Cold War 2395, page 8
I arrive at a sufficiently isolated fighter and see that the coast is clear to make my escape. All that’s left is for me to get inside that cockpit, man the sticks, and be on my merry—
“Nice ride, Wes.”
—way.
“Don’t let me stop you. Slide in there, get comfy.”
I know who that voice belongs to, and I don’t like it one bit. I turn my head slowly, praying to any and all gods who’ll listen that I don’t see who I’m expecting to see.
It seems prayers don’t work aboard terrorist space stations. In all her pint-sized, evil glory, it’s Roseanne Faust. With her crow’s-feet creased, eyes narrowed, and mouth wide in a grim smile, the witch has the look of a cat who’s just found its favorite mouse. My right hand inches toward my stowed rifle even more quickly than when I thought I’d have to square off against the checkpoint robot. I’d take the heartless jet-black machine over the mechanical woman with a heart of coal any day.
The single semi-silver lining to seeing her face is that I get to see the other three Americans along with it. Their eyes tell me they’re none too happy with the little stunt I pulled. Understandable, as I’m none too happy with them chasing me down.
“Wes, you are a walking, talking liability. Get your fucking hand off that ship and let’s get a move on,” she commands after savoring a few seconds of my unease.
“No.” I’m on a defiant streak today, and it’s not stopping here.
“Can you imagine what that thing out there,” she says, referencing the planet-eating cannon looming beyond the hangar’s deflector shields, “will do to you when the Russians above us see a ship shooting out of here with no clearance for takeoff?”
I . . . no, she’s trying to trick me. She’s been trying to trick me. The terrorists won’t waste an entire cannon shot on my fighter, will they? No. They’ll . . . they’ll probably just send out a few drones or fighters to obliterate me. Oh, bother. And dare I imagine if they actually do elect to test the cannon on me?
“It’ll erase every atom in your body from our dimension. Now stand down.” Her tone tells me she’s not playing around.
Well, neither am I. I stop going for my rifle and instead reach to the highest rung of the fighter’s boarding ladder. But the tip of someone’s gun gently presses against my lower back. All of a sudden, the blessing of having found a secluded ship in the hangar turns into a curse.
“Do what she says, Wesley. We’re in her world now.”
I’d say it’s the captain’s charisma that nearly sways me, but I’d be lying. The hairs on the back of my neck go stiff as his rifle nudges deeper. He’s let that wicked harpy grab him by the bollocks, the spineless man. I won’t let him convert me to such cowardice as well.
Against my better judgment, I let go of the ladder, ball my fists, and spin around, taking a wild swing at the captain. He moves like lightning, leaning back to dodge my attack before grabbing my throat and hoisting me a few inches off the ground. As soon as his digits wrap around my neck, I realize that if he wanted to, he could snuff the life out of me right here, right now. Even though he’s relegated himself to being Faust’s lapdog, he’s still lethal, and I am at his mercy.
“Don’t make a scene,” he says, releasing his grip on me.
I cough a few times as I look around at the Americans. They’re not allies—they’re three stooges and a vile puppet master. Realizing my only choices are to play along or die in the most miserable, undignified manner possible, I swallow my resentment for my repugnant squadmates and obey the captain’s demand. A small formation of Russians passes by just in time to miss the scuffle. Once they’re out of earshot, a new order is given to me: exit the hangar.
Concealed but deadly, Grimm’s rifle prods me forward, and our quintet resumes the box formation from our initial entry, though now I’m in the front. It’s laughable, really, that they view me as a bigger danger than Faust. When we’re all dead inside a basement somewhere within the hour, I’ll go out knowing I was the only one who saw it coming.
“Color me surprised, Wes. Didn’t think you’d have the stomach to wander past the big guys,” Faust says as we pass those massive mechanical monsters on our way out of the hangar. While I didn’t necessarily choose to wander past them, I’m not going to tell her that. I’m not going to tell her anything. As a result, for a brief while, there is total silence. Our group’s mute, tense state is only briefly shaken up by a fear-fueled remark from the rear.
“What else they got going on here?” Beecher mumbles a bit too loudly. I look over my shoulder and see his eyes drifting around. Though the rest of my traveling party’s members remain focused on me, I’m clearly not the lean lieutenant’s biggest concern. Foolish fellow that he is, he still thinks the Russians’ toys are a bigger threat than his own president.
“A hell of a lot more,” Faust replies, keeping her voice low. “But you don’t want to meet the rest.”
Our journey continues devoid of spoken word as we board a tram and head in the direction the president had intended from the very beginning. At the rear of the colony, I think I see another hangar. It’s only a few miles away, but there’s no way to reach it. Between it and me is a sea of generators, pumps, and pipes, all working diligently to keep the colony afloat. The machinery seethes with black energy and uncontained electricity, likely lethal to any human who gets within a couple hundred feet of it. And to even get that close, I’d need to somehow survive jumping out of the transport I’m on at its current speed.
Then a thought hits me: What if I shout? If I blow our cover, at least Faust won’t get the last say in what happens to us. Yes, the idea has merit. But when I look over my shoulder at Gourd and Beecher, I just can’t do it. These two men have done me no wrong. Well, no wrong besides forcing me to play into the inevitable trap Faust has yet to reveal. Hmm . . . perhaps they are guilty. Yes. They deserve what comes their way, just like the president and captain. If I don’t seal their fates right now, then I’ll only be sealing my own.
I open my mouth ever so slightly and feel a shout build up. I close my eyes and prepare to sound the alarm.
My throat goes dry.
I can’t do it.
I try to force a sound out but can’t, just like I can’t block out the thought of Beecher’s eyes as he fearfully looked at the monsters around us just minutes ago. I can’t condemn him to being their victim—especially not after he saved me from my own execution not much more than a day ago. I owe him. Which means . . . which means it’s back to death by witch for me.
We finally pull into the station at the smelting complex. Our destination explains why the temperature’s spiked inside my already uncomfortably hot body armor. For something called dragon skin, I’d fancy a bit more heat resistance.
Beads of sweat form on my brow as the station’s previous horizon of cold grays transforms into warm, sizzling black metals and bright pools of yellow-red lava, all bouncing and swirling mere feet below the grates that support my flammable feet.
“Off,” Captain says, ordering us to leave the tram. The nearby robots don’t pay us any attention, but I can’t help but wonder if that single English word will be enough to alert the technicians in the neighboring tram cars. We’re in a noisy environment and may be out of immediate earshot of any living beings, but the captain’s unnecessary risks are making an already boiling-hot situation even more heated.
Faust looks at him, apparently sharing my sentiments. “Quiet.” Then, fresh off scolding the man, she assumes leadership over our team. Her first whispered command is for us to go down a secret path that no one else is using. After all, that’s the one where no one can hear us scream. It’s a maze of metal stairs that wraps around and weaves between the huge support beams holding up the tram platform. The stairs stretch down to the floor of the station yet continue even further below, into the darkness of the unknown. The winding mess of steps is so concealed from view by the tram platform above that one would only see it if they knew to look for it—which, of course, Faust does.
“Why aren’t we taking the main route?” I ask, speaking up once we’ve descended to a point where I’m sure no Russian will be able to hear us. The fact I don’t have to worry about Russians is where my fear stems from. I’m not keen on going somewhere even the terrorists aren’t venturing.
“It doesn’t go where we need to go, Wes. And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s too damn hot up there. Didn’t you see how no people were going near those platforms? No more idiotic questions.”
She’s right; there were only engineering robots past the unloading area of the station. The human workers were either dropping off equipment or staying on the trams.
Okay, so maybe she’s telling the truth about the danger. And I suppose she did give me a reason as to why we’re not headed further along the main route. But that still doesn’t explain why we are going in the direction we’re going.
“Where are we headed?”
“Somewhere a lot cooler. Didn’t I just say no more idiotic questions?” she responds, working hard to spit the words out while reserving most of her breath for the task of hustling us down another absurdly long stairwell. I find it surprising that these terrorists can afford a cannon capable of cutting through space but are picky about where elevators are installed. No wonder the place needs so many workers.
The house-sized generators we saw from the tram turn into skyscrapers down here, drenching us in shadow as we descend beyond where they meet the floor of the colony. After venturing dozens of stories beneath the tram rails and surface of the station itself, we reach a large gateway. It’s reminiscent of the door that got us inside the other end of the colony, though it’s far more hidden away than that one. Furthermore, the new gateway doesn’t have a retinal scanner. Instead, it demands blood, of which Faust readily sacrifices a few drops from her fingertip. The small needle above the door’s touchpad accepts her offering, and the gate opens.
Impossible. What am I not seeing? The Russians have her eyes on file. Her blood on file. And yet, not one enemy troop has intercepted our party. No computer system has sounded the alarm that a hostile nation’s president is skulking around. The only possible answer is that she’s some sort of Russian agent, right? And if the three soldiers aren’t protesting her actions . . . God, are they all part of a terrorist sleeper cell? Did I miss the part where she used their trigger phrase?
The idea that they’re mindless drones scares me to death, but I know that fight and flight are both out of the question. My gun is useless so long as theirs are all trained on me. I’ll never get a shot in. And if hand-to-hand combat occurs, well, Grimm’s already demonstrated he’s capable of killing me before I finish throwing a punch. Whatever happens next, I’m going to be forced along for the ride.
With the gate opened, our unit presses forward into the new area. Inside, there’s a secret tram station, secluded from the rest of the colony. Several trains, unmanned and unused, are docked.
“We take the first transport. From here on out, you’re clear to engage hostiles,” Faust says, before turning in my direction and adding, “that doesn’t mean me.”
I give my response in the form of a sneer.
As we ride the frontmost tram out of the station, I look out the green-hued, transparent shell of the tube our transport’s traveling through, peering between the bits that aren’t covered with bundles of piping or obscured by bands of dark deflector shields. Through the gaps, I gaze at the stars I could be flying by right now, had I made my escape back in the hangar. Such a big, vast space out there to occupy, yet here I am, on a train ride to my grave.
Though every second of it is hell, it’s a quick trip, lasting no more than a few minutes. It lands us at a destination that pokes out past the station’s primary cylinder, reinforcing the idea that we’re somewhere secret—somewhere we shouldn’t be.
Once out of the shuttle, we pass through the mysterious new station’s arches and start down yet another hallway. It’s insanely cold and paneled to look like the interior of a giant freezer. The walls are coated in a thin layer of frost and icicles dangle from vents above us. Though the low temperatures help alleviate any earlier worries about suffering from heatstroke, I can barely hear my own thoughts over the sound of my chattering teeth. No wonder we’re all alone; no technicians probably visit here unless they’ve fetched parkas first and something’s absolutely mission critical. And as for the lack of robots, well, any robot’s wires would eventually snap after prolonged exposure to such frigidity. The armor the three soldiers and I wear is well insulated, but even so, I don’t know how long I can take the cold. How the president is managing it is beyond me.
“What’s with the chills?” Beecher asks Faust.
“You’re about to find out.” She guides us to another massive gateway. With one extra-lengthy code input from the president, the door panels slide open, immediately dropping the temperature even further as a flood of bone-chilling water vapor spills out, the plumes of cold mist concealing what lies beyond. The president ushers us in.
We’re in some sort of central cooling unit. Massive tanks covered in ice line the room’s shelves as far as the eye can see, all of them hooked up to thick hoses that unify at the ceiling. The coolant reserve around us must be what the pipes lining the monorail tube were channeling back to the main colony. No wonder the current area is so sectioned off and empty—empty enough for Faust to pull off four murders without any commotion, that is. She clearly knows her way around; maybe she has the place rigged.
“Let’s make our way to the back. There’s one final thing . . . to be done,” she says between brief pauses, her face contorting in the same way it did right before she passed out on the shuttle a day ago. I consider calling attention to her mystery malady but stop myself. Whatever’s wrong with her doesn’t seem to be enough to stop her, meaning there’s no time to wonder about her health while my safety hangs in the balance. I need to let the situation play out and wait for the best possible opening to make a move, since I’ll only get one shot at saving myself.
Faust leads us past row after row of cooling tanks until we’re at the back wall of the storage facility. Having moved ahead of the pack, she positions herself next to a temperature dial and, while we’re still out of arm’s reach, hastily clutches it.
“Just give it a second,” she says, twisting the switch.
More mist pours into the room. Instinctively reacting to the danger, I do what I should’ve done a long time ago.
“Stop!” I raise my rifle and point it directly at Faust’s chest, my hands shaking from the cold as I aim my crosshairs at the President of the United States. My motion sets off a chain reaction, the likes of which I knew was coming. I hear the clinking sound of three rifles being lifted.
“Wesley, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Grimm barks.
“Don’t you see? She’s going to kill us off here. She’s going to freeze us to death!” I shout back, enraged by his blindness. I hear the clanks of shifting armor plates as Gourd, directly behind me, lowers his weapon ever so slightly, susceptible to the common sense in my words. I may have failed to get him to stand down, but at least he’s trying to think through the situation for himself.
“Look at her! You think she won’t freeze with us? You’re out of your mind!” Grimm says. But with all the tricks she’s had up her sleeve throughout our journey, I don’t care what her weaknesses appear to be.
“She’s been five steps ahead of us the whole damn way, you idiot! Surely she’s prepared to get out of here as well!” I roar, forcefully enough to momentarily startle Beecher.
The captain doesn’t flinch. “You can’t win, Wesley. You put another ounce of pressure on that trigger and I’ll drop you.”
“At least I’ll go knowing I did what none of you had the stones to do!” I say, not faltering a smidgen.
“Don’t do it. It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it? I want answers, and I want them now!” My voice cracks. She can’t be my end. I won’t let her be.
Throughout our whole exchange, Faust hasn’t moved a muscle or said a word. Only now, in the brief interlude between shouts, does she slowly remove her hand from the cooling dial.
“Wes, you’re right.” A small, wry smile forms across her wrinkly mouth.
With my rifle still aimed directly at her heart, she speaks the phrase I’ve been waiting for all day.
“It’s time . . . for answers,” she says, pausing as her mystery malady once again takes over her body. As her muscles tense up and veins begin to pop, she locks eyes with me and speaks through gritted teeth. “Think you can handle the truth?”
CHAPTER 9
Beecher
What. Is. Happening.
I keep my rifle fixed squarely on Wesley’s head. A single trigger pull will take him out of the game . . . but why the hell would I do that? He’s super paranoid, sure, but it’s not like his fears are unfounded. No one’s answering questions, sketchy shit abounds, and he’s had enough of it.
Thankfully, just when it looks like Wesley is about to do something stupid, Faust speaks up and the Brit’s stance falters. That’s all the reassurance I need to know he isn’t going to do it—not because he can’t, but because he truly doesn’t want to. I lower my weapon. Gourd follows suit, giving up his direct lock on the civilian’s skull. We don’t take our sights off Wesley completely, though, walking a fine line so as to not piss off Captain, who’s still holding firm. Damn it, Grimm, just go easy on the guy. He won’t do anything unless you box him into a corner.
“We have a little time, men, so let’s make it count,” Faust says.
“Quit stalling! I want transparency, now,” Wesley snaps back, his voice wavering as he loses some of the prior conviction he had.
“And frankly, you all deserve some. Let’s start with Grenada,” she begins, taking us back in time. “Forget everything you think you know.”
