The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Read online

  She’d never seen Jamison so obviously terrified. She and the others had seen what looked like a clean, rapid demolition of a building the enemy feared compromised. He’d seen something else, something far more sinister, in the gaping crater with the smooth walls and lack of debris.

  She’d thought him about to faint at the sight of the large box with the strange markings.

  His terse commands made clear the danger of the box, or more accurately, whatever existed inside. He’d wanted the box brought here for safekeeping. She’d asked why they’d bring the box here if it posed a grave danger. “It’s not a danger until it’s activated,” he’d replied. His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, his eyes distant as some horrific memory replayed in his mind. He’d snapped out of it long enough to tell her that they needed to get it into storage in their secure space before that activation occurred.

  The storage space couldn’t be accessed without letting everyone working at the accounting firm realize that the building wasn’t there to house an accounting firm.

  Sheila decided they’d leave the box in plain sight until they were better prepared to store the contents.

  The delivery truck pulled off the main road into the small parking lot. Most workers and client visitors parked in the underground parking garage, and the arrival of a delivery truck—or any vehicle—in the parking lot sent ripples of curious whispers through the building. Sheila could feel dozens of pairs of eyes on her, the owners ready to send text messages to friends on other floors describing the delivery event.

  Murphy, Crandall, and Porter climbed from the truck cabin, dressed in the hastily acquired uniforms of the fictitious delivery company. The curious might walk outside and touch the paint on the truck to find it still wet. Sheila doubted any would bother. Her true coworkers played their parts to perfection. Crandall and Porter slid around to the back of the truck, raised the door, and lowered the ramp before clambering inside the truck’s storage space. Murphy took the steps two at a time, asking Sheila to sign for the delivery. She signed—nothing more than an incongruous squiggle—and watched as the “delivery men” carried the coffin-sized box to the door.

  “Where to?” Murphy asked.

  Sheila spun on her heel. “Follow me.”

  They walked across the tiled floor, Sheila’s dirt-covered shoes clopping in a staccato tone, the others slamming boots into the ground with heavy thud after heavy thud. They headed for the elevator that would take them to Jamison’s office, where they’d leave the box under Sheila’s personal guard until the office emptied that night.

  They’d put the box in storage at that point.

  Jocelyn Whitfield, the office receptionist, watched their progress with hawk-like eyes. She rose from her desk and moved to intercept them. “Mrs. Clarke? What’s going on?”

  It’s none of your damn business, Sheila thought. Voicing such sentiments out loud would blow a cover she suspected wasn’t nearly as tight as she’d like. “Mr. Jamison scheduled a delivery and asked me to personally ensure it arrived safely in his office.”

  Jocelyn frowned. “Why wouldn’t he ask me to coordinate a delivery?”

  Why indeed? Jocelyn handled most package deliveries, signing for the delivery companies and ensuring recipients received notification of package arrivals. The lie formed fully in her mind with an ease that disturbed her. “Mr. Jamison found a sculpture in the city by a local artist that moved him deeply. He wishes to place the piece personally in his office.”

  Jocelyn’s eyes widened. “Ooh, it’s a piece of artwork?” She clapped her hands. Sheila fought the urge to roll her eyes. Hand clapping? “Did you know that Molly worked at the art museum in the city? You should have her set the piece up with the proper lighting and angle with the furniture and—”

  “No.” Sheila didn’t mean to sound as if she were shouting. “Mr. Jamison made it clear: he is the only one who is to open the box and place the piece. If he needs assistance, he’ll ask for it.” She fixed the receptionist with a steady stare, ignoring for the moment the physical strain and additional sweat from the “delivery men” waiting for the conclusion of the dialogue. “Is that clear, Jocelyn?”

  “Molly has a very practiced eye, and we can wow Mr. Jamison with—”

  “I said, am I clear? Jocelyn?” Sheila folded her arms this time.

  Jocelyn’s mouth hung open. She snapped it shut before opening it again to respond. “Okay. Sure.” The receptionist turned and slunk back to her desk. Sheila caught the quick glances back at the box and sighed. Jocelyn thought Sheila wanted to set the “artwork” up herself and get all the kudos from their managing partner, Mr. Jamison. No doubt she’d track down Molly, a woman who worked on the second floor, and figure out how to get in to Mr. Jamison’s office to properly stage the sculpture.

  Sheila sighed inwardly. It was too late to change the story now. She’d stay with the box until the office cleared out and Jamison arrived. They’d move the box to storage, and Jocelyn and her friend Molly would never see the artwork. If pressed, Sheila decided, she’d just tell them that Mr. Jamison decided he preferred to display the work at his home.

  The door to the elevator opened, and the men carted the box inside. Sheila followed and pressed the button for the fourth floor. She glanced at the three men.

  “I thought she’d never leave,” Crandall muttered. Sweat glistened on his face and neck.

  Sheila had tried to lift a corner of the box while they remained at the original site, but hadn’t managed to do more than move it a few inches. She couldn’t imagine carrying the box, even with help. She moved in to take a corner and relieve the burden. “Sorry about her,” she muttered. They didn’t need to hide anything in the elevator, but paranoia kept them quiet.

  The elevator chime sounded, and the doors opened on the fourth floor. Jamison’s personal assistant rose from his desk at the strange sight. “Mrs. Clarke? What… what’s going on? He’s not here, you know.”

  “I know,” Sheila replied. “He asked me to oversee this delivery and ensure no one but him opens the box.”

  “But—” The man saw the determined look on Sheila’s face and threw up his hands. “Fine, fine.”

  “Call him and check out my story, Marty,” Sheila said, grunting with the effort of marching slowly down the hall to Jamison’s open office.

  She kicked the door open wider, groaned as it bounced off the wall and slammed into her shoulder, and wriggled through the doorway. They moved the box inside, then situated it against the outer wall.

  Murphy exhaled. “Well, that was fun.” He glanced at Sheila and raised his voice. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

  Sheila nodded. “That will be all, gentlemen. Have a good day.”

  Murphy didn’t move. Sheila realized that tipping in this scenario would be expected. But… “My wallet is in my office. One moment.” She leaned in. “Don’t let Marty in here, okay? The less he sees, the better it will be for him.”

  She ran to the opposite end of the building, streaking past a startled Marty at his desk, and returned a moment later with her portable office computer and her wallet. She handed each man an equal cash tip. All three nodded and murmured their thanks at her generosity before leaving. They’d return the truck, replace their temporary uniforms with their more permanent attire, and return with far less fanfare later.

  Sheila’s glare made it clear she expected them to repay their tips at their earliest convenience.

  She shut and locked the door to Jamison’s office before opening the computer. Though the accounting job was a mere cover, she still had to spend an hour a day doing enough work to maintain the illusion, and the down time before Jamison’s arrival would prove the perfect time to catch up and get ahead on that work. After an hour, she paused to send her husband a text, letting him know she’d be late and to not wait up. Stephen wouldn’t be happy, and he’d been stewing about something of late. Another late night at the office wouldn’t help his mood.

  There was nothing she could do a
bout that now.

  She replayed the events and conversation of the early morning in her mind. Something had been gnawing at her, but she’d been unable to articulate the concern. The solitude, the silence save for the tapping of the keys on her keyboard, and the lack of anything to do as the early evening hours passed gave her mind the perfect chance to better identify and define her concern. She glanced at the coffin-sized box, remembered Jamison’s fear, and quickly surmised the obvious.

  Whatever had destroyed the building was stored in that box.

  Her eyes widened in terror. Now she knew the fear she’d been unable to articulate. She grabbed her phone and sent a text message to Jamison.

  What if there are more weapons like this out there?

  —————

  DEIRDRE SILVER-LIGHT

  —————

  CORPORATE MAGNATES… Silver, Oswald… chairman of Diasteel… business interests and holdings in the fields of production, agriculture, and transportation… widower… one child… Silver features prominently in various conspiracy theories about human civilization’s origins and current control structures due to his overwhelming influence in six cityplexes…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 2219

  THE HAND-CARVED WOODEN CLOCK featured a pendulum, an unusual sight in a civilization focused on digital technology. The pendulum moved back and forth in perfect rhythm, each pass taking precisely one second. A clicking sound emerged as the pendulum completed each movement.

  The ticking sound of that pendulum pierced the otherwise silent room.

  The man sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the surface cleared of everything but a tablet computer. The machine was pushed off to the side. He leaned forward, his chin resting in his left hand, fingers stroking the brown, graying beard. His right hand rested heavily upon the desk’s surface, largely useless after suffering a wound years earlier. His fierce brown eyes stared without blinking, a clear effort to intimidate the young woman seated across from him. He finally spoke, his anger unmuted by the whisper-like volume. “What did you say?”

  She met his gaze briefly before pushing a golden lock behind her right ear, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in her arm. His presence never failed to unnerve her. “I said I’m having doubts. I’m no longer certain I believe in our plan.”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “The time for doubt has long since passed, Deirdre.”

  She swallowed. “Has the time for everything passed?”

  He slammed his hand down on his desk. “Dismissed.” He broke his eye contact and turned his attention to the tablet computer.

  He didn’t want to have this conversation and sought to scare her away. She knew better than to follow the order. Her blue eyes went on the offensive, burning into him, as he spent a full minute pretending to work.

  He finally looked up at her, trying to express surprise with his facial expression that she remained in her seat. “Yes, it has. We’re past the point of no return, Deirdre. Final activation happens in mere hours.”

  “If activation hasn’t started, then it can’t be too late to stop it. It’s not too late to stop everything.”

  He pounded his right fist into the desk this time, generating a far louder cracking sound than before. “Dammit, Deirdre! There are pieces of this you know nothing about, and those have been activated. Failure to commence your portion will only make things worse for the masses.”

  Her eyes moved to the ground as her breath caught in her throat. “Worse?”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, studying her. “You’ve been having conscience pangs for quite some time, haven’t you? You’re planning something, something you think will stop the entire plan, aren’t you?”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Don’t deviate from the plan, little girl. I don’t know who or what you think you’ll save, but—”

  “Go to hell, Dad,” she snapped, eyes blazing. She rose from the chair and overturned it as she stormed toward the door with heavy footsteps and opened it.

  “Don’t you dare slam the—”

  She slammed the door with as much force as she could muster.

  Deirdre Silver-Light leaned against the abused door, breathing heavily. Why had she been so stupid to think he’d listen to her concerns? She knew there must be a way to stop everything, or at least enough to accomplish her goal. He’d guessed she had some new motivation to drive her pangs of conscience at this late date, though that had been rather transparent. Despite his claims, she suspected she could still save him.

  Audrey glanced up at her from behind the reception desk. Audrey was a pretty and generally vapid young girl who had in Deirdre’s mind the easiest job in the world. She alerted Oswald Silver that appointed guests were available. Given Oswald allowed perhaps one soul per week into his presence, she had little to do. Deirdre glanced at Audrey’s tight, revealing clothing and shuddered. Perhaps she had more to do than Deirdre cared to consider.

  Deirdre scowled at the woman. “I’m leaving.”

  Audrey nodded, her dimples crushing any effort at a professional appearance as Deirdre continued stomping past the reception desk toward the elevator. “Very well, Mrs. Light. Do you need to book another appointment with Mr. Silver?”

  Deirdre pressed the elevator call button. “No, Audrey. At the moment, I’d prefer being shot over spending more time with the man.”

  Audrey’s perfect features paled briefly. “Oh, okay. Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Light.”

  The elevator signal chimed. Deirdre entered as the doors parted, and tapped repeatedly on the button for the seventh floor. Her office. Her sanctuary.

  Yet it was still Oswald’s kingdom.

  Her mother would know what to do. She’d listen to Deirdre, understand her growing concerns about the propriety of the plans set in motion years earlier, and would offer sound advice for halting the upcoming calamity. But her mother was long dead, unable to offer Deirdre the advice so desperately needed, or to perhaps dissuade her husband from a dalliance with a woman half his age. The doors closed, and Deirdre watched the excitement grow on Audrey’s face as her face vanished. She felt revulsion, not at Audrey, but at her father. He’d take advantage of the naive young woman despite knowing exactly what Audrey would experience in the near future, and he’d do it without a pang of remorse.

  He’d shown no remorse about the plan. Not once. And while Deirdre felt pangs of conscience now, she noted with glum sobriety that she’d been a true believer, once fully committed to the purported noble goals, honored to play her part in activating those events designed to bring about fulfillment of the plan. Oswald was, in his own way, right to chide her. If she’d suffered conscience pangs back then, then… She shook her head as the elevator car slowed to a halt.

  If she’d displayed signs of a conscience back then, she’d be as oblivious to the coming chaos as Audrey.

  She slid out of the elevator car onto the seventh floor, where she managed the Diasteel research and development team, and moved toward her office at the far end. Her office was spacious, full of memories, memories that could exist only inside her mind after the events of the coming days unfolded. She walked around the seventh floor, looked at all of the people congregating, gesturing, pointing at diagrams and data printed on reams of paper. She could feel the energy of this place, the creativity that had brought to life so many key innovations in the world of the thirty-sixth century. Perhaps they’d invented things the mythical beings of the Golden Ages of the past hadn’t managed to derive before they’d vanished into the dusty annals of legend.

  She felt a tear form in her eyes, and ran a hand across her face, careful not to smudge the carefully applied makeup. It was difficult to accept that all of this would be gone in such short order. Years earlier, she’d been accepting of that fact, that reality, that cost. Why?

  She turned around, walked into her office, shut the door, and sat at her desk.

  Then she burst into tears, dry heaving into the wa
stebasket near her desk.

  —————

  MICAH JAMISON

  —————

  …formation of the two great military Alliances re-instituted military structures described in the Time Capsule… Citing concerns that personal desires for advancement might limit the honesty of feedback and analysis given senior military officers, the Western Alliance created the role of Civilian Adviser…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 655

  MICAH JAMISON HAD REMAINED BEHIND at the site of the incident long after the departures of Sheila Clarke and the rest of the team. He’d ensured they’d gotten the large box loaded onto the truck, had made the calls necessary to set them up with delivery service vehicles and credentials, and had made certain Sheila knew that her sole job that day was ensuring no Jamison & Associates employees attempted to open the box.

  It was literally a matter of life and death.

  Once they’d left, he’d conducted his own investigation of the site, without fear that he’d be seen by his team and reveal his own deep knowledge of the threat through his more assured actions.

  With the sun up and the fog burned away, the site no longer looked like something out of a basic horror movie. He could see things with greater clarity now than through the beams of the spotlights.

  None of what he saw eased his concerns.

  He ran his hand along the near-frictionless sides of the crater, marveling at the precision of the substance responsible for the smooth walls. It was as it had been before, pure destruction unleashed upon a defined space. They’d erected the building not as a base for foot soldiers for an eventual invasion, but to test their ability to destroy the structure.