The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Read online

  Art, the taller of the guards, stood up straighter. “Sir, what should we do with this… person?”

  Sheila, who’d been massaging her shoulder, snorted.

  “Toss him in the brig.” Jamison’s voice was a whisper, but the words had the desired effect. Cardinal’s face turned red, and beads of perspiration appeared on his face. He was terrified of the brig.

  Good.

  He turned his attention to Sheila once more as the guards hauled the prisoner away. “Are you okay?”

  “I told you I’m fine!” she snapped. Then, chastened: “Sir.”

  He studied her face. “You looked upset before Mr. Cardinal’s actions.”

  She hesitated. “It’s been a hell of a morning, sir. I’d rather… I’d rather not say more than that. Sir.”

  He nodded and headed to his office, knowing she’d follow.

  He stopped outside the door and pointed. “Notice anything?”

  She looked at him, then at the door. She’d folded her arms tightly against her chest, and he could see a slight tremble. He was trying to get her mind off the attack and onto what he’d called her in to review, but knew it would be difficult. “No. Should I?”

  He moved closer and tapped the door frame where the handle and lock connected door and jamb. “Are you sure?”

  She moved closer and bent down, looking at the surface before standing back up. “What am I looking for?”

  “Nothing. Not yet. You’ve confirmed to me that we’ll have better data to understand what happened and when.”

  “But—”

  He tapped in his code and unlocked the door, pushing it open, but remaining in the hallway.

  She frowned. “I thought you needed your badge?”

  “Typically, yes. But there’s an override code built in that I can use if I’ve misplaced my badge. The system’s programmed to send me and my supervisors an email about my sloppiness and warn me of security risks arising from my badge being anywhere other than on my person.”

  “So… you don’t need your badge to get into your office?”

  “No. What does that tell you, Sheila?”

  She considered. “It tells me that anyone with the code you just used could access your office.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He waited, allowing her to piece the clues together.

  “You texted me in an unusual manner and told me I needed to get here quickly.” She started to pace. “You were waiting for me in the lobby, also unusual. Those mean something of profound and likely negative importance happened.” She paused and looked at the door. “And now you’ve told me that one can enter your office without…”

  Her hand went to her mouth as she realized the implications.

  He nodded. “Someone broke into my office after we finished up. And there have been no break-ins to the Bunker over the past twenty-four hours. That means…”

  She shivered again, for a different reason this time. “Someone on staff broke into your office. It means that someone here is a spy for the Eastern Alliance.”

  —————

  WESLEY CARDINAL

  —————

  …prison sentences in the cityplexes varied by crime and local preference… the military has not made public its own standards regarding incarceration…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 333

  GROGGY CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED. WESLEY FOUND himself supported under each arm, dragged forward as his feet rested on the floor, sliding along. The boots felt warm due to the friction. His body hurt, and his mind felt numb. He shook his head once to clear his mind and look around.

  Art and Simon held him aloft, dragging him down one of the hallways, one he barely recognized. He searched his memory, trying to identify something. A word came to mind, a word he’d heard from the General’s own lips.

  Brig.

  He felt numb. He’d heard of the brig. He recognized this hallway now, the path to doom, the road to the room without exit and without mercy.

  His memory returned in pieces, including the General’s words, condemning him to this fate. But why? Why couldn’t he remember? He’d entered the lobby, his head pounding after a night of horrible dreams, and then… nothing. He remembered nothing until he woke up while being frog-marched to the Bunker’s brig.

  He lifted his feet and tried to walk along, hoping he might regain enough strength to break free.

  “Ah, look who’s awake!” Simon chirped. He gave Wesley’s arm a vicious shake, and Wesley stumbled, bumping into Art. Art threw his shoulder into Wesley’s side to knock him back toward Simon. He threw down his left foot to brace himself and hoped to use the shift in balance to break free, but the guards expected the move. Both lurched forward and pinned Wesley’s shoulders lower, preventing him from standing to his full height. He was forced to walk in a slouched posture.

  “So, you psychotic little moron,” Simon drawled, “why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  Art laughed. “Clever guy, this Wesley. He wants us to think he doesn’t remember. Is that what you think, Wesley? You think we won’t remember? You think if we don’t remember we’ll just ignore the General’s orders and let you go?”

  Wesley focused on his feet, trying to time their footsteps and time a forward kick to gain his balance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Simon snorted. “I have to admit, Cardinal, that was either the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Tackling the General’s golden girl in front of everyone? I mean…” He glanced over at Art. “I’m the first to confess I’ve thought about, um, tackling the lovely Ms. Clarke on a few occasions.” Art laughed. “But it never occurred to me to act on that interest in front of the entire freaking office.”

  His memory cleared. He’d entered the lobby, feeling the pounding of the terrible headache that usually indicated he’d been bludgeoned by the Voice’s shrieking torture. He’d wobbled around as he worked his way to the main desk for his assignment materials. He’d seen Sheila Clarke, who’d arrived only a few moments after him, undoubtedly screaming as usual as the modified elevator lowered her from the parking garage entryway. He’d muttered a few choice words about her.

  The Voice had heard him.

  Sheila Clarke is a threat to your mission and your continued existence, Wesley. You must kill her. Now.

  He’d protested.

  The shrieking sound pounded inside his head, moderating only when he attacked his nemesis, the woman who’d tried to get him fired.

  He remembered hitting the wall and winced.

  “You’re insane,” he muttered.

  The guards laughed. “Whatever, Cardinal,” Art said. “Not sure why you’re the only one denying Clarke’s the hottest thing walking around this place. Hell, the General’s spending a lot of time with her.” He glanced at Simon as they reached the door to the brig. “Whatcha think, Simon? Clarke and the General…?”

  “Hell no,” Simon replied. “General Jamison’s an honorable man. He’d never fraternize with his direct reports. Unless, you know, she’s smoking hot.”

  They laughed again.

  Wesley wondered why people weren’t usually so open around him. He’d been spying for the Voice for months, eavesdropping, joining coworker tables in the cafeteria, and inserting himself into conversations, all with an eye toward learning what everyone observed during their shifts. He’d even started wandering around during working hours, hovering behind coworkers and watching their screens to allow direct observations without needing to extract the information from others. He’d done that one time too many with Sheila Clarke, who’d worked as a civilian Observer before switching roles to work directly with Jamison. Clarke had found his invasions of privacy unnerving, and had begun to demand Wesley’s removal during her work hours… and then she’d demanded he be fired.

  That had triggered his inherent hatred of the woman.

  He didn’t cull much information from his efforts—beyond the scor
n of his coworkers—but he dutifully muttered observations to the Voice throughout the day. He’d often reflect on his behavior as he lay in bed at night, and came to the conclusion that his coworkers thought him insane.

  He suspected his assault on Sheila Clarke and his detention in the brig would cement that opinion in their minds.

  He knew why he’d done it, but he knew that announcing the presence of a speaker and a microphone implanted in his head wouldn’t be the best idea. It would merely convince everyone of his insanity.

  They stopped moving and Wesley, sensing an opportunity, pushed his feet into the ground and jumped, trying to knock the guards off balance and enable his escape. But they reacted quickly, lifting his shoulders farther off the ground, and his latest effort to escape resulted in an impressive display of cycling his legs in the air.

  “Graceful, Cardinal,” Art said with a snicker, as they pulled him back to his feet and pushed him along once more. “Almost as graceful as when Clarke sent your ass head over heels into the wall.”

  Simon chuckled. “A piece of advice, Cardinal. If you want to bag a girl, tackling her while foaming at the mouth like some rabid dog ain’t the way to get it done.” Simon shrugged. “Moot point, now. You’ll never see her again. Welcome to your home for the foreseeable future.” He sighed dramatically. “And given who you attacked, Jamison’s likely to be pissed off enough to leave you here forever.”

  Wesley felt his pulse quicken. He had no right to a trial here, no right to have his case heard or appeal. Jamison’s word was law here. If he “forgot” to have someone release Wesley… then Wesley would stay here until he died.

  He deflated while they slammed him against the wall. Art pinned him while Simon opened the brig door, a concoction of metals eight inches thick. He heard the door open as Simon seized him once more and they hauled him into the room. A musty scent hung in the air, and he coughed. The silence here was near absolute. Like a tomb.

  Would he leave this place in a box?

  “You’re awfully quiet, Cardinal,” Simon said. “Are you practicing for the future, when you’ll have no one to talk to but the voices in your head?”

  Wesley snapped his head at Simon. How did he…?

  Both men laughed, and Wesley realized he wasn’t among friends.

  He’d never been among friends.

  The Voice had used him. He’d always known that. But now the finality of it hit him. The provocation at Sheila Clarke leveraged his own anger and hatred as a means of getting him thrown into this room. The Voice had eliminated Wesley by having Wesley incriminate himself.

  They slammed him into a heavy wooden chair. Art punched him in the side of the head, and he slumped back. Stars danced before his eyes, and as he waited for the fog to clear he felt ropes rip into his chest and arms as they secured him. He kicked his legs out, but one of the guards elbowed him in the face while the other bound his legs to the chair. He felt the blood dripping from his nose, the metallic tang rolling into his mouth.

  He could see dim outlines of his guards, and spat the blood in that direction. He knew he’d connected when he heard a loud shout, words unclear, and he felt a sense of deep satisfaction.

  They dug in his pockets and extracted the contents, then tore away the badge worn around his neck. “Sweet dreams, Cardinal, you son of a bitch,” Simon whispered. “I hope Jamison lets you rot in here forever.”

  They left him, and Wesley heard the door whisk shut, locking with a deafening clang. The guards had taken his phone and badge, the only two tools he had here to facilitate an escape.

  He let the tears come. What did it matter? No one could see him.

  And it was unlikely anyone would see him alive ever again.

  —————

  RODDY LIGHT

  —————

  …largest corporations built smaller city-sized compounds outside the primary plexes housing factories, farms, mines, and office space in order to find the contiguous space for all of their facilities as populations swelled inside the walls…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 2135

  RODDY BURST THROUGH THE PRIMARY city walls on his motorcycle, revving the engine to accelerate to speeds generally considered unsafe for those seeking to retain life and limb. Behind mirrored sunglasses, his eyes blazed, reflecting the internal fire and turmoil of the morning.

  She’d risked the dangerous city streets at night to reach her lover.

  The fury he felt would undoubtedly level the city if transmuted to an explosive. He wasn’t certain how he’d kill the man at this point, wondering only what he’d do with her when next he saw her. He couldn’t fathom hurting her for the pain and shame she’d leveled upon him, but death need not hurt. Could he kill her? He had the ability, but did he possess the will?

  He had time to decide. The mission, according to Mr. Silver, would last several days. He felt the pressure of the phone strapped near his leg. He’d be watching the spynet for certain now. He wondered if she could possibly resist a tryst in their bed while her husband toiled away.

  He accelerated the engine, barely noticing the sunlight and the wind blasting his face.

  He reached the Diasteel Compound moments later and joined the line of vehicles working through the security checkpoint.

  The Compound was the city Oswald Silver officially controlled, a massive complex of buildings and walls and security housing all Diasteel Western offices, factories, and other facilities required to operate the vast business interests of the tycoon. It was often joked that in the morning, the entire population of the cityplex left the walls for Diasteel, and returned home en masse in the evening. More than one social commentator suggested Oswald Silver construct sufficient apartments inside the Compound to house his working population. Others noted that doing so would destroy Silver’s ground car business.

  He felt the self-doubt creep in as he approached the front of the line. Deirdre was cheating on him; of that there could be no doubt. He’d wondered the day before, wondered if he’d overreacted to her lack of affection, hadn’t considered the fatigue and burden her current project placed on her. Now he doubted his ability to read people, a skill he’d considered his best for years. How had he missed her sudden shift?

  Or had she never been faithful in all the years he’d known her?

  He accelerated too quickly toward the gate and slammed on the brakes near the checkpoint station.

  The kid inside the booth glared at him, trying to look stern, but mostly just adding flame to Roddy’s fire. “Sir, in the future, approach the gate at a more moderate speed, please.” His tone was bored, expressing a self-importance no doubt drilled into him by his superiors. He was the gatekeeper into the Diasteel Compound, after all. The business of the whole world depended upon him.

  Roddy pulled off his sunglasses and let the intensity of his eyes turn the kid into jelly. Most people quavered when Roddy glared. The eyes told of a man able to kill all comers without a thought or bead of sweat.

  The kid recovered with moderate speed. “I… I… need to see your… your ID. Sir.” He swallowed.

  Roddy smiled. “Sure, kid.” He fumbled through his bag and produced his Diasteel security badge. “Knock yourself out.” He flipped it through the open window.

  The kid missed, ducking inside the booth to retrieve the badge. If he’d not required the badge to get to his final destination inside the compound, Roddy would have tested running the barrier gate while the kid wasn’t looking. Probably not worth it. Yet.

  The kid’s head reappeared, and he made a show of comparing the photo on the badge to the intense face of the man before him. “Um… yes… everything seems to be in… order. Right. Um. Yes. You’re cleared to proceed, sir. Have… a good day. Sir.”

  He jabbed the button inside the booth and the barrier lifted, giving Roddy access to the Compound.

  “Thanks, kid!” Roddy said, forcing a false cheeriness into his tone. “You have a great day as well.”

  The kid sm
iled faintly and offered a weak wave.

  He twisted the handle and the motorcycle shot forward into the Compound, wondering if the kid was Deirdre’s secret lover.

  He laughed for the first time in hours.

  He parked near the exit and then began the fifteen-minute walk to the entrance of the primary office tower. Unofficially, the tower was “the tallest building in the world,” the summit masked by an eternal cloudbank surrounding the topmost floors. Roddy knew better. Machines produced the artificial cloud cover, and masked only a few additional floors. Oswald’s ego hid what facts couldn’t. In reality, a half dozen buildings in the cityplex were taller than Silver’s World’s Tallest tower.

  And that type of ego led to children who thought cheating on faithful spouses was acceptable.

  He passed a half dozen heavily armed soldiers on his journey from parked bike to office tower, nodding politely at each. Silver controlled the third largest army in the world, if you pretended he didn’t control the armies of the Western Alliance. Roddy knew the troops were there entirely for show, reminding any visitors from other corporations, Alliance government officials, and cityplex bureaucrats that he was in charge here.

  He kept his eyes on the giant office tower. On the fortieth floor he’d find Oswald Silver, ready to tell him where they’d travel on this journey. On the seventh floor, he’d find Deirdre and her breathtaking beauty and, perhaps, the man who’d sampled that beauty on at least one occasion.

  His badge wouldn’t give him access to the seventh floor, though. He considered hacking the elevator control system or breaking in via the staircase, but opted for the simplest course of action instead. He crossed the tiled floor of the office tower lobby, altering course slightly to avoid collisions with others making similar journeys. He passed a group of schoolchildren on tour, gaping at the immense interior of the structure, listening as the guide told them to study well so that they could work here someday.