Hannon is rubbing the back of her neck nervously. Either her collar is chafing or she’s been absently rubbing her neck so often that it’s causing a rash. “Sir, what did they say?”
Croft glares at her for a moment. “Those idiots cut off our control of the Desolator satellites. We told them it misfired, they said that a mole program sent them the specific commands we gave it to fire at a skewed angle tracking one of our own gunships. They didn’t deem it appropriate that we shot it down with honourable troops aboard despite the risk Caufmann may have posed. They said it was unlawful; that the thing Caufmann built was an asset, do you believe that?” his voice rising to a screech.
First Officer Hannon inwardly cringes. She doesn’t want to answer any of his questions. She believes Jorge Croft is having a breakdown, but is too frightened to declare him unfit. “What will we do, sir?”
“It’s simple. We—” he’s cut off by a communication signal.
Hannon’s face is shocked. “Commander, there’s a call coming from gunship Dead Star.”
For a moment Croft is stunned and it looks like fear on his face. His dark eyes look like liquid sinkholes, swirling with a new insanity. “Patch it through, Grace.”
Hannon does so and on the screen is Beta HolinMech sniper: Mia Saker. In the background kneels a heavily bound Doctor William Caufmann, with Rennin Farrow standing guard, a gun to his head.
The sniper speaks immediately. “Sir! Mia Saker of Raston Squad reporting. Desolator 1 fired and Dead Star is all but wrecked. Del was lost in the crash and we have Caufmann in custody. Corporal Verge, Captain Sabre, our heavy gunner and a private are the only ones left alive. We’re also escorting a family of uninfected civilians we rescued earlier. Awaiting instructions.”
Croft feels his spirits lift instantly. He blinks a couple of times. “Good work detaining the doctor, but where is the Del android?”
Mia shakes her head. “Completely lost it once the Desolator fired on us. Smashed its way out and left us. Current location unknown.”
Croft can’t help but grin. The rewrite program has worked. He can’t believe how well this has turned out. Earlier, he wasn’t sure if they would follow through with the order. But now with Del out of the picture and Caufmann subdued—alive—he can interrogate him. “Bring him here. Any way you can. Your location isn’t showing on our instruments.”
“Transponder is shot to hell, we made an emergency landing on the Blackhaven-Currajong border.”
Croft nods. “We’re beginning an evacuation from Whitechapel through the train systems. The transports we used to bring everyone here from the Stadium left and haven’t returned. The havens outside the city were too full to move them straight there and we were stupid enough to think we could protect them here. They’re not coming back for us.”
“We know of some underground tunnels that lead from here to Whitechapel, connected through a disused reservoir.”
“I thought that was all flooded.”
“Apparently not, sir. It was used to catch rainwater for storage during the hydro-crisis eighty years ago, but since the weather augmenting machines were patented all underground storage reservoirs from then on were used up, then abandoned when empty.”
Croft can’t suppress another grin.
Too perfect.
“Excellent. Use them. Just get Doctor Caufmann to me, he has some serious questions to answer.”
“Yes, sir. Coming to you now as fast as we can.”
“We’ll be expecting you,” says Croft. As he moves to disconnect the call he catches Caufmann looking at him and feels a momentary chill as if the doctor’s eyes are drilling into his head.
Sindaris Tessol can feel himself ailing. He is still bleeding badly, and he is unsure he can continue. He is still much too close to the reservoir entrance, but he can’t run anymore.
The deep gashes in his arms are so wide he has to entwine his limbs, clasping them tightly to himself just to hold them together. He has slowed to a stumbling pace. A normal man would have passed out quite a while ago. His accelerated healing is quick but isn’t able to deal with the wounds fast enough. He stops his awkward shambling to lean against a wall for a moment. He has to catch his breath.
Despite the threatening sky, the rain hasn’t started to fall. The clouds are ominous, and thunder is beginning to sound overhead. Between peals, he hears his thick blood splashing onto the ground and dribbling onto his boots. He feels dizzier by the moment but forces himself to look at the wounds on his arms.
Sindaris can still see exposed bone in one of the gashes regardless of the amount of blood oozing across the wound and out.
His mind begins to swim. His mind clicks back to reality, shaken by the sound of his name being shouted not very far off.
Unbridled panic grips his heart. How could the infected still call his name? Sindaris grits his teeth and lets out a pained grunt at the futility of what he’s just done.
He’d shot a controlling entity, he realises.
Maybe there are two, or ten. He grips his wound, sending a severe sharp pain up his arm and hears himself cry out. He can feel himself pulsing in and out of focus.
Then something strange happens. Something pops in the sky a few hundred metres away. He looks up and sees a bright green flare, followed by his name being called again.
Soldiers. They’re looking for him. Somehow—he has no idea how—but somehow they know about him. They’re even calling his name. So they also know that he’d understand them when they talk.
How?
He looks at the blood seeping through his fingers, feeling a wave of weakness creep over him again. He’s going to die from these wounds, he knows. He feels himself huff out a small rueful laugh. Most people don’t realise in the age of cybernetic augmentation that you can still die very easily from a serious enough injury to a full-orga extremity. Particularly a blade wound. Or several for that matter.
He looks up as another flare sails into the sky to explode in a beautiful green light. His wife’s favourite colour was green.
Jasmine, he closes his eyes trying to picture her face.
Several others are calling his name from varying distances now. He lightly shakes his head at the sheer stupidity of whoever it is, calling out the way they are with hostile lunatics infesting every part of the city.
Or is it desperation?
He decides he has so little to lose by turning himself in that he might as well see what they want with him. He swings himself off the wall and makes his way towards the latest popped flare.
Rennin fires another flare into the sky. He and Corporal Verge stand in the middle of an intersection calling for someone they’ve never met, feeling quite exposed when a hunching figure limps into view.
“Contact!” says Verge and her weapon is up instantly.
“Don’t shoot, it might be what’s-his-name,” says Rennin aiming at the figure. ‘Substance 6’ flashes in the scope. “It’s infected.”
The slow moving silhouette is slowly moving towards them. Verge is obviously anxious to fire. “They travel in packs, what do we do?”
“Hey!” Rennin calls to it. “Stop! Hands up!”
The figure continues sluggishly walking towards them. Verge shakes her head. “I’m going to put it down, Tessol is supposed to be intelligent.”
Rennin calls out. “If that’s you, Tessol, stop moving now!”