Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (11 page)

Marty looked around, even up in the trees, feeling as if a thousand eyes were staring at him. “How many live here in Paris, then?”

“Firsts?” Vasco asked. “We think about ten thousand, with about sixty thousand slaves. It’s hard to know for sure; we get most of our intel from rebels and freed slaves. We do know most of the buildings they’re using and can make an educated guess from there.”

“And…what would they do if they found us?” Marty asked. He was sure they’d gone over this in their training, but he hadn’t actually paid that much attention. It hadn’t seemed real when they were still underground.

“Kill you if they can’t catch you. Interrogate you if they do, and then either experiment on you, kill you or implant you. The bad thing is that they have more technology than we do: cars, cell phones, radios and maybe the surveillance cameras. The good news is that they’re not particularly creative. They don’t have intuition. Most of the time, we’re able to evade them or escape them because we
are
creative and intuitive. Makes us better, smarter.”

“But outgunned,” Monkey observed.

“But outgunned, yes,” Vasco confirmed.

“So…why don’t you set up in places they can’t catch you? Like Jordan?”

“We need power, for one thing, and the only power comes from where the Firsts live. But mostly, we’re here for the rebels and the slaves. The
humans
. We’re not here to hang out. We have a job to do, and I suspect that, if there’s a chance at all of going back to Earth, it won’t happen until we’ve done it.”

Monkey sat down on a tree root and rested against the trunk. “Might as well relax. We’re done til at least midnight.”

Flopping down on the ground, Marty looked around. “I thought we were taking bikes.”

“Yeah, they’re down the street,” Vasco said. “We’ll wait until it’s dead dark, then we’ll ride without lights and go fast. Rest until then. It might get exciting trying to cross the river.” With that Vasco lay back with his head on his back pack, threw his arm over his eyes and fell asleep.

The Depot where the motorcycles were kept wasn’t far from Northside, but Clay was glad to get off the streets. He felt as if he was being watched all the time, even though Samson assured him that the cameras around the warehouse they used for storage and maintenance were long since broken.

“They could come fix them,” Clay said. “This district looks like the perfect place for what we’re doing.”

“Good thing is, it doesn’t occur to them. They know there are some rebels out here, but they don’t think they’re organized. The few they’ve captured alive don’t know much because we keep the cells separated. And mostly,” he shrugged. “Mostly they just kill them anyway.”

“What about us? I mean, outsiders. Have they killed any of us?” Clay was looking at a row of old motorbikes.

“Yeah. Some. Not too many, considering all we do. Since I been here, I think it’s thirteen. Lately, though, not many. We been trying to spread out, not be in one place too long. In and out quick, that’s what most of us do. The rebels are getting the intel for us and we just pick it up, then hightail it back to the tunnels, try to make sense of it all down there. That’s what Abacus does, look at the intel from various places and try to make sense of it.”

“Like where the prison goes,” Clay said.

“Yeah, like that. If we could find it, get Darian out…” He shrugged. “Course, he’s been a legend so long among the rebels, who knows what he’s really like. But Landon says we need to rescue him,” He stopped in front of two old motorcycles. “And that’s good enough for me. These are the two we need to fix.”

“This is an MGC!” Clay said, dumbfounded. “It’s…” In front of him was a low motorcycle with a bicycle seat, a matte silver gas tank, and flat handlebars.

“Darn old, and a pain in the butt,” Samson said. “But yeah, that’s an MGC. This one was made in 1932.”

“But they only built, like, two hundred of these!”

“Two hundred and fifty. One of the rebels knew an old man whose grandfather had it tucked away in a garage, mint condition. But mint or not, it’s still old, parts are next to impossible to find, and it’s loud. None of those are good things. They only use it as a last resort, but we gotta keep every one we got up and running. Fortunately the guy’s friend had a stash of parts that he’d scavenged over the years. When those run out, the bike’ll be put out to pasture. Feel free to work on it, won’t hurt my feelings. It’s got its own shelf over there.” He slapped a wrench into Clay’s hand and pointed to a wall of shelving. “Leaves me the Beamer, anyway, and this is a sweet ride.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
raveling by stealth with a
four year old was easier said than done. Waiting until 11:00 allowed them to eat dinner from the meager supplies in Northside’s cupboards, but it also meant keeping Maryse up way past her bedtime. Born and raised in a rebel household, she did understand the need for quiet more than any four year old Neahle had known at home, but she was slow and stubborn and growing cranky as they wound their way through neighborhood streets. The outsiders took turns carrying her, but Maryse was unused to strangers and most of the work fell to Élodie.

Hannah led them at the fastest pace she felt was prudent, but she still worried at how slow they were going. The longer they were on the streets, the more likely they were to get caught. Period, end of story.

“Hurry! We’re close!” She pushed the pace a bit and could hear Élodie breathing heavily behind her. Glancing back, she saw that the woman’s face was red and her hair was damp from sweat, but she kept the walking. Leading them into a gothic townhouse through the back door, Hannah stopped in the kitchen.

“Rest here. Neahle and I will go to the new cell and tell them you’re coming. If we all troop in with a child in tow, well, I don’t know how happy they’ll be. Élodie, stay in the back. No lights. These windows aren’t boarded up.” She gestured to Neahle, and they moved swiftly to the front door.

“How far is it?” Neahle asked, fighting exhaustion.

“Down the street a couple of blocks, then down a small side street. Not far. Stay right behind me.”

“Got it,” Neahle said, adjusting her pack.

“Close the door very gently. The glass is cracked; we don’t want any to fall out. Let’s go.”

Opening the seven foot tall door slowly, Hannah squeezed out when the gap was still narrow. Neahle squeezed through and gently pulled the door closed, turning the handle until it was firmly in the frame. She saw Hannah halfway down the dozen steps to the street and quickly ran to meet her.

The girls stayed right up next to the building, heading east for three blocks. They had almost reached the corner when they heard the whine of a motorcycle. The narrow road and tall stone houses caused the sound to echo; they weren’t sure which direction the bike was headed.

“In here!” Hannah whispered, pulling Neahle into a basement stoop next to the stairs of an old home. They hunkered down, pulling their hoods up over their heads.

“Who is it?” Neahle asked, terrified.

“We’ll see. If they have lights on, it’s a First. If they’re running dark it could be a rebel, but it might be a First, too. Sometimes they do that. Or it could be a gang banger. Or a junkie.”

“Great. Thanks. Very helpful.” Neahle slumped down onto the ground and rested her back against the cool stone.

“Bottom line out here—we never talk to anyone we don’t know, and certainly not anyone on a bike. You can tell a slave by the collar, and you can tell a First by… well, just about everything. There’s something kind of creepy about them. But not all the other people on the streets are friendly. Some are crazy and some are dangerous.”

Neahle was about to ask her to clarify when the motorcycle got louder, obviously having turned a corner onto their street.

“Down!” Hannah said, although Neahle was already sitting. They both crouched forward over their legs, their hair covered by hoods, straining to see and hear.

The bike was moving slowly down the street. From the sound, it was a newer street bike and Hannah could see a faint light around her hood, so the rider had the lights on. That told her all she needed to know. No matter how crazy street people were, none were crazy enough to ride like that at night. “Don’t. Move,” she hissed.

Not only did Neahle not move, she didn’t breathe. The engine sound grew closer, but she could tell that the motorcycle was slowing down. It sounded as if it were only fifteen or twenty feet away. Then it stopped. Neahle reached over and grabbed Hannah’s hand.

For a full minute, nothing happened. The light was still visible; then the engine died. They heard footsteps walking along the sidewalk right above them. A flashlight swept the wall on the far side; the angle kept it from reaching the girls’ knees by mere inches. They could hear breathing, clothes rustling, and almost feel the indecision in the scout. The footsteps sounded again, heading to the stairs leading down to their hiding place.

Hannah gripped Neahle’s arm and made a “stay” motion with her hand. In the darkness Neahle suddenly saw a dim reflection off of something in her friend’s hand. It was a hunting knife. Hannah stood and pressed herself against the back wall, sliding silently down towards the stairs. Neahle could make out boots, khaki slacks, and then a belt as the First slowly walked down the stairs.

Neahle glanced at Hannah, who was hidden in the shadows between the stair railing and the wall. Her knife was at the ready. Glancing back at the First, Neahle only saw a flashlight in his right hand. He had a gun in a holster on his hip, but he hadn’t removed it.

“Who’s there?” a male voice said, his demand sounding especially loud in the confined space.

Hannah lunged. Before Neahle could attempt to get to her feet, she saw the body fall. The First was dead, a surprised look on his face and a growing pool of blood down his chest from the gash in his neck.

Hannah turned to Neahle, who was still leaning forward over her crossed legs. She was pale and obviously frightened, but she gave Neahle a small, tight smile. Neahle tried to smile back but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Oh, my God!” Hannah said as she joined Neahle, her voice trembling. “That’s never happened to me before. I’ve been chased but not cornered like that.”

“What would we have done if you didn’t have the knife?”

“Split up. We would have had to split up. If that happens, you just have to run, as hard and as fast as you can, anywhere a motorcycle can’t follow.” Hannah stood up and pulled Neahle to her feet. “They could only chase one of us at a time.”

“If there was only one bike. And he had a gun.”

“Right. If there was only one bike and he was a lousy shot.” Hannah picked up her back pack and put it on with shaking hands. “Come on, we’d better get to the safe house. The body is out of sight for now, but someone will have to get rid of it before they send someone out looking for this guy.” Neahle shuddered. She’d just seen someone killed; her brain and body were protesting. She wondered if she was going into shock.

“What about Élodie?” Neahle finally asked as she watched Hannah cleaned her knife on the dead alien’s shirt. The blood looked black in the darkness. Was First blood black? She shook her head trying to clear her thoughts.

“Rule number one out here. If someone doesn’t come back when they said, wait. I’ll leave it to the leader of the new cell to decide whether or not to go after them tonight. Maybe there’s always a patrol at this time, but this guy seemed to know we were down here, and that worries me. We’ll have to go back a different way.”

Pulling her hood forward over her face and hiking up her pack, Hannah led them quickly across the street and into the cover of deep shadow.

Gilles Moreau was the leader of Rebel Seven. He welcomed Hannah with an enormous hug and kisses on both cheeks. She introduced him to Neahle, explained about Élodie waiting in the abandoned house, and then shared their encounter with the First and its outcome.

“
Mon deu
,” Gilles said, running his hands through his wavy brown hair. He was a young man of about twenty-five, the son of captured rebels, and a fearless leader of his band of seven. “This is the third patrol this week. Obviously they know that we are in the vicinity. I will send two men to hide the body—we cannot afford for them to find one of their own killed. They would begin a hunt.”

“Do you think they saw us on a camera?” Hannah asked.

“No, we make sure they are disabled. Sometimes they come to fix them, but they are so loud we always know what they are doing.”

“Do they ever leave someone in a building, like a spy?” Neahle asked. The incident with the First had given her the creeps; she was imagining eyes in every window of the city.

“No. They do not have so many men to spare and they do not think
we
are so many. They do not have, how do you call it… ambition. They do not cherish freedom and they do not grieve their lost. They do everything for the collective, for the whole. They want to colonize this planet, to breed slaves that do not think for themselves; they are focused on those things above all else.”

“But what do they
do
?” Neahle asked. “I mean, they have slaves and they have technology and they invent things like weapons, but what do they do?”