Sequestered: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 2)

  Sequestered

  The New Dawn: Book 2

  Valerie J. Mikles

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  FREE SHORT STORY!

  Trade Circle: The New Dawn Book 3

  The Qinali Virus

  Also by Valerie J. Mikles

  About the Author

  Copyright 2017 Valerie J. Mikles

  All rights reserved

  Editing by Bob Greenberger, bobgreenberger.com

  Proofreading and Layout by Frostbite Publishing, frostbitepublishing.com

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to those who feel trapped.

  1

  “Sir!” Deputy Arman cried.

  Constable Channing Mace groaned and squinted as blood poured from his split temple and stung his left eye. Adrenaline pumped through his body, compelling him to keep running. It took him a moment to realize he was lying flat on the ground.

  “After him!” Mace choked, pointing at their target. Two other deputies were already in pursuit, and though Arman hesitated a moment longer, he obeyed, leaving his fallen commander behind.

  Over the past few months, four men and one boy had died in mishaps at Rocan’s chemical plant. They were testing new technology to facilitate production, but the mechanical failure rate was too high for Mace to believe that the mishaps were accidents. Mace hadn’t understood the chief engineer’s explanation, but he understood the word saboteur, and he’d finally found a lead worth chasing.

  Forcing himself to sit, Mace cradled his left hand to his chest. His wrist was broken—snapped when he’d hit the pavement. The target was Thomas Gate, a product runner in his late twenties. He’d worn the gray coveralls of a plant worker—a stolen resource. Sabotage, theft, assault. Staggering to his feet, Mace tried to rejoin the chase.

  “Which way?” he hollered to the onlookers. They’d been drawn from their shops by the deputies’ shouts, but they were riveted by the Constable’s beaten appearance. He shouted again and several of them pointed toward the water treatment plant. It was a gray building, clean and shiny on the outside, though rarely did anyone cross the threshold. The front door swung on rusted hinges and Mace bolted through, nearly ripping it off.

  The plant smelled of metal and water and had minimal lighting, since all of its functions were automated. Mace heard scuffling sounds from overhead and when his eyes adjusted sufficiently to see the staircase, he charged up the stairs. The cross-hatched metal rattled loudly, the stairs splitting off to the right and encircling a water tank. Arman, Miller, and Grimes had followed the target onto the tank itself. It was difficult to assess the situation in the darkness. Miller was completely still and likely unconscious. Mace circled over to Miller, making sure the man wouldn’t fall to his death.

  Arman shouted and Grimes launched toward Gate, club raised, but Gate slid clear, catching a release that crashed a pair of crates onto the tank. The first crate splintered and went up in flames. The explosion punched a hole through the tank sending the remnants into the water supply.

  “No!” Gate cried, seeing his precious bounty in flames. If the second crate exploded, they would lose a third of the city’s water supply. And their lives.

  Damping the fire became Mace’s first priority. Screaming as he pulled his jacket over his broken hand, Mace charged the burning crate, and knocked it into the tank, dousing the flame.

  “There’s a child! Mace, there’s a child in there!” Gate shouted, pointing to the crate.

  Arman and Grimes had finally flanked Gate, but Gate’s words stunned them all. Grimes acted first, diving into the water, but he could not support the crate alone.

  “Arman, save the child!” Mace shouted. Arman growled threateningly at Gate, but then dove into the water to help Grimes. With his captors occupied, Gate slid down the opposite side of the tank. Before Gate could escape, Mace pulled a knife from his boot and chucked it at the man, hitting just below the rib cage. Gate slid off the side of the tank and fell to the lower level. Even if he survived the fall, he would bleed out before help arrived. No one would question Mace for the killing. Any man who would threaten the life of a child would have been put to death.

  2

  Douglas Hwan sipped the gin from his flask and sat on the front steps of the hospital, building the courage he needed to face his ailing mother on the anniversary of his father’s death. Time was supposed to heal the wound, but all it did was exacerbate his mother’s mental illness to the point where she barely recognized him some days. His father’s death had taken but an instant, his mother’s had been a slow fade over the last ten years. They’d taken her from home and forced her to live in the asylum, in a dark room with no windows.

  Folding his flight jacket over his arms, he hugged the worn, brown canvas. He’d outgrown it before he’d worn it out, but he carried it with him always. It had arrived by messenger just two days after his father’s death—a gift from his father to commemorate the flight.

  “Maman, please remember,” he whispered, sucking in his emotions, hiding the jacket under his shirt, and striding through the front door. He didn’t want the Resource Manager to take it from him. Clothing was a rationed resource, and the jacket should have been redistributed years ago to someone who could wear it. Douglas had tried giving it to his mother, but the asylum wouldn’t allow it. When she wore it, she remembered her husband, and she spoke coherently. It was a memory of love, but it felt more like magic every year.

  Asylum was on the east side of the second, third, and fourth floors of the hospital, and the need for space grew every year as more and more people succumbed to the trauma of living in a dying Dome. The hospital lobby was dimly lit and lined with hand-carved, stone benches. There used to be cushioned seats in here, but part of dying was losing luxuries, and part of surviving was filling the void with artistry. Douglas’ stenciled jacket and dyed-red hair were expressions of that cry to feel alive.

  “Where are you going?” Dr. Amir Frank barked, intercepting Douglas by the stairs. Frank was a stout man whose ruddy complexion and double chin made him appear too unhealthy to be in the medical profession. His position at the top of the social ladder afforded him first pick among the fabrics, and Douglas suspected him of hoarding significantly more than the six sets of clothing issued every other man.

  “Seeing my mother,” Douglas replied, his voice cracking under the haze of alcohol. Dr. Frank oversaw the resou
rces and medications allocated to women in asylum, and Douglas had learned to be civil for his mother’s sake.

  “No, you can’t. Not now,” Frank replied, directing Douglas back toward the benches.

  “Why? She’s not dead, is she? Is she?” Douglas asked, his heart rate climbing.

  “She is beyond help,” Frank said quietly, pushing Douglas’ shoulder to make him sit. “We are letting her go.”

  It was a euphemism. They were giving her food and water, but not the medication she needed to recognize it or keep it down. They were letting her die.

  “Then can I take her home?” Douglas asked. He knew this day was coming, and he petitioned every year to bring his mother home.

  “It would only distract you from your work. Which you should be getting back to,” Frank said sternly, raising his bushy, white eyebrows. “You leave now on your own, or I will report you for skipping work.”

  Douglas shuddered. Bad things happened to men who refused to go to work, no matter how pointless the work was. “I’m not leaving until I see her,” he said, swallowing hard. It was the anniversary. If she was to die, then he wanted her to hold the flight jacket one last time.

  “Hwan—”

  “I can get her to eat. I can get her to take medicine. I can get her to be calm. Whatever you want, I’ll help her,” Douglas insisted, charging past Dr. Frank, flying up the stairs. He made it into the common area of the asylum, where the in-patients pretended to be social.

  “Maman!” Douglas hollered. Two orderlies intercepted him, dragging him back into the hall.

  “Hush! You’ll frighten the residents!” Frank warned, bustling from the stairwell, panting for breath. Constable Mace was a few steps behind him, favoring a broken hand. The orderlies held Douglas down and Mace reached under Douglas’ shirt, pulling out the jacket.

  “That’s mine!” Douglas cried.

  “Can you wear it?” the Constable challenged. He was a dark-haired man with angled features and a menacing scowl, and despite their strained relationship, Douglas felt safe with him. Even angry, he exuded peace. It was hard to believe he’d killed a man in cold blood less than two weeks ago.

  “My father gave it to me. It’s all I have left of him. The Resource Manager claimed everything else,” Douglas sniffled, wrestling one arm free and snatching the jacket. “They took everything that was my mother’s. They took everything. I need to see her. It’s the anniversary. I need to—”

  “Dr. Frank?” Mace asked.

  “There is nothing he can do for her but prolong her suffering,” Frank sneered, red-faced. “She is being given basic resources.”

  “Can’t basic resources include human contact?” Douglas pleaded, rolling to his knees, hugging his jacket. “She’s my mother!”

  “It is not a good day for her,” Frank said, his arrogance melting just enough for Douglas to believe his intentions sincere. “Trust me, Little Hwan. You should not see her today. I will send a messenger if her condition improves. Your place is the yard. Go to work.”

  “But—”

  “Hwan, this is your only warning,” Mace said, yanking Douglas up by the elbow.

  Douglas hugged his jacket and ran, fighting back tears. When he made it out of the hospital, he downed the last of his gin, but it would take more than a flask to drown Dr. Frank’s words.

  Choking back emotion, Douglas hurried to the mechanical yard. The yard was a multi-story complex with thirteen bays. Every gliding door in Rocan that could be salvaged had been moved here to protect the general population from the volatile engine work that occurred inside. Of the thirteen bays, only three spanned the entire height of the building. There were eight smaller bays on ground level, and two upper-level areas with workstations for hand-held products. Douglas charged up the stairs to his workstation on the second floor, pulled a gin bottle from a box under his desk, and drank directly from the bottle.

  The light in this area came mostly through a skylight in the ceiling. Douglas’ workstation had a lamp, a magnifying glass, a tool chest, and a box of trinkets collected from around the Dome, whose purpose had yet to be identified. When Douglas needed a break from the mundane people, he rooted through the box, trying to identify what the trinkets did, and what parts could be salvaged from them. He picked up a blocky one with inset circles, and set it under the light, making himself look busy in case anyone came by.

  “Douglas? I didn’t expect you in so soon,” McGill Lefevre called, pulling up a stool across the workbench. McGill was lean and tall, with rounded facial features. His hair was naturally strawberry blond, but he dyed it dark brown because he didn’t like it. He didn’t like his name either, but the town was so small, everyone knew it and called him by it no matter how he introduced himself. “The Intendant is here about the Coureur.” The Coureur was Rocan’s only motorized vehicle, built by Douglas’ father. “Ramsey is giving him the overview. I was about to head out to the processing plant to troubleshoot some issues with engine output—Douglas, what’s wrong? Is it your mother?”

  McGill put a hand over Douglas’, sliding it up his arm as he moved around the table. He and McGill had been close once, but their relationship had dissolved when Douglas’ mother went into asylum. Douglas couldn’t remember the last time he’d let McGill close enough for a hug.

  “Where’s the Intendant?” Douglas asked, wiping the tears from his face and pushing McGill away. The Intendant was the only one with the power to overrule Dr. Frank.

  “Bay 3. Douglas—”

  Douglas charged down the stairs and crossed the hall into Bay 3. It was a larger bay, used both for storing refined fuel and Coureur maintenance. There were a few metal pieces collected for the chassis of the new Coureur, barrels for the fuel, and a gliding door leading outside. His father’s glider had been built in this bay. Most days, Douglas loved being in here, but today—the anniversary—it hurt.

  Intendant Hubert’s deep-base voice echoed through the tall chamber, giving a lashing to Ramsey—an older engineer with a heart for building, but shaky hands.

  “Nine months and this is all you have!” the Intendant ranted, his bright red face contrasting his stark white, neatly combed hair. “A couple pieces laid out. Not even attached.”

  Ramsey jutted his pointed chin, looking down his nose at the Intendant. “With limited resources and no paper to convey design—”

  “You have fifteen men working on it!” the Intendant countered.

  “Most of whom have never driven the old Coureur, let alone dismantled it,” Douglas interjected, strutting confidently into the conversation. “The designer my father worked with—”

  “The woman, you mean,” the Intendant seethed. “You are not bringing a woman into a building with refined fuel.”

  “Her name is Zoe, and she is brilliant,” Ramsey snarled, his voice and temper rising.

  “So is he!” the Intendant snapped, pointing to Douglas. “Your designer is perfectly capable of using documents and schematics.”

  Douglas shivered, feeling the weight of his father’s legacy bearing down on his slumped shoulders. The men in the yard had been so kind, apprenticing and training him, but Douglas was no mechanical genius, and being put in charge of the projects here made him feel like a failure and a fraud. “I am not my father. I am still learning what he knew.”

  “Which would be easier if you actually showed up to work,” the Intendant huffed. “Where were you when I came?”

  “Visiting my mother,” Douglas said, his insides quivering despite the dulling power of the gin.

  “The invalid,” the Intendant groused. “She is on basic resources, but I will kill her faster if that’s what it takes to get this Coureur done.”

  Douglas paled and stumbled back a step, nearly falling on Ramsey. “If you want me here, restore her access to medicine,” Douglas threatened, his fist clenching. “If I lose her, you lose me.”

  “I want you, but I don’t need you,” the Intendant sneered.

  “The Coureur will work as
promised,” Ramsey interjected, putting a hand on Douglas’ back, moving his thumb just enough to show he wanted to impart comfort, but not show weakness. “We know what needs to be done now. We just need time to put the pieces together. It may be another year or more before we have the frame together.”

  “Will this Coureur move faster than the last? Will it be able to get to the mountains to search for new resources?” the Intendant demanded.

  “There have been so many catastrophic failures this past month, we may not have any engines left by the time the chassis is ready,” Ramsey shrugged.

  “Constable Mace has found the saboteur. That should put a stop to the failures for a while,” the Intendant replied, crossing his arms, pacing over the chassis pieces they had, looking ready to kick them.

  “Did he say why he did it?” Douglas asked. He’d reported the sabotage to Mace, but hadn’t expected someone to be found so quickly.

  “We weren’t able to ask,” the Intendant sighed. “The man was a Sequesterer. And he is dead.”

  Ramsey gasped, and Douglas hung his head, aching inside.

  “There are no engines in the yard right now,” Ramsey tried. “If we could just bring Zoe to help direct the design, we could move so much faster—”