Survival Aptitude Test: Fury (The Extinction Odyssey Book 2) Read online

  SURVIVAL APTITUDE TEST

  FURY

  Mike Sheriff

  THE EXTINCTION ODYSSEY, BOOK 2

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. The Grooll Mill

  2. Nightfall

  3. Resurrection

  4. Breached and Broken

  5. Thirty Seconds

  6. Taking Flight

  7. Silent Alarm

  8. The Battle of the Southern Turbine Complex

  9. Awakening Trust

  10. Call to Arms

  11. Storm-Tossed

  12. A Silica Curtain

  13. The Cruelest Fiction

  14. Echoes

  15. Eight Seconds

  16. The Pinnacle of Craven

  17. Sound and Fury

  18. Convergence

  19. The People Have Spoken

  20. A New Order

  21. Countdown

  Join the Readers’ Posse!

  Survival Aptitude Test: Rise

  Afterword

  Bonus Chapter #1

  Bonus Chapter #2

  About the Author

  Also by Mike Sheriff

  Copyright

  Survival Aptitude Test: Fury

  The epic odyssey continues in Book 2…

  Four stunned survivors fight their way out of Daqin Guojin and venture across the Sea of Storms. Their mission? Track down a fabled food source in the Great Saharan Desert. The plan reeks of suicide, but the fate of humanity’s starving masses hangs in the balance.

  Hunted by Jireni and haunted by the prospect of human extinction, the four dissenters will face adversities that test their ability to survive like no other. Will they succeed and bring a new order—and new hope—to their crumbling city-state?

  Not if the ruling caste can help it...

  Haven’t read Book 1 yet? No problem!

  You can grab Sound and the thrilling prequel, Hope’s Graveyard, for FREE as a member of the Readers’ Posse!

  Discover how at the end of the book.

  1

  The Grooll Mill

  LAOSHI HEARD THEM before he saw them—a medley of shouts and cheers that issued from the archway at the top of the southeastern stairway. Beside him, Cordelia craned her neck, expectant, as if she hoped to see Daoren leading the exodus.

  She must have known it was impossible, just as he knew Heqet’s fresh face wouldn’t be emerging under a freshly cropped scalp. They’d spent the last eight hours climbing the stairway and preparing themselves for this moment. They’d held vigil at the base of the upper flight, tarrying to see Narses emerge from the Center. Laoshi wagered it would be worth the risk.

  Eighty feet above, a glut of Jireni, Libraria, and newly anointed denizens burst from the archway. One denizen strode much taller than the others.

  Narses straddled the shoulders of two Jireni. Other Jireni, Libraria, and denizens circled him, whooping and waving. The unrestrained admiration led to one inescapable conclusion.

  “He’s received a perfect score!” Laoshi said. “They’re paying tribute to the Unum Potentate!”

  “Did Daoren write a perfect S.A.T.?” Cordelia asked, reddened eyes rimmed with awe.

  Laoshi glanced at her. “Yes, Cordelia! Your son is—”

  A distant flash caught his eye.

  Forty feet away, shadowy forms crept through the crowd, crystalline dart guns sparkling in sunlight. The Jireni’s stooped posture suggested they were hunting someone.

  Laoshi scanned the other side of the flight.

  More Jireni approached. They leaned forward with predatory purpose.

  “Is everything all right?” Cordelia asked.

  Laoshi smiled, careful to cloak any outward signs of concern. Jireni tended to open fire if they suspected their prey had been alerted. Maintaining a casual air, he glanced down the stairway.

  Six more armed Jireni advanced upward from one flight below. Six pairs of cold, calculating eyes locked onto him and Cordelia.

  Tingling adrenaline washed through his veins—the encirclement left no doubt as to whom the Jireni were hunting. The closest group was thirty feet away; they’d be upon them in as many seconds. The stairway provided little concealment besides the human mass, hardly an impenetrable barrier. Unless. . . .

  He gripped Cordelia’s arm. “When I tell you to move, move.”

  She stared at him, clearly confused by the whispered order. He had no time to explain his intentions. He filled his lungs and pointed at the archway. “Behold the Unum Potentate! Let us advance and honor him!”

  Thousands of denizens surged up the stairway, pressing arm to arm and chest to back. They formed a cheering, mobile barrier—exactly as he’d hoped.

  “Move!”

  He yanked Cordelia up the flight, shouldering through the compressed multitude. Guttural shouts penetrated from the right; the Jireni were issuing orders. He risked a glance.

  Twenty feet away, two Jireni aimed their dart guns in his direction.

  Laoshi crouched, pulling Cordelia down with him. He climbed with the moving mass, one hand clutching the tunic of the denizen in front of him, the other tugging Cordelia along in his slipstream. He was mindful to stay on his feet; tripping now would risk a trampling, doing the job of the Jireni for them.

  More guttural shouts pierced the cheering. A second later, five percussive reports hammered his ears. To his right, five denizens brayed in agony.

  Laoshi didn’t see the dart strikes, but his other senses registered their impact. The crowd reacted as a single organism recoiling from a blow. Panic in a few spread to the whole in the space of a single breath. Bodies pressed in from all sides, grasping and jostling, snuffing the sparks of jubilation. He squeezed Cordelia’s hand. If he lost her now, he’d never see her again.

  They rushed headlong up the flight.

  DART-GUN VOLLEYS rippled down the southeastern stairway and slapped the levitran’s windows. Pyros leaned around the Unum, ducking to get a sightline through the side window.

  Atop the stairway, thousands of denizens separated like scattershot, falling over themselves to escape the threat.

  The Unum sucked his teeth. “It appears they tried to run,” he said with coarse detachment. “What a pity. I wanted to know how long they’d last in a rig.”

  On the middle flight, six Jireni raked the fleeing masses with glass darts. Their staggered volleys sounded eerily akin to sporadic applause.

  Pyros pounded his fist into the seat. “They’re firing indiscriminately!”

  “So?”

  “I ordered them to minimize collateral casualties!”

  The Unum shrugged. “I thought you might, so I countermanded the order.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “An hour ago. When you stepped out to use the waste chamber.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I’ve never been a fan of fire discipline,” the Unum said. “Tell a Jiren he can’t cull the innocent, and the next thing you know he won’t cull the guilty. I didn’t think you’d—”

  Pyros exited the levitran. He raced up the stairway, battering through waves of hysterical denizens. More percussive reports assaulted his ears before he gained the upper flights, within vocal range of his men. “Cease fire!” he said. “Cease fire!”

  The men brought their dart guns to the ready position. Pyros surveyed the damage, chest heaving, lungs searing.

  Scores of denizens lay dead or wounded on the blood-spattered stairway. The celebratory cheering for the Unum Potentate had ceased. Stunned silence replaced it—one so total that the drone of an aeroshrike miles distant
sounded as close as a hundred feet overhead. Jireni wandered up and down the steps, turning bodies and checking identities.

  The senior Jiren traversed the flight. He halted before Pyros. “They aren’t here, sire.”

  Pyros motioned to the carnage. “You mean after all this they escaped?”

  The Asianoid’s squalid gaze fell upon the steps.

  “Gather your men,” Pyros said. “Use whatever resources you need to set up checkpoints along the major egress routes leading to the Librarium.”

  The Jiren’s eyes flashed back to life, revived by the chance for redemption. “At once, sire. We’ll find them.”

  Pyros had his doubts. Laoshi was a cagey target. He likely knew more off-the-grid ways to get to the Librarium than anyone else in Daqin Guojin.

  The Jiren turned away. Pyros caught his arm. “I’m rescinding the cull order.”

  “Sire?”

  “I want Laoshi and Cordelia taken alive.”

  “But the Unum—”

  “Doesn’t control your duty postings,” Pyros said. “Would you prefer to see you and your men patrolling the Great Northern Border for the next ten years?”

  The Jiren stiffened to attention. “I’ll pass along your order.”

  He marched away. Pyros settled onto a step and gazed upon the dead.

  Many were Daqin Guojin’s newest denizens, trampled or cut down in their prime. Mothers and fathers wept over the battered, impaled bodies of their children. Shock and disbelief contorted faces that shone with joy and relief a few minutes earlier. Some parents glared at him, eyes inflamed with unspoken rage.

  He had to look away. He understood their rage all too well—and the end to which it would lead. If the Unum retained power, the people’s silent fury would find its voice through sonic charges, dart guns, and sound cannons.

  Pyros’ instincts told him that the Primae Librarian could help avoid that fate. If the Unum wanted him dead, that meant he could play a useful role in the coming struggle. He needed to take Laoshi alive before murderous insurrection consumed the entire city-state. And to do that, he needed to find him.

  DAOREN GRIMACED.

  A high-pitched hum muddled his hearing. Relentless pressure inside his head sought to force his eyes from their sockets. A strange force pulled his arms upward.

  He peered into the murk, searching for a recognizable feature, a surface to orient himself, an object to landmark his—

  Lights flared.

  He gasped.

  All around him, rows of stunned prospects hung inverted in their seats, arms dangling above their heads. Below them, ovoid pods gleamed atop suspended platforms.

  The ghastly vision landmarked his location. He was in the grooll mill below the Center, hanging upside-down in his seat, still secured by the restraining straps. He raised his chin.

  Three feet below his hands, a blue pod tarried. Its reclining seat glinted, smiling in welcome.

  Daoren rattled his head, shaking off the after-effects of the muted stun shock. How long had Laoshi said it took before the seat restraints unlocked? Ten seconds? Thirty seconds? A minute?

  The answer condensed from the fog. The restraints unlocked after—

  The restraints unlocked with a double-click.

  He dropped onto the reclining seat, landing on his back with a jolting oomph. Twenty thousand thuds accompanied him. One of them belonged to Heqet.

  Awareness burned off the mental fog. The preparation and planning of the preceding weeks hardened with crystal clarity. He knew what needed to be done.

  The pod rotated, stopping at a forty-five-degree angle, head up. Daoren climbed out its opening and jumped onto the platform. He paused to get his bearings.

  The platform’s width spanned three feet. Five-foot air-gaps isolated it from the adjacent platforms. Convoluted lengths of glass piping undergirded the structure, ready to transfer slurried prospects into the open mixing tanks on the floor. The tanks were empty except for huge, serrated mixing blades.

  Heqet’s seat in the Center had been located five seats to the south of his own, eight rows to the west. He counted off the platforms and locked his gaze onto her pod. He clenched and unclenched his hands, ticking off the seconds until her appearance.

  A breathless tone snagged his attention. He glanced up the platform.

  Pods self-sealed, activating one after the other along the northern ends of the platforms. The sequence would take thirty seconds to reach the southern ends—and even less time to trap Heqet.

  Daoren refocused on her pod, heart pounding. Why in Sha’s name wasn’t she out yet? He inched to the edge of the platform.

  The breathless tone grew louder as the sequence surged closer. She had only a few seconds. What was she—

  His own pod sealed with a sinister whisper. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Heqet! Get out!”

  Eight rows away, a glinting panel slid into place, entombing her.

  “Heqet!”

  His shout faded as he eyed the mill’s floor one hundred feet below. Sha help him if he miscalculated. He backed up and gulped a spine-bracing breath.

  Daoren lunged toward the air-gap. He planted his sandal and leaped.

  His other sandal found the leading edge of the adjacent platform. Barely. He fought for balance, arms twirling and back snapping, and gained his footing.

  At the north end of the mill, pods emitted a dazzling red luster; the skin-slicing procedure had started. He had half a minute at most to free her. He put his head down and charged forward.

  Daoren leaped, landed, and leaped again, impelled over each chasm by undiluted adrenaline and unceasing petitions to Sha. He thudded onto the eighth platform.

  He sprinted down the platform, squeezing by four pods before reaching Heqet’s. Beneath its panel, she lay unmoving upon the seat, lips parted, eyes closed. The cadaverous pose culled his breath. Was she—

  Tiny circles of condensation formed inside the panel. She was still breathing.

  He clawed at the panel’s edges, feeling for a seam to pry it open. His fingernails slid uselessly across the glass, again and again.

  Inside the pod, the half-dome lenses activated. A ruddy matrix of hair-thin beams formed inches above her face.

  He raised his head.

  Up the platform, another pod’s photonic cutters angled downward, slicing into a male prospect’s face. Sections of his skin sloughed off, revealing fat-marbled squares of flesh.

  Daoren gagged. He vaulted over Heqet’s pod.

  Twelve cables sprouted from its rear surface—the power sources for the photonic cutters. There was no time for finesse. He grabbed a handful and yanked.

  Blue sparks spewed past his face, venting the sterile scent of ozone. He grabbed another handful; more sparks arced into the air. A third yank severed the final cables. He scrambled over the pod, petitioning Sha that he’d completed the task in time.

  Micro-cuts checkerboarded Heqet’s face, but it hadn’t been sliced to pieces.

  A distant whine cut short his relief. The next step in the process had started—the high vacuum. He had to look despite his dread.

  Up the platform, the same male prospect’s white pienfu garment disappeared, sucked off his body by the extreme pressure difference. His skin and digestive tract followed, leaving a bloody, oozing shell with bulging, accusing eyes.

  Slag-hot gorge rose into Daoren’s mouth. In a few seconds, the vacuum would convert Heqet’s petite body into the same monstrous apparition, sliced skin or not.

  He smashed his fists into the panel. The blows had no effect. He unleashed another flurry, ignoring the pain in his hands. It only wore him out.

  He abandoned the futile beatings, eyes welling. Helplessness seared his throat. He lowered his defeated gaze to—

  His sandal!

  He dropped to a knee and ripped the sandal off his right foot. He turned it over.

  Its sole bore a recessed pattern in the shape of a double-edged dagger.

  “Yes!” Daoren pried the
dagger free and sprang to his feet. He drove its hilt into the panel.

  The glass held, but the strike shock-fused the dagger to crystalline hardness. The high-vacuum’s whine drew closer.

  He raised the dagger and drove its hilt into the panel again.

  The glass chipped and cracked.

  A frenetic whine emanated from inside the pod. He hoisted the dagger, channeling every ounce of rage against the Unum, and drove its hilt into the glass with a primal scream.

  The panel shattered. Glass shards showered Heqet. Without a seal, the hoses extracting the air did little more than buffet her hair and pienfu.

  He hauled her limp body out of the pod and laid her on the platform. One step remained; getting off the platform before the—

  A faint, high-frequency whistle announced the start of the ultrasonic-liquifying process. He risked a glance toward the north end of the mill.

  Skinless prospects liquified into a smoldering slurry inside their pods. The lurid sludge evacuated from the pods’ bases and wound through the maze of piping beneath the platforms.

  One hundred feet below, the bloody ooze jetted into open tanks, now filling with tons of powdered silica. Mixing blades thrummed, churning the boiling grooll precursor.

  Daoren tore his gaze from the horror. He had a minute to get off the platform with an unconscious Heqet lest they undergo what Laoshi had called sympathetic liquidation.

  Four feet away, a support cable ran at a steep angle from the platform to the floor. It tracked over a line of four tanks fast filling with bubbling precursor. The angle and route were far from ideal, but more favorable cables were too distant to reach in time.

  Daoren gripped one of Heqet’s hair braids and placed the dagger’s cutting edge an inch from her scalp. He hacked off the braid and tied one end to the receiver loops of his grooll pouch, fingers fumbling.

  He willed himself to slow down and tie the knots correctly. He secured the other end of the braid to the loops of Heqet’s grooll pouch, short-roping her, cinching it as tight as possible.