Those hotel pancakes were not a good idea. My stomach churns as I crawl through the vents, and it's all I can do not to vomit.
I had greatly overestimated the quality of online-bought clothes, and with every inch I move, I feel a stitch in my jacket come loose. The protein bars and cleaver stashed in my pockets jostle loudly, but I keep moving. The docking bay is abuzz with life, possibly more crowded than it was when I arrived. Any noise I make is consumed by the loud whirring air vents, and the chatter of travelers below.
It takes half an hour before I reach the opening I'm looking for. My movements are clumsy, discombobulated as I peer through the vent slits. Cool air pushes past my hair, and despite my layers I start to shiver.
I'm an entire hour early, the ship isn't scheduled to arrive until five in the morning at the earliest. But the private gate I'm situated over is anything but empty. Several mid-sized ships are already docked, men hauling large crates off their ships.
I lower my head to get a better look at the ships. None look like the Vessel, nor do any of the men resemble the grainy image of Elias.
One man, however, does catch my interest. While the others hurry back and forth from the ships, he sits in one of the lobby armchairs. The man is old, white lines marring his already unpleasant looking face. Four burly men surround him, their shoulders tense, and hands on their blasters.
After another few minutes of waiting, I pull out a protein bar. Despite my nausea, I force myself to eat. The red indicator on my vitals stops flashing, and my blood sugar rises to normal levels after my third bar. If tonight turns into a confrontation, I'll need more than an MRE packet and pancake.
I'm just finishing my fifth bar when an unmistakable hum starts from below. The men below notice it the same moment I do, and the man on the coach stiffens. From my vantage point, I can only see the opening of their airlock, which seems to be at least five times the size of my pod alone.
Air hisses, disinfectant gas and pressure releasing from the latch as the doors rotate down into a ramp.
And then I see him.
He descends the ramp, gloved hands clasped behind his back as he says something to the older man I can't hear.
The older man stiffens even more, rising to his feet to meet him. Then he stops dead in his tracks, eyes locked on whatever is coming out of the Vessel behind Elias.
My eyes travel to where he's looking, and I freeze.
A missile the size of five crates combined rolls out, carried by two men behind him. The markings on the missile are plain, minimalistic. Yet I recognize the build and markings. It's a missile nuke. Made of antimatter, more antimatter than I've ever seen in my life.
"Is it big enough for you, Blanc?" This time, Elias' voice is loud enough for me to hear, and I wish I hadn't. His voice is soft, smooth like calm waters, almost calming in its effect. There's an old English lilt to his voice, an accent I can't place to any specific geographical region.
The old man's face has gone completely pale.
"Yes, of course. It's more than enough. Thank you for coming out on such short notice. These will be-"
"Don't flatter yourself, I'm not here for you," is Elias' clipped reply. One of his men opens one of the crates, and I squint, trying to see the contents.
The crate is filled top to bottom with blasters, organized neatly in foam barriers. Elias's machinery company doesn't sell rovers, rockets, and chips. He sells weapons. Bombs. Nuclear missiles.
YOU ARE READING
Artificial
Romance3.8 billion dollars. That how much it had cost Billionaire Lewis Bronson to create his daughter. 3.8 billion, and decades of research. Nothing about Mirabelle Bronson was a mistake. From the exact HEX number of her hair, eyes, and skin, to the wire...
