My eyes adjust to natural light, faced with a concrete wall extending left. Warmth. The roof between interior hallways houses unnecessarily tall sets of stairs. By counting through blocks A-H, seven more of these extensive structures should decorate this roof, all attaching to the gigantic dome. Out of the V shape is an enormous gap about a half-mile long. Gap, hallway, interior yard center; interior yard center, stairs, cell block, chow hall. Interesting layout.
A city rests in the distance, twenty-seven miles away. I can see skyscrapers and the clear dome surrounding it. Gharis City, my past home. At the gap’s end, over the chow hall curve, I glance left. Blinded by the setting sun nearing the desert horizon, it seems. Confirmation guards have been fooling us with the time. No way I was running for that long. The breakfast bell only rang about two hours ago. Heat from the concrete burns through my shoes. A sign to keep moving. The hallway I exited has no door to get back inside.
Great, now what?
No reason to stare over the edge. The chow hall curve seems to match well. Nothing less than death should lie over the side. Just for kicks and clarity, I inch close and stare past the tips of my feet. A concrete slope leads to another drop. A steep drop. I can clear the concrete with a careful spider crawl, but what’s beneath will be the bigger, steeper problem that I don’t mind not unraveling the equation to. The slope is circular to the left and right; I’m marooned on a waterless island.
Over my left shoulder, one difference from this hallway exterior is a roof access structure above, maybe leading to air transport? The double door at the end must have stairs inside to a platform for prisoner transfer. Jackpot! Flying isn’t my strong suit, or any other suit in my arsenal, but if an aircraft is the only way, today is training day. How hard can it be? I’m at freedom’s doorstep, and for the life of me, someone’s going to answer, or else the house is coming down. I take a few lengthy steps back to safety and rush the return trip inside.
The prison shakes and I freeze. A shock? A tremor? A quake? There had not been one since the war. Above, to my right, the Alpha is breaking air from a jump over another hallway. Within a second, it crashes down through the outer wall ahead. I leap and roll left, avoiding airborne debris and metal from a now destroyed staircase. During its landing, the Alpha slides nearer, reaches out with a pincer to snatch me, and I jump toward it. Landing flat on the ground, I scurry between thick metal hooves. It takes a step backward as it turns, almost crushing me as I throw myself away from the impact. Behind it, I bolt for the broken wall, but my intent to reach the helipad diminishes on sight – the stairs are too badly damaged.
Mechanical joints are moving, and my waist twists as I lock eyes on my foe. A spark from the shoulder weapon oozes a rocket. Unable to avoid it, I twist into a slouched position and cover my face. The rocket streaks to the damaged wall. Strikes, and demolishes any climbable remains, forcing me backward into a temporary hover. From the explosion, I am breathless after tumbling onto my stomach, but it stops me. Ears whining and unable to see, I struggle just to maintain steady breathing. Missing that meal isn’t working in my favor. Should have eaten the lunch in the break room. With destroyed stairs, I’ll need a new way up.
Heavy vibrations approach. Through my blinking eyes, nothing is visible. I haven’t moved, hoping to feign unconsciousness. Air from the hoof gusts through my hair as it stops. As the pincer reaches down, I roll under. It lifts a leg, and I spring to my feet. The slamming hoof misses. It lifts the other, and I cartwheel into a backflip behind the mech before another stamp. Its right leg sticks straight out, rotating its entire body on the left ankle joint. A back handspring dodges the fast-swinging hoof. Then a wide squat dodges the next. I can’t run laps with this thing all night. How can I escape something this size outside?
Dumb ideas arrive fast; measures of survival instinct kicking back in. Armed or not, no one can take an Alpha. Perhaps pretending to escape over the ledge will make it go away? Abandoning logical options, I grab a broken metal step and sprint toward the slope. Severe vibrations rock the prison as the mech follows, firing more rounds. I hop off the ledge and swing the stair under myself, riding the slope like a sled on snow. Behind me, the Alpha storms out in pursuit – a clear underestimation by how it attempts to catch itself. It stumbles into an uncontrollable barrel, and fragments of mech begin breaking off, falling in the only direction gravity will allow.
Hands gripped at the step’s sides, I tilt and shift, trying my best to avoid huge chunks of scrap. Enormous pieces fall all around me. Dodging with my actual body becomes a necessity. The slope is coming to an end, and the mech digs pincers and hooves into the concrete, now gouging chunks of rock, but only slowing itself a little. If I don’t slow down, I’ll plummet to my death. I shift my step, attempting to brake, but it’s not working. But the wildly digging mech is doing no better, with parts just too smooth to get a grip. I leverage upward like I’m surfing and dive toward the mech, landing on its foot and desperately climb to reach its head. The mech’s feet reach the edge first, gradually sliding off. I clutch one of the thick wires connected to its leg, holding myself in place. Somehow it seems wedged on the ledge, and I am left dangling from the wire. Science doesn’t have to tell me we’re going over any second. The Alpha has no fingers to maintain a steady grip, and its pincers are inching. I gaze below, like an idiot, at my stupid choice’s result. The slope becomes a drop of about eight hundred feet into a small outreach of concrete. We did not appear this high from the top. I instantly regret this decision.
Instead of hoping for wind to blow us up, I climb toward the ledge where my life would be in my own hands. On its back, before I can jump, the Alpha loses what little hold it had. We sink fast. The mech is wall carving and digging to slow itself; thriving, until a hoof gets caught and falls away. Harsh wind breaks against my back. The Alpha is rotating slow enough for me to worry. On the wrong side of the enormous beast, I’m about to become a pancake in seconds. Hanging on for dear life, we continue to rotate backward. Then we are into a dive, picking up speed. Almost reaching a belly flop, the Alpha smashes on its chest plate. An awkward landing bashes my head into the mech’s back, and I tumble up and off. Darkness temporarily replaces my vision. Returning just in time to bounce off the mech’s arm, and I hit the concrete on my side, instantly losing sight again.
* * *
Sounds of sparking wires wake me. I need to lie still for a moment, make an effort to regain full focus and consciousness. With my vision clearing, I’m lying on my back facing the sunset. I can’t have been unconscious for too long, because the sun is still setting; a single shade darker than earlier. I try to sit up, ceasing with a cringe at the throbbing ache from my left arm. It took a bad hit when I crashed, and a multicolored scrape covers the same shoulder. A mixture of blue from the cloth, my pale skin, dirt, and light blood. I don’t think my arm isn’t broken, and the ache is… bearable. I use both arms to sit, and a tickle on my forehead, that feels like thickened sweat, attracts attention. I wipe the back of my hand across. Blood, but not much. It’s going to be dark soon.
Gharis lights up like a beacon at night. On such flat land, anyone can find it from a hundred miles. That was the intended logic; come one, come all. Not arriving tonight isn’t an issue. I’m more concerned with lack of nourishment. A twenty-seven-mile journey through desert with no food or water. I refuse to make the headline:
“Woman Dies of Starvation, After Fantastic
Prison Escape and Besting Alpha! Ha-ha!”
Someone will investigate. A vehicle and hijack possibility. Also possible is an escort of prison guards or Regulators arriving to search for the winner. Underwhelming odds. The broken Alpha is sparking. Down, but maybe not out? If I can get it active, using it would be a faster way to reach Gharis alive. I start by inspecting the damage; horrible condition, more than just a few screws got knocked loose during the tumble and chest plate plummet. Luckily, it didn’t land on its back where the circuit panel is. Don’t see myself rolling this boulder over to gain access. In this heat, anyone would faint at the initial push. Wouldn’t stop my attempt, though. I stretch to work out my own body’s kinks first. Then mount for repair labor.
Smuggling days, as a Runner, granted some wiring experience. I can’t imagine this being any harder than hot-wiring a vehicle. Simply pair things together until it results in sparks. It’s mostly survival instincts. Of course, vehicles don’t have weapon systems and kill orders, but it won’t all be strange. I trace wires to the areas I’d prefer to function, keeping locations in mind. Rip burned wires. Disconnect a huddle of wires from what I believe is the tracking and targeting system. Reroute to replace damaged ones. I use my last good wire to power the green circuit board and conclude with the remaining couple. Toggle every switch from left to right to left. Finished.
The Alpha automatically powers on, springing to its feet and throwing me off. I hit the ground hard, winded again, taking a defensive stance in recovery. The fall has me broken, but I can’t recuperate while confronted. The mech spins around and points its left and right weapons at my face. No dodging that. I unleash a deep sigh. The targeting repair didn’t work, so to speak. I don’t have the firepower to battle this thing head on – no one does. I gradually raise my hands just above my head until another terrible plan emerges. It won’t take excessive action during a surrender. Calculating current conditions of the threat—me—shouldn’t trigger a response. It starts circling to my left; assessing and analyzing. I don’t make any sudden moves, not even with my eyes watching the machine. Losing peripheral sighting, I tilt my head a touch, focusing my ears on its movement. Zzz psh, pause, Zzz psh, pause, Zzz psh, pause. Thus, concludes a full circle, as it returns to the exact initial step. Complete assessment. Analysis. My eyeballs raise, curious as if its acute shaped head could change expression and provide positive or negative feedback. Accepting of the minor headache caused by lifting my brows too high, I watch as it faces right – away from the sun. A panel on its leg slides up to reveal a pulser rifle and pulser pistol. The Alpha stands in place.
I give a loud, dramatic sigh. Opened mouth and chest exhalation purges. The repair worked. It had completed an assessment to check if I was armed or a threat, which I’m not. I approach and grab both weapons, placing the rifle on my back. A cyber strap appears, attaching the weapon to my torso from over my right shoulder and under my left rib, meeting at my chest and fitting together. The ultraviolet colored strap utilizes itself when a weapon is at specific body parts and angles. It detaches when the user reaches and touches the weapon for quick, untangled use. Effective in combat, by comparison to primitive models that hung loosely, dangling the weapon dangerously and freely. Every pulser has one, able to toggle a cloak for tactical purposes upon connection. I place the pistol on my thigh and deactivate both ultraviolet glows by simply tapping the strap.
The mech places a pincer forward. Handshake goodbye? Does it know I need a ride? I approach. It lowers the pincer to my feet, and I board, walking toward its shoulder. Being raised at its waist, I climb and take a seat next to its head. Can it comprehend verbal instruction?
I delay a command, “Gharis… City?”
The Alpha begins a rapid walk across the open gap. It’s concrete for about sixty feet from the prison wall, sprinkled with gradients of blown desert, then becomes the full entree. This is going to be a long ride. I know for certain Alphas can’t return communication, but others can. The Alpha is the more deadly of two, and the overall soldier of the four mech classes. Half an hour out of prison, and my first ally is the most dangerous creation in New World existence; for now, a travel ticket. Who knows what else could be done with this thing? Says a lot about my character. Questions and a problem will arise, marching to the southern gate perched on an Alpha mech’s shoulder. I’d have to ditch it beforehand.
“Can we go any faster?”
The Alpha excels past the request of just faster. I brace tight, almost falling during the speed boost. Gripping the shoulder plate with both hands, I pin myself to it. Face beaten by the breeze, forces the tightest possible squint, barely able to see where we’re going. Brushing through desert sands quick enough to kick up whirlwinds, I patrol our surroundings.
Eyes widen, relaxing at the prison. A faint shine is over the roof, higher than I was. Glistening like sunshine on a rippling ocean, it seems unstable, moving and getting brighter? The light shifts sideways, unmasking an attack helicopter swinging hastily in our direction. I doubt it’s ironic. A bad situation already appearing where it’s not wanted.
“We’ve got company!”
Its head spins completely backward, not skipping a beat as it sprints on. The helicopter nears, suddenly spouting artillery from above. Dangerous tubes that go boom. The Alpha makes evasive maneuvers against the incoming missiles that keep up with us at a turning pace. Guidance systems collaborating. Could it be tailing heat signature? Armaments in a mech like this produce plenty. Alphas have no proper seating in the event of a bumpy ride, or tense situation with missiles exploding in close proximity. I concentrate forward and spot a distant grove left of Gharis City’s southern road. I’ve been through it enough times to memorize how to get lost there, but it’s not close enough yet for worry to vanish.
“We can try losing them in the grove!”
As it won’t fit, by we, I mean me. Likely at maximum capacity, the Alpha maintains speed. The helicopter pilot is desperate, shooting gunpowder bullets and missiles in unison. I drop forward and cling onto the damaged chest plate. It can’t avoid the aerial assault with a visitor hanging on, clutching me with supportive pincers. Loads of piercing bullets and a couple of missiles make contact, resulting in a drastic speed decline. I feel the heat. The Alpha is critical. Struggling to maintain the run, and extremely close to the grove. My only means of helping are heat rounds; more lethal than shock. New-tech rifles and pistols use both in smaller doses, compared to the Alpha, as not to be fatal. Heat ceases bleeding, external and internal, by burn., intended to immobilize, preserving a target’s life. Dialing back, the helicopter fires another missile.
“We got one more incoming!”
Another hit, and the blast could kill me. Even if I survive, a run from here without getting cut off doesn’t seem possible. Would an attempt to detonate the missile do any good? I’m not using gunpowder bullets, but heat rounds may suffice against the outer shell. Oozing a spiraling smoke trail in passing, the missile is rapidly closing in.
I release one hand from the chest plate, and firmly clutch tighter with the other, equip the rifle and aim over the Alpha’s shoulder. Resting for controlled spray, but incapable of steadying with the rhythmic bouncing, I tug the trigger. Small heat rounds purge the barrel. Thanks to the necessary galloping, my accuracy is off. Multiple punctures do nothing. Too close for comfort, an urge to bail advances. Then the missile explodes. Success brightens the dim sky and my day, blending with the sunset until black smoke expels into an expanding circle.
Excitement oozes from me, “Yes!”
The explosion blocks the sky between us and the helicopter. Sucking the dark cloud’s center inward, a second missile punches through. My defense is pointless against an unavoidable impact. Only yards from the grove, I will have to run regardless.
The Alpha scoots a pincer under me and springs forward, shooting me out at the sea of trees. The force of the push causing dizziness, and I feel the rifle depart my hand. The tearing wind rushes past, deafening me to the explosion in my eyes. I soar between grove trees and hit the ground, tumbling wildly over the grass, at risk of breaking bones. Perception resumes with bad timing, as my body abruptly stops when my back hits a tree. It’s so hard my ears articulate the sound. So loud, I can’t hear the painful exhalation. Am I broken in half?
Ahead, the fire-wrecked Alpha glows. Far enough away to not spark a bigger fire, but close enough to be beautiful. Not shattered into tiny pieces, but unsalvageable for my continued use, and not going anywhere by itself. Alphas are nearly impossible to destroy, perhaps being the first recorded in history. If not carrying a passenger, that attack helicopter wouldn’t have stood a chance. It buzzes away, slashing through the air high above. Giving up so easily? Do they believe the explosion engulfed me? Deceived behind the smoke cloud, where naked eyes didn’t witness the throw.
Now I have to walk. Bummer. Once the noisy helicopter fades into silence, I take a moment to recover, dusting down the thin, distressed bodysuit. Feeling a pulsated back ache and trying to ease the tension with light massage, a transfer of hurt spreads body wide.
Fight it, you’re too disobedient.
Eventually, Regs will arrive to examine the wreckage for my corpse. A good idea to be much farther away when they do. I limp through the grove toward Gharis City’s dome.
Avery Nunez 