The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (33 page)

Maggie stood before a mirror over the sink, naked save the bandage around her abdomen. She examined her body and its injuries; her skin was pale, eyes dark-purple and lined with bags from stress and sleep deprivation. Her face was cut in places from glass-shards that had sprayed across its right side. Bruises peppered her head and body rom the fight with Reese while a bloody thumb-print faded from one edge of her forehead to the other. Her lip was fat, split in the center where her lip-ring had jammed into it and chipped a tooth.

She winced at herself, ran her fingers along the stranger's face in the mirror. Her long, disheveled hair fell around the gash from the Protectorate guard and her fingers followed it down to a large bruise on her cheek from Reese's fist. She shifted along her side to her abdomen, pressed at the bandage, sucked air as a finger neared the wound's epicenter.

Her long hair was ratty at the shoulders, matted with blood to frame a face she no longer recognized. She drew a long breath and looked to the pile of clothing; it bore none of her usual style, no low-necks, brand names, or slim-fit jeans. Instead, black fatigues, surplus, one-size-fits-most. Atop it was her leg harness, complete with the TRP and the knife from her jump-harness.

She stared at them with an emptiness in her gut, contemplated her image. The fire inside flared. Something about the way she stood now—naked, scarred, bruised—something had changed. She wasn't certain what.

The fire within threw white-hot sparks. Images of the warriors on her arm flashed with them. Russell's assertion was right. She was a survivor, like the warriors now super-imposing themselves around the fire.

For a long moment, she knew nothing but their presence and the dull pain in her body. Her eyes saw the haggard stranger reflected in the mirror with a face not unlike her own. In an instant, a new warrior emerged in the flames, one growing since that small spark in Oakton.

The flames became an inferno, a ceremonial bonfire enveloping the corpse of her past-self as the new warrior unfurled. It stepped into the circle with the others and she felt herself follow, sink into place around the fire where it stood.

Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed for a towel beside the sink to soak it, dab at her face and forehead, and wipe away blood from. In its absence, her matted hair looked out of place.

The stranger felt more familiar, but her eyes fell to the knife. She set the rag aside, drew it from her harness. Its blade reflected a dull, distorted image more accurate than any mirror. The knife mimed her every breath back as she tilted her head to one side and the other. With a hand, she drew her hair ponytail together and raised the blade.

A single flick of her wrist sliced through her hair.

She pulled the tuft away. The futility of life seemed surmised in the singular act; one flick and it was over. Her hair fell just above her ears and below her skull. She released the tuft into the sink. A hand rose, cut away small bits of hair. They fell to the floor with her last shreds of fear and desperation.

She kept slicing, evening out the image, finding satisfaction only when it no longer felt foreign. Instead it reflected back the turmoil forced upon her. Her eyes caught the warrior women on her arm, their images accompanied by new confidence in her chest.

She had once obsessed over the imagery to compel her through grief, sorrow, mourning but they'd been little more than symbolic then. Now, a true warrior had awakened, brought clarity to a question she'd once asked herself; How had they managed to survive, to live with the burdens placed upon them? The answer; they were forced to, for the good of themselves and others. There was no decision made. They were choice-less, like her. Survival happened on instinct, morality and duty compelling them in between.

Though the story's details were always different, their plots remained the same. The warrior kept the peace, fought to protect themselves and others and keep their aggressors' evils in-check.

Like them, she was required to keep the weapon from Omega for the good of all. If necessary, she'd give her life to do it, but she'd accept nothing less. Otherwise, nothing would stop her from destroying it.

She threw a final tuft of hair into the sink, wet her hands to flatten the rest against her head

A knock sounded and Reese intoned, “It's me.”

“Yeah, come in.”

The shock of Maggie's abrupt transformation was clear in Reese's stunned eyes. Apart from the pile of hair in the sink, and the dragon gleaming across her back, something about her was captivating. She seemed to hold herself differently, a newfound confidence in her stance.

Reese recovered. Her eyes darted over the room as she stepped in, shut the door. Maggie caught her roving vision as she began to dress.

“It's impolite to stare, you know.”

“I-I wasn't—”

She smiled, “You need something?”

She watched Maggie in the mirror, “We've arranged the transport.”

She slid carefully into her shirt, “Everything ready?”

“Yeah. Just waiting on you.”

She turned to leave, but Maggie spoke softly, “Stephanie.”

Reese froze, stunned by the formal use of her name. Maggie turned  to hug her. Her body fought confusion at the intimacy of Maggie's touch. Maggie tightened around Reese as she cleared her throat. She hesitated, but put her arms around Maggie.

They embraced until Maggie pulled away and looked into Reese's eyes, “Thank you. I didn't know if I could trust you, but… I'm sorry I doubted you.”

Reese avoided her awkward confusion, “I don't blame you. Russell's in the same boat.”

Maggie steadied herself on the sink, her side aching, “I don't know what made you decide to help, but I want you to know, I trust you'll do what's right when the time comes.”

Reese looked perplexed, left without another word. Maggie turned to finish dressing. She zipped her vest, laced her boots, and strapped the Lash around her throat. She checked herself in the mirror a final time, satisfied at the new-age warrior looking back, then zipped her pack and shouldered it carefully.

She emerged to a captivated stare from Russell, raised a questioning brow. He was stunned. Despite favoring one-side, her gait had a newly seductive sway and confidence. Her shortened, flat hair glistened wet, perfectly accented her emerald eyes. They doubled his pulse; even bruised, wounded, and pale, she was a knock-out.

She met the others in the room's center, drew the TRP to check its breech. Russell shook off his entrancement as Reese explained, “Chopper's waiting on the roof. We'll head to a nearby C-130 bound for Tripoli. From there we'll have a chopper waiting to take us wherever we need to go.”

“A C-130?” Maggie asked, recalling her last ride on one.

Russell smiled, “It'll be different this time… probably.”

“Yeah. Sure. Let's get moving.”

Reese nodded, led them out and through a set of swinging doors. A doctor began chasing them toward the elevator, “Excuse me! Where are you going with my patient?”

He waved his hands as they strolled past the OR and through another set of doors. They passed a final set of doors, stopped at the elevator. Russell pressed the call button. Reese turned to the doctor as he rushed up, panting.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Reese stiffened, “Your patient's under my care as per Colonel Hun's orders. If you have an issue, take it up with him. We're late.”

“But you can't—”

Maggie turned, “You're the one that saved my life?”

“Yes, and I can't allow—”

She extended her hand. He took it in confusion, shook it. “I appreciate all you've done, but we're needed elsewhere.”

“But—”

“Thank you, really,” Maggie said as the elevator opened. They stepped in. The doors closed on the man's confused stare.

Reese looked sideways as they started upward, “That was diplomatic.”

Maggie grinned smugly. The elevator deposited them on the rooftop, the helicopter's blades already kicking up dust and dirt in a high wind. They climbed in as it rose, gained altitude fast. Omega's compound grew smaller beneath them, and Maggie sighed relief.

“How long?” She asked over the loud thumping.

“Half hour. Tops,” Reese said.

“And from there?”

“Nine hours or so,” Thorne said, checking his wrist-watch.

“What's our time-table at?” Russell asked.

Reese replied, “Three hours once we make Tripoli. Provided we aren't held up between.”

“Think it's long enough?” Thorne asked. Reese shrugged.

Maggie's gaze turned out the window as the last of Tibet passed below in the rising sun.

29.

The “Native Son”

October 8
th

8:30 AM

C-130 bound for Libya

The helicopter deposited the group in a clearing somewhere beyond Tibet's border. They crossed a dingy, dirt airstrip buffered for a mile by trees to the familiar drone of a C-130.

Russell and Maggie found their way to the bunk area while Thorne and Reese double-checked the flight's manifest before joining them. Russell was finally able to tell Maggie of what had occurred during her lapse of consciousness.

They drifted from conversation into thought while Thorne began a tedious search of the translations for any further references to the weapon. Occasionally he would grunt, growl, or smack the computer as it ran too slow for his liking.

With a lull ahead, Russell chose a cot across from Reese and fell into a much-needed sleep. Maggie disassembled and cleaned her weapons beside Thorne on the bunk-area's rear-bench.

Her mind drifted often to the shop; was it open or burned down? She thought to ask, but decided she'd rather not know. Focusing too heavily on the past might plague her mind.

Instead, she tried to count the days since she'd left Nevada. The successive periods of rest and exhaustion made them incalculable. In fact, most everything since the attack in her apartment was blurred. She remembered it, but it was too mired in adrenaline to form a cohesive image.

She reassembled her weapon, sat back to close her eyes, and sank her mind into the mechanical sounds beyond the air-frame. The frequencies were eerily similar to her machines; they pitched lower subtly, strained against heavy pockets of air as her machines would against too heavy a hand.

She doubted anyone else would notice, but found an unexpected peace in the sounds. She knew her craft as any experienced craftsmen should, and even if no else recognized it, she did. Her previous fears of Jerry's tattoo and the competition were amusing given everything since. She drifted to thoughts of home, but Thorne sighed next to her.

She opened her eyes to the exhaustion in his face. His lanky fingers massaged them above a pained frown.

“You okay?”

He blew a heavy breath, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You sure?”

He nodded, but Maggie was unsatisfied. She edged toward him, leaned in. He glanced over, “What?”

“Why are you here, Thorne?”

Confusion overtook his face, “Huh?”

“Why'd you come with us?” She asked innocuously. “Reese admits she has a reason, even if she won't tell me. So what about you? You didn't really
have
to be here. You could've finished the translation and stayed.” He hesitated, winced. “Don't get me wrong I didn't
want
to leave you, but… ”

She trailed off and he looked her over, “Yeah?”

“Why didn't you stay at the hospital, or take off in Lhasa?”

He looked forward, dumbfounded, “I don't know.” He cleared his throat, voice cracking in reply. “I guess it's better than being scared. I mean, whatever you did to Steph would scare the hell out of anyone, but well, you're not an asshole.”

“That's it?”

Thorne tried to find his words. Uncertainty was out of place on him. “You're really going to make me say this, aren't you?”

“What?”

He squirmed a little, “Look, Maggie, I—well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not much of a fighter. And I'm sure as fuck not the bravest person in the world. Thing is, Omega pays well, but they take advantage of that. I'm not the only guy that ends up with a fucking dick like West giving orders. It's happened with all the other tech-guys too, their teams. West's just the worst one
I've
met.”

“
Other
teams?”

He nodded, “There's a lot of 'em. Mostly clean-up crews that pick up after Strike; eliminate witnesses, cover-up the damage we've done, that sort of thing. All of them have someone like West and someone like me. They're all the same in both respects; dick-head commanders that rule through fear, and techs forced to do what they're told.”

“So, you saw an out too?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, “You could say that.”

“But?”

“But,” he began, his shoulders tense. “I'm just tired of being scared all the time. Being with you guys won't change that, but at least you're not the ones that're trying to hurt me. You're the closest thing to friends I've ever had.”

Maggie was moved by his words, but a question she couldn't ignore arose. She tried to broach it without dismissing him. “Thank you Thorne, really. It… means a lot. I hope I can live up to that.” He shrugged, nodded. “Can I ask you something about Omega?”

“I guess.”

“Your family, do they know anything about it?”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated, wondering how to phrase it, went with her gut, “Omega's people don't seem to have much outside the Organization, but you do. Do they know about Omega, or are they involved in some way?” He shook his head. “Have they ever threatened you with them?”

“You mean, tried to use them against me?” She nodded. “No. It's a lot easier to skip the middle man and threaten me personally.”

“Do they ever go after
other
people's families?”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, but answered for her sake, “Not that I know of. At least, not in the sense that they'll hunt anyone down. We cause a lot of collateral damage though, like the temple. People go down in the crossfire.”

“So, what, otherwise most people are immune?”

He thought on it, agreed, “Yeah, you could say that. Most of the time we go—
went,
after people directly connected to the Protectorate. Most are like you, field agents, for lack of words. Some were like those guys in Oakton, high-rankers with Intel that presented easy targets when isolated. Most of the time it's people whose deaths would deal a blow to the Protectorate as whole. Some people we knew of were too high-profile to be taken down though. Their lives are simply too public, and their deaths would warrant too much exposure for the organization.”