Between

Chapter Eighteen

HMUC Sanctioned CO2 Conversion farm, "Scrub" #9, Mid-Eastern Coast of Corzibar

Wren paced in the bunkhouse, waiting.

It had been several hours since Stimson had left her there, and she was surprised but slightly unnerved that no other guards had visited the dwelling. She'd been successful enough in intriguing Stimson that he'd fallen for her guise, likely believing he would be permitted to take liberties she had no intention of providing to him, and it stood to reason this was behind his lax consideration of any possible ulterior motives his play thing might have. The time for her to make her departure was nearly at hand.

Although she didn't have any practical experience in prison breakouts, Wren knew she had to take the chance.

The new arrivals were still in the Tower, and would likely remain there for several more days following their surgeries. With many of the guards focused on the Tower, and the rest maintaining the working crews in the sloughs, the bunkhouses appeared to be less of a concern. She was waiting for nightfall to make her run for the perimeter fence. Glancing out one of the tiny windows in a last check for any unwelcome visitors, Wren then made her way to the guards' bunk and wrestled an extra uniform from one of the drawers there.

It didn't take long for her to climb into it, but it was quite large and ill-fitting. The mask, especially, was difficult to align well enough so that she could see, but she had no choice. She had to wear it, or risk discovery.

With the Directorate garb on and the sky finally having shifted into darkness, Wren stood in front of the door for a moment, gathering her nerves. In spite of the presence of the uniforms, the Directorate seemed quite careful about leaving any extra weapons laying around, so she wouldn't have the luxury of a method of defense. Weakened though she was by the miserable conditions and poor food she'd been surviving with, Wren would have to rely on only her physical abilities to kick and punch.

She hoped she wouldn't have to rely on it at all, but if she did, she hoped it would be enough.

Sucking in a breath, the hissing of the mask startling her a bit, Wren opened the bunkhouse door and stepped outside.

The fact that she wasn't immediately shot at served as her first moment of 'so far, so good,' and she cast her eyes around until she spotted the dull red lights marking the perimeter fence. It was perhaps half a mile away, but the path appeared clear—for now. Around her, security buoys in the sloughs blinked lazily at her, although they were green instead of red. In the distance, other buoys bore a solid blue—indications that the security features were off because Greenkeepers were working in those sections. She exhaled again to clear her mind and focus on walking.

Just walking.

Every thirty seconds or so, the blinding beam of a spotlight would sweep over the sloughs. She knew from her previous observations that there were watchtowers positioned roughly every thousand feet along the fence from which the great lights emanated. Each watchtower contained one Directorate guard—the one who moved the spotlight and called in any suspicious activity.

Just keep walking. Even if they see you, they'll think you're a soldier. Just keep walking like you have a reason to be walking.

Even in her head, Wren could hear the apprehension and anxiety in her mental words.

About halfway to her destination, a beam swept over her—and then swept back to stop on her form.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Wren raised her arm and made a 'go away' gesture with her hand, hoping the ploy would make her presence there more believable. She forced herself to continue walking.

The beam followed her for what seemed an eternity and then, at last, swung away to leave her in blessed darkness once more. Gasping in relief, Wren began to jog before the guard in the watchtower could second-guess himself and spot her again.

It was perhaps the biggest mistake she could have made.

The strips of raised soil between the sloughs were narrow, at times only twelve inches wide, and Wren's jog had dislodged enough of the soil to slide into the nearest slough. She tripped, lost her balance, and dropped one foot into the shallow, algae-coated muck.

The moment the first of the ripples hit the security buoys, the lights transitioned from green to red, and the alarms began to scream.

All at once, less than a thousand feet from the fence, a swarm of spotlights settled onto the form of the impostor. She had no choice. She had to make a run for it.

Wren Miller bolted, her strides eating the ground and sending more earthy debris sliding into the sloughs. Buoys changed color and wailed, following her as she ran, while the spotlights stayed trained on her from above. Something whizzed by and exploded in the soil to her left, and another splashed harmlessly into a slough just ahead of her and to her right. She ducked instinctively but kept running, the mechanized sound of her gasping for breath through the mask strange but present all the same.

When she hit the concrete platform lining the fence, Wren practically skidded to her right and sprinted parallel to the electricity-charged wires until she saw the first man- gate among them. Ripping the mask off and tossing it aside, the young woman tore uselessly at the padlock and chain winding through the gate and adhering it to the rest of the fence. Desperate, her eyes scanned over the wires to determine if she could crawl between them, as her mental backup plan called for her to try.

But the main feed wires were crosshatched by a series of small, less noticeable wires, and the resulting gaps were far too small for a human to hope to fit between.

Another bullet slammed into the concrete, this time exploding with a hiss and a burst of broken glass.

Wren leapt into motion again, making her way towards another man-gate, only to discover it blocked with an electronic sliding lock. A fourth bullet screamed down at the impostor, and Wren's right ankle collapsed beneath her weight, abruptly shattered, bleeding and useless.

As fluorescent blue began to stain the iridescent white of the Directorate uniform's pant leg, the grim reality of Wren's situation suddenly sprang upon her.

She was injured, quite badly, and she was trapped.