Jack fell.
The basalt shelf crumbled under his boots, and the world tilted, the acid-washed sky wheeling above him as his center of gravity pitched backward.
His arms shot out, fingers spread, grasping for anything solid in the empty air.
His left hand caught.
The impact tore through his shoulder socket, a dry, popping violence that sent a lance of pain down his arm and into his ribs.
His fingers wedged into a narrow horizontal crack in the rock face, the stone tearing through his cheap issued gloves to bite into his flesh as his momentum swung his body hard into the basalt wall.
His chest plate scraped against the rough, dusty surface.
His boots scrabbled frantically for purchase, the toes scraping uselessly across the brittle stone, finding nothing but loose cinders and ash.
He was hanging by his device arm.
Below him, the yellow vapor churned like a sulfurous sea, thick and choking.
He could not see the bottom.
He could not see anything but the fractured basalt inches from his face and the leaden dome above.
His left forearm burned.
Not fire, not the heat of exertion, but a white-hot, agonizing pressure that surged from his wrist into his chest, into his spine, wrapping around his ribs.
His muscles contracted involuntarily, his fingers cramping into a rigid, unyielding hook.
The device was locking his grip, forcing his fingers to remain clamped around the stone seam.
The pain was immense.
He groaned, pressing his forehead against the cool rock.
His left arm was trembling under the unnatural electrical load, the device humming beneath his skin like a live wire.
He had to move.
Never trust the face of the stone, kid.
Trust the seams.
The face lies, but the seams hold.
Nolan’s old advice, dry as sawdust, echoed in the back of his mind.
Jack swung his legs back toward the wall, feeling the weight of his boots arc through the empty space, and slammed them into a vertical seam.
The impact jarred his knees, but the seam held.
He pushed his hips back, bringing his upper body flush with the rock face.
For a moment, he was stable.
For a moment, he caught his breath.
Ryker’s voice crackled through the stolen earpiece clipped to his collar.
“Two seconds, scavenger. Are you coming out, or am I eliminating her now?”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
He reached up with his right hand.
A cold twitch at the base of his optic nerve pulsed, dragging his gaze toward a sequence of shadow-hidden grips: a narrow shelf three feet above, a hairline seam to the left, a small thumb-precision depression in the basalt, all arranged in a sequence no human eye could have followed.
Every rule he had lived by in the deep stacks screamed at him to run.
Never die for someone else’s mistake.
Always know the exits.
He was ignoring all of them.
He hauled his weight upward.
His boots scraped against the rock, finding a narrow ledge.
He pushed, driving his shoulder into the chimney.
The strain was immense, every muscle in his back and arms screaming, but he did not stop.
Ryker’s voice came again, bored, mocking.
“One second. Time’s up.” A wet gasp followed over the channel, Kayla struggling to spit blood.
Ryker laughed, low and dry.
“You like the dirt, scavenger? Watch this.”
Jack did not answer.
He climbed.
The chemical fog thickened as he rose, obscuring the canyon floor below.
The wind whipped around the chimney, cold and sharp, cutting through his sweat-soaked fatigues.
He did not look down.
He focused on the cold twitch in his optic nerve, on the faint guidance the device provided, and on the irregular, burning rhythm of his own breathing.
Thirty feet.
He was thirty feet up when his fingers found the rim.
He hauled his chest over the basalt lip, the rough edge scraping his ribs, and rolled onto his side.
Immediately he went flat on his stomach, pressing his entire body against the volcanic rock.
He crawled forward on his elbows, dragging himself clear of the exposed rim, and tucked himself behind a jagged volcanic outcrop.
He lay there for a second, his chest heaving, his left arm throbbing with the cold, alien imprint of the device’s intervention.
He had made it.
Barely.
He unclipped his training rifle from its sling, the stock warm against his scraped, ash-blackened hands.
He checked the pale-yellow charge light on the side of the receiver.
Full charge.
The capacitor hummed with a steady, low-pitched frequency beneath his palm.
He pressed the earpiece tighter against his ear.
The local squad mesh crackled.
Four hostile pings remained in the immediate vicinity.
Two flankers.
One guard.
Ryker himself.
He scouted forward, keeping his shoulders low, his knees bent, his boots finding silent purchase on the loose ash.
When his eyes cleared the rim of the basalt ledge, he saw them.
Below him, Ryker stood with his feet set wide over the crushed basalt, his rifle held tight to his shoulder, the muzzle leveled at Kayla’s sternum.
They were gathered at the base of the central relay pylon, a weathered steel column housing the capture node.
Kayla was on her knees, her dark hair coming loose from its braid, her face streaked with dirt and blood from a split lip.
Her eyes blazed with fierce defiance, locking onto Ryker’s face with a hatred that would have made a lesser man flinch.
Her boots scraped the ground as she adjusted her weight, always ready to fight, even from her knees.
Ten yards to the left, behind a low basalt spur, the two flankers stood shoulder to shoulder.
Their rifles were trained on the steam-choked eastern runoff flank.
Their backs were to the cliff.
Their backs were to him.
He slid backward, away from the ridge lip.
He looped a frayed length of dark nylon utility cord, smuggled from the reclamation yards in his boot lining, around a sturdy basalt spur, testing the tension with a hard pull.
The cord held.
He gripped the free end with both hands and positioned his boots at the edge of the descent chute.
He looked down the steep, shadowed rock slide.
It dropped twenty feet into loose volcanic ash.
He let go.
He slid.
The cord burned through his gloves, tearing the cheap fabric of his palms, but he kept his descent controlled.
He released the cord just before hitting the bottom, absorbing the impact by bending his knees deep into the ash.
He landed in a silent, low crouch, the ash drifting around his ankles.
The two flankers had not heard him.
They were still scanning the steam-filled eastern runoff, their heads turning slowly, their rifles held at the ready.
Jack rose from the ash and crossed the distance in three quick, silent strides.
The first flanker never saw him coming.
Jack drove the heavy butt of his training rifle into the soft joint between the recruit’s neck and shoulder harness.
The recruit’s safety harness triggered with a sharp, metallic pop, and the boy slumped forward into the ash, his limbs locked in the standard elimination hold.
The second flanker spun.
His rifle came up, the barrel tracking toward Jack’s chest.
Jack was already inside the weapon’s arc.
He stepped diagonally to the right, his left hand clapping down on the flanker’s rifle barrel, forcing it downward.
He pivoted his hips and drove his right elbow forward in a tight, horizontal arc, slamming it into the center of the recruit’s chest-plate.
The harness locked with the same sharp pop, and the boy’s body seized, his rifle clattering onto the gravel.
Two down.
Ryker’s voice cut through the mesh, suddenly sharp, stripped of its boredom.
“Flankers? Report. What the hell is going on over there?”
Jack did not answer.
On the canyon floor, Ryker heard the static pop of the disabled harnesses on his squad mesh.
He spun on his heel, boots kicking up shifting gravel, and raised his rifle toward the dark space between the basalt pillars where Jack was standing silhouetted.
Jack saw the barrel track toward him.
He dived.
He threw his weight to the left, his body horizontal in the air, and hit the ground rolling behind a low basalt pillar.
A yellow kinetic training bolt snapped through the air, scorching the stone wall where his head had been.
The bolt sizzled against the rock, leaving a dark, scored streak.
Ryker fired again.
The bolt ricocheted off the pillar, showering Jack’s cover with chipped basalt.
“You’re dead, you dreg piece of shit!” Ryker shouted, his voice echoing across the canyon.
“You hear me? I’m going to paint that pillar with your harness!”
Jack breathed.
He kept his back pressed against the basalt, his rifle held across his chest.
Over the mesh, he heard Kayla’s voice, raw and desperate.
“Don’t you dare, Jack! He’s baiting you! Get to the objective! Leave me!”
He ignored her.
He tilted his head, listening to the sound of Ryker’s rifle, counting the shots, the intervals.
The high-pitched hum of the capacitor recharge cycle echoed across the canyon floor.
One.
Two.
Three.
Ryker was firing wild, desperate shots, each bolt absorbing more of his battery’s charge.
Kayla moved.
Jack saw her through a gap in the stone, a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision.
She lunged from her knees, driving her right shoulder directly into the side of the third recruit’s knee joint.
The guard stumbled, his rifle dropping to the gravel.
Now.
Jack rolled out from behind the pillar, his body transitioning from the roll to a single-knee firing stance in a fluid, continuous motion.
His left elbow propped on his knee.
His barrel aligned perfectly with the stumbling recruit’s shoulder harness.
He pulled the trigger.
The static-kinetic pulse cracked out, sharp and definitive.
The bolt struck the recruit’s shoulder harness dead center, and the safety lock triggered.
The boy dropped, his body seizing as he hit the ground.
Ryker’s face was a mask of pure rage.
He retreated toward the basalt boulder behind him, his boots skidding across the shifting gravel.
He fired three rapid shots, the bolts splashing harmlessly against the pillar covering Jack.
Jack stayed low, his back pressed to the stone, listening.
He heard the high-pitched whine of Ryker’s capacitor struggling to recharge.
He heard the panicked, ragged quality of Ryker’s breathing.
Ryker did not know how to handle this.
He had prepared for a conventional flank.
He had not prepared for a scavenger who could climb unbreathable vertical stone.
Jack closed his eyes.
He focused on the hum of Ryker’s capacitor.
The pitch dropped.
The recharge cycle was complete.
Ryker fired again.
The bolt struck the pillar to Jack’s left.
Jack did not flinch.
He listened.
He counted.
The capacitor whined again, the recharge cycle beginning its climb.
Two seconds.
That was the window.
Jack rose.
He flung himself forward in a low, explosive sprint, his torso bent parallel to the ground, his boots digging into the loose ash.
Ryker saw him coming, his eyes wide, and he brought his rifle up, attempting a hasty defensive swing.
Jack was faster.
He dropped his shoulder, slipping beneath the horizontal swipe of the rifle barrel, and planted both palms on the dusty ground.
He spun his lower body, driving his right leg against the back of Ryker’s ankles.
The contact was clean, solid.
Ryker’s legs flew out from under him, and he hit the hard basalt floor on his back, his rifle spinning out of his grip.
Ryker scrambled backward, clawing at the dirt with empty hands, his back pressing against the base of the boulder.
His jaw worked, his mouth opening before words came, but only a thin gasp escaped him.
The arrogance was gone, leaving only a terrified recruit staring up at a shadow.
Jack stood over him.
His feet were set wide.
His training rifle was aimed vertically down at Ryker’s sternum.
Ryker looked up at him, his chest heaving under his dusty vest.
“You… you don’t get to do this. You’re a dreg. You’re nothing.”
Jack did not answer.
He pulled the trigger.
The yellow kinetic bolt punched into the center of Ryker’s chest-plate.
The harness indicator switched to a solid, flashing red light, a steady, high-pitched elimination hum filling the canyon.
Ryker’s limbs locked, his back arching as the safety hold engaged, freezing him flat on his spine in the volcanic ash.
Jack lowered his weapon.
The canyon was silent.
The sulfur steam was clearing, drawn upward by the gantry-mounted exhaust turbines groaning awake along the canyon rim, dragging the yellow fog upward in ragged, writhing sheets.
The smell of rotten eggs and hot iron began to fade.
The grey light of the artificial sky returned.
From behind the eastern spur, Chen and Davies emerged.
Their harness pings were still active, though they looked winded and covered in ash.
They stood silently, staring at the field.
Jack looked up.
Drill Sergeant Kovac was standing on the high observation deck above the basin.
His dark, immaculate CDF drill instructor uniform was stark against the grey metal of the gantry. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
His hands were clasped behind his back.
His cap was pulled low over his forehead, shadowing his heavy, unblinking eyes.
His posture was rigid, absolute, unmoving.
He was looking directly at Jack.
Kovac had seen everything.
Jack’s throat tightened.
He did not set the rifle down.
He stood there, his boots set in the ash, his breath still ragged, and watched the drill sergeant.
Kovac did not shout.
He did not gesture.
He simply stood there, a heavy, silent presence.
A fractional nod, so small it might have been an illusion, passed over Kovac’s features.
Then his jaw set, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, clinical focus carrying the weight of a man who had seen too much to be impressed by anything.
Kayla rose from the gravel.
She wiped the blood from her split lip with the back of her hand, her eyes tracking Jack’s upward gaze.
She saw Kovac.
She said nothing, but her posture stiffened, her shoulder nudging subtly closer to Jack’s.
Vance emerged awkwardly, holding his locked left arm tightly against his ribs, the receiver block still held in his good hand.
He followed their gaze, his face tightening as he registered the drill sergeant’s presence.
No one spoke.
Slowly, with the deliberate cadence of a man who had never had to hurry, Kovac turned away from the railing.
His boots clanged against the metal gantry steps as he descended, each step ringing through the sudden, heavy silence of the canyon.
The sound was slow, rhythmic, unhurried.
Jack listened to the boots.
He did not move.
Kovac reached the bottom of the steps.
He crossed the loose gravel with the same unhurried stride, his hands still clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on Jack.
The distance between them closed.
Ten feet.
Five feet.
Kovac stopped.
He stood flat-footed on the gravel, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes scanning Jack’s posture with a clinical, unreadable precision.
He looked at the blood on Jack’s knuckles, where the torn gloves exposed raw, scraped skin.
He looked at the frayed utility cord still hanging from the basalt spur.
He looked at the disabled flankers lying in the ash and the third guard sprawled near the pylon.
He looked at Ryker, frozen on his back, helpless, his eyes blazing with impotent rage.
Kovac’s gaze returned to Jack.
He said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Jack kept his mouth shut, resisting the urge to explain or shift his stance.
He kept his arms loose, his face blank, holding the drill sergeant’s heavy stare.
Kovac reached down and tapped a small digital datapad on his wrist.
The screen glowed faintly.
His thumb moved across the surface, logging the victory score.
When he was finished, he lowered his wrist.
He looked at Jack again.
There was something in his eyes.
Not approval.
Not warmth.
Something colder, sharper.
A recognition.
A calculation.
“The objective is yours,” Kovac said, his voice low, raspy, carrying the weight of granite.
“Your squad holds.”
He did not smile.
He did not nod.
He simply stood there, his eyes holding Jack’s, the silence between them heavy with something unspoken.
Then he turned and walked away.
His boots crunched across the gravel, the sound fading as he climbed back up the gantry steps.
He did not look back.
Jack stood there for a long time, staring at the metal platform where Kovac had been standing.
Kayla stepped up beside him.
He could feel her presence, the warmth of her body, the faint tremor in her breath.
“He saw everything,” she said.
It was not a question.
“Yeah.” Jack’s voice sounded strange, even to his own ears.
Distant.
Hollow.
“We’re going to have a problem.”
“Not yet,” Jack said.
He turned away from the gantry, looking down at his left arm.
Under his sleeve, the skin was cold.
The device was cooling, settling back into its dormant state, the unnatural pattern of its intervention fading into stillness.
“But soon.”
Vance walked up to them, the receiver block tucked under his good arm.
He looked at the frozen recruits, at the static-burnt basalt, at the exhaustion on Jack’s face.
He shook his head slowly.
“You know, when I said we should get through this, I didn’t mean you should climb a vertical cliff face without a harness.”
Jack did not answer.
He did not have the energy.
The canyon was silent around them, the last wisps of yellow fog dissipating into the grey sky.
The training simulation was over.
They had won.
But as Jack looked down at his arm, feeling the cold, empty ache where the device had pulsed with a white-hot, protective heat, he knew that winning the simulation was not the same as surviving.
The device had done something.
It had saved him, forced his muscles to lock, to hold, to keep him alive.
He flexed his left hand.
The fingers moved.
They responded to his will.
But there was a hollow quality to the motion, a faint delay, as if the device was still calculating, still evaluating what he had done.
What he had chosen.
He had not chosen to abandon Kayla.
He had chosen to climb.
He looked up at the vertical chimney he had scaled, seeing the impossible line of his ascent, the crumbled shelf where his grip had failed, the narrow crack where his fingers had held.
The members of Ryker’s team were still frozen on the ground.
His team was still standing.
But the memory of Kovac’s calculating look made one truth chillingly clear.
He had just shown the military machine exactly how dangerous a simple scavenger could be.