The Darwin Elevator

Ten seconds passed. Then the man at the desk stood up abruptly and turned around. He’d heard something.

A person approached him from the entrance, toward his turned back. A woman, Russell saw. Small and lithe, wearing a skintight black outfit. She hit the guard on the back of the head with something—a gun, perhaps—and he dropped like a bag of sand.

What happened next startled him. The woman reached over the desk, without even looking at the terminal. Her hand raced across the keyboard, and the video feed died.

An absolute pro. Russell whistled appreciation. “Who the hell is that?”

“The ‘Ghost,’” Jarred said. “Kelly Adelaide. Works for Platz, though he denies it. An enormous pain the ass.”

“And who was in the cell?”

The dazed guard answered. “A scavenger from Darwin. A woman.”

“The immune? Samantha?” Russell asked. When the guard nodded he turned to Jarred. “Tough as nails, that one. I’ve had a run-in with her before.”

“Good to know.”

“They can’t be far,” Russell said, clicking off the safety of his pistol.

Jarred shook his head. “She’s with the Ghost. They’re long gone, trust me. They’ve been trying to find her for almost week.”

A week. Russell found it hard to believe, in a tin can like this, that anyone could even get thirty seconds of privacy. “Well,” he said, looking over the scene, “standing around here is pointless, then. Let’s go crack some skulls.”

Halfway to Section G, Jarred pressed a finger to his ear and began to run. “They’ve broken through,” he said to Russell. “Pushing our men back.” His own soldiers, four in number, ran ahead with him.

When the combatants started to come into view, Russell slowed down. He turned to his twenty men. “Listen up,” he said. “They’re all using pansy tactics. Pop up, shoot, duck, repeat. I’ll have none of that. We’re going to barrel in there like a bunch of subs and scare the hell out of ’em.”

Everyone nodded. They were smiling. Russell realized he wore a wide grin, too.

Russell turned toward the battle and started to jog. The jog turned to a run as his men caught up to him. Some even passed him. Bloodlust took over, and he loved it.

They rushed forward as if they were playing rugby, shouting as they raced toward the enemy, shooting wildly. A shocking and effective tactic.

Platz’s forces, caught off guard, crouched behind whatever cover they could find under the hail of bullets and bloodcurdling cries. Before they could return fire, the Nightcliff guards were right on top of them. Russell ran as hard as he could, and still he fell toward the back of the group. Their boldness filled him with pride.

A slaughter ensued, beyond Russell’s expectations. In seconds, five Platz soldiers lay dead or dying. Some already on the ground received a second bullet.

Blackfield’s soldiers pushed on, into the junction corridor, leaving the shocked Gateway guards to secure ground already gained. The junction hall was a narrow space—no more than three people wide—with nothing to hide behind along the twenty-meter stretch. They surged forward.

Russell passed Jarred Larsen, who was crouched behind a metal table turned on its side. Jarred shouted something. It sounded like a warning. Russell laughed and ran on.

Jarred shouted again, much louder. “Blackfield! Ambush!”

He heard the cry two steps before entering the corridor. Something in Jarred’s tone resonated. At the last step he angled into the wall next to the door.

A storm of gunfire erupted from the Platz-held end of the junction. Men screamed and toppled.

Fish in a goddamn barrel, Russell thought. Oops!

Whipping around, he held a hand up, ordering the men still behind him to halt. Most were able to heed the call, angling to take cover along the wall next to their leader. A few could not overcome their momentum and died in the open doorway.

Jarred moved up and took a place on the wall next to Russell.

In the junction, on the other side of the wall, the wounded men screamed. “I guess we got carried away,” Russell said. No one laughed.

One soldier managed to crawl out, a bloodstain spreading across his lower back. Russell pulled him through to safety.

“How many up there?” he asked the fallen man.

Through clenched teeth he said, “Couldn’t see. They’re dug in.”

Russell took stock of his men along the wall. Ten of the twenty were still standing. A sobering number. Russell saw no fear in the survivors’ faces, but the cockiness had definitely been smothered. He leaned to the next man on the wall. “We hold this position, until the rest of the boys arrive. Spread the word.”

As the orders spread down the line, Russell pulled Captain Larsen aside. “The second squad is bringing tear gas. That’ll clear them out.”

“Can’t do that. The circulators will suck it in and spread it all over the station.”

From within the junction corridor, Russell heard a deep clang. The sound reverberated through the floor and walls. “The hell?”

Jarred moved up to the doorway and chanced a quick glance inside. “Son of a … they’ve sealed it. The emergency bulkhead.”

Russell leaned in and saw it, too. A massive metal barrier, right at the halfway point of the connecting hall.

Jarred grimaced. “We should check on the other junctions. Maybe they couldn’t seal all three.”

“I’ll join you,” Russell replied. “You,” he said to the closest soldier, “you’re in charge. No one gets through that door, got it?”

“Understood!”

“Lead on, brother,” Russell said to Jarred.

He stood before the fourth set of emergency bulkhead doors that blocked Section H. Twenty minutes ago, after he and Jarred had found them all sealed, Russell had demanded some onc-rope be brought up and sent four men to fetch it. Jarred had gone with them, so he could report in to Alex Warthen.

Russell kicked the thick barrier with the bottom of his boot. “Where the hell are my explosives?” he shouted.

A number of men milled about, and all suddenly tried to look busy.

Jarred Larsen appeared a minute later, alone and empty-handed.

Russell spread his arms. “Are we supposed to claw it open?”

“Alex said no explosives,” he replied. “Can’t risk the damage to the station.”

“That’s great,” Russell said. “Let the bastards slip away.”

“I sent a team to get a water torch from maintenance,” Jarred said. “They didn’t show?”

Russell made a show of looking around.

“Dammit,” Jarred said. He produced a small handheld communicator. “This is Larsen, where’s my torch?”

Nothing but static from the other end.

A voice finally crackled over the small speaker. “Fiske here, sir, I’m near maintenance. Want me to track them down?”

“Yes, please.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Russell paced back and forth in front of the door, struggling to control his rage. He could picture Platz’s men, grabbing anything useful and stuffing it into their lifeboats.

Minutes later the radio crackled again. “Fiske here, sir. We’ve got a problem.”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re dead. Looks like an ambush.”

Jarred slapped his own forehead and dragged his hand down his haggard face.

Russell felt the same. The enemy was supposed to be contained within Section H. “How the hell? Oh … I get it. The ‘Ghost’ and the prisoner.”

“This is a right bloody mess,” Jarred said. He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Everyone listen up: We’ve got a couple of infiltrators on the loose. Two women. One we know: Kelly Adelaide, short with close-cropped brown hair. The other is Samantha Rinn, abnormally tall and strong. Blond hair.”

Russell ground his teeth together. Samantha. She’d spat in his face, and clocked him in front of his men. He rubbed absently at his jaw. Even now, weeks later, it still ached from her blindside punch. He’d let her go, shown leniency, and this was his reward.

“Okay, everyone,” Jarred said, “stay sharp and hold your positions. No one goes anywhere alone, understood?”

“You’re not sending search parties?” Russell asked.

Jarred covered the microphone. “No one knows this place better than Kelly Adelaide. Let her come to us.”

Russell thought it over and gave a stiff nod. He turned to his soldiers, who were standing by. “You,” he said to the only one he recognized, “take three men from each door and get back to the docking bay. I don’t want these bitches anywhere near our supplies.”

The man saluted and began to pick his team.

“It’s time I spoke to Alex directly,” Russell said to Jarred.

He found Alex to be awake and alert.

The infirmary bustled both with wounded and those treating them, making the place ill-suited for talking strategy.

Luckily, Alex had been afforded some privacy. His bed had been pushed to the far corner and a medical curtain erected around it.

“You made it,” Alex said when he saw the leader from Nightcliff push through the fabric wall.

“Brought some friends, too.”

“So I’ve heard.” Alex tapped a small handheld communicator on his bedside table. “Been keeping tabs as best I could.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“As long as I don’t move, it hurts like hell.”

Russell looked around for a chair and, not finding one, sat on the edge of the bed. “The old man’s tougher than we thought.”

Alex frowned. “I don’t know where he got all these weapons, and people who know how to use them.”

“Sneaky bastard.”

Jarred Larsen stuck his head in through the curtain. “Permission to enter?”

Alex nodded, wincing slightly from the pain of the motion. His second in command stepped through the curtain.

“We finally cut through a door up there,” Jarred said. “They’re gone. Other than a few crude booby-traps, no sign of them. They, uh … they cleaned the place out.”

Alex closed his eyes, his frown growing deeper.

“At least we kept them contained in Section H,” Russell said.

Jarred cleared his throat and kept his attention on Alex. “I don’t think moving beyond Section H was their objective, sir.”

“Explain.”

“They didn’t bring enough men to take control of the station, and frankly, they did break our line on Section G at one point, but did not press.”

“So what the hell were they after?” Russell asked.

Jarred kept his focus on Alex. “ERVs,” he said, then explained for Russell before he could ask: “External repair vehicles.”

Alex asked, “How many did they get?”

“Six in all,” Jarred said to Alex.

Russell chuckled. “Platz is gonna give the station a paint job?”

“What he’s doing,” Jarred said, “is staying a step ahead of us. It’s a smart move, frankly.”

Alex squirmed slightly in his bed, wincing with pain at the move. “He’s building a transportation fleet, since we shut down his climbers.”

“So,” Russell said, “he’s got a few runabouts. What’s the problem?”

“It’s us I’m worried about,” Alex said. “We’ll be vulnerable to the same situation.”

“How?”

“Adelaide,” Jarred said. “And the other.”

Russell began to understand. “You mean sabotage.”

“Yes. Just like we did to him.”

“If they manage to blow up the climber controls,” Russell said, “are we trapped here?”

“Not quite,” Alex said. “There’s a whole graveyard of transport ships at the old dock in Section E. Once the climber system was installed, they became obsolete, but they should still work in a pinch.”

“Christ,” Jarred said. “We need to secure that room. I’ll take care of it.”

He pushed through the privacy curtain, already barking orders into his headset.

“Hardly ideal,” Russell said. “We need to put an end to this, soon.”

“I agree,” said Alex. “I’ll speak with the council—”

“No,” Russell said. “Neil isn’t playing by the rules, so neither should we. You and I are the only two members with power anyway. It’s time we initiated what we discussed.”

Alex closed his eyes, his face tightening. He was in serious pain, Russell realized.

The anguish abated after a moment, and Alex said, “I’m in no condition to lead a counterattack.”

“No problem. I’ll handle it.”

Alex sighed. “I was thinking more of Captain Larsen.”

Here it is then, Russell thought. Two allies positioning themselves for the aftermath of victory. “Great idea. Besides, I’ve got a different mission to lead,” he said. At Alex’s arched eyebrow, he went on. “I suspect if we attack Platz Station, the goat will just abandon it and move up. We need a bargaining chip. Something precious to him.”

“Anchor.”

“Exactly.” Russell smiled. “I’ll take a few squads in some of these ERVs. We’ll get him sandwiched, cut off in his stupid headquarters. And with his research, not to mention the brainiacs doing it, under our control. He’d have to surrender.”

“Indeed,” Alex said. “Your plan isn’t half bad.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">