The Apocalypse Five (Archive of the Five Book 1) Read online

  The dial of her building unease ticked a few notches higher by the fact that there was no visible catastrophe. A mountain range sliced the horizon in the distance, much too far for this to be a volcanic anomaly. All around her, towering trees swayed across the blue pallet of the sky. None were in flames, and no monstrous humanoids stumbled out from behind their thick trunks. This appeared to be a peaceful landscape. Which led to one haunting question …

  Where the hell was she?

  Movement up ahead forced Detroit into a low crouch. Ducking behind a bush Reno could probably name and rattle off the scientific classification of with ease, the most the solo team leader could say about it was that it was leafy and not covered in thorns. For the moment, at least, that’s all she needed to know.

  Grass crunched not ten feet away, causing Detroit to hunch lower still. Hand hovering over the grip of her neutralizer, the tips of her fingers itched for the trigger.

  Bodies moved on the other side of the foliage, back and forth in a rhythmic pattern. Parting the branches, she leaned into the shrubbery and peeked through. Men and women worked together to fill a trailer marked Fortress 5 with fruits, nuts, vegetables, and dried meats. Hands dirtied from the efforts, their sunken cheeks and sallow complexions painted a picture of malnutrition that sliced into her heart.

  When one apple fell from the cart and rolled across the ground, a woman with a wild mane of blonde braids casually kicked it under the wheel of the cart. Pretending to bend down and tie her tattered boot, she snatched the apple and attempted to hide it in the pocket of her loose-fitting pants.

  “What are you doing?” A man with sun-streaked hair, and taut, lean muscles, caught the girl by the arm, his voice a demanding whisper Detroit only heard thanks to her nearby vantage point. “Are you trying to get arc whipped?”

  Waist-length rope braids swayed across her back as the girl spun on him, her eyes wild with panic. Their clothes were faded and ratty, the ends of the fabric hanging in ribbons. To say this was an impoverished community would be a vast understatement.

  Still, an indignant fire straightened the girl’s hunched spine as her hand hovered protectively over her midsection. “I’ve been having horrible cramps, and haven’t felt the baby move in days. I need to eat something.”

  “Shhh!” The young man’s face reddened. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one was listening, he held firm to her elbow and ushered her farther from the other workers. “Do you want them to take our child to the AT-1-NS? No one can know about the baby!”

  Detroit’s jaw fell open, knocked loopy by this upper cut of information. First there was the obvious questions of how could this young woman possibly be pregnant? She was gaunt thin, her complexion waxen. While she had never actually witnessed a pregnancy, the reading she had done described it as a far more full-figured state than this. Which was why women aboard the starship never dared risk subjecting themselves to such a perfection altering condition.

  “Orion’s Belt,” the words left Detroit’s lips in a horrified gasp.

  No pregnant women aboard the ship, but families—such as the revered chancellor and his wife—welcomed cherub face bundles of joy quite often. No more than one or two per family, per starship rules, yet the pitter patter of little feet wasn’t uncommon. Then, of course, there were the hordes of A-5 candidates who filled the barracks training for their chance on the elite team.

  All those children, and Detroit never questioned where they had come from … until that moment.

  Could this be … home?

  No. This wasn’t real.

  Yet … the designers had to have a reason to show her this.

  Tenderly caressing her belly, the pregnant woman chewed on her lower lip. “What if what they say is true? What if taking this risk is at the expense of our child’s well-being?”

  The dirt-covered fella plucked the apple from her pocket. He held it up, turning it one way and then the other in cursory inspection. Finding it flawless, he poked his thumb nail in it to mar its polished perfection. “Huh, this one is bruised. I guess it can’t go on the cart after all.” Handing it over to his grateful love, he continued. “And, we take the risk, because we breathe this air, and drink the water … when we can find it … every day without getting sick. Remi, just because these are the way things have always been done, doesn’t make them the right ways. We are already over the moon in love with our unborn child. I hear you sing to him—”

  “Her,” the woman Detroit now knew as Remi interrupted.

  “Whichever.” The man’s russet shirt rippled with his exaggerated shrug. Taking her free hand in both of his, he dotted a kiss on her knuckles. “I hear that sweet lullaby, and I know you don’t want to hand him or her over to strangers any more than I do. People that won’t tuck them in with a song each night or let them know how much they’re loved.”

  Pulling one of his hands away, he yanked on a rope attached to a pully system. A giant basket lowered in a chorus of noisy squeaks. The massive weaved wicker contraption descending drew Detroit’s gaze skyward. An entire civilization was nestled among the tree branches. Cozy cottages with thatched roofs and mossy insulations were built among the tree trunks. Elaborate braided rope bridges interwove them all in an elaborate infrastructure.

  Remi placed a gentle hand on his forearm, and stepped in close enough to brush a tender hand over the tanned face of her love. “If they find out, and demand we release the baby? What then?” Their sweet moment was interrupted by her wincing in pain and clutching her belly.

  Attempting a soft smile, he cradled her face between his palms and dotted a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Easy, my star, too much stress and you’ll induce labor. Let’s make the most of our time to prepare and plan. That can best be accomplished by you putting my mind at ease by climbing into the basket. Let me float you to our cottage, so you can hide from prying eyes before the Fortress team arrives to claim their bounty.”

  Pain rescinding, Remi rose on tiptoe to press her lips to his. Not an ounce of fear or hesitation held her back. That display was more foreign to Detroit than this odd simulation itself. “You are my rock,” she breathed the words into him, her fingers curling into his hair.

  “And you are my wings.” Brushing his fingers down the length of her arms, his hands closed around hers to guide her into the basket.

  Stares locked, he pulled the rope in a steady hand-over-hand that lifted her to their tiny little castle in the clouds.

  Detroit wanted to watch them, to inspect them like a science experiment and figure out what she was meant to learn from such a detailed simulation. Even so, her training had taught her to keep moving. She had already lingered longer than she should have. Dropping to her belly, she army crawled backward under the brush branches she had leaned into as she watched the scene unfold. She hopped to her feet, and spun with the intention of sprint back to her pod. The sound of the safety clicking off a gun, and the chill of the barrel to her temple froze her in that spot.

  “What have we here?” a menacing timbre rumbled behind her. “An Air Walker making a run for it? You wouldn’t be trying to sneak off with part of our payment, would you?”

  Pulling up to full height, Detroit rolled her shoulders, sending her chin-length bob swaying over the back of her neck. “That was the idea. I saw a luscious watermelon I just had to have and planned to sneak off with it. Damned if it wasn’t right then that I realized this outfit doesn’t have pockets. Foiled my whole plan.”

  “We got a mouthy one,” a surprisingly soft male voice cooed. A heavy set of footfalls thumped up behind Detroit. “Want me to frisk her, boss?”

  Lacing her fingers behind her head, Detroit swiveled to face her captors. The squadron questioning her wore military fatigues. To her shock and confusion, the letter patches on their shoulders read AT-1-NS. Adding to this mystery was the camo tank parked behind them with the words Fortress 5 spray painted on the side.

  If these vigilantes were borrowing the starship call numbers to manipu
late the residents here, that very well could make them the force she needed to stop to successfully complete this simulation. Playing that discovery close to the chest, Detroit kept her expression a stoic neutral. “I would advise against that. I’m a biter.”

  “You’ve got a mouth on you.” Sergeant Sweet-voice’s lip curled in contempt. If someone shaved a bear, this guy was what Detroit imagined it would look like. “But we know how to break little girls that speak out of turn.”

  “Oh, thank the Galaxy!” Pantomiming relief, her shoulders sagged. “I was looking for a way to get rid of this last shred of personality I can’t seem to shake.”

  Nose crinkled in disdain, Sweet-voice Bear-face arched back, preparing to smash her face with the butt of his gun. Or try to at least. “Disgusting, smartass parasite! Your kind are a contamination on this planet. One I would happily eradicate.”

  “Stop!” The hood of the tank swung open, clanging against the body in a sharp clap of steel. A silver-fox with a camouflage coat and critical glare emerged. Something about him seemed familiar, though Detroit couldn’t quite place his face. “Did none of you morons notice her uniform is marked with the exclusive seal of the Apocalypse Five? Perhaps questions on where or how she acquired such a thing would be a better idea than—” The moment his boots settled into the dirt, he froze. Whatever their clear leader was about to say died on his lips.

  “General Boston?” Sweet-voice pressed, holstering his weapon at his hip.

  Realization shivered through Detroit, stealing the breath from her lungs. That was where she knew the stranger from. She had watched footage of him in the archives fighting alongside Washington. He was one of the original A-5. Historical account claimed he died during a mission. One of the first ever humanoid attacks, if she remembered correctly. If that was true, he was pretty damned spry for a dead guy.

  Snapping ramrod straight, Boston clapped his fist to his heart in fitting salute. “Team Leader Detroit, what are you doing here?”

  “This isn’t … she can’t be,” a soldier with a black tattoo of an inverted lightning bolt across one eye rasped, glancing from Boston to Detroit and back again.

  Boston silenced him with one raised hand.

  Suddenly feeling exposed and trapped, Detroit quickly calculated her pod to be roughly thirty paces away to where it was cloaked beneath a weeping willow. “I would love to answer that, just as soon as you tell me where here is.”

  Sweet-voice blanched, his tone rising to a fanboy squeak. “This is the real Detroit?”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Boston clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing a path before her. “You’ve been trained better than that, Detroit. You know that’s not how hostage interrogation works.”

  Tossing her head back, Detroit laughed harder and longer than the moment called for. Bent in half, she stomped her feet and guffawed at the ground. Composing herself an iota, she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry … I mean, you’re A-5 trained and have the intimidating hero reputation. But these guys? Do they even know how to handle a basic six-two-six? What if I launched into a nine-thirty-four right now? Can they pull off the four-twenty needed to counter it?”

  Boston’s men looked from him to her, visibly shifting in unease at whatever fresh hell she was moments from unleashing.

  “She’s toying with you,” Boston hissed. Golden embers of loathing flared in the pools of his chestnut glare. “Surround her. Now.”

  “He’s right,” Detroit mused as they obeyed the command with hesitant steps. “Four-twenty was a nod to marijuana use. As enforcers of any kind you should really know that. I mean, where’s the fun in an apocalypse if people are too high to appreciate it?”

  “Enough!” Boston’s face morphed from red to purple. Pulling a kinetic scout rifle from the holster at his hip, he stabbed it in her direction. “This whole matter is unprecedented. We need to get her back to the Fortress and establish our plan from there.”

  Not one of his men moved, other than awkwardly shuffling their feet.

  Sucking air through her teeth, Detroit cringed. “I think my celebrity status is weirding them out. This would be easier if they didn’t know I can crush a man’s skull with my thighs.”

  Still rooted where they stood, Boston’s platoon awkwardly nodded their agreement.

  While Boston fumed, Detroit took full advantage of the opportunity. “No, I get it. You’ve seen my missions …” Sensing she lost them for a beat there, she altered her rambling. “Or, at the very least, you know what these are.”

  She tugged back her sleeves, revealing silver cuffs on both wrists.

  The men, Boston included, searched each others’ faces for clues about her shimmering adornments.

  Raising her wrists to shoulder height, she held the bracelets up to give them a better look. “These are thermal detonating echo bands. I click them together and I can cast an explosion out within thirty feet of my location. Want to see?”

  “No! No-no!” Hands shooting out, the troops joined their voices in a terrified chorus as Detroit brought her wrists together.

  She clicked them once. Twice. And again. Nothing.

  “Huh. Performance anxiety is a real bitch. Maybe they’re slow starters?” Rubbing them together, Detroit gave them another click. “It’s a new product. They could need a little time to warm it up.”

  Boston inched behind the added safety of his armored tank.

  Sweet-voice Bear-face ventured a step closer. Leaning in, he inspected the shimmery accessories. “How do you know when they’re activated?”

  “That is a great question, you angelic soprano!” Detroit chirped, rubbing her wrists together for all she was worth. “I know they’ve done their job when they get your dumbass to lean in that close.” One hand darting up, she grabbed him by the back of his collar and drove her knee into his face. The second he fell to the ground in a heap, the rest of the crew swarmed.

  Bolt-tattoo grabbed her from behind in a bear hug. Throwing her head back, Detroit shattered his nose in a spray of blood that sent him reeling. Swinging wide, the back of her fist caught the next guy’s windpipe. He stumbled back, shook it off, and tried to come at her again. An upper cut, elbow strike combo laid him out fast enough for him to see stars swirling over his head.

  Two coming at her at once, Detroit threw a roundhouse kick at the first that he messed up by catching her ankle. Grateful for the boost, she left her leg in his grasp and jack-knifed in his hold. The heel of her free leg clocked him in the temple. Folding under the strike, he freed her as he fell.

  Unwilling to match her in any kind of hand-to-hand combat, the remaining soldier standing stood with a power shotgun at the ready.

  “Psst, want a little tip?” Detroit whispered a beat before grabbing the muzzle of his gun and forcing it back hard enough to blacken his eye with the sight. “These things only work if you shoot them.”

  As he rolled on the ground with the others, Detroit turned on Boston. He was the only one who didn’t shrivel under her glare. Instead, he lobbed it back with a potent glower all his own. “Cute trick with the bracelets. What are they? Hair ties?”

  Detroit’s hands fell to her sides. “No. They are exactly what I said they are. I just left out the part about it taking a little more than that to detonate them.” She yanked off both bracelets, waded them into a ball, and pushed the green activate button tucked under one rim. Breaking into a sprint toward her pod, she threw them in Boston’s direction. Not waiting for the explosion, she used her comm to open the hatch. She slid across the roof on her hip, and fell inside as the first bracelet blew. Flames ignited the night in a fiery spray of ash. Punching in the keys, she wasted no time initiating the launch process. The pod sealed shut as the second cuff blew.

  Chapter 7

  “Welcome back, Detroit, and congratulations on another successful mission.” Lansing’s emotionless tone welcomed Detroit back the moment her pod lid slid open in a cloud of steam
from the simulated reentry. “Your vitals show you in perfect health and without injury. However, due to you removing your oxygen mask, regulation states that you must proceed to the decontamination showers.”

  Mind caught in the gray area between fact and fiction, Detroit could manage no response. Unfastening her safety harness, she kicked her legs out of her pod and stumbled through the decontamination process. Not once did she notice Lansing’s probing stare following her every move, questioning her notable silence.

  Thirty minutes later, when the door to the A5 loft hissed open, the team leader was no closer to a suitable explanation for what she had seen. Shuffling in, hair still wet from her shower, Detroit found the nearest chair and slumped down with one leg slung over the armrest. While they each had their private sleeping quarters, the team shared the two-story rec area. The sprawling downstairs had a dark walnut dining table surrounded by white leather upholstered chairs, a small kitchenette fully stocked with snacks and drinks, and a cozy sitting area furnished with cloud-soft couches and chairs. Upstairs, in the glass-railed loft, was their entertainment area. A wall-sized screen had been uploaded with the full archive of every movie, television show, and video game ever made. In what little off time they were allowed, they could sink into reclining seats and delve into the treasures that poured out of Hollywood before a deteriorating world ran that well dry.

  Seated at the table, Houston glanced up from his meal of a steak, baked potato, and garnished spinach salad and talked around a mouthful. “How was your solo mission punishment?”

  Detroit glanced his way to answer, only to find her attention diverted by the meal splayed out before him. The spinach and potatoes were grown in a greenhouse aboard the AT-1-NS. A greenhouse she had never seen. It was understood amongst those living on the space station that steak, or meat of any kind, was actually a protein-rich, plant-based substitute. Never before had she thought to question such details as the bit of blood pooling on his plate from the hunk of what was supposedly simulation tenderloin. If the meat was real, what possible reason would justify lying about it? Unless … it had been ransacked from someone else’s supply, while they were left to starve.