Beyond Sol Bk. 01 Pt. 01

He acted like my friend. But I had been shot by this man's soldiers and locked away in some top-secret government facility. He wasn't my friend, and I had to remember that.

"Soooo," I said after a minute of uncomfortable silence. Marcus studied me like a dog about to perform a trick, and he didn't want to miss it.

"I'll let you get some rest," Marcus said, rising to his feet. "I'll send some food down for you, and I'll be back in a few hours to ask you some questions."

Marcus turned, knocked on the iron door, then waited for it to open. A soldier dressed in the same black uniform as I'd seen when the spaceship landed stood outside, holding the door for him. The white-haired man stepped over the lip at the bottom of the door, then faced me.

"Oh, and Jason," he said with a smile. "You had better answer me truthfully."

The door swung shut behind Marcus, and I heard the locking mechanisms slide into place. The tone in his voice was friendly, but I understood the meaning of his words. He was the kind of man who got what he wanted out of people. And he wanted information from me. Even though I didn't know anything, he thought I did. And that was enough for him.

"Anytime now, Shara," I whispered to myself, not knowing if the alien had been in my dreams or if I was going crazy. If she was in my dreams, could she hear me now?

I laid back on the narrow bed and closed my eyes. I'd just woken from a two-week-long sleep, but I was tired. I drifted off into the darkness as soon as my eyes closed. My dreams were full of visions of men chasing me, black-uniformed men torturing me and asking me question after question about the alien, the spacecraft, and how I knew they would be there. Each answer I gave them seemed to infuriate the men in my dreams, and the torture and questioning grew worse and worse with each failed response. Marcus's fake smile flashed between each image, and his kindly voice repeated the words he'd last said to me.

"You had better answer me truthfully."

I woke up with a start as the door to my cell opened with a loud creak and clang of the locks disengaging. One of the faceless soldiers in black tactical gear stepped over the lip of the door with a tray in his hands. The soldier placed the tray on the ground beside the bed before retreating out the door without acknowledging me. Not once did he look in my direction. I could tell these men didn't fear an attack or escape attempt. It would be stupid for me to try so soon after waking up. After all, I was mostly skin and bone, and as far as they knew, I couldn't even stand on my own two feet.

I wasn't even sure of my ability to stand, let alone walk. I didn't know how Shara expected me to help her escape. When the door closed and the locking mechanisms were in place, I decided to test my legs' strength. I pushed the covers back quickly and wiggled my toes. I was wearing light-grey sweatpants with no shoes and a plain white T-shirt. It wasn't what I wore the night I found the spacecraft - and Shara - and I wondered where my clothes were. I didn't care that much since it was only my work uniform, but I'd at least like to know where my boots were. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and placed my feet flat against the cold, painted concrete floor. Although I could feel them growing tired from even a small amount of manipulation, my limbs moved without much protest. I placed my hands on the mattress and pushed myself off the bed. I groaned with the effort but was able to get to my feet after a few tries. I swayed a little, and felt the room spin as I stood up straight but was confident I wouldn't fall flat on my face. At least I hoped I wouldn't anyway. The last thing I needed was a broken nose. I walked across to the other side of my cell, placed my hand against the wall, then walked back to the bed.

My shoulders sagged with the effort, and I took a seat on the edge of my bed after completing the walk across my cell three more times. Everything worked, but I felt as weak as a two-day-old kitten. Escaping would be tough. Even before being in a comatose state for over two weeks, it would have been impossible for me to overpower heavily armed, and potentially highly trained soldiers, to escape a government facility. Now it felt more like a death wish. But would it really be so bad? Dying in an escape attempt would be preferable to being held captive for no crime other than showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time. My family and friends probably thought I was already dead, and it wouldn't change anything in their minds.

I grabbed the tray of food from the floor and removed the cover. There was a lot of food on the tray, although it didn't look too appetizing. There were slices of dried meat, cheese, brown bread, a stack of soggy green vegetables, and a small plastic water bottle. None of the food tasted very good, and even though I was feeling ravenous, I ate less than half of the tray's contents before feeling sick. I guessed it would take my stomach a while to get used to eating after such a long time.

I placed the tray by the door and laid down on the bed. The lights were still on, and I wondered if they'd ever turn off. It would be hard to get any sleep if they didn't, and the constant glow would probably drive me insane after a couple of weeks. Hopefully I wouldn't be here that long. After a few minutes passed, I found myself drifting off to sleep despite the bright glow from the overhead lights. I passed the cusp into sleep, hoping I'd get to speak with Shara again. Hoping she'd give me some more info on how she expected me to help her.

Chapter 3

The lights in my cell never went out, so I marked the passing of days by the number of meals my guards brought me. I estimated about eight to ten hours between meals, which gave me two meals a day. After my second meal each day, I would sleep until I heard the guards opening my door to bring my next meal. I found it helpful to have a routine in place to keep myself sane. The food was always the same, so I couldn't tell which meal was breakfast or dinner. After the fourth day, I finished all my food, and started feeling better. I could walk with little effort and spent most of my free time pacing my small cell to get the muscles working in my legs. I'd never really been one for working out, but I knew how. On day five, I started my day by doing ten sit-ups and ten push-ups. It wasn't much, and my arms were shaking by the time I finished the tenth push-up. But it was something to pass the time. I started each day the same, slowly upping the repetitions as strength began to build in my arms and core again.

By the tenth day, I started to wonder if Marcus had forgotten about me. I thought it unlikely since he'd put me here and kept me alive for the last three weeks. It was far more likely he was employing some sort of strategy to make me more agreeable when he finally came to question me.

He eventually came by on day twelve, just as I received my 'evening' meal. He asked questions about the spacecraft, why I was there, and how I knew it was coming. The same shit he asked me the night of the landing. I answered truthfully—since it was all a chance encounter, I had nothing to hide—but my captor would simply smile and say he'd see me tomorrow.

Marcus came to my cell each day and took a seat as I ate—I never exercised when he was in the room—and asked the same questions. He was never aggressive or violent towards me; just persistent.

"You're looking a lot healthier today, Jason," Marcus said on his tenth visit.

I was sitting on my bed as usual when I ate. The tray of food sitting on my thighs was nearly empty, and I silently wished for more. I wasn't very active in the small cell, but I had tried to keep moving when I wasn't sleeping. My body was craving more food as each day passed, and what looked like a large amount the first day—so much that I couldn't finish—was barely enough now to get me to the next meal before I started feeling the claws of hunger gnawing at my stomach. A snack or two throughout the day would have been nice. I suppose I could save some of the food they brought me for later, but I didn't have anywhere to keep it, and I was worried they'd just take what I hadn't eaten when my guard returned for the tray.

"Just trying to stay active as much as I can," I replied with a smile.

I hadn't seen my reflection since waking up; there was no mirror in the cell, but my hands had looked less claw-like, and my ribs were no longer protruding. It had only been a couple of weeks since I'd woken up in this place looking like an extra in a zombie movie, but I'd regained most of my upper and lower body strength. Walking no longer made me dizzy, and I found I could do way more push-ups and crunches than before being locked up. I always heard stories about there being nothing to do in prison but work out; I just didn't think it would be so effective or that it would happen to me.

"Staying active is good for your mind and your body," Marcus said with a fatherly smile.

He had a mug of coffee in his left hand, resting on his knee. He'd often come to our meetings with coffee, and those visits, I guessed, were in the morning. Marcus had offered me one on his second visit, but I declined. I was never really a coffee drinker, but I'd been highly addicted to caffeine. My time asleep had detoxed my body, and I had no urges to indulge in caffeinated products like I once did. I also knew the horror of caffeine withdrawals and wanted to avoid that, especially being locked up here.

"Will you answer my questions truthfully today?" Marcus asked once I finished my food.

"I've answered the same questions honestly every day since you started coming to see me," I said with a sigh.

At first, I was okay with the constant repetition of his interrogation. But now, it was starting to wear me down. Which I guessed was the intent behind the persistent questioning.

"You have, but I feel you're holding back," Marcus said with a knowing smile.

We studied one another for a dozen seconds. For what must have been the hundredth time, I wondered if they knew about my dreams where Shara spoke to me, but there was no way for them to know. I didn't even know if the dreams were real myself. They had stopped once I had woken from my coma; as far as I knew anyway; but I had a strange feeling each time I awoke. Like I did when I was in the void, but I remembered nothing. I didn't even dream after the first night.

"What's your connection to the specimen?" Marcus asked out of nowhere.

It was a question he hadn't asked before, and his use of the word specimen made me grind my teeth. Shara wasn't a science experiment or some lab rat. She was real, and there was a strong chance these people were hurting her.

"I have no connection to her," I said calmly.

"Well, now we're getting somewhere," Marcus grinned at me.

"What do you mean," I asked, trying to keep my face as expressionless as possible.

"Your body language tells me you aren't too fond of how I referred to the alien lifeform," he smiled victoriously. "And you know it's a female."

I felt the blood drain from my face when I realised I fucked up. I'd let information slip that I couldn't possibly know. Shara had been wearing a bulky suit the night her ship landed, and no one could tell anything other than she was humanoid. Marcus and whatever scientists would surely know by now that she was a female—even if I had no idea what she looked like—there was no possible way for me to know.

"Get some sleep, Jason. You'll need it," Marcus winked, then rose from the chair and banged on the cell door.

I barely noticed him leave.

I'd fucked up, and now he knew I knew more than I let on. One lie was all this man needed to convince him I was a part of something bigger. I prayed that Shara would let me in on her plan soon. I worried about what Marcus Gibson would do to me, and I desperately wanted to get out of here. But I worried about Shara more than anything.

The following day's morning meal came later than usual. Each day's constant routine for the last few weeks had set my body clock, and I always woke up a few minutes before my breakfast was delivered. But today, I sat on my bed, waiting. About half an hour later, I heard the familiar clang of my cell door opening. I pushed myself to the edge of my bed in preparation. I was so hungry that I could eat three trays of the tasteless food they brought me and still want more. But instead of the lone guard that came to me each day—I could never tell if it was the same person or not since they covered their faces—a trio of men greeted me. Each wore the same tactical vests, pads, gloves, and balaclava, but none held a weapon of any kind in their hands. Each had a pistol holstered on their right thigh and a baton and a knife on their left. None of them held the standard food tray, but one did hold a thick pair of cuffs and chains.

"Going out for breakfast today, am I?" I said with a grin. My father always said I was a smart ass when I was nervous.

"On your feet, prisoner," the first guard ordered.

I hopped to my feet, far calmer than I thought possible in this situation. They'd found out I knew more than I was letting on, and now the questioning would become more intense. The two men in front stepped to either side while the third stepped forward with the restraints. The bindings he held were far more extensive than any handcuffs I'd ever seen, and they looked heavy. He held them with both hands and tried to sort the jumbled chains from the ankle and wrist restraints while the other two stood to either side of me. Neither man kept their eye on me; they seemed convinced I was no threat to them. That's when I finally noticed the door was still wide open. I had been stuck here before with no chance of escape for over a month. But that had changed.

Something inside me clicked, and I suddenly knew what I had to do. I glanced over at the guard in front of me, scanning the equipment he carried. The gun was the logical choice since I could draw it and shoot at least one of them before they knew what was happening. I didn't know how I knew that since I had never fired a gun in my life. But somehow, I felt confident I could take them out with ease.

But guns were loud.

The knife would be a far quieter method of dealing with these men, but it would make a hell of a mess, and I wanted one of their uniforms. Their blood might ruin that idea. It had to be the baton. I studied the weapon as closely as possible while trying to make myself appear as disinterested in the men as they were in me. It looked far more advanced than a standard baton used by security and police. The baton's handle had a small circular guard that would protect the wielder's hand, with the business end wrapped in a tight metallic mesh that ended in a two-pronged tip and the button on the handgrip confirmed my suspicion. I immediately knew that it would suck immensely to get hit by this thing, but it might be precisely what I needed to attempt an escape without making too much noise or creating a huge mess.

Neither of the other guards flanking me had drawn their weapons or even rested their hands on them. The guard to my right hooked his thumbs through the straps of his vest and gave his colleague handling the chains an exasperated look.

The guard to my left was so disinterested that he pulled out a smartphone and flicked through something on the screen I couldn't see. It felt like we all stood there for fifteen minutes while the guard with the restraints fumbled and the other two all but ignored me, but it was only a few seconds. These men had probably been guarding my room and bringing my meals since I'd woken up and never gave me a second thought. They were highly trained and enjoyed the cushy assignment of guarding someone who wasn't far off being an invalid. I was still skinny enough not to pose a threat to any of the muscular men. Plus, there were three of them—with weapons and armour—and only one of me.

I ran over the plan of action in my mind. I'd grab the baton from the guard with the restraints, zap the fuckers either side of me, then him. I'd have to make sure he didn't fall backward out the door; just in case cameras were watching the hallway outside. I'd spent more time than I wanted in the tiny cell and knew there wasn't a camera here, so I was safe so long as no one got outside the small room. Once all three guards were out cold, I would take one of their uniforms, weapons, and keys, and then I could go looking for Shara. I had no idea how to find her, but roaming the facility in a guard's uniform would be better than nothing. I didn't know if I could pull the plan off, but I wouldn't get a better opportunity. I had a feeling that once those restraints were on my wrists and ankles, I'd be in a far more secure cell. If not dead within a week.

I was about to spring into action when I spotted a glowing light from the guard to my right. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye to see what was causing the glow. It was coming from the baton on his left thigh—more specifically—the handle of the weapon. I glanced around at the other two men to see if their weapons were doing the same and saw their batons looked normal. It was only the soldier to my right, and it was only the handle, the part that wouldn't light up if the weapon was active. Then Shara's words came to me. She told me to trust my instincts and look for her signal. That was it. I had no idea where it was coming from or how I saw it. But this was my chance to escape.

My body acted before I could even think, taking me by surprise as much as the soldiers around me. The guard was looking at his friend with the chains to my right. He didn't see my strike coming. My elbow slammed into his nose with a sickening crunch as the bone and cartilage exploded. As my initial strike landed, I brought up my left leg and slammed my barefoot heel into the other guard's stomach. He was still looking down at his phone, and I heard the air vacate his lungs as my blow connected. The chest rigs they wore were for holding gear and equipment, not protection. He slammed into the wall with a hard thud and slumped to the floor.

Before the guard with the broken nose could recover, I snatched the baton from his left thigh and lashed out at the guard with the chains. He was quicker than his companions and had already dropped the restraints. Unfortunately for him, he reached for the radio at his shoulder instead of a weapon. The baton in my hand roared to life as I thumbed the switch. The rod pulsed with energy, and I saw tiny sparks of electricity spark across the metallic mesh and between the pronged tip. I stabbed the guard in the stomach with the baton right before his thumb was about to pass over the switch of his radio. His whole body tensed up immediately as tens of thousands of volts shot through his body. I shut the weapon off as he started to fall backward and grabbed onto the front of his vest. He was heavy, so I worked on just guiding him away from the open doorway as he collapsed.

Unfortunately, the guard with the broken nose had recovered enough, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, reaching for his gun. I knew I'd only have a second; two at most; before his weapon was free from the holster. I suspected it would be a debilitating wound and not a kill shot; since they needed me alive for some reason; but there was no way for me to know how pissed off this guy was. He might just put a bullet in my head. I wasn't sure which outcome I would have preferred.

With a surge of strength that I didn't know I had; I hurled the unconscious guard into his comrade just as his pistol left the holster. The pair crumbled to the ground, and I saw the gun slide across the floor as the guard fumbled his grip. I felt—more than heard—the winded guard as he rose to his feet. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, and I couldn't hear anything over the pounding of my heart in my ears. I acted on pure instinct.