[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall

by Nicholas Erik

  “You got lucky that mob was in your vicinity when our trackers radioed in about your attackers. Otherwise, that bald-headed loon would’ve snuffed you out.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Same thing you did to his four friends, according to our scouts,” Slick says. “Didn’t think you were much of a fighter.”

  “Living on the plains toughens a man up,” I say. We reach the end of the hallway and make a turn. It’s another ten feet before Slick throws open two double-doors. A large, cavernous room with twenty-foot ceilings greets my gaze as I limp through.

  Whiteboards, corkboards, tables full of dossiers and plans—it’s clear that this is the heart of the assault. Those most loyal to the cause mill around, radioing in orders over walkie-talkies. A man near one of the whiteboards—which I now realize has a hand-drawn map of Atlanta on it—shades in another area as blue.

  “We’ve taken the majority of the Black Hole and the south part of the city,” Slick says.

  “You take the plaza yet?” I don’t tell him why.

  “Blackstone’s forces have rallied nearby,” he says. “It’s gonna be bloody getting through.”

  I think FUCK to myself, but try to maintain a stoic expression.

  “So why am I here?” I ask. Slick shakes his head, as if to say not right now, and then points to a back office. Following him amid the flurry of activity, I see a number of questioning eyes all wondering the same thing about me.

  Whether or not they can trust me. Feeling’s mutual, but I don’t think announcing that will assuage their doubts.

  Slick shuts the door behind us and then looks at me. “You know we’re for real, bud.”

  “Is that what that little dog-and-pony show was about?”

  “We’re not a militia,” Slick says. “This is real.”

  “So you figure I’ll throw in with you if I think you can win?” Glad everyone has a such a low opinion of my character. Then again, that might be earned.

  “Change is happening whether you side with Blackstone, Tanner, the Lionhearted or no one at all, bud,” Slick says. “So why not with your old friend?”

  He slaps me on the back—on purpose, most definitely—and I almost buckle. Then he walks toward his desk and opens up one of the drawers. A bottle of whiskey comes out, followed by a bag of pills.

  “These are like white gold,” Slick says, tossing them on the table. I can see the oblong tablets from here. Some sort of heavy painkiller. “You know what people will do for these out here?”

  I have a feeling that he’s found out more than once over the past six months just how far a man will go to get blitzed. No doubt one of his secrets to success.

  “You know,” I say. “I’m fielding offers from a lot of teams now. Maybe I should wait for the Rems and the Lionhearted to call in, see what they can give me.”

  “Funny, Luke,” Slick says. “But watch it, bud.”

  “Should’ve told me that before someone shot me twice.”

  “The whiskey, the meds, they’re yours,” he says, gesturing toward them.

  “Tell me why I’m here,” I repeat.

  “You think I want your help, Luke?” Slick says. “Is that it? You think I want you here?”

  That catches me off guard. I give him a funny look, and no words come to mind. Of course he wanted me here—it’s Slick. Right? But his eyebrows are knitted together somewhere between an expression of outright disgust and annoyance.

  “You’ve left a trail of shit behind everywhere you’ve been the past six months,” Slick says. “Your brother contacts you. He winds up dead.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “And then that girl, the Alonso one?”

  “Carina,” I say.

  “I hear she’s captured by the Circle not long after.”

  I think about how Blackstone told me that she was fine. Cooperating. That was a lie.

  “And then, after all that, I save your ass from death’s door, and you fuck me, kill one of my best guys, leave two others out in the wastes.” He shakes his head. “You’re like a one man plague, Stokes.”

  “Not sure I agree,” I say, a little fight returning. That’s bullshit, to lay all this on me. Everyone knew they were playing with fire—Carina, Jackson, Matt. Poke the Circle and it’s like a bear. Everything’s fine until it rips your head clean off.

  “I could give a shit if you agree, bud,” Slick says, sweeping his hand across the desk. The plans and models of the city go flying off. Plastic shards fly across the room from the impact. “And then, after all that, you’re gonna just hand over the keys to HIVE to Blackstone and that rat Kid.”

  “You’re the one who didn’t know he was a rat.”

  “Don’t test me, Luke.” His broad chest quivers. I wonder how fast I can get to the door. Not quick enough. “And after you go to see Evelyn, she’s gone. Poof.” He snaps his fingers.

  This makes me stop. “What do you mean?”

  “She was headed out the gate around the time those buildings came down. Said she had a lead on cracking the drive,” Slick says. “Thought she should check it out.”

  “How you know something happened? You see it?”

  “I had a couple men follow her, just like you. They lost her within a couple blocks.”

  “Maybe she slipped your tail.”

  “They found this.” Slick hands me a hair ribbon, used to tie a bun. I can smell the lilac before I even touch it. On the frayed edges, there’s the tiniest hint of blood.

  “She could’ve dropped it,” I say, but I feel like I’m grasping at straws.

  “She could handle herself,” Slick says, implying that it wasn’t a random act of violence. “You brought this on her. Just like all the others, bud.”

  “If I did, then I learned from the best.”

  He smirks, and I can see the barb cuts deep. “You’ve always been a prick, you know that, Luke?”

  “Doesn’t make me wrong.” I limp to the desk and grab the bottle of whiskey. He doesn’t stop me as I take a long drink. Then I shake out a couple painkillers from the bag, take those too. “If that’s all, you could’ve saved your breath.”

  Acting like I don’t care.

  But it does hurt. No question about that.

  “I told you before, I didn’t want you here.” Slick pauses. “I needed you.”

  I pocket the pills and take another pull from the whiskey before putting it back on the desk.

  “I’m touched. Why?”

  “I saw the journal,” Slick says. Which wipes any glibness away from me like an eraser on a chalkboard. Gone. “Before Kid took the strongbox with him. Your strongbox, from the—”

  “Yeah, I’m aware.” So it wasn’t torched, disposed of, or unimportant.

  It was the most important damn thing in the world, and I didn’t even look at it out there in the Lost Plains, with nothing to do. Because I was done with everything.

  “If you put together this HIVE business for Blackstone and Kid,” he says, his voice mournful, “it’s the end of everything. We won’t stand a chance.”

  I’m not sure if he means the Ashes of the Fall.

  Or humanity.

  35 Intercept

  After I learn that pretty much everything spewed by Kid and Blackstone was bullshit—how they “traced” Matt’s movements, what their true goals with HIVE were—I’m left next to a motorcycle with a set of keys. Slick hands me back the .38, along with a box of hollow points.

  “Found it next to your body in the street.”

  I nod. People have been real studious about getting my belongings back to me. I trust that’s not the norm anywhere in this new world.

  “You got anything I can use to dig out this HoloBand?” I tap the back of my neck. “I’m on the grid.” Slick removed the nastier version—this should be a walk in the park.

  Instead, he shakes his head. “I could. But I won’t.”

  “Come on, I got a target painted on my damn—”

  “You pull th
at thing out, Kid disappears,” Slick says. “And the drives are gone forever. You never find what your brother was working on. I told you what was in that damn journal. It’s the key to this whole HIVE business.”

  “But you also read in the journal—”

  “Every choice comes with risks,” Slick says. “It’s time to make your decision and reap the consequences.”

  Like I haven’t been harvesting mountains of shit for the past six months.

  “If Kid’s been tracking me, he knows I came here.”

  “You’re the best liar I know, Luke. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  The words sound sour and caustic to my ears. Not even a backhanded compliment. Just a referendum on how both of us have chosen to live.

  Before Slick leaves, I ask him if he thinks either Carina or Evelyn are still alive. His reaction—or lack thereof—is not promising. As Slick walks wordlessly away, I play with the keys to the bike. It’s a big fella, loud engine. Reinforced plating around the gas tank and wheel wells, for traversing combat zones.

  I’m not told to bring it, or myself, back in one piece.

  I’ll get an escort through the southern part of the city, up to the fringe of the Black Hole. The plaza is essentially neutral ground right now, I’m told, in large part because neither side wants to fight and watch out for falling girders at the same time.

  How long that’ll last, who knows. It’s the core of what remains of Atlanta—really, the core of the Otherlands. It is where the fight will be won and lost. No one can resist laying stake to it for long.

  It occurs to me that the real reason Slick is pissed is not disappointment, but because I’ve proven to be such an irritant in his plans. When I was younger, I would cause trouble, but it was always in the service of trying to execute his plans. Now that I have my own, I’m more of a liability than I’m worth.

  Whatever. I can’t do anything about that. I climb onto the bike, nudge the kickstand with my foot and rev the engine.

  Then I ride, back toward the Black Hole.

  Slick will just have to trust that, this time, his and my interests are aligned.

  And it means there’s no way Blackstone and Kid—or Tanner, the dark horse in this shit show of a race—gets their grubby paws on HIVE.

  Slick wasn’t kidding about the AoF’s push. The entire southern part of the city is staked out by his rebels. They’re in windows, behind cars, flitting in and out of storefronts. Like a colony of insects, all moving toward one common goal: destroy Blackstone’s presence and conquer the Otherlands.

  From there, who knows? Maybe Slick has the entire NAC in his sights. Never struck me as that ambitious—more of a mom and pop kind of guy—but people, as I’ve discovered over the past few months, change rapidly with the circumstances.

  When I round a corner, I find that a few rebels have seen fit to block the street with a barricade of wrecks. I cut the engine to the bike, give the dented chrome chassis a pat, and leave it behind. I’m sure someone will get it back to its rightful owner.

  This is, after all, Slick’s territory.

  I start to walk toward the cars. In the windows and on the ground, I can feel people’s eyes on me. I’m not sure how Slick got the message out, but it’s pretty damn clear that I’m untouchable. I would say the notoriety makes me feel good, but it’s not a plus when all I really want to do is disappear—I’m not cut out for hero status.

  That’s not in the cards right now, though. I walk around the cars, hands in my pockets, deep in thought. Up the street, maybe three blocks, I see the flash of an exploding Molotov. Pockets of gunfire. My heart picks up a little, but I’m becoming acclimated to the constant unrest. What was once alarming is now simply normal.

  I still keep my hand near my .38, though. That seems like a prudent policy.

  There’s a light buzzing at the base of my neck as I walk. I recognize it as the HoloBand—one of those automated messages that can’t be overridden. I wonder what Chancellor Tanner has to say about the current calamity.

  Much to my surprise, however, I hear Nathaniel Blackstone’s wise tone, infused with gravitas, rather than Tanner’s gravelly scratch. I don’t stop, but I’m tempted to sit and ponder just how the hell Blackstone managed to get in. Then again, the more I learn about Blackstone—everyone, really—the less I really am surprised when another layer reveals itself.

  “My fellow citizens of the Circle,” he begins, indicating that this isn’t just a broadcast to the Otherlands, but to everyone in the NAC within HoloBand radio range, “this is Nathaniel Blackstone. Some of you may know me as Director of the Otherlands. To others, my name may be a mystery to you, as Inner Circle members are known to keep hidden. Rest assured, after today, you will all know me well.”

  There’s a certain campfire feel to the broadcast that I have to respect—like he’s leaning into your ear, telling you a story as a confidant after a few beers. It’s a brilliant contrast to Tanner’s gruff disciplinarian routine.

  “My loyalties to this great state were never in question—I want you to know that what I have to say is only out of necessity. I can keep quiet no longer about the failings of Chancellor Tanner. As an Inner Circle member, it is my duty to protect you, the people, from gross negligence.”

  Of course it is. And win a couple votes in the process. I cut down a side street to avoid the small skirmish ahead. Molotovs aren’t really my bag. The trash strewn asphalt here is abandoned—no one fighting for this patch of land.

  I check behind me for Slick’s escort. They seem to have gotten distracted by some other mess. I’m alone.

  “Chancellor Tanner brought our nation stability in a time of tremendous crisis. For that, we should all be grateful.” Deep breath, like the truth is difficult to tell everyone. The only thing difficult, I think, is him having to wait another few seconds before dropping the bomb. But even I’m not ready for what he says next. “But Chancellor Tanner has been technically deceased for the past six months.”

  When I emerge from the street, I glance both ways. Lots of AoF activity—commanders barking orders, runners shuttling supplies back and forth—but no direct conflict. In the mess of half-finished skyscrapers and ruined storefronts, I try to get my bearings.

  But the revelation has rocked me to the core: Tanner is dead—and yet, he is alive. My thoughts flick back to our conversations about HIVE, how it would save people.

  How did it save him?

  “As all of us are keenly aware, our mortality is what makes us keenly human,” Blackstone says, with the appropriate reverence. “What you may not be aware of, is that Chancellor Tanner—and a fine young man named Matthew Stokes—cracked the code to this age-old human puzzle. Even in the face of death, Tanner has found a way to live on. But he has taken that ability and hidden it from all of you. What should have been a gift to mankind was, instead, something he hoarded as millions struggled and died. The HIVE project was meant for all—that was Matthew Stokes’ vision. He died trying to see it through.”

  I’m not sure about that. Then again, my brother’s exact motives have always been fuzzy.

  “I have found a way to share this gift with you. Join my cause, and you will be free from the tyranny of the ash, of poverty—of the pains of your current existence. I will open up the gates to beautiful immortality—free of charge. But there are those who are trying to stop it, and will fight us along the way. Rise up with me, and take back what Tanner has hidden! Join a new Circle, and create a better NAC.”

  Almost sounds like a vote for me campaign. But the voting will be done in bullets and blood, not via ballots. I scan the environment to see if anyone has had a change of heart due to Blackstone’s stirring revelations. A couple men have a blank, questioning look on their face—it is, after all, an enticing deal, living forever—but most of them are still hard at work. If anything, their belief that Blackstone is not to be trusted has strengthened.

  The human mind is capable of incredible self-deception, even in the face of conflictin
g information. Whatever Slick has promised them, it’s not as good a deal as what Blackstone’s offering everyone else.

  Only one problem: Blackstone doesn’t have HIVE yet. He has a drive, he has the coordinates, but he doesn’t have me, with Matt’s HoloBand. The key to it all.

  I’m not far from the fringe of the Black Hole, now, the plaza where this will all end. I can see the remnants of the collapsed buildings, pushing against each other like fallen, life-sized toys. Debris still trickles down from the massive tower hanging almost horizontally over the center square.

  Here, the sounds of warfare are more pronounced. Even though no one is willing to cross the plaza, plenty of warning shots and explosions still ring out. Once the dam breaks, it’ll be a bloodbath.

  What will inspire people more? Slick’s promises—of a Circle-free state, I presume, and gritty evolutionary survival—or Blackstone’s taste of immortality? Neither is telling the truth. The AoF resemble the Circle in more ways than I’d like. And as for whatever Blackstone said about HIVE, I have my doubts about it being a bite of the golden apple.

  I wonder what the Rems and the Lionhearted are up to, in all this. Plotting their own little coups, for when the two main prizefighters are bloodied and reeling on the ropes?

  A sharp whistle cuts through my thoughts, and I look up.

  It’s Kid Vegas, slick side part gleaming, moonlight and distant fires giving his pale skin a demonic glow. I don’t even think about it. He’s already drawn down on me, pistol in hand. I reach for my .38 and almost have it cleared from my waistband when a warning shot hits the ground about an inch from the toe of my boot.

  I hold my hands up, wincing from my injured shoulder, and he nods from the second-story window.

  “Thought you could slip me, eh Stokes?”

  “You’re the one who ran from me,” I say.

  “Technicalities.” His smile glows. I hate him. But there’s not enough hate to go around and do it properly, with the number of people yanking my chain. So it’s more of a lukewarm dislike, when I really get down to it. “I saw you had a little rendezvous with our old pal President Knute.”