The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

Reality returned and Russell produced the map. Maggie pointed to the circle, uttered a polite phrase. The man looked it over with a few sentences.

“What's he saying?”

“It's not far but would take days to reach on foot—the path's rough. After the storm passes he'll show us the way to a village to find transportation.”

She looked to the old man, voiced a line of Chinese. He nodded with a few words. Maggie bowed her head in return. He bowed back, disappeared a final time.

“What was that all about?”

Maggie sipped her tea, “He's doesn't want us stealing anything.”

“But he's going to help us,” Russell surmised with a cringe from the bitter tea.

“Only through the night,” Maggie replied. She pulled another shard from her face and sucked air through her teeth. “Assuming the storm's over by morning.”

“Things went south pretty fast.”

Maggie grimaced in agreement. A visible shiver coursed over her, but Russell slid an arm around her. She soaked in his warmth, comforted by his touch, “Thank you.”

They finished their tea in silence, Maggie occasionally gritting her teeth to dig out glass from her face and arms. She bled droplets onto a towel while Russell blotted away mud and blood from them.

He pulled her close, “We need to rest. We can't spend more time here than necessary.”

Maggie laid sideways with him on the hard floor, stripped away the wet towels and pushed against him for warmth. He wrapped an arm over her, positioned his duffel bag as a pillow. The fire-pit bathed them in heat, lulled them into trances with its hypnotic dance.

17.

Transport

October 4
th
 

7:30 AM

Tibetan Airstrip

Maggie rose a few hours later. The old man stood before her. He spoke a few, disdained words and she nudged Russell awake.

“It's time to go.”

They grabbed their gear and followed the old man out. The night's rain had died into a gray morning plastered with stratocumulus clouds obscuring the sun. Cold wind whistled over crackling, dead foliage beneath coniferous trees.

The old man hobbled along the strip's edge for a break in the woods, shuffled onto a small footpath in the trees. They followed in-step, stopped at a dirt road a few hundred yards outside the strip. The old man rambled out directions, pointing them right.

“Maggie?”

“It's the way to the village, we'll find help there.”

She placed her hands together, bowed her head with a sentence. Then with another, she produced several bills and presented them to him. He took the money with a wily squint, placed his hands together, bowed to her, then watched as they started along the dirt road.

An hour's walk raised mounting doubts as the mountain road led them through dense forestry and rough, rocky terrain. Then, from nowhere, empty farmland appeared and a small group of huts popped up along either side of the road.

Maggie removed the map from her bag, made her way deeper between the dwellings. The inhabitants' day was in full swing. Traders haggled for everything from beaded jewelry to furs and food, while men and women worked on large, primitive-looking machines. They paid no mind to the foreigners, focused too intently against the din that apexed at the village-center.

Exotic foods cooked over spits with their bittersweet aromas infecting the chill air. Maggie stopped at a post. The man there tempted her with a set of prayer beads, but she held up the map, asked something in Mandarin. He perked up, surprised, and pointed them down the street with a few words.

“
Xièxiè nǐ.
”

Maggie weaved her way between villagers, their faces weathered by a life foreign to even her wildest dreams. Russell did his best to keep up, “I'm amazed they'll take our money.”

“They find value in what others will value. I'd have expected you'd know that,” she replied smartly. She stopped short of colliding with a woman holding a child, excused herself in Chinese, then diverted around her.

Russell followed her to a stand on the right side of the road, “What makes you say that?”

“You're the boy-scout. I'm just the talent.”

He laughed. Maggie caught the attention of the man behind the stand. A ratty, 40's era pickup sat beside him. He spoke with a thick accent but well-groomed English, “Ah, American?”

Maggie nodded, “English, but yes.”

“You need lift?” He asked cheerfully.

Maggie pointed to her map, “Yes, to here.”

“Okay, twenty American.” He eyed her rifle, “Army?”

“It's a long story.”

“Ho'h kay,” He said, climbing into the truck. “Only one inside—two seats.”

“I'll take the back,” Russell said. He countered Maggie's protest, “I'm just the boy-scout.”

She relented with a chuckle and stepped around the truck. Russell climbed into the bed. The truck back-fired, then executed a wide U-turn to head from the village.

“Take few hours. Still. Faster than walking,” he said, shifting through ancient gears.

Maggie glanced back at Russell, his back against a wheel-well. He gave a thumbs up. “That's alright.”

She turned to lean on the door with an elbow, her head on a hand. The man spoke with casual interest, “Why you here?”

“Like I said, it's a long story. I'd really rather not go into it,” she admitted politely.

He eyed the rifle between her legs, “Not working for Chinese, right?”

“No. I respect Tibet's desire for independence.”

Plains shifted to trees that lumbered past. The man replied with insight, “Good thought, but China not ready for it. Communists preach equality, should instead preach brotherhood.”

She felt a strange resonance with his words, “I agree.”

“Maybe one day we have American friends to help.”

“Maybe,” she said, feigning hope. “Your English is quite good. You've studied it?”

“Worked for small Chinese-American company. P-R manager for long time, but lost job when company shut down.”

“Why?”

He answered with a hint of regret, “Bought by larger company. Sold off.”

“You didn't agree?” She asked, as trees turned to rocky hills.

“No. Thought the company should go public, trade on international markets. Bosses refuse.”

“What kind of company would do that?”

“Medicine, drugs—
big
money, small minds,” he said critically.
 

Maggie remembered what little She-La had said about the protectorate; their funding came from large, independent companies—pharmaceutical and weapons manufacturers and the like. Omega was no different. She sensed a connection, the coincidence far too convenient.

“Was it an American company?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on the road.

Maggie could tell the subject was sore, but curiosity got the best of her. “How'd you end up back here? Seems like you could be making good money with a resume like that.”

“Ah, money not Life. Life is living—not money,” he corrected. “This my home. Born here. Live here. I leave to make money and help sick family. Sick family die. Company close. Don't need money. Buy truck. Offer lift.”

Maggie relished such simplicity. “Sorry, I was just curious.”

He remained silent, the conversation clearly ended. The road was soon enclosed by high rock-walls that rose to great altitudes, curved steadily, then sharply, before descending in long, steep slopes. She understood now how difficult the road was to walk, and further saw how inconvenient the Protectorate's hiding place was.

It was two hours of inclines, descents, and twisting silence in the old, rickety pick-up before the man spoke again.

“Mountain end close. Destination close.”

Maggie snapped from a trance, “How much further after?”

“Few minutes walk.”

They traveled the last few miles in anxious silence. The mountainous rocks sloped into more trees, leveled in thick woods that replaced the cliffs. The truck rolled along until it came to stop between two, nondescript sections of forest. He let it idle while Maggie stepped out.

“C'mon sleeping beauty,” Maggie called over the engine.

Russell wiped his eyes, eased from the truck's bed. The man laughed at Maggie's remark. She smiled, stepped to his window.

“Thank you.” She handed him an extra pair of bills. “I hope the future finds you well.”

He bowed his head, executed a noisy three-point turn, then disappeared up the mountain. Maggie watched him leave then started through the trees.

Russell spoke, “I wonder where we'll—”

Loud Chinese silenced him. Several men in masks charged them with raised rifles. Maggie and Russell readied in defense, backs together.

“Maggie, what the hell's going on?”

“I don't know!”

“
Fàngxià nǐ de wǔqì, bìng quèdìng zìjǐ!
” A voice yelled, muffled by a mask.

“Maggie?” Russell asked, straining syllables.

“What do you want me to say, Russell? We're here for the Protectorate?”

The barrels thrust toward them. Maggie fingered her trigger.

The tone shifted and two men closed the distance. The pair's rifles were jerked away. One man knocked Maggie to the ground, fought to hold her down. Two more kept Russell's arms restrained. Maggie kicked, screamed.

Russell shouted, “Don't struggle! We'll find a way out, just—”

Maggie wasn't listening. She freed a leg, planted a kick into a man's groin. He roared, reeled back with his rifle, and slammed it against her forehead. She lost consciousness under the flow of blood from a fresh wound. Russell shouted in vain, helpless.

18.

The Protectorate

October 4
th
 

6:30 PM

Somewhere on the Tibetan Plateau

Wetness slid across Maggie's face. Her eyes snapped open. She scuttled back on her hands, up a bed to a stone wall. An old, white-haired woman with gentle eyes apologized in Chinese and bowed. She dunked a cloth in a bowl of water, reached for Maggie.

Maggie shook her off. The old woman bowed again, shuffled out through a door ahead. A massive room peeked in past a large man whom glared and shut the door.

Maggie examined her cell; a low table sat in its center with pillows around it, and her lone bed at its side. She felt her throbbing head, worsened by every eye movement. Her temples pounded, teeth ached. Her hand skirted a large gash that ran from her hair-line to her right temple and she sucked air through her teeth.

The door burst open. A large man with a rifle menaced her with dark eyes.
He growled with a deep, throaty voice, “
Lái ba, xiànzài!
”
 

“Where are we going?”

“
Dào xiànzài, wǒ kǎn diào nǐ de tóu
,” he ordered.

He positioned the rifle and motioned to the door. Maggie relented at the possibility that he man might, in fact, remove her head. If her forehead was any indication, someone had already tried.

She stood and stepped past him out the door, emerging into a near-replica of the Nepalese temple. A large chair sat beneath the worn, Protectorate symbol at the room's front, behind bodies that scurried here and there in warm clothing. Feet scuffed stone floors. Small voices emitted from lofts. Men and women, old and young, stirred in a frenzy of activity. The whole temple breathed with lively ambiance.

Maggie paused to take it in but was shoved across the wide temple for a closed door. Two, equally large, dark-haired men scowled  beside it. One man opened it onto a room identical to hers.

Russell rose at the short table and rocketed toward her, “Maggie!”

Her escort bridged the gap with a rifle-butt to his gut. He dropped to his knees. The guard barked Chinese, rifle trained on Russell's head.

“I don't fucking understand you!” He gasped, beating his fist on the ground.

Maggie stooped, “No sudden moves. Don't do it again. Are you alright?”

Russell glared at the guard whom uttered a few, sarcastic words, then left.

Maggie pled, “Russell, just stop.” He fell back against the table with a strained breath. Maggie crouched to examine him for wounds as he coughed into a hand. “Have they let you out?”  

“No, but it's—”

“A Protectorate temple. Since they haven't killed us yet, I'm guessing they aren't Omega.”

“No, I saw… kids, Maggie,” he gasped.

“I know. I'm willing to bet the Reverberant's here.”

Russell waited to regain his breath, “Hell of a welcoming.”

“Can you blame them?”

He remembered the alley and airstrip, the C-130 and the temple, “No.”

“They must want to contain any possible threats.”

“Just trying to survive,” Russell agreed, his eyes on the floor. He looked her over, spied the wound on her head. He pushed aside wild hair and she shied away. “Fuck, are you alright?”

She winced, “Wicked headache, but I'll be fine.”

“I'm sorry, Maggie. I tried…”

She corrected him, “It was my mistake. I reacted without thinking. They must want to know how we found them and what we're doing here.”

“It doesn't excuse what they did.”

“No, but it makes it clearer.” She hesitated, looked him over, “What do we do now?”

“Tell them why we're here. They need to know what's happened. That we're not some kind of scouting party for Omega—or worse.”

The door opened again, a guard stepped in to one side. The old woman appeared with a tray. Two bowls rattled atop it as she set it before them on the floor. Maggie thanked her politely in Chinese.

After a pause, the woman bowed and left. The guard watched in silence as Maggie mustered her calm, spoke select words in Chinese. She finished with a bow. The guard's eyes narrowed skeptically, his stance predatory.

“
Maggie?
”
 

The guard grumbled out something then left. She returned to Russell's side.

He stared wildly at the door, “What the
hell'd
you say?”
 

She smiled, “Diplomacy has its charms.”

“That must be the English in you, Maggie.”

“Yeah? Well, the rest of me's figuring out how to escape if this goes wrong.”