Jett woke up in a prison.
His heart exploded into overdrive at awakening inside a sealed pod just large enough to hold him. He tried to move but was confined by a heavy covering of plaster that completely enveloped him up to his neck. No matter how frantic his movements, he was trapped tighter than a rabbit in a snare.
"Ah, you're awake."
A man approached and stood over the sight glass of the pod. He was mid-sixties, athletic build, silver-haired. His face was carved lines and rigid angles, the face of a man who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. Jett recognized him immediately. William Golding, the man that had placed him in hibernation after the Hellrazors died. But that was in the past.
Jett licked his lips, trying to battle the fear that tried to claw out of his chest. It was impossible. He couldn't still be in the stasis lab. Couldn't have dreamed the entire few months of his life.
"You might be experiencing some disorienting effects. Do you know where you are?"
Jett blinked. The voice was different. He narrowed his eyes. The man standing over the pod didn't look anything like William Golding. He was much younger, in his early thirties. Neatly combed blond hair. Tailored dress shirt and slacks. He was confined to a hovering version of a wheelchair. Jett remembered where he had seen the man before.
"You were at the funeral. You, the woman, and the old man."
The man in the hoverchair smiled. "So you were watching us. I never suspected. Guess I'm not as incognito as I thought. My name is Arthur Milton. I'm sure you have many questions. Why don't I let you out of the med tank, and we can talk."
He pulled up a screen on his holoband and tapped a digital keypad. Jets hissed inside the pod, and the plaster substance instantly liquefied into milky liquid, disappearing down the drain at the bottom. Jett nearly gasped from the rush of air that raised goosebumps on his skin. He slowly emerged, shivering in his wet boxer shorts. He paused, inspecting his body for injuries. To his surprise, the visible bruises were faded as if weeks after the savage beating.
"How… long was I in there?"
"Two days. Your jaw was fractured, cheekbone and nose broken, four ribs cracked, and bruised from head to toe. Pretty amazing, isn't it?" Arthur gestured to a nearby door. "In the bathroom are a clean change of clothes. I took the liberty of burning yours. They were filthy. Shower and dress. We'll talk afterward."
One side of his face was discolored, still tender. A purple crescent bruise hugged his right eye. He wondered how he looked before the med tank.
Must have been pretty awful.
He'd seen similar Accelerated Healing Process Pods in his own time but had never experienced the process. The AHPPs were reserved for those who could afford the luxury. Back then it would have taken weeks to recover from the damage he'd received. Obviously, they had been improved over time.
He felt better after showering and dressing in a long-sleeved knit shirt and cargo pants. He walked out into a small, darkened warehouse. Nearly everything was shrouded under dusty tarps. It had the look of a place abandoned, the leftovers of a life left behind. Jett guessed a few of the larger tarps covered different vehicles. The floater that carried him there was the only one uncovered. But what drew his eye were several glass-enclosed chambers. Inside of them were armored suits, each topped by modified versions of Vigil's helmet.
Arthur silently guided his hoverchair over. "I thought they might catch your eye." He glanced down at the battered helmet in his lap. "This one has been severely damaged, I'm afraid. Hard to think a human fist could deal out this kind of punishment."
Jett looked down. "You're the one who guided me through that warehouse attack. You're Incognito."
"Not anymore, I'm afraid." Arthur turned his chair toward an elevator door. "Let's go topside. There's nothing left in this cemetery except ghosts."
Jett followed Arthur into a large cargo lift. "So. The attack on the police convoy that killed Kane. That was you?"
"Does it look like I have the physical ability to take out an armored convoy?" Arthur's voice was bitter as he pressed a button, jolting the lift into action.
Jett was silent for a moment. "Was it… her?"
"Viper? God, no. Two officers were killed in that attack. She'd never be so sloppy."
Jett exhaled a sigh of relief before pausing in thought. "Who do you think it was?"
Arthur looked up with a wry expression. "You're minutes out of a med tank, and you're already thinking about what happened on the streets? I don't know if you're a fiend for action or just bored out of your mind. Either way, I guess I can save the sales pitch."
The lift lurched to a stop. The gate rattled open, revealing a dimly lit apartment with expensive furnishings. Jett glanced down at Arthur.
"What sales pitch?"
Arthur glided forward in the hoverchair. "You know. The one where I convince you to become the next Vigil. The real deal. Not the half-baked version you've been cobbling around as."
Jett followed the humming chair into the apartment. He was immediately struck by a surprisingly potent sense of nostalgia when he realized it had been renovated from a lavish hotel with all the gold gilding, rich mosaic carpeting, Renaissance-styled painted ceilings, and Victorian furniture. Paintings lined the walls like an art museum, and every nook and cranny was stuffed with busts, carvings, and collections from bygone eras.
Arthur paused in a hallway where suits of armor were displayed under dramatic lighting. Practically every age and culture was represented. He pointed them out as he passed.
"Mycenaean Greek, Roman centurion, medieval knight, Ottoman knight, Japanese samurai, Chinese Terracotta. In ancient times, the defenseless looked to paladins to protect them. To fight for them, if need be."
Jett shook his head. "Most of that reputation was inflated by the stories and songs about their supposed brave deeds. At best, they were protectors. At worst, they were rapists and cowards hiding behind armor and weapons. The bottom line is that they were soldiers. Good or bad, they rose and fell, lived and died at the orders of their lords and commanders."
"You know firsthand about being a soldier, don't you?"
"I know firsthand that soldiers are pawns. Used for a moment and easily sacrificed."
Arthur regarded him with unruffled calm. "Is that what happened to you?"
Commander Blackwell stared at Jett with cold, unblinking eyes. "I'm sorry, Major. There is simply no place in the future for an outfit like yours. It was a tough call to make, but the New World Council was firm in its decision. Your Hellrazors and the rest of the ACU units are disbanded. The Android Military Units are the future, and will replace you immediately."
Jett's fists clenched. "Yes."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Powerless."
Arthur directed his chair forward. "Because you weren't in control. Your life and the lives of your team were completely at the mercy of superiors who only saw you as a means to an end."
Jett's mouth twisted. "And what — you're supposed to be different? I take orders from you, and I'm supposed to believe you have my best interests at heart?"
"No orders. A partnership. I provide reconnaissance and keep you alive. You work on the ground doing what you apparently love to do: engage the enemy."
They entered a dining room, where a table was set. Ripe fruit glistened in bowls alongside steaming eggs and fresh bread. Condensation slid down glasses of water and mimosas. A tall, cylindrical robot in a tuxedo glanced up from where he stood pouring juice from a pitcher.
"Master Milton. Mr. Wolfe. I've prepared a small meal to break your fast."
"Thanks, Bailey."
Jett's mouth watered. "Wow. Haven't seen real food in a long time."
A small smile touched Arthur's lips. "A little more palatable than your ration bricks, I'm sure. Pull up a seat."