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Authors: Nick Pollotta
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wooden floor. The student team dropped into a defensive formation and waited for the expected attack.
"This is an Alpha One Emergency,” Burton intoned. “This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill! Cancel command Egress."
"Barnum,” Ken Saunders answered, giving the acknowledgement code. “What's the situation, sir?"
"Steve McQueen,” the professor replied.
Her face bisected by the edge of the screen, Katrina Sommers gasped. “A great escape?"
"No, my dear,” Sir Reginald primly, taking a pinch of snuff. “Papillion is a mass escape."
"Papillion is a single escape, fool!” Patricia snapped rudely. The gypsy turned to directly face the hidden video camera. Now how did she know where it was? “What are your orders, Prof. Burton?"
"Hit the arms locker,” the professor ordered. “Take every weapon you can carry. Hell House has been deactivated. Git!"
They got. Fast.
"How long till the prisoners break out of the hut?” I asked, as the professor clicked a switch and the theatre screen darkened to its former featureless silvery white.
Burton glanced at her wrist and a watch appeared. “Roughly six minutes. I only hope Warden Lapin and the warehouse can hold'em. I'm calling Gordon at HQ, alerting General McAdams and the Phoenix Team, activating the nuclear fail-safe and moving the exit portal."
"To where?” Jessica asked, then added. “Here?"
"Yes,” the professor said gesturing at the floor. “Right here in this room."
Reaching out, I touched her arm. “Sir, we are yours to command."
The professor nodded. “Great. Get out of this booth and stay out of my way. Don't let anything into this building, and pray."
"Done."
Always in a rush, Mindy was already dashing down the colonnade. “Come on, folks! Let's strip the van and get ready for a siege!"
"Wait!” I shouted, reaching for my wallet. Rummaging about in the leather fold, I unearthed a small plastic envelope and ripped it open to offer a single orange pill to every member of my team. As each swallowed, they blurred out of vision and departed moving at quadruple normal speed.
Now we had twenty-four minutes, and counting.
* * * *
In a shower of glass, our RV bounded into the lobby of Base Command and screeched to a halt on the smooth terrazzo floor in front of the reception desk. The unflappable Mrs. Cunningham didn't blink an eye at our superspeed intrusion. At a snail's pace, she was throwing switches on an angled control board next to a hooded monitor. Steel shutters leisurely rumbled into position over the door and gaping hole where the front window had just been located, sealing us inside.
Grinding gears, I moved the RV further into the lobby. Chipping paint and plaster off the walls, I maneuvered its tail into a hallway intersection so that the missile pod on the roof of the van could have a clear field of fire at the front, back and side doors.
Going to a supply locker in the RV, Jessica began tossing out bits and pieces of bodyarmor, while George and Mindy carried out the weapons locker and ammo trunk. The trunk had been bolted to the floor, but Ms. Jennings indestructible sword made short work of that minor obstruction.
My team was already wearing torso armor, molded to our individual contours. But this was no time for half way measures, so we also strapped steel greaves on our shins and thighs, titanium vanbraces to our arms, added a magical zero-weight flak jacket over our personnel armor and topped off the arrangement with a Bureau 13 combat helmet.
Absolutely SOTA for at least another week, the helmet provided full head coverage, was proof against a .50 AP round, and 20,000 volts of electricity. They also had built-in scrambled radios linked together and the visors were shatterproof, infrared sensitive and Kirlian positive. They even came with a Killjoy sensor that made the helmets violently explode if fully inserted into anything's mouth. Better dead than dinner, I always say.
Just then a squad of people in similar
"This is an Alpha One Emergency,” Burton intoned. “This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill! Cancel command Egress."
"Barnum,” Ken Saunders answered, giving the acknowledgement code. “What's the situation, sir?"
"Steve McQueen,” the professor replied.
Her face bisected by the edge of the screen, Katrina Sommers gasped. “A great escape?"
"No, my dear,” Sir Reginald primly, taking a pinch of snuff. “Papillion is a mass escape."
"Papillion is a single escape, fool!” Patricia snapped rudely. The gypsy turned to directly face the hidden video camera. Now how did she know where it was? “What are your orders, Prof. Burton?"
"Hit the arms locker,” the professor ordered. “Take every weapon you can carry. Hell House has been deactivated. Git!"
They got. Fast.
"How long till the prisoners break out of the hut?” I asked, as the professor clicked a switch and the theatre screen darkened to its former featureless silvery white.
Burton glanced at her wrist and a watch appeared. “Roughly six minutes. I only hope Warden Lapin and the warehouse can hold'em. I'm calling Gordon at HQ, alerting General McAdams and the Phoenix Team, activating the nuclear fail-safe and moving the exit portal."
"To where?” Jessica asked, then added. “Here?"
"Yes,” the professor said gesturing at the floor. “Right here in this room."
Reaching out, I touched her arm. “Sir, we are yours to command."
The professor nodded. “Great. Get out of this booth and stay out of my way. Don't let anything into this building, and pray."
"Done."
Always in a rush, Mindy was already dashing down the colonnade. “Come on, folks! Let's strip the van and get ready for a siege!"
"Wait!” I shouted, reaching for my wallet. Rummaging about in the leather fold, I unearthed a small plastic envelope and ripped it open to offer a single orange pill to every member of my team. As each swallowed, they blurred out of vision and departed moving at quadruple normal speed.
Now we had twenty-four minutes, and counting.
* * * *
In a shower of glass, our RV bounded into the lobby of Base Command and screeched to a halt on the smooth terrazzo floor in front of the reception desk. The unflappable Mrs. Cunningham didn't blink an eye at our superspeed intrusion. At a snail's pace, she was throwing switches on an angled control board next to a hooded monitor. Steel shutters leisurely rumbled into position over the door and gaping hole where the front window had just been located, sealing us inside.
Grinding gears, I moved the RV further into the lobby. Chipping paint and plaster off the walls, I maneuvered its tail into a hallway intersection so that the missile pod on the roof of the van could have a clear field of fire at the front, back and side doors.
Going to a supply locker in the RV, Jessica began tossing out bits and pieces of bodyarmor, while George and Mindy carried out the weapons locker and ammo trunk. The trunk had been bolted to the floor, but Ms. Jennings indestructible sword made short work of that minor obstruction.
My team was already wearing torso armor, molded to our individual contours. But this was no time for half way measures, so we also strapped steel greaves on our shins and thighs, titanium vanbraces to our arms, added a magical zero-weight flak jacket over our personnel armor and topped off the arrangement with a Bureau 13 combat helmet.
Absolutely SOTA for at least another week, the helmet provided full head coverage, was proof against a .50 AP round, and 20,000 volts of electricity. They also had built-in scrambled radios linked together and the visors were shatterproof, infrared sensitive and Kirlian positive. They even came with a Killjoy sensor that made the helmets violently explode if fully inserted into anything's mouth. Better dead than dinner, I always say.
Just then a squad of people in similar
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