9. Let The Monster Rise
Sam woke at her habitual time, about an hour before the mess opened for breakfast. She groaned and stretched before rolling out from underneath the covers. Somehow, she could already tell it was going to be a good day. After a week of being holed up in the infirmary, she was finally free to roam about the fort again. It would be weeks before she would be allowed out on patrol, but at least she could actually get up and move now.
Well, after she got dressed.
Clothes, she could manage, except for one small but important item. That was where Anya came in. Sam stepped out into the hallway and knocked on the door across from hers. She hoped Anya was in, and that she hadn't spent the night elsewhere. There was no way in hell that Sam was going anywhere near Marcus' quarters.
As luck would have it, Anya was around. The door opened a few moments later, revealing the lieutenant, already dressed, a toothbrush shoved in her mouth. She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
Sam held up her bra, and gave Anya a pleading look. "Help?"
Anya nodded and moved aside, and Sam slipped by her. As Sam got a full look at the other woman's room, she paused for half a second. Her own quarters weren't messy by any standards, but this… Anya was so damn organized. There were boxes, big and small, neatly stacked around the room, handwritten labels identifying the contents. Everything had its place; there wasn't even a stray sock on the floor. Should she have expected anything less from the former star CIC operator?
"Impressive," Sam offered, sitting on Anya's perfectly made bed.
Anya smiled sheepishly as she set her toothbrush down. "Old habits die hard. My mom liked to keep the house spotless."
There was a brief moment of awkward silence as they both silently acknowledged the connection. Both women had lost their mothers, and neither had passed peacefully. The two shared a sympathetic look, and moved on. Sam handed Anya her bra, and pulled her shirt off one-handed (she was getting good at this).
"Thanks for helping. This is kind of embarrassing."
"It's no problem." As Anya slid one strap over Sam's arm, her fingers paused at the crook of Sam's neck. "What happened here?"
For a second, Sam had no idea what the lieutenant was referring to. Then a sensation came back to her—a warm, wet presence on her skin—and her stomach dropped. Baird's mouth had left its mark on her, and she had no plausible explanation for it. The bruise was on the wrong side to be attributed to her injury, and what else was she supposed to say? "I slipped and fell on…" On what? How?
Sam opened her mouth, but all that came out was an intelligent "Uh…"
Thankfully, a crackling in her earpiece saved her from attempting a shoddy explanation. "Sam, Anya." It was Marcus. Right away, Sam could tell that something wasn't right. His voice had that low, hesitant sound—the same way he had sounded before he broke the news of Dom's death to Baird and Cole. "Hoffman's office, ASAP. We've got a problem."
The two women exchanged an uneasy look. Marcus didn't like giving bad news over the radio; he felt it was more personal and comforting if it was given in person, even if he wasn't entirely sure how to console someone. Wordlessly, Sam got to her feet and hurried back to her room. She dressed quickly, throwing on what she normally wore under her armour. Somehow, she figured her gear would be needed soon.
Anya was waiting for her in the hall, already wearing her own armour. There was no attempt at small talk as they walked to Hoffman's office. When they finally did reach the door and stepped inside, Sam knew that whatever had happened was seriously not good. Marcus, Hoffman and Bernie were there, as she had expected, but they weren't the only ones; Cole, Frederic Rojas, Rossi and another Gear that Sam had chatted with a few times—Martell—were also present.
Hoffman waited until Anya had closed the door before he spoke. "The morning patrol was ambushed about half an hour ago."
Years of hearing bad news had taught everyone how to control their facial expressions; but there was still a noticeable increase in tension. Sam felt like a knife had been shoved into her gut. Baird and Clay Carmine were on that patrol. Carmine was pal, always willing to grab a drink. He'd survived a shot to the head and a helicopter crash. To lose him to an ambush was just cruel. And Baird…
"Martell has already made a full report, so I'll summarize," Hoffman continued. "Private Bradley is in critical condition, and Carmine is being treated for minor injuries. Corporal Baird is currently missing."
The knife in Sam's stomach twisted. Her eyes darted to Cole, who looked uncharacteristically grim. This must be killing him. He glanced at her, and she edged a little closer to him. Marcus stared at them intently from across the room.
Martell jumped in. "We managed to capture one of the assholes who attacked us. He's waiting in one of the cells. Seemed a little too eager to be taken, if you ask me."
"This is new," Rossi said. "The Stranded we know have never taken prisoners before; not back on Vectes, and not the bastards we tangled with when we first moved in."
"That's what worries me," Bernie said, her voice taut. "They've got something else going on. Why go through all the trouble of abducting one of us? It's just easier to kill."
Sam's jaw clenched, but she stayed silent.
"My thoughts exactly," Hoffman agreed. "I thought I'd let you all know the full story before the rumours start spreading. Sergeant Mataki and I will be interrogating our guest when we're done here. I imagine some of you might want to watch."
Cole finally spoke up. "You bet your ass, sir."
Bernie threw him an empathetic smile. "Of course. We'll be doing the actual interrogating, but you'll be right there."
With that, the meeting ended. Sam, Cole, Marcus and Anya hung back, waiting to follow Hoffman and Bernie down to the holding cells. They were in the deepest, dankest, most unpleasant part of the fort. That thought gave Sam a miniscule amount of comfort. It was good that she wouldn't be allowed inside the cell; she'd probably end up breaking the captive's arm.
Suddenly, Sam was uncomfortably aware of Marcus' gaze on her. She turned slowly to face him, keeping her face impassive. His icy blue eyes had that analytical look in them, like he was slowly piecing a puzzle together. She turned back away just as deliberately, hoping she wasn't acting as obvious as she felt. If Marcus thought that her emotions would put her in jeopardy, he was dead wrong.
She had survived after Dom's death. She would survive this, and march into wherever they had Baird and drag his negligent ass back to Anvil Gate.
Cole had always considered himself a very mild-mannered man. There were very few things that could make him lose his cool. In fact, Cole couldn't even remember the last time he'd lost his temper. But now, as he crowded outside the occupied cell with Marcus, Anya and Sam, he could feel his composure slipping.
The man inside the cell didn't look threatening. He was scrawny, like most Stranded, but a lot younger than Cole had imagined. He couldn't be more than twenty-five. His beard was patchy and scraggly, his clothes marked with dirt and another stains that Cole couldn't identify. What surprised him most about the prisoner was his skin tone: it wasn't dark, like the local Kashkuri Stranded, but pale—Tyran. This guy had come a long way.
Hoffman and Bernie were behind the bars of the cell, having a whispered conversation just out of earshot. Cole figured they weren't really talking about anything serious; it was a ploy to set the prisoner on edge. It seemed to be working. When they had first arrived in the detention block, the asshole had been slouched in the single chair in his cell, looking like a mix between bored and smug. That had pissed Cole right off. But once Bernie and Hoffman had stepped inside and blatantly ignored him, the man's cockiness began to fade.
Finally, Bernie turned towards the prisoner. Cole had half-expected her to play the doting grandmother routine, but her face was hard. No, this was too personal. Hoffman was doing his ice man routine in the corner, glaring down at the Stranded man. Cole folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. He found himself watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. She was trying for calm, but he could practically see the agitation on her. If Cole hadn't been worried out of his mind, he might have thought about that a little more.
Bernie only had to give the death glare to the captive for half a minute before he spoke up. "Aren't… aren't you going to ask me something?" he asked haltingly.
"Oh, I think you know what we're going to ask." Bernie walked right up to him, and stood uncomfortably close, arms akimbo. "But you should be worrying about how nicely I'm going to ask you."
"What's your name, son?" Hoffman said suddenly.
The prisoner turned his head towards the colonel, but his eyes never left Bernie. "Elroy Rennoll… I—"
"Write that down, Fenix. I'd hate to have any more unmarked graves."
The look on Rennoll's face almost made Cole laugh. Almost. Although, Cole wasn't entirely sure Hoffman was bluffing. The old colonel had executed a civilian in this very fort for stealing rations; he would have killed Massy back on Vectes, if Bernie hadn't intervened. Now, when someone's life could very well be on the line…
Whether or not Hoffman was bluffing, it had the desired effect on Rennoll. "Hey man, don't get crazy. I—"
"It's sir, you insolent fuck," Bernie barked.
Rennoll gaped at her for a couple seconds before finding his voice again. "I'll tell you whatever you want, okay? I'm supposed to tell you."
That was unexpected. Cole raised his eyebrows at Sam, who shrugged in return. Both Hoffman and Bernie took the admission in stride, though Cole could see that it had unnerved them.
"You're supposed to tell us?" Bernie asked. "I find that hard to believe."
Hoffman nodded. "Sounds to me like some half-assed story an idiot would make up to save his life."
"No, no, no!" Rennoll had a manic smile on his face. He seemed like he was only a couple seconds away from pissing himself. "He told me to tell you. I swear. It was all part of the plan. Well, not really. Jonahs was supposed to get taken and we were supposed to disappear but then he got killed and so I—"
"Who?" Bernie hollered into his face. "Who's the bugger giving all these orders?"
"Griffin!" he practically screamed. "Aaron Griffin!"
From the way everyone reacted, Cole knew it was bad. Sam immediately tensed up, Marcus clenched his fists, and Anya let out a slow breath. He'd heard the name before: Aaron Griffin, former CEO of Griffin Imulsion Corporation, and a Stranded big shot in Char. Myrrah had attacked his tower about the same time all his workers went Lambent. Griffin hadn't taken kindly to that.
Cole hadn't had the pleasure of meeting the man himself—he and Baird were off trying to track down the Gorasni—but now he was really looking forward to it.
Hoffman strode towards Rennoll from the back of the cell. His face was dark, his hands were clasped professionally behind his back, and his voice was low and dangerous as he whispered into the prisoner's ear, "Where?"
As Rennoll blubbered out directions, Cole and the others silently left the detention block. They didn't speak as they strode across the courtyard towards the barracks. Each would be armouring up and checking their weapons. It was time to get a certain smartass friend back.
Hang on, buddy. I'm coming for you.
Someone was pounding Baird's head like a drum. And his cheek hurt. And there was still a sharp pain in his ribs. Something itched on his face; probably dried blood. He went to feel for a break, but found his hands bound behind his back. His first coherent thought was, Oh… fuck.
He was sitting in a chair, and he definitely wasn't wearing his armour any longer. That didn't bode well. It was also kind of creepy, to think someone had stripped him while he was unconscious. Two quick jerks of the leg, and Baird found his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. Even better.
His eyes slowly popped open—one was definitely swollen half-shut. That asshole that'd smacked him across the face was going to pay. Baird forced his head up to look at his surroundings. He was in dusty room that didn't seem to have been used in ages. There wasn't any other furniture, and the room didn't even have windows. The only light came from a dim bulb directly above him. A solitary door was directly across from him.
Why is it always me? Seriously. First it was that bitch Annalisa in the Jilane farm, then it was the Locust in the Hollow… It was someone else's turn to get captured. This shit was getting old.
"Rise and shine, COG."
Baird hadn't noticed anyone else in the room. If his senses hadn't been numbed, he probably would have jumped. He twisted his neck to face the speaker. The guy definitely made an impression: decked out in black leather and belts, holding some sort of cane, wearing sunglasses, and a gold knuckle plate that read DRAMA. Baird's stomach knotted as he realized who this guy was.
"Let me guess: Griffin?"
The Stranded leader didn't bat an eyelash. He looked like a real sourpuss. "My reputation precedes me, I see."
"Ah, not really. A friend of mine met you. Told us all about you. Glowing description, completely accurate."
That seemed to get Griffin's attention. Baird noted a flicker of something—anger?—pass over his face. "This friend of yours… he wouldn't happen to be Marcus Fenix, would he?"
Baird sensed that he might have just put himself in an even worse situation. Shit. When would he ever learn to keep his damn mouth shut? Still, it was better to play it cool than show fear. "Yeah. He would."
And then Griffin smiled. "Excellent."
Oh yeah, Baird had made a mistake. Not like that was surprising. He seemed to fuck up on a daily basis. Griffin took a step towards the door. If he was smart, Baird would have let him go. But he'd been expecting answers, and he'd gotten squat. He wanted to know why the hell he was here.
"Hey!" he blurted before he could stop himself. "Isn't this the part where you rant about your master plan?"
Griffin stopped, but didn't turn around. "And why would I want to say anything about that to you, you insignificant fucker?"
It was a start. "So you admit you're planning something?" And if he found something out, then what? There was no way to contact Anvil Gate.
Leisurely, Griffin turned to face him. "If you're dying to know, I'll give you the big picture: revenge."
Why am I not surprised? Baird couldn't help but snort. "Revenge? Shit, what is it with you people? No matter how many times we save your ungrateful asses, you still—"
"Excuse me?" In an instant, Griffin's cool demeanour vanished. His face contorted with rage as he stomped back towards Baird. "The fuck did you just say, COG? The fuck did you just say? That you saved us?" He laughed. "That is just fucking precious. You saved us, did you? Well, let's count all the ways you helped us out. You COG motherfuckers are the reason I lost my tower, my people."
With lightning speed, Griffin slammed his fist, complete with knuckle plate, into Baird's still-throbbing face.
"You sank your own fucking city. I bet you know how many of your people died when you did that, but how many Stranded? Let me guess: you don't give a fuck."
Another punch. This one caught Baird in the lower jaw. He tasted blood.
"Oh, and let's not forget the pinnacle of it all: the Hammer strikes. That sure as fuck saved our asses, didn't it?"
Griffin glared murderously down at Baird, as if he had been the one to turn the key and activate the orbital strikes. For a moment, he thought Griffin had tired of hitting him. He was wrong. One last punch, this one fiercer than the other two, clocked Baird in his temple. Stars exploded in his vision for a few seconds. When he could see again, Griffin was striding calmly towards the door, as if he had never lost his temper.
As he reached for the door handle, Griffin paused. "Any other times you saved my ass that you want to remind me of?"
This time, Baird stayed silent.