Time Siege Read online

  630 and 461 trailed a few steps behind in a single file. 630 could competently watch his back but 461 would be worthless in these cramped quarters. He was here more as a visual deterrent than anything else. Maybe they could avoid the song and dance altogether for once. Probably not, though. Things didn’t work like that here in Amazon Penal Colony 3.

  The small group turned the corner and continued down a steep slope. These tunnels ran deep throughout Nereid. The penal colony carved a way to wherever the mining was best. A string of dim lights lined the ceiling of the pathway, spaced every forty or so meters, just bright enough to tell 339 what was directly in front of him, but not much more. If someone was trying to ambush him, this would be the place to do it. This was the world he lived in now.

  Along the way, he passed a cluster of other inmates using energy picks to chip away the dense top layers to where the low-grade mineral deposits or gas pockets lay. The junk inside the moon wasn’t worth much, but for the Amazon Corporation, which was in the prison business anyway, the side venture of putting their convicted slaves to work was just an added bonus. It also kept the sheep too tired to cause trouble.

  339 saw a body lay crumpled in a heap at the end of one of the excavated grooves. He signaled to the other two and waited until they took up positions on either side of him. He bent and rolled the body over. It was still warm, if barely. The pulse was weak. Irritated, 339 glared at the half-dozen men hacking away at the rock. “506 is still alive. Why hasn’t he been taken to an aid station?”

  The nearest inmate didn’t even bother looking his way. “Good riddance. Old man was holding us back. On his last leg anyway. Besides, our cart’s only half full. Not gonna lose a day’s worth of digging and get half rations for his sorry ass.”

  339 stood. “All of you, pack your shit and move him to an aid station. Now.”

  Most of this gang of workers ignored him. The Amazon guards never wandered down here. With the way the penal colony was set up, supervision wasn’t really necessary. You did what you were told, starved, or were jettisoned out into space. Other than that, the inmates ran their own hierarchy.

  “When did they start promoting inmates to guards?” One of the inmates shrugged. “You can take your orders and kiss—”

  The man next to him grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. The loudmouth swallowed his words, looking more worried than frightened. “Oh, didn’t realize it was you. Come on, lads. Pack it up.”

  In less than a minute, the entire group had gathered their gear and loaded the unconscious man onto the cart. 339 checked the body again before they began pushing it back up the passage. He took out his pack of heater cigs and handed one to each of the workers. “Each of you take this, and give one to 506 when he wakes. If he pulls through, you’ll get a quarter ration as well.”

  The loudmouth shook his head. “Don’t sweat it, 339. I know I owe you. I’ll see to the old geezer.” He managed to look ashamed.

  339 watched them until they reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner. He turned back to his two guys. “Let’s go.”

  630 grinned. “More polite than a small-dicked guard with a pain stick.”

  339 grunted and gestured for them to follow. Time was running out. Hopefully it wasn’t too late. The three of them continued deeper underground past several more clusters of inmates until they reached the far end of the tributaries, where the smooth walls gave way to more natural jagged edges. They left the last of the ceiling lights behind as they descended into the mine.

  This was the farthest reach of the prison, almost an hour’s walk from the main colony. The air down here was the hardest to breathe, the temperature always near freezing, and if someone was injured this far out, the odds of them making it back for help were slim. 339 should know; he had been one of them just six months ago.

  Inmates who died down here sometimes weren’t found for weeks. The fodders were always sent down, with the odds of them surviving the first month less than half. The longer they were tenured or the better they worked, the closer they were allowed to mine near the penal colony. The small group proceeded to one of the more recently excavated tunnels. The cart tracks ended a hundred meters in, and the walls were all virgin.

  “Split up. Three-hundred-step limit. Don’t engage,” he ordered, pointing to the two side tunnels on the right.

  The three of them spread out, moving through the darkness with their shoulder mounts the only source of light. He heard the other men call out intermittently.

  “Sixteen steps.”

  “Twelve steps.”

  His fellows continued to call out, their voices bouncing around the walls, fading the farther away they got. Within two minutes, 339 found himself alone. Most inmates hated the tributary tunnels. The blackness down here often was suffocating and easily disoriented the senses. For 339, who spent the majority of his life working in zero gravity, the wide expanse of space wasn’t too dissimilar from this darkness. In both cases, a person had to turn off or filter out the senses that weren’t necessary so that he could focus on what was important. Otherwise, their environment—either the terrifying vastness of space or the crushing darkness of a tunnel deep underground—threatened to overwhelm.

  The one thing Inmate 339 couldn’t turn off was his mind, and in these dark winding tunnels, there wasn’t much else to do but put one foot in front of the other, and think. Thinking was often the enemy. A man could drive himself crazy thinking about all the mistakes he had made in his life. Many had after spending prolonged periods of time down here.

  339 shook his head. This was his lot now, his penance for his morality. The best way he could honor it was to make the most of it. Those bastards thought they could take everything from him. They had tried and almost succeeded. He almost lost it the first few days down here. Then he remembered who he was. What he was. That was something no one could take. Which was why he was down here right now.

  Behind him, he heard it. A bell. Two rings, followed by a pause, and then another ring. Clear and precise. One of his guys had found what they were looking for. 339 hurried back, moving in the darkness more haphazardly than he should have been, occasionally stubbing his toe in his thin plastic shoes and stumbling over sudden changes in the elevation.

  By the time he got back to the main tributary tunnel, both 630 and 461 were waiting for him. 461, with the bell in his hand, signaled for them to follow. He led them down the second tunnel on the right, which angled to an upward climb before flattening out into a long passageway.

  “How many, and are we too late?” 339 asked.

  461 shook his head. “Looked like five or six Apexes and three fodders.”

  “Must have taken a while to drag them all the way there,” 630 added.

  A few minutes later, they heard the rhythmic sound of fists pounding flesh, a smack and thud that echoed against the hard rock walls. It was followed by groans and laughter, and then more thuds.

  339 and his companions rounded the corner and came upon a group of inmates beating on three others. They must have just started, since only one was unconscious while the other two were curled up in fetal positions as the bullies towering over them rained down blows.

  339 had had to deal with this when he first arrived as well. Except when it happened, it was seven of the Apexes against just two. 339 killed two that day and sent three others to the infirmary. The fodder fighting alongside him didn’t make it. That was the day his legend here at the penal colony was born.

  He coughed.

  Half of the Apexes taking a break from the beat-down looked his way. One of them stopped, but the other three kept going.

  “Guess we’re done here.” He recognized 793’s voice. He was the ringleader among them, and incidentally one of the men 339 had sent to the infirmary that day.

  793’s group sauntered past 339 as if nothing were the matter. These beatings, known as welcome parties, were a weekly occurrence, something that happened every time a new shipment of inmates came in. This was
how the Apexes maintained their control and fear over the eastern blocks of Colony 3. Most of the time, 339 was too late to stop them. By the time he found out about one and made it down here, the beatings were done, and the only thing left to do was pick up the broken bodies of the new inmates and drag them to the infirmary. This time, he was almost too late. Almost.

  He stuck his hand into 793’s chest as the guy tried to pass him. “This is the last time.”

  793 batted it away. “Whatever, suck-space. Just because you’re some ex-cop doesn’t mean you own the place. You stop us when you find us.”

  Before he could take another step, 339 leaned forward, collapsed his arm, and threw an elbow that shattered the man’s cheekbone. 793 continued to flip in circles as he flew backward in the light gravity.

  339 saw a flash to the side and juked left as a body came crashing toward him. One of his hands grabbed a forearm and the other, a part of a shirt, and he spun downward, throwing the Apex in a circular motion until his momentum carried him straight up. 339 let go and watched as the man slammed into the ceiling.

  Another came at him. This time, the inmate had a metal shank, which he swung in wide arcs. These guys obviously weren’t the Apex’s best. 339 caught his wrist and bent it at an awkward angle until the Apex dropped the shank. 339 slammed the inmate’s face down onto the ground and finished him off with a kick to the jaw.

  Still another attacked. This time, 630 and 461 took care of the Apex. 630 pinned him down while fat 461 sat on top of him. 339 looked at the remaining two Apexes huddling in fear. “Pick up your trash and take them back to your boss. Tell 881 that if I find out about one more of these incidents, I’ll take your entire crew out.”

  He kept the quivering bullies under his steely gaze as they struggled to drag their four companions out of the room. Good thing gravity was light here, though he was willing to bet those four were going to have pretty bad scrapes and cuts by the time they woke up. Not to mention the broken bones he had probably given two of them.

  He pointed at the two new inmates slowly getting to their feet. “Help those two back. I’ll take care of the last.”

  339 walked over to the unconscious inmate and shined his light on his face. It was a mess of blood and dirt covered by thin wisps of gray hair. The man’s cheeks were hollow, his skin crackly. Though he was saved this time, 339 feared this man’s tenure on Nereid wouldn’t be long. He bent over and checked the body. Nothing was broken. Then he got onto a knee and tapped the man gently on the face.

  “You’re safe now,” he said. He watched as the man’s eyes fluttered open and recoiled at the sight of 339. The fodder tried to scramble away. 339 held up his hands up. “Easy, friend. The Apexes are gone now.” He stood up and offered his hand. “What’s your number?”

  The older man reluctantly accepted it and got up. “I’m Bonner. I’m not supposed to be here. They said I planned my wife’s death. It isn’t true. I was already an executive on Europa. Why would I wish to harm her? It’s a terrible mistake. I love my wife. I would never do anything to harm her.”

  339 waited until the man got the rambling out of his system. It was common occurrence here. Every single one of the fodders felt the need to spout their innocence to the first person willing to listen.

  When the elderly man had talked himself out, 339 shrugged. “I don’t care, friend. One thing I do know is that no one gets sent to Nereid without deserving it. Now, what’s your number?”

  “I told you. It’s—”

  “In the penal colony, we go by our numbers. We’re dead to the outside world, and they’re dead to us. I’m 339.”

  The fodder looked miserable as he tried to recall his number. “I’m … I think I’m 552.”

  “All right then, 552, you have a long walk ahead of you. If you miss evening rations, you’re not eating until the new shift.”

  He helped the new inmate turn on his shoulder-mounted light, and guarded his eyes with his hands when the fodder shined the light at his face.

  552 gave a start. “You look familiar. Have we met? What’s your name?”

  It wasn’t a surprise to 339 that the man might have seen him before. After all, his face at one point was plastered on all the vids throughout the solar system. And though only six months had passed, it felt like a lifetime ago. Several of the inmates had mentioned it before, though none had ever identified him. He would prefer to keep it that way.

  339 turned around and beckoned 552 to follow. “Let’s go.”

  The elderly man hobbled after him, leaning against one of the walls for support. “No. Your face. Your voice. I remember now.”

  For a moment, 339 considered acknowledging it. It was a name he had not spoken since the day he stepped foot on Nereid. Maybe it would bring a little of his former self back, a little of his old life. It would be good to remember that he had not always been just a number.

  No, the past was dead. This was who he was now.

  He turned to face the elderly man. “My name is 339. Get moving.”

  FOURTEEN

  AGGRESSION

  At dawn, the Co-op massed their forces along the northern shore of the Harlem River. Six days ago, a hound pack had caught scent of the savages passing through a section called Richmond Hill during a random patrol. They had managed to obtain visual confirmation of the temporal anomaly’s savages and followed them all the way west until they lost track of them in a densely populated area called Queens. Their last sighting indicated the savages were heading directly west into the Mist Isle.

  At the time, Kuo did not have the resources to invade the island. With the nature of the EMP cloud, they would be without modern surveillance or communications, and would have to operate in low visibility. The bomb that was dropped on the city during the final days of the Core Conflicts had only been used once, and its lingering effects haunted the island to this day.

  The heavy concentration of savages in this area was problematic as well. She had had insufficient manpower to deal with such a large force until recently. Now that Young had given her the five hundred monitors she requested and Valta had added an equal number of troopers, the Co-op was finally ready to conquer the island and root out the anomaly. Kuo stood on the roof of a mid-rise on the edge of shore and looked across the water at the mysterious and shrouded Mist Isle. She could just make out the faint outlines of the buildings as a bubble of thick gray fog enveloped the island. Her forces would have to move carefully. Manhattan was a three-dimensional maze of dense skyscrapers connected by stairs and bridges that spanned upward for hundreds of meters.

  There were far too many nooks and crannies and holes for this temporal anomaly to hide in the isle. She intended to establish a foothold at the northern end of the isle and then sweep south, taking territory, floor by floor, building by building, block by block. Couple that with the Valkyrie fleet blockading the island, it should only be a matter of time before they flushed the temporal anomaly and her tribe out of hiding.

  Kuo signaled to Ewa standing next to her. “Commence the attack.”

  That would be the last order her invading forces would receive until evening. With the EMP fog, all her units were autonomous, having coordinated tactical plans the night before. This meant there would be little room for making battlefield adjustments, but she doubted that would be necessary. They were fighting savages, after all.

  A few minutes later, an attack force of three hundred leapt across the Harlem River while her ground forces moved across a bridge once known as the Broadway. Today’s objective was to capture a foothold down to Dyckman Street. Once secured, supplies would be ferried in to establish a base of operations.

  The first of her forces hit the northernmost skyscraper, a building with eighty floors and nine bridges connecting to adjacent structures. By her scouts’ estimations, thirty tribes could be living in this building, and there could be as many as two thousand savages to root out. Her troopers and monitors would be constantly surrounded and outnumbered, especially the deeper they
penetrated into this dense urban jungle. There was little room for finesse. The Co-op would have to come down on these savages like a hammer and flush them out of their holes.

  Her vanguard had no sooner landed on the other side of the harbor than they came under attack. Small-arms fire peppered them from the building. The previously-black windows lit up with yellow bursts of light followed by the sounds of projectile and energy blasts. An explosion erupted off to the side, sending a plume of smoke into the air.

  White and blue fields lit the ground and air as Valta troopers engaged the enemy, her ground forces charging into the building through the lower level while those with flight capabilities entered through the windows higher up. Several new explosions signaled the Valkyries and collies joining to the fray. At the same time, several squads of monitors were dropped via collies onto the connecting bridges to secure proper choke points.

  “Send second wave,” Kuo ordered. “Tell the Valkyries to be careful with their incendiaries. I want all the structures intact. Detain all savage leaders for questioning at the 218th and Ninth facility.”

  “Yes, Senior.” A field of white expanded around Ewa and she took off. Kuo followed suit, launching across the harbor and skimming the side of the building. Behind her, two other securitates followed closely. She barreled into one of the open windows and caught a group of savages while they were trying to fend off troopers coming up from the lower levels.

  Three securitates—Valta’s elite special ops in full combat exos—against a bunch of subhuman primitives was overkill, but Kuo never did believe in fair odds. A group of the stupid subhumans, some barefoot and dressed in dirty rags, charged her wielding sticks. Kuo stared in contempt as their primitive weapons bounced off her shield. She let a burly man through, dodged the club he swung, and cracked his knees with a well-placed kick. She let another with a sharpened stick charge in. This time, she plucked the weapon right out of his hands—the boy seemed hardly older than a teenager. She reversed the weapon and jammed it into his stomach.