The Battle For Ironclad (Child Prodigy SciFi) (The Unmaker Series Book 3) Read online

  The Battle For Ironclad

  The Unmaker Series

  Book 3

  Casey Herzog

  ***

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  Copyright © 2017 by Casey Herzog

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  Other Books By Casey Herzog

  The Unmaker Series

  Tower of Ayia (Prequel) - FREE

  The Lucid Dreamer (Book 1)

  Fallen Angels (Book 2)

  Johnny Spaceway Series

  Johnny Spaceway and the Hooded Assassin (Book 1)

  Terminus Project Series

  Terminus Project: Mars

  Want a free book? Casey Herzog is giving away a free copy of Tower of Ayia, the prequel to The Lucid Dreamer (no strings attached). This book is exclusive to his VIP Reading Team.

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  PROLOGUE

  Horde

  Bloodshot eyes opened slightly. A soft groan escaped a deformed mouth and a pair of nostrils flared at a distant odor. The mutant’s head lifted from its chest, and it tasted the air with its tongue.

  The tall column of smoke rose several miles up into the air, the dark pillar’s volume expanding every minute as its sources below continued to burn.

  The fires would not stop burning soon. The conflict — despite the copious amounts of blood that had been spilled — had barely even started, and its main actors were only just beginning to move their chess pieces.

  To a fighter inside the prison, the smoke was a visual obstruction, an uncomfortable element that added to the confusion and chaos that had taken control of the tall blocks and wide corridors that made up the penitentiary known as Prison X-VI — Ironclad, as the Coalition had baptized the place during its construction.

  To somebody outside the prison, however, the column was a beacon, a massive signal that gave away the presence of life. With life came food, water and other supplies that could mean the difference between life and death. While those within the prison fought for petty things like ideals, vengeance and power, those without were focused on surviving.

  Subhumans are one such kind of living being. Though there may be hundreds of thousands of different mutations that may affect the physical or mental composition of a human body in the new world, those who possess them are all still moved by the basic necessities of hunger and thirst just like a normal human being.

  Another of them pushed itself upright from a kneeling position, a rough whisper escaping its throat.

  “Blood,” the voice rasped. Its speaker was one of the more able mutants, one whose psyche had been degraded more than deformed. Its owner knew it as ‘Claws,’ a nickname given the subhuman because of its savage nature and the crude metal talons that had been hammered into its knuckles many years ago in an unknown and cruel experiment.

  More and more mutants began to stir, the smell of smoke attracting some, the distant sounds of gunfire waking others.

  A female mutant with one arm lunged forward and growled, her bony hand stopping an inch from a man’s face. He smiled with amusement and slapped the subhuman’s limb out of the way, reaching for a key. The holding cages were packed full of mutants, the creatures long having been trained not to attack each other and to stay quiet and docile until released from their pens.

  The cages had been transported on the back of ten-wheeler trucks, but the man at the head of the convoy had stopped when he’d spotted the signs of chaos coming from the prison. Now, most of the subhumans were quickly getting agitated at the sound of conflict and the expectation of stretching their legs.

  “Boss, what are your orders?” the man standing in front of the cages asked, his eyes still fixed on the furious female subhuman who continued to swat at his face. Other men and women watched from close by, their faces covered with cloths and rags to protect them from the dust and radioactive residue that collected on their bodies during these long trips. The constant searching for the mutants in the many abandoned cities and settlements humanity had left behind was never-ending. Rifles shone dully in the light, and the expectation of violence grew among the group.

  A truck door opened, and a man slid out of the driver’s seat, his boots landing heavily onto the dusty ground as he emerged. The men around the cages straightened slightly on instinct, and they turned to look at the figure that moved slowly towards them. Each step made a soft metallic click, a sound that came from the spurs on the back of his boots. Even some of the mutants flinched when they heard the sound, their eyes widening in undisguised fear.

  The tall leader was dressed in black and gray clothing, mostly leather, hide and other organic materials. His face was concealed with a skull helmet, the bones actually taken from an Outsider’s corpse and bleached for wear.

  “Release them,” the mutant herder said simply, his voice a low echo within the confines of his helmet. Gokhan’s name was spoken softly among the wastelands, an extremely deadly business rival and even more dangerous enemy to have. ‘The Skull’ — as he was known — was of the crueler breed of mutant herders, the ruthless killers who cared little for working in teams. The few followers in his party had witnessed how easy it was to be discarded by the helmeted man at a moment’s notice. He did not tolerate failure, and those who had disappointed him soon learned a valuable lesson about mutants:

  Subhumans are always hungry.

  Gokhan looked slowly at each of his followers and spoke as two men moved from cage to cage with keys:

  “We’ve done this before, men and women of the Skull. Push the trucks closer and get off when you’re close enough. Hide among the mutants and get into that prison. Leave no one alive. Whatever is in there is ours. We leave before the Coalition arrives. Any questions?” Silence followed. Nobody was stupid enough to ask. Only the leader’s breath echoing in his skull helmet and the groaning of several hundred throats could be heard, such was the silence from the men and women assembled in front of Gokhan.

  The leader took several strides forward and stepped into his vehicle before igniting the motor.

  The cages were finally unlocked and the gates pulled open. Immediately, mutants shrieked and roared and threw themselves at the men and women who had kept them captive, but The Skull whistled softly from his seat. The mutants stopped, the sudden pain and chemical reactions in their brains jolting them into a catatonic state for a brief second before they turned away from the herders and back toward the prison sitting several miles away. At first, only a handful began to move towards the penitentiary — the hungriest and most violent of the mutants hurrying forth towards the column of smoke that split the horizon in two halves — but soon, the scores upon scores of subhumans kept in the back of the trucks descended and joined their fellow mutants. What had at first been a handful of angry, deformed creatures soon turned into a mass of flesh with a single objective:

  to reach Prison X-VI and to slaughter every living thing they found within.

  PART I – Twist of Fate

  CHAPTER ONE

  Judgment

  The announcement arrived a couple of hours after the ordeal in the forests.

  First Term had been given a two-day break: one for the unnecessary pain and suffering they’d gone through, the other so that they could witness Silas Webster’s disciplinary hearing.

  Dante listened to a strong female voice broadcasting the news across the building, without the need for technology or speakers, and smirked bitterly as he heard the words. It felt like justice, a weak brand of justice, but justice nonetheless. He’d spent the rest of the evening after Webster’s examination trying to locate Spiritual Chancellor Brant Albridge. Anger took him to places he’d never imagined; purpose pushed him past obstacles he’d never challenged in the past.

  By the time he found the head of the Universitas Terra, there was a long line of people walking behind him, waiting and watching what he was about to do.

  Albridge had smiled when he saw The Healer, but it soon faded.

  “Hello, child. Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

  Now, however, Dante listened to the details of the hearing that would take place in the same examination room he’d almost destroyed on the day he’d arrived at the University.

  “Students will be permitted to enter the hearing, but may not speak, stand or otherwise interrupt the proceedings on risk of suspension. No student may exchange words or otherwise interact with the accused before, during or after the hearing, and anybody who wishes to act as a witness may do so, only after notifying the Ch
osen board and under an oath of power. That is all. Vitas, Scientia, Virtutem.”

  The message ended, and Dante sat down on the sofa in the middle of his living room. There were two books waiting to be read — Xenology, Tome I: An Introduction, by Professor Ramesses Marcell, and Human Psychology: Theory and Practice for the Initiated, by some old, long-dead professor — but Dante didn’t feel in the right state of mind to be studying. Animal’s death in the forest had rocked him in a way he hadn’t expected.

  “It’s not the fact that you died, it’s the fact that we were supposed to be safe here,” Dante said out loud. Of course, there was always the possibility of losing their life during the examination, and Webster had been clear about that, but the way Animal had been killed to sate the professor’s lust for revenge was too much for Dante. As much as he helped and guided me at one point, I can’t forgive him.

  The Healer lifted the books and put them on a nearby table, smiling suddenly as he realized how strange it was to see books at all, much less use them. Then, he took a sheet-like device off a slot in the wall. Every room had at least one such Digital Assistant Device (named DAD by the students, who often joked about having their fathers watching over them in their room) included in a power slot, allowing them to access information, weather conditions, maps, historical records and more. Unfortunately for Dante, it didn’t allow them to look up personal student records or in-depth information on the University’s staff, adding to the institution’s secretive nature.

  Let me see what I can find out about hearings here, Dante thought. Not only was the device a marvel of technology, it was also easy to use. He quickly navigated his way to the search function and began to look up what had happened during previous disciplinary hearings. Oh…this ain’t good, he thought.

  There had been plenty of hearings since the University had opened, but none had ever revolved around a professor’s acts. Only once had a professor been involved: a student and a member of the Chosen had a swift, violent exchange, but the staff member had been protecting his life from the aggressor, not the other way around.

  There wasn’t much to do, then, Dante knew. Only wait and hope that justice is served. However, Dante thought with determination, even if it costs me my privileged position with Albridge and brings even more enemies to my table, I’m making sure that Webster suffers the consequences. Tomorrow is going to be a big day.

  But then again…when isn’t it a big day in this place?

  The professor sat on the edge of his seat, his fingers digging into the soft leather of the sofa bed he’d been given as a courtesy. Yeah, as if this makes it seem less like a fucking holding cell, Webster thought bitterly. There were metal bars on the window and metal bars beyond the elegant, wooden door that did nothing to disguise the feeling of being imprisoned. Something else also protected the room, Webster knew. Something that disables any gifts attempted to be used within its walls.

  Webster knew he was in the wrong, he had committed a series of acts that went against what the University stood for…but the fact that The Healer had been so insistent upon bringing him down couldn’t help but anger him.

  Why, Dante? He had helped the kid, protected him and kept eyes out in case his would-be attackers were closing in, and now the boy had betrayed him over the death of another student. In many ways, it hurt Silas to feel like that, to suffer the loss of trust in The Healer. Betrayal, he thought, yes, that’s exactly what it was. The dark thoughts were already polluting his mind, and he wondered if he would have a chance to spit some venom at Dante when he saw him.

  Silas Webster was a troubled man: never loved by friends or family, only admired by some and feared by most. He had realized his potential at an early age, having used his gifts to stay alive during the war and escape the initial outbreak of fighting that had killed many of his loved ones. The ability to transform his surroundings into whatever he wished soon made him a formidable fighter, but at the same time, his inability to follow orders and fight alongside lesser soldiers made him a liability to his superiors.

  “You arrogant piece of shit!” he remembered a lieutenant scream at him during a particularly bloody battle at a pre-apocalyptic city, “Get back in formation and fight like a man!”

  Fight like a man. The officer had actually told him to stop using his gifts out of some code of honor. It had been what ultimately drove Webster from the Coalition’s forces and towards solitude. Silas fought the aliens wherever he met them. The aliens learned to their doom that despite their unfair physical and technological advantage over regular human soldiers, they were forced to face an uphill struggle once the enemy turned out to be a gifted individual. Webster soon got his revenge on the aliens for murdering his parents and best friend, turning a whole city block into a nightmarish hell that gradually tortured and killed the Outsiders with no mercy whatsoever.

  It made him lose control.

  The Coalition-deserter-turned-killer devolved into little more than a cruel insect-murdering child, his gifts only serving him for killing. It wasn’t until a stranger walked up to him in the middle of a war-torn city that Silas gave pause to what he was doing. The middle-aged man had an aura of goodness to him, a sense of justice that the world had long forgotten. Brant Albridge had come to Silas at a moment of absolute need, when he’d been moments away from killing an entire community of innocents in a bid to locate an Outsider he’d been hunting for weeks.

  “Leave it, son,” the older man had said, grabbing Webster’s wrist with a soft firmness that had caused the fighter to gasp in shock, “Don’t lose your humanity; you do have goodness left in your heart.”

  Silas had collapsed at that moment, his hand reaching up to his mouth as he saw the destruction he had created as if for the first time.

  “I-I…I’m sorry,” he’d sobbed to the families huddled together in the rubble and ruins. “I’m so sorry.”

  Brant had embraced him, consoling Silas with whispered words of comfort, and then he’d taken him away from it all. It had been a journey for Webster, one of learning, growth and improvement.

  One that may end today.

  The cell door was unlocked and opened, and there were three knocks on the wooden one.

  “Come in,” he said.

  A familiar face entered: an old, friendly figure that had just been on Webster’s mind a moment earlier. Brant Albridge had a strange smile on his face as he studied the younger professor’s rough, bearded face.

  “It was a matter of time, wasn’t it, boy?”

  “Don’t call me that, sir,” Silas replied curtly, looking away. Albridge was a friend more than a superior, but soon the old man would be looking down at him from a judge’s bench with a tough sentence weighing down on his head. Webster did not need him to soften the blow beforehand. “What brings you here? Giving me the heads-up on my suspension? Checking the holding conditions of the University? Breaking me out of here?” Silas snorted at the last comment, and Albridge scowled.

  “You’re not the victim here, boy.” The word made Silas bristle this time. He sneered at Albridge as the old man continued to talk. “Control yourself. I will not stand for any outbursts from you.” The Chancellor moved away and rested against a wall, looking out the window, past the bars guarding it. The sun was setting outside, and it was a wonderful sight to behold. Soon, the last rays from the sun would enter the cell and both men would witness a sight only a very small number of people across the globe could now see. “I’ve come to offer you a way out, one which you should accept. Consider that a professor has never been called for a disciplinary hearing until now.”