CHAPTER 11

Alon Blane and the Syndicate have more work on their hands than getting to the low orbit station. For starters, trouble at takeoff is only the start of their problems. They need to keep these strikers aloft long enough to reach orbit successfully. Near the takeoff and loading dock for a group of mangled strikers abandoned years ago, Alon and a group of nomadic vagabonds huddle themselves together to find solutions. The vagabonds are from a local tribe of beta-testers. Their mangled bodies are a result of generations where operations by the Third Reich were used to torment their extremities, creating distorted physiques and overly bowed legs that put constraints on their movements, especially while walking. Their gaits create a wobble from head to toe.

"Can I get a little help over here?" Alon calls to a hoard of b-testers at the outer edge of the barren crop circle. Its circular boundary encases the striker launchpad.

One of the b-testers lifts their head rapidly from hunched shoulders, her stature leaves a vague image in the distance of a stout woman, too short to call herself normal. To Alon, she is submerged up to her chest as heat waves create the illusion of water flowing along the crusted pavement. For once, the rain has subsided. Though days like these are hot as ever.

"I'll need another batch of Remold's oil, this way!" Alon's yells mask his apprehension, the fact that he can't get the engines to burn at full capacity. Strikers like these missed the next generation's upgrade, nuclear fusion raging hot as the sun.

If the lead gauge doesn't hit at least 90 percent on the scale, then the strikers' engines won't be able to thrust themselves into low Earth orbit. The construction workers toiling away at an early Fortress Shield may block their move if Alon and his Syndicate crew don't evade the crowded space of laborers and tools. In no time, one of the b-tester vagabonds from an adjacent village meanders toward the hub at the center of the crop circle's launchpad. Here, three strikers wait for the sequence when they can launch at the precise point their linear coordinates have calculated. The striker gauges suffice in doing that for them automatically after they determine the course toward the Mirai station.

"Here it is, ya' oil Blane. Say, can we catch a ride with you up there?"

Alon is cautious. "I'm going to have to pass on that," he says.

The female b-tester grabs hold of her ankles in a low bend before rising again, letting her dingy hair cover her face before turning around to meet Alon after a nice stretch. The dust settles somewhere ahead of her. Just then, a group of Alon's partners in the Syndicate make way toward the three strikers. Two seats in each cockpit, a front dash, and another behind wait for them. If there's anything they fear most, it's being attacked by Mirai security forces in low Earth orbit.

Alon turns toward the other five of his partners to reveal a tool of his, something he's been using since his father passed years ago. An astrology chart for the stars and zodiac. The Mirai don't believe in folktales anymore, but Alon insists that there's some truth to them. Myth has it that the Mirai are shapeshifters, and Overseers like the Grey Order themselves can mimic the figures they see in constellations Greeks and Romans worshiped, where a pantheon of Gods live. These are the stories, rumors that inspired Alon Blane.

"It will be good luck for us," Blane declares, determined to provide some solace to counteract the worry. There hasn't been a legitimate rebellion in decades, though if Alon can manage to keep track of stars' coordinates, he may be able to follow in the footsteps of starship Nemesis. The last of these rebellions failed miserably and the memory of it is startling. After hopping into the lead cockpit, Alon Blane decides to roll at a steady pace at the edge of the crop circle before gaining speed, forgetting about any discussions distracting him from the mission. The others follow his lead. Finally, the area is safe for takeoff, as the outer edges are at a steep angle that assists their launch. The slight curvature of the launchpad will assist strikers' takeoff from the circular runway. Because of its unique design, takeoffs from the runway leave less room for catastrophic error than a long, straight one would have.

Getting their striker gauges to hit 90 percent happens after approximately a minute of acceleration. One striker after another rises from the launchpad and in a matter of minutes, the b-tester vagabonds cover their eyes when profuse amounts of dust ram their faces with small pebbles darting through the air like pellets as the strikers' engines blow dirt their way.

"What we need, is a distraction before being ambushed," Alon says through the speaker system.

There is a massive Fortress Shield being built in low orbit to repair the atmosphere of Earth's eroding ozone layer. As they gain speed and the horizon bends in the distance, the darkness of low orbit beckons them to move quickly past the pull of gravity into space. The two following strikers ready themselves to draft past Alon when he breaks speed. In a swift blow by ahead, they create the illusion of a large Mirai tanker when they break Earth's outermost atmosphere. The clumping of the three strikers in the distance makes it look like a single, large transport ship. This should give them a slight advantage as they pass Fortress Shield construction, so suspicions don't startle workers slogging away. With little to worry about in the first place, now they recognize there's no security at the border and the sight of vagabond workers becomes more enticing. Distractions like these can deter Alon and the strikers from making it to the Grey Order station successfully.

"I'm sure they were probably glad to see us!" a fellow Syndicate crewmember calls into his radio mouthpiece.

"Yeah," Alon responds. "I'm sure they were. They're always ready for a shipment." Luckily, they were able to pass the initial barrier of construction, breaking the shade of behemoth metal walls to catch the light of a glowing sun.

Alon Blane is eager to catch up with the other strikers now that they are reaching a docking area farther out. It is nearer to the moon than they expected. The Mirai transport shop, however, is declared a reserve station for The Concord Greys.

There is no hiding their form now. If Alon and his group of strikers want to make it inside, they will have to declare themselves members of the Mirai squadron somehow. That is if they are spotted.

"Wait!" Alon has a sudden epiphany. "We need something. Anything to prove our identities."

"I thought we were going in for the kill!" A squadron wingman yells through the speaker.

Alon is unfazed. "I bet you did".

The only thing that stands in their way of hijacking a starship like the Nemesis is being captured by lookouts of the Grey Order. Remembering the construction workers, Alon comes up with another miraculous plan. The laborers in low Earth orbit can let them borrow construction suits. All they'll have to do then is simply change into uniform at the docking station, or before they reach the HQ. Alon does not need to hide their identities now, in fact, it may be better to let the guys in on their little scheme.

"Go ahead, but we will burn more fuel than necessary, time is precious." A Syndicate wingman reminds him. But Alon's already on his way back, parking at the Fortress Shield to ask for a quick favor.

His radio transmission is not too good, though he manages to catch the signal of the lead foreman. Luckily for them, their dilapidated electronics aren't monitored.

"I'll need some tops and bottoms, for six. This is urgent!"

"This isn't a fast-food service. Wait, the Syndicate?" The construction worker hangs in the balance while the weightlessness of space sways him. "Only if you hold your end of the bargain," the foreman finishes through crackled disturbance. Remold notified him of this beforehand, but he never thought Alon and his friends could muster the courage to fly the strikers.

Blane promised Remold that he would send back teleportation modules or activate old ones to help transport items back and forth from space to Earth as payment for the help. It isn't as if the workers don't want to rebel either. They do, but not at the cost of their livelihood. Alon assures them that he will stick by his word, in time.

"Hurry on back, scout!" A Syndicate squadron member calls to Blane. It is Alon's younger brother Ozzie. Dragging his brother into it has only complicated matters now that his family is tied to the fight. Alon is the only older example that Ozzie has got now since being away from the labor camps.

The Mirai docking station opens automatically to let them in, and after awkwardly landing their strikers, not a single guard is in sight.

"We almost ran out of fuel out there," one of the six says. Sweat pours from his forehead in bulky droplets that bead over the dingy compression suit. They can't wait to remove them, well, now that there's probably no seeing home. They decide to separate. It's the only way to confuse the Mirai guards. If only they could locate the control panel from where they are, but what are the odds? Alon Blane is convinced that he and his brother should stick together as co-pilots.

The other four gather their things and head toward one door at a far corner. With little firepower, they will have to muster enough strength to fend of Mirai guards any way they can. When Alon arrives at a nearby door himself, he recognizes that it is sealed shut at the edges, without a handle in sight.

"Damn Mirai," Alon blurts out. "Too smart for door handles, I suppose."

But just when they think they've gotten away clean, the alarm sounds and they hear stampeding feet heard from the other end of the door, coming their way fast.

"Oh no! They must have spotted us," a pilot says, discouraged by their disguise.

They make a break for it in opposite directions. The open hallways run along the outer edges of the station, with no way to cut through. The Syndicate squadron will not be able to stay with one another, and Alon, his brother Ozzie, and the other striker pilots dash toward opposing hallways. Alon and his brother, get stumped when the door without handles don't budge, either.

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Alon's and Ozzie's capture sounds off another alarm that there is a live heist happening at the Grey Order's main base. It isn't long before the two are finally caught on camera hopping a Mirai transport ship, claiming to be vagabond mechanics. Neither of them managed to change into uniform either, though the other four pilots make a swift getaway down the opposite hallway. When Alon and his brother are finally accosted, instinct tells them to run toward the nearest exit. There's only one problem: the exit disappears. The strikers that Remold helped fuel also remain idle after returning to the landing station where a faint growl hums in the distance. Taking no chances, the Mirai normally execute trespassers like these but decide against it to retrieve more information.

As Blane gets tugged on each end by Grey Order security, he is able to make emergency contact with other Syndicate members through a tracking device in his boot that he manages to activate when the Mirai are not looking, hoping his rescuers can get to the Mirai station. They need saving and someway, somehow, the Syndicate is poised to overrun the Mirai base with the goal of striking it rich. To do that, they will have to escape the clutches of their captors. Not to mention what they promised Remold, who is holding mineral mining contracts at the edge of the rocky asteroid belt, too. His workers are hard-pressed in keeping secrets when they must communicate with others outside the boundary. Though there is one guarantee that Alon promised Remold, the teleportation module, that is the most important thing to acquire.

"Gereon is a pig!" Alon yells.

Gereon has made himself famous over the past few centuries. It only takes a few slaps to the gut that reminds Alon who's in charge as the visceral anger engulfs him in sweat and tears.

The strikers are idle, but to Alon's surprise, he hears the indistinct hum of their reactors charging again. He can hardly believe the sound of it, but the artificial tracking mechanism is calling the strikers back to Earth with an automated signal. Perhaps they'll be freed from capture after all. On Earth, the distillery owner Remold is reminded of Alon's exuberance and knows that the Mirai aren't that gullible to be attacked so easily. He's sending reinforcements along with freshly filled tanks full of gas.

Shackled at their wrist and ankles by a plasma lock, the Mirai guard cannot stand Alon or his brother's stench of vagabond trash. "Still listening to your horrid folktales. These Babylonian tales need to be annihilated, but what can we do to free you from your madness?"

Alon is unfazed, still clinching tight to the religious almanac in a cargo pant pocket. "It's not madness, but a sincere depiction of the tyranny that will break us free, eventually.

"There will be no uprising! Hoarding the power of hybrids for ourselves is true prophecy, not your kind, and it is necessary. The strike on our rival, the Yhemlen, is nearing the final hour. And I want you to watch it burn because you'll be next."

"You're the real criminals," Alon whines in humiliation. For him, the humans back home, however much disfigured, are the superior group. What they have Alon sees as pure humanity, unlike the charade of genetic engineering that has mutilated what the Mirai could have been. It is the Overseers that abhor everything good.

"It seems that you've timed the orbit of the docking station perfectly", the Mirai guard declares. "The most outlandish act of deplorability to date. Laundering herbs and spices! Laughable... and besides, this petty money laundering is outdated, and you too."

Alon is outraged. "Our commodity is agriculture. The Jerusalem vagabond caste till the land in internment camps on Earth, where the food is sparse, and we must give it all away to you who squander our lives' work. We aren't rebel smugglers, but the true heroes, of this... society!" he's trampled to the floor as his younger brother looks on.

"Dirty Gypsies! All you've done is commit petty food fraud. Trivial smuggling will pose no danger to us."

The gypsies say that Alon Blane could be their saving grace to avoid annihilation by the Mirai, who want them exterminated, and possibly siphon some of the hybrid shapeshifting power away from the Grey Order. It has been many years since the beginning of a smuggling trade whose vegetation from farmsteads is constantly sifted through in search of the lauded power stones that can crystallize in mysterious places. The Syndicate thinks it is about time for this vagabond prophecy to be proven to the people.

The business model of smugglers is cleverly constructed to avoid capture. That is its moral or ethical imperative these days to keep the castes separate. They use similar traffic routes of Mirai transport ships, but The Concord underestimates their acumen. They have been circumventing the food supply chain and lacing stock with unmitigated spices and herbs that cannot be detected by their normal recognition software. Though for now, the Mirai have other things of importance to attend to, like big-timer Plebeian, or their latest hire, the bounty hunter Xavier Moth.

Plebeian was one of the first responders to the death of a woman with a debilitating stomach ulcer on Earth. The pressure on her disfigured abdomen eventually exploded and inside the cells of her blood, was material of power stones left over from the Yhemlen timeline that had not fully crystallized. Xavier Moth took on the powers, and the power stones became embedded into a radioactive device implanted on his chest. A glistening, black formation of round crystals. As a result, Xavier Moth transforms through a ravenous lust allowing him to destroy his enemies. Yet, without the aid of other Overseers, he cannot assemble the full power of the zodiac dragon.

He is not alone, Gereon and others from the Grey Order keep the remaining power stones away from the Yhemlen and Vagabonds concealed. Gereon's chest has intricate electromagnetic divots lined into his skin, igniting his suit in a vigorous chemical reaction. But still, only the Yhemlen can assemble the power of the dragon when united at full strength. The Grey Order, on the other hand, was not fortunate enough to be endowed with enough power stones. If enough of the same cosmic energy makes its way into the right hands of humans, the power of the dragon will be unleashed again.

On Earth, Bartram worries over the future predicament that will stem from his blunder at Delphi Corp. Cars with CCS navigation begin to emit random, unrecognizable noises. Over the airwaves, communication with some otherworldly civilization is heard through their speakers. Of course, no one knows where the sounds are coming from and most conclude that it is just another Delphi stunt to receive publicity considering what has gone on already. Delphi Corp. is losing consumer trust. In the eyes of the public, Bartram's seemingly infallible genius thrives on what he has already made, instead of looking at current trends.

Delphi Corp. bio-enhancements like the wrist underlay are beginning to give their users delusions. As the Wall gets closer to cosmic web interference, computer processors are affecting biology itself. Yasmine hasn't been seen for almost the same amount of time as Bartram. The scene when each of them returns is horrendous. Dr. Naoto Shimizu's murder is all over the news and across the country, national uproar finally ensues. The end of Capricorn is still weeks away, and for now, everyone is stuck in that callous 10th Sector which means more horrors await them. This is the last straw for the federal authorities who threaten to close the doors of Delphi Corp., only this time, permanently.

Behind yellow tape wrapped across the major avenues at Columbia Heights, the only thing that maintains peace is a careful patrol by the National Guard. These heavily armed military squadrons patrol the area approximately three blocks from where protests began. Running from one place to another with her heavy job duties, Yasmine clanks uncomfortable heels before throwing them away for socks inside Delphi Corp. Headquarters.

"Where's Ellis? Ellis!" Across the halls of the Delphi Corp. building that has been overtaken by investigators, swarms of employees are interviewed while others leave.

Yasmine turns a few corners until finally reaching a sign that says, "Do Not Enter". And at the far end of this hallway is Bartram, sitting on the marble floor where the sparkling tiles carry his weight along a white painted wall. He looks at the blood on the floor that's seeping across the door frame, where AIS Aladdin murdered his own programmer enraged. Ellis is waiting for the cleanup where he bled to death.

Ignoring demands, Yasmine bends to cross the warning from underneath. Passing the barrier of more yellow tape, an investigator from the FBI yells at her to stop right there where she is.

"You, stop! Go back," he demands.

"I need to talk to him."

"We will give you a chance to speak, stay across that line, that is an order."