The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Read online

  She jumped at the sound of the knock at the door, breathing heavily as her pulse raced. She took a quick breath to steady herself as she looked at the clock. It was time to meet with her chief researcher. “Come in,” she called. Her voice was firm and authoritative.

  Her chief researcher entered the room, and she caught her breath. He reminded her of Roddy in his ability to dominate a room with his mere presence. Where Roddy’s presence derived from his physical prowess and intensity, this man exuded a powerful aura of charm and charisma.

  He favored her with a radiant smile. “Mrs. Light. I do hope I’m not late.”

  She shook her head, hoping the movement might distort the temporary flush in her cheeks. “Punctual, as always.”

  He closed the door behind him. Deirdre opened the top drawer of her desk and found the two separate grooves that matched the shape of her index fingers and place the pads of her fingers in the grooves.

  Moments later, the bookshelf to her right shifted, and she heard the faint sound of locks disengaging.

  Books older than current history lined those shelves, a fact few people knew. Most believed her collection to be one of pure aesthetics, a reminder to think of the reputed accomplishments of the ancients and seek similar advances. While she appreciated the symbolism—and encouraged the speculation—the books were in fact copies of the physical, paper books once popular on the planet. The words within were lifted directly from a publicly redacted library found in the Time Capsule. Here, on her wall, sat proof of the conspiracy blocking full distribution of the Time Capsule’s secrets.

  No one paid attention, though. Roddy had paused once, ran a finger down the weathered spines, before turning away. Secrets were best hidden in the open where seekers never looked.

  Sheila moved to the bookshelf, joined by her researcher. She put her hands on two separate books on an upper shelf, as far as she could reach, and pulled both toward her simultaneously. The floor moved, sliding to her right, as the shelf separated from the larger office wall, spinning them at a steady pace to a point behind the wall. Were anyone to enter her office at this moment, they’d still see a bookshelf lined with ancient printed books. The titles were identical, save for the two used to activate the rotation. Her father would know her location in an instant.

  The walls and bookshelf were both fully soundproofed, and they entered the large laboratory confident that any noises made inside would never reach the outside world.

  “I’ve tested each of the prototypes as you’ve requested, Mrs. Light.” The man noted charts and checklists affixed to a drafting table near the bookshelf door. “My summary of the results are found there, and the printed binders of the detailed tests and observations may be located on fixed shelves near the entry.”

  She nodded, glancing at the test materials.

  She’d told Roddy a partial truth that morning. Her team had secretly reconstituted the formula for Diasteel, creating a material that retained the strength and impermeable nature of the original while allowing the material to bend. She’d lied when she told him she didn’t know how it might be used.

  The metallic suits rested upon tables, many bearing scorch marks and dents and scratches upon otherwise flawless exteriors. She walked between the rows of tables, looking at each. “Each suit was subjected to fire, acid, explosions, knives, and bullets?”

  He nodded. “Correct. None of them were fully lost, but some fared better than others.”

  That’s what she needed to know. “At least one survived all tests unscathed?”

  “That’s correct as well, Mrs. Light. Would you like to see that sample?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He led her to a different table, filled with suits blackened and dented almost beyond recognition. The suit in the middle of the table was different. A tag labeled “22” served as the only visible blemish in the smooth metallic surface. She ran a hand along the head cover, surprised at the mild chill of the smooth surface. She lifted one of the arms. “How does one get inside?”

  “There’s a zipper down the front.”

  She looked again, and ran her hand down the front of the suit. A small bulge ran from the chin to the legs, and when she tugged, a flap opened, revealing a zipper. “I assume the flap is simple to reapply and ensure a complete seal?”

  He nodded. “The surface is slightly magnetized to itself in just the right places. The flap’s magnetism matches with the opposite polarity in a thin surface wire past the zipper. The simplest way to think of it is that the flap will be pulled to the closed position and held there, barring a very localized bit of pressure.”

  She considered. “So you can’t shoot the flap open, but if you knew what to look for, you might be able to use a knife to pry it open and get to the zipper.”

  “Exactly.”

  She pushed to flag down, and watched as it pulled tight over the zipper, forming a solid seal. She nodded. “Perfect. Keep this suit and destroy the others. I’ll need the specific adjustments to the Diasteel formula required to create the suits sent to me.”

  He nodded, but she noticed his hesitancy. “What is it?”

  “It’s just… I can’t help but wonder why we created these suits.”

  She maintained an “I just work here” approach to justifying the research projects, alluding to others deciding what and why they’d investigate new technologies or alterations to existing technologies. But his efforts demanded a partial explanation. “It’s for our military, of course.” Not quite true. But… close.

  His eyes widened. “Military? But… why?”

  “Well, if enemy soldiers shoot at our soldiers…”

  He grimaced. “Right.” He paused. “You mentioned destroying the other suits.”

  “Correct.”

  “How?”

  “What?”

  “Those suits have been thrown in fire, shot with bullets, stabbed with knives, drowned in acid, and while they suffered some structural damage, all of them are still here.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t destroy something that was built to resist destruction.”

  She nodded. “Each suit had a specific weakness, right? One challenge that caused the structural damage we didn’t see in the final suit?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Is there a reason you couldn’t match suits to the challenges they failed and subject them to more of the same until they’re destroyed?”

  He shook his head. “We start the Cobra project on Monday. If I’m the only person with access to destroy the failed suits, it will take several weeks.”

  She considered that. “That’s fine. There’s little risk of discovery of the effort here. Make the necessary excuses but look to spend thirty to sixty minutes per day here to complete the effort.”

  He nodded. “Of course.” He glanced at the unblemished armor. “What do we do with that?”

  She pointed to a large, coffin-sized crate. “We load it in there.”

  “And then?”

  “You’ll get to make a special delivery.”

  He looked as if ready to protest, then thought better of it. “You have a location in mind?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where?”

  “My apartment.”

  “Your… apartment.” It was clear that was among the last places on the planet he would suspect. “Won’t your husband question such a delivery?”

  “He’s not home right now.”

  He nodded. “Shall we?”

  They opened the crate. Deirdre coughed once; the carpenter hadn’t removed the wood shavings inside the box, and she suffered from a mild allergic reaction. They wrestled the suit from the table and into the box before sealing the lid. She found a dolly and they loaded the crate aboard, strapping cords around the box to ensure it didn’t fall off during transport. As they worked, she explained more. What he’d need to do to get into the building and to her apartment with a massive crate without running into issues. How to unlock the door and ge
t inside the apartment. About the hidden closet in her bedroom, and how to open the doors.

  He glanced at the delivery company uniform she provided. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

  She nodded. It was all she’d thought about for weeks.

  “Why are we storing this suit at your apartment?”

  She hesitated. “Because… that’s where it’s most likely to be needed.”

  He frowned. “That makes no sense. Why would a suit of armor built for soldiers be most needed at a private apartment in the middle of the cityplex?”

  She turned away from him. “When you’re done, you’re free to go home for the day. Track down your wife and go out to a nice dinner. My treat.”

  He paused. “I… don’t think that’s likely. We… well, there was this text message, and I accused her of cheating on me because of it, and I don’t think she wants to see me.”

  “Do you want to see her?” Deirdre asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s someone else.”

  She turned around. “Really? Anyone I know, Stephen?”

  His eyes smoldered. “I think so.”

  She was in his arms seconds later.

  It was so much better this time.

  And her elaborate plan to save his life? He’d just made the effort worthwhile.

  —————

  MICAH JAMISON

  —————

  …exorbitant cost and risk of crossing polar ice caps or shipping troops and equipment to enemy territory make the idea of leaving soldiers behind for integration into enemy society and more direct reports of activity foolhardy…

  The History of the Western Alliance, page 815

  MICAH JAMISON PACED THE FLOOR, his lack of focus generating exceptionally heavy footsteps that reverberated through the office, shaking the materials scattered haphazardly on his desk.

  He’d not wanted to believe what he’d seen when he’d arrived that morning. The evidence seemed incontrovertible. He needed a different set of eyes and a different way of thinking to review the evidence and tell him the evidence didn’t mean what he thought it meant.

  He needed Sheila here. Now.

  Where the hell was she?

  He decided he’d rather be there when she entered the Bunker rather than wait here for her arrival. As he left his office, as he heard the previously satisfying click of the locks engaging behind him, he wondered if he’d been too rash, too hasty, in sending the text message so early after she’d risked arrest driving home after curfew. He’d certainly bail her out, use his connections to ensure nothing appeared on her record, but she’d made it home without incident. And thanks to him, without much sleep.

  But this couldn’t wait.

  He strolled into the main lobby of The Bunker.

  The Bunker was a clandestine underground military outpost serving as both a think tank and observation station. His team monitored the scant information retrieved from Eastern territories, watching for actual troop activity, interpreting intercepted communications, and identifying military applications of any and all newly minted private sector products. Breaking with social norms, people worked at the Bunker throughout the night. Shifts ensured that none of his people needed to travel during curfew hours. With only two exceptions, the employees here were soldiers who’d completed the basic defensive training and who’d not graduated into the ranks of soldiers able and willing to learn offensive tactics.

  He’d designed the Bunker himself, including the hidden area he’d shown Sheila Clarke in the darkest hours of the night. He knew all of its secrets. And no one else knew.

  Or so he’d thought.

  He watched as the workers mingled in the lobby, some arriving from the elaborate entry system, some leaving in a similar manner. Wesley Cardinal looked terrible, like he’d been ill, and Micah watched as the man stumbled around the lobby as if under the influence of some powerful intoxicant, talking to himself. His fellow employees said nothing aloud, but looks of disgust covered their faces. Sheila had made her discomfort with and dislike of the man quite public, and Cardinal made no secret of the fact that his feelings toward the General’s primary assistant were mutual.

  Wesley served as an observer, tasked with reviewing video footage of Eastern news programs, government press conferences, and television programs. Any might reveal weaknesses in the Enemy culture or provide hints about impending military action. More senior—and, to be honest, Micah thought with a grim smile—more stable observers would be entrusted with actual footage of Eastern troops and ships, looking through hours of footage to try to identify weapons advances or training rituals that might portend how the East might choose to invade the West.

  Little did they know that the General already knew exactly how that would work, and that the secret rested in a secure holding tank fifty feet below.

  Wesley moved to the main desk to retrieve his assignment and video disks for his shift. He also picked up a folder containing notes made by a previous observer; those notes would give him some insight into what might be the most interesting footage in his materials.

  Wesley skimmed the contents of the folder and scowled before looking up. The disinterested scowl deepened into something far more intense. Jamison followed Wesley’s eyes to the source of the man’s anger.

  Sheila.

  She looked shaken, and he wondered again just how upsetting his text had been. When she saw him standing in the lobby, her frown deepened. He rarely exited his office, and he had little doubt that his presence here magnified the concerns she had about the text message he’d sent. She started walking toward him.

  Wesley Cardinal screamed, as if in immense pain, and charged her. Sheila turned to see him rushing her way, her face awash in shock at the sudden attack, and she adopted a defensive stance as the crazed man plowed into her. Both fell to the carpeted floor. Micah winced. Even with the padding beneath the carpeting, they’d still landed on a surface formed of solid concrete.

  The space went silent as every person present ceased speaking and stopped moving, riveted in shock at the unprovoked attack. Jamison moved toward the combatants. Seconds after the fighting started, the crowd began ringing the fighters, slowing his progress.

  Wesley’s face was purpled with rage, his movements fueled as if by a massive surge in adrenaline. Jamison could only wonder if the man had ingested some type of narcotic, for the behavior was abnormal even by Wesley’s standards. The man was quirky, certainly not one prone to physical assault.

  Not until today.

  The overwhelming intensity of his assault enabled him to straddle Sheila, and he tried to reach his hands to her throat. Sheila kept her arms between her attacker and her throat, eyes wide in fear and shock.

  “Wesley Cardinal! Cease at once!” Jamison shouted. He tried to push his way through the crowd. “Ladies and gentleman, either assist Ms. Clarke or step aside!”

  No one moved.

  He started pushing his way through, with enough force to both open a pathway and let those shifted know that he was exceptionally displeased at the necessity.

  Sheila managed to shift her hips enough to alter Wesley’s balance. When his weight shifted, she whipped her legs up in an incredible display of flexibility, slamming her knees into the back of his head. The blow stunned Wesley. Sheila arched her back and Wesley toppled off her, shaking his head to regain his balance. Sheila rolled off her back to her knees.

  “People, help her or move!” Jamison shouted again.

  A few people glanced his way, seemingly more annoyed at the General interrupting the entertainment than they were at one coworker attacking another. Jamison saw Art and Simon, two men who often posed as security guards on the aboveground floors, begin pushing through the crowds, shouting at Cardinal to remain still.

  Wesley, though, had other ideas. With a scream of rage, he shot toward Sheila.

  She rolled to the side at the last second, lashing out
one leg. She caught Wesley’s ankle, and the manic man lost his balance, crashing at full speed into the nearest wall.

  He slumped to the ground, stunned.

  The entire fight lasted less than thirty seconds.

  The guards reached Wesley and dragged him to his feet as Jamison finally reached Sheila. “Are you okay?”

  She climbed to her feet, unsteady, and brushed some dust from her sleeves. “Never better.” She raised a hand to her cheek and touched it with tenderness, and he didn’t miss the slight wince at contact.

  Art and Simon dragged Wesley—who couldn’t or wouldn’t use his legs—toward Jamison as the crowd began to disperse, still buzzing loudly over the attack. They shot looks of disgust at the man as the guards hauled him toward the General. Jamison felt his face tighten as the man neared, in part due to his disgust at the man’s actions, and in part because he could hear Sheila’s unspoken words in his mind.

  I told you he was unstable. I told you he ought to be fired.

  She didn’t know that wasn’t possible, but that didn’t lessen the propriety of her righteous indignation.

  “Did you see what happened, sir?” Simon was the shorter of the two men, and kept his voice quiet.

  Jamison did not. “Did I see a crowd of people reportedly interested in protecting the innocent stand by and watch as one of their own suffered an unprovoked attack?” His voice carried across the lobby and into the hallways spurring off in various directions, and he could see people slow as his words reached them. “Did I notice that those spectators refused to step aside for those willing to assist their colleague lest they miss out on the entertainment—” he spat out the word “—before them?” He looked around, knowing his gaze burned into each person in his line of sight like fire. “Yes, I did notice that. And I confess to being singularly embarrassed by every person who stood by in such a manner, and find myself wondering if I perhaps ought to consider refreshing the personnel working here.”

  He could see faces fall, eyes search for the floor, shoulders slump, as the men and women accelerated their pace out of the lobby. A few walked by and murmured “sorry” in Sheila’s general direction.