10-11-2355 | 11:08
The Maine Freeway, Initial Route.
—
The armored transport truck, a hulking black prism of reinforced ceramic and layered chitin, hums with the suppressed power of its hybrid engine. Inside the cramped cab the air is stale and recycled, smelling faintly of old coffee and ozone.
Garris, the driver, rests his heavy forearm on the steering console, knuckles white around the controls. His uniform is starched, the shoulder patches denoting his rank of Sergeant. He is weary, already having completed one high value run this morning.
"We're making good time, Lex," Garris says, his voice a low rumble.
Lex, the shotgun, snaps his gum loudly, the sound irritating and juvenile in the tight space. He is young, barely a year out of the academy and perpetually bored. He monitors the internal cameras, the feeds displaying the sterile dark cargo bay behind them. The bay is partitioned into six individual containment cells, four of which are occupied.
"Too good," Lex replies, clicking the gum. "Feels like a setup. Every run where we're ahead of schedule turns into a three hour debriefing on why we didn't follow procedure for optimal time management. HARBOR loves efficient misery."
Garris cracks a dry smile. "You'll learn to enjoy the quiet misery, kid. The alternative is chasing feral ones through the Reclamation Zone. Give me paperwork over plasma fire any day." He gestures vaguely at the dash. "Check the manifest again. Remind me what we're babysitting."
Lex swipes his hand across a side console, pulling up the digital manifest. The screen casts a blue glow on his face. "Four acquisitions. All low grade terrestrial. Two low power kinetists, one simple empath and one who's just classified as enhanced auditory perception. Basically a kid who hears too well. Routine stuff. No flight risks. They're being transferred from the downtown holding bloc to the Behavioral Research Annex in Sector Gamma."
"Annex," Garris repeats, adjusting his grip. "That's code for a new kind of cage. You ever wonder what they actually do in those places?"
Lex shrugs, dismissive. "Nah. Above my paygrade, Garris. They're subhumans. They break rules, they get locked up. Simple contract. Besides, they put out enough power to light a damn city, but they're too stupid to unionize. Their problem."
The transport continues its steady drive along the elevated Maine Freeway, a ribbon of slick automated pavement stretching across the sprawl of the city's old industrial sector. The sky above them is a perpetual twilight, choked by atmospheric filters that catch the city's exhaust.
Lex checks the time. "Ninety minutes to Annex Gamma. We make it, we're back at base by eleven hundred. I can still hit the simulator before my shift ends."
"Priorities," Garris mutters. He glances at his side mirror, watching the two unmarked Enforcer vehicles trailing them, their lights subdued. The convoy is small, efficient and currently unremarkable. This is why the job is boring, Garris thinks. No drama, just metal and math.
The sudden stop comes without ceremony. The transport crests a hill and the landscape changes instantly. The smooth flow of traffic ahead violently curdles into a sprawling confused mass of slowing, braking vehicles.
Neo hard light signs begin to flash in stark intrusive reds and yellows across the sky and the road surface itself. ACCIDENT IMMINENT. FULL MAINLINE CLOSURE AHEAD. AVOID SECTOR 45.
Garris curses under his breath and instinctively eases off the throttle. The transport's momentum is tremendous and stopping requires distance.
"Status, Lex. How bad?"
Lex's chewing stops instantly. His eyes narrow on the feed data. "Full closure. Looks like a multi level collapse, freight haulers involved. They're saying estimated clearance is three to five hours. Minimum."
Garris slams his fist lightly on the wheel. "Dammit. We can't wait three hours. Not with the kineticists back there. They start getting anxious, they start vibrating the cells, and that's a maintenance nightmare. And we have the two afternoon runs to do."
He pulls the transport into the emergency shoulder, the reinforced tires crunching on the rarely used gravel. The two escort vehicles pull in behind them, their officers waiting for instruction.
"Contact Harbor Control," Garris orders. "Tell them we need immediate clearance for the Mainline Alternate through the old East County corridor. It adds twenty minutes, but it keeps us on schedule."
Lex keys the comms. "Harbor Control, this is Sergeant Garris, Transport Seven Bravo. Requesting immediate reroute authorization to the Mainline Alternate, East County corridor. Repeat, reroute due to Sector Forty Five closure."
A dry clipped voice comes back, instantly recognizable as Han, the Harbor director's personal comms officer. "Negative Seven Bravo. Alternate routes increase exposure risk. Maintain holding pattern. Estimated delay currently under evaluation."
"Under evaluation means three hours, Control," Garris snaps, taking the comm from Lex. "We have four subhuman transfers, two of whom are power sensitive. Holding them in a stationary high traffic environment creates instability in the containment fields. We need to move."
"The East County route is unmonitored and passes through the old woodlines. It is designated Black Zone for subhuman activity," Han's voice replies, colder now. "Do not move, Sergeant."
Garris glances back at the convoy, then at the endless line of stopped vehicles. The anxiety is starting to rise, a palpable pressure even through the heavy armor. He checks the internal camera. One of the subhumans, the one with sensitive hearing, is already pressing his hands against his ears, reacting to the cacophony of sirens and braking trucks.
"With all due respect, Control, the risk of containment failure due to stress overload in a stationary unit outweighs the risk of transit," Garris argues. "I'm on the ground. I'm requesting a Level Two Override. Clear us, or this whole sector is going to hear a containment field rupture."
Silence stretches, thick and dangerous. Garris holds his breath. He knows Han hates being pressured.
Finally the voice returns, laced with ice. "Authorization granted Seven Bravo. You are cleared for the East County alternate. Transit time must be verified upon arrival. Any deviation from the projected twenty minute timeline will result in disciplinary review. Clear the line immediately."
"Copy that, Control. East County alternate approved. Out." Garris shoves the comm back to Lex. "See, kid? Sometimes you just gotta yell at the computers."
Lex pulls up the new route, a complex web of older highway segments and county roads that cut directly through the densely forested forgotten parts of the city's perimeter.
"Alright, let's roll," Garris says, pulling the transport back onto the shoulder and beginning the long maneuver to exit the Maine Freeway.
The transition from the vast open Mainline to the East County Corridor is jarring. The road shrinks from eight lanes to a cracked two lane asphalt strip, lined on both sides by dense overgrown woods. There are no neo hard light ads here, no constant data streams. The air feels cleaner but heavier too. It is twilight and the shadows under the trees are thick and deep.
The transport followed closely by the two unmarked Enforcer sedans reduces its speed drastically.
"Spooky out here," Lex says, forcing a laugh as he polishes the lens of his pulse rifle. "Smells like dirt. Remember dirt, Garris?"
"I remember when Enforcers didn't get jumpy on a quiet road," Garris replies, his hand hovering over the pistol grip mounted near his seat. He does not like this. The stillness is unnatural. The convoy is a black lump moving slowly through a field of silence.
Lex begins chewing his gum again, attempting normalcy. "I mean, what's the worst that happens? We hit a deer? This armor could take a railgun hit."
"It could," Garris agrees, his eyes scanning the tree line, which feels too close. "But armor only protects you from things you see, Lex. The ones that matter? They hit where the armor isn't. Remember that."
The transport rounds a wide, sweeping curve bordered by a cluster of massive, moss covered boulders. The road ahead seems clear.
Lex begins to tell a crude joke he heard from the maintenance crew. "So, a drone, a mechanic, and a—"
He stops. His eyes widen.
There is a flicker in the trees, not the light of a weapon but the sudden, impossible bend of light itself.
Before Garris can react, before the alarm systems can even register an input, the world explodes into a maelstrom of calculated, precise chaos.
A massive kinetic shockwave hits the lead escort vehicle, not from the front but from above, crushing its roof and sending it skidding sideways into the trees with a hideous crunch of metal.
Garris stomps the brakes. The heavy transport shudders violently, the inertia threatening to tip the vehicle.
"Ambush. Ambush. We are under attack." Lex screams into the comms, but the frequency is already dead, choked by heavy local interference.
The attack is not brute force. It is an orchestrated, terrifying symphony of abilities.
A section of the road directly in front of the transport, an area easily thirty feet wide, suddenly turns to liquid. The asphalt boils and warps, becoming a viscous, tar like sludge. Garris tries to stop, but the momentum carries the front wheels into the trap. The vehicle lurches, sinking instantly, the engine groaning in protest as it becomes hopelessly mired.
From the woods, a figure emerges, moving with impossible speed. It is Tycho. He does not pause. He raises both hands, and the very air pressure around the transport's cab spikes. The reinforced glass windows groan with a sound that makes the Enforcers wince, and then they implode inward, not shattering into fragments but collapsing into themselves with a concussive, focused blast.
Lex is thrown backward, his helmet ringing, blood streaming from his nose and ears. The shockwave hits Garris harder, momentarily paralyzing him, leaving him slumped over the steering wheel, his vision swimming.
Simultaneously, the rear escort vehicle is neutralized. A wave of shimmering empathetic dread washes over the two Enforcers inside. They do not see a threat but the sheer, crushing weight of despair forces them to drop their weapons, seize up, and curl into fetal positions, paralyzed by a terror that is not their own.
Garris shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. He sees the convoy is completely disabled. He forces his hand toward the emergency override panel, a last ditch attempt to trigger the external defenses.
Before his fingers reach the button, a shadowy figure, moving like a dancer, drops from the roof of the transport. The figure, a woman with hair the color of midnight, places a single cool hand on the outside of Garris's forearm. A wave of intense cold instantly radiates through the exo suit. The muscle tissue in his arm locks up, immobilized by the sudden, deep freeze. The cold is crippling, painful, and instant.
"No plasma. No alarms. Just surrender, Sergeant," the woman says, her voice low and utterly calm.
Tycho strides up to the driver's side. He is flanked by two others, a stout man whose skin seems to ripple slightly and a young woman whose eyes are covered by custom ceramic lenses.
Lex, groaning, pulls himself up, his pulse rifle in hand. He aims it unsteadily at Tycho's chest.
"Stay back. This is a restricted transport. I will fire," Lex manages, his voice thick with fear and adrenaline.
Tycho does not move. He simply nods at the man with the rippling skin.
The man takes a single step forward and the asphalt under Lex's feet begins to vibrate at a resonant frequency. The vibration is low at first, then climbs until it is a screaming, unbearable pitch that passes through Lex's boots, through his skeleton, and rattles his brain in its skull. The pain is paralyzing, disabling, immediate.
Lex drops the pulse rifle, clutches his head, and lets out a choked, desperate cry. He collapses, unconscious before he hits the floor.
Garris watches it all unfold, entirely helpless, his arm a block of painful ice. They are too organized. Too fast. This is not random.
Tycho steps through the shattered window, boots crunching glass. The cabin is cramped, stinking of oil and fear. Garris tries to lift his arm; Tycho flicks two fingers, and the steel from the ceiling folds like clay. It coils around Garris's wrist, pinning him to the seat.
"You won't be needing that," Tycho says.
"Who the hell are you?" Garris's voice cracks.
"The ones who finish the reports HARBOR leaves undone." Tycho moves toward the back of the cab. His shadow swallows the dash light. Behind him, the woman with the frost touch keeps her hand near the unconscious enforcers. The man who turned the road to sludge kneels by the wrecked escort cars, dragging the other officers free and laying them neatly in the gravel. None of them are dead. None of them are moving.
Tycho grips the locking wheel for the cargo bay. Metal whines under his hand; the magnetic seals hiss open.
The air that spills out is still and cold.
"You're free," he calls into the dark.
Figures move inside. Four of them. Starved shapes in gray transfer jumpsuits, eyes raw from containment light. The one with the swollen ears winces at the sound of his own breath.
"It's not a trick," the woman says. "Go. Find your people. Tell them the word spreads."
They hesitate only a heartbeat. Then they move, limping, blinking, silent. The empath is last. He looks at Garris, and something breaks open between them: guilt, hate, pity, all bleeding together until Garris can't tell which is his. The empath gives a small, sad smile and slips into the trees.
Tycho seals the bay, steps close to the cab door. The glow from the dash paints his face copper. He taps the screen that reads Behavioral Research Annex, Sector Gamma.
"Tell your Director," he says. "that her cages are going to be empty soon."
He turns. The road man gestures once; the asphalt hardens, smooth as untouched glass. The frost woman releases the metal cuff. Blood rushes back into Garris's arm, searing him awake.
By the time he looks up, they are gone. The woods are silent except for the tick of cooling metal. Garris sits in the half-dead cab, comms still jammed, surrounded by the scent of ozone and failure.
He realizes they didn't just free four prisoners. They declared a war HARBOR is not ready for.
—