He scoffed, realizing the haunting cheek scars were back. Poetic justice, some might say, but at least he was able to enjoy a day without them after Carrie Anne repaired his face with the dermal regenerator.
He took inventory of the rest of his body. His left wrist was sore and tender to the touch, but other than a wicked headache and a myriad of sore spots, he thought he was okay.
Then he remembered the Google Glasses. He checked his hand. Shit! They weren’t there! He looked up, realizing he’d lost them somewhere on his way down the mountain. Without them, he wouldn’t be able to communicate with Fuji—or return home. He thought about climbing up to recover them, but decided against it when he heard more screams and gunfire coming from the plateau above. He needed to get moving before the gunships came looking for him.
A stand of tall, dense brush was about fifteen feet ahead of him. There was plenty of shade and cover underneath the thick foliage. He figured he could wait there until the airships finished their assault and left the area. Then he planned to find the glasses and get the hell out of there.
He stood up to walk to the shade, but his vision blurred as vertigo took over. His feet stumbled backward, sending him falling to the ground on his ass. Walking to the shade wasn’t going to be an option. That meant crawling on his knees—one-handed because of his sore wrist—toward the shadows. It wasn’t easy or quick, but he made it just before one of the Apache war machines swooped down from the ridge above his position.
The roar of the twin-engine monster was soon replaced by the chop of the rotors when the craft drifted overhead, sending dirt and pebbles thrashing through the air. Lucas checked to make sure his arms and legs were tucked under cover and not visible from above.
The attack helicopter hovered slowly to the right. Lucas worried that the general’s pilots might be using the warbird’s onboard thermal imaging system to look for heat signatures. If so, they’d be able to locate him, assuming they could distinguish his heat signature from the rest of the objects baking in the desert sun. He was safe from detection while hiding under the thick brush since it would obscure his heat signature from above, but his bloody face plant and subsequent crawl through the dirt and rocks might have left a trail of differential heat—something the trained soldiers might be able to trace.
Lucas listened closely, keeping tabs on the location and speed of the warbird as it circled around behind him.
So far, so good, he thought.
But then his headache and dizziness intensified, making his eyes glaze over and his body weak. A few seconds later, his face hit the sand and everything went black.
2
Lucas opened his eyes and waited for the floating, speckled blobs in his vision to clear. They did, but the invasive headache was still pounding inside his skull. He was lying on his back, spread eagle, in a poorly lit room with only one source of light—a small desk lamp to his left. It was in the corner, with a weak, fluttering bulb installed. His body was covered is a soft, plush garment and not the tight, stretchy fabric of the Smart Skin Suit The dim light didn’t allow him to see much, but from what feel, her was covered in a white robe.
His breath quickened, taking in a torrent of air through his nose. Must and mold were the dominating odors, but that wasn’t all. The air was humid and thick—almost too thick—as if it were being saturated artificially, probably by the motorized device buzzing somewhere above him.
The surface pressing against his back was rigid and at least six feet long, a fact he knew was true since neither his head nor his feet were hanging off the end. He wanted to sit up but couldn’t move his arms or legs. Something had a hold of him. He rolled his head to the left and noticed a rope around his wrist. It extended out and down, disappearing below the edge of the wood-grained
He took inventory of the rest of his body. His left wrist was sore and tender to the touch, but other than a wicked headache and a myriad of sore spots, he thought he was okay.
Then he remembered the Google Glasses. He checked his hand. Shit! They weren’t there! He looked up, realizing he’d lost them somewhere on his way down the mountain. Without them, he wouldn’t be able to communicate with Fuji—or return home. He thought about climbing up to recover them, but decided against it when he heard more screams and gunfire coming from the plateau above. He needed to get moving before the gunships came looking for him.
A stand of tall, dense brush was about fifteen feet ahead of him. There was plenty of shade and cover underneath the thick foliage. He figured he could wait there until the airships finished their assault and left the area. Then he planned to find the glasses and get the hell out of there.
He stood up to walk to the shade, but his vision blurred as vertigo took over. His feet stumbled backward, sending him falling to the ground on his ass. Walking to the shade wasn’t going to be an option. That meant crawling on his knees—one-handed because of his sore wrist—toward the shadows. It wasn’t easy or quick, but he made it just before one of the Apache war machines swooped down from the ridge above his position.
The roar of the twin-engine monster was soon replaced by the chop of the rotors when the craft drifted overhead, sending dirt and pebbles thrashing through the air. Lucas checked to make sure his arms and legs were tucked under cover and not visible from above.
The attack helicopter hovered slowly to the right. Lucas worried that the general’s pilots might be using the warbird’s onboard thermal imaging system to look for heat signatures. If so, they’d be able to locate him, assuming they could distinguish his heat signature from the rest of the objects baking in the desert sun. He was safe from detection while hiding under the thick brush since it would obscure his heat signature from above, but his bloody face plant and subsequent crawl through the dirt and rocks might have left a trail of differential heat—something the trained soldiers might be able to trace.
Lucas listened closely, keeping tabs on the location and speed of the warbird as it circled around behind him.
So far, so good, he thought.
But then his headache and dizziness intensified, making his eyes glaze over and his body weak. A few seconds later, his face hit the sand and everything went black.
2
Lucas opened his eyes and waited for the floating, speckled blobs in his vision to clear. They did, but the invasive headache was still pounding inside his skull. He was lying on his back, spread eagle, in a poorly lit room with only one source of light—a small desk lamp to his left. It was in the corner, with a weak, fluttering bulb installed. His body was covered is a soft, plush garment and not the tight, stretchy fabric of the Smart Skin Suit The dim light didn’t allow him to see much, but from what feel, her was covered in a white robe.
His breath quickened, taking in a torrent of air through his nose. Must and mold were the dominating odors, but that wasn’t all. The air was humid and thick—almost too thick—as if it were being saturated artificially, probably by the motorized device buzzing somewhere above him.
The surface pressing against his back was rigid and at least six feet long, a fact he knew was true since neither his head nor his feet were hanging off the end. He wanted to sit up but couldn’t move his arms or legs. Something had a hold of him. He rolled his head to the left and noticed a rope around his wrist. It extended out and down, disappearing below the edge of the wood-grained
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