Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “It’s fine.” He sniffed, his eyes blinking, and wiped his nose. “It’s just a crappy cold.”

  She didn’t believe him. It was clear he was trying to hide the fact that he was crying.

  “Got it,” Lycidius announced. “Reznik Dalek Stoker. Age thirty-four. Unmarried. Born in the Czech Republic. Used to be a Colonel until he was honorably discharged in forty-six…worked as an Inborn Terrain Analyst until forty-eight. And in forty-nine, he was initiated into the Helios Society and became a Spotter Agent.”

  “What the…” Desya reread the report, his jaw tight. “This isn’t a purge, it’s a bloody harvest.”

  Snofrid scooted closer to the computer and studied the picture of Reznik dressed neatly in a military uniform with a red beret. At first, she was too petrified to do anything but gawk at the flaky purplish scar on his neck; it looked like his throat had been slit. Gradually she came to fully grasp Desya’s implication and numbness bloomed across her body, decelerating her heart rate. Hundreds of her kind would be captured and shipped to diagnostic zones to be classified. Most would be condemned to death camps, while those who had valuable abilities would be flown to Regulative facilities. If the Helios Society was searching for a way to extend the human lifespan, she knew her ability to heal would be of interest. Some part of her acknowledged that being studied in a cage could be worse than death, yet she felt she’d rather see Desya locked in a lab than executed because being captured still offered a chance at escape.

  Inside the Spyderweb

  Where are you going?” Jazara asked Snofrid, as she zipped up her parka.

  The girl was nestled in a cocoon of blankets on Snofrid’s bed, a stuffed giraffe tucked under one arm. Her eyes were puffy, though she hadn’t cried since her housemother had dropped her off at the house, lugging two bursting suitcases and a polka-dot bicycle.

  “I have to go meet someone,” Snofrid answered, tying on a pair of hiking boots.

  “Who? You don’t remember anyone but us.”

  Snofrid’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you—?”

  “Secrets are bad friends,” Jazara said, rolling onto her stomach. “I asked Dez why you’re acting weird. He told me someone swiped your memories.” She shrugged, twirling a finger in her ringlets. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore cause you didn’t even hug me, but I’m glad it’s not that.”

  “I didn’t know how to tell you,” Snofrid admitted. “I thought I’d get my memories back soon, so I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.” She paused upon noticing Jazara’s kinked brows. The girl had the advantage of knowing her better than she knew herself. “All right, I have to do something important. I can’t tell you what, but I need you to cover for me if Lycidius comes home before me.”

  Jazara dropped her giraffe and sprang to her knees. “We got to stay in the house, Sno. The metal soldiers took two boys off the sidewalk and put them in an armored van!”

  “No one will see me,” Snofrid promised, motioning for her to quiet down. “I’m going to take the secret elevator under the zen garden and stay on forest level.”

  Jazara’s mouth pressed into a stubborn line. She continued this way a moment, before picking up her giraffe. “I can keep Lycidius’s nose out. But only if you send me words every half hour. That way I’ll know they didn’t find you out.”

  “I promise.” Snofrid stuffed a Taser flashlight into her pocket. “I’ll be back in two hours tops. Use whatever you want.”

  “Uh uh. Wrong.” Jazara pointed her giraffe at the horror novels in the bookcase. “You always told me the ones on the middle shelf are too scary for me.”

  Snofrid skimmed one of the titles: Blood Fall. “Everything but the horror novels, then.”

  She tiptoed to the kitchen. The shower in the boy’s bathroom was running providing a perfect cover. She plucked a 1911 colt pistol with pearl grips from the gun rack before shuffling into the basement where she crouched over a patch of gravel below the bamboo fountain.

  “Open hatch,” she whispered. The gravel crawled back, exposing a spacious antechamber-elevator inside the hollow trunk of a tree. Dropping inside, she rode to forest level. Her body danced with nervous tingles. She blew out a long breath. I won’t be found, she encouraged herself. If I stay near the support pillars, no one will see me.

  At forest level, she strapped on the globus goggles; they colored her vision bottle-green and projected holographic labels onto the environs. Chiming rang in her ears and a somber voice stated:

  Current Location: SUN PROMENADE PLAZA; SECOND RING

  Destination: RECONNAISSANCE BUNKER; SECOND RING

  Distance: 2.1 MILES

  Estimated Time of Arrival: 23 MINUTES

  Snofrid headed northeast at a brisk jog, using her flashlight to navigate the rough terrain. It seemed as if she’d descended into an other-worldly place, more mysterious and beguiling than the city, with its soaring trees and frosted moss veils. The trunks were intimate, sometimes growing into one another, branching into a dense canopy that stymied the rubicund sunset. Craggy boulders were slapped across beds of pine needles, and hither and thither shrubs with sticky antennas thrived amongst the native plant life. The air smelled fragrant, like fresh pine—a welcome change after the city’s smoky streets.

  She skidded down sloping ravines and clambered over begrimed logs for about a half-mile. In the distance, trees fringed the mountain peaks like fur. Cold wind chilled her neck as she broke into a clearing. She felt good, pumped enough to run another few miles at least.

  Ducking, she moved farther beside the city’s support pillars. The trees offered extra-cover and she kept stride this way for another mile. The globus goggles led her into a glade of fir trees and she heard voices.

  “Unit 021 investigating sound disturbance. Over,” an automated voice buzzed from somewhere not far off.

  Her heart bucked at the sight of red lights advancing from the direction she’d come. Trying to outrun a hydrocop patrol, with their long-range guns, would be suicide. Scanning the glade, she settled upon a giant hollow log, not twenty feet away.

  She loped across the glade and tried to scurry into the log. Thump. Her skull struck an iron-hard object, sending her cringing backward. When she glanced up, a pair of reptilian eyes watched her, their pupils dilating as they met her gaze.

  “You look afraid,” a husky voice observed. “Running from something?”

  She drew back. Crouched in the entrance of the log, a man watched her; he was so still he could’ve been cut from rock. Monstrous spikes studded the pauldron of his red exoskeleton armor and iron skulls were perched in place of shoulder spaulders.

  She knew from the sudden polychromatic ripples that the suit was made with particles of Swoegar—an impenetrable Inborn alloy that was rarer than Californium. Since only Commanders, Governors and Lords were privileged to wear it, she identified the man as Hessia’s master, Commander Hadrian—one of the three Skinwalker Commanders.

  “I need to hide in here,” she breathed. “A hydrocop patrol is headed this way.”

  “I hear them.” He flicked a raptor claw authoritatively. “Come, cower in the log.”

  She crawled over him swiftly, with the tense feeling that she was slipping past a spider. Mud and leaves clung to her knees, smearing along her dress.

  Hadrian produced a bottle from his boot. Snofrid knew it held a Red-Heat Spell. She held out her hand, allowing him to empty the liquid into her palm, and quavered as it washed over her flesh, chilling her. The spell might just save her life, for it would make her invisible to the hydrocops’ infrared vision.

  Hadrian spun toward the log’s opening on the toes of his boots, as if ready to pounce. He was unarmed. If the hydrocops discovered them, they’d be fish in a barrel. Her worry escalated as she looked at him: what lay beneath his red bull-head gasmask was like the face of a predacious beast. His pupils were vertical, like an alligator’s, and almost dissolved against the camouflage paint that was smeared in an X-shape across his face.r />
  “Attention civilian,” a hydrocop commanded. “Reveal your position and you will be unharmed. If you do not comply, we will shoot to kill.”

  Hunching, she peered through a narrow slot in the log. Warm blood rushed in her ears as she watched four hydrocop file into the glade.

  “Sweep the area,” one of them ordered. “Shoot to destroy.” The hydrocops fanned out; three uprooted the underbrush while the fourth radioed in their position. “Transmitting current coordinates. All available units standby. Over.”

  “Clear,” one of the hydrocops stated. “Unit 021 proceeding to northeast checkpoint twelve. Over.”

  Snofrid stared from the slot again, seeing that one of the hydrocop units had left her line of sight. She kept motionless. The seconds lagged like minutes; she dared not even scratch her chin. Hadrian’s gaze shot to footfalls crunching the frosted leaves beside the log. Snofrid lifted her pistol, but he flipped up a claw in warning.

  Five minutes ticked by. Then ten.

  Snofrid again peeked from her spy hole, this time with relief. The hydrocops’ red visors still streaked the darkness, but were moving away from the glade. She steadied herself, not letting relief run away with her. It would be smart to wait a few minutes before abandoning the log.

  The crackle of leaves drew her eyes to Hadrian. He was trading gazes with a fat, triple-horned reptile that was slithering toward the log. She wheeled back on her heels. A bite from a Snapping Reefer caused death in eighteen seconds.

  Hadrian curled a claw at the Reefer, and it rose like a blooming flower, swaying, as if hypnotized. Then, quick as a whip, he speared the Reefer’s skull with a claw, pinning it to the dirt. The action was almost soundless.

  But the hydrocops still heard.

  “Target Acquired. Terminate.” Crashing footfalls were making for them.

  Hadrian punched his way through the log. With a yelp, Snofrid shielded her eyes from the wood shards that flecked the air and rolled over. Metal striking metal crashed above her: Hadrian was battering the skull of a hydrocop into a dented crater with a rock. He wrenched back the robot’s head and sent his claws through its jaw; sparks and smoke whiffed from its visor.

  A fragmented, automated voice blared, “Terminate,” before the robot buckled to its knees and fell face-down over the Reefer’s carcass.

  Snofrid staggered to her feet, heart thumping like a Ping-Pong match. She swore all four hydrocops had left at the same time. This one must’ve been patrolling in another unit, which meant more were waiting nearby.

  “In eighteen seconds we’ll be in range of two more units,” Hadrian told her, tramping out of the glade. “Run.”

  She broke from the log after him, dodging tussocks of blood grass. Her single thought was to bargain with Hessia for an escape. It strengthened her against how frightening he was. Her adrenaline pumped and she ran harder. They didn’t break pace, not even when a combat helicopter flew overhead, aiming spotlights at the trees.

  Hadrian finally stopped at a sharp bend in a creek. He drew an assault rifle from a carpet of ferns and pulled back the bolt, engaging the first round. “There is a military base a mile southeast,” he said, plodding through the water with powerful strides. “They have long-range snipers. Keep your head low.”

  “I want to know where we’re going,” she panted, wading in after him.

  “We’re going underground.”

  Hadrian maintained a sprint for another half-mile before slackening in the gnarled shadow of a Sapling Ward sentinel-tree. Its bulging trunk was plastered with fissured bark that twisted up into boughs that stretched heavenward, as if to touch the moon, while its roots thrashed below in the slush.

  Snofrid stooped to ease her wind-burnt lungs. At a sideways glance, she identified the sapling as part of the Spyderweb—a secret reconnaissance network that spanned across every continent, excluding Antarctica. She couldn’t explain how she knew this: civilians weren’t privy to such covert military information. When she straightened, Hadrian was watching her disapprovingly.

  “In situations where there is a live threat, each moment I stop to explain myself to you is an opportunity for the enemy to eliminate us,” he told her. “So, the next time I order you to do something, don’t open your mouth—except to obey.”

  She stole a small step back. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know where you were leading me.”

  His eyes raked her with contempt. “Know that when you swear into this Covenant, one of its most basic provisions will be obedience. In the Inborn Army, when a soldier defies his superior once, he is shamed and tortured. Twice, his Halo is scalped. I shoot a soldier the first time he defies me.” He slowly clicked his raptor claws together. “Choose your next words carefully.”

  Snofrid suddenly wanted to return home. He held the right to chastise her in whatever way he saw fit due to his rank. Whatever sentence it was, she didn’t doubt that it would be vicious. There was a subversive edge to his manner, like a fine perfume mingled with a stench. Drawing a cautious breath, she said, “Yes, Commander.”

  “That was once. The second time, you’ll be disciplined.” He made a fist and the armor-plate above his wrist evaporated, unveiling a tattoo of a black skeleton key on his left forearm. “We’ll seal the Covenant here.”

  Snofrid waited, choosing her words carefully. “Before we make the Covenant, I want to talk about a trade. Your Seer promised me recompense for being your bait.”

  Hadrian frowned; the black paint on his face creased, giving him a savage look. “What did Hessia promise you?”

  “Nothing yet, but there’s only one thing I’m willing to trade—a way out of the city for my family and myself. There are four of us, total.”

  “After we destroy the welx, I’ll point out an exit and leave you and your family to go at it alone.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’d like my terms included in the Covenant as insurance.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Then our negotiations are closed. From this point on, you’ll report to me until the welx is dead and our contract ends.”

  She nodded stiffly. “Yes, Commander.”

  He peeled off the tattoo and the ink changed into an iron key. She’d seen this trux illusion work with more than keys; knives were most common. He used a claw to flip up a tuft of ivy, beneath which was a knot of bark wrought like a mouth. Shoving the key into the knot, he twisted until the roots slunk backward, revealing an iron hatch at the tree’s base. “Follow after me.”

  Crouching, he propped the lid open and dropped inside. She stared into the dark hole and fear permeated her senses. It wasn’t the hole or even the Covenant that gave her pause, but who she was about to seal herself to.

  “Come now, or the roots will crush your legs,” Hadrian advised.

  She jumped and landed inside a dark stone passage. He activated the wall lamps, flooding the passage with garish red light. A huge iron mawbeast skull was mounted at the end of the passage, its seven-forked tongue drooping between its fangs.

  “Follow,” Hadrian ordered again.

  He strode toward the mawbeast skull. She’d heard of gateways like these, but they were rare and typically used in the Empyrean City. Hadrian drove a raptor claw through the skull’s cracked mouth, twisting, until the jaws cracked open.

  “There is information you’ll need to know about Spectrals,” he said, stepping over the teeth. “The information is never documented on computers. You’ll read a book.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  They entered a drafty, damp atrium. It was designed as a two-story courtyard and reeked of wormwood and burnt cloves. A six-tier chandelier, whittled from branches, flowered from the vaulted arch-ceiling, casting rickety shadows on the walls. Purple thistles and woodland ivy choked the pillars and gnarled tree roots grew out of the stone walls. Hyalite opal lanterns, a spiral staircase, and a table cut from black coral accounted for some of the fixtures; she peered up the staircase, but the upper chamber was shro
uded in darkness.

  “The book is upstairs,” Hadrian said, unpinning his breastplate. “Have a seat at the table.”

  She minced toward the nearest chair. After removing her gasmask, she glanced around the room: something was off. Picking out a specific detail was difficult, for the room looked normal, only she couldn’t find anything of sentimental value. Not a photo, a warm interior touch, or even a pair of boots. Desya always left bits and bobs lying around. She’d found his shirts in the kitchen, his electronics in her loft and even his beret in her bathtub.

  She tried to send Jazara a message and was irked to find she had no reception. She made a note to text the girl when she’d left the bunker. Not a second later, footsteps shuffled on the stairs. Every part of her grew alert as Hadrian descended. One glance confirmed that his alligator eyes had been contact lenses—probably used to terrorize his enemies—because his eyes were a clear green now.

  He’d changed into a red cassock adorned with simple brass epaulettes. Standing tall and erect, he emanated an aura of indomitable authority, which made him appear to occupy more space in the room; she felt reduced to a tiny creature. He’d washed off his face paint, baring the arresting precision of his features; but he had one crudely chipped incisor tooth that offset his symmetry. One might say he’d deliberately cracked the tooth in defiance of all things perfect. Instead of the traditional military single-strip shaved above the ears, he had three on each side, so that it looked like a bear had slashed the hair off. In one raptor claw, he held a tablet, and in the other, a leather bound Demented Book decorated with oak leaves and bindweed.

  “Read Section 23 of this book,” he instructed. “That’s all. This book appears small, but the further you read, the longer it becomes.”

  “I’m familiar with Demented Books,” she assured.

  “Then you’ll be prepared if something goes wrong when you open it.” Hadrian flung the book on the table and then fished a satellite phone from his cassock. “This is how we’ll communicate.”