Kwelengsen Dawn: Logan's World, #2

By David M. Kelly

When you lose everything you love, the whole world becomes the enemy.

After his planet was invaded by ruthless Corporate forces, engineer Logan Twofeathers is trapped on Earth by the authorities, who are more afraid of starting a war than helping their people. He may be safe, but many others are still missing.

When security tries to arrest him on trumped-up charges, he must find his own way to return to Kwelengsen.  His only option is to seek out someone from his past--a borderline psychotic, who might just be crazy enough to help.
Now, he must draw on all his strength and resilience as he undertakes a precarious and violent journey into the unknown, with enemies lurking in every shadow. The outlook is bleak, and all he has is his grit and sense of honor. Will that be enough?

The battle is over. But the war is about to begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nemesis Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781777801120

David M. Kelly

David M. Kelly writes intelligent, action-packed science fiction. He is the author of the Joe Ballen series (Mathematics of Eternity and Perimeter) as well as the short story collection Dead Reckoning And Other Stories. Originally from the wild and woolly region of Yorkshire, England, David now lives in wild and rocky Northern Ontario, Canada, with his patient and long-suffering wife, Hilary. He’s passionate about science, especially astronomy and physics, and is a rabid science news follower. When not writing, you can find him driving his own personal starship, a 1991 Corvette ZR-1, or exploring the local hiking trails.

Book preview

One

"Never confuse civility with civilization." — Grandfather Twofeathers

Sweat trickled down Logan's neck and crawled inside the collar of his shirt, the passive cooling in the building not nearly enough to combat the savage heat of a Baltimore summer. The whir of fans droned like a lethargic swarm of insects, stirring the fetid air ineffectually. He shifted position in a plastic chair clearly molded to provide zero comfort, his hands moist against the abrasive surface.

A heavy door to his left swung open. A man in a dark suit emerged, nodded to the secretary at the desk opposite, and hastened toward the exit. Logan jumped to his feet and strode after him.

Mr. Twofeathers! the secretary called after him. I'm afraid Representative Campbell has left for the day.

Logan hurried after Campbell as best he could. Five months since returning from Kwelengsen and his injured leg still bothered him. Campbell was quick, darting through the throng of people bustling around the USP regional offices. The large clock display floating above the main foyer showed three in the afternoon. The representative was apparently looking for an early finish. Despite his limp, Logan's long stride allowed him to close within a couple of meters of Campbell.

Mr. Campbell? he called, as they approached the wide vestibule entrance. I need a word, Representative.

Campbell glanced over his shoulder but didn't stop. I'm sorry, I have an important meeting. Arrange an appointment with my secretary.

Logan's temper snapped, and he tapped Campbell's shoulder. "I've tried. Whenever I ask, I'm told your calendar is full. I've been sitting outside your office every day for over a week, and you will talk to me."

Campbell finally stopped, turning to face him. Who do you think you are? You can't simply accost someone in this manner. Why, I could have you detained. His features twisted into an even more dour expression.

My name is Logan Twofeathers.

Campbell's mouth opened slightly, then closed again. "You're that one. The settlement. Kweleng-something."

I want to know what plans there are to recover the people we had to leave behind. His voice was tight, his chest constricting at the thought of Aurore and the others they'd inadvertently abandoned on Kwelengsen. Everyone tells me I need to talk to the USP. You're the district representative.

That's outside my remit. Campbell squeezed a smile across his narrow face. Take it up with CESA.

I did. They directed me to the World Congress.

Then I suggest you contact them, Mr. Twofeathers. Good day.

Before Campbell could move, Logan grabbed his arm. I've done that too. They told me it was an individual jurisdictional matter and I should contact my USP representative. So here I am.

They were as stationary as rocks in a river, while people swept by like the tumult of a stream flowing around them. Logan released his hold on Campbell, but only after stepping around to block his way out.

This is outrageous. This isn't some backward colony. There are procedures and rules here, Mr. Twofeathers.

I'd rather you didn't use that word. Logan's jaw tightened. We were a settlement, not a colony. And there was nothing backward about how we managed our affairs, or the illegal invasion by Corporate forces.

I've heard of you. You've been causing trouble for quite some time. Campbell's lips were a tight line. Trying to drum up a stink to embarrass the administration. As you are well aware, negotiations with the Corporates over the Urafiki system and Kwelengsen are ongoing. This is a delicate matter. You would be smart to leave it to the professionals and not make further waves. Now, if you don't mind, I have to meet my wife and attend my granddaughter's ballet recital.

So much for the important meeting. Do you love your wife, Mr. Campbell?

Of course I do. What game are you playing now?

I imagine you wouldn't want anything to happen to her.

Is that a threat? Campbell's eyes widened. What have you done to her?

"I haven't done anything. My wife is stuck on Kwelengsen. For all I know she's fighting for her life, or possibly a prisoner being tortured by Corporate soldiers. How would you feel if your wife was in that position?"

Guards! Campbell glanced around. Several people had stopped to watch the quarrel. Security!

Logan looked over to the now-empty security desk. Two burly men in gray-blue uniforms were already pushing through the crowd toward them. I guess I'm not smart.

One guard marched up close, while the other held back, his hand on the grip of his Shock-Wand.

Is there a problem here, Representative?

"This person has assaulted and threatened me and is keeping me from an important appointment."

The security officer looked Logan up and down, as though he were examining a piece of unsightly trash that had blown in off the street. "You can leave now, sir. We'll take care of this gentleman."

You haven't heard my side, said Logan.

The officer sneered. I've heard all I need to. We don't like troublemakers here. Especially noisy boys who think they have a special right to throw their weight around.

Thank you, Jerry. Campbell side-stepped Logan and started toward the wide entrance.

Logan tried to follow, but the security guard blocked him, his name tag flashing in the sunlight coming through the high glass windows.

Officer Bortoft. I've been waiting to speak to Mr. Campbell for a week, this is—

"Well, I guess you're gonna have to wait another week. Bortoft's square face contorted in what was possibly meant to be a smile, but made him look like a bulldog chewing something unpleasant. Behind bars, if you take one more step."

Everything okay, Jerry? The other guard moved closer, hand ready on the Wand.

My dad used to tell me he could sniff out punks from the far side of a room. Think the old guy was part coonhound, you know. Bortoft leaned forward. He was tall, but not enough to look down on Logan. Think I musta inherited it. 'Cos this boy sure smells like a crim to me.

"I'm not your boy, Logan said quietly. If you'll step out of my way, I'll return tomorrow."

You think you can just wander around threatening people?

I didn't threaten anyone. It was a misunderstanding.

The second guard edged closer. You know something, Jerry. This guy looks familiar. I've seen him somewhere before.

Bortoft took a step forward, his chest hitting Logan's and forcing him to stumble back. "Why would that be then, boy? You on the wanted lists? That's the only place Randy might have seen you."

I'm a Kwelengsen refugee. Logan's words were soft. He needed to be careful. Getting locked up would help no one.

Well, really? Bortoft scoffed. Seems we got ourselves a spaceman. Do you believe that, Randy?

Heard every excuse under the sun when I was in the PD. Randy laughed.

Well now, Mr. Spaceman, why don't you jump back on your spaceship and head out to the stars?

Bortoft pulled his Shock-Wand from its clip and butted the tip firmly into Logan's stomach. The wand wasn't activated, though the security guard's thumb hovered over the button.

Logan stood his ground, but his eyes narrowed. I'm not looking for trouble. All I wanted was to talk to the representative.

Too bad, sonny. Randy moved alongside him. 'Cos it found you.

Randy appeared older than Bortoft, and similarly beefy, though his face was turning jowly. Logan spotted a faded BPD shield tattooed on the man's forearm. An Argus microdrone buzzed close, flying around the trio as if looking for the best viewing angle.

I've committed no crime, he said, knowing the drone would be recording them. Nor am I resisting, and as a citizen of the USP, I'd like to leave.

"Thought you were a spaceman?" Bortoft sneered.

We should take him in, Randy said. This guy seems confused. I think he's a full-on bean catcher.

Bortoft cocked his head to one side. That so? You like the old Neo-Nuggets, boy?

I don't do drugs, and I'm displaying no signs of intoxication. If you—

On your knees, Bortoft snarled.

Before Logan could object, he crumpled to the floor as an agony-filled blast ripped through his thighs. Randy had pulled out his Shock-Wand, and whipped it across the back of his legs. He was dimly aware of Randy brandishing his Wand above his head, ready to strike again.

Raising his head, Logan tried to speak, but a searing burn tore through his neck and left shoulder as Bortoft jammed the Wand against his neck and activated it. Logan instinctively lashed out, catching Bortoft in his midriff and sending him sprawling.

Randy's response was slow, perhaps as a result of his greater age, but he stabbed his Wand at Logan's spine in an attempt to subdue him fully. Instead, Logan grabbed the Wand, avoiding the terminals, and tore it from the older guard's grip, sending him tumbling back.

Logan pushed himself up from the ground using the Wand as support, then hobbled toward the door, his legs like rubber after the neural stimulation of the pain receptors.

Stop him! one of the guards called, but he couldn’t identify which. He shook his head to clear the buzzing from the blow to his neck. Luckily, there were no heroes in the crowd, and instead of stopping him, they cleared out of the way as he staggered forward. Several of them screamed as he approached wielding the Shock-Wand.

Outside was quiet, the panic and tension not having spilled from the building yet. The sidewalk was almost empty and reflected the heat back up at him in waves. Logan hurried across the scarred and broken blacktop and climbed the short banking into Patterson Park. The park had been a NeverSee refuge for decades. Hopefully, he could lose himself in the mass of hovels set up by the homeless who'd taken over the area after society failed them.

A thin pall of smoke hovered in the air from numerous small fires. Each trail carried with it the rancid smell of cooking food, like rotten cabbage. A shout sounded behind him, and he ducked left behind one of the larger piles of cardboard. A figure sat cross-legged on the other side, dirty rags and a grimy red hat making it impossible to see them clearly.

Easy, big guy. This is my patch. Red hat gestured wildly at the Shock-Wand. Hey, man. No. Don't want no trouble. Ain't done nothing. Ain't got nothing.

Logan crouched low. Don't worry—only passing through.

Several more shouts carried across the park. The security guards must be rousting the NeverSees, looking for him.

Filth? Red hat grunted. You on the lam?

They're looking for me, yes.

A pair of shiny black eyes flashed amid the greasy hair and rags, then the man reached inside the cardboard hutch and tossed something out. It was a thin blanket, similar to those the red-hatted man was wrapped in. Logan nodded and threw it over him poncho-style. The worn cloth reeked of something unidentifiable and unpleasant, but he was grateful for the offering nevertheless.

Now, beat it, Red hat growled.

Rising to his feet, Logan ambled north toward Butchers Hill, keeping his head bent and hoping not to stand out from the NeverSees. As he moved, he reflected on the contradiction that it was often the people who had the least who were the most generous.

The park was long past its glory days. Most of the grass was gone, leaving large, bare patches of soil mottled with the remains of dead or shriveled trees. What once must have been a pleasant place for family recreation now a dried husk—a fading monument to a life that existed long before the ravages of uncontrolled climate change.

He passed the remnants of a broken-down pavilion, then turned left, heading toward the avenue that skirted the west side of the park, hoping to pick up a bus to take him back to his hotel. As he crossed a wider paved trail, he heard another shout and glanced back—Bortoft had come the same way and spotted him.

Tearing the rag away to make movement easier, Logan ran. Beyond the avenue was a nest of old brick buildings and residential streets offering the possibility of escaping the stubbornly persistent guard. He passed through another cluster of hovels, creating howls and cries of derision.

Behind him, Bortoft screamed for the NeverSees to get out of his way. Logan hastened across the road, slowing as the pain in his leg intensified. It hadn't healed fully since he'd injured it on Kwelengsen. There was the buzz of a Shock-Wand and a sharp yell. He looked back to see Bortoft face down in the dirt, four NeverSees circling him.

One man dropped a fist-sized rock, then grabbed a bunch of items from a nearby hovel and sprinted away. After a few seconds, the others dispersed into the depths of the encampment. Logan limped back to the guard and bent to check him. There was a small amount of blood seeping from an abrasion on Bortoft's scalp, but his pulse was strong. He was in no real danger.

Logan headed down the street opposite and made several random turns, only slowing when his leg threatened to give way underneath him. Once he was far enough from the park to not be immediately associated with any trouble there, he pulled out his Scroll and called an AeroCab company. He hadn't committed any crimes, except annoying callous people puffed up by self-importance, but the Argus evidence would be against him. At least it would show he hadn't hurt the guard. Despite that, he was out of options. The only one left was equal parts deranged, bold, and misguided. But he had no choice.

Two

"Those who live in alleyways have better morals than those who live in palaces."

— Grandfather Twofeathers

This is as far as I go, the driver said, dropping the cab from its cruising altitude toward street level. You sure you want to get out here?

Logan paid the fare and stepped out. The outskirts of Roxbury was a slum area of Baltimore with the reputation of housing the worst of the city's criminal element—a feat all in itself. He'd never been here before but had detailed directions and set out to the north, the buildings increasingly derelict as he walked. With the deterioration in the climate and rising sea levels, much of Baltimore was filthy, but this was a whole new level with every building coated with layer upon layer of dirt, grime, graffiti, and poverty. He imagined future archaeologists scraping away, proclaiming they'd uncovered the twenty-first century level seven destitution stratum.

Following directions from his Scroll, he turned along a back alley. Scuttling sounds teased his ears from the buildings on either side. Possibly rats, but more likely the two-legged variety. Based on the noises, there were at least two people tracking him through the ramshackle buildings that fenced in the grim streets. He took an alley on the left, and a figure dropped in front of him from a makeshift walkway running between buildings four meters up. The gleam of a blade glinted evilly, despite the shadowed light.

Gimme the Scroll and empty ya pockets, the figure ordered. His thick bandanna had been decorated with a green pattern in a former life, so only a pair of dark eyes, and an unkempt mop of hair were visible.

There was another rustle, this time behind him, and a blur of movement as a second person dropped from the building, this one wearing a grubby blue shirt that was almost colorful in the dingy gray streets. The first assailant was in his teens, based on the lack of creases around his eyes and the nervous hand movements as he waved the knife in threatening arcs.

Pockets. Now. Or we cut you a new one, Green Bandanna hissed.

Why don't you kids go home before someone gets hurt. Logan shuffled to one side, keeping both of them in view. It's not safe to be out so late.

Do as he says or m'gonna rief you bad.

Blue Shirt made a dramatic lunge from behind, and barely a moment later, Green Bandanna pounced, the makeshift blade stabbing at Logan's midsection. He twisted and dropped, bringing his knee into Green Bandanna's groin. The kid dropped like a sack of vegetables, and Logan spun to face Blue Shirt, pulling out the ShockWand.

Blue Shirt already had his knife up, but skidded to a halt when he saw the neural whip.

Wait mister, we wuz jus fizzing with ya, din mean no harm.

The fizz is over. Pick up your friend and get out of here. Logan flicked the Wand menacingly. I'll let you keep the blades.

Blue Shirt hesitated, as if unsure whether to trust Logan, then grabbed his partner and dragged him, groaning, back down the alley. Logan waited until they'd disappeared, then resumed his original course, weaving as the alley was narrowed by piles of strategically placed garbage.

As he approached an armored door, two patches of air flickered, solidifying into distinct figures in a matter of seconds. Both wore EM Cloaks and body armor, the scuffed appearance belying the armor's age, and they were armed with heavy-barreled machine guns that they pointed at him. He stopped a few meters away.

I'm here to see Sigurd. He kept his hands in clear sight.

No one here by that name. The man nearest stabbed his gun forward. So neck off, before we let the sun shine through you.

Under normal circumstances he'd have been happy to leave, but without assistance, his plan would die before it got started. I'm a friend. Tell her Logan Twofeathers is here.

You can leave quietly —the guy gestured with his gun—or not.

She owes me.

The man on the left slapped his helmet by his ear, the hard crack from the collision of the armored surfaces bouncing around the filth-encrusted alley. The boss can hear everything you say. It don't matter, she still don't wanna see you.

Logan had to make her listen, but how? As he contemplated what to do, a flash of movement caught his eye a fraction before a heavy impact landed on the side of his skull, and he collapsed onto the grunge-covered floor.

*

An intense blue light leaked past Logan's eyelids and he groaned, instinctively turning away as he opened his eyes. It came from a handheld medscanner, and the hand holding it belonged to someone in a full isolation suit, their face covered.

No permanent damage, the person said. You shouldn't antagonize someone in combat armor. Not unless you're looking for an unhealthy outcome.

The room lighting was subdued to the point of almost being non-existent, leaving dark shadows in every corner.

Samara?

The figure reached up and unfastened the helmet. A slight hiss sounded as the faceplate separated, then she placed the helmet on a small table next to her. No one has used that name in a long time. Most know me only as Sigurd. I suppose I should be flattered you remember it.

She was older than he remembered, but so was he. Her face was gaunt and ended in a narrow chin, accented by a thin scar that curved up toward her right eye. Despite that, there was an almost mischievous elven quality to her features that he recalled matched her dry sense of humor.

I didn't want to come here. He swung his legs off the couch and sat up. But I need help.

Then you're definitely in the wrong place.

Even though she was entirely covered, she seemed somehow smaller and frailer than the last time he'd seen her, as if she'd shrunk inside her iso-suit. You're the only option I've got. I need to—

My debt to you was paid long ago. Samara tossed the medscanner next to her helmet. And if it wasn't, I still can't help you. I have limited resources these days.

What's your life worth? Logan said.

Samara's lips curved into a tight smile. "I wouldn't expect you to stoop to emotional blackmail. What happened?"

She was right. At one time he'd never have used such an approach, but working with SecOps had left him world-weary and jaded. He'd hoped to leave it all behind when he left Earth, but it had followed him anyway. I'm desperate. I've tried every official channel I know, and I keep getting bounced from one low-level bureaucrat to the next, all spouting the same empty platitudes.

Politics has no relation to morals.

Logan rubbed his aching leg. So I've found.

What is it you think I can do?

I have to get back to Kwelengsen and find my wife. It sounded crazy, even as he said it. I need a JumpShip.

Oh I see. Samara tilted her head to one side. Why didn't you say so?

I know it's a slim chance, but you're all I have.

"Then you have no chance."

Samara walked away, and Logan hurried after her, only able to follow her movements in the dim lighting by focusing on her shock of bleached white hair. He ended up in a brightly lit kitchen, and nearly collided with her, dazzled momentarily by the lights. She pulled a soft drink from a large refrigerator.

Help me, Logan said. You're my last hope.

She set off again, and he followed her deeper into the rabbit warren of her hideout. When he caught her, she was rifling through a set of drawers next to a plush couch in another darkened room. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw what appeared to be an expensively furnished lobby, but it was as devoid of decoration as the rest of the interior.

Where are they? she muttered, jerking open the next drawer. Jesus.

Samara?

She pulled out a small metal box, flipped open the lid, then threw it at him. He tried to dodge, but it hit his wounded leg with surprising strength, and the area started to throb.

Get out, Logan. Before I really lose my temper.

There didn't seem much else for him to do and he turned, not sure he'd be able to find his way out.

Wait, she called. Do you have any smokes on you?

I never picked up the habit.

Figures. She went back to rummaging in the drawers.

Smoking was one of those indulgences that seemed cyclic in nature. When he was young at his family's compound, most of the adults smoked and smelled of it too. Now, although the tobacco-derived ingredients were Geneered to be non-carcinogenic, it was still seen as an anti-social addiction.

Yes! She held up a half-crumpled pack, cautiously pulled out a rather limp-looking SootheStick, and waved it to trigger the combustion process.

Reaching up with her other hand, she ran her fingers through her hair, then drew deeply on the 'Stick before sending a stream of sweet-smelling smoke billowing into the air.

Jesus... She took another pull on the cardboard tube. Have you any idea how long it's been since I needed one of these damn things?

She dropped onto a heavily padded seat in the corner, one arm wrapped around a raised knee as she smoked. She finished the 'Stick rapidly, and he waited, unsure of his next move. Finally, she crushed out the stub in a small metal dish with a satisfied twist.

What the hell do you expect from me, Logan? She waved her hand in an all-encompassing gesture. I got rid of most of my collection. No more surplus miltech. I have a few things I keep for self-preservation, but that's all.

One way or another, I have to get back there. His fists clenched. What would you do if your partner had been abandoned and possibly held hostage?

I'm not the issue here. And what I'd do now is not what I'd have done twenty years ago. I'm no spring chicken, and neither are you. Samara sniffed. Besides, aren't you grounded?

It was true. The USP had already slapped travel restrictions on him, and those would undoubtedly be stricter after the day's activities. If he tried to get a ticket on so much as an atmospheric flight, it would set off security alarms all the way up to the First Minister's office.

That's why I came to you.

I know I'm good—her laugh was short and explosive—but this might come as a shock. I don't have a spaceship in my collection. Not even a small one.

Everyone's gone deep-space nuts. If I can make it to the PAC, I think I can work some deal to get up their Elevator. They're less worried about formalities over there.

She picked at the skin surrounding her fingernails. If you could—and that's a hell of a long-shot—you'd still need a ship.

I'll find something.

All of this smacks of hasty improvisation at best, or desperation at worst.

I haven't figured out every detail yet, I'll admit.

Logan I-plan-everything Twofeathers is going to wing it? She laughed.

A repeated pinging sounded, and Samara pulled out a Scroll, unrolling the screen. Jesus, Logan. You're wanted? There's a SecOps A-Plus alert out for you.

A-Plus meant he was to be apprehended on sight and considered potentially dangerous. That's ridiculous. I did nothing to warrant that.

Samara worked the controls on the Scroll, and a news channel opened on a large wall screen he hadn't previously noticed. A reporter was talking over a 3V shot of the USP offices, with several BPD aeromobiles outside, their flashing lights distorting the view periodically.

...in an incident which saw Mr. Twofeathers threaten Representative Campbell and his family. The Representative sought assistance from two on-site security personnel who tried to reason with the suspect, and although Mr. Twofeathers was initially subdued, he managed to overpower them and make his escape. The guards followed, and Mr. Twofeathers grievously assaulted Officer Bortoft from behind. The officer is being held at the downtown medcenter undergoing numerous checks, and is said to be stable, though badly injured.

You stupid ass. Samara stood abruptly and marched out.

Logan rushed after her again. I didn't hurt him. He whipped a bunch of Neversees with his ShockWand, and one of them hit him with a rock.

They ended up in a control room of sorts, one wall filled by a large old-tech TooDee display, surrounded by four smaller ones. Samara slid into a chair by a beat-up desk in front of the screens. She typed several commands on an ancient clackety keyboard, and the displays filled with a deluge of technical information Logan didn't follow. A box that might have been an old military server sat next to the desk, the lights flashing as it woke up.

You know how the Eye works. A map of the city appeared on the large screen, the streets and buildings marked out in glowing green and blue lines. After several more clicks, a flashing red line appeared over the others. Argus has tracked your path to where you were picked up by the AeroCab.

They'd certainly got on his trail fast, but why did they still want him if they’d seen the footage from the Eye? I changed rides several times. I'm not stupid enough to have come directly.

I can scramble some of the pick-ups locally. Samara switched through a number of screens in rapid succession, muttering to herself. But they'll narrow things down to a few blocks.

SecOps units closing in. All directions. A voice crackled over hidden speakers. It was one of the goons from outside.

Shit. You've blown my cover, you moron.

Me?

Who else do you think led them here? I've been in hiding for twenty years.

Samara tapped in another command, and a series of satellite-style maps appeared. Flashing red diamonds darted across the displays, closing in on the center.

Not only SecOps. She banged her fist on the table. You've brought goddamn MilSec with you as well. How bad do these guys want you?

My face is in every bank and post office.

Prick.

She vanished into a small closet, emerging two minutes later dressed in black military fatigues that had seen better days. Opening a vault on the far wall, she strapped on a number of guns until she resembled a modern-day Valkyrie heading for Ragnarok.

After she flipped three large switches, the server lights started to flash. The screen showed a message in blocky green letters saying System Purge Initiated, then a ninety-second countdown.

Is that what it— Logan looked around, but Samara was gone.

Shock troops moving in on all sides. The voice from outside sounded again, with a tinge of desperation. Boss? You there?

Samara's voice came over the speakers. "Willt? Barriger? Execute operation dirty laundry."

Unless Samara had doubled back, there was only one way she could have gone, and Logan rushed along the passage to catch her. He had no idea what her laundry plan was, but he sure didn't want to end up as part of the soiled linen. At a side corridor, he saw movement to the left and backtracked, having already passed the entrance.

The new passage led to some kind of storeroom—at least there were boxes piled on almost every available spot. They were either covered in fake labels or showed Samara had an unhealthy obsession with peaches. There was no way out other than the way he'd come in. He checked the walls—no sign of a concealed exit either. The lights flickered again. The countdown to the rinse cycle was getting short, and an edge of panic pulled at him. There had to be something—Samara couldn't walk through walls any more than he could.

Intrusion alert. Security perimeter breach detected.

The metallic recorded voice echoed through the corridors and Logan cursed. Presumably it was SecOps, as if he hadn't enough to worry about. He imagined the harsh smack of boots approaching on the concrete floors. Where was it?

There was nothing visible other than shelving, boxes, and a dim illumination panel recessed into the ceiling. None of it appeared helpful in the slightest. But there had to be some way out. Distant shouts reverberated along the corridor toward him—the short, precise language used by a tactical unit carrying out a systematic building clearance. He was almost out of time. The rolling crump of an explosion reached him, followed by a second and a third, each one closer and louder, sending shockwaves through the building and jerking the floor from under his feet. Then the lights went out.

Several boxes fell from the shelves, one of them clipping Logan's head and making it swim. A second later, emergency lights flicked on, filling the confined room with an eerie, red half-light. He shook his head to clear it, then examined his surroundings, puzzling over a dozen cans of peaches scattered across the floor.

Smoke billowed through the open door, and he caught a lungful as he clambered to his feet. He bent double, hacking on the sour air. He grabbed