Logan Harrison's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Logan Harrison drove the desert convoy truck through the dark, hunting a data center vault he had never seen. His trainer swore it existed, somewhere near the wreck of Sierra Army Depot. Intact server cores. Prewar supply routes, depot inventories, weapons manifests. Intel that paid. He wanted it before his Rangers contract ran out. He drummed two whole fingers on the wheel. The old radio wailed a prewar love song about wishing on a star. "Be careful what you wish for," Logan muttered. "You'll get it." His headlights swept a low camouflaged building. A radio antenna stood on its roof. Painted letters read RANGERS COMMAND OFFICE. Logan hit the brakes. This was not the base he'd been sent to. Someone had built here since his last pass. And a base like this meant automatic defenses, the kind that guarded a vault. He cut the engine and the song died. In the sudden quiet, a red targeting dot crawled up the truck's hood. A speaker crackled overhead. "Kill the lights and step out slow, friend." Logan killed the lights. He climbed down with both hands open. A black and brown cat leaned in the office doorway, a radio pack on his back, a rifle held loose but ready. He watched Logan the way a trader counts coins in a stranger's palm. "You're the Atomic Cats tech," the man said. "Salvage. Sinclair Feldman. I run recon for the team working the vault." He did not lower the rifle yet. "Long way to drive alone at night." "I'm looking for a data center vault," Logan said. No point lying to a man reading him this closely. "Server cores. My trainer marked it near the depot." Sinclair chuckled, low and dark. "So did the raiders who got here first. They wanted the medical labs. Sublevel three. A G.E.C.K." He lowered the rifle. "They died on the inner doors. Those doors don't open without the right key, and the key we pulled off a corpse has a bullet through it." Logan's ears went forward. "A bullet hole where?" "Housing's cracked. The card inside still reads clean." Sinclair tilted his head. "You fix prewar tech?" "I read machines by what's missing from them." "Then you're the man we've been short." Sinclair stepped aside from the door. "Your server cores are behind those same doors, fool. Nobody gets your intel until somebody fixes our key. Guilt's a lousy negotiating partner, so I'll be plain. Help us open Vault One-Forty-One, and you walk out with your salvage. Refuse, and it stays sealed for both of us." Logan looked at the antenna, the red dot now gone, the office full of records he suddenly wanted to search. He'd wished for the vault. Here it was, chained to a broken key and a stranger's dead. He climbed into the truck bed and pulled out his tools. "Show me the key," he said.