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"An eagle soaring high in the air is free. In the same way,
only a man whose spirit soars can taste freedom."
— Grandfather Twofeathers
After a few kilometers, they stopped. Their path had followed a concreted river tributary, but where were they? Logan’s usually good sense of direction had blown a fuse. The gray concrete was tinged green and brown in places, and the watercourse was half choked with sickly foliage growing out of putrid sediment banks, suggesting it benefited from little maintenance.
Samara's pace hadn't been grueling, but fast enough to make Logan's leg throb uncomfortably, and his coveralls were sodden with sweat. He sighed as he lowered himself onto a filthy concrete barrier, happy for the opportunity to rest, no matter how brief.
"You okay?" she said.
"Depends on your definition."
While his breath came in ragged gasps, Samara was barely perspiring. Her skin had reddened slightly, and her eyes were bright and alert. She crouched against the wall and looked around, as though seeing the world brand-new after being locked in a cave, despite there being little of interest in the barren surroundings.
"I'd forgotten what it was like," she said. "The chase, the exhilaration, the adrenaline. No matter how good the tech is, you don't get this inside an alt-real."
After five minutes, she sprang to her feet. "That's enough rest. We're still a couple of klicks away. Can you increase your pace?"
"As long as you don't need me alive at the other end."
She reached into a pouch on her equipment belt, pulled out a small box and offered him a blue pill.
"I already took my vitamins."
"It's a military analog of tranq. Should help lighten the load."
The pill had a sharp chemical taste as he chewed, and he wanted to spit it out, but forced himself to swallow. Within a minute the trembling in his leg eased.
"Thanks, that helps," he said. "Let's go."
They trotted along the path, the water masking their footsteps as it gurgled alongside. After a few minutes, Samara picked up the pace, and Logan matched her. Although his leg wasn't one hundred percent, the drugs were doing a good job of dulling the pain. He tried not to worry about the cost that might be involved when they wore off. Soon he was sucking air in deeply once again, but his heart rate maintained a regular beat.
Thirty minutes later, Samara stopped by a culvert leading up, with clear sky visible at the top of the ramp. She dropped into the stream and waded across, the water knee-deep on her. Logan followed her reluctantly, picking his footing so as not to trip on something hidden under the water.
They emerged on a piece of scrubland bordering one of the old highways, though Logan didn't know which after being underground so long. He caught sight of the Chesapeake in the distance and guessed they were near the old Six-Nine-Five. To their right was an open space that had once been a graveyard, the crumbling headstones almost blotted out by sickly plants and trees trying to reclaim the site.
Samara checked her wrist-com. "They should be here."
"Are your contacts zombies?" He scanned their surroundings. The distant highway was deserted, not unusual given the rise in popularity of aeromobiles, but even the air traffic was far away. Thunder crackled above them, despite the clear sky. Then an amplified voice boomed across the area.
"Baltimore SecOps. Stay where you are and throw down your weapons."
The air flickered and rippled over Logan's head, and the dark blue shark-like shape of an enforcement jet-copter solidified as its ShimmerField deactivated. He cursed softly, having thought they'd left their pursuers far behind. The field had worked perfectly, even muting the engine noise that was now all too audible as it dropped to the ground.
"So much for getting to the border," Logan called to Samara, lifting his voice over the scream of the turbines.
"Take it easy."
As the jet-copter lowered, a QuenchGun in the nose-turret tracked them, leaving no doubt who was in control. Logan's heartbeat raced, and he glanced at Samara. Why didn't she whip out some secret military gadget to take out the copter? Given her attitude and background, he'd expected a greater display of belligerence. Then again, this was reality, not an alt-real fantasy game. Perhaps that made a difference.
The copter settled on the ground, and half a dozen armed security drones deployed from a launcher mounted under one stubby wing, zipping over and forming a buzzing circle a few meters above them. He couldn't tell if they were lethal or not, but they were targeting them with absolute precision.
"Get on your knees. Hands behind heads."
He dropped reluctantly, but Samara was slower. Her delay seemed to border on the verge of suicidal, considering the weaponry targeted on them. Eventually though, she lowered herself to the ground. Logan clasped his hands behind his head and thumbed the comms implant, whispering while trying not to let his lips move.
"What now?"
"Stay down. Whatever happens. Do not move."
The large access door on the side of the chopper slid open, and someone in a full tactical suit jumped out. He trained a heavy-barreled carbine on them as he shuffled over crab-wise, until he was about a meter away.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" His gun was aimed at Samara. "Looks like we got ourselves a pretty lady to entertain us, Floyd."
A bright flash came out of nowhere stinging Logan's eyes, and the remotes abruptly tumbled onto the patchy grass. In a movement almost too quick to see, Samara swept her leg out, knocking the cop from his feet before jumping on him. She pulled out a deadly looking composite knife and pinned him underneath her with the blade tip pressed hard against his throat in the gap between his body armor and helmet.
The cop laughed. "Damn! I owe you a tenspot, Floyd. She's as quick as ever."
Samara rolled off him and gathered up her weapons, before hauling him to his feet again. "And you rely on technology too much as always, Brant."
Brant slid his mask up to reveal a grinning face. "Good to see you again, Sam. You haven't changed a bit."
Samara punched his arm. "And you're still as big a liar as you always were. I'm getting old."
Brant rubbed his shoulder. "Not from where I'm standing. Who's the sheep?" He nodded at Logan.
"This is Logan Twofeathers. A friend." She waved Logan over. "This is Esko Brant, ex-Milsec. You can trust him with your life, but not your girl."
"Friend, huh?" Brant looked Logan up and down, then waved his thumb at Samara. "Just don't get any ideas of stealing my girl here."
"Nice meeting you, I think." Logan offered his hand, but Brant declined it.
"No offense. I don't shake with sheep."
He wasn't offended. He'd met enough service people to understand their distrust of civilians. Most of those in SecOps and MilSec had structured ideas and goals. They often struggled to deal with the vagaries of civilian life and attitudes. While civilians habitually gave an outward show of respect, it often concealed a wariness and resentment. The military entitlement to unlimited free Geneering was also a sore point with the general population, which was forced to pay for anything outside medically necessary treatment.
"None taken," Logan said. "At least you didn't spit in my eye."
Brant guffawed. "I thought about it."
Samara walked over to the chopper. "If you two have finished your pissing contest, we should leave."
Brant nodded. "She's right as always. Four minutes until the next reconsat sweep. Help with these, would ya?"
He was picking up the downed remotes, and Logan grabbed several. They twitched sporadically, suggesting whatever Samara had done was only temporary. Something he appreciated, as he hated seeing technology trashed for no good reason.
Samara was already inside as Logan climbed on board. He strapped a harness on, then the lights turned a dim crimson as the pilot engaged the ShimmerField. His stomach lurched as the ship jumped into the sky. From his position, he had a good view of the pilot's virtual cockpit—it was almost as complicated as the ones used in JumpShips.
As they rose, he picked out his bearings. They'd passed Rosedale and were flying over the old Cemetery area that had been rebuilt as Oak Lawn Gardens. Despite the name, the "gardens" were nothing more than a patchwork of concrete blocks, with nothing green in sight. The chopper was well above the civilian Skyways, so they were making good progress. A few minutes later, they crossed Cherry Hill and Brooklyn Park, the sunken ghosts of the once populous neighborhoods visible under the murky water.
"How's Floyd?" Samara called over to the pilot.
"Fine," was the monosyllabic response.
Brant leaned over to her. "He's still pissed at you."
"After all these years?"
Brant took off his helmet and gloves, stowing them under his seat. "My buddy knows how to hold a grudge, that's for sure."
"It was never about you, Floyd, you know that don't you?" Samara said.
"Turbulence," Floyd replied.
The copter lurched and shook violently as they went through an air pocket Logan was sure the instruments would allow the pilot to easily avoid. The banter left him feeling as though he was an afterthought.
"Are you part of SecOps, or is this a cover?" Logan gestured around the copter.
"Well, the answer to that would be, yes... and no." Brant leaned back. "We work for SecOps, but sometimes we like to freelance a little, you know what I mean?"
Logan didn't ask for the details. He'd had plenty of run-ins with the cops when he was younger to know when to back off. If he'd known Samara had planned this, he might have reconsidered—when you get burned enough, eventually you learn to avoid the fire.
"You overthink things, Logan." She must have sensed his mood. "Mostly they provide cover for the railroad."
"Hey, that's not fair," Brant protested. "We're air pirates!"
"Oh yeah, they also smuggle goods, cases of sour mash, and soft drugs."
Logan wasn't reassured. "The railroad?"
Brant glanced at Samara. "You sure this guy is good?"
Samara explained an underground railroad operated across the border, helping people escape the MusCat Alliance and resettle in the USP. While he couldn't fault anyone for wanting to leave such a repressive nation, Logan wondered about the implications of people coming across with no security or background checks.
"We're going to use it in reverse," Samara said. "The nearest independent state you're going to be able to fly from is Cuba, which means we've got a lot of traveling through MusCat country."
*
As they flew, Samara explained her plan. First, they'd cross under the border, and make their way to Richmond to board the high-speed Buraq MagLev running south. At Tallahassee, they'd disembark and journey to the Gulf of Mexico. A boat had been arranged to take them across to Cuba. From there, they could simply walk onto a semi-ballistic to Bengkulu and the Elevator.
Logan added up her travel estimates and frowned. Navigating through the Alliance would soak up four or five days minimum—not exactly fast compared to the semi-ballistic transport available to almost any point on the globe. Then they'd have to find a way up the Elevator and steal a JumpShip. After five months of delays, the urge to return and find Aurore wrapped around him like a constant fog of anxiety. If she was still alive. He pushed the grim thought away.
Brant listened to the plans, nodding occasionally. "Our people can get you as far as Richmond. Then you're on your own."
"I know." Samara slapped him on the back. "And we appreciate your help. Both of you."
"There's the border." Floyd switched the side door to display a projected view.
The border was a swathe cut across the landscape, a good fifty klicks away, and they were running more or less parallel to it. Trees, bushes, and anything else that might offer any hope of concealment were gone, leaving a barren dirt-brown strip at least two thousand meters wide, bordered on each side by wire fences twenty meters high.
That was only the outer perimeter though. The actual wall was a pale gray line running through the center of the cleared area, forty meters high and double-skinned, sectioned off by observation towers every few kilometers that were filled with every known piece of detection gear and weaponry. While not as high as the wall surrounding Long Island, it was in some ways more impressive and threatening because it ran coast to coast—a veritable modern day "Great Wall," but bigger in every sense.
"I wouldn't want to try go over that," Logan mused.
"That's a clusterfuck for sure." Brant grinned. "But a few try it every year."
"What happens to them?"
"They don't come back." Samara's doom-laden words seemed to reverberate through the cabin.
"Getting close to detection range," Floyd called. "Hang on."
The copter banked and plunged lower, until it was skimming the treetops. Logan considered himself a decent space pilot, but at the speed they were traveling it was an impressive and stomach-churning ride.
Brant pulled a bag from a storage locker and opened it. "Okay. Here are the essentials." He handed them several old-style printed documents.
"Personal IDs, travel authorization, work authorization for Logan. Educated assholes are in short supply there, so you should be shown some respect. Marriage docs signed by the First Prophet himself." He winked at Logan. "Watch out, she bites."
Logan resented the implication, but held his tongue. He wasn't in a position to complain.
"Your name is Logan Cross. You're tagged as an engineer, so easy for you to remember."
"Why the name change?" Logan said.
Brant raised his eyebrows at Samara.
"People from the Nations are arrested and thrown into work camps," she said.
Logan swallowed. He was usually self-controlled, but the idea he'd be traveling through a country where he could be incarcerated and forced into slavery merely for existing was enough to jangle his nerves.
"Finally, there's this." Brant handed over a plastic rectangle about the size of an old-fashioned business card.
"What is it?" Logan turned it over on his hand.
"Muskie equivalent of a credit chip. Remember, you have all the cash." He looked from Logan to Samara. "MusCat women aren't allowed to handle money."
Logan examined the card in detail. It had a name on it in a heavy gold script so intricate he couldn't read it and a dark strip on the flip side that he realized after a moment was a magnetic material—straight out of the dark ages. "Biometrics?"
"The muskies ain't that fancy, except in high-security areas." Brant slapped Logan's shoulder. "You might want to avoid those. The card contains an encoded picture of you for facial verification—that's it. If you got any USP civilian tech, shove it in this bag so we can ditch it. They find it, you're dead."
Everything he was carrying was stuff Samara had given him, which he assumed would be okay. Then he remembered the clasp he always wore. He showed it to Brant and Samara, opening it up to display a 3V projection of several images of Aurore.
Brant shook his head. "Sorry. That would give you away for sure. Plus you don't want to be caught coveting another man's wife, do you?"
Logan squeezed it between his fingers, and his eyes closed. It was the last thing he had to remind him of Aurore. A hand closed on his, and he looked up, as Samara eased the clasp from his grip and dropped it in the bag Brant was holding.
"You'll get it back."
A band of tension clamped around Logan's throat, choking the breath from him and leaving him unable to speak. Despite her reassurance, he was sure he'd never see the clasp again.
The copter's movement changed, and Floyd called out over the increase in engine noise. "Coming in for a landing."
"Remember. Everything on that side is a bust. There's nothing like Argus over there, but it doesn't mean you're safe from observation." Brant stowed the bag back in the rack behind him. "BOPA informers are everywhere. They see you doing something outside the Doctrines, your cover's blown and you're arrested for heresy. After that, it gets real ugly, real fast."
BOPA, the Bureau of Philosophical Adjustment, was a MusCat quasi-governmental organization dedicated to ensuring compliance with religious law. They used paid informers to catch transgressors, and anyone caught was severely punished. From what Logan knew, their control wasn't consistent or necessarily absolute throughout the territory, but the fear they induced was ubiquitous. Unsurprising when denouncement might cost you not only your life, but your entire family's.
The copter touched down, and the red lighting in the cabin returned to normal. Brant hit the controls, and the side door slid open, allowing them to clamber out. The turbines were still turning, making regular speech impossible. As they exited, Brant handed them both a small hiking daypack.
They'd landed in a rocky valley tight enough to validate Floyd's piloting skill. Facing them was a craggy bluff, the black hole of a cave visible at ground level, the entrance littered with fallen rock. Logan faced Brant. "Thanks for the lift. It's appreciated."
"All part of the service." He scanned the cliffs, his finger inside the trigger-guard of his rifle. "I've no idea what else you're planning, but watch your backs. Ain't nothing over there worth dying for."
"Some things are," Logan muttered.
Floyd jumped out of the copter, and Logan got a clear look at him for the first time. He was tall and sandy-haired, with skin like old leather. He strolled over to them, his long face wearing a sour expression.
"You know the way from here?" He was looking at Samara.
She nodded. "How could I forget? The marks are there, right?"
"We haven't lost anyone recently." Brant grinned. "So they should be."
"Thanks, Brant." She grabbed his bulky frame and hugged him, then turned to Floyd. "Thanks."
Floyd's hand shot out, and a loud crack echoed across the clearing as his slap caught Samara's face hard. Logan and Brant both jumped toward them but stopped when she held up her hand.
"It's okay." She rubbed her cheek, and Logan saw a flush already spreading across it. She locked eyes with Floyd. "I guess I owe you that one."
"That and a lot more."
His answer was more of a growl than anything, and Samara reached up to his face. He didn't flinch as she lifted her hand, but Logan drew a breath. It seemed like there was only one way this would end. Then she brushed his cheek with her fingers, holding them there for a long moment.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, then grabbed her pack before walking toward the opening in the rocks.
"Want to try that with me?" Logan stared at Floyd, his muscles tensing in readiness. He doubted he'd be able to handle the pilot but couldn't let what happened go by. "Give it your best shot."
Brant got in his face and pushed him back, turning him away from his partner. "Don't go there, Logan. Believe me, Floyd would tear you up and feed you to the buzzards."
Brant was right. Floyd wasn't lightweight, he was Geneered and looked like he worked out regularly, whereas Logan was mostly a desk jockey these days.
"Let's go, Logan," Samara shouted from the cave entrance. "We're not here to socialize."
Floyd was already climbing into the copter. "I'm leaving."
Brant stepped back, releasing Logan and handing him his pack. "I suggest you un-ass before it gets kicked."
Logan walked after Samara. A group emerged from the opening behind her, scurrying toward the copter. It was an older couple and two young girls dressed in scruffy clothes made from cheap, rough material. All of them were blinking heavily, as though they hadn't seen daylight in a while.
As he reached Samara, Logan cast a glance over his shoulder. Brant was helping the last of the girls board the aircraft. He gave a lazy salute before following her inside. The door closed, and the turbines lit up, then the copter jumped upward, shimmering briefly before vanishing from sight.
"What was all that about?" Logan said.
"Let's go. It's a long journey on foot." She spun on her heels and strode into the cave.
The floor of the entrance was littered with a mess of broken rock that must have fallen from the face due to erosion. It made the footing treacherous, and several times Logan almost twisted an ankle on the uneven shards. A few meters in, it cleared a little, exposing a sandy path through the craggy blocks plunging into the darkness. Samara switched on a flashlight, and Logan dug one out as well, clipping it to his coveralls to leave his hands free.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"Bear Den Mountain. West of Charlottesville." She marched past a rocky outcropping, temporarily out of sight. "It used to be known locally as Hell's Grotto. But I don't think many people realize it's here anymore. During the Big Shake, lots of things got messed up—including the Blue Ridge Mountains."
The Cascadia event that devastated the west coast had been relatively localized. But the changes in the tectonic plates, along with the redistribution of pressures within the Earth's crust, had affected things around the world. The west coast may have had the Big Shake, but the rest of the world had suffered over a decade of "little shakes" that changed the geography in many places to a greater or lesser extent.
"You're taking me to Hell?"
Logan caught up to Samara as the cave widened into a span as large as a conference room. The small stream winding through the middle had cut a shallow channel into the rocky floor.
"Possibly." She crouched by the water and dipped her hands in it. "You can drink the water down here. But filter it. There's a SurvivaStraw in your pack. It'll last far longer than we'll be in here."
They walked in silence for another half an hour, then the cave narrowed again and soon they were weaving down a twisting rock passage tight enough to make a lab rat feel at home.
"Are you always this serious?" Samara paused at one of the tighter twists, giving him time to catch up. "Don't you ever laugh?"
"Not as much as I used to." Not since the invasion.
As they moved deeper underneath the mountain, the temperature cooled, but Logan was sweating from the continuous exertion. Samara strode ahead at a steady pace, clearly not feeling it as badly as he was. Her background meant Geneering for strength and stamina was routine. All he'd received were the basics: deletion of genetic diseases, routine endocrine balancing, rogue gene-sequence elimination—the preventative treatment everyone had to minimize health care costs later in life. But he'd never had credits available for any enhancements beyond that—even when he'd worked contracts for SecOps.
Samara took occasional breaks, and they stopped once for thirty minutes to eat some awful survival rations from the packs. They looked like small bricks made of a subtle blend of gravel, cardboard, and concrete—and tasted worse.
"Does Hades have a hotel around here?" Logan said. They'd been marching in the underworld for at least four hours, and it had to be getting late. They were so far underground they'd have safely lived through a direct hit by a nuke, but at some point they'd need to sleep.
"Your pack contains an inflatable mat, along with a thermafilm snuggle pouch."
"Not quite a suite at the Hilton." He chewed the last piece of concrete and washed it down with some water. "How long will it take?"
"At the rate we're going, around nine hours, if we don't stop. I was hop—"
Logan guessed what she'd been about to say. "Sorry I'm not quicker. It must be annoying."
"Don't play for sympathy. Obviously the faster we can go, the better."
"Should I take my superman pill now?"
She shook her head. "I need you awake when we get out of here. Not unconscious. We need to get to Scottsville."
There were so many small towns in that region, it wasn’t surprising he hadn’t heard of it. "Wouldn't it have been easier to come over closer to Richmond?"
"Yes." Samara sounded irritated. "But we can't choose where we cross."
The idea of an overnight stay in the caves wasn't something he relished, but they didn't appear to have much choice.
"How far does this run?" He swallowed another mouthful of water, then folded the cup closed and put it and the food wrapper back in his pack. "And how do you remember the route?" They'd passed several branches and side passages with no markings to indicate a path.
"There are caves and grottoes throughout this area. The Little Shakes opened some up, closed others. This particular complex is only partially explored." She packed away her gear. "I don't remember the way. There are UV markers on the rock."
Logan narrowed his eyes, as if that would make the markings appear. If they were there, she hadn't used any special equipment to see them.
"Geneered eye enhancements," she said, as if reading his mind. "Spectrum extended into both ultraviolet and infrared ranges."
"So, you don't need the flashlight? Must be useful."
Samara shrugged. "But you do. And I'd rather not lead you by the hand. Come on, let's move."
They set off again, and Logan turned his mind to the problem of getting a JumpShip. There were a number of possibilities, but none seemed remotely achievable from the perspective of a cave deep under the Virginia landscape. The pain in his leg returned, and he was forced to keep wiping the perspiration from his eyes. His breath was short, and soon it was all he could do to place one foot in front of the other.
A rock wall loomed in front of him with no way past it. There was no sign of Samara either. Where had she got to? He turned to look for her. The rock "face" hit him in the forehead as he crashed to the ground.