset as the door Everest was guarding slid firmly shut, barricading them from the hallway. On the other side of security, huge blast doors groaned in their tracks, wrenching open with a gravitas befitting Mordor. Beyond them a hall stretched out, lit by flickering amber backup lights and terminating at the elevator.
“Sorry about the spotty reboot, folks,” a voice crackled over the PA system. “We’re going to restart the generator and everything should be right as rain. Hang tight for another few minutes.”
Without further fanfare, the room went black. Everest clicked on his flashlight and the beam swept across the great doors, still groaning, but reversed in direction— several tons of steel and concrete rolling shut to a secure position during the generator reboot. Dahl cursed under his breath. They must have a failsafe position when the power went out.
Megan was sliding across the threshold like it was home base even as Everest gauged the distance without confidence. The doors were closing with the force of a head-on tractor-trailer collision, but the woman was fast, and Everest relaxed when she slipped through. In a sickening instant, Megan caught the lip and dragged her torso back across the gap, aborting her slide to safety. Everest couldn’t turn away as the massive slabs slammed together over her small frame… and then rebounded, rattling and grinding in their tracks while Megan erupted in unrestrained giggles. When the creaking stilled, a twenty-four-inch gap remained between the blast doors leading to the hall beyond.
“Nicely done.” Dahl sidestepped through the opening. Everest grabbed Megan’s now plushie hand and pulled her to her feet as he hustled through the hall, the lights buzzing and shuddering back on to illuminate their path.
“Megan, what’s the code?” Everest’s headset hummed, and Megan gasped for air around bubbling laughter, leaning on his shoulder. She must have used a lot of magic between the drop and the door—her focus was entirely shot.
“9341535.” Megan burst into a fresh wave of jolly.
Dahl keyed the numbers, his voice even. “Megan, you changed the Sana Baba maximum security prison access code to penises in leetspeak?”
“See? I knew you’d get it!�
��
The elevator door opened, and Everest pulled Megan inside. Up and up and up—thirty-six stories. Don’t think about the power cutting off and getting stuck inside. Don’t think about the tiny dark space with three people trapped for time indeterminate. Don’t think about running out of air or water, watching the people you love die around you. Megan giggling the whole way infused the atmosphere with all the festiveness of a bad carnival ride. When they reached the top, the keypad flashed. Tears were coating Megan’s cheeks, and she was hiccupping uncontrollably.
“Megan, can you key it?” Everest prompted as he stroked the buttons. The codes were changed too often for meaningful impressions—a wide range of rotating entries meant nothing to read. Megan couldn’t pull herself together, and seconds ticked by. Everest caught Dahl’s look, jaw-clenched and worry-creased, and then nudged Megan aside and keyed in 8008135. The door slid open.
“How?” The awe in Dahl’s expression was intensely becoming.
Everest shrugged. “Boobies.”
They were through the doors at the top of the shaft when the alarm went off.
Dahl’s clipped voice sounded in the headset as he glanced at his stopwatch. “We’ve been made. Three minutes until the weapon systems are back online. Sister Mary, meet us at the penthouse. We’ll be ready when you arrive.” Everest sprinted to the papered cell windows before Sister Mary’s “Roger that,” came back. He tore the covering off the security glass to find a wide-eyed Zack Slaughter partially buried in a stuffed-animal-infested couch.
Zack’s coloring left an after image when Everest looked away: super-saturated full sleeve tats, absinthe eyes, and hair like a grease fire over opalescent skin. He bore no trace of acid burns, his youthful face smooth and clean-shaven. Jumping to his feet in a stuffie avalanche, Zack closed the distance and smooshed his nose flat against the window. Grinning like a sword wound, he raised a finger in an exaggerated “one minute” gesture before covering his mouth with a shimmering hand.
