“How’d they get you free?”
“Little bastards burned right through the metal.” I’m assuming he meant our saving swarm of drones. At least this escape wasn’t Chancellor Tanner, posing a last-minute bit of theater. That Hyperloop got lit up completely—and that’s gonna delay shuttling criminals away from New Manhattan. But the fact that we were saved by soldiers bearing the Circle’s insignia gives me pause.
A car zig-zags over the barren terrain in the distance, clouds of dust trailing its wheels. I can hear the engine, powerful and guttural, screaming our way as the mean glare of the headlights bears down on us.
I fumble for the rifle.
“Let me,” Kid says, expertly loading bullets into the chamber with practiced ease. He rests his chin against his knuckles, adjusting the scope. “I’ll put one right in the driver’s head.”
I watch as his finger edges closer to the trigger, begins to press down. Then it releases, and I look up. A red-white tattered flag—a shirt, actually—waves about twenty yards away as the car’s brakes squeal. I cough as a plume of dust and rocks showers over our position.
“You’re Luke Stokes?” another soldier says, a big guy, stepping out from the passenger seat. It’s not really a question.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Roman.” He gets out, his head covered by a helmet. “Who’s this?”
“Son of Damien Ford.”
Roman stops walking for a moment and whistles. “Well ain’t that something.”
“You gonna help us? I got a bum leg.”
“Yeah, well, time’s a-wasting and no seconds left over for how your panties fit,” he says. With lumbering steps, he comes over and grabs my shoulder, dragging me upright. I grit as the pain courses through my leg.
“Hope Little Ford can walk on his own. Ain’t got time to babysit two of you.”
Kid wordlessly rises and follows behind.
I’m shoved into a hovercruiser before I can protest the rough treatment. Kid slides in behind me, and then the guard gets in and we’re speeding away. I notice that the guard in front is actually driving. Why, I have no idea.
“So, where are we going?” I say, trying to be as chatty as possible. Our two escorts are having none of it, and pay me no heed. The tinted divider shoots up, and I soon find—after cursing and making obscene gestures—that it’s soundproof.
Which leaves me almost completely in the dark, since the windows are tinted, too. The air even feels thick, heavier on the lungs than usual. It’s coming in filtered through the car’s system, so I can’t really say I’m looking forward to the general atmosphere in the Otherlands.
“The fuck did your dad do to this place,” I say, my head beginning to hurt.
“There’s a reason no one lives down here. Not by choice, at least.”
“What do you think these guys want?”
“You got a lot of questions.”
“I would prefer not to die,” I say, trying to consider what that entails.
For one thing, it means getting the hell away from whatever this is. Whoever wants to use me in their game this time will find an unwilling player. Yes, I will smile and say of course, sir, but then, the instant I get a chance, I’m taking my pack and hitting the road.
It occurs to me that I don’t even have a pack. I’ve got nothing besides a bum leg and a target painted on my back from this damn HoloBand branding me as a criminal threat. The divider comes down, and Roman throws a manila envelope back our way.
“You read the terms,” he says.
“You’re kidding,” I say. “How you gonna enforce a contract out here?”
“Not by law,” Roman says with an amused grin, “but you break ’em, we’ll hunt your ass down and it won’t be pretty.” Way he says it, I know he’s not bluffing. That when terms have been breached before, he’s taken great pleasure in delivering the repercussions.
“And you,” he says, directing this bit toward Kid, “we’ll decide what you’re worth when we see Blackstone.” Kid stares back at him, right in the eyes, like he’s got a death wish.
Roman blinks first.
There’s only one piece of paper in the envelope. Four sentences, actually.
Terms
We fix your leg and remove your HoloBand. This means we save your life. In return, you help us make Blackstone the next Chancellor. To do that, we need you to collect the full HIVE source.
It lacks a certain poetry, although it does score points for brevity and clarity. A pen hits me hard in the chest.
“Sign it,” Roman says.
I do so begrudgingly, but without protest. The rest of the ride continues in tense silence.
When the vehicle finally stops, I’m dragged out by my neck and tossed on a concrete floor. Dim artificial lights flicker down from the ceiling. An imperial-looking man with a wizened white beard that touches his chest waves off his goons. Roman whispers something in this man’s ear, and he nods sagely, answering in low tones.
Then Roman gets back in, and the car speeds off with Kid Vegas, leaving me alone with a man who may very well be the first documented wizard in human history.
I brush myself off, but don’t stand up. It would hurt too much. We’re in an actual city—or the remnants of one—in what looks like an old warehouse. Yellowed newspaper covers the walls, although some light manages to seep in, giving the concrete floors a sickly appearance.
“Your ride was comfortable, I trust?” For some reason he’s treating me with respect, which goes contrary to everything I understand about Circle officials—which he must be, given his refined appearance and how submissive Roman acted around him. “Forgive me, but I have little time. The scrambling on my own HoloBand will only work so long before my fellow Circle members become suspicious.”
I try to sit up a little straighter. “I have no complaints.”
“This, as you may have guessed, Mr. Stokes, is the Otherlands.” He touches the tip of his beard and looks at me with piercing blue eyes. The first thought that enters my mind was that he probably did pretty well with the ladies when he was younger. Maybe he still could.
“Here in the flesh,” I say. “And you are?”
“Nathaniel Blackstone.”
“Your reputation does not precede you,” I say, still pissed about the forced terms. But it’s also true—I’ve never heard of him. Inner Circle? Unlikely—no one would sign up to govern this cesspool if they had other options.
He laughs. “No, I am not a famous figure. Seems Olivia wasn’t wrong about you.”
“Don’t tell me you’re working with that bitch,” I say. I eye him suspiciously as he reaches into his pocket. Blackstone brings out two pieces of folded legal paper.
“I believe this belongs to you.” He hands me Matt’s note. I take it with a raised eyebrow, but I can’t lie and say I don’t appreciate the gesture. It’s the only thing I really have left of him, so I slide it in my own pocket and nod my thanks.
“The story of Olivia and I goes back to when she was a girl,” Blackstone says. “I found her down here, amid the wreckage.”
“Touching tale.”
“Yes, well, I’ve spent long enough in this wasteland,” Blackstone says. “Much longer than any member of the Inner Circle could be expected to. And my reward?”
I guess he is a member of the Inner Circle. Apparently even they have a B team.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Director of the Otherlands,” he says. “A lifelong appointment to this very area.” Blackstone laughs, but he’s not bitter. More…no, he wants out for another reason. “And so, when Ms. Redmond called earlier today with a plan, I listened. She needed a way to transport you rapidly out of New Manhattan. With transcontinental travel suspended except for security activities, this was the only way to bring you closer to the factions which you must unite.”
“Great plan,” I massage my wounded leg for emphasis.
He nods his head up and down, as if he commiserates with my plig
ht.
“You stood no chance of altering the status quo given the new variables at play out West,” Blackstone says. “And, had you succeeded by some wild stroke of luck, the ensuing power vacuum would have plunged our nation into sheer anarchy.”
“Then you all could have pissed off and let me be.”
“You would have had a very short life,” Blackstone says. “Nasty and brutish, discovered within the week, if not sooner.”
“Save me the philosophy,” I say. “I can make my own choices.”
“Then make this choice: we need a leader to rise from the ranks. The very existence of our species is vulnerable. The ash clouds will choke away much of our food. A new government will be too much to bear. If we curry favor from within the Circle, and revamp it from within—”
I snort. “You can’t seriously believe this garbage.” From where I’m sitting, it sounds like he wants to be the Circle’s next de facto king.
“When was the last time a man of my stature was honest with you?” Blackstone asks. “After all, why do you think you’re still alive? That no Circle agents have come to track your HoloBand’s signal? I need you, and that requires trust. Your brother, before he died, split up the source code to HIVE. That is the key to everything.”
“Hadn’t thought about it all.”
“Perhaps you should.” Since Blackstone runs these parts, I suppose he controlled the response to my ballsy escape. Sent only guys that were loyal. So maybe I should take his offer and terms at face value. But then, I thought I could trust Olivia, and all that got me was a bullet in the leg. I also answered Matt’s letter—and, until thirty minutes ago, I was going to be publicly hanged for my troubles.
So maybe my impressions aren’t reliable.
“You don’t want factional civil war, do you? Because that’s where this is headed without your assistance.”
“I think you seriously misjudge my giving a shit,” I say.
“I think you care more than you claim.” Blackstone offers me his hand and I decline. “Ah yes, your leg. We’ll fix that.”
“So if I get you more information on HIVE, track it down, push you to the top, then what?”
“A bit more will be required of you,” Blackstone says. “But it will result in a better world.”
“For you.” And I see the terms are changing already. I wonder if it’s now my contractual obligation for me to hunt him down, put a bullet in his skull.
“For all,” Blackstone says with quiet emphasis.
“I’m hearing a lot of talk and not seeing too many cattle.”
“Yes, in your position I would be quite reticent to ally with me,” Blackstone says. “Come.” Waving his hand, he walks across the cracked concrete, toward what used to be the warehouse manager’s office. Cursing him silently under my breath, I crawl along the floor.
With a flourish, he throws open the rusting steel door. He steps aside and gestures for me to look. Inside the room, stacked almost to the top of gridded windows, are dozens of crates. One is open nearby, a little drone nestled in the straw.
“I have the resources to help you make Matthew’s vision a reality.” I take the little chunk of metal death from the crate and turn it over in my hands. Its lifeless, insect-like eyes stare back at me. Just waiting for confirmation from its master to slit my throat—or whatever this model does. Maybe it incinerates you.
“So you want to be king,” I say. “And this is your shot.”
“It’s more what I do not want. And I do not want this.”
“What’s this, exactly?”
“Instability. Anarchy. The stagnation that chaos brings.”
“No one wants what they currently have. That’s why there’s progress.”
He laughs at the party line. I continue to stare deep into the eyes of this little machine. It’s been years since the Circle has used them—but today’s attack could be the first salvo in a very, very bloody war. Placing the drone back and then leaning against the crate for support, I look up at Director Blackstone. He meets my gaze with his piercing blue eyes.
“You weren’t born yet,” he says in a soft voice. “Nor was Matthew. But I remember what it was like before.”
“Before what?”
“Before the fall,” he says in an almost reverent tone. Maybe this old man isn’t a stone-cold operator like the rest. Maybe he can be conned, just like anyone else. Suits me fine.
“So where do I come into all this,” I say, jerking a thumb toward the dormant arsenal. “Looks like you’re doing fine without my help.”
“With you, we have a story.”
“Doesn’t sound like much.” I don’t mention that everyone thinks I murdered my brother. That can’t make for a rousing battle cry among the downtrodden. I can see the posters now: Support a filial backstabber!
“And,” Blackstone says, blue eyes shining—with greed or benevolence or lust, I don’t quite know, “a story is what creates the hero. And the hero is what changes the world.”
I say, “So about my leg.”
Blackstone walks away, out of the room. “Someone will be in touch. I believe you know him quite well.”
“What else was ‘required’ of me, anyway?” I yell after his retreating footsteps.
But Blackstone leaves me alone, to wait with all his expensive toys and all the questions left unanswered.
14 Old Friends
I shiver in the cold, unheated warehouse, waiting for my mysterious benefactor to arrive. Trucks pull up outside, and I hear the rhythmic pad of boots against the broken concrete. It feels like it’s been hours, but that’s because the incessant throbbing in my leg won’t leave me alone. In reality, it’s only been thirty minutes, maybe less, since I was dragged from the jagged windows of the Hyperloop.
All that adrenaline has dissipated though, and in its stead is a dull fear. I’m a wounded animal, reliant on the charity of others. If these aren’t Blackstone’s men, the punishment will be more painful than any public hanging could ever be.
Voices filter across the warehouse. I press my back against the wooden crate, wondering about my options. My mind saves me the mental gymnastics by settling on the truth: there aren’t any. Shadows approach the doorway, one voice cutting in above the others.
“Stokes,” the man says, “you in there?” His voice is musical, high-pitched, melodious and warbling like a songbird’s.
I almost piss myself with joy. But then I wonder if it’s a hallucination. “Slick? That you, Slick?”
“You beautiful bastard,” Slick says, entering the doorway. I take him in, dressed in all-weather gear, only his eyes visible beneath his bandana-covered face. “Thought I’d never see you again.”
“You wish.” I groan as he rushes in for a hug. He’s not a big guy, but he’s got power. He drags me up from the floor and his barrel chest crushes me in its all-encompassing embrace. His momma must’ve seen that coming, because she named him Alfred—Alfred Knute, built like a dwarf from the pages of a bad fantasy novel. But everyone calls him Slick, just because he’s more of a wrecking ball than a smooth guy. “I—you’re alive.”
“I am,” he says, releasing me. “You planning a rebellion, are ya?”
“Courtesy of the good Director,” I say. “The others, they with—”
A dark look falls over Slick’s face and he shakes his head, cutting the question short. The crew is dead and he’s the only survivor.
“Most didn’t make it,” he says. “It was like snow, except it choked your lungs, couldn’t breathe. And then the quake…I drove as fast I could, hunkered down in one of those trucks when I ran out of gas. Had to dig myself out by hand afterward.”
“Jesus,” I say. “And how’d you hook up with Blackstone?”
“Straight to business,” Slick says with a grin.
“A lot of people been fucking with me the past week,” I say. “I want to know where we stand.”
“I heard,” he says. Slick beckons for one of his guys—a man I don’t recognize—
for a medical kit. “Guess you can either trust me or die, bud. Up to you.”
“I just want to know how Blackstone tapped you.”
“He found me and we came to an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement,” I say, watching him pull out a very large needle. It’s like a supercharged version of the one in the coin hidden in Matt’s apartment. “Tell me that’s for you.”
“They put these criminal HoloBands in deep,” he says. “Wedge them in there real good.”
“Don’t tell me that.” The needle’s gotta be three inches long. Plunge that in as deep as I think he’s saying, and he’ll destroy my spinal column, leave me eating out of a tube. Or probably just leave me here to die of dehydration among all of Blackstone’s drones.
“Sorry, bud,” Slick says. “Turn over.”
“Like hell I will.”
He takes me by the arm and flips me over like he’s dealing with a rag doll. I squirm, my injured leg banging against the concrete, but I’m more concerned about being paralyzed than a little bit of pain.
A searing hot sensation courses through my spine as the needle slices through my skin. Claw-like tendrils spring from the end of the needle. I can feel them in my neck, grasping at the HoloBand, tearing at its wiring like some sort of spider. Each neural link that’s broken sends my vision crashing into darkness.
Just when I think I’m going to pass out from the pain, the needle retracts, followed by one final burst of almost unbearable agony. The HoloBand tears through the skin, too big for the needle’s hole. Blood and spinal fluid drip down my breastbone.
Slick yells for something, but I’m too busy wondering if I’m a cripple to hear him. There’s a minor burning, and the smell of smoldering flesh.
Then I hear his voice. “Move your arm, bud.”
In my trance-like state, I do as I’m told. My nose pressed up against the concrete, I see a slight twitch in my hand. Then two fingers moving.
“Good. That’s it.” A pair of tweezers cuts into view, holding a bloodied HoloBand. It’s at least twice the size of the other ones I extracted—the criminal control model is no joke, it would appear. “Extra nasty edition, bud. You’re lucky we got it out before all the neural links formed.”
[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall Page 10
