Rowan moaned and opened his eyes. Still lying on his back on the concrete slab, he lifted his hand, which was covered in half-dried blood. He flexed his fingers, and the stiffer, dried blood cracked with the movement. He rolled over with a curse and clumsily pushed himself to his feet. He’d died with his knife still in his other hand, so he resheathed it. He picked up the Brigand woman’s blade, the one she’d used to kill him. He considered discarding the inferior knife, but he decided to keep it. If she was still alive, he wanted to use it on her. His brow creased as he stared at the knife.
He should be dead, permanently. He wondered what had stopped her from finishing the job. He scanned the area, pieced together the events that had preceded her attack. He’d had four MPs pinned behind a cinderblock wall. During the fighting, the woman leapt to the slab from the second floor. Now she was gone, and so was his quake rifle.
Bitch.
He stumbled down the slab to reach the ground floor.
This was his sixth time dying. At least his recovery time was fast. He checked the bodies of dead Wardens and MPs in the area and found an older plasma pistol. The Wardens’ throats were cut, and their weapons and armor taken. Rowan was lucky the MPs hadn’t found him at the top of the slab, or he wouldn’t be walking around now.
He searched the area but didn’t find the woman. If she lived, she’d escaped.
Several rifle shots from outside the structure gained his attention, and he left the building. He smiled to see eight Wardens marching twenty-five captured Brigands and MPs at gunpoint through the street—but his initial jog to catch up ended after the first two steps. His side still ached from being stabbed. Pain following a traumatic death tended to take a few more hours to leave the body after regeneration.
The other Wardens recognized him, and Rowan raised his pistol skyward in greeting. After catching up to the group of captives, Rowan strolled past them, inspecting each face carefully.
“Sir?”
Rowan turned to the Warden who spoke.
The other man stared at Rowan’s side, and Rowan looked down, noting his blood-soaked clothing from his flank to his knee.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m looking for a Brigand woman. Small frame. Short hair.”
“We don’t have anyone fitting that description, sir. The people here are the only ones we’ve found thus far that are still alive.”
Rowan frowned and returned his attention to the prisoners. “Brigand. Mid twenties. Short, dark hair and wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and MP uniform pants. MP-issue boots. She had a bandage on her right hand. Anyone who can tell me where she is, dead or alive,” he said louder, looking at the Brigands, “I’ll let you go free as soon as I find her.”
“We caught a woman who looked like that, but she got away when a Warden hit the building with a quake grenade,” one of the MPs said.
“Nice try, but tough luck”—Rowan paused to read the name on the man’s uniform—“Kipp. I saw her after the quake grenade. Anyone else? How about a name?” He paced in front of the Brigands. “Surely one of you knows her.”
“Will I go free if I tell you her name?” a young Brigand male asked.
Rowan walked along the line of prisoners to face the man that spoke. “Give me her name, and I’ll give you a head start. If you can avoid capture a second time, you’re free.”
The muscles in the man’s jaw tightened and relaxed as he considered his chances of escape. Rowan tried to smile reassuringly at him, but it turned into a sneer.
“Dani. She lives in B Block, but I don’t know where.”
“Excellent! Last name?” Rowan asked.
“I don’t know.”
Rowan waved his hand, gesturing for the man to leave the line. The Brigand took a few cautious steps away from the others before bolting.
“Anyone else know her last name?” Rowan checked the plasma pistol in his hand. Despite having been used in a long battle against the Wardens, the formerly MP-owned weapon retained half a charge and roughly thirty plasma rounds.
The group remained silent, and Rowan turned away from them. He aimed his pistol at the fleeing Brigand and fired one shot. The young man tumbled forward and sprawled face down in the street. He didn’t move again.
Rowan approached the Wardens still guarding the remaining captives. “Guess he couldn’t avoid getting caught again,” he said with a shrug, and the Wardens chuckled.
Another Warden approached, and Rowan smiled “Curtis! You’re late to the party, as usual.”
“I am,” Curtis said. “Bad day? You’re looking a bit younger than when I saw you yesterday.”
Curtis snorted a laugh. “What is that? Five?”
“Six.”
Curtis laughed louder.
“Shut up. You have a harder time staying alive than I do. We’ll have a party if you ever reach thirty before another regen.”
“Fair enough. This looks like it could be interesting,” Curtis said with a nod of his head at the prisoners. “What do you plan to do with the humans? We could use them for labor.”
“Yeah, but they’ll just die and then we have to deal with bodies. Non-compliant Echoes are better at labor. They just keep coming back to work some more.”
Rowan and Curtis shared a laugh while the prisoners shifted uncomfortably. Rowan enjoyed watching them suffer. The humans in the group would die in the next few minutes. But the Echoes would have an even worse fate.
Rowan addressed the guards. “Kill them all. Once you ID the Echoes, take them to the barracks to begin conditioning. Compliant Echoes will enter combat training. Non-compliant ones become laborers.”
Pleas and promises to work faithfully for the Wardens erupted from some of the prisoners, but Rowan ignored them.
“Burn the human bodies,” Curtis said to the guards.
“No.” Rowan shook his head. “Leave them in the street. As soon as the Echoes are moved, we raid B Block. I have someone I hope to find there.” With that, he raised his pistol and began firing into the group of prisoners. They tried to scatter, but the other Wardens also opened fire and cut them down.
In less than a minute, the captives lay in growing pools of blood.
“Who are you looking for?” Curtis asked as he holstered his pistol.
“A woman.” Rowan pointed at his side.
“Same woman.”
“Ah. A fighter, and a good one. You’re the most decorated mid-level Warden in the northeast. You don’t go down easily for a reason.”
“First time, she ambushed me. Second time, I had her until she pulled a knife from out of nowhere.”
“Impressive. Sounds like she fights like you. Echo?”
“I don’t know. Need to find her first. I hope she’s an Echo, so I can kill her a few times as payback.”
Curtis frowned. “Rowan, you have to start thinking of the longer game. We’ve been in this war too long without a decisive victory. We keep chipping away at the Commonwealths on each continent, but if we’re going to win anytime soon, we need to do it with combat specialists. If she is conditioned to be a Warden, she’ll excel in battle. If her mind doesn’t accept reconditioning, we could use her to reproduce, gain more full-blooded Echoes in our ranks.”
A few of the bodies glowed blue. Rowan walked over to one; he had regenerated as a child, no more than eight years old. He shook his head. “The younger the age they return to, the easier it is to condition them, but they take days to recover post-regen.”
Curtis shrugged. “They’ll become part of our ranks one way or another, regardless of age.”
The Warden guards moved in to drag the healing Echoes away from the human corpses.
“Hmm, only four out of that group,” Rowan said. “I want more.”
Within three days, Rowan helped lead the Wardens in securing the city, clearing it of any CNA presence, and capturing hundreds of Brigands who didn’t flee in time. They identified a quarter of those captured as Echoes and brought them into service.
A week after the initial attack, Rowan stood with three other Wardens before his superiors to receive commendations for the successes in taking Portland. He stood before those gathered and waited while those of a higher rank babbled about the Wardens’ might. Everyone present had a physical outward appearance of fortyish years or younger. The original Echoes who came to Earth had perfected the genetic mimicry of humans, including the unwanted side effect of aging. Unable to remove that portion of the genetic code, the Wardens had instituted mandatory regens to keep their troops in prime condition. The maximum physical age for a Warden was forty-five. Even the highest-ranking Wardens, the regent and vice regents included, barely had a wisp of gray hair before they regenned to a younger age—keeping their titles when they did, of course.
Rowan knew he could do more for the Wardens if he obtained a higher rank. The commendation was well and good, but it wasn’t the promotion he needed. After the brief ceremony, he left the gathering. Once alone in a corridor, he removed the medal from his uniform. He passed his thumb over the decorative ribbon and the glittering medallion below it. He wanted a different kind of award.
Dani’s body never turned up in the searches; somehow, she’d escaped. Rowan tossed the medal aside, promising himself he’d find her. The woman that had bested him twice in one day wouldn’t beat him in the next fight.