Psion Gamma (27 page)

His legs felt like two thick logs when he woke. His head buzzed like a thunder cloud had been shoved inside his ears. They stopped at a stream for water three times, just so their stomachs would feel full. Pacing themselves as best they could, they finally came to the outskirting neighborhoods of Wichita in the early evening. After passing several streets, Sammy stopped.

They were on the corner of a little shopping center. A gas station with a repair garage stood on one corner and a coffee shop on another. Across the way was a five-store strip mall painted in a ghastly pink.

Empty suburbs, no cars, no electricity anywhere . . .

Wichita was a ghost city.

Panic and depression filled Sammy’s mind.
How can the resistance be operating in a ghost city? With no power or running water or anything?

Dark thoughts of failure welled up in his mind. His eyes stung as tears began to form.

“So how do we find Sedgwick C. or Plainpal?” Toad asked, cutting through the fog in Sammy’s head.

Sammy held his stomach. He was weak. Tired. Helpless. “I don’t know.” His voice sounded like a drone. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you even know what this Plainpal is? I thought you at least had a clue!”

“It was the best thing I had to go with!” Sammy shouted.

“You walked all the way up here not even knowing what the heck for?” Toad yelled right back.

Sammy would have snapped right then. He would have given into the darkness inside him and done who knew what damage and hurt to Toad, but his energy tank was empty. No fumes. No spare liter in the back. Bone-dry empty. He collapsed onto the sidewalk, hitting his knees, then his hands.

His chest heaved as he breathed.

“Are you okay?” Toad asked.

With great effort, he spoke. “We should try and find . . . a tourist office.”

Toad sniffed and sat down. “Why a tourist office?”

“Because whatever a Plainpal is, I’m sure not every city has one.”

Toad stared at Sammy like he was the world’s dumbest person.

“What?” Sammy asked.

“There’s one across the street,” he said gesturing to the closest pink store with a large glass window. Painted in large letters at the very top: “VISIT WICHITA!”

“Huh.”

After a feeble attempt at forcing the lock on the shop, Sammy blasted the window apart. He felt even more drained after doing it.
If I don’t get food soon
. . .

“I still think that’s wicked cool,” Toad said with a particularly loud sniff. They grabbed all the brochures they could find of the city and left. Neither of them wanted to stay in a building they had broken into, even if the city was deserted.

Using the last of the sunlight, they spread the advertisements out around on the sidewalk and searched them. There were dozens of brochures for museums, restaurants, parks, but mostly literature about airplanes.

“Okay, I had no idea Wichita was the Air Capitol of the World, did you?” Toad asked.

More brochures. Night clubs, sports teams, more museums.

Sammy swore as he threw down another brochure. “Who cares about all these stupid museums?”

Toad picked it up curiously.

“Plainpal . . . Plain pal . . .” Sammy grumbled over and over again, looking at his tenth pamphlet. “You gotta be kidding me. It’s not in this one, either.”

“You’d think it’d be a little more prominent if someone made a specific reference to it. Wait a min—” He stopped short and stared hard at the pamphlet that Sammy had chucked.

“What?” Sammy asked, “Did you—?”

Toad put a finger up to silence him, and sniffed several times in a row. Sammy waited in silence until Toad showed him the pamphlet with his finger pointing at something. “Palace of the Plains,” he announced proudly.

A huge smile broke out across Sammy’s face, and a feeling of peace came over him. “Downtown. It’s downtown. We have to check it out.”

Downtown was, in fact, over two hours away. Not wanting to call attention to where they’d been, they put the pamphlets back in the store and grabbed a city map. The sun disappeared as they headed for the historical district of Wichita where the Wichita-Sedgwick County Historical Museum sat, also known as the Palace of the Plains. The giddiness gave him energy for about two kilometers, but soon enough, every step took effort. His legs tingled and his shoes skimmed the pavement of the sidewalks as he moved. Toad seemed to notice this because he stayed abnormally close to Sammy, probably to catch him in case he fell. Several times Sammy felt his head get light and fuzzy, but he forced the faintness away.

Finally there it was. The Plainpal.

Sammy had lost track of days and time, but he’d wandered through a good chunk of a continent to get here. The Plainpal. He had made it. Tears leaked down his cheeks from happiness and exhaustion.

It looked like a castle, still in excellent condition. In the pale hours of early night with a big half moon shining down on them, they saw the tall stone building standing proudly. Its four corners reached skyward in symmetrical cone-topped towers. In the center of the roof, pointing high above the four towers was a single clock tower. A blend of doubt and hope swirled as he led Toad to the building.

From across the street Sammy heard a grumble and instinctively readied himself for battle. Toad turned, too.

A middle-aged man lay slumped in the doorway of a tall white office building across the street. His clothes were rags, and he had a large frayed red hat pulled over his face. His right hand rested on his chest, while his left clutched an empty bottle. He mumbled something again, smacked his lips, and fell silent.

Sammy and Toad exchanged a wary look. The homeless man was the first person either of them had seen since the thief. If there was anywhere the Thirteens would post a guard, it would be outside an old resistance center. A surge of pain throbbed up Sammy’s leg as memories of Stripe intruded on his thoughts. He fought the urge to glance down and see the crocodile mauling his leg.

“What should we do?” Toad whispered.

Sammy shrugged. He was now very used to nothing coming to his brain when asked these kinds of questions. He didn’t like it, but he hated being frustrated as he waited for something that simply wasn’t coming. Combined with his state of exhaustion, it was hard to worry about anything more. If he was to go on any longer, he needed food.

 “It’s too convenient that he’s right there,” Sammy said.

“Okay, except he’s dead drunk.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw my neighbor like that at our block parties. Looked exactly the same. I say ignore him.”

Sammy shook his head “What if he’s one of them?”

Toad sniffed, and Sammy wanted to smack him to make him stop.

“What if it’s a trap?”

Toad chewed on his lips as he thought. Sammy felt himself teetering.

“You know what?” Toad stated. “It might be a trap. But you’re gonna die if we don’t get food.”

Toad’s decision made Sammy nervous. After all, wasn’t Toad the impetuous one? “Just a second.” Sammy tried to grab Toad’s shirt and hold him back, but Toad had already moved out of range. “Let’s play it safe for a minute.”

“We’ve walked hundreds of kilometers, and now you want to play it safe. I’m starving! You’re dying! If there’s nothing here, we’re going to die anyway.” With that, Toad crossed the street to the Palace, walked right up to the main entrance, and stopped in front of the arched threshold.

Mustering the last of his energy, Sammy walked the same path and joined him at the sidewalk. He looked behind them. The drunken man stirred in his sleep, just enough to keep his face pointed toward them.

Sammy reeled again as he put his hand on Toad’s shoulder. “Please . . . let’s wait . . . until we’ve thought this through.”

But Toad wouldn’t hear it. He grabbed Sammy by the wrist and yanked him into the archway. Sammy turned back wearily to see the drunken man sit up sharply. Immediately he knew it was a ruse, but before he had time to react, solid metal bars sprang out of the arch and locked into the cement. The trap was sprung.

March 21, 2086

T
HE QUEEN HAD SPENT
the last few days in Topeka following various leads, including two at nearby juvenile detention centers. So far, everything had been a waste of her time. She had just begun planning to expand her searching radius when she received a call from Diego.

“I put one of our northern cells in charge of watching the drones and satellite feeds on your investigation,” he told her. “They’ve found some things you might want to check on. I’m sending it to you now.”

She accessed the data via her com, sifting through pictures and video feed.

“I see you, Sammy,” she muttered as infrared from drones and satellites displayed images of two figures in the middle of the woods in Mid-American Territory. They were clearly headed north.

He’s following I-35, but to where?

Perhaps he intended to walk all the way to Topeka following the freeways. She wasn’t certain. But for now she had a starting point, and that was more than enough.

* * * * *

With their last ebbs of energy, Sammy and Toad threw themselves against the thick bars, but the cage didn’t budge. Fear of being tortured again exploded into Sammy’s brain conquering every other thought and emotion. In a trance-like state, he held onto the bars with a vice-like grip and slammed his shoulder into them over and over again, screaming incoherently. His muscles ached and throbbed, but he paid no attention.

The bum slumped in the doorway swiftly crossed the street toward them. Both the bottle and pretense of drunkenness had been discarded. Now he carried a fully automatic pistol only partially concealed beneath his shabby coat. He aimed it at Sammy, but his eyes went back and forth between both prisoners.

At the sight of the gun, Sammy stopped attacking the bars. He didn’t have the strength to blast—to stop bullets. He fell to his knees. Toad curled into a corner with his hands over his head, trembling and crying. The man came within two meters and held his weapon at the ready.

The man looked at Sammy with a calculating stare. He had a scruffy chin and neck, but clear brown eyes. No red around the pupils like the Thirteens. Judging by the lines around his face, Sammy put him at mid-forties to early fifties. He had an oval-shaped face and a crooked nose.

“Who are you?” His voice reminded Sammy of cowboys and horses.

Sammy didn’t answer. Instead, he searched wearily into the depths of the man’s eyes, looking for the cold, dark places that he’d seen in Stripe’s.

“Who are you?” the man repeated with much more force.

Sammy gave him a piece of the truth. “My friend and I looking for some people here. Friends.” His words were raspy, his throat swollen, from screaming like a caged monkey when the bars fell.

“Wichita’s been deserted for over a decade.”

“Apparently you live here.”

The man adjusted his gun to remind Sammy it was there. “Who are you looking for?”

“
Friends
. . .” Sammy’s voice came out as a weak scratch, “. . . who can help me get home.” He watched the man closely to see if he understood his hints.

“Where’s home?”

“I can’t tell—” but Sammy’s voice cut out before he could finish and he just shook his head.

The man lowered the weapon to get a better look at Sammy’s face, then raised it again. As easily as any trained soldier, he flicked off the safety. “Unless you are an exceptional bullet dodger, answer my questions.”

“Can’t—sorry—friend.”

The man fired once, just above Toad’s head. Toad yelped, jumped, then sank lower. His crying changed to sobbing. Sammy swallowed hard but there was no saliva there. His throat was thick and hot.
I need a plan!
Nothing came. He’d brought himself and Toad to their deaths following a stupid notion that there might still be a resistance in Wichita, in the middle of CAG territory.

I’m a fool. A worthless fool
.

The man pointed the gun at Toad, but looked at Sammy. “Tell me who you are or I’ll shoot him.”

“We’re looking for a resistance!” Toad said in a whimper.

Sammy jerked his head toward Toad, but his friend’s face was buried between his arms. “Shut up, Toad!”

“What resistance?” He pointed the gun back at Sammy.

“People—people resisting the government,” Toad answered flatly.

It sounded so lame to hear it out loud.

Toad kept going. “We were taken prisoner in Rio de Janeiro by the . . .” He looked to Sammy for help remembering the names he’d been taught. “The Aegis! And he was held for weeks—me for days. But we escaped and made our way up here.”

Sammy watched the man’s face for any sign of malice or recognition, but he saw none.

“How did you escape and why did you come here?”

This was the question that Sammy could not let Toad answer without revealing everything. If the man was an enemy, they would be tortured for more information. Only this time, they had no chance of ever escaping. No lucky breaks. Sammy was already nearly broken. Toad cried again, looking to Sammy through squinting eyes. Sammy couldn’t speak.

Toad continued to summarize their tale. “We came here because he found a map that said there was a Plainpal in Wichita that was part of the resistance. I didn’t know what it meant, but I came with him anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Toad sniffed several times. “Because we’re part of the resistance, too.”

Sammy’s brow broke out into sweat. Toad had done a marvelous job concealing their anomalies.

“There’s something you’re not telling me. But I think I’m good enough at reading people to know when I’m being lied to.” He lowered his gun and crossed to the building wall nearest the bars. “We’ve been watching you since you came into the outskirts of the city. You make an interesting pair of characters. I wasn’t sure if you were putting on a show. I thought you knew you were being watched.”

He thumbed the safety on the weapon and stowed it into one of the deep pockets in his coat. A little smile appeared on his face. “Take them in.”

The door to the museum opened and before Sammy had time to look around, a cloth sack was thrust over his head and he was dragged inside. Toad shrieked as the same was done to him.

Having no energy to resist, Sammy allowed himself to be carried. Another door opened, and Sammy felt himself set on a soft cushion. Several hands patted him down while someone else ran a scanner over him. He heard two beeps.

“He’s clean,” a voice said.

Then the door closed. Sammy grabbed the cloth and tore it off his face. Toad wasn’t in the room with him.

Sammy panicked. He was alone again. He didn’t want to be alone. His shoulder ached like it had been whacked with a mallet, and his throat still burned. Too tired to do anything else, he stared at the door. It took several seconds for him to notice there was no handle or knob on the inside. He yearned for food, water, and a shower.

The room was small, about the size of a small bedroom. He sat in the only chair, which was comfortable. A light shone above him, but the switch was not in the room. Other than the chair, there were no furnishings.

The door opened, and a familiar-looking man entered, shutting the door behind him. Sammy guessed the man to be in his mid-sixties. His hair was cloud white, his eyes so blue they caught Sammy’s attention. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry or intimidating, either. His clothes were simple: a gray and white flannel shirt and jeans. He wore leather boots, not sneakers. Sammy couldn’t remember the last time he saw someone wearing cowboy boots.

“I have a man just outside the room. Don’t get any ideas.”

Sammy didn’t respond. He didn’t have the strength.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The only thing that came out of Sammy’s mouth was a croak. “Do I know you?” he tried to say.

“Do you know me? I don’t think so, because I don’t know you. And I don’t forget faces easily. You gonna tell me your name?”

“Are you resistance?” Sammy asked. He found it easier to whisper as loud as he could than attempting to use his full voice.

The man stared at Sammy gravely, his lips tight and his face lined. Finally, he nodded.

Sammy fell out of his chair onto his knees. He didn’t care how pathetic he looked. Nothing mattered but one thing. “Food.”

The white-haired man knocked on the door. It opened and a head poked in. “Get him some refreshment.”

“Like what?” the guard asked.

“Water. Crackers. Something he can easily eat.”

Less than a minute later, a small plastic plate came back with crackers, cheese, apple slices, and clean, ice cold water.

Sammy reached for it, but the man shook his head. “Your name.”

His eyes were fixed on the plate. His chest heaved and his mouth watered. “Uh—Albert.”

“Your real name, please.”

Sammy stared at the food. “Samuel Berhane.”

Then the plate was in his hands. He touched the food. It was real. He put two whole crackers in his mouth and savored their saltiness. Before swallowing, he put two more crackers in, then two more.

“Slow down. You’re gonna choke.”

Sammy ignored this and ate again. The water helped everything go down easier. It also extinguished some of the fire in his throat. “Thank you,” he remembered to say through a mouthful of cheese.

The older man smiled, then laughed. His laugh was familiar, too. “Not a worry. Do you go by Samuel or Sam or Sammy?”

Sammy nodded at the last.

“Sammy it is. My name is Thomas Byron.”

A nuclear bomb went off in Sammy’s stomach. His eyes got big, his hands went to his midsection, and he hurled everything back up: crackers, water, cheese and apple.

Thomas backed up to the wall, but Sammy wasn’t thinking about the vomit. “Thomas Byron?” he repeated. His voice sounded only slightly better than before. “Thomas Byron?” If he had the energy he would have bounced up and hugged the man. All he could manage was a waning smile. “Walter Byron’s father?”

This time it was the old man’s turn to look shocked. The surprise turned to confusion, then to understanding.

Thomas supported himself on the wall and produced a white handkerchief from his back pocket. “You’re from—?” his hand pointed weakly in a gesture Sammy interpreted as
over there
. “And you know my son?”

Sammy nodded his head as best he could.

“He’s alive?” Thomas asked. “And well?”

“Yes.”

“Oh me, oh life . . .” the old man said as he dabbed his eyes with the handkerchief. Sammy sat in the chair and watched him, wondering if he should say something. Without a word, Thomas stood, knocked on the door, and left the room, still wiping his eyes with his handkerchief.

Sammy decided to try to eat again, only this time to take it slowly. He’d hardly finished two crackers when the door opened. An older woman entered with Thomas, clutching his hand. Tears were in her eyes, too.

“Do you really know my Walter?” she asked.