It was early evening, the setting sun casting long shadows over the plaza and drenching the square and its surrounding buildings in warm, golden light. The central fountain shot a geyser of water skywards, refracted spots of light sent dancing across the facades. Children screamed and shouted in joy as they chased after them, their parents laughing along as they sat at the cafes’ terraces, enjoying the gentle evening breeze.
Estes Park was a small but bustling town, hidden away between two minor mountain ranges running parallel to each other on Denver’s northern hemisphere. It wasn’t wealthy but, after the collapse of the silver industry two centuries prior, could rely almost entirely on the veritable boat loads of tourists that arrived daily from Manhattan and Los Angeles, seeking to venture up the many beautiful and winding hiking paths that snaked up the low foothills and mountains beyond. The town’s inhabitants were content with their lot, serving as guides, hoteliers, and restaurateurs for their elite and wealthy patrons. It afforded them a standard of living above that of most other former mining and industrial towns.
It was in the evenings when Estes Park’s many squares filled with activity, as the hikers returned from their exhausting adventures and settled in for refreshments and nourishment at the many cafes and restaurants that could be found at almost every street corner in the town. Wiping the sweat from their brows and massaging their weary limbs, the visitors sat in the warm sun and told of their hikes into the ‘wilderness,’ the many beautiful sights they had seen, and their close-calls with falling boulders and slippery slopes – all of which were, of course, staged and secured by the locals for the tourists’ benefit.
It was among the throng of vacationers that made up most of the current population of Hennessey Plaza that two men in casual, light grey suits sat, their tie-less shirts’ top-most buttons undone, dark sunglasses covering their eyes. They were both seemingly enjoying their coffees, gazing out over the square and watching the children play, apparently unspent by the day’s excursions. One leaned forward and glanced at a small datapad resting atop their table, adjusting his shades to better see the image displayed on its screen. It was a picture of a young woman, her hair long and dark, framing a pretty but stern face. Her features were unusually attractive, marred only by a slight scar running along the top of her right cheekbone where, according to the attached file, a tumble down a hill had once broken the skin. Her striking blue eyes pierced out from under black eyebrows, displaying both determination and great intellect. The man absentmindedly ran a hand through his slicked-back, brown hair.
“See her anywhere?” The second man asked as his hidden gaze wandered across the square, pausing briefly on each female it came across. He sat casually in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hands entwined in his lap. His lips were ever so slightly pursed, as was his habit when observing others. The faint wind tussled his light blond hair, blowing wisps of it into his face.
“No, nowhere,” his dark-haired partner replied, glancing up again from the PDA. “Her shift’s just begun.” The blond man nodded faintly.
* * *
Cara hurried down the narrow alley towards the backdoor to the Madame Hussley café, tying her loose hair up into a ponytail as she went. The neural link on her wrist displayed the time as five after six; she was late again, the third time in a row. Her manager, George, would give her yet another scolding in front of the other staff in an effort to intimidate them and firmly establish himself as their better – a pathetic attempt to boost his own ego.
Fuck you, Cara thought as she pictured the short, balding man regularly dabbing sweat from his exposed scalp.
Reaching the rear entrance, she paused briefly, tucking her clothes into proper shape, and checking her makeup in the small window set into the door. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and entered. Her boss was waiting for her.
“Oh, I’m glad you decided to show,” he greeted her in his usual nasal, high-pitched tone. He stood before her almost comically, arms crossed before his chest, one foot tapping impatiently on the floor. Were he not a head shorter than Cara, he might have looked almost intimidating. But having to look up at her with his small, rat-like eyes, all the young woman could feel was disgust and the strong urge to turn around and leave again.
“Sorry,” Cara muttered instead, stepping past the manager and through a doorway to the left. She found herself in the kitchen, and promptly moved towards a small table with several prepared meals on it, their trays indicating which tables they were meant for.
George followed her.
“What’s the excuse this time?”
Cara tried to ignore the little man and picked up the trays, balancing four of them on her hands and forearms. An image of her flinging the dishes at George briefly passed through her mind, but she thought better of it.
“Mom’s still sick,” she replied simply and tried to squeeze past him. George, however, blocked her way.
“Then send her to the hospital.”
The girl froze and her blue eyes glared down at her boss, trays in her hands shaking ever so slightly. What a dick. She knew perfectly well that he knew that her family could not afford any hospital treatment; that her job was the only thing keeping them afloat at all. Of course, she also knew that he did not care in the slightest. The only thing that mattered to George was making a good impression on the owner. If that meant harassing his employees into performing well, he would not hesitate.
For a moment, the two stood there, eyes locked, wordlessly daring each other to be the first to move. Cara held George’s gaze unwaveringly. The short man finally faltered, realizing that delaying her any longer wouldn’t get her work done any sooner. He stepped aside with a derisive huff and, as she stepped past him, remarked, “One more strike and you’re out.”
The two men continued to scan the cafés and restaurants around them, searching for a trace of the individual they were after. There were plenty of waitresses about, hurrying between busy tables, balancing mountains of dishes and cutlery as they danced through the crowds of patrons. But there was no trace of the young woman with black hair.
The blond man glanced down at his neural link. Twelve past six.
“Are you sure we’re at the right café?”
His dark-haired colleague grimaced slightly at the disguised accusation. It had been his job to locate their target’s workplace and he was certain that he had found the correct one among the scores of coffee shops that littered the town.
“Of course.”
The other huffed in response.
The sun continued its slow descent towards the distant horizon, dipping towards the valley between the two mountain ranges running side by side, like a droplet of honey dripping into an earthen bowl. The shadows on the plaza gradually grew longer, jumping across the brick ground as the children continued their play around the fountain at the square’s center. The two men kept watching over the crowded cafés around them, searching intently for the young woman.
“There,” the dark-haired man spoke, nodding in the direction of a small coffeeshop across the plaza. His blond colleague followed the gesture, spotting their target moving between the occupied tables.
“About time.”
“When’s her break?”
“In one hour.”
The two relaxed back into their chairs, settling in to wait for the woman to take her usual breather behind the café. It would be then that they would move in and do their job.
* * *
Cara leaned against the café’s front entrance’s doorframe and let out an exhausted sigh. It was a particularly busy evening, and her arms were already sore from hauling dishes back and forth between the terrace and the kitchen. Her two current coworkers weren’t fairing much better, but at least their shifts would end soon. She was stuck here for another three hours. Luckily, she had her routine break to look forward to now.
She waved to one of her colleagues, signaling that she would head out back for a breather and headed through the shop and out the backdoor she had come through earlier. The air in the back alley was musty and reeked of the garbage that spilled out of the overfilled dumpsters lined up along the walls. But it was quiet – no laughing tourists, no screeching children, no customers berating her. Cara took a deep breath and sat down, leaning against the café’s façade.
She tilted her head back and let her gaze wander up, looking at the strip of sky visible between the walls of the buildings around her. The sun had set behind the horizon a few minutes ago and the first stars were blinking into existence from behind a few slivers of cloud. Cara closed her eyes and took a few more deep breaths, relaxing from the tedium of her job. She let her mind wander to her home, where her sick mother and her two younger siblings waited for her to return. If only she had a better paying job, she thought, then her mother could get proper treatment and Cara could go back to school.
There was a rustle to her right, something stirring in a pile of garbage bags. She didn’t bother looking; it was likely just a rat.
* * *
The dark-haired man made his way through the crowd along the left side of the piazza towards the Madame Hussley café. He carefully dodged and weaved around the occupied tables, careful not to bump into the busy waiters hustling back and forth between them, nor to stumble into any of the children running around, screaming. As little attention as possible was what he wanted to attract.
“Comms check, Percival. Do you read?” His colleague’s voice sounded through the earpiece set into the man’s right ear.
“Loud and clear, Galahad.”
On the opposite side of the square, the blond man was equally cautiously making his way towards the backside of their target’s workplace. The two of them would enter the back alley from opposing sides and approach her from both flanks to ensure that she could not escape.
Percival kept making his way through the throng of vacationers. Eventually, it started thinning out as he reached the edge of the plaza, and, with a quick glance around to ensure he was being neither watched nor followed, he ducked into the alleyway behind the café. In the dim evening light, he could make out rows of garbage dumpsters lined up along the walls, bags of litter spilling out over the edges. Rats scurried between them.
At the far end of the alley, he perceived the silhouette of his partner, slowly making his way down the path. Percival followed suit, quickly spotting the young woman with black hair sitting against the café’s back wall beside the door, her eyes closed. The rustling of a plastic bag broke the quiet and Percival’s eyes shot up to see Galahad freeze mid-step, gaze locked onto their target. Not taking his eyes off her, the blond man carefully adjusted his stance, stepping over the garbage bag he had just kicked. The woman did not seem to take notice.
A few yards from their mark, the men simultaneously reached into their jackets and quietly withdrew their stun guns. Percival nodded to his colleague and they both took aim.
* * *
Cara heard the faint sound of cloth moving against cloth. Her eyes shot open and she looked around her. Two men were in the alley, one standing to either side, and they both had guns drawn on her.
“What the fu-,” she blurted and jumped to her feet only to collapse again as two bolts of energy shot through her body, seizing up her muscles. The man to her left rushed forward, catching her before she hit the hard, brick floor. Gently, he propped her against a pile of garbage bags. Still conscious but unable to control her convulsing muscles, not even able to utter a sound, she watched as he and the other man pocketed their weapons.
“Got it?” She heard the man with blond hair to her right ask the one crouched over her.
“Yeah,” came the response from the dark-haired man. Cara watched him reach for something in his trousers’ back pocket. He retrieved a small syringe without a label. Popping the cap off the needle, he leaned over her locked-up body and ran his free hand over her neck.
Cara could feel panic spread throughout her as she helplessly observed the attacker pierce her skin with the needle and inject the syringe’s contents into her bloodstream. Immediately, her vision blurred, and her convulsing muscles went limp, no longer seized up. She felt groggy, as though badly hungover, the world around her starting to spin. The two men standing over her turned into vague shapes as they pulled her to her feet and held her upright between them.
* * *
“How long?” Galahad asked, rapping an arm around the young woman’s waist for support.
“About a minute,” Percival replied, tucking the now empty syringe into a nearby trash bag. It would be incinerated along with all the other garbage come the morning. “Then she’ll move just fine.”
His colleague grunted and started walking towards the end of the alley he had entered from, half guiding, half dragging their target along with him. Percival glanced around the scene one more time, ensuring that there had been no witnesses, and followed. At the end of the alley, they waited, Galahad intently watching the young woman in his arms, Percival glancing around the corners, checking for traffic.
“Clear,” he reported.
Galahad grabbed their target by the shoulder with one hand and rapped her head with the other. The woman’s eyes rolled around blindly for a second before locking onto his. They betrayed a mixture of fear and confusion.
“Stand,” Galahad commanded. The woman’s eyes went out of focus again as she straightened her back, taking a step back from him. She stood securely on her own two feet.
“The serum seems to be working,” Percival observed with an appreciative nod. The young woman would follow simple commands obediently, even against her will, allowing them to simply walk through the town’s street without arousing any suspicion at a cursory glance.
Galahad nodded towards his partner and growled, “Walk.” Their target slowly turned towards Percival and took a step towards him.
“Come on,” he spoke softly and stepped out into the open street.
Cara’s senses were ablur. She could feel her legs moving without her consent and could see the streetlights passing by around them. She wanted to scream and cry for help, but her mouth refused to open. Through her cloudy vision she could make out the dark-haired man walking a few steps ahead of her, occasionally looking over his shoulder and giving her a glance. Behind her she could hear the footfalls of the other stranger, following them at an inconspicuous distance. Groups of pedestrians passed by, not paying the three of them any heed, not noticing that she was being kidnapped by armed strangers.
What the hell is going on, she thought, her clouded mind trying to make sense of things. Why was this happening? Who were these people? What did they want?
Her feet continued to propel her forward against her will. How long they had been walking, Cara couldn’t tell. But judging by the buildings around them – warehouses, workshops, and garages -, they had reached the edge of town. The man before her came to an abrupt stop before what appeared to be just another midsized storage facility.
“Wait,” he said, and Cara’s legs seized. She stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, unable to move. Out here, there were no more pedestrians. The other man came up beside her and stood watch as the former approached the warehouse’s front door and typed an access code into the panel beside it. The door opened and he waved his partner over.
“Follow,” the blond man muttered, and Cara’s legs started moving again. They followed the dark-haired man into the warehouse as the interior lights flickered on. Instead of rows of tall storage shelves, they revealed a ship standing in the center of the building, pointing its bow straight at her, its wings swooping forward like those of a raptor clawing at its prey. Cara recognized the shape – any Libertonian would. It was an Avenger.
Cara’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. This ship was made iconic by one organization in Liberty. The Security Force. This has to be a mistake, she thought. She tried to say as much but her lips still wouldn’t obey her. Instead, her body continued forward, towards the ship whose access ramp had now lowered to greet her. The blond man beside her grabbed her by the shoulder and guided her up the incline into the vessel’s interior.
It was cramped, crowded with computer arrays, reinforced lockers and chests, and two rows of two large containers each. They were cylindrical and stood roughly three meters tall, glass covering half of each. Within, swirls of dense mist danced in faint currents. The man at her shoulder shoved her towards the devices. The other already stood before one, punching commands into a small screen attached to its side.
The glass hatch swung open, fog pouring out of the bottom onto the narrow deck. It wafted over Cara’s feet, a sensation of freezing cold shooting up her legs.
Oh god, she thought as she realized what the container was. The dark-haired man turned towards them and nodded at his partner, who brusquely pushed Cara another step forward before spinning her around by the shoulders.
“Step backwards,” he ordered, and her body obeyed. She took a single step backwards into the large metal tube, the cold mist within embracing her body. Even through the delirium of the drug they had injected her with, she reflexively gasped for air as the frost grabbed at her. Again, she tried to scream, but nothing but strained wheezing escaped her lips.
The dark-haired man was looking at her, a hint of sympathy on his features. He reached out for the hatch and slowly swung it shut.
“Try not to fight it,” he cautioned before closing the container. A moment later, there was a hissing sound and the temperature dropped even further. Cara’s vision started going dark at the edges and her body shivered uncontrollably. Through the glass panel, she could make out the two strangers exchanging words with each other before the blond man disappeared into the cockpit. The other remained with her, typing another command into the small screen. The hissing intensified and a moment later Cara blacked out.
Percival observed the young woman within the cryotube for a moment. Cara Hearth, he remembered. According to their files she was eighteen years old and the sole caretaker of a sick mother and two younger brothers. He frowned. What would become of them with her gone, he did not know, nor did he want to think about it. He checked the gauges on the tube’s display to make sure that the suspension cocktail was properly mixed, then, with a final glance at the frozen woman, turned to head into the cockpit.
Galahad sat in the pilot’s seat, completing the preflight checks. Hearing his colleague enter the cramped compartment, he glanced over his shoulder.
“Everything alright back there?”
Percival nodded an affirmative and settled into the non-standard copilot’s seat behind his partner. Fitting a fighter for two people stripped it of what few comforts it provided to begin with but made for a far more low-profile platform to operate from than a much larger freighter. Still, Percival sometimes wished they could have at least fitted two bunks into the ship instead of forcing the two of them to either take turns or have one sleep in a chair.
The dark-haired man scanned the display and controls before him, found the communications suite, and dialed in a secure line. A woman’s face appeared on the screen, shoulder-length grey hair parted in the middle, a pair of frameless glasses reflecting the light of an off-screen lamp. Her lips were drawn into a thin line.
“Percival,” she greeted him without any inflection.
“Ma’am, we have secured the target and are preparing the delivery,” Percival reported. “We should arrive at base in approximately six hours.”
The woman nodded slowly.
“Very good. I will be waiting.” With that, the screen went black and the line went dead.
“As charming as ever,” Percival muttered under his breath as Galahad ignited the engines, a deep rumble reverberating through the hull. Overhead, the makeshift hangar’s roof parted, and the ship slowly ascended into the open sky beyond. A moment later, its surface shimmered like asphalt on a hot day. A few more seconds and it faded from view like a ghost.
* * *
Five years ago, Galahad and Percival had first met aboard the Chesapeake Complex, standing in what appeared to be a hoarder’s office. The central desk and the floor surrounding it had been littered with paper files and plastic cups, some still containing stale coffee. The shelves that stood along the walls were stacked to the brink of collapse with datapads, binders, storage drives, and an impressive number of framed awards and university degrees.
Sitting at the desk, glaring up at the two men from behind a pair of frameless spectacles, had been Dr. Elizabeth Howlett. Her elbows rested atop the table, her hands steepled in front of her face as she silently observed the duo. Galahad stood at attention, adorned in a navy dress uniform. Percival wore a tailored suit and felt supremely uncomfortable in it. He had not worn one since his first day at the agency. His eyes wandered to and fro between the woman before and the man beside him, wondering when the eerie silence between them would be broken.
Finally, the doctor stood up from her office chair and circled around the cluttered desk, coming to a stop directly in front of them and leaning against the tabletop. She lazily waved a hand at Galahad, whose posture relaxed, if only slightly.
“Thank you for coming,” she spoke through barely parted teeth. “I take it you have read your briefings?”
Galahad nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned her head to look at Percival and raised a questioning eyebrow. He nodded slowly. The briefing he had received sounded like a strange joke.
Section Three, Sub-Section Eta. Bio-advancement. Percival knew of Section Three, Chesapeake’s special projects division. Through the grapevine he had heard of some of the developments the department was working on. Personal cloaking technology. Enhanced cyberwarfare. Nomad reverse-engineering. Of course, it was all highly confidential and far, far above his paygrade, and he never found any official confirmation of the projects. But Sub-Section Eta he had never heard of.
Bio-advancement. What did that even mean?
The briefing enlightened him. Dr. Elizabeth Howlett, honors graduate of the Planetary University of Denver, Rowlings University of Manhattan, and Stanton Medical School, was the sub-division’s lead. She had briefly worked on several projects for the agency, ranging from experimental research into human-Nomad interfacing, prototype medicines and prosthetics, to biological and chemical weapons programs. Her current project, however, had occupied her for a number of years now and had just recently been approved by her director to advance to the next phase.
“You want us to…” Percival tried to think of a way to put a positive spin on what the briefing had described his future task as, but failed, “…kidnap teenagers?”
The doctor’s expression remained unchanged.
“That is the gist of it.”
“To run experiments on them?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
At this, Dr. Howlett gave him a satisfied smile.
“To save humanity.”
To save humanity. It quickly became Dr. Howlett’s catchphrase when discussing the project and its associated tasks. When she revealed that she was seeking individuals – specimens, as she referred to them – with exceptional genes, Percival had pressed her on what she intended to do with them. Create super soldiers? He had asked her. Her response had been an amused chuckle and a slow shake of the head. Superhumans, she replied.
The way she explained it, it made sense. Sirius was not as tranquil and ripe for settlement as the Alliance had hoped when they first chose it as the destination for its sleeper ships. Many planets remained uninhabitable due to hostile biomes, flora, and fauna, or extreme gravity and climates. If humanity were to truly thrive for the millennia to come and explore further into space beyond the confines of the Sirius sector, it had to adapt. And it needed to do so fast, faster than nature allowed.
And so, Dr. Howlett had convinced the agency to let her seek out suitable specimens to examine and study, in what was ultimately an effort to genetically engineer humans to be more adaptable and resilient, stronger and faster, smarter and more ingenious.
And so, for the past five years, Galahad and Percival had worked for her, finding and collecting the individuals she deemed most valuable to her research, returning them to her labs for further use. For the longest time, Percival had not questioned the ethics and morality of the endeavor, convinced by Howlett’s rhetoric that what they were doing was for the good of all humanity; that it was right.
The ship dropped out of superluminal travel at the trade lane’s terminus. Ahead, like a shadow disguising the stars beyond, loomed the dark side of Planet Columbia, and, in a high orbit of several thousand kilometers, the Chesapeake Complex.
“Prep her for unloading,” Galahad said after receiving docking permission from the control tower. Percival unbuckled himself from his seat and headed into the compartment. A few levers pulled and a few buttons pressed and the single occupied cryotube slid out of its socket, suspended horizontally two feet above the deck by its integrated repulsors. With a slight shake, the vessel landed in one of the station’s hangar bays, the engines winding down with a sullen whine. With a hiss, the loading ramp descended onto the hangar’s deck.
Percival gave the cryotube a light shove down the incline, holding onto a handgrip to keep it from floating away. Galahad clambered out of the cockpit and followed him, glancing around the dock. It was empty, as was standard procedure for their drop-offs. Dr. Howlett had insisted that privacy was key to her research, and so other agency staff was redirected away from the hangar her agents used, the labs, and the path between the two.
Together, they guided their valuable cargo down the white-lit, steel-paneled corridors of Chesapeake and into silent elevators, finally arriving at Sub-Section Eta’s deck, where a team of technicians awaited them. The two agents handed the cryotube over to them, watching as they passed it through a doorway covered in opaque plastic sheeting and out of view.
Without a word, Galahad strode on towards the doctor’s office. Percival hesitated a moment, his eyes still fixed on the portal through which the cryogenically suspended woman had just disappeared. An instant later, he snapped out of it and, running his hand through his slicked-back hair, hurried after his colleague.
* * *
When they entered Dr. Howlett’s cluttered office, they found her rapidly firing off orders into a PDA.
“Take blood and DNA samples, then conduct the usual introductory tests – reflexes, sight, hearing, et cetera. Then go through cognitive. These should be promising. Prepare the operating room for a brain biopsy. I want Dr. Verthing on it.”
Noticing Percival and Galahad entering, she waved them closer, signaling them to sit down at her desk. They wordlessly followed the invitation. A moment later, the doctor finished her call and sat down across from them, letting out a tired sigh. She glanced around her desktop, searching for something. Amidst a loose pile of paper, she found what she was looking for. A plastic cup with what was almost certainly cold coffee in it. She shook it gently before emptying it in a single, large gulp.
“Well done,” she remarked after tossing the now empty cup over her shoulder. “I take it there were no incidents?”
“None at all, ma’am,” Galahad replied. “Extraction was as smooth as ever. The new drug certainly helped.”
Dr. Howlett nodded.
“Very good. The subject’s family will remain under surveillance for the foreseeable future.”
She leaned back in her chair, eyeing the two men opposite her with a hard, cold gaze. Percival shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He never liked the way she stared at them, like a predator sizing up its prey. It made him feel less human, as though he was nothing more than a tool. That’s exactly what you are, he thought to himself. A minute went by in silence, the three of them holding each other’s gazes. Finally, Galahad broke the silence.
“Any progress on Twenty-One and Twenty-Two?”
“I’m afraid not,” Howlett replied curtly, frustration creeping into her usually neutral voice. She glanced at a few documents spread out on the desk before her. “They’re dead.”
Percival’s eyes widened.
“Dead? How?”
The doctor’s eyes shot up at him, anger flashing in them. Percival immediately regretted the question, knowing only too well how little she appreciated having her failures pointed out to her.
“Exhaustion. Their bodies gave out under the stress of the tests.” There was no remorse in her voice, only irritation at the setback in her project’s progress. “A slower increase in intensity might have allowed them to reach higher amplitudes.”
The two ‘specimen’s’ faces flashed before Percival’s eyes. Two nineteen-year-olds, barely grown men. Identical twins who had won every athletic competition they had ever attended at their school. Dr. Howlett had harbored great hopes for their contribution to her research. Their loss would set it back by months, if not years, Percival assumed. He also assumed that, for their sake, the twins were likely better off dead.
“Luckily,” Dr. Howlett resumed, her cadence returning to its usual self, “eighteen is showing promise.” She rose from her seat and strode towards the door, beckoning the two men to follow. They walked down the corridor towards a heavy blast-proof door flanked by two armed security guards. The doctor gestured at them and they stepped aside. She approached a scanner to one side of the door and pressed the palm of her hand against it. The portal silently slid open and the three of them crossed the threshold. Beyond, the hallway continued. On either side were rows of chambers, each sealed off by a reinforced glass panel. Within each one resided a single person, each a subject at one point collected by Percival and Galahad.
Percival stopped at the first one to his right, peering through the window. Inside, on a simple cot, lay a young woman with what had once been blond but was now grey hair, shaved down to an inch’s length. Her body was haggard, sallow skin drawn tightly over the flesh and bone beneath. She lay on her back, motionless, her head tilted to the side, facing him. Her eyes were open but vacant, her gaze going straight through him and focused on a point countless miles away. Percival stared at her, wondering what was going through her mind; whether anything at all was left within, after years of being trapped in this laboratory, undergoing daily tests and examinations, having her body probed and studied for hours and hours on end. What might have become of her if he had never brought her here?
With a shake of his head, Percival tore his eyes away from her and hurried after the others.
He found Dr. Howlett and Galahad standing before the ninth chamber on the left.
“His memory is impeccable,” the doctor was remarking. “Verthing suggested photographic memory, but I believe it to be something else. Sampling of his DNA identified a number of uncommon genes that I believe are related to it.”
The three of them peered at the chamber’s lone inhabitant – a tall young man, twenty years of age, his head cleanly shaved. A set of fresh scars crisscrossed his bare scalp. His skin was pale, nearly translucent from lack of sunlight. He lay on his cot, arms at his sides, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His left hand twitched uncontrollably.
“If the reports on Twenty-Four are to be trusted, she may collaborate my findings,” Howlett explained. She turned to face her two agents. “Now that she’s here, we’ll find out soon enough.”
Cara sat on the hard mattress and glared out of the glass door that sealed off her small cell. She was cold, the thin tunic she had been provided with barely doing anything to keep her warm. She was hungry, too. Thrice a day, a guard delivered a tray with synth paste and orange juice. It barely sated her.
Five days had passed since the two strangers had taken her. At least she believed it to have been five days. There was no way for her to tell for sure, no clocks, no windows, no sun nor moon. She wasn’t even sure whether she was on a planet or in space, nor how long she had been in cryosleep.
Why? It was the question she had had on her mind since she was awoken out of suspension. Why was she here? Why did they want her? Why were they putting her through tests and taking samples of her blood? No one had bothered explaining any of it to her, hell, barely anyone even spoke to her. And when they did, it was just instructions and orders on what to do.
Absentmindedly, she ran a hand across the left side of her head. A patch of her hair had been shaved off, and a new scar ran from her temple to the back of her head. What had they done to her?
Cara wanted to cry, but she had already done that. No more tears would come.
A guard appeared at the glass panel. He glared at her, his eyes cold and hard. The panel slid open and he stepped inside, his right hand hovering near the sidearm holstered to his belt. Cara pulled her legs up against her chest, trying to cower away from him. She didn’t want to be taken again, didn’t want to endure any more exams and experiments.
“Come on, get up,” the guard growled impatiently. He reached out for her arm but Cara lashed out at him, slapping his hand away from her. Angrily, he stepped closer and struck her across the head with the back of his hand. A blast of pain erupted from the scar on her scalp and the young woman slumped to the side, momentarily blinded and numbed. “Get up already.”
She felt the man’s iron grip on her arm drag her to her bare feet and out of the chamber, down the long corridor, past her fellow inmates. The blast-door slid open and the guard shoved her through.
“There she is,” she heard him mutter. Then she felt a warm hand on the side of her head, fingers gently probing at the bare patch of skin.
“Don’t hit them,” a soft voice spoke. It sounded oddly familiar, but Cara couldn’t place it. Then the hand moved down to hers and took it. It tugged at hers and she followed, placing one foot in front of the other as the voice guided her.
“Come along.”
It almost sounded soothing. As the pain in her temple subsided, Cara’s vision began to return. Around her, she could make out the same steel corridors she had been marched down a dozen times already. Before her, leading her by the hand, was a dark-haired man, his thick strands slicked back. She recognized him. He was one of the two strangers that had taken her from Denver, the one who had caught her and injected her with a drug.
Cara stopped short and pulled her hand free of his. The man came to a halt and turned to face her.
“Please,” he said quietly, “we don’t have much time.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?” Cara hissed in response, anger seeping into her voice. The man glanced over his shoulder, down the corridor. It was deserted. She glared at him, surprised by his expression. He looked… worried? Anxious?
“Trust me,” he pleaded, turning back and locking eyes with her. Cara nearly exploded.
“Trust you?!”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm and he took a step towards her, raising an outstretched finger to his lips.
“Quiet!” He whispered. They stood perfectly still for a moment, the man again looking up and down the hallway, seemingly waiting for something. Satisfied that no one had heard them, he took another step towards her and lowered his voice even further. “I’m getting you out of here.”
What the hell are you doing? The question ricocheted around Percival’s mind like a golf ball in a barrel. And now the young woman before him asked the same question. Instead of answering, he grabbed her hand again and led her down the intersecting corridors of Chesapeake. She protested, demanding he let her go and explain what was going on, but he held her tightly and increased his pace. She had to jog to keep up.
“I’ve been doing this for five years,” Percival finally said as they paused at a crossway. He leaned around the corner, checking to see if any guards or doctors were nearby. The coast was clear. He turned to face Cara. She was breathing hard from the exertion of running after him, her body too exhausted and malnourished to maintain the effort.
“For five years, I’ve been finding people like you – people deemed genetically valuable,” Percival grimaced as he spoke the phrase. It had always felt dehumanizing to him. “Five years I’ve spent kidnapping kids and bringing them to this hellhole for doctors to experiment on. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it was justified, that we were trying to save humanity.”
He turned his head, unable to look at the young woman before him in shame.
“But I don’t believe it anymore. I can’t. No matter what the goals, what’s being done to you and the others here is wrong. I don’t want to do evil anymore. I want to do something good.”
He glanced at her again, waiting for a reply. Cara was looking him straight in the eyes, her brows furrowed – yet there was no more anger in her expression.
“What about the others?” She finally inquired, but her tone revealed that she already knew the answer.
“There’s no way I can take all of you,” Percival replied. The images of the other young adults, locked away in their glass cages, suffering from abuse and malnourishment, flashed before his eyes. He clenched his teeth. “You’re in the best shape,” he went on. “Your chances are the best.”
He reached his hand out for Cara and waited for her to take it. For a moment, she hesitated. Then she clasped hers in his and followed him once more down the corridors.
Together, they hurried on down the deserted hallways, stopping occasionally to let Cara catch her breath and listen for pursuers. So far, no one seemed to have noticed that the young woman had not been taken to a lab as scheduled. They approached an elevator to the upper decks, but, just as Percival reached out to press the call button, the doors slid open. Within stood two guards.
“You think she’s run off?” One was saying.
“Where would she go?” The other replied. As they stepped out of the lift, they noticed the agent and the girl standing before them.
“Sir-,” the first started, then locked eyes with Cara. For a moment, it seemed like time stood still. The four of them were frozen in place, staring at each other in surprise. Then they erupted into motion.
With one hand, Percival gave Cara a hard shove to the side, sending her crashing into the wall. With the other, he drew a pistol out of his jacket. The first guard dropped to his knees, unholstering his sidearm as he went and aiming it at the agent. The other drew his own on Cara. There was a cacophony of deafening blasts as the guns went off.
The guards collapsed to the deck, blood pooling around them. Percival spun around to find Cara unharmed, the wall beside her displaying a fresh pair of bullet holes. Her eyes were wide with fear.
“Come on,” Percival spoke softly and reached out for her. Taking his hand, the young woman stepped over the two bodies and into the elevator. Percival stepped in after her, pressed the button for the hangar deck, and slumped hard against the wall.
“Hey!” Cara cried and jumped to his side. She tore open his jacket and revealed two spots of red on the shirt beneath, rapidly expanding like blooming rose petals. The agent gave her a weak smile.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he said through clenched teeth. Outside the elevator shaft, alarms went off, alerting the section of the station of the subject’s escape.
They reached the hangar deck and the elevator doors slid open. The corridors beyond were drenched in flashing red as emergency lights strobed along the walls. Clutching Cara’s shoulder in one hand for support and his sidearm in the other, Percival and the girl stumbled out of the lift towards the docking bay.
“Not much further,” the agent muttered, trying as much to reassure himself as Cara. Together, they entered the deserted bay, empty save for Galahad’s and Percival’s Avenger.
“Quick.”
They hurried towards it, Percival’s eyes darting around the chamber, searching for anyone who might try to stop them. He could see no one. Up ahead, the ship’s access ramp lay open for them, just as he had prepared it.
“Almost there.”
As if on command, Percival’s legs buckled and the battered duo crashed to the deck in a jumble of limbs. He coughed, spattering the steel plating with blood. His lungs burned and his breathing felt labored, as if there was too little oxygen in the air around them.
Lung’s shot, he realized.
“Come on,” Cara pleaded, her weakened body straining to get the man back onto his feet. “It’s right there!”
The two of them struggled back up and continued their limp towards the ship.
“Percival!”
The shout echoed through the hangar. The agent and girl froze. From behind the Avenger, a man with blond hair strode out into the open, right hand resting on a holstered sidearm. His cold gaze locked onto them as he stepped between them and the ship, blocking their path.
“Galahad,” Percival spoke, wiping a string of blood from his lips.
“What are you doing?” Galahad asked simply. “Have you gone mad?”
Percival gritted his teeth and straightened up, keeping a hand on Cara’s shoulder. She looked to and fro between them, unsure what to do. Percival took as deep a breath as his collapsing lungs allowed.
“I’m taking her away from here.”
His colleague shook his head slowly, as though the answer disappointed him.
“I can’t let you do that.”
With a flick of the finger, Galahad unbuttoned the latch on his holster, resting his palm on the pistol’s grip.
Keeping his eyes on the man before him, Percival leaned in close to Cara.
“Go on,” he whispered, trying to sound as confident as he could in his injured state. He nodded towards the ship’s ramp. “Get her started up. I’ll be right behind you.”
The young woman stared into his eyes, her own wide with confusion and fear.
“Go on,” he repeated. The fear gave way to determination and she gave him a single nod of the head. He released her shoulder and she started towards the ship, glaring at Galahad. The blond-haired man paid her no heed, keeping his eyes on his partner. With quick steps, Cara dashed up the ramp into the ship’s interior.
The two men stared at each other, neither moving. Galahad’s breathing was calm, his posture relaxed as his fingers tapped slowly against the holster on his belt. Percival stood across from him, panting, his shirt soaking an ever deeper red as blood continued to spill from his wounds. In his right hand, he tightly clutched his pistol, finger on the trigger.
They stood in silence.
Then, quick as lightning, Galahad drew his gun and raised it at Percival. Percival aimed at him in return.
Two strokes of thunder echoed throughout the hangar.
* * *
Cara stumbled through the ship’s cargo bay, past the vacant cryotubes, racks of computer equipment, weapons lockers, and reinforced chests, into the cramped cockpit. She glanced around, eyeing the scores of instruments, buttons, and dials, and realized that she had no idea how to power up a spaceship. The switches and screens were all labeled but the words were abbreviated to such an extent that she could make no sense of them.
She dropped into the pilot’s seat and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and collect her thoughts. This wasn’t the time for her to panic. Cool-headed, she thought back to Denver. She had flown air speeders around Estes Park a few times before. With any luck, she thought, a space fighter would operate similarly.
Cara glanced at the dashboard before her, scanning it for anything that looked at least vaguely familiar. After a second, she found what she was looking for. Two switches, side by side, one labeled PWR, the other ENG STRT. She flicked the first and was rewarded with the hum of the ship’s reactor coming online. Then she flicked the other, causing the craft to tremble as its powerful engines came to life.
“Yes!” She shouted. Then, over the rumble of the engines, she heard two deafening blasts. She leaped out of the seat and ran back through the ship, down the ramp.
Percival lowered his right arm to his side, dropping his pistol to the floor with a loud clatter. With the other hand, he reached for the fresh wound in his chest, pressing tightly against it. Blood ran out between his fingers.
Before him, Galahad lay sprawled across the deck. He stirred slowly, groaning in pain, as he clutched with both hands at his abdomen.
Down the Avenger’s ramp ran Cara, looking wild-eyed around the docking bay. Her gaze landed on Galahad and, from there, shot over to Percival. Seeing him still standing, she hurried over to him.
“Come on!” She shouted, throwing his right arm around her shoulder to support him. “Let’s go!”
Percival nodded faintly and mustered what strength he had left to stumble into the ship. He dropped into the pilot’s seat and took a ragged breath, inspecting the instruments before him. The engines were already roaring, ready to lift the fighter off the deck.
“Strap in,” he coughed. Behind him, Cara buckled herself into the copilot’s seat. As he placed his right hand on the stick and the left on the throttle, he noticed darkness creeping into the edge of his vision. He nudged the throttle, and, with a shudder, the craft leapt off the deck and towards the docking bay’s airlock.
“Flick the blue switch,” he muttered through labored breaths. He could sense the young woman behind him searching the panels before her and, with a whispered cheer, find the control. Through the cockpit’s canopy, they could make out a slight shimmer run across the length of the ship as the cloaking device came online.
Percival gunned the ship out of the airlock and into open space. Immediately, bolts of energy shot past them as Chesapeake’s defenses opened fire on them.
Come on, he thought, pleading with the ship to disappear from view and sensors. A blast of plasma struck the starboard wing, shaking the ship violently. With fingers slippery with blood, Percival struggled to keep the stick in place, aiming the fighter towards the trade lane that would take them far away from here.
Then, the hostile fire ceased. A tingling feeling coursed through Percival’s body, as though his limbs had gone numb and immediately reawakened, as the cloaking field expanded around the ship, making it disappear into the void of space.
He managed to crack a smile, promptly causing blood to run down his chin. Then he coughed, darkness encroaching ever further on his view. His head slumped against the seat’s headrest and he fought for breath.
He could hear Cara unlatch her seatbelt and leap out of her chair. She hurried to his side, tugging at his shoulders to keep him awake.
With what little strength he had left, he turned his head to face her. Her bright, blue eyes were full of worry. Her mouth was moving, shouting, but he could not hear what she was saying.
The ship, now on autopilot, approached the trade lane rings, a ring of energy waiting to take them into deep space at speeds faster than light.
Percival’s hands fell away from the instruments.
He took a final breath, still smiling at the young woman at his side.