Kid Vegas comes out to meet me. His side part is gelled down, well kept. Like he’s ready for a big announcement.
“Always complications with you, Stokes,” he says as I pass him by. “Sammy in the back?”
“Sammy’s dead,” I say. “But I got your drive.”
“Slick will want that,” Kid says. “I mean, President Knute.”
“She’s got it.” I hand Adriana off to a guard, who takes her inside the dilapidated skyscraper. “So the Prez himself is too busy to see me?”
“Things have changed since you pulled that stunt in the plains,” Kid says. “Our movement’s growing.”
“Like you give a damn about any movement,” I say. Grift knows grift. I don’t know his angle, but it isn’t being VP of this dump.
“I heard you had somewhere to be,” Kid says, turning to go back inside. “Shouldn’t you be looking for the good treasurer? Debts must be paid.”
“Yeah, just tell the man upstairs to wipe one off the ledger,” I call to him.
Kid waves his fingers in the air and disappears inside. A guard comes over and hands me a folded piece of paper, then salutes and walks away. On the letter—stamped with the official phoenix symbol of the AoF—is an address with directions that lead across town.
Written in Slick’s hand, at the bottom, is an additional message.
Be careful out there. They still want your head. You wanna save your new friends, you best save yourself.
It’s not a surprise.
Slick knows that saving myself is what I’m best at, after all.
25 Black Hole
I walk through the winding, corpse-like shadows of half-built skyscrapers. Trash can fires flicker in alleyways, occasional gunshots bursting out followed by shouts and broken glass.
I put my head down and trot faster, edging closer to the center of the city—colloquially known as the Black Hole. Its fringes are the most popular and populous place in the entire Otherlands—a city of lawlessness. But past the threshold of the giant screen in its center square is a place where no one goes.
And no one returns.
That makes Black Hole an apt name—and probably why Slick and Kid decided I’m the man for the job of locating Andrew Marshwood. They could’ve recovered the drives themselves. But I provide them an essential service in this quest—the ability to grease the wheels with my skills and my connection to Matt. I also possess one other fantastic bonus: I’m expendable. It might even be better, at the end of this, if I simply die. It’s a strange feeling, being both useful and marked for death.
As I get closer to the city’s center square, I have to weave between clusters of pedestrians. Most of them clutch weapons—rusted crowbars, bent knives—in their hands, ready to fight for their lives at a moment’s notice. But somehow, down here, the uneasy peace remains intact. The sounds of struggle that punctuated my early walk from the AoF base are absent here.
Such is the power of mutually assured destruction.
The hustle and bustle doesn’t stop until everyone hears a warning siren. It’s an official Circle message, coming across the city’s only remaining mega screen. Everyone stops and stiffens in place. I keep going, which gets me strange looks.
Apparently, when the man in the high castle speaks, you’re supposed to listen. Even down here. I make my way to the center square, where I see Tanner’s towering headshot broadcast on a screen over a hundred feet high. The people who were already in the square stand in rapt silence, distracted from their shopping carts, tents and retrofitted vans.
This is when I notice a strange thing: there are Circle soldiers patrolling through the crowd. That’s a rare sight in the Otherlands. The place polices itself, for the most part—only in the direst situations do any soldiers come through, according to the scraps of conversation I overheard while recovering from my knife wound at AoF HQ.
Tanner’s announcement must be important enough to demand attention. No wonder everyone has stopped what they’re doing. Defiance isn’t worth a kneecapping. I glide in behind a decaying food truck parked on the corner and watch the screen. No need to draw attention to myself by ignoring the good Chancellor’s message.
I do have one burning question, though: how does a man with terminal cancer and only weeks to live survive for months? After a brief preamble from Old Silver Fox about the importance of the following announcement, Tanner’s scratchy voice comes over the speakers, offering me no answers.
“My fellow citizens,” he begins, sounding as irritating as ever, “the last six months have been trying for our great nation, but I believe we have come to a turning point in our fortunes.”
There’s no response from the crowd. No one here believes that this turning point will have any effect on their fate.
“Our enemies have sought to destroy us, but we have held strong. Still, concessions for the good of public safety must be made. Transcontinental Hyperloop travel has been made impossible by terrorists bent on destroying our ideals. Subsequently, I have made the difficult executive decision to officially separate the Western Stronghold from the Circle’s purview. The disasters have made these areas a drain on resources that I cannot, in good faith, continue to allow.”
Murmurs in the crowd. Things must be bad if Tanner’s conceding the Wild West. That leaves the Circle with a much smaller foothold to play with.
“Unfortunately, despite our repeated efforts and the resounding success of the Otherlands” —light jeers from the crowd, which result in bullets fired in the air from the guards— “criminal activity has not yet been completely eliminated from the Eastern Stronghold. As such, until further notice, I have declared martial law, with myself as acting head of the Circle’s Armed Forces. Soldiers will have full authority to immediately stop the spread of discontent and rebellion until the desired stability returns.”
As if to illustrate this point, one drunk guy boos heavily, calling Tanner a fraud and phony. A single shot cracks out across the garbage-strewn plaza and he’s silent.
“If you are caught in the company of any known member or sympathizer of the Lionhearted, Ashes of the Fall, or Remnants, you will be immediately declared an enemy of the state and subject to the harshest sanctions available under law.”
It’s the first time he’s mentioned the Remnants officially. There are whispers about who exactly they are—even down here, most are unacquainted with them—but I’m more concerned with his actual words. Translation: you will be put down like a dog if we suspect you of anything. I watch the soldiers move about the flickering fires, just waiting for someone else to dissent. But everyone’s learned their lesson from the first guy. No one values their own opinions enough to offer their life in exchange.
“And finally, dear citizens, we have received word Luke Stokes has been spotted in the Otherlands. Mr. Stokes is responsible for much of our current predicament” —that seems like a stretch— “and has helped create many threats to our great nation. That a known murderer and enemy of the state has gone unpunished for his heinous actions is as unacceptable to me as it has been to you. Subsequently, I am doubling the bounty for Mr. Stokes’ capture to a million credits, a full pardon, and a high-ranking position in our nation’s military. The man or woman responsible for his capture or death will be recognized as a true patriot and champion of our cause.”
I watch my picture flash across the screen. A red label beneath the shot announces that I’m wanted for high treason. Enemy of the state indeed.
The image remains as Tanner ends the broadcast with his standard line.
“And remember always—progress lies in all that is larger than yourself.”
The broadcast ends, but my unsmiling face stays. After a few minutes, I realize that it will be there until I’m caught—a constant incentive for those here to hunt me down. I shove my hands in my pockets and move to the fringe of the plaza. Most of the people weren’t watching the broadcast, so they don’t know my face. But, soon enough, they will.
As the crowd begins
to thin out, I laugh grimly to myself.
Because what Tanner should have said is that progress lies in catching Luke Stokes.
26 Marshwood
Eight blocks away from the plaza, deep in the Black Hole, everything is completely deserted save for the rats. That’s actually a relief. I managed to jet out of there fast enough to avoid detection. The trip back will be a challenge, but I suppose I’m up to it.
Nice of Slick and Kid to tell me that there was a price on my life, though. Somehow, “they still want your head” doesn’t quite sum the situation up. Everyone wants your head would have been much more accurate.
I duck inside a ruined ice cream parlor to gather my thoughts. It’s the only place on the block with lights—albeit flickering and pink. The door jingles as I step inside.
“Hello?”
No answer. The lights must be automatic, on some sort of timer. That’s good. I take Slick’s letter out of my pocket and flatten it against the stainless steel countertop. The rose glow allows me to read the address and directions if I squint hard enough.
It says to go two blocks past the Pink Rose. That must be where I’m at now. City hall will be a straight shot from there.
I haven’t found any reason why this section of town is abandoned. From what I can tell, it’s nicer than the garbage heap where most of the people live. But who knows—the Remnants had their problems with coming into camp, so maybe something bad happened here.
I fold Slick’s note up and turn around to leave.
“Hey,” a voice calls, slicing through the darkness, “yo.”
It’s coming from outside. I glance behind me, where the last thin strips of neon pink lighting cling to life. I can’t see who the voice belongs to. I vault the stainless steel counter to hide. My shoulders snap rigid as the door jingles. Uneven, heavy footsteps come inside.
“Hey man,” the guy says. “I know you’re there.”
I suck my breath in and hold it, like if I don’t make a sound and shut my eyes, he’ll figure it was just a mouse. Not a human being. Not me. Shoes squeak against the linoleum floor. A shin bangs into one of the red vinyl stools. Curses.
“Come on, man, just come out would ya? It’s friggin’ dark in here.”
His voice is closer—next to the counter close. I search the ground for anything to defend myself with. I settle on an ice cream scoop. It’s heavy, could put a decent-sized dent in someone’s skull.
“You come closer and I’ll smash your head in,” I say, and get up. There’s a man cloaked in shadow. Hands in his pockets. I can’t see a face. He doesn’t move. “Who are you?”
I brandish the scoop toward him.
“Could ask the same to you, man.” He leans forward off the stool, so that the dim pink light splashes across some of his features. Heavy five o’clock shadow. Strong stench of whiskey, even though there’s still five feet separating us. A collared dress shirt hangs off his shoulders, far too large for his frame. “Hey now, don’t look so scared.”
He whistles, his eyebrows arching in recognition.
“What?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, his gleaming white teeth arch in a delirious smile. It makes for a jarring contrast to his sandy colored skin, which has jaundiced from what looks like a natural brownish hue. The slightest hint of a silent h in his hey, and his youthful features suggest that he came here as a refugee. Parents probably got in right before the borders closed.
“Put that down, would you,” he says. I see that one eye doesn’t track my movements any more, stilled by a knife. His hair, grown long and feral, sits askew atop his head at all angles. “You look like him, you know, in the dark.”
“Like who?” I wag the heavy metal tool at him. To be honest, I’m not sure I need it. If I walked by this guy too fast, he might blow over.
“Your brother ever tell you about his old buddy Andy?” His eye looks at me. “Nah, of course not. That would’ve been impossible.”
“Jesus,” I say and almost stumble onto my ass from the realization. “You’re Andrew Marshwood.”
He takes out a flask hidden somewhere in the endless rolls of clothing. After an admirably long swig, he wipes the remaining dribble of whiskey from his stubble and flashes that awful smile again. I feel my shoulders start to drop, relax. I didn’t even have to track Marshwood down. Because he came to me.
“I’ve been following you,” he says. He takes a halting step off the tool and slips. He unleashes a flurry of Spanish and English curse words, so rapid fire that I can’t tell them from one another.
“Who sent you down here?”
“Nathaniel Blackstone,” Marshwood says with a derisive snort, trying to get to his feet but failing. “What a prick. You should have seen him at dinner parties.”
“Can’t believe I missed it.” I’m torn between helping him get up and staying put behind the counter. Helping him wouldn’t be an act of generosity, but one of self-interest. The sooner he stands up, the sooner I can figure out where the last drive is.
But first, I want to know one thing. “Why the hell are you following me?”
“Because the Black Hole belongs to me. And I hate unexpected visitors. Blackstone’s goons are after me, man.”
Marshwood gets to his feet and brushes himself off. It’s a hopeless gesture, because he’s covered in whiskey and I think he’s pissed himself, too, but at least it indicates he has some grasp of reality and appropriate decorum. Maybe he’s even capable of having a decent conversation.
Decent is relative. When you’re about to become the most hunted man in purgatory, a drunk who doesn’t shoot first could be the best friend a man ever had.
“That what got you sent down here,” I say. “Your infinite love for Blackstone?”
“Nah,” Marshwood says. He manages to fish a cigarette out of his robes. It glistens slightly in the light. That doesn’t stop him from putting it between his teeth and then lighting it, sucking in smoke like it’s the elixir of life. “No one gives a shit about him, man.”
“Then what was it?”
“Trying to help your brother,” he says. “With his plans to change stuff, you know?”
“Oh.” That’s all I can muster up.
“Tell you what, man.” There’s a minute-long pause where he wants me to say what, like we’re in this together, and where I refuse. Finally, I lose the standoff, because the smoke and whiskey and piss are getting to me, and also because curiosity can be a goddamn son of a bitch.
“What do you want to tell me?”
That same smile. It’s not evil or malicious, more off-putting because it’s the expression of a man who has forgotten what a real smile is supposed to look like.
“I thought I was gonna die before you made it down here. Your brother told me to wait for your ass.”
So Matt did come to visit him. And apparently I factored into that plan. “What’d my brother want from you?”
“To ease his mind,” he says. He doesn’t smile this time, just arches his thinning eyebrows. Marshwood savors the moment by taking another long drink. The cigarette tumbles from his burned fingers as he finishes off the whiskey. “Goddamn, that’s delicious.”
“I got shit to do, if it’s all the same to you.”
“You’ll want to stay,” he says, real casual, like he knows I’m hooked and can’t leave.
“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”
“Because Matt told me, if anything happened to him,” Marshwood says, his expression turning from sad and pathetic to defiant, like a light has been lit underneath this husk of a man. “To take you to the source code.”
27 Gifted Minds
For how loaded Marshwood is, he traverses the jagged landscape of the Black Hole like a combination between a mountain goat and jaguar. The former treasurer might be a sad sack mess, but he’s learned how to survive down here in the shadows.
“You and Matt, how’d you meet?” I struggle to keep up with Marshwood, who, despite being fueled entirely by liquor, cigarettes
and delirium, is outpacing me by a good margin. The terrain, as we go deeper into the Black Hole, begins to resemble a battlefield scarred by explosives.
“Oh, Blackstone found us,” Marshwood says. “He developed the program for Chancellor Tanner.”
“What program?”
“Gifted Minds,” he says. I try to remember where I saw the name. It comes back to me as I scramble over a chunk of ruined concrete. It was all over Matt’s shirts, stuffed at the back of the closet. And he lived just down the street from the Gifted Minds Research Institute.
“Was Olivia Redmond part of the program too?”
Marshwood shakes his head, and I think he’s gonna say no. Instead, he says, “That scheming cunt.”
I don’t have an answer prepared for that.
We duck into an old open-air shopping promenade, the kind that developers used to sell to neighborhoods when they were trying to gentrify the area. The granite stones are now warped and cracked and a large video screen hangs off-center from the corpse of a decapitated high rise.
In the hazy moonlight, it’s difficult to tell if it was an act of rebellion, an errant wrecking ball, or just decay that did the building in. But what once stood thirty stories now stands about twenty, its bare neck exposed to the elements.
I hear a little trickle. Something splashes my boots.
Whiskey.
“One for the fallen,” he says. “Gotta have respect for the dead.”
Marshwood looks at me with those sunken eyes. I’m gonna punch him if he grins at me. But instead he nods, not opening his mouth, and laughs to himself.
“What’s funny?”
“This is the first thing me and Matt made the little nano-builders do,” Marshwood said. “This was the test.”
I look at the ruined architecture. Now I know why Atlanta resembles a miniature New Manhattan—albeit unfinished. This was the program’s testing grounds, safe from prying eyes, questions or any outside interference. We turn off the promenade without further commentary and continue walking. I realize it’s been more than a couple blocks since the Pink Rose. Either Slick gave me bad directions, or something’s up.
[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall Page 17
