Science Fiction
The Sceptre Protocol
L F Peterson (C) Copyright 2026
The Scepter Protocol
The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the silence yanking Sam Beckman from the vacuous depths of unconsciousness. He bolted upright with a strangled gasp. His chest heaved like a man surfacing from a deep underwater abyss. Pain erupted from the back of his skull. A searing throb made his vision swim. The room around him devolved into a distorted haze of gray shadows and flickering orange light. The acrid tang of scorched metal and burnt wiring clawed at his nostrils with suffocating stench.
Sam blinked hard in an attempt to force his vision into coherence. The cracked ceiling above was streaked with soot and spiderwebbed fractures. Thin tendrils of smoke curled lazily in the stifling air illuminated by dim, stuttering light from a dying overhead fixture. Nearby a mechanical whirring cut through the haze. The noise grew louder. The sound was cold, methodical and unyielding. It sent jolts of icy adrenaline through Sam’s veins propelling his lethargic mind into overdrive.
Machines. They were moving closer.
A groan escaped Sam’s lips as he pushed himself upright. His palms brushed against the cold, blood-slicked floor. A sharp, fiery pain lanced through his ribs stealing his breath. He looked down and froze. His lab coat was soaked in blood. The dark stain spread across his side with ominous bloom. Nausea churned in his stomach. He forced it down. His mind screamed one question louder than the rest. Where am I?
The thought hit like a hammer with crushing weight. His mind was a blank terrifying slate devoid of memories. No names, no faces, no context. Just a yawning maw of emptinessin a remote sea of tumultuous confusion. He clenched his fists trying to focus. The harder he sought answers, the more elusive and bewildering his tenuous predicament became.
A sudden noise disclosed deliberate, heavy footsteps. The distraction snapped him out of the spiraling emptiness of his thoughts. His heart thundered as he staggered to his feet. He clutched the wall for support. His breaths came in short, panicked gasps. The room around him was a chaotic wreck. Tables were overturned, glass was shattered, and the walls bore scorch marks. Whatever happened here it wasn’t an accident. It was carnage. But why? And by whom…?
His gaze fell on a crumpled figure lying facedown on the floor. A man in a lab coat lay motionless surrounded by a pool of dark, congealing blood. Sam’s stomach twisted. He forced himself to move closer. His shoes crunched on broken glass as he squatted beside the body. His fingers hesitant as he reached for the ID badge dangling from the man’s pocket.
Dr. Frederico Cortez.
The name struck a faint, flickering chord deep within Sam’s mind. Fleeting recognition teased the edges of his consciousness like a forbidden shadow slipping through his grasp. He stared at the badge mentally demanding recognition. The corpse held a key in one hand and a gun in the other. Sam’s mind remained stubbornly blank. Before he could process the name further, the mechanical whirring outside the room grew deafening. The walls reverberated like a drumbeat of impending doom.
Sam spun toward the door just as it exploded inward with a thunderous crash. His breath hitched as a towering robotic figure stepped into the room. Its skeletal frame gleamed ominously in the flickering light. Its glowing red eyes were cold and unfeeling. Every movement it made was unnervingly precise and calculated.
A sentinel.
Panic surged through Sam like a tsunami wave. His body moved on instinct faster than his mind could process. He dove behind an overturned table just as the sentinel raised its arm. A blinding flash of light erupted from its weapon. The searing blast struck the wall where Sam had stood moments before. Shards of concrete rained down around him.
“Identify yourself,” the sentinel commanded, its voice, a harsh mechanical growl.
Sam’s heart pounded and his mind raced as he pressed himself against the table. His eyes darted around in a search for anything potentially giving him the slightest edge against the threat. He grabbed the gun from the corpse’s hand. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through his injured side.
The sentinel’s voice grew louder, “Non-compliance will result in lethal force.”
He didn’t think, he couldn’t afford to. He pulled the trigger. The first shot went wide, sparking off the wall. The second struck the sentinel in the chest, staggering it. Sparks erupted from its frame as it recalibrated. Its red eyes narrowed with mechanical malice.
Sam didn’t hesitate. Gritting his teeth he fired again, this time aiming for the head. The third shot hit its mark. The sentinel’s head snapped back. It collapsed in a heap of sparking metal. Its limbs twitched violently before going still.
Silence descended upon the room broken only by Sam’s ragged breathing. He stared at the lifeless machine. The gun was still clutched tightly in his trembling hands. The weight of what happened crashed down on him like a tidal wave. He didn’t know who he was or how he got there. He fought against a machine for self preservation. Fortnately, his body reacted with muscle memory.
His gaze drifted back to Dr. Cortez’s lifeless form. Whoever the man was, he didn’t survive the nightmare. Sam’s eyes returned to the key in the doctor’s outstretched hand. He crouched down wincing as pain flared through his side. He picked up the small key stamped with an emblem: Hotel Fresco.
The name meant nothing to him, but it might be an important clue. Sam slipped the key into his pocket. He needed answers. Remaining there wasn’t going to provide them. The faint, telltale hum of more drones reached his ears. They grew louder indicating an inevitable confrontation.
Sam tightened his grip on the gun and moved toward the door. His steps were unsteady but resolute. He didn’t know who he was or what had happened. One thing looked certain. Answers would have to wait.
The Escape
The corridor outside the lab stretched before him like a shadowy labyrinth bathed in the flickering glow of emergency lights. The air was thick with tension. Each breath carried the sharp tang of scorched plastic and the faint metallic bite of blood. Sam moved cautiously. The gun was raised and his senses were on high alert. The weight of the unknown pressed hauntingly against his bruised ribs. Pain flared with each movement. It was a small price compared to the alternative. Pain meant he was alive. Pain meant he could still run. Pain meant he could still escape unlike the corpse he left on the floor.
Behind him the faint hum of approaching drones buzzed like an ominous warning. The sound propelled him forward overriding his body’s protests. He didn’t need a mirror to realize he looked bloodied, battered, and barely holding it together. Survival didn’t care about appearances.
The corridor ahead split into two branching hallways. Sam paused at the intersection with his chest heaving. He scanned left, then right. Sparks occasionally flickered from exposed wires hanging like entrails from the ceiling. Cracked walls were briefly illuminated. It felt like an abandoned lab. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint, mechanical whirring echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Think, Sam,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. “Where’s the exit?”
His mind remained a maddening void offering no answers. His body moved with a strange, muscle-deep familiarity. If felt as if it knew this place—or places like it. His feet carried him left. A decision made without conscious thought. He moved quickly but deliberately. His steps were purposely quiet against the smooth tile floor. Every sound and flicker of light felt a potential threat. The sentinels were tracking him. He could feel it. But why was the unanswerable question.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead like the nose of a proboscis monkey. A door came into view. Sam quickened his pace. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. The pain in his ribs screamed for him to stop. He ignored it. Survival didn’t allow it.
When he reached the door he noticed a keypad mounted beside it. The screen was cracked but it still flickered faintly. Sam stared at the keypad as his mind searched. He had no idea of a code. His fingers hovered over the buttons. Without conscious recollection, his hands moved on their own. He punched in a sequence before his brain could think. 4-7-2-9-1.
The keypad beeped followed by the lock disengaging with a soft, mechanical click.
He didn’t have time to question how he knew the code. The sound of the sentinels grew louder. The metallic clatter of their footsteps echoed down the corridor like a diabolical death march. Without a second thought he slipped through the door and closed it behind with a twist of the internal latch. The satisfying clunk of the mechanism brought him a fleeting moment of relief. For the moment, he was safe.
The room was small and claustrophobic. Its walls were lined with shelves crammed full of discarded supplies. Medical kits, and tools. A coat hung off of a rack. He quickly removed his blood stained lab coat and put on the coat. The air was thick and stale with an anticeptic tang. Sam’s eyes scanned for an escape route. The only possible escape might be through a large ventilation grate on the far wall.
“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath.
He grabbed a metal bar from one of the shelves and jammed it into the edge of the grate. The screech of metal against metal echoed through the room. He winced. Subtlety was no longer an option. With a final heave the grate popped free. It clattered to the floor. Sam climbed in. His ribs protested every movement. The narrow space was suffocating. The stale air pressed like a physical weight. He dragged himself forward while his ribs screamed from every inch of advance.
Behind him, the sound of the sentinels breaking through the door sent a jolt of panic through his veins. He crawled faster ignoring the pain. His pulse pounded in his ears. The vent sloped downward. The faint rush of air promised an exit.
A mechanical voide bellowed through the duct. “Subject identified as Sam Beckman. Priority target. Termination authorized.”
Sam’s breath hitched. They knew his name. The words sent a chill down his spine. The mechanical sentinels weren’t just hunting him, they knew who he was. But how? And why? What had he done to deserve termination?
There was no time to dwell on questions. The vent emptied into a dark alleyway. Sam kicked the vent open and shimmied down an adjacent pipe to the ground below. Pain exploded through his side. He stumbled and caught himself against the rough block wall. For a moment he stood there, gasping for air in the cool night. The contrast to the stifling heat of the facility was almost comforting.
The alley was deserted. The only sounds came from the distant hum of neon signs and the faint wail of a siren somewhere in the city. The air smelled of oil and damp concrete. Puddles of water reflected the flickering glow of neon lights painting the narrow alley in shades of electric blue and pink. Sam realized he didn’t have time to tarry. The sentinels would soon be on his tail.
Sam’s fingers brushed against the key in his pocket. Hotel Fresco. The name echoed in his mind like a faint beacon in the fog of uncertainty. It was the only lead he had. Meager but worth investigating. He stepped out of the alley with furtive movements. He wasn’t afforded the luxury of time.
The city beyond was eerily quiet. Its streets were bathed in the cold glow of neon. Shadows stretched across the asphalt like fingers of an unseen predator. Sam’s gaze darted searching for signs of danger. The faint hum of drones lingered as a reminder he wasn’t safe.
He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who he was. But he knew the answers were out there, waiting for him. And he wasn’t going to stop until he found them. With the key in his pocket Sam stepped into the unknown with an unshakable certainty the worst was yet to come.
The Hotel
The Hotel Fresco was a ghost of a bygone era. It stubbornly stood defiant amidst the modern industrial cityscape subsequently growing around it. Its faded green façade was streaked with the grime of exhaust fumes from passing vehicles. Paint peeled and curled like dead leaves. Above the entrance a buzzing neon sign flickered erratically casting uneven shadows onto the cracked pavement below. The “E” in “Fresco” blinked on and off, as if the hotel itself were struggling to stay alive. Sam lingered across the street parusing the building’s tired exterior. It looked like the kind of place people came to disappear, perhaps permanently.
The streets were busier than the district he’d escaped from. People with their heads down moved with unseen purpose. Their hands were stuffed into their pockets. Their faces appeared pale and drawn. The tension in the air was palpable. An unspoken agreement warned not to linger. It was undoubtedly a high crime area. Sam felt exposed. A few passersby glanced at him. Their eyes lingered for a beat too long before they hurried on their way.
Overhead, a pair of security drones hovered. Their lenses glowed faintly as they scanned pedestrians scurrying below. Sam’s stomach tightened. He ducked into the shadows of the nearby alley with his back pressed against the wall. His heart pounded as he watched the drones glide past. He waited until their mechanical hum faded into the distance. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. The city was crawling with surveillance. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
When he felt the coast was clear, he crossed the street quickly. Weaving through a few pedestrians he quietly slipped into the hotel’s dimly lit lobby. The air inside was stale with the stench of mildew and cigarette smoke. The carpet was threadbare from years of neglect. The once vibrant pattern was faded into a patchwork of nondescript stains. A single ceiling fan spun lazily overhead affording little to dispel the oppressive heat. An elderly woman dressed in a uniform was busy vacuuming the carpet.
Behind the reception desk sat a woman slumped in her chair. She was flipping through a dog-eared magazine. Her hair was dyed a harsh shade of red. The roots showed neglected despair consistent with the dilapidated state of the hotel. A cigarette dangled from her hand. Her sweaty complexion suggested she was no stranger to a nip of spirits while on duty. She was likely the proprietor of the hotel. She barely glanced up as Sam approached. Her eyes flicked briefly to the key in his hand before she waved him on with a bored, abject gesture.
“Second floor,” she muttered, not bothering to look up again.
Sam nodded and headed for the staircase at the back of the lobby. The narrow steps creaked under his weight. The sound echoed uncomfortably. The hallway on the second floor was dimly lit. Old bulbs and cigarette stained globes cast a sickly yellow glow. The walls were lined with faded floral wallpaper curling away from the cracked plaster beneath. The air smelled like old sweat and discarded diapers.
Room 214 was located at the far end of the hall. The door was scuffed and dented. The brass numbers were so tarnished they were barely legible. Sam hesitated for a moment with his hand hovering over the doorknob. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him. He couldn’t tell if it was real or just his frayed nerves playing tricks. Shaking off the feeling, he unlocked the door and stepped inside with the gun in the ready position. He closed the door behind and locked it.
The room was as bleak as the rest of the hotel. A single bed with a threadbare blanket was pushed against the wall. Wooden chairs were arranged around a small table in the center of the room. The carpet displayed the same faded pattern as the lobby. Planks were clearly visible through the threadbare carpet. A sheet of stainless steel served as a mirror over a stained bathroom sink. The toilet looked like a broken heirloom from an apocalyptic movie. The wood seat was broken and worn to oblivion. The inside of the bowl was sullied with unspeakable mysteries better left alone.
The only window was covered by tattered curtains. The fabric was stained and reeked with the disgusting odor of stale smoke. Sam dropped the key on the bed and began searching the room with methodical precision. He checked closet first. It held wire coat hangers and a few clothes. Sam swapped the coat for a hooded sweatshirt from the closet. He crouched near the edge of the bed and ran his hand along the underside of the frame.
To his surprise, he pulled out a briefcase. Its surface was scratched and the finish chipped. He placed it on the table and stared at it for a moment. Without thinking his fingers moved to the combination lock and entered a sequence before he realized what he was doing: 3-1-5-8. The numbers meant nothing to him but they curiously worked. The lock clicked open.
Sam froze. His breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know how he knew the combination. It wasn’t productive to dwell on it. He opened the case. Therein he found a cell phone and a folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper carefully and read the handwritten note:
If you’re reading this, you’re already in danger. Trust no one. Find Juanita Ortega. She’ll know what to do.
The name meant nothing to him. The urgency of the message was impossible to ignore. His grip on the paper tightened as his mind raced. Who was Juanita Ortega? And why did this note feel it was written specifically for him? The mention of danger wasn’t surprising—he’d been running for his life since he left the lab. The idea someone might have answers sent a flicker of hope through the haze of his confusion.
Before he could process the implications of the note a faint noise outside the door caught his attention.
Footsteps.
Sam’s body tensed. His instincts kicked in. He grabbed the gun and moved to the side of the door. He pressed his back against the wall. His heart pounded in his chest. Each beat was loud and insistent. Whoever was out there wasn’t there by accident. The footsteps stopped just outside the door. For a moment there was silence.
Then came the soft click of the doorknob being tested.
Sam tightened his grip on the gun. His finger rested on the trigger. His breaths were shallow and controlled. His body coiled like a spring. The doorknob turned slowly. The latch clicked as it was disengaged. Someone had a key.
The door creaked open an inch, then stopped. A shadow moved in the gap, faint but unmistakable. Sam’s mind raced. Friend or enemy? He couldn’t afford to take chances. Whoever was on the other side of the door potentially posed a serious threat.
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