Tales Of The Rocket Patrol 4

    As Doctor Attacus Sommers slowly came to his mind was quite foggy. He couldn't remember very much, but something had gone wrong because seconds later he was in more pain than he could ever remember. He also awoke to the sound of breathing that was not his own. It came in measured pulses; metal lungs hissing and clicking in time with his chest. Steam vented softly somewhere above him. The air tasted of oil, antiseptic, and hot copper. His eyelids fluttered, resisted, then peeled open as though pried apart by invisible fingers.

    Light stabbed down.

    Above him, a cathedral of machinery loomed: articulated arms ending in needle-thin instruments, brass housings wrapped in cloth-insulated wires, pressure gauges trembling like nervous eyes. Tubes ran into his flesh, carrying fluids of murky amber and pale blue. Pistons pumped. Valves sighed. A great engine somewhere behind the walls thudded steadily, a mechanical heart beating on his behalf.

    Sommers tried to move. Pain detonated through his body.

    He then roared, like an animal with a sound torn from a throat not yet fully healed, and the machines reacted instantly. Restraints snapped tight around his wrists and ankles. Needles withdrew and reinserted themselves with surgical precision. A mask descended over his mouth, flooding him with warm vapor that dulled the edges of agony but did nothing for his fury.

    "Release me!" he snarled, his voice raw, distorted by the respirator. "Release me now!"

    The machines, obedient only to their programming, ignored him. Fragments of memory clawed their way up from the dark: fire streaking across a night sky, the thunder of rocket exhaust, and the crack of arcane weapons powered by stolen steam-tech. Men in armored coats emblazoned with the sigil that would always be seared into his memory.

    The Rocket Patrol.

    Sommers' lip curled into a sneer.

    "So," he rasped, "It appears we did not finish the job."

    A door hissed open somewhere to his right.

    The footsteps that followed were soft, careful, and human.

    A man entered, thin and stooped, dressed in a servant's livery stained with grease. His eyes flicked nervously between Sommers' face and the machinery keeping him alive, as though unsure which was more dangerous.

    "Doctor Sommers," the servant said, bowing his head. "You are... awake at last."

    "How long," Sommers demanded, straining against the restraints, "How long have you kept me imprisoned in this mechanical tomb?"

    The servant swallowed.

    "Nine months, doctor," He replied, "You were gravely injured during the engagement with the Rocket Patrol. Multiple fractures. Severe internal trauma. These medical engines were the only reason..."

    "Enough!" Sommers snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.

    Nine months.

    His anger sharpened into something colder, more lethal.

    "And the Rocket Patrol?" Sommers asked quietly.

    The servant hesitated just long enough. Sommers smiled beneath the mask, a slow, vicious curve. Whatever the answer, he already knew one thing with absolute certainty: the universe had dared to move on without him, and Doctor Attacus Sommers was unwilling to forgive such insolence.

    Sensation returned in stages: first pain, then weight, and then something like ownership. Doctor Sommers flexed his fingers. The right hand responded sluggishly, at least the flesh and bone that still his own. Tendons protested, muscles trembled, but the hand still moved. The left did not. Where flesh should have answered, there was only the muted awareness of pressure that was cold, exact, and artificial. He turned his head just enough to see it: a mechanical arm resting beside him; brass-plated and beautifully obscene. Its joints were engraved with sigils of reinforcement and serial numbers stamped with the mark of his own laboratories. He laughed. Softly at first, then louder, until it dissolved into a cough.

    "So," Sommers murmured, "You let the artisans practice on me."

    The servant flinched but said nothing.

    "Tell me," Sommers continued, experimentally curling the fingers of his living hand, "How did I fall?"

    The restraints loosened with a hydraulic sigh. Not removed but merely adjusted for comfort. The machines had determined the doctor was no longer an immediate risk of tearing himself apart and accommodated him.

    The servant cleared his throat.

    "It was the Skybridge at Calder Rift, Sir." He replied, "You had nearly completed the ignition sequence."

    Memory surged forward, everything clearer now.

    The Skybridge: it was supposed to be his crowning triumph. A lattice of steam conduits and gravity pylons stretching across the rift, designed to redirect atmospheric pressure itself. With it, he would have controlled trade, weather, and more than half the continent. The city governors had begged. The syndicates had paid. The Rocket Patrol had come anyway.

    "They were not meant to arrive so quickly," Sommers said. "Someone warned them."

    "Yes, sir." The servant confirmed.

    "Who?" Sommers demanded.

    The servant hesitated again.

    Sommers' mechanical fingers twitched of their own accord, responding to a half-conscious neural impulse. Gears whispered. Servos tightened. The arm desired to be useful.

    "They descended through the steam clouds," the servant said quickly, choosing survival. "Four sky-sleds. Red contrails. They disabled the outer pylons with precision strikes. They appeared to know exactly where to hit us in order to do the most damage."

    Sommers closed his eyes. He could see it now. Lawmen in reinforced coats, brass helmets sealed against the vapor storms, insignia gleaming. They were not just soldiers, but symbols. They had moved like engineers, not brutes, carving through his defenses as though reading from his own schematics.

    "They breached the command deck," the servant continued. "You engaged them personally."

    A flash of heat. The roar of his steam cannon. One patrolman hurled screaming into the abyss. Then... their captain. Tall. Unyielding. A voice that carried even over the engines.

    Stand down, Sommers. This ends now.

    "I remember striking him," Sommers said. His jaw tightened. "He should have died."

    "He would have," the servant agreed, "if not for the pulse charge."

    The word tasted bitter.

    "They detonated it inside the core housing," the servant said. "A directed implosion. It collapsed the Skybridge inward. The shockwave threw you into the primary turbine."

    Ah, Sommers conceded as more came back to him. That was the dark moment. The sensation of being crushed, burned, unmade. Steel teeth tearing through flesh. Steam scalding lungs. Consciousness flickering as his own creation had unintentionally tried to kill him.

    "We pulled you from the wreckage hours later," the servant continued, "The Patrol believed you were dead. They left your body with the ruins."

    A mistake, Sommers thought as he inhaled slowly. The respirator lifted away, trusting him now. He pushed himself upright, inch by inch, as his organic leg trembled. The mechanical one compensated flawlessly, as pistons absorbed the strain his flesh could not. The contrast was to say the least... enlightening.

    "So," Sommers continued, "The Rocket Patrol thinks they won."

    "Yes, Doctor." The servant concurred.

    Doctor Sommers slowly stood. Not smoothly, but he stood. Metal met stone with a solid, promising clang. His living foot followed, aching and imperfect, but still his own. He tested his balance, letting the machines learn his weight while his nerves relearned obedience.

    "They took my bridge," Sommers said, eyes gleaming. "They took my time. They even took part of my body."

    He took a step forward. Then another.

    "But they left behind what mattered most," Sommers added, "They left me my mind."

    The servant dropped to one knee.

    Sommers looked down at him, towering now, half-man, half-engine, fury refined by suffering.

    "Prepare the observatory," he commanded. "I want schematics of every Rocket Patrol vessel currently in service. I want names. I want habits."

    His mechanical hand closed into a perfect fist.

    "And when I am finished relearning how to walk," Sommers said softly, "I will teach the Rocket Patrol what it really means to fall."

    One month after waking, Doctor Attacus Sommers was able to walk the length of the gantry without collapsing. He did not consider this a triumph. At first, he required motorized help to get around but had reduced that to the aid of a simple cane. The doctor didn’t push himself too hard as he knew that a slow routine was best and that doing things right was more important than doing them fast. With time and practice, speed would naturally come back to him, so he focused on doing things properly first. Shortly after coming back to the land of the living, it was suggested that Doctor Sommers move to a secondary location for his protection. Since the medical machines were not longer necessary to keep him alive, it was best for the doctor to resume his work and continue his rehab at a new location. It was important to keep him away from certain enemies who would not hesitate to search for him should the rumor of his death was suddenly debunked.

    After a little debate the decision was made to move Doctor Sommers to a remote planet that was used for gathering materials for his work. A near abandoned planet where mines and plantations were handled by local workers that were paid well enough to not question their benefactors. The headquarters where he would be residing in had a decent lab, so he would be able to get some serious work finished and have ample supplies on had should his work ever require them.

    The mine groaned beneath his feet like a wounded leviathan. Steam elevators clanked in their shafts. Conveyor chains rattled while far below charges thudded in carefully measured detonations. Each one loosening veins of iron and rare cobalt from the mountain’s ribcage. The air was a constant haze of coal smoke and metallic dust, caught in the amber glow of arc lamps strung along the cavern ceiling. This base, which was designated as “Foundry Eleven” had been one his most productive.

    The massive facility actually financed a quarter of his empire all on its own, which is what caught the doctor’s attention. Ore in, weaponized innovation out. Precision instruments. Sky-rail disruptors. Autonomous artillery rigs. Patents sold to governments who publicly condemned him while privately wiring funds through shell consortiums in return for his unique services. The mine was not merely a source of material; it was liquidity in geological form, and it had carried on working in his absence. It was this detail that rattled Sommer more than his injuries ever could.

    It had been so long since he last visited he infamous foundry, that the doctor couldn’t help but insist on looking around days after he arrived. He wanted to inspect the facility himself and see for himself how productive this place was despite his absence. Sommers paused at the railing overlooking the central smelting pit, as molten metal churned in vast crucibles, stirred by mechanical paddles the size of carriage wheels. The heat radiated upward, warping the air around him. His organic side perspired, while his mechanical leg adjusted its internal coolant flow automatically. Sommers despised the asymmetry as his fleshy right arm still trembled under the constant strain. The musculature had atrophied a fair bit during his coma, and the nerve repair along his shoulder was yet to be completed. Fine motor control required concentration, as the strength of the doctor’s grip had not yet fully returned to operational thresholds. His left arm, which was now made of brass and composite steel, functioned at ninety-seven percent efficiency. The doctor flexed both hands and observed the difference with his own eyes. The mechanical fingers closed with crisp certainty, while the human fingers hesitated a fraction of a second behind intention. Imprecision, which to him was unacceptable.

    “Doctor,” said the base’s chief engineer, a square-jawed woman, “You have exceeded today’s tolerance.”

    The doctor ignored her and resumed walking, despite each step being a strict negotiation between flesh and machine. While the prosthetic leg absorbed impact flawlessly with micro-servos compensating for imbalance, the organic leg lagged, as his hip stiffened, and his ligaments still knitting. Each flare of pain that he endured were sharp, stabbing reminders that bone remembered being shattered. He did not request analgesics, as his pain was data.

    At the end of the gantry, Sommers stopped and turned with a very slow deliberance. It was a controlled pivot. During his first week at the new location, Sommers had only required a cane. The second, only a brace. Now he required neither, but he felt the phantom urge to reach for support. He resisted it and made the pivot without incident. He turned back to face the sturdy woman that was still following him.

    “I will not build from weakness,” Sommers quietly whispered, more to himself than to the woman watching. “Not again.”

    “I didn’t suggest anything like…” the woman tried to explain, afraid that she had offended him.

    “I implied no such thing,” the doctor replied, “What is your name?”

    “Havel,” the woman answered, “Victoria Havel.”

    “Well, Ms. Havel,” Sommers said, taking a confident step closer. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, especially considering you are one of the foremen of this overachieving facility. I can assure your that the work of yourself and your comrades has not gone unnoticed.”

    “Thank you, doctor,” Havel said, taking a slight bow.

    Despite the marvels about him, the memory of the Skybridge lingered on in memory, as the failure was hard to get off his mind. He came to a quick conclusion that the project failed because he had been present, and that conclusion had taken weeks to realize. He had designed it brilliantly, over-engineered the redundancies, and even anticipated every possible angle of sabotage… calculating load tolerances down to six decimal points. Yet Sommers chose to engage the Rocket Patrol personally, allowing himself to be drawn into spectacle by his ego. The doctor had acted like a man, and men were vulnerable, while engines were not.

    Deep below where Sommers stood, a blast rippled through the mine. Dust drifted from the rafters as Sommers’ mechanical eye adjusted his focus automatically. As it did so a thin overlay of data shimmered across his vision: structural integrity stable. Heat output nominal. Workforce productivity within acceptable range. As his organic eye watered from the smoke, the doctor blinked it clear. It was right here where the doctor had concluded that his recovery could not be measured in days or even months. The regrowth of his nerves alone would require at least a year. Muscular rebuilding would take even longer. There would also always be phantom pain, instability, and fatigue.

    The temptation to upgrade more of himself had been immediate as the doctor had already drafted schematics for a full skeletal reinforcement, bilateral arm conversion, and subdermal plating. It would be a body optimized for war, and the mathematics were elegant. Yet the concept of total mechanization carried a heavy cost. There would be signal lag, maintenance cycles, and the annoying reliance on power cores. Flesh, however inefficient it appeared to be, self-repaired. Sommers was determined not to become dependent on his mechanical replacements at the expense of his original parts. Patience, he reminded himself, was also a weapon.

    Havel stepped closer, as she appeared less afraid to express herself.

    “Production has increased twelve percent since your… return,” she reported carefully. “The markets also believe you’re still dead, and because of that demand for confiscated Sommers-tech has never been higher.”

    “That’s fascinating,” Sommers noted, as the idea provoked ideas.

    “That is something we can exploit,” Havel added. She appeared determined to prove her worth to the doctor as early as possible.

    Sommers allowed himself the faintest smile.

    “Of course we can,” Sommers replied, as the very same thought had also crossed his brilliant mind. The Rocket Patrol had no doubt paraded the ruins of his Skybridge as a symbol of their justice. Confiscating prototypes so that the Patrol could reverse-engineer, study, and exhibit them as trophies.

    Let them, the doctor thought to himself. Every system they touched contained proprietary complexities they did not yet understand. Sommers had designed his inventions with contingencies, even the ones thought to have been seized by the Rocket Patrol. He resumed walking, this time without hesitation. The organic leg protested, but less than before as muscle fibers were finally reawakening. The tremor in his right hand slowly diminished whenever the doctor focused. It would take a lot more to regain full control.

    “I miscalculated once,” Sommers declared, “I will not miscalculate again.”

    The doctor reached the elevator platform and stepped aboard. As it descended toward the lower fabrication levels, he watched as sparks cascaded from welding rigs like inverted constellations. A long road laid ahead, he had admitted to himself, deep within in the quiet hours of his many sleepless nights. A long, meticulous road back to full strength. Yet iron was never forged with a single strike, and neither would his vengeance.

Nearly a year after the Skybridge collapsed, Doctor Attacus Sommers no longer limped. Not visibly at least. The correction had taken enormous discipline that was bordering on obsession. Thousands of calibrated steps were taken far across measured distances. Load-bearing drills under heat stress, and fine motor exercises until his organic hand could assemble micro-valves without tremor. The body had relearned compliance while the machine had learned restraint. Sommers worked and honed his craft in a chamber that did not officially exist. No maps marked it, and no ledgers recorded it. It was all buried beneath Foundry Nine… far below even the deepest extraction tunnels where the bedrock was dense enough to dampen seismic scans. The air carried the constant, distant pulse of industry like a heartbeat. It was in this small laboratory deep underground where Sommers had chosen to remain a rumor. Dead men are difficult to target, but invisible men are impossible.

Far above him, Sommers’ network operated at full capacity. The doctor’s proxies, shell directors, and hired specialists worked hard as they believed themselves indispensable. They issued orders in his name without knowing the source. As long as they profited, none of them cared where the orders came from. As long as their work didn’t interfere with his, Sommers let them make as much money as their ambition allowed them to. Control, the doctor has learned, did not require presence to function, but merely architecture. And yet, even the most elegant organizations sometimes suffered contamination. No structure would be perfect as long as human error was a component of it.

The report had reached him six hours earlier.

A prototype he had been working on for months was exposed.

The item’s code name: Helios.

The weapon had been deployed and tested without the doctor’s knowledge nor his authorization. The Helios was a handheld laser emitter that had been designed to bypass the Rocket Patrol’s inner-city sensors by modulating its thermal and electromagnetic signature into “noise” profiles indistinguishable from background industry. That turns his guns into ghost weapons. Invisible to the very systems meant to detect it. Clients were lining up to buy this weapon, and it was going to fill his war chest for a very long time. Was being the key word.

A low-level operative had used it during a street theft in one of the Patrol’s protected zones. There was panic, in the streets, countess witnesses, and the Rocket Patrol was forced to respond. The Helios weapon in use was even confiscated by one of their best officers, and it was in a Rocket Patrol laboratory being torn apart and re-engineered. After those techs were through with it, his brilliant bypass would be discovered, and the system would be fixed to make the Helios nothing more than a paper weight.

Sommers stood perfectly still as the implications settled into place. The situation itself was not catastrophic, but it was completely unacceptable.

Behind the doctor, restrained in a kneeling frame of iron and insulated cable, was a man that had bee struggling against his bonds. Sweat soaked his collar, and his eyes darted wildly around the chamber, trying to understand where he had been brought. The man’s name was Garrick Venn. He was a second-tier syndicate broker. He was ambitious enough to lead, but not cautious enough to survive mistakes. It was Venn’s subordinate that had stolen the weapon. That distinction did not matter. Sommers believed since it was one of his men who violated their trust, then Venn was to be held responsible for the theft of his weapon.

“What am I doing here?” Venn cried out, hoping there someone in the darkness that could hear his pleas.

“You misunderstand the nature of hierarchy,” Sommers said, without turning and keep his back to the restrained men. His voice carried easily in the chamber, precise and unhurried. “It is not a ladder, but a circuit. When one node fails, the current does not politely stop. It arcs.”

“We were trying to market the tool to increase bidding,” Venn pleaded, “My guy cleared things with our buyers. The loss was minimal…”

“Your ignorance,” Sommers interrupted, “It is s not mitigating, but merely diagnostic.”

Now Doctor Sommers turned around to face the man. The lighting in the chamber was deliberate, as it was angled so that the brass of his left arm and leg caught the glow while his organic side remained partially in shadow. His mechanical eye adjusted, iris narrowing with quiet clicks.

The effect was not theatrical by accident.

Venn’s breath hitched, but recognition did not come immediately. It arrived in fragments. His posture, the deep voice, and the impossible composure. Then the face resolved against memory: reports, rumors, a death that had been widely celebrated. All if it was false. The man was alive.

“Oh, my gaud,” Venn’s voice cracked, as he finally realized who was addressing him. “No! That’s not possible! We were all told that you…”

“Died?” Sommers offered, and the word landed like a weight.

Venn’s expression collapsed inward, as understanding dawned with sickening clarity. The person speaking to him was not a lieutenant, nor a petty enforcer. This man was the origin point. The mastermind.

“Oh… oh no,” Venn whispered, as he started to realize the true gravity of his situation. There was nothing he could say to this man. He was cooked.

Sommers began to step closer, each movement measured. He moves with a steady pace as the doctor didn’t want to spoil the drama he was creating by losing his footing. With each step he took forward, he could see the fear in Venn’s face grow.

“Apologies, Professor,” Sommers called out. “But I’m afraid the rumor of my demise was greatly exaggerated,”

Sommers took a few more steps and then stopped just ten feet shy of his prisoner to witness the dread that was upon his face.

“I’ve always wanted to say that,” Sommers added, “Did I deliver it well?”

Venn wanted to say something, but the sight of a man long believed to be dead as well as the mechanical parts that stood out left him so terrified that he wasn’t able to make a single peep.

“I hear your people call you Professor,” Sommers resumed, “Yet I have found zero evidence to suggest this is title that you have earned. Therefore, I will not extend the same respect, Mr. Venn.”

Venn didn’t respond out of fear the man would lash out. He was already scared for his life and didn’t want to risk making things worse.

“One of your men delivered one of most promising prototypes right into the hands of the Rocket Patrol.” Sommers explained to his prisoner. “They will no doubt disassemble it, map its emission profile, and adapt.”

Sommers slowly crouched. Not out of necessity, but to bring his gaze level with Venn’s to emphasize his next point.

“They will learn,” the doctor continued, “that existed a way to move unseen through their most secure districts. After they tear my device apart, their security systems will be upgraded to render it useless!”  

Venn shook his head frantically.

“We can fix it!” He frantically replied, “We could hit the lab, and steal it back. Then we could silence whoever knew…”

“No!” Sommers roared, as he interrupted Venn by slapping his face with the back of his hand. Out of instinct, he had used his organic hand to deliver the slap, and he felt the pain from their contact and shared it with him.

“No,” Sommers repeated, “because the true damage is not the loss of the device. Devices can easily be remade. The true damage you and men caused was exposure. The moment a system is understood, then it ceases to be an advantage. You also didn’t just expose my work, as the Patrol will ask where the device came from. Questions like that expose me as well!”

The doctor straightened and gestured. From the shadows, a pair of attendants rolled forward a vertical apparatus. It was part medical frame, part industrial rig. Coils of filament, thin as hair and faintly luminous, were spooled along its sides. At its center: a harness designed not to restrain the body, but to interface with it.

Venn stared at it, confusion overtaking fear.

“What the hell is that?” Venn asked.

Sommers regarded the machine with quiet satisfaction.

“A correction.” The doctor answered with a small grin on his face.

He moved behind Venn, his mechanical hand resting lightly on the man’s shoulder. It was not a threat, but a claim reassurance.

“You believe punishment is measured in pain,” Sommers began to explain, “but I disagree with the premise, because pain is finite. It ends.”

His attendants released Venn from the kneeling and started to drag him to the other apparatus. Venn tried to fight back, but after being restrained for so long made him too weak to fight back. Moments later Venn was secured to the new device. Once secured, the machine came to life as the filaments began to unspool, drifting toward Venn like strands of living light.

“True punishment is measured in utility,” Sommers declared.

He watched as the first filament touched Venn’s skin, which caused him to scream. Not from the contact, but from what followed. The thread sank through flesh without resistance, seeking neural pathways, mapping, threading, integrating into him. More threads followed, dozens, then hundreds, weaving through his entire nervous system with surgical precision.

Sommers watched as the man thrashed about. Despite the screaming and resistance, the doctor’s expression unchanged.

“Your failure,” Sommers said, “Will merely be repurposed.”

Venn’s body convulsed as the apparatus synchronized. His muscles locked, then released in unnatural sequence. His breathing stuttered, then stabilized, as he was longer in control of anything. A human being had been fully hacked and programmed to obey his new master. Data flickered across Sommers’ augmented vision.

Signal integrity: strong.

Neural interface: successful.

“In time,” Sommers continued, “your new form will function as a relay. A living interface through which I will test countermeasures against the Patrol’s inevitable adaptations. You will repay what you have done with service, and if deemed necessary… sacrifice.”

Venn’s eyes rolled toward him, pleading, but the words would not come. His vocal cords no longer responded to intent. His mind was still intact, but the body and its functions had been reassigned.

“You will be working with me directly for the foreseeable future,” Sommers declared, “You could consider that a promotion.”

The doctor turned away as the apparatus hummed to life at full capacity, converting what was a liability into useful infrastructure. There would be consequences to the Helios breach, as Sommers knew the Rocket Patrol would adjust. They would tighten their sensor grids, refine their detection algorithms, and desperately try to close the gap he had opened.

Good, Sommers though to himself, as adaptation always clarified the field. They would make changes, and he would respond. A virtual technological game of cat and mouse that often amused him. Yet behind him was not just a machine taking over Venn, but an advanced continuation of his work. Helios was just a small sample of the plan he was putting together. The man’s incompetence merely provided him with a body that deserved to be his guinea pig. This punishment was both methodical and irreversible. It would also last as long as Sommers wished it to.

Sommers knew the confiscated device would raise suspicions, and rumors would start once again. The Rocket patrol would have no choice but to look for a ghost.

Proof of life did not require announcement.

Only results.

    The interruption came at the worst possible moment.

    Doctor Attacus Sommers was standing over a disassembled emitter core with the housing peeled back to expose a lattice of crystalline filaments suspended in a magnetic cage. The Helios failure had forced the doctor to begin working on a redesign that was less elegant and plagued him in redundancy. If the Rocket Patrol had learned to see ghosts that were lurking in the shadows, then Sommers decided that the ghosts would have to become something else entirely: unclassifiable.

    The doctor adjusted a tuning fork into the lattice and watched the resonance pattern shift across his augmented vision. The frequency had stabilized for a while, and then suddenly fractured.

    Imperfect, he thought to himself as he exhaled slowly.

    “Let us try again,” he quietly murmured to himself.

    Before Sommers could reset the configuration, the lab door opened with a sharp pneumatic hiss. A sound that was unannounced and worst of all uninvited. The doctor did not look away from his work when he called back out to whomever was walking in.

    “You are either incompetent,” he called out, “or you believe yourself indispensable. Neither permits this interruption.”

    “Doctor,” a voice called back, strained but controlled, “I believe you will want to see this.”

    It was Havel. That alone justified the interruption.

    Sommers straightened, flexing his organic hand once, steady, and turned toward her.

    “Explain.” he ordered.

    “We have visitors incoming,” Havel replied.

    “Visitors?” Sommers repeated, almost surprised to hear it consider the barren planet they were residing on and the fact that only a few people even knew he was there at all.

    “Unexpected, I know,” Hazel conceded, “But it’s Dr. Markson.”

    “The anthropologist who is our liaison with the local workers?” Sommers asked, although he already knew the answer.

    “Yes, Sir,” Havel confirmed, “He is returning from the upper settlement and is bringing two people with him. They were causing a disturbance.”

    “I would assume so,” Sommers said, stepping closer, “The locals don’t like any visitors, especially those that are uninvited. I actually happen to share that sentiment.”

    “That’s why Markson brought them here,” Havel continued, “To get them out and settle things down.”

    Sommers’ expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.

    “And why does this require my presence?” he asked her.

    Havel hesitated but took a deep breath.

    “Based on the cameras we have in the machine they’re traveling in,” Havel continued, “I believe they’re Rocket Patrol, Sir.”

    The words settled into the air like falling ash.

    “Well, that settles it,” Sommers finally replied, “This is something I’ll have to see for myself. Let’s go.”

    It took Sommers and Havel only a few minutes to ride the life back up to the ground level. Instead of walking to the main doors, he ascended a small staircase to the next level towards a platform that had been cleared of machinery that overlooked the main doors and the grounds beyond them. When he reached the deck, he did just as the vehicle carrying the three people was arriving. He could see Doctor Markson, the anthropologist, visibly out of place in the industrial gloom. He was dust-streaked but relatively composed, a fixture among the laborers and tolerated because he asked questions no one else bothered with. He stepped out of the jeep and slowly approached the regular guards that were stationed at the main door.

    It was the other two figures who remained in the vehicle, a man and a woman, that were with Markson who clearly did not belong there. They were both still in uniform, which was a dead giveaway. Even if they were out of uniform, their posture would have revealed all the doctor needed to know about them. They were indeed members of the Rocket Patrol.

    From his distance Sommer could tell the man was older, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with the unconscious authority of someone accustomed to command. His uniform was scorched along one sleeve, and a shallow cut traced across his jawline. His eyes moved constantly, as he was cataloguing exits, distances, numbers.

    The woman at his side was younger, tense but controlled. Her stance was tighter, more reactive. One hand hovered just slightly too close to where the doctor suspected her weapon should be. She appeared ready for anything.

    They were survivors. Something had happened unexpectedly, and that unfortunate event led them to his doors. Havel stepped up and took a position beside Sommers she realized he was watching from a position that hid him from the visitors. Sommers never looked or said anything to her as he continued to watch as Markson started to speak with the two guards that were normally at the main doors.

    “Markson,” one of the guards called out, “What the hell are you doing back so soon?”

    “Apologies,” Markson replied, as he walked closer, “I ran into these two at the village and felt it would be best to bring them here, so they wouldn’t make the natives any more nervous than they already were.”

    “Who are they?” The other guard asked.

    “Rocket Patrol,” the older man said, as he stepped out of the jeep.

    As the man turned to answer the guard’s question for Markson, Sommers recognized almost instantly: Sergeant Rogers.

    The memory aligned perfectly: the Skybridge, the command deck, the moment before the pulse charge detonated. One of the few men who stood their ground when others would have fled.

    It appeared at least one of them lived.

    Doctor Sommers felt something unfamiliar flicker beneath the surface. It was something almost like satisfaction.

    “What are you doing out here?” the first guard asked.

    “We had an unfortunate accident,” Rogers explained to the guards, “And crashed on this planet after falling off course from our mission.”

    Havel was about to step up, but Sommers stopped her with a hand.

    “I’ll handle this, Havel,” Sommers said, almost excited to do so.

    “Yes, Sir,” Havel said, backing down immediately.

    “In the meantime,” Sommers said, “Evacuate the lab. I want everything moved to our secondary location immediately.”

    “Sir?” Havel asked, confused.

    “They are Rocket Patrol,” he informed her, “You heard the man say so.”

    “I did,” Havel confirmed.

    “Our location has been exposed, even if accidentally.” Sommers continued, “Evacuate everything while I entertain our guests. I want it all off world by day’s end. Is that understood?”

    Havel said nothing but instead ran off, eager to carry our his orders.

    Sommers turned back to join the conversation already in progress.

    “So, you didn’t mean to come here?” the guard at the door called out.

    “No, we did not,” Rogers confirmed, “We would just like to contact our people so we can get out of here and get back to our own work.”

    “I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,” Sommer finally called out from the deck above, which drew everyone’s attention.

    Captain Rogers looked up and recognized the man as quickly as Sommers had recognized him mere moments ago.

    “Holy shit,” Rogers said, as he unbuckled the flap on his pistol.

    “Who is that?” O’Brien asked, as she stepped out of the jeep to and already had her hand on the hilt of her blaster right where Sommers knew it would be.

    “Doctor Sommers,” Rogers answered, as he started to back away from the guards, “It’s been a while, doctor.”

    “It has,” Sommers confirmed, “It nice to see you again, Sergeant Rogers.”

    “Actually, it’s Captain Rogers now,” Rogers corrected him.

    “Is it now,” Sommers said, his face even more amused. “Come inside and let’s do a proper catch up over lunch.”

    “I’d rather not,” Rogers replied.

    “I’m not asking, Captain,” Sommer said, his voice carrying a dark tone.

    The moment Sommers made that last statement, a dozen more men in the same body armor as the two guards at the door emerged from behind the jeep’s position. Their laser rifles were drawn and pointed at the two patrollers who never had a moment to reach for their blasters. Aware of how screwed they were, Rogers slowly removed his pistol from its holster and dropped it to the ground. The young woman did the same without having to be asked.

    “So, what’s for lunch?” Captain Rogers inquired.

    “And ruin the surprise,” Sommer replied, grinning back at them, “I don’t think so, Captain. Come on in and find out for yourself.”

    “Get inside!” one of the guards barked, interrupting the two patrollers as they were whispering to one another.

    “You too, Markson!” the other guard called out.

    All three of them with four armed guards were at the bottom of the stairs as Doctor Sommers descended down them. Markson looked especially scared after all the guns were drawn at them.

    “Doctor Sommers,” the anthropologist said quickly, stepping forward, oblivious to the undercurrent. “These two were found beyond the ridge. Their craft went down pretty hard. They claim to be…”

    “I’m aware of what they claim,” Sommers interrupted as his gaze never left Rogers.

    “Clear this level.” Sommers whispered to one of the guards.

    The anthropologist blinked. “I… what?”

    “Now.” Sommers said to the guard before he could respond.

    The word was quiet, but absolute.

    The guards did not hesitate. Within seconds, the platform on the main level began to clear. Workers moving without question, exits sealing behind them. The ambient noise of the mine receded as blast doors slid into place, isolating the chamber. Rogers’ eyes narrowed from what he was witnessing.

    “You run a tight operation,” Rogers said.

    “Survival favors efficiency,” Sommers replied.

    Only when the last civilian had departed did Sommers allow the shift.

    The guards stepped forward. They were not aggressive, but decisive as they formed a new perimeter. Weapons visible but not raised. A statement.

    The woman noticed immediately. Her stance adjusted, weight shifting, calculating odds she already knew were poor.

    Rogers, however, remained still.

    “You’re not just a mine operator,” Markson concluded.

    “I am not,” Sommers confirmed.

    Silence stretched as it was at this point where Sommers stepped fully into the light. No shadows now. No ambiguity. The brass of his arm gleamed, as the mechanical eye focused with a faint, audible click.

    Recognition struck like a physical blow.

    “I know what you’re thinking,” Sommers continued, “The reports of my death while inaccurate were operationally convenient.”

    The guards subtly shifted, tightening the circle.

    “Rogers and I go way back,” Sommers said, as he casually took a step closer to the young woman, “But we’ve never had the pleasure. Who might you be, my dear?”

    The young woman looked like she’d rather knock Sommer’s head off rather than share conversation with him.

    “Stand down,” Rogers ordered.

    “Seriously?” The young woman asked, almost disappointed.

    “That’s an order,” Rogers insisted, “Stand down, and introduce yourself.”

    Sommers watched the exchange with interest. The display of discipline and loyalty was admirable but predictable.

    “Miranda O’Brien,” the young woman said, “Rocket Patrol.”
 
   “I assumed as much, Ms. O'Brien,” Sommers said, as he stepped even closer. “The uniform was a dead giveaway. Doctor Attacus Sommers.”
 
   “You look well for a dead man,” O’Brien noted with distaste.
 
   Sommers grinned and took it for the compliment that it wasn’t intended to be. Truth was he was better off as he was than dead. Her statement while meant to hurt was surprisingly accurate.
 
   “You’ve crashed,” Sommers started, casually as if he was discussing the weather, “You require shelter, repairs, and time. Unfortunately, you have arrived in a location that cannot permit your departure. You’ve seen and know far too much already.”
 
   “So, this is it?” O’Brien asked, her jaw tightened. “You’re going to just execute us and bury the bodies?”
 
   “Of course not,” Sommers replied.
 
   He gestured lightly, but the tension did not vanish. It shifted.
 
   “Executions are wasteful,” Doctor Sommers continued. “And premature.”
 
   Sommers turned, beginning to walk back toward the inner corridors without checking whether they would follow.
 
   “Come,” he ordered without looking back.
 
   Neither officer moved. The guards adjusted their aim. It was not threatening, but persuasive. Rogers gave the smallest nod, and they followed.

The dining chamber was absurd in its normalcy. A long steel table that was immaculately clean, and it was already set to host four people. As soon as Sommers realized that three visitors were coming his way, the kitchen was immediately notified so that extra portions of that day’s lunch would be prepared to show the guest their top hospitality. The doctor hadn’t dined with anyone for quite a while, so he was eager to break bread with anyone to enjoy something like that, even if it was with the enemy.

What sat at the table was real food; not ration paste nor processed blocks. Actual bread, meat, steamed vegetables that had been organically grown in controlled hydroponic arrays. The water was pure from a private spring and not recycled from condensation.

O’Brien noticed all of it. So did Rogers.

Sommers took his seat at the head of the table, folding his hands with precise composure.

“Please… sit,” the doctor ordered.

They three guests did as they were told.

For a moment, no one at the table spoke. Then Sommers reached for a glass, his organic hand steady.

“You came here seeking assistance,” Sommer started, “You have it.”

O’Brien let out a sharp, incredulous breath.

“Do you honestly expect us to believe that?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Sommers replied. “But I expect you to understand your current position.”

The doctor met Rogers’ gaze directly.

“You are alive because I have decided you are more valuable that way.” Sommers explained, before taking a swig of his natural water.

Sommers waited a beat, and then added almost conversationally:

“And because,” he continued, “I am curious.”

The Captain leaned back slightly, studying him.

“Curious about what?” Rogers inquired.

Sommers’ mechanical eye adjusted focus, iris contracting.

“About how a man survives destroying my life’s work,” Sommers said, “and then has the audacity to crash at my doorstep asking for help.”

There was a short pause, and then Rogers gave a faint, humorless smile.

“Guess we’re both having a bad month,” he playfully commented.

For the first time since entering the room, something close to amusement touched Sommers’ expression.

“Eat,” he said.

The guards remained, and the doors stayed sealed.

For several minutes, the only sound in the chamber was the quiet rhythm of cutlery against metal plates. Doctor Sommers ate with measured precision, his organic hand steady, his mechanical fingers resting motionless beside his glass. Across the table Captain Rogers matched his pace, not out of comfort, but discipline. Lieutenant O’Brien was less composed, as she ate because she understood she needed strength, not because she trusted the setting or their host. The guards did not move, and after a long silence it was Doctor Sommers broke it.

“I’m sure The Rocket Patrol adapted quickly after our encounter at the Star Bridge,” Sommers said, casually as if he were commenting on the weather. “Publicly, I imagine it was framed as a decisive victory.”

Captain Rogers chewed for a second and swallowed before answering.

“It was.” he calmly replied.

“Of course,” Sommers said, as he inclined his head slightly. “Symbols matter, so no offence taken.”

O’Brien glanced between them, sensing the subtext but not yet fully parsing it.

“And internally?” Sommers continued. “I assume after such a resounding win there was bound to be reorganization. Even a few promotions?”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Are you asking out of curiosity,” Rogers asked, “Or are you planning something?”

Sommers allowed the faintest hint of a smile.

“Oh, Captain,” The doctor replied, “If I were planning, you would not be in a position to answer anything.”

There was a short pause as Rogers considered that and answered his inquiry anyway. The Captain believed that it was in his best interests to tell the truth while the conversation was trivial and then lie only when it was necessary for their safety.

“Command structure tightened,” Rogers confirmed. “More centralized oversight. Less room for independent operators.”

Sommers nodded once, as that seemed to track with the reports he had been given months ago. The Patrol had learned the correct lesson as decentralization created vulnerabilities he had nearly exploited to full effect.

“And you,” Sommers said to Rogers. “You also advanced.”

O’Brien looked at Rogers, a flicker of pride crossing her face despite herself.

“It was a field promotion,” Rogers replied, “It was temporary at first, and then became permanent.”

“Well deserved,” Sommers added, as it was not flattery but assessment.

O’Brien shifted in her seat.

“Things changed a lot after the Bridge,” she said, unable to keep quiet. “New command, new directives…”

Rogers shot her a look but didn’t make any direct commands. Yet that glare had come far too late.

“Commander Roderick has bene pushing for strong changes,” O’Brien added, “The Patrol has been more focused since…”

She then noticed the look Rogers was giving her and shut up.

Silence snapped into place, and Sommers’ hand paused mid-motion. It was just for a fraction of a second, and then it continued. He then placed the utensil down with exact care.

“Commander Roderick?” the doctor repeated.

O’Brien froze as realization hit. Rogers closed his eyes briefly, his annoyance clearly visible, but not at her. He was frustrated by the inevitability of the mistake.

“You’ve heard of him?” O’Brien asked, trying to recover.

Sommers looked up, his expression had not changed.

“Yes,” Sommers replied, “We’ve met.”

There was no elaboration nor any visible reaction, but something in the room shifted. It was subtle, like a drop in pressure you feel before a storm.

Rogers leaned forward slightly and decided to interrupt what the doctor might be thinking about what he just learned.

“Commander Ben Roderick now runs this sector,” Rogers informed him, choosing to own the disclosure rather than let it linger half-spoken. “Which means if you’re thinking about resurfacing…”

Rogers stopped and let the implication hang, and Sommers did not hesitate to meet his gaze.

“Am I?” Sommers inquired.

Rogers didn’t answer that question and instead chose to change vectors.

“That weapon,” Rogers replied, “The one that slipped through our grid earlier this week.”

O’Brien stiffened again, as she knew what he was talking about. The firefights that Sergeant Star had with the newly discovered blasters that somehow managed to beat the capital grids.

Rogers continued, eyes locked on Sommers.

“Elegant piece of work,” Rogers confessed, “The modulated emissions and masked signatures took us longer than it should have to even realize what we were looking at.”

Sommers said nothing.

“I assume they were yours?” Rogers inquired.

Sommers paused for a beat, and then leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers as he also decided to be honest.

“If they were,” the doctor vaguely replied, “you would not have detected them at all.”

 “We did detect it.” O’Brien replied with a frown.

“Eventually,” Sommers replied, as the distinction landed.

Rogers’ expression didn’t change, but the acknowledgment was there.

“We’ve got it in a lab now,” the Captain added, “Our best engineers are pulling each one apart and re-engineering them as we speak.”

Rogers made a deliberate choice of words. It wasn’t a threat, but a signal that he knew would rather land hard with his host.

Sommers inclined his head, as though considering a technical report rather than a strategic loss.

“Then I expect you will learn a great deal,” Sommers conceded.

Internally, the calculus shifted as the exposure window was considered active. The doctor also concluded that his countermeasure timeline would have to be accelerated, while the priority of containment remained elevated. None of this could be read on Sommer’s face, as he was too smart to let that happen.

O’Brien set her fork down as her frustration could be read by everyone.

“Why are we even talking about this?” she called out, “You’re a criminal, and a mass murderer! And we’re just… sitting here having lunch?”

Sommers turned his attention to her fully for the first time.

“You are here because you are alive,” Sommers responded, as the simplicity of it cut right through her childish antics. “And because information flows more freely while breaking bread than in any interrogation room.”

O’Brien didn’t answer him, so Rogers chose to respond instead.

“You’re not letting us go.” Rogers said.

It wasn’t a question, and Sommer stood up.

“No,” he confirmed, “I am not.”

The guards moved instantly.

Chairs scraped as O’Brien pushed back, tension snapping tight. Yet the rifles were already trained on them both. Angles precise and distances closed. Rogers remained seated for a moment longer, then rose slowly.

“I didn’t think so,” Rogers muttered.

Sommers gestured toward the door.

“You will be accommodated,” The doctor explained, “Your injuries will be treated, as your survival at the moment is provisionally advantageous.”

“Until it isn’t,” O’Brien shot back.

“Correct,” Sommers answered her calmly.

The doors slid open with a heavy mechanical hiss. Beyond them, the corridor stretched downward… deeper into the facility, where light thinned and the hum of machinery grew more intimate, and invasive.

Rogers stepped forward first, and O’Brien followed with her jaw set. The guards closed in around them. They were not rough nor careless, but absolute in their actions. As they walked, Rogers glanced sideways at Sommers.

“You really think you can stay hidden forever?” The Captain asked.

Sommers did not slow down or even turn back to look at him.

“Forever is inefficient,” Sommers replied, “I require only long enough.”

They reached a reinforced junction and as the heavy doors parted, they revealed a section built not for industry but containment. Inside were several cells that were all clean, secure and inescapable.

Sommers stopped at the threshold.

“For the time being,” The doctor declared, “You will remain here.”

O’Brien turned to face Sommers.

“And what happens when your ‘long enough’ runs out?” She asked.

Sommers’ mechanical eye focused with a quiet click.

“When it does,” Sommers replied, “You will already understand.”

The doors closed behind them with finality.

Upon learning that Captain Rogers had crashed, Doctor Attacus Sommers dispatched three teams that same day to search for the wreckage. It took them less than two days to find it, and have it carefully transported back to his lab. The wreckage occupied Hangar Three beneath quarantine seal that Sommers himself insisted on. That meant nothing entered nor exited the chamber without the doctor’s authorization. No personnel, tools, or even a scrap of metal came into the lab unless he gave permission. The crashed Patrol vessel had been transported in pieces from the surface under heavy tarp and false inventory manifests, then reconstructed across the hangar floor with care as if it were an archaeological relic. It now rested beneath suspended work lamps like a corpse that was being examined in the morgue.

Sommers circled the wreckage in silence. Taking in every detail he could as he paced around it. The vessel was a standard Rocket Patrol reconnaissance transport. It was compact, durable, designed for rapid atmospheric insertion. Its outer hull had been shredded during impact, but the damage pattern immediately bothered him. It was too clean.

Sommers stepped over a severed section of plating while his mechanical eye projected alignment overlays across the fractured structure. Data scrolled through his vision. Impact vector was inconsistent, thruster asymmetry detected, but there was an issue with the power distribution. There was a cascade failure that was not systemic. It was localized.

“This was not an accident,” Sommers called out, as he noticed that Havel had entered the lab. His was already aware of her presence because he had authorized it earlier. Havel approached carefully from behind, tablet in hand.

“The flight recorder was mostly destroyed,” she informed him, “Whatever caused the crash appeared to burn right through the core systems before atmospheric entry.”

“Fascinating,” Sommers said, as he was enjoying this little distraction. His lab in its entirety was already being shipped to an alternate location, so having the wreckage of Captain Rogers’s ship gave the doctor something to pass the time with while real work was on hold.

The doctor crouched beside an exposed guidance assembly. The burn marks radiated outward from the circuitry in branching patterns resembling veins. This led Sommers to conclude that the damage was not caused by an explosive. This looked more like intrusion damage, which means someone had entered the system.

“Havel,” Sommers called out to her, “Did Rogers give any indication of something unusual happening before the crash?”

“Not to us,” Havel revealed. “Both prisoners are not talking to us about anything anymore.”

“I see,” Sommers said, as he continued to pace. “What about Doctor Markson?”

“The anthropologist?” Havel said, as she accessed different files on her tablet. “He was much more co-operative. Markson talked to them about the crash riding over here, and claims that the ship lost navigation, and then communications. The patrollers honestly thought the crash might have been caused by a storm interference event.”

Sommers leaned over to look at a fractured console. He extended a thin instrument from the index finger of his mechanical hand and inserted it in. The system resisted at first, and then eventually opened. Fragments of corrupted telemetry data flooded his vision. It showed broken timestamps, partial commands, and even scrambled coordinates. Sommers filtered through them instinctively, quickly isolating the noise from the structure beneath it.

And there it was: a command signature.

There was something odd about. The signature wasn’t issued by the Rocket Patrol nor any civilian command. Its origin also had a construction that was of unknown architecture.

Sommers went still and paused for a moment before finally speaking.

“Havel,” Sommers said quietly, “Seal the chamber.”

Havel’s expression tightened immediately.

“Doctor?” she asked, unsure how to respond.

“Now.” Sommers ordered, with a tone that told her that he didn’t want to ask her again.

The heavy blast doors thundered shut around the hangar. The ambient hum of the facility quickly dulled into muffled vibration.

Sommers continued reading and discovered that the sabotage had been elegant. Disturbingly elegant. The vessel’s systems had not simply failed but were guided into failure by sensor ghosts that were introduced one layer at a time. Navigation drift was disguised as calibration error, while communications rerouted the vessel into recursive loops until the pilot lost all external reference. This means the ship was shepherded by an unknown force. Rogers and his partner were not brought to this planet by chance but were directed towards it. Towards him.

For the first time in months, Doctor Sommers felt genuinely unsettled.

“This is impossible,” Havel muttered, reading the mirrored data feed over his shoulder. “Nobody should be able to penetrate the Rocket Patrol’s systems this deeply.”

“Not nobody,” Sommers corrected her, as his advanced mind was already moving far ahead of her.

In order to complete hack the modern system of this vessel, someone had to possess advanced cybernetic infiltration capability. They also had to possess detailed knowledge of Patrol architecture and have enough intelligence on Sommers to know that this location mattered.

These were not coincidences, but coordination.

The doctor’s jaw tightened.

“Bring me the communications array,” he ordered.

Within minutes, portable equipment surrounded the fractured cockpit. Sommers interfaced directly, bypassing safety layers with mechanical precision. The damaged systems groaned awake under forced power, and static flooded the chamber.

Then there was a pulse. It was faint, but rhythmic.

 “That wasn’t in the original scans.” Havel said, shocked to see it.

“It was not,” Sommers confirmed, with a tone that was not angry. “Because we weren’t looking for it.”

The signal he discovered had been hidden beneath the wreckage’s emergency beacon frequency. It was camouflaged inside standard distress traffic like a parasite inside living tissue, and it had been transmitting continuously since the crash. Not outward into deep space, but downward into the planet itself.

Sommers isolated the waveform, using his augmented eye to track the pattern across cascading graphs and spectral analyses. There was a layered encryption, adaptive modulations, and a self-correcting frequency drift. It was quite sophisticated. In fact, Sommers thought it was very sophisticated.

“Can you trace it?” Havel asked.

“I can try.” Sommers said, as the process was already underway.

Sommers rerouted additional power into the array and sharpened the signal. For half a second, the static cleared completely, and a voice emerged.

It was distorted, mechanical, and didn’t sound organic.

“Phase alignment confirmed…”

Then the signal was swallowed up by corruption. Havel and Sommers stood there and thought about it for a moment.

“Doctor,” Havel started, “Did you hear…”

“Yes.” Sommers interrupted.

Sommers increased the gain, filtering interference in real time. That action caused more fragments to surface.

“Both assets successfully converged…”

“Observation ongoing…”

“Prepare…”

The transmission cut abruptly.

It didn’t end but was instead terminated. Someone had realized they were listening in and cut the feed. At that moment every monitor in the chamber flickered simultaneously and then blacked out.

Emergency lights flooded the hangar in deep crimson, and for a long moment neither Sommers nor Havel spoke.

“Doctor,” Havel said carefully, “Who the hell was that?”

Sommers didn’t respond and continued to examine the shattered Patrol vessel. He kept looking at the manipulated flight systems, and the signal hidden inside the wreckage. It felt like finding a ticking device that was waiting to be discovered. Sommers then thought of Rogers and O’Brien sitting in containment cells below the facility.

They were not random survivors, but important pieces on the board that were hand delivered to his front door. This was a controlled encounter.

Sommer’s expression hardened into something colder than anger.

“This was engineered,” he said quietly.

Not the crash, but the meeting.

Someone had manoeuvred Rocket Patrol officers and Doctor Attacus Sommers to the same location deliberately. This meant a third party had been studying both of them and manipulating both sides the entire time. If this was even remotely true it also meant that his Skybridge itself suddenly demanded re-evaluation. Sommers slowly straightened, as for the first time since his resurrection… uncertainty had entered the equation.

There was no fear in him, for Sommers feared nothing. He was smart enough to offer recognition and concede that there was another intelligence on his board. One patient enough to hide behind governments, criminals, and wars alike. Advanced enough to infiltrate Rocket Patrol systems undetected, and confident enough to place itself within reach of Doctor Attacus Sommers.

The mechanical fingers of his left hand curled softly into a fist.

“Wake Captain Rogers,” he commanded.

Havel blinked. “Now?”

“Yes!” Sommers roared at her, his anger bubbling to the surface.

The red emergency light reflected in Sommers’ mechanical eye as it narrowed to a razor-thin aperture.

“Why?” Havel inquired. She would never dare openly dare to question him, but the question was made purely of confusion and genuine curiosity.

“That’s because,” Sommer replied, “I believe we are both being hunted.”

Captain Rogers typically did not like being waken up at all. He especially didn’t appreciate being awakened by armed guards, after being locked away in a steel cell beneath a mountain fortress. Almost as much as he disliked being the prisoner of the very man he thought to have personally watched die. There were a lot of things Rogers wasn’t pleased about at the moment, but being woken up at gunpoint was right at the top of that list.

His cell door opened slowly with hydraulic finality. Outside that door stood four guards wearing dark industrial armor. Their rifles were low but still ready to come back up at a moment’s notice. Behind those guards stood Doctor Attacus Sommers.

“Captain Rogers,” Sommers greeted him.

“Doctor Sommers,” Rogers called back.

“Apologies for waking you up,” Sommers said evenly, “But I require your expertise and the matter itself is quite urgent.”

Captain Rogers sat up slowly on the narrow cot. On the other side the corridor O’Brien was already awake and gripping the bars of her own cell. She didn’t like that Sommers and his guards were bothering Rogers first.

“That’s funny,” O’Brien called out to Sommers, “I require a starship and a miracle.”

Sommers didn’t dignify her crass with a response and instead chose to completely ignore her.

Rogers studied him carefully as he slowly got out of his cot. There was something different tonight in the air, a less controlled certainty. Rogers didn’t take it as weakness, but rather a distraction. To the Captain, it appeared that the doctor’s mind was clearly moving faster than usual.

“That sounds serious,” Rogers said, as he didn’t try to act too eager.

“Quite,” Doctor Sommers confirmed.

“Should I be worried?” Rogers inquired.

“Yes,” Sommers answered, “I believe so.”
It was that answer got his attention. Twenty minutes later, Rogers stood inside Hangar Three beside the reconstructed remains of his ship. The guards had escorted O’Brien as well, which went against Sommers’ better judgment. Rogers could tell that by the look the doctor gave her when she entered. Still, he clearly understood that Captain Rogers would refuse to cooperate if she remained behind. The junior officer was his responsibility, so keeping her in sight reminded him that there was more at stake than his own life.

The hangar lights were dimmed as sections of the ship glowed beneath suspended work lamps while engineers quietly stepped aside. Massive blast doors remained sealed as Sommers approached the exposed cockpit assembly.

“Your crash,” Sommers started, “was not accidental.”

O’Brien folded her arms immediately.

“Convenient theory.” She spat back at the doctor.

Sommers again didn’t respond to her immature pestering. Sommer said nothing as he activated a projection table beside the wreckage. Streams of telemetry spiraled upward into the air, showing flight paths, engine readings, and system diagnostics.

Rogers stepped closer to look for himself. As he examined what was before him, the captain’s expression changed instantly.

“These vectors are wrong,” Rogers said quietly.

“Correct,” Sommers replied.

The projected trajectory bent unnaturally across the display. Tiny deviations compounded over time until the entire descent path curved toward the planet with surgical precision.

“Could if have been system drift?” O’Brien asked.

“No,” Rogers called back to her before Sommers could.

Rogers pointed toward the telemetry stream.

“Look here,” Rogers suggested, “Correction intervals are too clean. That’s not drift… that’s guidance.”

Sommers watched him carefully and smiled.

“Exactly.” The doctor replied.

Captain Rogers moved closer to the display, pilot instincts taking over. “Someone fed the navigation system false positional data. Layered it gradually enough so that the onboard diagnostics wouldn’t flag it.”

Rogers looked up sharply.

“Are you actually suggesting that somebody hijacked my ship remotely?” Rogers asked.

“I am.” Sommers confirmed.

“That’s impossible,” O’Brien defiantly called out.

“The universe didn’t get that memo,” Sommers replied as his mechanical eye narrowed softly. “It continues to disappoint those who use that word.”

Sommers activated another sequence, and new data appeared. It displayed fragments recovered from the wreckage, corrupted command strings, as well as unauthorized system entries.

Rogers went still as he examined them.

“I’ve seen this architecture before,” Rogers murmured.

That caught Sommers’ attention immediately.

“You have?” The doctor inquired. “Where?”

Rogers hesitated but knew this wasn’t the time to hold back because they were onto something and he couldn’t let ego get in the way of progress.

“Calder Rift.” Captain Rogers answered, aware of the emotions it might stir withing the lab.

Silence settled heavily over the chamber.

“What?” O’Brien said, as she was clearly confused.

Rogers kept staring at the projection.

“It was during the Skybridge assault,” Rogers continued, “I remember when our systems started glitching before we breached the command deck. Coms were lagging, and we were shooting at targeting echoes that ever never there. I had always thought it was interference from the bridge itself.”

Sommers stood there and didn’t respond. But internally, pieces were already locking together for him.

“Your defences also failed unusually fast,” Rogers admitted, “At the time I assumed we had gotten lucky.”

“That wasn’t the case,” Sommers quietly muttered, “It turns out there was sabotage going on even that far back.”

His words carried dangerous weight as Sommer crossed to another console and activated archived files long sealed behind encrypted partitions. Old recordings flooded the display with security footage from Calder Rift itself. Access to feed that up to this point only Sommers himself had watched. The Skybridge burned again before them as steam clouds, explosions, and Rocket Patrol fighters descending through fire.

O’Brien watched in stunned silence while Rogers leaned forward.

“Pause video,” Sommers called out.

The footage froze, and the doctor pointed.

“There!” Sommer said, as he pointed. A tiny anomaly flickered across the screen near one of the Bridge’s defence pylons.

It wasn’t damage, but a signal burst.

Sommers isolated it, and the waveform appeared across the display. He then brought up the same waveform that took Rogers and O’Brien off course, and Rogers’ face darkened immediately.

It matched the sabotage signature from his patrol cruiser.

An exact match.

For several seconds, no one spoke until O’Brien broke the silence.

“Someone sabotaged both sides,” O’Brien called out, merely stating what was already obvious to everyone else in the lab.

“It appears so,” Sommers confirmed.

The realization had started to poison the air. The battle that had nearly killed him and the Patrol operation that had reshaped the sector. This was evidence that neither ever truly belonged to any side at all.

The attack on the Sky Bridge was a manipulated conflict. An engineered escalation and that revelation made Sommers anger rise. He wasn’t hot with anger, but precise, and controlled. Someone else had inserted themselves into his war without consent from either side, and that was intolerable.

Sommers replayed the old footage frame by frame. More inconsistencies emerged now that he knew what to seek. He checked the defense turrets that were deactivating milliseconds early, Patrol targeting drifting off-course, and encrypted relay spikes that were hidden beneath the battlefield noise. The manipulation had been subtle enough to pass unnoticed amid the chaos.

It was brilliantly subtle, which made the next discovery worse. Havel approached carefully from the rear of the chamber.

“Doctor,” she softly whispered, trying to get his attention.

Sommers didn’t look away from the screen.

“Speak.” He said, his tone cold.

“I’ve seen traces of the same signal,” she informed him.

“Where?” Sommers said, not turning to face her.

“Inside Foundry Nine’s internal systems.” Havel replied, “In the maintenance relays, and freight routing. It’s mostly dormant, but someone may have been monitoring the facility for some time.”

A cold silence followed.

O’Brien looked genuinely unsettled now.

“You have a spy?” O’Brien asked him.

“No, I do not,” Sommers denied, “This is something far more sophisticated than a simple spy.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Rogers said, with arms folded. “You think this third party is inside your operation already.”

“I think,” Sommers carefully corrected him, “that this third party may have been inside everyone’s operation for years.”

That comment landed hard. The Rocket Patrol. Criminal syndicates. Industrial networks. Military logistics. If this was even remotely true, the scale of this surveillance bordered on incomprehensible.

O’Brien shook her head slowly. “Why?”

Sommers looked back toward the frozen image of Calder Rift burning across the projection screens.

“Observation,” Sommers answered.

“Manipulation,” Rogers added.

“Preparation.” Sommers said, even quieter now.

Rogers studied Sommers for a moment. Two enemies standing inside the ruins of a shared deception. Finally, Rogers took a deep breath before asking the question neither wanted answered.

“Who the hell are we dealing with?” Rogers inquired.

As if responding to the words themselves, one of the dormant monitors behind them suddenly flickered to life. Static flooded the screen and then came the voice. Distorted. Mechanical. Calm.

“Progress acknowledged.”

Every guard in the room raised their weapons instantly as the screen had begun to glitch violently.

“Conflict phase nearing completion.”

Sommers slowly stepped toward the monitor slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Identify yourself.” Sommers ordered.

The voice ignored him.

“Further observation required before contact.”

Then the screen went black. Every system in the hangar dimmed for half a second before emergency power restored itself.

The silence that followed was heavy, and quite uncomfortable.

“Havel,” Doctor Sommers whispered to her.

“Yes, Doctor?” She acknowledged, ready to take her next order.

“Move the lab again,” He informed her, “Halt the ships mid-flight and pick a new location for them to transport to. Select our most remote location that not even I know the details of.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Havel said, as she quietly left the lab to get started.

For the first time since arriving at Foundry Nine, Rogers saw something in Sommers that bordered on genuine concern. It was not panic nor fear, but a scary realization that someone else was playing a longer game than him. Somewhere beneath the mountain, a hidden inside the machinery of the facility itself, something was listening to them.

Captain Rogers had spent enough years in uniform to recognize fear when he saw it. The problem was that Doctor Attacus Sommers did not appear afraid at all. He was calculating, and that was somehow much worse. The moment the mysterious transmission ended in Hangar Three, something had changed in the doctor. Not outwardly, as his voice remained measured, and his posture controlled. Even though his expressions carefully restrained, Rogers could still notice the difference. Sommers stopped asking questions and had instead started to prepare. Within the hour, Rogers and O'Brien found themselves being escorted back inside their cells as the conversation had gone quite poorly.

“You need us!” Rogers called out as the guards escorted them back towards the containment wing.

“No,” Sommers replied.

The answer had been immediate, and Rogers frowned.

“You've got somebody manipulating both sides.” Rogers reminded him.

“Apparently,” Sommers confirmed.

“You have no idea who they are,” Rogers continued.

“That is correct,” Sommers acknowledged.

“You have no idea how many people they're controlling.” Rogers added.

“Also correct,” Sommers said, being very brief, which was very uncharacteristic of the doctor.

Rogers stopped walking, and the guards tightened around him.

“You need allies!” Rogers declared.

Sommers stopped walking and turned to looked at Rogers. For a moment, Rogers actually thought he might be listening. Instead, the doctor simply shook his head.

“I’m afraid not, Captain.” Sommers replied.

Rogers could tell that the disappointment in his voice was genuine.

“I need certainty,” Sommer clarified, as he resumed walking.

Rogers knew to carry on was a lost cause, so he stopped fighting and returned to his cell with the guards. A few hours later, Rogers sat on the edge of his bunk while O'Brien continued to pace the length of her cell. Rogers preferred to sit and listen, as the entire facility sounded different. Normally Foundry Nine carried a constant industrial rhythm of machinery, conveyors, distant mining blasts. Now the facility sounded hollow. Quiet. Abandoned.

“Something's happening,” O'Brien muttered, still pacing her cell like a caged animal.

Rogers simply nodded, as he could tell that the workers had been disappearing all day. Equipment had been removed, vehicles had been departing through tunnels, and even the guard shifts had changed.

“They're evacuating,” Rogers replied, confident he was right.

O'Brien stopped pacing and looked back at her Captain.

“All of it?” O’Brien said, as she couldn’t believe it.

“Sure looks that way,” Rogers said, now laying back on his bunk.

“Why?” O’Brien asked.

Rogers laughed out loud at the question asked.

“Because Attacus Sommers just discovered something he never thought possible,” Rogers answered, “He just found out there’s someone out there that’s smarter than him.”

That thought lingered. In the few days they had spent around him, Rogers had begun to understand the infamous inventor better than most Patrol officers ever could. Sommers could handle danger, setbacks, and even endure defeat. What the doctor always struggled with was uncertainty, and right now uncertainty was all Doctor Sommers had.

Rogers took a seat and the hours passed by rather quickly. Over that time the sounds slowly disappeared, as the facility around them slowly emptied out around them. Finally in the dead of night, the cellblock doors opened. Rogers immediately hopped out of his cot and watched from his bars as Sommers entered alone. There were no guards or attendants with him this time, which mean no audience. Just the doctor.

For a moment none of them spoke, then Rogers noticed something unusual. The doctor was wearing a travel coat, and was carrying field equipment, and he even noticed a few portable data drives. Sommers wasn't inspecting the prison. He was leaving.

“Did you find a new hole to hide in, Doctor?” Rogers asked.

“Several.” Sommers coldly replied, he wasn’t going to take the bait.

O'Brien gripped the bars as she finally caught on.

“You're abandoning the facility?” she asked.

“That is correct,” Sommers confirmed.

“Then take us with you,” O’Brien demanded.

Sommers actually paused, and the silence that followed was answer enough. He wasn’t taking them anywhere and Rogers already knew it.

“You think we're compromised,” Rogers concluded.

“I think your arrival was orchestrated.” Sommers surmised.

“You still need help.” O’Brien insisted.

“No, I do not.” Sommers disagreed, and this time the words came sharper. Sommers stepped closer to Rogers’s cell, but not too close.

“What are you afraid of?” Rogers asked.

“Captain, I have spent a year rebuilding my organization from the shadows,” Sommers replied, “but today I learned an unknown actor has been operating inside my networks. This actor is even inside Rocket Patrol systems, dating back to events such as Calder Rift itself.”

His mechanical eye focused.

“I am no longer assuming anything.” He informed Rogers.

The implication was clear. Including them. Especially them. All Rogers shook his head.

“You're making a mistake.” Rogers insisted.

“Possibly,” Sommers said.

“Then why do it?” O’Brien called out, her frustration evident.

For the first time, Sommers’ expression revealed genuine frustration. Rogers was fully aware of what was annoying the doctor. Sommers was unable to answer the question, because he didn’t know the answer. He had no idea, and that was the problem.

“I can survive a mistake,” Sommers said quietly, “What I cannot survive trusting the wrong person.”

That comment hit harder than Rogers expected, not because it was a threat but rather brutal honesty. The doctor turned away, and O’Brien stared at him as he started to walk out.

“You're just leaving us here?” she called out.

Sommers stopped at the doorway, and for a long moment he stood motionless.

“If the people watching you wished you dead,” The doctor started, “Then you wouldn’t have survived the crash.”

Both officers looked at each other, and back at Sommers.

“How do you know that?” Rogers asked.

“I don’t,” Sommers replied, “But it feels right. You can tell whomever comes here looking for us that I didn’t want to make their acquaintance.”

Sommers looked back one final time, and then he left. The doors sealed behind him, and that was that.

An hour later the facility went silent. Truly silent as there was no sounds of any machinery, workers, and vehicles. Not even any voices. Rogers are sure there were not even any guards as they couldn’t hear any voices either. Foundry Nine had become a ghost town, and they were trapped within it.

O'Brien sat against the wall, her frustration evident.

“You think he'll make it?” she asked her Captain.

“Sommers?” Rogers said, as he walked back to his cot.

O’Brien nodded as Rogers laid back down and thought about what she had asked. He thought about the man who had survived Calder Rift. The very man who had rebuilt himself from steel and hatred that clearly trusted no one.

“Probably.” Rogers replied as he tried his best to relax.

“What about us?” O’Brien asked, “If there’s no one here, who is going to feed us?”

“I’m betting he left some droids behind to guard us.” Rogers answered, “That way he can watch us and whoever shows up. If he wanted us dead, he would have done it before he left. He’s using us as bait so he can watch our mystery guest when they come to get us.”

“Are you sure about that?” O’Brien said, as she wasn’t so sure. “Do you believe Sommers about the people who sent us here?”

“If he’s right,” Rogers said, “And we’re here for a reason, then they won’t let us go until our work is done.”

“What if we’ve already done what we’re supposed to do?” O’Brien said, as she wasn’t so sure about their future.

“You think we’ve already served our purpose?” Rogers inquired as he sat up. “What do you think that was?”

“What if our job was to scare him?” O’Brien replied, “Because if that was the case, we can say mission accomplished!”

Rogers thought about it and chose to instead lay back and not panic. He knew a few things that O’Brien clearly did not. A good commander tells his underlings almost everything, and those few details sometimes were the ones that end up saving your life. Rogers didn’t feel worried and took a short nap until something changed.

There was sound both of them could barely hear. The sound was very faint and distant, but O’Brien had heard it too as she walked closer to her bars to get a closer look at the main door.

“What was that?” She asked.

Rogers sat up and paint close attention as another sound echoed through the corridors. Then another that was short and sharp. Not explosions, but weapons fire. Lasers firing all over the place.

The two officers exchanged looks, as it was evident someone was there.

The shooting grew closer. Rapid bursts echoed through the lower levels, and then there was silence.

“You think it's them?” O’Brien asked.

Rogers didn't answer, as he kept listening to the sounds as they slowly came closer to their cell block. He honestly didn't know, so there was no point speculating when it might elevate O’Brien’s anxiety. He kept thinking about that mysterious signal from what Sommers believe was a hidden enemy, the unknown third party. He couldn’t help but wonder if the approaching laser fire was coming for them. It all pointed toward this moment. Whoever had manipulated looked like they were about to finally make their entrance. Loud laser fire could be heard somewhere down the corridor, and then abruptly stopped. The robotic guards outside the cellblock were firing back and moving away from their doors. Then came the sound of return fire.

And then there was nothing but dead silence. The kind of eerie silence that follows violence. Heavy footsteps approached their cell door. Rogers could actually count several sets. All disciplined and sounding quite professional. They didn’t sound like the movements of chaotic raiders nor assassins.

These were soldiers.

Rogers and O’Brien could hear a voice echo through the corridor. He was calm, commanding, and sounding pretty confident.

“Secure the perimeter!” the voice called out.

Rogers froze. He knew that voice.

The next order came immediately.

“Blast that door open!”

O'Brien's eyes widened.

“No way!” she called out, looking over at Rogers for confirmation.

The footsteps stopped outside their block, and moments later, the doors blew open after a device was attached to them. A familiar figure stepped into view. A tall, broad-shouldered man strolled into the cell block wearing a bright Rocket Patrol command coat. His silver insignia gleamed beneath emergency lighting and there was no mistaking who it was: Commander Benjamin Roderick.

For a second nobody moved, and then Roderick saw them. Relief flashed across his face, but he remained professionally contained.

“There you are old man.” Roderick called out as he stepped closer.

Rogers laughed despite himself.

“Hello, Benny,” Rogers said, so relieved to see his former subordinate.

Behind him, heavily armed Patrol officers flooded into the facility. They were not invaders but rescuers.

“It’s good to see you, Captain.” Roderick said, sounding more formal this time as there were more Patrollers in the room.

“Good to see you too, Commander,” Rogers replied.

O'Brien shook her head in disbelief.

“How the hell did you even find us?” O’Brien called out, forgetting in the heat of the moment that she was addressing a superior officer. Roderick glanced toward the abandoned corridors stretching deeper into Foundry Nine.

“That’s classified,” Roderick replied, “We’ll discuss it later.”  

Moments later the cell door unlocked and opened. Roderick stepped forward and as Rogers climbed to his feet, he noticed something unsettling. The commander wasn't looking relieved anymore. He was looking around the empty facility… looking for someone.

“Don’t bother,” Rogers told him. “He’s already gone.”

“Who is?” Roderick asked, “Whose facility is this?”

“Doctor Attacus Sommers!” O’Brien called out.

Roderick turned back to look at Rogers as he didn’t believe what the young lady had just blurted out.

“Is she telling the truth?” Roderick asked him. “Sommers was here?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rogers confirmed, “But he’s already gone, Benny. It’s a long story, but the doctor packed up his stuff and got the hell out of dodge long before you guys got here.”

“Interesting,” Roderick said, looking around. “How did Sommers know we were coming?”

“He didn’t,” Rogers replied, “He thought someone else was coming here to get us. Someone far more dangerous.”

“Is that so?” Roderick said, as Rogers was piquing his curiosity. “I look forward to reading your report, Captain.”