And so it went for the next thirty minutes as Ken assembled
a team of specialists and equipment he felt he would need if he was to have any
hope of saving Damon. Luckily, he had collected a lot of high-end equipment
from Damon’s missions. Some of the items would have taken days or even weeks
for him to procure otherwise.
Finally, everything was in place and Ken had to wait. The
next two days dragged by interminably as Ken supervised the preparations.
Somewhere down below his friend was in need of his help, but
there was nothing he could do until the strike team arrived. Periodically, Ken
would infiltrate various security systems in the area where Damon was lost and
try to pick up more information, but he found nothing of interest.
Finally, the strike team arrived in system. Their ship was
fast and well cloaked, they were not detected or challenged by the planetary
traffic control. Ken knew that the tunnel must have been detected, but when the
automated system did not detect a ship, it merely cataloged an anomaly for
future reference. In most cases, it would never be thought of again.
Ken smiled to himself as he imagined the strike team’s
surprise when he hailed them. They probably assumed they would sneak up on the
Abyss, proving their prowess and technology. Little did they know that the
Abyss was outfitted with state-of-the-art military grade hardware that Ken had
been meticulously improving as only he could. Ken told them to maintain their
distance, just in case they were detected. He did not want possible observers
to make a connection between them.
The strike team received their orders from Ken, along with
all the pertinent tactical information he had gleaned from the planetside
systems. They wasted no time in deploying a dozen-man team to the area where
Damon disappeared. It would take them a while to infiltrate successfully, since
Ken wanted them to go in quietly.
While listening to the radio chatter in the area, Ken had
become convinced that the forces used to attack Damon did not actually acquire
him. Apparently he made an unexplained disappearance, although the evidence was
sketchy and Ken was afraid he might be interpreting it with wishful thinking.
He wanted the strike team to track him down and report on who held him, if
anyone, before attempting extraction. Ken wanted intel on the captors before
they made any move whatsoever. He could only hope that the men were up to the
task. He had found that all too often these teams were a little over-zealous
and tended to shoot without thinking. He certainly paid enough to get a
well-trained team.
The next day, Camden Castenada, the BioSurgeon, arrived with
his entourage. Ken had expected the small crowd of support staff, and had refitted
a small cargo vessel for the occasion. In the last three days, an army of
well-paid contractors had gutted the interior of the vessel, leaving only
life-support and propulsion intact. Everything else was stripped out. They then
rebuilt the interior to Ken’s design. It was now a self-contained, space-faring
hospital complete with living quarters and mess facility for the support staff.
Some of the welds were still warm when Camden and company toured the facility.
The prima donna surgeon clucked and criticized his way
through the tour, but Ken knew him well enough to see that he was impressed
with the facility. Ken was not bothered by his drama, he found the man amusing,
and enjoyed spending some time with him. Just as long as it wasn’t
too much
time. Camden settled in quickly, and began coordination of the delivery and
installation of the additional specialty tools he would need for his work. Ken
realized this part of the project was in good hands, and returned to the Abyss
to contact the strike team.
**** ****
Jeffrey Allen sat at his desk in
quiet triumph.
‘NO COMMUNICATION’ flashed on his screen in bold red
letters.
He’d been monitoring the control channels of the Demon for
days now, and he was satisfied that this was finally the end. If the Demon had
survived the fight, he would have come back online by now. The lack of
communication, coupled with reports from Jeffrey’s strike teams, gave him
enough confidence to finally believe it was true.
The Demon was dead.
All of his plans had come through in the end, executed to
near perfection.
I couldn’t save the factories,
he thought,
but
everything else was nearly flawless.
It had taken weeks to infiltrate the Pryke network.
Countless hours spent intercepting communication, making changes in real time,
and resending without being detected in order to create the disruption needed
to reveal the people involved.
Once he found a way into the network, it was easy enough to
disrupt the process long enough to get the men and equipment on site to set the
trap.
The needle-flak guns, recently developed by Dr. Baksa’s
team, were the icing on the cake. According to reports, they worked perfectly,
and were instrumental in bringing down the Demon.
Even losing the factory was acceptable collateral damage in
light of the final result.
Jeffrey couldn’t stop smiling as went to find Renard and
report on his success.
**** ****
Leland returned from his foray into
the Ruins and no one from the church asked any questions. Most of them knew something
about his sketchy past in an elite military force, but they also knew he didn’t
like to talk about it.
He toured their temporary accommodations, and commended the
leadership team on their quick work. He also took some time to visit the people
who had been injured. He wiped his eyes often as he made the rounds, although
he kept his voice firm and optimistic.
Finally, they inspected the small storage building where Damon
was hidden. He still had no idea what to do for the young man.
“Hopefully my friends will be able to help—” Leland stopped
in mid-sentence when a red telltale popped up on his HUD. He didn’t even have a
chance to speak before the door of the storage building blew open behind him.
He spun around and dropped into a crouch while roughly knocking his friends to the
ground around him to give them some protection from flying wood chips.
His HUD identified three targets, but failed to provide a
lock on any of them due to their e-warfare defenses. This fact alone told
Leland all he needed to know, and he raised his hands in surrender. As much as
he wanted to protect Damon, he realized it was futile and would only put more
of his innocent friends in danger.
The attackers wore medium-weight state-of-the-art combat
armor that shimmered and flowed as they moved, the absorptive surfaces playing
tricks on his eyes and implants. Leland wondered if his weapons would have been
any good, even when they were still functional.
“Stay calm,” he said to the group, his hands held up in
plain sight. “There are no threats here. I’m completely de-powered.”
One of the soldiers looked Leland up and down, his head
needlessly following the trace of his scanners. It was the first sign of
rookie, and Leland noted to be especially careful around this one.
“He’s cold,” the rookie reported, again showing his lack of
experience by turning his head toward his commander while speaking.
Many years of training took over, and Leland couldn’t help
himself. “Son,” he said gently, “you just told me who’s in charge here, and if
I had any weapons, I’d now know who to hit first.”
The rookie flinched and tightened his grip on the autorifle
pointed at Leland’s face. Everyone froze.
Leland said a quick prayer of thanks that none of his people
moved or spoke. The moment dragged on in tense silence.
“Stand down, Fenton,” the commander said, lowering his own
weapon, “and wait outside.”
The rookie hesitated, then lowered his weapon and turned to
leave. His shoulders drooped noticeably as he passed through the ruined
doorway.
The commander strode forward holding his autorifle casually,
pointed down and away. His voice sounded slightly mechanical through his
helmet. “I see you understand the situation at hand,” he drawled.
“I do, but I don’t know why you’re here,” Leland replied.
“Ah, but I bet you do, sir. There’s a certain, ah,
package
we’re here to collect. We know ya’ll got it, and we need to take him away now
in order to save him.”
“Him? Or it? What kind of package are you looking for?” Leland
asked, doing his best to sound confused.
The commander’s shoulders rose and fell slowly as if he were
sighing. The armor and helmet gave the man no discernible features that Leland
could read, and he had good control over his body language.
Leland began to sweat, and realized his rising skin
temperature would show up on the commander’s scanners.
He tried to determine if he could send off a call for help,
and if his allies could respond quickly enough to protect the innocent people
in the room.
He was in the midst of creating the message when the
commander’s helmet split open and retracted, revealing a surprisingly young face
with black short-cropped hair and intense brown eyes.
“I got someone who wants to talk with you,” he said as he
pulled a small screen from a slot in his armor. He handed it over to Leland,
and it immediately came to life.
“Mr. McKrae,” the voice said, accompanied by a picture of a
lean, angular man. “My name is Ken Westron and I’m a colleague of Damon, called
The Demon, the man you rescued from the factory. We need to talk.”
It took nearly thirty minutes of
conversation for Ken to convince Leland that they were indeed friends of Damon,
and his only real hope for survival.
Now Leland reclined in a comfortable chair inside the
shuttle, and listened to the mission debrief going on the adjoining room. He
smiled knowingly as the commander explained to the rookies the importance of
every mistake and misstep.
“Had it been a violent encounter,” the commander said to
them, “some of you would be dead.”
Leland’s smile faded as he realized the truth in those
words.
Yet here I am again, he chided himself gently. Am I truly
worried about this mysterious young man? His gaze traveled to the inert form of
Damon on the gurney. Or do I just miss the action? He sighed deeply. Do I
really think I can rejoin now, he said to himself, at my age? I doubt they have
any munitions that will even fit my systems. He closed his eyes in silent
prayer.
This was one of those times when he had no actual words to
pray, but cycled through his various conflicting emotions and laid them out
before God. He knew he didn’t need to form words, his feelings would be telling
enough. When he reopened his eyes he felt better, although apprehension
lingered.
As the shuttle slowly turned in preparation for docking, he
was able to see their destination. He was used to utilitarian warships
bristling with weapons, antennae, and other protuberances. They usually gave
the impression of being stuck together randomly in whatever shape the various
parts happened to form.
This ship was altogether different. It was all smooth and
flowing lines from front to back. Sensor pods, thrusters, control surfaces,
viewports, and engine nacelles all blended into a burnished gold-colored skin.
This was no warship. It was a luxury yacht unlike anything he’d ever seen.
Leland whistled softly in admiration.
“She’s somthin’ to see, hey?”
Leland started slightly, since he had not heard the
commander come up behind him. Covering his surprise, he kept his gaze fixed
outside. After a moment he replied, “Who
are
these people?”
“Honestly?” The commander chuckled as he spoke, “I 'ave no
idea.”
In the end, they flew past the beautiful ship, much to
Leland’s disappointment, and they docked with a non-descript freighter. On
their approach, Leland realized there was a small fleet clustered around the
yacht, adding to his curiosity.
Once inside the freighter, Leland laughed as he was
surprised yet again. This ship might have been a freighter on the outside, but
inside it was a state-of-the-art hospital.
The hospital staff (Leland didn’t know what else to call
them) rushed Damon off on the gurney through the doors and into the heart of
the facility. Leland found himself standing in the vestibule with the
commander.
“You look tired, Pop,” the commander said after a few
moments of quiet.
Leland stretched and smiled, “I’m just old, son. Who runs
this place?”
“The hospital? It’s that doctor you just saw—the tall guy.”
“No, I mean . . .” Leland waved his arms around,
trying to indicate everything he’d seen. “All of this. The hospital, the yacht,
the fleet, your strike team. Who runs all of this?”
The commander shook his head, “We’re hired guns. We don’t
talk 'bout our employer. Hell, they don’t even tell us who they are.”
“But surely Damon must be a tool of the Council. Who else
could afford to make a skin of D-SAP? But this,” he gestured broadly again, “and
you—this can’t be government, it just doesn’t add up.”
The commander laughed easily, a sound that Leland found
comforting. “No sir. I know very little about our employer, but what I do know
is that he ain’t no way attached to the Council!”
The commander’s eyes closed slightly and he accessed his
communication implants. After a moment, his focus returned to Leland and he said,
“That was the boss, he’s comin' from the Abyss.”
“The Abyss? You mean the yacht?” Leland shook his head as he
followed the commander back to the shuttle. “Ugly name for a beautiful ship.”