Psion Gamma (47 page)

“I can block whatever you’ve got.” He was panting hard, working with one hand to free his feet, ready to shield with the other. “Your suit’s worthless. And sooner or later, my friends will come.”

He knew he was right. He looked ridiculous, and every part of his body hurt in a way he hadn’t felt since being in Stripe’s care, but she had lost.

Katie looked at him with an expression he could interpret only as curiosity. She had won the first and second rounds, but now he had beaten her. There was no fear in her eyes, only respect, intelligence, and ruthlessness so intense that Sammy knew he would never comprehend the depth. He didn’t know how he could understand her so well. Even still, he hated her with such passion . . . because she scared him.

She crossed the room and stood at the entrance of a hallway. At her feet were several small streaks of what Sammy guessed was his own blood. She stopped, turned, and smiled at Sammy. He’d never seen anything so ugly as her perfect lips twisted in a smile. Then she lifted her gun and fired twice at Al. Sammy tried to blast at her, but she was too far.

Al’s head jerked up as Katie left.

“Al!” Sammy fumbled again with the tape around his feet. In his panic, it took several extra moments to free himself. He crossed the room to Al, limping badly on his injured leg. A hole had formed in Al’s clothes over his left breast, but worse, Sammy heard the soft whir of a jigger tunneling. Al’s eyes were open as he gasped in shock.

“HELP!” Sammy screamed to no one as he ripped Al’s flight suit. He tried to get his hands into position to reach the wound. “HELP!”

“Hey,” Al whispered, his face twisted in a grimace of pain. “Hey.”

Sammy stopped yelling.

“Can you stop screaming and pull the braxel out?” Al was trying to smile. “I can’t die. I’ve got to get married soon.”

“But how . . .?” Sammy sputtered.

“Reach in and get it.”

Sammy held his breath as his index and middle fingers slid into the wound slick with blood and tissue, and pried away the muscle around it. Al moaned in pain and ground his teeth together.

“Don’t do that,” Sammy said through his own gritted teeth, trying to force his fingers deeper. Al cried out as Sammy did so. Finally the tip of his index finger felt the spinning metal object just below it. Taking a deep breath, he forced both fingers around it, and caught it between the tips of his fingernails. It spun hot between them, but he began teasing it out very carefully.

Al screamed longer and louder than Sammy thought was possible for anyone to scream. The braxel continued to spin against Sammy’s flesh, bringing new sensations of pain to his burned thumb, almost causing him to lose his grip. Slowly he pulled it out and dropped it with a clank on the floor. Leaning back from the awkward position, he fell to the floor and breathed loudly. “Now what?”

Al panted and moaned. “Either I bleed to death or they find us . . . or Wrobel wakes up and kills us.”

Sammy stripped off his shirt and compressed it against Al’s wound as best he could. “Well, at least if I get left behind this time, I won’t be in enemy territory.”

Al snorted a tired chuckle. “Please don’t make me laugh,” he grunted. “It hurts just to breathe.”

Sammy wanted to distract Al from the agony, but he didn’t know how. He finally decided just to talk to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Okay,” came the response.

“It might seem obvious, but I really need to know what you think.”

“Sammy, I’m bleeding badly, just ask . . .”

“Is it worth it? Getting married, having a family? Aren’t you afraid of losing Marie?”

Al coughed a couple of times. The coughs were abnormally thick and heavy. Color drained from Al’s face. “That’s what we fight for, right? Families.”

“Every family I’ve known has died. Stripe told me that pain is what makes us who we are. It molds us.”

Al’s face showed Sammy that he understood. “I’m not going to die. And I’m your brother. Jeffie and Brickert are your family, too. Pain teaches us . . . yes . . .”

His face went deathly white.

“But it’s how we love . . .” Then Al’s voice stopped. His eyes rolled back and then closed.

 “HELP! HELP US!” Sammy shouted over and over again. Finally, the door burst open. Byron and Dr. Rosmir and an entire squadron of Alphas behind them stormed in. Byron saw Al first and ran toward him. Rosmir was right beside him ordering instructions to his medics. Another Alpha came and cut the remains of Wrobel’s cuffs off of Sammy’s limbs. Once they were off, the Alpha began to rub them to help the circulation and soreness.

“Wait here,” the Alpha told him. “A medic will look at you.”

“I’m fine,” Sammy said, trying to get up, but his leg would not allow it.

“Kid, you’re an awful mess. Sit there and wait.”

Byron glanced at Sammy for just the briefest of moments, then he turned back to watch Dr. Rosmir and his team of medics remove Al as quickly as possible.

Sammy breathed a little easier when a medic announced Al still had a pulse. In fact, he felt lighter than he had in a very long time. It was hard to believe. It was over. He couldn’t wait to see his loved ones.
Especially Jeffie
, he thought with the beginnings of a smile.

May 5, 2086

S
AMMY RODE IN THE MEDIC CRUISER
with Al, Byron, Dr. Rosmir, and Rosmir’s team to the NWG hospital. Less than ten minutes into the flight, Al’s condition had stabilized. Byron’s careworn face still seemed troubled, but he thanked the doctor and the medics profusely. Then he returned to the pilot’s seat where he remained for the rest of the flight.

Once the medical team’s attention left Al, they strapped Sammy onto an exam table and got to work on him: First they removed all the large glass shards from his legs, hands, and backside.

“I can give you something for the pain,” Dr. Rosmir told him, “but it won’t do much. You’ve had so much sedative today, it’s not safe to give any more.”

He did, however, give Sammy a biting stick while they worked on him. With all his adrenaline gone, Sammy was left to feel most of the effects of the pain.

They reset his nose in place and injected a bone fastening solution. Then they examined his leg. Dr. Rosmir informed Sammy that his vastus lateralis had been almost completely severed from the blitzer. The skilled medical crew removed the damaged tissue and reattached the muscle. Dr. Rosmir apologized over and over while Sammy just kept biting down on the block in his mouth and tried not to scream. They squirted orange goo over the wound when they’d finished operating. “That’ll speed up the healing and reduce scar tissue,” one of the medics told Sammy. It burned almost as badly as his thumbs. Finished with the leg, they turned their attention back to the smaller pieces of glass embedded in Sammy. In the end, forty-seven pieces of glass were removed from his skin, the largest almost as long as his little finger. The last thing Dr. Rosmir looked at was Sammy’s thumbs.

“How did you manage to do this?” he asked. “These are third degree burns.”

They used a burn gun on his thumbs and a couple other areas where the blitzer had singed him.

When it was all over, Sammy rested for a good three hours. When he woke, his head was full of cobwebs. The cruiser was on top of the Alpha infirmary, where Al was being moved to another cruiser to fly to the main hospital on the island.

“Hey, bud,” Dr. Rosmir said when their eyes met. “I got a call from the psych center. You’re scheduled to check in tomorrow. I’m going to have to get a good look at that leg again while we’re taking you there.”

“Do I have to go?” Sammy asked. “I feel fine.”

Dr. Rosmir’s look reminded Sammy that the subject wasn’t up for debate. Then Byron came over and helped Sammy into a wheelchair. The short ride to Byron’s cruiser sent all kinds of awful sensations through Sammy’s body, forcing him to close his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” the commander asked.

“Great . . .” Sammy responded slowly, his eyes still shut. “Am I going home now?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, just for the day. You deserve some time with your friends.”

“I know.”

Something else was in the back of Sammy’s mind that he wanted to ask the commander, but his brain was too muddied to remember what it was. As Byron pushed him up the ramp into the cruiser, Sammy’s head went light.

“Whoa,” he mumbled, gripping the arms of the chair tight.

“Easy there,” Byron said.

Sammy laughed at that, but he was not sure why. “The chair’s kind of comfy,” he commented.

“Try not to get used to it,” Byron warned. “You will only need it for a week at the most.”

Sammy laughed again lightly. Byron stopped the wheelchair for a moment and reached into his pocket. “Here, smell this.” He held something small under Sammy’s nose.

Sammy sniffed.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed, jumping in his seat at the intrusion. His head was clearer, but the smell was biting and rancid. “What is that?”

“Smelling salts,” Byron answered. “Dr. Rosmir gave me it while you were asleep. I need to speak candidly to you while we still have time.”

“About what?”

Byron locked Sammy’s chair into place and got into the pilot seat. Within a minute, they were up in the air, flying to Beta headquarters.

 The commander turned so he could look Sammy right in the eyes.

“Thank you,” Byron said. His voice was very heavy.

Sammy realized he couldn’t really imagine what the commander had gone through today, nearly losing the last member of his family. The commander continued to stare at Sammy until the seemingly impenetrable dam of his emotions broke. It embarrassed Sammy to see such a towering, solid person like Byron break down.

“I—I was just doing what we’re supposed to do.”

“No,” Byron told him as he tried to collect himself. “You did more than anyone could have asked. When—when I was forced to make that choice, I was not sure if I had seen you move or not. I was going on something beyond hope—faith, really. I thought that was it. And then you came alive again, Samuel. What you did in there was unbelievable. I cannot—words cannot—” Byron gathered himself again before the dam crashed once more. “I am in your debt.”

“There is something special about you, Samuel,” Byron continued, but now not quite meeting Sammy’s eyes. “You have got strong stuff inside you. I hope you know how much faith I have in you.”

Sammy’s face felt hot. He could barely stand to look at Byron, but he still nodded.

Byron turned back to the controls as Beta headquarters approached quickly on the midnight horizon. Sammy thought about how great it would be to go back home. He smiled even though it hurt his nose.

“Sir, what am I going to do when I finish everything here? I mean, I’m almost done with the sims and instructions.”

Byron answered as though he had been thinking the same thing. “Some are suggesting that you graduate before you turn nineteen. Maybe even at sixteen. What do you think? Would you like to leave early?”

Sammy saw the rooftop door, the one he knew led to the stairs and then to home. He thought of who was behind the doors waiting for him. Then he thought of Al’s words about the point of it all. “Not if you can help it, sir,” he answered. “I’d rather stay.”

“Noted,” Byron said as he landed the cruiser. Then he wheeled Sammy down a ramp to the door of the rooftop. “Wait here,” he said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sammy joked.

The night air was cool and the wind was strong up on the rooftop. It whipped Sammy’s hair, but felt wonderful on his wounds. Had he not been so anxious to get inside, he could have stayed up on the roof for a couple of hours to just enjoy being alive. A bowl of ice cream would be nice, too.

“Do you think my anomaly is back?” he asked the commander. “I mean, I fought well against Katie today. A lot better than last time, but it still wasn’t the same as other times. Does that even make sense?”

“No idea. But keep me informed. You can speak to Dr. Rosmir about that, too. When you have your psych evaluation, there will be specialists who can help you. Some of them deal with the Tensais on a regular basis.”

“Sure. I’ll do that.”

Byron went into the cruiser and came back with crutches. “If I help you, can you walk down the stairs?”

Sammy used his armrests to push himself into a standing position. Byron folded the wheelchair and carried it in one arm with the crutches. Sammy took Byron’s free arm and limped carefully down the stairs. When they reached the third floor, Commander Byron set the chair on the ground and helped Sammy back in, setting the crutches on his lap.

“This is where I leave you,” he said warmly.

“Thanks, sir.”

“No, Sammy,” Byron said. “Thank you.”

“How am I going to get downstairs to my dorm?” Sammy asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” came the reply as the commander walked away.

“But, sir, my com . . .”

The lights were all off in the hallway as he wheeled himself to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. His com was downstairs in his room, so he couldn’t call anyone to let them know he was here. He struggled to get his chair into a position that would allow him to swing open the door. As he did so, he wondered if this was Byron’s way of urging him to get out of the chair as soon as possible. If so, it would certainly work.

Finally he got a handle on the door and pushed it open, forcing his chair through enough to stop it from closing again. A light came on in the cafeteria, blinding him.

Who would be up this late?
Jeffie again? Does she know I’m coming?

His pulse quickened as he manipulated the wheels to push himself into the room. No sooner did he push himself through, than his ears were filled with the sounds of cheers. His own tears blurred the images of his friends clapping and rushing forward to greet him. Even people he didn’t recognize.

Sammy grinned.

Home at last.

* * * * * * *

After seeing Sammy safely to headquarters, Byron returned to his cruiser and left the building. He set his sights to the far northern edge of Capitol Island. The flight wasn’t very long, and he had so many thoughts occupying his brain that it seemed even shorter. From far above he saw the blinking lights outlining a short landing strip. He called ahead to announce his arrival and request that a guard be there waiting for him.

 When he touched down, a stern-looking woman stood at a safe distance from the landing strip holding an umbrella outside her car. She moved into position to help keep Byron dry in the pouring rain.

“Thank you,” he told her, not expecting any response.

After she checked his clearance with a handheld print scanner, she drove him from the landing area through the gates surrounding the facility. Once in the building, they took an elevator deep into the earth. After three more clearance checks, Commander Byron came to the interrogation room where Victor Wrobel was being held. Byron watched his old friend for several minutes through the two-way mirror, remembering the words that had been shouted at him. Some of them were truer than he wanted to believe.

Victor’s Alpha Command flight suit had been replaced with a bright orange jumpsuit. His head was shaved, and heavy shackles adorned his feet and hands. According to the record hanging on the wall, he’d been force-fed the anti-Anomaly Fourteen pill, too.

The surly female guard used three forms of ID to unlock the atrium of the cell: eye-scan, voice-matching, and fingerprint analysis. Once the atrium was secure, two more armed guards, each of whom held separate keys to the room, watched as she repeated the procedure again. After she successfully identified herself, the guards placed their own keys into separate locks more than a wingspan apart and simultaneously turned them. The door to the cell opened, bringing with it the smell of stale, filtered air.

“Ah, Father Abraham,” Wrobel said with a smile. “I wondered when you’d be coming.” Then he spat in Byron’s face.

The guard reached for her electric stick, but Byron stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I will be fine by myself.”

The guard looked like she wanted to protest, but held her tongue. Commander Byron had plenty of rank in this situation. She had no choice. When she left, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the saliva from his cheek and brow.

“We were friends for a long time,” he said to Victor. “You have seen it all. You know how this will go. If you have enough information—”