Immurement: The Undergrounders Series Book One (A Young Adult Science Fiction Dystopian Novel) (19 page)

Ramesh’s face softens. “All right. I don’t want to put him into cardiac arrest. I’ve never extracted someone that moth-eaten before.”

I throw him an irritated look. He’s as rude as Mason. Maybe clones don’t know any better. It’s not like there are any old ones. “So, how does an extraction work exactly?” I ask. “What do I have to do?”

“It’s simple. Pull the release handle. You send down the first tube and grab Big Ed. I’ll send the second one down and nab Mason.”

I turn my attention back to the screen. My finger hovers momentarily over Big Ed and then switches to Mason. Why did Ramesh tell me to extract Big Ed first? What if he's really trying to take us in? The sooner Mason’s on board, the safer we all are, Big Ed included. I don't even know for sure if this clone is Ramesh, but Mason will know.

I tap the screen in front of me and a familiar disembodied white head appears.

Funnel activation request
.
Confirm extraction.

I bite my bottom lip. I hope I’m doing the right thing in going with my gut.

“Confirm.”

There’s a whirring sound and the Hovermedes gives a quick shake. I stare at the screen, mesmerized by what I’ve unleashed. The glinting
TechnoTerra
tube shoots out from the underbelly and arcs beneath the overhang. It suctions Mason and begins an immediate ascent back to the ship. Slack-jawed, I watch Big Ed leap at it, battering it with his bare hands like a madman. My chest tightens at the look of terror plastered across his face. My only consolation is that any second now this will all be over and he’ll understand. I shrink back several inches from the screen as the first tube retracts into the underside of the ship, dragging Mason behind it.

“Aren’t you going to release the second tube?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at Ramesh.

His glassy eyes look past me like dried out blue bottles. He sways forward and his lips part, releasing a soft whistle of air as his body crumples to the floor.

I jump up and spin around, my lungs icing over. My first thought is that Sweepers have boarded the ship and darted Ramesh. I peer down the galley, half-expecting the prick of a tranquilizer to sink into my flesh again. The ship is eerily silent, the egg-shaped seats unoccupied. Tucker lets out a mournful whine. I give him a reassuring pat on the head, and then drop to my knees at Ramesh’s side to check for a pulse. My fingers recoil in horror. He’s already rigid, his olive skin faded to the color of dried out bones.

A series of chimes peal out over the ship’s speakers. I look around in confusion. Heart pounding, I grab Tucker by the collar and scramble behind a seat.

“Acknowledge consignment,” an electronic voice booms out.

I peer around the edge of the seat I’m cowering behind. At the back of the ship, the undercarriage retracts. I watch as Mason is fed through the opening, still suctioned to the articulated tube.

“Acknowledge consignment,” the electronic voice repeats in an elevated monotone.

I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do or say, but if I don’t try something, Mason might disappear again, and with him any hope I have of reaching the Craniopolis. “Acknowledge,” I yell back.

Nothing happens. Panic surges through me. I scramble up and race down the aisle, barely avoiding tripping over Tucker who takes my mad dash to mean we’re disembarking. Halfway down, the tube detaches from Mason with a sudden flux of air and disappears back into an opening in the side of the ship. The undercarriage seals shut with a pneumatic hum.

“Mason!” I hurl myself at him. “Are you okay?”

He clamps onto my shoulders with steely fingers. “Sweepers?”

I shake my head, at a loss for words. There’s no easy way to tell him Ramesh is dead.

Mason clambers to his feet, clutching his gun. His eyes settle on Ramesh’s body sprawled in the aisle near the cockpit. The color drains from his face.

He treads heavily up the aisle, gripping the back of each seat as if it’s a Sweeper’s head he’d like to rip from his shoulders. I follow at a safe distance. When he reaches Ramesh, he kneels beside him and lifts him gently in his arms. “When … ?” His voice breaks.

“Right before you got here.”

His face sags. “He was a trusted friend.”

A wave of guilt courses through me. I didn’t know Ramesh long enough to trust him. He didn’t despise the Sweepers the way Mason does, and that made me suspicious. They’re monsters after all. But, the more I think about what Ramesh said, I realize he was right about one thing. We’ll never have a free world with subversives roaming rampant either.

Mason scoops up Ramesh’s rigid body and places him awkwardly in a pod chair.

“Why’s he so stiff already?” I ask.

“Molecular Ossification.”

I flick my eyes over Ramesh, bewildered. “What’s that?”

“The nanotechnology used to create military clones manipulates the atoms in bones to enhance our strength—it’s like giving us an endoskeleton within a skeleton. The downside is that the bone formation process spirals out of control once we reach adulthood, kind of like cancer cells.” Mason lets out a heavy sigh. “Everything hardens like rock inside, sometimes in a matter of hours, sometimes minutes. The Sweepers can’t figure out how to curb it. Kills us like clockwork every time.”

I shudder. It sounds like being buried alive in concrete, only inside out. It’s creepy to know what you’re going to die of ahead of time. And hopeless—knowing you’ll never grow old. At least Big Ed has—
Big Ed!

I grip Mason by the arm. “Big Ed’s still down there! We have to extract him before the security drones pick him up. Ramesh said the air vent is being monitored.”

Mason immediately slips into the cockpit and twists several knobs. His features harden.

“What is it?” I push Tucker aside to lean over Mason’s shoulder.

He shakes his head. “He’s gone!”

“What?” I peer at the screen in disbelief. “He can’t be. There’s no way he could have taken that grating off by himself.”

Mason runs a hand across his jaw. “I’ll activate a playback sequence.” He flips a switch and stares at the screen as it rewinds through a series of frames. “There he is.”

Mason jabs at a button on his control panel. Big Ed paces back and forth, obviously distraught. He pauses to give the grating a couple of halfhearted tugs, and then runs his hands over his craggy face. He glances around furtively, as if fearful the tube might reappear, then suddenly reaches for his pack. My heart skips a beat. I watch as he slips his arms through the straps, ducks beneath the granite and takes off running toward the tree line.

“That footage was five-and-a-half minutes ago,” Mason says, his expression grim. “He’s already deep in the brush by now.” He leans over the screen and resets the mode to current view.

“We can’t just leave him out there on his own,” I say.

Mason narrows his eyes at me. “If we go after him now, we abort the mission to the Craniopolis. That’s lights out for Jakob. Make a decision.”

I take a step back and run my sweaty palms down the length of my braid. There are plenty of reasons why leaving Big Ed to fend for himself is a bad idea, but I know what he would tell me to do if he were here. I draw my shoulders back and take a deep breath. “Head for the Craniopolis. This may be the only chance we get.”

Mason sets his jaw. He pulls a switchblade out of his pocket and tosses it to me. “Get the chip out.” He gestures with his thumb at Ramesh’s gnarled body, tipped forward in the seat behind me.

I meet Mason’s stony-faced gaze, and know instinctively it’s a test. My heart balks, but my muscles react and I spring the blade.
Right index,
I mouth silently to myself.
Slice the tip.

Moments later, the silver chip glints up at me from the grayish crumbs of flesh in the palm of my hand. I pick it up and blow it off, avoiding looking at Ramesh’s body again. I feel sick, but vindicated. I have what it takes inside me after all.

“Keep it in your pocket in case we get separated,” Mason says. “You can activate any Hovermedes with it.”

“No blood,” I remark, handing his knife back to him.

He glances over my shoulder at Ramesh. “It’s already metabolized.”

I curl my lip in disgust. “Ugh! The Sweepers are insane.”

“They’ll never stop. The lure of being able to reengineer humanity is too strong.”

“Then we have to stop them,” I say. “How many clones can we count on to help?”

Mason raises his brows. “Don’t get your hopes up. Most of them will side with the Sweepers, especially the Schutz Clones.”

“Who are they?”

“The scientists’ personal bodyguards. You’ll recognize them when you see them, heavily-armed, dressed in black fatigues. We don’t want to engage them if we can avoid it. They’re deadly, trained in hand-to-hand combat with special knives called
Schutzmesser
.” He gives a snort of disgust. “The scientists don’t even trust each other.”

I sit back, digesting this new information. It’s hard to imagine there are clones in the Craniopolis even more intimidating than Mason. The upside is we may be able to use the Sweepers’ misgivings about each other against them. The whole mission is a long shot, but we owe it to Jacob and Owen to attempt a rescue.

“Ready?” Mason asks.

I nod and settle into my seat.

The Hovermedes glides forward. Tucker brushes up against me expectantly. I scratch his head while I contemplate what lies ahead. It’s a death wish of sorts. We have no real plan now that Ramesh is gone. Even if we make it safely inside the Craniopolis, we don’t have any way to leave the landing dock undetected.

“One mile to go,” Mason calls out.

The surround sound system crackles briefly and the lights in the cabin dim. “Craniopolis access sector,” an electronic voice announces. “Molecular validation required.”

Mason places his index finger in a slot on the control panel in front of him. I suck in my breath.
This is it!
Almost there, Jakob
. I flinch at a sharp zapping sound coming from the speaker.

Invalid molecular readout. Invalid molecular readout. Invalid molecular readout …

“Quick! Get me Ramesh’s chip.” Mason’s voice is ragged like I’ve never heard it before. I unbuckle my harness and dig deep in my pockets. “Here!” I thrust the chip at him.

He grabs it and rams it into the slot. Immediately a high-pitched two-tone chime fills the cabin. “Downlink secured. Proceed to docking.”

Mason’s lips form a silent “O” and his grip on the control throttle slackens. I sink back in my seat and wait for the pounding in my chest to die down.

“They deactivated my chip,” Mason mutters, more to himself than me.

“Ramesh said they upgraded the chips after you left, some kind of retinal sensor,” I say. “They can track everything now; brainwaves, temperature, organ degeneration—”

“What?” Mason turns his head and stares at me, a stricken look on his face.

It takes me a moment, and then it hits me.
Ramesh’s sensor.
“They know Ramesh is dead, don’t they?”

“Instant upload. They knew the minute it happened.” A deep crease forms in the middle of Mason’s forehead. “Too late to abort now. We’re locked into the docking process.”

My mind races. We’re trapped. They’re reeling us in like fish on a line. We should have ditched the Hovermedes when Ramesh expired and went in through the backup air vent like we planned all along.

My eyes widen as we begin a rapid descent. The entire top section of the hilltop below us swivels slowly off its base, revealing a giant steel-framed hanger bay housing six gleaming Hovermedes.

“Get the guns!” Mason yells.

I scurry back and grab our weapons. Tucker whimpers, an uneasy look in his eyes. I hold onto my seat as the Hovermedes drops silently into an empty slot on the concrete hanger floor. The instant we touch down, Mason slams his palm on the door activation switch and springs from his seat.

I whistle softly to Tucker. Mason sticks his head halfway through the door opening, and holds a hand up to signal me to stay put. I hunker down, my fingers looped through Tucker’s collar. He waits, motionless, ears perked above his head in radar mode.

Mason motions to the supply carts lined up against the far wall alongside a couple of bridge cranes. “Over there! Go! Go!” He springs from the Hovermedes, armed with an M16 in each hand.

I shove Tucker out the door and lunge after him. Adrenalin spurts through me. I leap over a trench drain, covering the distance to the back wall in a few breakneck strides. Gasping, I plummet headfirst after Tucker into the nearest cart as an overhead steel door rolls open behind me.

An odor of charred metal fills my nostrils. I must have landed on a pile of power tools or scrap parts from a downed Hovermedes. I carefully wriggle my shoulder blade off something hard as steel that’s threatening to impale me. Tucker noses me to get up and I lay a restraining hand on him. He nestles his head resignedly beneath my chin. I lie motionless against him, feeling dangerously exposed and conspicuous on my jagged mattress. If the Sweepers glance over the edge of the cart, they’ll be looking straight at me. Carefully, I wrap my finger around the trigger of my gun.

Seconds later, heavy footsteps approach. A bitter sludge of fear trickles down the back of my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and think of Jakob, imprisoned somewhere in the Craniopolis, alone and terrified. I inhale softly. Whatever I do next will be for him. I slowly raise the barrel of my gun several inches and train it on the rim of the cart, struggling to hold it steady, the trigger slick with sweat.

“Mason?” a voice whispers.

My brain jams. Confused, I let the muzzle drop and then quickly raise it again.

“Mason, are you in there?” A head appears, then massive shoulders, chiseled like a load bearing beam.

I freeze in the man’s colossal shadow. His thick, blond eyebrows shoot up, a startled look in his eyes. In that chilling second, I make a decision and go with my gut. I release the trigger and lower my gun, my fingers trembling.

The stranger’s features slacken with relief. “Who are you?” His husky voice has a gentle quality to it. His fiery amber eyes search mine and a shiver of something unexpected goes through me.