5. Amelia's Great Escape?

"Chancellor Bilmore, the residence blew up," said Lieutenant Tran, his voice tense.

Bilmore's head snapped toward the viewscreen. "What? I gave orders that no heavy weapons be used. We needed them alive!"

"We didn't fire, sir. We recorded a unit entering the premises before the explosion," Tran replied.

Bilmore clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to slam his fist into the console. "What unit? I gave an explicit order—no one was to break the perimeter until we were ready."

"We're trying to identify them now. So far, there's no match in our database," said Tran.

Bilmore's grip tightened behind his back. He had already lost the ship. He had already lost Emma. He had already lost Sasha. And now he had lost Tiny. Everything had been going smoothly—until Scott visited the Memorial. That single mistake had set off a chain reaction, and now their careful operation was unraveling.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his emotions back into check. "Move on to the next target. Be quick about it."

"Yes, sir. We have identified Amelia. Units are advancing on her position now," said Tran.

Bilmore's lips curled into a smirk. "Good."

"ETA ten minutes," Tran added.

"Shall we land at her location?" asked Sorna, a junior officer standing at attention beside him.

"Yes. I want her brought to me as soon as she's apprehended."

"She is surrounded, sir," Sorna confirmed.

"Prepare for extraction. I want her alive for questioning. If Scott wants her back, he'll bring Emma to us himself," barked Bilmore.

"Marine Patrol Alpha exiting the ship now," said Ensign Bratney. Monitors on the bridge lit up, displaying the helmet-cam feeds of the strike team.

The Alpha Team leader's voice came through comms, cool and professional. The feed from the lead soldier's cam flickered slightly before stabilizing. "This is Alpha Unit. We are entering the residence now. All appears dark."

Bilmore leaned forward, watching the screens. "Be careful. I don't want this screwed up. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." The team moved in cautiously. The living room was sparsely furnished—a couch, an upright plush chair, and a small coffee table. Two free-standing lamps stood in the corners, unlit. The dim glow of their helmet lights cast long, stretching shadows across the floor.

They turned left, sweeping their weapons through the opening. A small kitchenette sat just across the narrow hallway—a compact cooking unit, sink, freezer, and a small two-person table. It was tidy, but something felt... off.

"Clear," one soldier muttered.

They advanced down the hall. A bathroom was on the left, empty. The lead soldier continued forward, reaching the bedroom doorway.

The room was noticeably more furnished than the rest—a large bed rested against the opposite wall, a dark oak bureau to the left, a walk-in closet to the right. The air was still, undisturbed. The glow from their lights reflected off the bureau's polished surface.

"Check the closet," came the hushed order over comms.

A second cam feed split onto the monitor as another soldier moved in. The door slid open with a faint creak. Inside—just a few clothes remained hanging: a couple of dresses, blouses, shirts. A few neatly stacked boxes in the far corner.

"Looks like someone cleared out in a hurry," the soldier muttered.

Bilmore exhaled sharply through his nose.

The Alpha leader's voice crackled through comms.

"Sir... something's wrong. The residence is empty."

Bilmore's stomach twisted. "Empty?"

"No bodies. No signs of struggle. Whoever was here—they knew we were coming."

"That's impossible," said Bilmore. fist finally slammed against the console. Someone was sabotaging his operation.

The team leader made a circular hand gesture, signaling his unit to spread out and search every inch of the residence.

The soldiers moved swiftly and methodically, tearing through every conceivable hiding place. Cabinets were thrown open, couches overturned, the bureau was yanked from the wall and inspected to ensure it was not a concealed passage. The bed was stripped, the mattress flipped, the frame disassembled. They knew they had limited time—if she was still nearby, every wasted second meant she was getting farther away.

The process took less than five minutes.

The Team Leader's voice crackled over the comms. "Premises confirmed to be unoccupied, sir."

Bilmore slammed his fist down on the console, his frustration boiling over.

Before he could unleash his fury, Tran turned to him sharply. "Sir, I'm patching in a transmission now."

A moment later, a voice came through the cabin speaker. "Amelia has been spotted not far from here, entering the market district."

Bilmore leaned toward the microphone. "Who is this?"

"This is the person in charge of the ground units. Who is this?"

Bilmore's temper snapped. "This is Chancellor Bilmore! I asked you a question—who are you?"

The voice hesitated before responding. "Oh, I am sorry, sir. I am Commander Robert Novak."

Bilmore clenched his teeth. "How did she leave her residence unobserved? And are you certain it was her entering the market area?"

"We're not sure how she escaped, sir. But we are confident the sighting was her. We have people—"

"I don't need an explanation. I need results." Bilmore cut him off. "Do you have her in your sights?"

There was a brief pause. "Not yet, sir, but we're closing in."

"Then get on her tail and pick her up. Now!" Bilmore barked.

"On my way," Novak responded.

Bilmore turned to his crew. "Get us overhead. I want a clear view of the area."

"Aye, sir," said Tran.

Bilmore's ship lifted, rising above the market district. More and more of the small city came into view.

Amelia's home was part of a cluster of residences near the market area, a neighborhood nestled at the edge of civilization—one of the last urbanized zones before the untamed wilderness began. The market district was bustling, a network of interconnected streets and pathways leading to its center—a massive underground rail system. Two transit stations sat nearest her home, with two more positioned on the opposite side, nearly a thousand feet away.

To the left of the market, a parking lot stretched out, marking the transition between the urban sprawl and a denser section of the city. The further right they looked, the homes grew smaller, spaced further apart, until they finally ended at the frontier line.

The frontier line.

A towering electrified fence separated the city from the wild, a barrier standing between order and the untamed natural habitat of the planet. Along the fence, multiple entry and exit points allowed for controlled travel beyond the city's limits. Each checkpoint was heavily secured, consisting of two guard posts on either side of the road, reinforced dome fencing, and an additional checkpoint positioned a thousand feet deeper into the buffer zone.

Should a breach occur, both entry and exit gates could be sealed, trapping any unwelcome intruders between them. The system was designed primarily for wildlife deterrence—automated turrets lined the perimeter, spraying deterrents to turn back native creatures before they could reach the city.

Rarely, however, something more persistent made it through.

When that happened, they had one last resort—the confined area between the gates could become a kill zone. It was a grim necessity, but one that ensured the city's safety.

Bilmore kept his gaze locked on the monitors.

"Commander, keep a line open," he ordered. "I want Amelia's confirmed location the moment she is spotted."

He almost added that once she was tagged, he'd be able to track her anywhere—but without a tracker already on her, he had no way of knowing her position while she was indoors or underground.

He turned to Tran. "Launch a local surveillance bot. I want it to tag her with a tracer so we can track her every move."

"Bot squadron launched," Tran confirmed. "I'm having each take a standard position around the ship. Each have a clear view down to the market."

Bilmore smirked. "Good. We'll get her yet."

Amelia's Escape

Amelia ducked back around the corner of the building, her breath controlled but her heart pounding. She had been a block away from her home when the sound of screeching tires caught her attention. Several black cars raced up the street, pulling up around her house like predators circling prey.

They were here.

Her fingers clenched around the small control pad in her pocket. When the lockdown notice came in, she had already suspected what it meant. She knew this day was coming. Marshall's silence, the severed ties, the way everything went too quiet. It had all been leading to this. If anything, she was surprised it hadn't happened sooner.

She had prepared for this possibility. A lean existence. No luxuries. No unnecessary purchases. Just the bare minimum.

Except for one thing—the automated appliance control system.

As the figures in black tactical gear spread out around her home, she thumbed through the interface, remotely activating the lights inside. From their perspective, it would look like someone was moving through the house. A flicker in the living room. A soft glow in the hallway. One by one, she turned off the lights, as if a person was making their way to the bedroom.

She tossed the control pad into a nearby garbage bin and walked calmly toward the market district, blending into the city's usual flow of life.

The market district was alive with movement. Vendors called out prices, bartering with customers over fresh produce, fabrics, and tech parts. The air carried the mixed scent of spiced meats, roasted grains, and the metallic tang of hover-cart engines.

As Amelia entered, she immediately spotted a patrol unit. Three men, dressed in the distinct dark uniforms of security forces, were moving through the stalls, scanning the crowd.

One of them turned—his gaze swept over her.

She didn't flinch, didn't react. Had he recognized her? No. Probably not. But she wasn't about to take any chances.

Her battle gear was hidden beneath the loose clothing she wore, but it wasn't enough. She needed something that blended more with the culture here.

Her eyes darted to an unattended clothing stall.

The booth was made up of canvas walls, stretched over a simple frame, with loose fabrics draped along the back. Several garments were folded neatly on a chair. She stepped inside without hesitation, shedding her outer layer of clothing and leaving them folded there.

She scanned the options quickly—a long, earth-toned tunic with patterned embroidery, a scarf, and a looser-fitting skirt. They were common here, nothing that would stand out. She slipped them on, adjusting the fit before stepping out.

Instead of walking through the open paths, she moved through the booths. The makeshift structures were mostly canvas and cloth, with a few vendors having built wooden or metal dividers that weren't attached to the primary framework.

She reached the edge of a stall, pressed her finger to her lips in a silent plea to the vendor inside, and slipped beneath the canvas wall. She moved fast. Crawling under one booth, then another—her movements precise, measured. Vendors stared, startled, but no one said a word. Some nodded in understanding, others simply watched in silence. 

She counted four stalls before she stopped. Through a small gap, she peered out into the crowd.

A three-man patrol was moving through the market, scanning faces. She hunched over slightly, adjusting her scarf, adopting a slower, aged gait.

They let an old woman pass without a second glance.

She kept walking, steady, controlled. Not too fast. Not too slow. She had spent years observing people, blending in was a skill.

At the edge of the market, she reached the transit station—a simple underground rail system designed to shuttle passengers to different zones. She stepped onto the platform, boarding a tram heading out of the urban sector.

The journey was short. When she stepped off at the next station, she entered a different kind of market.

This one catered to wilderness survivalists, hunters, and travelers.

One booth caught her eye—a vendor selling outdoor gear.

The two workers at the table were busy helping customers, their attention divided between buyers asking questions about water filtration units and lightweight survival packs.

Next to them, an unmanned booth.

Amelia slipped inside, crouching in the back corner, hidden behind crates of supplies.

She slowly pulled back a section of the canvas wall, just enough to see.

The vendors were still busy.

She reached through the opening, grabbing a pair of men's camouflage pants, a loose-fitting shirt, and a cap.

She changed fast, stuffing her old clothes behind the crates.

By the time she stepped out, she was someone else. A different stride. Different posture. A confident walk, rather than a cautious one.

This time, no one gave her a second glance.

The Frontier Gate

Amelia made her way to the barrier entry point, merging with a small crowd. Some carried camping packs, others hunting gear. A few looked like casual hikers.

To the guards, it was just another day.

They checked scanners, monitoring for wildlife activity. No threats detected.

The gate opened.

She moved forward, keeping her pace normal, stepping out into the untamed wilderness beyond the city.

The group remained together for a short while before naturally splitting off in different directions.

She stayed with the largest cluster, lingering just long enough before breaking away toward the treeline.

She disappeared into the brush.

Then—a commotion.

Back at the gate.

A lockdown.

She ducked low, her body tense. Had they spotted her?

The guards weren't chasing her directly. Not yet.

But they knew.

Someone had left who wasn't supposed to.

She didn't wait to see what happened next. She scrambled forward, keeping low, moving fast—putting as much distance between herself and the perimeter as possible.

Only when she reached the cover of dense bushes and the shadow of a large rock did she finally stop.

She pulled out her comms device.

She called Emma.