Ages in Oblivion Thrown: Book One of the Sleep Trilogy (20 page)

"Can't you take a joke? That was my
friggin' trigger finger, dammit! They didn't train you to do that
in the language institute, did they?"

"For a Recon dude, you sure seem to
have a low threshold for pain. Kind of like a little
baby."

"You're lucky we're in a library. I'd
hate for you to scream and scare all the peaceful bibliophiles."
Jemi got a chill up her spine, even though Josh was visibly joking
again. She was aware of his abilities, just as he was obviously
aware of hers. She remembered when they'd first met, at the
listening post that had been remade into a “training
facility”.

She'd seen the unease in his demeanor,
the look of a caged animal, trapped inside the frigid confines of
their temporary home. He'd already been friends with Leif by that
time, the two of them spending hours with their heads close
together, speaking in low tones. It had been as though they
recognized, each within the other, a common language.

She was an excellent
translator.

Leif had been there first. Then Maeve.
He’d watched over her zealously. It was apparent that he’d needed
help, or respite, or just someone to keep him grounded in reality.
That was Josh’s job. They’d covered her with blankets when it got
too cold inside their barracks, brought her meals, and read to
her.

At first, they'd all believed that she
was in a catatonia, until it became apparent that she was only
active by night. Those were the hours during which she apparently
saw to herself. They knew that by the damp towels and other debris,
left in tidy heaps for them to find. Jemi could not remember a
single occasion on which Maeve had ever spoken. The first time
she'd heard the other woman's voice had only been a couple months
ago.

“
Is she going to be okay?” Jemi didn’t
have to say who
she
was.

Josh seemed to be weighing the
question carefully.

“
Don’t know.”

“
We’re going to bring her in soon,
though, right?”

“
Yeah. I think we’re just going to get
all the details fine tuned first.”

“
You think she can’t do
it.”

“
I don’t think that, exactly. I mean,
she was selected, and then all hell broke loose, and, well, you
remember.” No, they didn’t. Not in the sense that they’d been
there. Not like Leif, who couldn’t get away from it. He’d picked
her up, and tried to put her back together, now so long ago. His
greatest sorrow lay in knowing that he’d failed.

۞

Saturdays still felt calmer. The
streets were crowded with off-duty personnel, the restaurants were
full, but everyone was relaxed. The stranger was still among them,
observing and adjusting small details in his plan. He would begin
soon, cutting off the head of the beast; the rest of the body would
die soon after. It was necessary to plot out his movements
accordingly. Once initiated, he would not be able to turn back, nor
would his actions go unnoticed for long.

A route must be chosen. It was all
too obvious where that fool of a commanding officer had put them.
The stranger could smell his prey, down in the hushed and empty
catacombs of temporary housing. They had all left trails of
breadcrumbs, but he was only interested in one, for now. He would
wait. He would strike, and wait again, to see how they scattered
into the wind. No, not wind, he mused. There was no wind
here.

۞

It was raining in the arboretum.
Maeve watched as people laughingly dashed into the downpour. She
supposed it was such a novelty as to seem enjoyable. Weather
without the unpredictability. It was hard to tell whether the water
came from sprinklers, or if it was so humid in that area that it
naturally occurred. Confusing the issue even further, rumbles of
thunder traveled along the seemingly endless expanse of trees and
underbrush.

She had to give them credit. They
had everything packaged up neatly and presented to those who lived
here. A town, athletic facilities, shopping, arts, museums…she’d
even seen wave pools, a water park, and indoor skiing. Colonel
Tarkington had said that the Nimitz was one of the smaller
stations. It hardly seemed comprehensible.

Saturday was, thankfully, still a
day of rest. Dmitry had gone back to his place to sleep, he’d said.
She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but he’d said he would be back
by evening. It was time to make use of the shops. She had an urge
to be a bit domestic, and scoured the farmer’s market for
ingredients. Chile peppers, beef, bacon…mmm, bacon. Cilantro,
garlic, fresh tortillas.

She was already hungry, and it
wouldn’t be ready for a couple of hours. She got a bag of kale
chips to stave off starvation. And some chocolate. Olives were
good-looking too. And the asteroid-aged cheddar (Asteroid-aged?
Really? Fads these days.). Her bag was getting heavy. But there was
a bottle of pinot noir winking at her too. Aaaand a spiced-lavender
sponge cake with orange glaze. Okay, time to run the hell
away.

She carried the bottle of wine
under her arm, knowing Dmitry would frown at it. It was worth
noting that she didn’t feel quite the same way she had the day
before. Clarity was beginning to filter through. She had a mental
image of scraping black paint from a window, while sunlight peeked
in. It had occurred to her during the day that she was making
everything much harder on herself than it had to actually
be.

The only trouble was, she didn’t
know how to let go. How to start over was the big hurdle. Being
alone was the enemy at the moment, that much was clear. She didn’t
let herself think about what might happen if or when Dmitry might
move on. Or if she did. A fleeting sense of lightness buoyed her as
she skipped down a long staircase to the temporary housing. She’d
taken the stairs in favor of the lift, still feeling strong from
several rounds of kettlebells, wall balls, and muscle-ups
earlier.

She walked into her rooms, set the
food in the kitchen, and let the bottle land with a solid thunk of
glass against hard wood. Not bothering to turn on the lights, she
kicked off her shoes and padded around barefoot. She thought about
showering, or at least changing clothes. Wondering what Dmitry was
up to, she had a debate with herself on whether to call or no…but
she stopped midthought. Something else was breaking into her
consciousness.

She’d heard the sound of only one
shoe hitting the wall.

Both shoes had gotten tossed the
same direction, but only one had made noise. She turned to start
back and switch on a light when she found herself flying into the
opposite wall. A man, about her height, medium frame, had tackled
her into a stretch of built-in shelves where she had begun
accumulating history books.

One of
them,
The Rise of
Decadence
, fell into her face as she
struggled to catch her breath. It was such a moment of unreal shock
that she actually lay there momentarily wondering if she’d read it
yet. It only took a few more moments to become aware that she still
couldn’t breathe. Her attacker had placed his hand on her neck and
was squeezing, like a boa constrictor. He had a hold of her
trachea, as though he was aiming to rip it from her
body.

The instinct to struggle was
strong, but she fought through the confused pain to think clearly.
She did not try to pry his grip from her throat. Instead, she
hammered a palm to one side of his head, and proceeded to secure a
firm lock on his ear. She gripped it firmly, not incredibly hard,
but hard enough to tear the ear halfway from his head before he
howled and released her.

He stumbled backward onto his
knees, holding the side of his head. She quickly tucked up her legs
between them, and put all her surging adrenaline behind launching
the intruder back across the room. He landed several feet away, and
sat in stunned silence.

Maeve couldn’t make out his face
clearly, but she could see the glow of rage, and feel the rumbling
of the monster within from across the distance between them. The
threat was hers alone to confront. Dmitry wasn’t due to arrive for
at least half an hour, maybe more. Next door was empty, and the
other direction was storage space. The great black beyond. The man
spoke to her in a harsh whisper.

“That wasn’t a good thing to do. I
was willing to let you die painlessly, but now…you
bleed.”

“I think I got first. We’ll see
who gets last.” She knew she’d have to rally every ounce of energy
to make it through the next few minutes. She knew this song all too
well. As before, she had to dance, or turn to meet
death.

The stranger felt blood from his
ear trickle down his neck. Nobody had ever managed to get to him
before. It was a new, infuriating experience, and he had to put in
effort to think past the raw pain. He launched himself again at
her, this time without the leg sweep that had felled her before.
This time was to break her. He listened for the crunch from her
ribcage, disappointed that there wasn’t the full crack of a rib
popping in half. The hesitation cost him leverage, she made a half
turn and grabbed his leg, yanking hard enough to knock him
down.

While he was still down, she
dropped her knee in his abdomen, using her leg to hold off his,
while grabbing his shirt collar. She held his head a few inches
above the floor and slammed her fist onto his face, allowing the
impact to bounce his skull off the flagstones beneath. The only
gamble there was that both his arms were free, and he wasn’t
insensible enough to forget that. He made a roll to his left and
straight-armed her off into a side table.

A bonsai crashed near her head,
scattering dirt and miniature tree branches. He stood, lifting the
table as he went, while she sought out a shard from the bonsai’s
glass dish. She had to find a sharp piece before the heavy wooden
table slammed down and finished her fight.

A sting from her index finger told
her that she had found what she was looking for, and she slashed it
out behind his leg even while the table was moving toward her. It
clattered impotently to the floor; he fell beside it onto one leg,
bleeding from the wound she’d just inflicted.

He knew there must be a severed
tendon behind his knee. He moved quickly to stanch the flow of
blood with a chunk of his shirt. He didn’t want to leave behind too
much of himself, even though no one would ever know whose DNA they
had collected. There was no record of his existence anywhere. He
smiled.

Maeve struggled to her feet,
feeling the fire in her lungs as a signal that he’d probably
managed to at least bruise a few ribs. It hurt to swallow, and her
left arm was numb. She looked around for something else to fight
back with, knowing that she’d looked away from him for too long.
Momentarily, she heard the swish of something moving toward her,
long enough only to anticipate the blow. It came directly to her
thigh, rendering her leg useless, as the force it reeled her around
to face him.

He had a collapsible baton in his
hand. Her legs gave out. The sofa caught her in a crouching
position, and she knew that she couldn’t stop the next blow. The
impact fell directly in the curve between her shoulder and neck.
Her vision went white for a moment. She couldn’t tell whether her
collarbone was broken or not. The next blow was halted midair by
the sound of the intercom ringing impatiently. The man froze,
waiting to hear what came next, while the answering service picked
up. It was Dem’s voice.

“Maeve, are you
there? Shit, I hate leaving messages. I’m on my way right now. I’ll
be there in less than a minute, so I hope you’re there,
waiting
.”

Maeve locked eyes with the monster
in the dark; he snarled and rushed at her. The baton was across her
throat. Her brain, losing oxygen, tried to flit off into fanciful
thoughts. It was a terrible effort to stay present. It would be
easier simply to drift away. What was worth fighting for,
anyway?

The intercom
went off again. Dmitry. He had just stopped to get a couple of
things.
Be there soon
. Soon wasn’t enough. She had to hold onto a rapidly
crumbling precipice. It did not seem possible that this man could
still be at her with such strength. Think.
Remember.

She mustered up what reserves she
had, and slipped her left arm up through his. Immediately, she
cocked her arm to just past ninety degrees, and swung her elbow up
as hard as she could. He lost his grip on the baton momentarily,
swearing as bone connected with his nose and eye socket. During
that short distraction, she snatched it from him and tossed it
away.

Air flooded back in, clearing her
head. Pain radiated from every corner of her body, but pain kept
you awake. Pain meant you were alive. She struggled to lift her
right arm. Not an easy task, but she boxed his torn ear again as
hard as she could.

He let out a dull roar, knowing he
had to end this. It had to be finished. This ridiculous battle
could not continue; nor could he leave the task undone. He knew the
price that would come with failure.

“I have last.”

She could not see what he had in
his hand, but knew immediately once she felt the sudden blossoming
of fire in her chest. Her fingers searched, finding the handle of
the blade that was deep into her left side, between ribs and who
knew what else. She was slipping, down, into
nothingness.