The Fringe Series Omnibus

by Rachel Aukes

  Three

  The Fall of Rebus Station

  Rebus Station, Terra

  “Fall back! Shira, blow the charges in three!” Critch shouted.

  “Ready!” Shira yelled hoarsely. “Three…”

  Critch grabbed Luther, pulled him to his feet, and slung the wounded man over his shoulder.

  “Two…”

  The three torrents—the only remaining uninjured from a team of ten—fell back from the scorched wall that separated them from the squads of dromadiers blasting relentlessly at the thick stone bricks outside. Smoke curled upward from small punctures created by relentless laser fire. The storage unit smelled of charred stone and disturbed dust, and the polluted hazy air etched at the torrents’ throats, causing them to cough.

  Critch, Dez, and Shira wore shemaghs over their noses and mouths, but breathing bad air for the past three hours was taking its toll. If they stayed there much longer, they’d suffocate, though the droms would blast through and cut them down long before that.

  A blaster shot pierced the wall and into the ground near Critch’s feet. He sidestepped as heat singed his toes through the leather boot.

  “One…”

  Critch ran toward the only door in the building. Luther groaned but remained otherwise limp.

  “Boom!” Shira’s yell was immediately echoed by a thunderous explosion a bare thirty feet in front of them.

  The door exploded outward, away from them. Critch shielded his face, but heat and debris stung at his skin like wasps. If Shira had made the smallest error in setting the charge, the entire team would have been lying dead in pieces on the floor by now. Stings Critch could handle.

  Daylight pierced the billowing smoke. He hustled toward it, carrying Luther, wishing for the strength and stamina he’d had during the Uprising twenty years earlier. Even though he was only in his forties, he felt twice his age from being chased nonstop. He’d kill for some stims. Hell, he’d kill for water.

  Unencumbered, the other two members of Critch’s team reached the doorway first and began shooting, finishing off any survivors from the squad that’d been guarding their only escape route. There was no bloodthirst in how Critch’s team killed the droms—it was simply a matter of killing their enemy before their enemy killed them.

  Critch jumped over a dead dromadier rather than weave around, even though the action made Luther feel twice as heavy on his shoulder. But he couldn’t slow down. He knew they had only a few seconds before the squads on the other side of the building made their way around to finish off the ragged rebels.

  He could already hear shouts in the distance, but he didn’t look back. If the droms reached his team out in the open, there was nothing he could do. After two days of running, he no longer cared if he was shot in the chest or in the back. The way he saw it, either way he’d be dead.

  Dez led them quickly to the much larger building next door. Shira leveled her rifle on the sidewalk behind Critch while he scrambled inside and out of the open daylight. She followed behind and closed the door. The sudden silence made Critch’s panting sound all the louder.

  Shira held out a hand. “Here, I can help carry him.”

  “No,” Critch said. “I need you covering our six.”

  She didn’t argue and aimed her rifle at the door.

  Just because the droms couldn’t see Critch’s team didn’t mean they couldn’t find them. The droms had heat scanners, which they’d been using to peck away at Critch’s team since they’d flushed the torrents out of the tunnels that crisscrossed the ground below Rebus Station.

  “There’s an access point in here,” Dez said as he led Shira and Critch around pallets filled with boxes.

  The door behind them slammed open, and an officer shouted commands as the sound of numerous boot steps entered the building. Dez cut around a row of crates. Critch found new strength in carrying Luther, and he could hear Shira at his back.

  Critch noticed the Faulk Industries logo on one of the crates, which meant they likely held resources for Terra’s fuel refineries. Somewhere in these crates would be enough explosives to finish off the droms chasing them. Too bad he wouldn’t have the time to find them.

  While Critch’s team ran, the droms behind them moved cautiously, checking around each corner before putting themselves at risk. The droms had time on their side. With each day, more soldiers and more resources arrived. The CUF could hunt Critch until he collapsed, which was becoming more and more likely.

  Luther’s weight was taking its toll. Critch’s legs burned. Cramps in his right shoulder screamed at him. Sweat ran down his face, the scars causing it to run in jagged little streams rather than straight lines. He sucked in lungfuls of air untainted by blaster fire, but he still couldn’t seem to take in enough oxygen. Luther had gone silent, likely passed out from his injuries, and Critch was thankful for that small mercy, knowing every movement must’ve been agony for his friend. The man had blaster shots through his gut and chest.

  Critch desperately needed a reprieve, but the droms were relentless. A young soldier, not much more than a kid, had seen Critch in the tunnel a little over two days ago. Since then, the droms chasing them had only grown in numbers. There were plenty of other torrents on the lam throughout Rebus Station, but these squads would never divert from their current target. They had orders to chase him to the edges of the fringe if they had to.

  Critch, whose real name was Drake Fender, was one of only two remaining torrent marshals leading the rebellion. The CUF would stop at nothing to see both Critch and Aramis Reyne dead, ideally at a public execution, which was the only reason Critch suspected the droms hadn’t bombed the building they’d holed up in earlier that day.

  Behind him, Critch could hear heavy boot steps as the soldiers fanned out to corner the torrents. Dez continued to lead the trio at a fast jog. When they reached the far wall, Dez checked the stacks of pallets, looking behind each. He stopped at one and pushed it to the side.

  Critch was surprised to see the pallet move with ease, until he noticed it sat about a fraction of an inch off the ground, unlike the other pallets in the row. Someone had put wheels on the pallet and had done a good job at keeping them hidden.

  Behind the pallet was a metal door with the words LANDQUAKE SHELTER stenciled above. Dez punched in a code on the wall keypad, and the heavy door whooshed open. Shira rushed through first, scanning the area with her rifle.

  “Clear,” she called out.

  Critch had to duck to fit through with Luther, and he nearly stumbled down the steps beyond.

  Behind him, Dez returned the pallet to its original place, then backed through and locked the door behind him. “Their heat sensors won’t be able to scan through that. It ought to take them some time to find the door and break through, at least.”

  Critch let Luther down to the floor as gently as he could with his shaking, fatigued muscles. The man showed no sign of consciousness. In fact, he showed no sign of anything. Critch knelt and checked Luther’s neck for a pulse. Nothing.

  He’d been carrying a corpse.

  “God damn it, Luther.” He leaned back on his heels, his brows furrowed and his jaw tight. He took a deep breath. Luther had survived the Uprising, had survived the Citadel, and squeezed through some tight situations with Critch. He’d had a good run of luck.

  The crap-thing about luck was that it could run out at any time.

  Critch gave Luther a final touch on the shoulder. “May you find peace in the Eversea.”

  “May you find peace in the Eversea,” Shira and Dez echoed behind him.

  Critch removed the ammo from Luther’s pockets and divided it among the three survivors. He pushed to his feet and reloaded his rifle, then checked his wrist comm. Still no response to his call for help. Not that he expected one after two days, but a small part of him still held hope that other teams had escaped. That Seda Faulk had not responded boded ill. Without Seda, the Fringe Liberation Campaign had no political face and minimal financial backing. In sh
ort, the fringe would be doomed.

  He took a long breath before moving his gaze from his wrist comm to the surrounding room. His brows lifted when he realized they weren’t in a landquake shelter after all. It was a tunnel, one Critch never even knew existed. He turned to Dez. “I take it you’re familiar with this tunnel.”

  The young man nodded. “This is a private tube that connects all the Faulk Industries warehouses in this district. We used it to get to the different buildings faster.”

  “Where does it connect to a tunnel network?” Critch asked.

  Dez shook his head. “It doesn’t. This tunnel’s a closed circuit, but I heard Seda had an artery built to the Third Street tunnels after Sol Base.”

  Critch grimaced. “The droms took Main; they might’ve taken Third Street by now. We’d do best to play hopscotch around the smaller tunnels until we can get clear of Rebus Station. Do you know if Seda built any shelters off this tube?”

  Dez frowned. “Not that I know of.” Then his eyes lit up. “But I know there’s one in the Southtown tunnels. If we pop out at Warehouse Sixteen, it’s just a couple blocks to Southtown.”

  Critch didn’t tell Dez that two blocks inside a CUF-controlled city was two blocks farther than they could make without getting caught. Instead he said, “Lead me there.”

  “Want me to set a charge at the door, in case they break through?” Shira asked.

  Critch turned to her. “How many charges do you have left?”

  “One.”

  “No. Hold on to it. It could be our ace if we find ourselves in a hole.”

  Dez led the trio into the rough-cut tunnel. The kinetic lights with small gravity-powered spinners played dark shadow games in crevices. Rebus Station sat on a thick slab of sandstone. With good drilling equipment, it had been easy to build a labyrinth of tunnels below the city. The first tunnels had been built for workers to move through the city during the dust season, but the tunnels had proven to serve multiple uses. Twenty years ago, thousands of colonists survived the Uprising below ground when the CUF came down hard on protestors across the fringe. The CUF had not found the tunnels then. This time, they had.

  It was only a matter of time before the CUF smoked out every last person in the tunnels. Many of those hiding below ground were not connected to the Fringe Liberation Campaign, but they’d be shown no mercy, their only fault not being born citizens.

  Critch savored the cool quiet of the tunnel, though he knew the peace was temporary. If they didn’t make it to a tunnel network by the time the droms broke through the door, this small, one-off passageway would become their last stand.

  The somewhat-stale air became stifling with each passing minute that Critch didn’t see an exit or branch. A straight tunnel meant an easy bottleneck. He worked his jaw to keep it from clenching. “Tell me this tunnel isn’t just one long line.”

  “It’s not… completely,” Dez said with a hint of timidity before he skipped ahead. “See? Here’s Warehouse Eight.”

  “Eight?” Shira asked. “You mean we still have eight blocks to go to get to Sixteen?”

  Dez shrugged.

  Critch scowled as he glanced first at the door and then down the long tunnel. “Pick up the pace, Dez.”

  Dez jogged. Critch’s entire body felt like it could give out at any moment, but he managed to pick up his feet and keep pace with the younger man. Shira maintained a smooth pace behind Critch.

  They crossed Warehouse Nine a few minutes later, and then Ten a few minutes after that.

  When they reached Eleven, Dez slowed to take in the door standing wide open.

  Critch pushed him forward. “Keep moving.”

  “But the door—” Dez began.

  “This tunnel’s been compromised,” Critch said as a matter of fact, though he found himself raising his rifle a touch. “Keep your eyes on what’s ahead.”

  They’d just passed Twelve when faint echoes of a distant explosion blew over them like a warm breeze.

  “Shit,” Dez muttered and sped up.

  In a straight tunnel, the droms had the advantage. They were fresh and could run faster. They had blasters and could rain laser fire through the tunnel from the entrance and hit the torrents. Sure, the torrents had rifles and could shoot back, but that’d be a waste of ammo. Critch carried a photon handgun, but it would do little in a gunfight against a squad carrying battle blasters.

  Critch counted on the droms not shooting blind in their quest to catch him alive. He ran forward and didn’t look back. His breaths came hard, and he stumbled somewhere between Thirteen and Fourteen. Shira helped him to his feet, though she was breathing as heavily as Critch. Dez continued to sprint ahead with his rifle raised.

  Dez ran past Fifteen, but Critch stopped, Shira halting at his side. Someone, covered by a dirt-brown blanket, huddled by the stairs. Critch approached, his finger on the trigger. The shape moved, and he realized the figure was a woman holding a toddler. When her gaze fell upon his face, her eyes widened. “Marshal Fender?”

  “Droms are coming,” Critch croaked. He motioned to the top of the stairs. “Can you open that door?”

  She gave a small nod.

  “Good. Get out of here.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. He turned and ran. He saw Dez stop ahead and look back. “Sixteen! We made it!”

  Dez ran up the stairs and opened the door. Blaster shots rained in from the other side, and Dez tumbled back down the stairs and onto the tunnel floor, his body blackened and bloody from at least a dozen kill-shots. As Dez fell, Critch halted, spun around, and nearly tumbled over Shira, who was slower to react to the new danger.

  “Move!” Critch pressed her back the way they’d come, and the pair raced away from their fallen comrade. By the time they reached Fifteen, the colonist was no longer in sight and the door was closing. Critch lunged up the stairs and pushed the door open, throwing the woman back.

  “Droms are here. Hide!” Critch yelled, slamming the door closed the instant Shira was through.

  The woman, clutching her wide-eyed toddler in her arms, spun in a frantic rush before running off to the right, down a row of crates on pallets. Critch ran left in an attempt to keep the droms off her. Shira stayed glued behind him, covering his back, even though she could outrun him. This warehouse, much like the first one they’d run through, was filled with rows of stacked, loaded pallets. Rather than weaving, Critch ran straight down the main aisle to put distance between themselves and their enemy.

  When they were halfway through the building, an explosion behind signaled the tunnel door was wide open and droms would be pouring in. After being on the lam nonstop, Critch no longer acknowledged the fear of being caught. What he did fear was the dullness creeping through his veins like gelled diesel fuel, suffocating his remaining strength. Running without food and not nearly enough water was weakening him. Each of his boots felt like it weighed a ton, and it was becoming a feat to keep from stumbling. If he fell now, he wasn’t sure he could get back up.

  The sound of a woman’s plea, shots, and silence caused Critch to look over his shoulder and beyond Shira. Anger singed his heart. That pair of colonists would’ve posed no risk to the armed soldiers. Yet, they’d been gunned down.

  Critch used his fury as fuel to drive him forward. The building’s main doors ominously stood at the end of the center aisle. He needed to go through them to reach the next tunnels, but how many dromadiers waited outside?

  When he reached the doors, he took a sharp left and ran toward the stairs, with Shira staying right behind him. They were both Terrans—they thrived in the tunnels; they never sought higher ground. Still, they continued.

  “Stop, or we’ll shoot!” someone shouted.

  Neither stopped, and Shira reached the stairs as quickly as he did. Critch grabbed the handrail for support as he took the steps two at a time. They panted as they climbed. Sweat burned his eyes. He could hear the droms reach the steps and quickly close the distance.

  Critch and Sh
ira made it to the second floor, and Critch reached out for the door. Blaster shots hit the surrounding wall. Shira cried out. Critch snapped around as she fell back, tumbling down the stairs until her momentum was stopped by a dromadier who had four compatriots at his back.

  One of the droms knocked Shira’s rifle away, even though the shot through her chest made it pretty clear she had only moments of life remaining.

  “Stop, Fender, or we will shoot you!” the lead dromadier ordered.

  “Screw that. He killed Benson.” The twitchy drom closest to Shira raised his blaster even higher.

  “Don’t kill him, Hills. That’s an order!” the leader said.

  Critch first eyed Twitchy to make sure he’d obey his commander, then spared a glance at Shira to find her watching him. She looked at her hand quickly, and he noticed she held the explosive charge. Her expression, wracked with pain, spoke of resolve. He hoped she’d seen the respect he had for her in his own expression.

  “Drop your rifle, Fender,” the leader said. “You’re under arrest for bioterrorism and the murder of over six hundred citizens.”

  He swallowed. His rifle dropped to the floor with a solid thunk of metal hitting tile. He turned his eyes to Twitchy, who was clearly on the edge of disobeying orders. Critch’s lip curved upward. Twitchy’s eyes narrowed, and he aimed his rifle.

  The explosion engulfed Twitchy before it swallowed the half-squad. Critch lunged for the door handle, but the shockwave hit him before he could grab it. He smashed into the wall. Fire and agony came next. The blast dissipated, and he took a labored breath. Every rib was a sword against his lungs, and he groaned his exhalation.