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  ACTIVATE

  The Ravagers — Episode 1

  by Alex Albrinck

  (c) 2014 by Alex Albrinck. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

  No part of this publication reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design: Karri Klawiter (http://artbykarri.com)

  Formatting: Polgarus Studio (http://www.polgarusstudio.com)

  one

  Micah Jamison

  …humanity’s emergence from a second hunter-gatherer stage following the discovery of the Time Capsule failed to disengage the masses from the desire for close community, leading to the creation of mega-cities with wide swaths of sparsely populated regions between… Leaving major metropolitan areas for any reason other than rapid rail transit to other metropolises or major corporate settings has become an accepted sign of incompetence…

  A History of the Western Alliance, page 207

  Faint strands of sunlight emerged over the horizon as the ground car slowed, the brakes emitting a faint squeal, sending loose bits of pavement skittering and clattering ahead. Headlights dimmed and flickered out, leaving an ethereal moonlit darkness covering the side of the embankment, hiding the disrepair and neglect of the little-used roadway. The engine stopped, leaving nothing but chirping crickets to guard against the utter silence.

  Micah Jamison stepped from the ground car, his heavy boots crunching against the loose pavement material. He frowned in the general direction of the road. The lack of travel to these parts shouldn’t mean roads in disrepair, but he supposed there were greater priorities in life than fixing a little-used single lane highway outside the cityplex and beyond the edge of the walled roads.

  The early morning fog gave the trees an ethereal quality, and Micah moved into the wispy strands. To an outsider, he knew it appeared he’d vanished inside the thick mist. He considered the images sent to his mobile, considered the text from his assistant at the late hour, and decided that vanishing wouldn’t be a terrible fate.

  The tree line wasn’t terribly deep, just fifty feet or so. They’d gotten lucky when a patrol spotted the tracks of heavy machinery leading off the road. Further investigation revealed what they’d feared: the construction of a bunker for the Eastern Alliance, just five miles outside the cityplex. More than enough distance, here away from the corporate complexes and roadways, to avoid detection from city dwellers. Close enough to launch an attack on the unsuspecting civilian population before they could react.

  Micah’s team recognized it as an opportunity. They’d rigged up a series of cameras around the site and set the observation teams in their own Bunker to the task of watching, waiting to see what the enemy might do. Micah’s reports told of construction, the creation of a facility nearly ten thousand square feet in size with two or three levels. They’d counted eighty-seven unique faces on the camera feeds. This clearly wasn’t a major troop outpost, not yet. The enemy wouldn’t want to advertise how far they’d penetrated into Western Alliance territory without apparent detection, not until they’d launched their attacks.

  They’d seen nothing of interest… until just a few hours ago.

  The pictures had been… disturbing. They’d roused memories Micah had long repressed. He dared not show that emotion now. He had a job to do, and he’d do it to the best of his ability. He scratched his wrist as he emerged from the misty cocoon of trees, blinking at the bright light emitted by the powerful searchlights pointed down into the ground.

  They’d monitored the site before him for three months as the giant building grew day by day, picture by picture. He’d seen the different personnel himself. The second-to-last image they had showed no change: a dozen men with guns patrolling the grounds, looking bored, knowing they’d never be found. A truck offloading two boxes the size of coffins, the sides etched with symbols suggestive of danger.

  And then came the images from Sheila, the images of the site as it appeared now.

  The building was gone.

  In its place was a hole in the ground representative of a building foundation, one of the approximate size they’d estimated for the facility they’d monitored the past few months. But nothing else remained. No walls, no floors. No trucks. And no soldiers.

  Everything was gone, without a trace.

  That destruction—pure, complete—reminded him of those long-ago memories of a weapons demonstration he’d never wanted to see again. His military role was one he’d chosen, not for a love of destruction, but for a chance to preserve the fledgling new civilization humanity had built atop the ashes of the past. Such weaponry had no place in Micah Jamison’s world.

  The sight before him reminded him that others didn’t feel the same way.

  “Sir?”

  He turned to his left. Sheila Clarke served as his civilian assistant, something of an experiment within the Western Alliance army. Fearful that those in actual military roles would fail to challenge senior officers when necessary, they’d opted to bring in civilians whose role was one of defined defiance, challenging each decision and thought, in an effort to avoid leaving all thinking and decision making to one person. If all feared to speak up, mistakes would happen. If any spoke up, the military chain of command, so critical in battle situations, was compromised. Sheila had a sharp and intuitive mind; she rarely missed the implications of decisions even without training.

  He nodded at her. “What have you found?”

  She pulled on her ponytail, spreading her fingers through the long, strawberry blond hairs. He’d learned to recognize her nervous habit not long after her assignment. “We’ve scouted the surrounding area. No sign of human life, no trace of debris in the space surrounding the target zone.”

  He caught the implication. “No explosion, then?”

  “No, sir. An explosion would leave a debris trail around the site. We ought to find debris inside the site as well. There’s nothing there. I think we must rule out an explosion.”

  He already knew that. “Fire?”

  “No indications of fire. We ought to see embers or ash within the site. It’s clean. Too clean.”

  He shivered. “Too… clean?”

  She nodded. “Buildings of that size don’t simply disappear, sir. If we’d dropped any type of explosive on the site, or if the enemy opted for self-destruction, we would see debris. If fire broke out and destroyed the entire structure, we ought to see evidence of the building in the form of charred walls or standing metal skeletons, or embers of flames still burning. If the explosion were large enough, I supposed it could blast every bit of matter from the site and turn it to dust in the process. But…”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No.” She paused. “Ignoring all other evidence, an explosion of such a magnitude would be felt in the city. It’s not that far away. We checked the news and social media. No reports regarding seismic activity, outside a few boastful posts of men describing their latest conquests.” She rolled her eyes.

  He scratched at his wrist again as he summarized the situation. “We’ve lost a massive building without any sign of explosion or fire, nor any debris we might trace to such an event.” He paused. “Any other evidence? Say, evidence that the enemy cleaned up the evidence?”

  She paused. “If they did, they performed the job well. At this point, we’ve located nothing. No fresh tire tracks, no shoeprints in the grass, nothing. We have nothing but a perfectly smooth hole in the ground where an enemy military bunker stood not four hours ago. It’s just… vanished. Sir.”


  Perfectly smooth walls. He shuddered.

  She noticed. “Something wrong, sir?” She studied him closely. “You know something and you’re not telling me.”

  Damn her and her intuition. “What else have you found?”

  Her mouth twitched, but she said nothing. She’d been hired to speak her mind, but she knew when to stop. “We did find something.” She motioned for him to follow as she moved around the perimeter of the giant hole. They passed half a dozen soldiers, each snapping photographs or recording observations or collecting soil samples. Micah watched the hole as they circled around, noting the perfectly smooth walls, rocks sheared off and plant roots ending rather than jutting out. It was clean. Too clean.

  He saw the box before they reached the far side.

  It was the size and shape of a standard coffin, the sides etched with arcane symbols rarely seen in the civilian world. The words were in a language not spoken here, but Micah recognized the symbols. Eastern Alliance symbols. There could be little doubt as to the origin of this box.

  Sheila pulled out her mobile phone. “Look.” She handed the device to Micah.

  He scrolled through the pictures before stopping, sucking in his breath. “Same box?”

  She nodded. “The resolution isn’t great. But the symbols match.”

  The image showed two boxes offloaded from a truck near the cargo doors leading into the enemy facility. Boxes of the exact shape, size, and symbology of the one before him. The construction gave little indication as to how one would open the box.

  Micah wouldn’t open the box here. No, he needed to store it in a far more secure location. “We need to get this into secure storage. Highly secure storage.”

  He glanced into the hole once more, realizing why they saw no debris, no ashes, no dust. And he understood now that the threat was far greater than he’d first feared. His mouth tightened.

  Sheila noticed. “You know something, don’t you, sir? You know what’s inside that box.”

  He glanced at her before looking away. “Nothing gives me greater terror than the possibility that I’m right, Sheila. And if I am right?” He shook his head. “We’re all already dead.”

  two

  Wesley Cardinal

  …rumors of hidden treasures have abounded since the Time Capsule’s discovery, secret technology hoarded for the wealthy and powerful. Such claims have been disproved after dozens of Time Capsule reviews by independent scientists who have all confirmed that the Time Capsule remains unaltered since its creation.

  A History of the Western Alliance, page 301

  Dishes clanked as bussers cleared tables. The scent of freshly grilled foods wafted over the clientele. The low murmur of conversation provided background noise and a degree of privacy for the customers, who dined in comfort and quiet.

  Most did.

  “I’m asking if you bought your produce from a farm here within the confines of the city, or if you bought the highly treated refuse from a mega farm owned by one of the megacorps. You do know how poorly they treat their workers, don’t you?” The man made no effort to maintain the quiet level of conversation around him.

  The manager fidgeted, wringing his hands, as if he’d never considered the issue before. “I’m not certain why the identity of our supplier matters, sir. You see—”

  “I do see,” Wesley Cardinal replied. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as he leaned back in his chair, fixing the frazzled man with a direct gaze. “I see a restaurant feeding the pockets of their megacorp overlords rather than supporting small businesses. There’s a local farm not two blocks from here. You could walk there and get produce fresh from the ground, and you’d avoid the crazy chemicals. Why pay to haul it from miles outside the city, in the Hinterlands?”

  The man held up his hands, palms facing the irascible customer. “Sir, it’s our responsibility to obtain our ingredients at the lowest possible price to ensure the best value for our customers.”

  “You do know those ingredients have been modified, right?” Wesley arched an eyebrow, and raised his volume a notch. “You do know that they have questionable nutritional value. Right?”

  The manager lowered his hands and frowned. He lowered his own voice by a degree, as if trying to offset Wesley’s near shouts. “Sir, the ingredients are quite nutritious and prepared—”

  “They’re prepared by those who shill for the megacorps, and fed to those who will remain under the oppressive control of the rich and powerful.” He pushed his plate away, ignoring the clinking sound as the plate knocked over his glass of water, and stood. The manager stepped back, startled. Wesley dropped his napkin on the chair and walked out of the restaurant, wondering if any of the eyes in the restaurant followed him, wondering if any of the ears detected the truths he’d thrown their way.

  He knew the manager only concerned himself with the fact that Wesley hadn’t paid for his meal. That man couldn’t be saved from the corporate enslavement underway. Wesley had used the man to reach the larger crowds. Patrons would discuss the ruckus at the restaurant, would ask friends on social media or at work the next day about modified foods and the benefits of locally grown produce.

  One step at a time.

  He blinked as he reached the outside world. Bright sunlight reflected off the gleaming metal buildings around him. The bustle of foot traffic buffeted him toward the street, his destination. Humanity once sought open space and fresh air as it now sought the close companionship and perceived safety of giant metropolises. Nobody knew that now, of course. Students learned tales of the golden age as myth, and those suggesting truth might be found in the stories faced ridicule.

  Wesley knew the truth. Nobody believed him. But he’d keep talking.

  He unlocked his scooter, one powered with the remnants of his own chemical free garden, scowling at the graffiti covering the body. Manners were as rare as truth. He boarded the scooter, fired up the engine, and puttered out into traffic, flitting between the bulky transports used by others. He glared at the gleaming metal Diasteel tower in the distance, imagining Oswald Silver himself scowling down at the scooter. He laughed. The restaurant manager and the vast majority of those living here in the Lake Plex were asleep, to Oswald Silver’s eternal benefit.

  Wesley wouldn’t sleep.

  He slid outside the walls of the Plex, outside their shallow thinking and narrow ideas. They’d consider him mad; he didn’t live in the protective confines of the city, nor along the gilded roads to the megacorp compounds outside town. No, he lived in the open, in the fresh air and wild vegetation and free ranging animals. The wind kissed his face, a light mist coating his skin with a thin sheen as a light rain began to fall. He wondered if Oswald Silver would melt if something so pure as a gentle rain were to touch his skin.

  Thirty minutes later, he turned off the left side of the road, frowning. There was evidence to the right that someone had driven off the road into the trees opposite him. At night, he thought he’d heard noises, but dismissed them as the simple calls of nature. He shook his head. If others were discovering the joys of true freedom outside the confines of the Plex and away from the influence of Silver and the other tycoons, he’d not interfere.

  He rode over a dirt trail, feeling every rock and uneven patch of ground, until he emerged into a small clearing featuring a simple bungalow. The chickens and goats ran free around the grounds. There were no cages, no stalls, no tortuous living for them. He’d named each of them, though he had trouble telling them apart. It didn’t matter; to this point, they’d never responded to him when he tried to engage them in conversation.

  Thirty minutes later, the milk from the goats and the eggs from the chickens turned into a tasty vegetable omelet for dinner. He took the extra oil used during food preparation and poured it into the container resting near the back door. He’d refill the scooter’s tank in the morning using the plastic tubing hanging on a nail outside the door.

  He took a deep breath and reset his mind. It was time to continue his
true work, time to wake the human sheep from slumber, to teach them the truth of their world and their history.

  He only hoped he wasn’t already too late.

  The idea had come to him in a dream. He’d realized that the megacorps controlled the governments at that point, and watching current events through that lens proved his suspicions. The control was everywhere, every action and law and regulation designed to push more control and money to the oligarchy running those giant corporations who employed the government representatives and bureaucrats. Sure, the different factions would shout at each other, but no change occurred without the consent of men like Oswald Silver.

  Cynicism in high gear, he’d sought to learn more truths. He found conspiracy sites on the net, asked questions, debated answers, and drew conclusions. He found people claiming that the myths of the golden ages were true: that transport included flight, that peace between West and East was the reality, that common people lived beyond the age of sixty. He clashed with the perpetrators of those claims.

  And then the communications had arrived from secret sources, people who’d found him via his net forum postings. They didn’t just claim suppression of truths. They provided the evidence to support the claims.

  Wesley decided to share his newfound knowledge with the world.

  He’d already detailed the discovery of the Time Capsule and the subsequent distribution of knowledge and the recreation of civilization two centuries earlier. Today, he’d explain something far more sinister.

  His podcast room allowed him to mask his face and alter his voice. His connections enabled an untraceable upload to the net. The megacorps would try to find him, and perhaps they’d one day succeed. He’d make the effort expensive in terms of both time and money.

  The pictures were gifts of those same anonymous sources, incontrovertible truth of what he’d claim. He’d prepared his slides the night before.