Chapter Two
Isobel slipped into the alley and pressed her back to the wall, panting wildly from the run. The din of the avenue turned to a muffled backdrop as she waited, the sound of her heart beat drowning out the frantic early evening pedestrian rush. Her breath caught as she observed the glinting orbital stop at the entrance and slowly turn, the row of flashing lights on its face locked onto her. It hesitated, dipped sharply, then continued deeper into the alley as high pitched sonar pings sounded from it like tiny exclamations. She turned still as death as the orbital hovered at her eye level, so close that the internal whir of its machinery was audible, and with a series of excited pings it shifted, belly up, to face her.
One by one, eight talons emerged from its underbelly, first the two at the head, then the other six, the sharp tips glinting off the lights of the avenue as they locked into position.
The orbital hovered closer until its vibrating body whispered against her flushed skin, and with an abrupt thrust, it hooked the six larger talons into the bone at the center of her forehead, inserting the last two smaller pinchers straight through the bridge of her nose.
The sensation wasn't just painful, it was paralyzing. Her knees gave from under her and she was left standing only by the orbital's hold as it drove the six talons deeper into her forehead. Pausing on a series of sharp, pinging exclamations, it initialized one of the most feared of its functions, the imprinting mode; a method of permanently marking the most grievous Landgraevan offenders.
Isobel tried to scream that it had made a grave mistake, that she wasn't a criminal worthy of an imprinting, but she couldn't speak. The probing motion forced her head back and unable to move, she submitted herself to the imprinting, terrified and staring at the drones flitting about under the holographic canopy overhead. The sky was abuzz with the oval shaped drones, on high alert after the Bucky breach, the gunmetal gray craft obscuring the constant hologram feed which tended and informed the masses of Landgraevan.
The orbital drove the imprinting deeper and the pain turned blinding. She dug her nails into the sooty concrete wall at her back, pleading fervently for a speedy resolution, when, quite suddenly, the orbital was violently yanked off her. She grabbed her forehead thinking it had been torn off and blinked repeatedly, squinting past the blood streaming into her eyes. The orbital hit the ground and the sharp ting of metal hitting concrete resonated through the narrow passage.
Isobel turned to the lone figure standing behind her, hidden by the dark, the light flashing in her brain blinding her. "What have you done? You don't interrupt imprinting orbitals!" she cried in shock.
The person remained silent, turning to face the large crowd that had gathered at the entrance of the alley eager to witness her death, an event which promised to be a spectacular show.
The orbital silently rose off the ground and hovered, the white strobes along its face now a solid strip of pulsing red. It dipped, spun menacingly, then with a series of high pitched pings projected an indigo laser web onto Isobel's chest, illuminating her heart in detailed, multi-dimensional holographic representation.
Isobel observed the ventricles of her heart pump lifeblood through the arteries, the bulging blue veined muscle contracting and expanding with every wild, pounding beat. She stepped forward, unwilling to die a coward, but the lone figure standing behind her yanked her back.
"Go home!" the sharp falsetto voice called, piercing through the deep murmur of the gathered crowd.
Isobel stood mouth agape at the woman's audacity as the orbital reengaged her heart, wrapping it in another holographic laser web.
The person, impatient with Isobel's lack of response, grabbed her by her coat and lifted her into the air, flinging her from the alley, past the gathered crowd, into the throng of pedestrians walking along the main avenue. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she stumble to her feet, heaving in tight, labored breaths.
The crowd gasped, but not in concern for her. Their complete, undivided attention was now focused on the robot and its new target - the woman in the alley. Accustomed to the unfolding conflict, the mob watched on with growing enthusiasm as the blazing orbital recalibrated, eagerly anticipating the imminent slaughter.
Isobel wiped the blood from her forehead and, covering the raw imprinting wounds with her threadbare woolen scarf, merged with the pedestrians. Droves of drones flitted about with unusual urgency, and as she followed the craft's flight trajectory, she noticed that the surveillance cameras along the avenue blinked red. She removed the bloodstained scarf from her head, and wrapped it around her neck as she set out for the old deserted avenue that would lead her to the ancient railway station of Landgraevan, the only place, other than the alley, she and Montgomery had agreed to rendezvous if things went wrong.
The central rail station, inoperable since the great meteor storms, sat on a vast, complex network of underground tunnels. Built to connect the territories banking both sides of the Pythean range, it had later served the Landgraevan armies fighting the neighboring storm torn territories.
No one willingly traveled the deserted tunnels, but as children, before they'd grown a healthy sense of fear, Isobel and Montgomery had explored nearly every square inch of the old station. Over the years, they'd collected a treasure trove of odd relics that had been forgotten after the storms, storing it all in their secret lair, an ancient bathhouse at the end of the alleyway she'd just escaped from. Hardbound books filled with stories and illustrations depicting a time neither knew anything about, found on shelves along with rolled up ancient maps charting long since vanished territories and celestial skies no longer visible through the haze of holographs. Instruments of navigation and chests filled with worthless coins and paper currency and blankets and odd clothing, outdated and moth eaten. Stacks of paintings of the Pythean range, where purple mountains set against verdant green met a cobalt sky, so different than the icy bleakness of those same hills surrounding them now.
Isobel carefully pulled stray hairs from the sticky, bloody residue covering the gaping puncture holes at her forehead, and bone fragments stuck to her fingers. Repulsed, she swiped her palms across her pants, swallowing back the bile rising to her mouth. On a shaky breath, she shoved her hands into her pocket, and continued down the dark, quiet avenue, hoping that Montgomery would be waiting for her at central station, unharmed.