Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “She didn’t fall: there are parties in the sewer tunnels,” Snofrid explained. “I went to one a while back with my stepdad. It was in a club called Battery X, I think.”

  “It sounds foul.”

  “The tunnel smells but inside the clubs it’s fine. It has pretty great karaoke.”

  “I’d rather party where my food doesn’t end up…if you know what I mean.” He switched on a disco station and tapped his shoe with the beat.

  She sat back, still cradling the flower box, and stared out her window. Soon, her attention was caught by fireworks, looking much like the glittering tops of palm trees as they burst, streaking the skies over Westerbridge. The spectacle struck a chord of bitterness inside her: ever since Humanity Week launched, the city had worn a new face, one that harbored no visible trace of anger. The Verification Days were still in effect, but somehow, the outrage had vanished in a bout of confetti and popping champagne corks.

  Just like after the Midwinter Insurgency, city officials had completely ignored the turmoil. On camera, most discussed foreign issues, not even pausing to put in a word about the growing unrest in Hollowstone. Apart from the increased security, Snofrid was grateful for one aspect of Humanity Week: the curfew extension. It had been pushed to 2:00 a.m., allowing people to party until they dropped.

  “What’s this monkey doing?” Fergus snorted.

  Snofrid broke from her thoughts and combed the sidewalks. “Who?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  She glanced over her headrest at the horde of cars nipping their tail. Less than fifty feet behind, a black hypercar weaved skillfully through the traffic. She couldn’t make out the driver through the tinted glass.

  “Slow down buddy,” Fergus huffed, tightening his grip on the wheel. “I volunteer at the Bluecoat HQ on weekends, so if need be, I can make arrests.”

  “Maybe we should just let him pass,” she suggested. “It looks like he’s going to try cutting us off anyway.”

  “Not a chance,” Fergus chortled and hunched over the wheel. “This monkey’s gonna see I ain’t a pushover.”

  Snofrid watched the hypercar steer smoothly until it pulled in front of them.

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” Fergus exclaimed. He upshifted into third gear, braids bouncing. “Do you think he wants a street race?”

  “I hope not. I’m sorry, Fergus, but we’d get dusted.”

  He squinted at the car and his eyes rounded. “My word! Is that a Peregrine?”

  “What?” She eagerly swept the car for logos; a golden peregrine falcon was etched into the bumper. “Stone me, it is.”

  “Peregrines aren’t legal roadsters,” Fergus said, downshifting to second gear. “I might just make that arrest after all.”

  “Actually, they are now,” Snofrid corrected. “Since last year.” If she remembered rightly, this model was worth more than the Chancellor’s personal energy shield. It maneuvered like a predator, a lion stalking the veldt, with its aerodynamic body glistening in the street lights. Lycidius had regaled her with the details of this particular roadster in the infant days of his Steelrunner so she knew what was at work beyond the sleek paint job.

  Deep at its core, a powerful system of servomechanisms actuated the car’s endoskeleton, giving it unparalleled durability. Even more impressive, the vehicle was landmarked, meaning even a grenade launcher couldn’t scratch it—not with its auto-regenerating energy shield. All high-end Landmark transports were installed with crypto—a computer code that would encrypt outgoing cellular signals—and most enjoyed the advantage of a laser weapon system.

  The car’s window lowered and a red bull-head stuck out. “Snofrid Yagami,” a husky voice called. “Are you in the box car?”

  Snofrid did a double take. “Hadrian?”

  “Box car,” Fergus muttered, his tone insulted. “You know this clown?”

  “Not well,” she answered, recovering from her surprise. “We work together sometimes. And it looks like he needs my help again.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, guessing Hadrian had tracked her through the satellite phone he’d given her. “I’m going to jump out here, Fergus.”

  “You sure, Snowball?” Fergus eyed Hadrian dubiously. “He looks like the kind of guy you’d find in a Halloween corn maze.”

  “He’s Lycidius’s adopted brother.”

  “Ah. Well, then I’ll lay down my guns with my pride intact.” Fergus set the car in park, and flipped his braids over his shoulder. “Just be careful when you exit. I almost took a tumble getting in.”

  “I will,” she assured, setting the flower box on the floor mat. “Thanks for the lift, Fergus. Best of luck at your new job.”

  Wind speared her pea coat as she stepped onto the icy street. She rounded the hood of the hypercar with her satchel in hand, bowing her head against the stinging sleet.

  “Backseat,” Coyote ordered, as the door popped open. “Hurry.”

  Clambering behind his chair, she settled down beside a boy in a white nylon catsuit that blazed red in the car’s ghost light system; drop-leg holsters were strapped around his thighs, and a crocodile-skin sniper case rested in his lap.

  “So…did you track me?” she called to Hadrian.

  Coyote replied. “Yes.” He tapped a radar display on one of the five onboard computers. “The dragonale you drank was laced with a carbon-based compound called Q.T. It’s undetectable in blood.”

  “What?” She reflexively touched her throat. “Tracking my phone isn’t enough?”

  “You don’t always have the phone with you.”

  Snofrid glared at Hadrian in the rearview mirror. He really did have a crippled conscience. He ignored her, as if he’d done no wrong, and swung the car around a trolley bus. “How long will it be in me?” she demanded.

  “Your system will flush it out in five days,” Coyote said.

  “What does the flushing involve?”

  “You’ll feel like you have the flu…a few hours of vomiting and you’ll be fine.”

  She hardly minded the vomiting. What she did mind was that Hadrian would know her location even after the hunt ended. “Stay off Highway 22 if we’re in a hurry,” she advised. “It’s backed up all the way to Albanus Bridge.”

  “We’re not going to the Spyderweb tonight,” Hadrian said, eyeing the police scanner. “We’re going to the hunt site.”

  “For what?”

  “A walkthrough. You need to memorize the site.”

  Based on his affinity for precision, she expected this could take days. “My phone has a camera.”

  Hadrian left her comment unanswered. He proceeded to swiftly cut off transports, as if he were racing in the Dakar Rally, while Coyote typed away on one of the onboard computers, his eyes tapered in concentration. Dull silence drenched the very atmosphere; outside noises were muffled by the soundproof doors, but she could hear a slight popping sound. The sound persisted, increasing at such a rate that she hurled a peeved glance at the boy in the glowing catsuit. He was cracking his bare toes against Hadrian’s headrest—which probably wasn’t smart—and playing a violent video game on his phone with an amused grin. His platinum side-braided mohawk left an impression, as did the silver cuff-earrings that studded his cartilage. Rhode Vortigern.

  Only thirteen, he was a Mystish Dracuslayer with the ability to contort into impossible shapes, allowing him to fit into the smallest niches and gaps. He was a bit gangly in physique, and the way he kept folding his arm down his back made it look like he was stretching. She would’ve thought him cute, with his rounded facial structure and rosy cheeks, if not for his pig-like nose. Strangely enough, he looked nothing at all like Coyote; the boy’s file had stated that he and Coyote were half-brothers.

  “Someone farted,” Rhode complained suddenly. “Crank up the filters.”

  Coyote reached for the control panel until Hadrian ordered, “Leave it.”

  Coyote sat back. “Deal with it, Vortigern.”

  Rhode sighed loudly. He shoved his hand into a paper ba
g on the seat and dug out a fistful of gummy worms; he stuffed them into his mouth. “Must be the girl. Every time one of us blows wind, the entire car goes into overdrive.”

  Snofrid scoffed. “No one farted. It’s your feet. They smell like old milk.”

  Rhode eyed his dirty toes and then went back to his game.

  “All right…the sensors just picked up two hydrocop units two klicks northwest of the site,” Coyote announced, looking at Rhode. “Where is Hessia’s team now?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” Rhode rubbed his nose, still munching on the worms. “It must’ve been none of your business then.”

  Coyote’s voice shed its tolerance. “Confirm her location or that paper bag is going down your windpipe.”

  Rhode rolled his eyes. He jerked his phone from the seat cushion and perused the inbox. “Just a minute, this message is old.” He swiped the screen with his thumb. “Uh…that one’s old too.” He swiped the screen again, biting his nails. “This looks new. They just arrived at the warehouse.”

  Coyote slid a glass box across the console. “Have her send someone to draw the units away.”

  “Distance?”

  “Five klicks.”

  Rhode took two objects, resembling electrodes, from the box and stuck them on his temples. Snofrid was fairly certain they were bug dials—magical artifacts that allowed the wearer to communicate telepathically over long distances. Dark blue veins surfaced on the boy’s temples, and she lost interest, knowing she was right.

  Sighing, she shifted lethargically in her seat and wiped sweat from her neck. Soon, the heater grew too hot to endure and she shrugged off her coat. A brief glance at the heater made her balk. It was set at eight-five degrees.

  By the time they reached their destination, Hadrian had cranked up the heater to eighty-nine. Perspiring, dehydrated, and short-tempered, everyone sprang toward the doors the moment he finally cut the engine in the parking lot of a supply warehouse on the south side of Warburton. Only a sprinkle of cars occupied the lot. A murder of crows bobbed across the snow, pecking at trash under the street lamps.

  “You’re a bunch of weaklings,” Hadrian affirmed. “Open doors.”

  The doors lifted open at his command, letting in a gust of fresh air. Snofrid exited the car after Coyote and aired out her coat, wishing she’d brought a water bottle. He handed her a duffle bag to carry, before lugging two over his shoulders; hers must’ve contained lead bricks because it weighed no less than one-hundred pounds.

  “Pack up everything,” Hadrian ordered. “The car stays here.” He hauled three duffle bags from the trunk and then glanced around. “Vortigern?”

  Rhode poked his head from the car, now wearing a half-face gasmask. “Sir?”

  Hadrian slammed the trunk shut with his knee. “Sprint the length of the parking lot until you vomit every last worm. Bring me a bag with proof. Then report back at the Spyderweb.”

  “What?” The boy’s eyes flashed. “Dragonshit. You need me.”

  “You’re highly overestimating your worth.” He aimed his bull horns at the boy in warning. “If you want to wait for a fair punishment, then Hessia will stun you until your brain drips out your nose. It’s your choice.”

  Rhode stomped from the car and thumped his foot on the bumper, stretching out his thighs, and snarling at Coyote’s quiet laughter. “You’ll regret that, Bourkan.”

  Coyote rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Not as much as you’re going to regret hacking up gelatin. Duty over fear, Vortigern.”

  “Let’s move,” Hadrian called. “Follow after me.”

  Snofrid, tailing them towards the warehouse, strained to keep up. The duffle bag clanked as she carted it along, as if it was bursting with glass bottles.

  Inside the warehouse, birds nested on rafters above lanes of tall metal shelves packed with rubber tires and plastic yellow crates. Hadrian led the way to a titanium door at the back, swinging his duffle bags in stride. After scanning his iris, the door popped open with a hiss.

  “Touch nothing in here,” he told Snofrid.

  “I won’t,” she assured and plopped the duffle at her feet. “What is this place?”

  “A Dracuslayer playground.”

  Snofrid nodded, though she was lost in the ambiguity of his reply. “Before we go in, I was hoping I could talk to you alone.”

  “Why?”

  She side-eyed Coyote, who was subtly listening in. “It’s private.”

  Hadrian waved at the door. Once Coyote had gone through, he said, “What do you need?”

  Snofrid tried her best to make the favor she needed not sound like a favor. “I had to sneak out of the Alley to get here,” she started. “Lycidius has probably noticed by now and I’m worried he’ll go searching for me in the city. We both know that’s dangerous.”

  “You’re being purposefully vague. What are you asking me to do about it?”

  “I’m asking you to help me,” she confessed. “You’re the administrator of the Covenant, which means you can tell Lycidius that I’m with you and that I’m safe without breaking it. He doesn’t have to know where I am or what we’re doing. Because you’re his brother, he’ll trust you on your word.”

  Hadrian produce a cellphone from his cassock pocket. “Go wait inside.”

  She blinked. “You’re going to do it?”

  “Yes. Now go wait inside.”

  She broke into a smile. She’d been convinced she’d have to cut off her own arm before he helped her. “Thank you,” she said.

  Heaving up the duffle bag, she strolled into a bustling room, still high on relief. Never, in all the time she’d known Hadrian had he been accommodating. But then, since the favor involved Lycidius, it wasn’t a stretch for Hadrian to act. He was probably concerned about his safety. She felt sure that in any other scenario, Hadrian would’ve refused her.

  Snofrid unloaded her bag in the room, which was either a seized weapon’s storeroom, or somebody’s arsenal; there were at least thirty racks stocked with rows upon rows of loaded guns. On the far left wall, a panel of screens displayed blueprints of the city and below the cage-styled floor grates roughly eighty people in black jumpsuits were assembling guns at work stations.

  She consciously avoided Hessia’s gaze. The Seer and seven other Dracuslayers were huddled around a desk computer under waning fluorescent lights; all were geared up in either white or brown ballistic camouflage armor. Each time Snofrid saw Hessia, her aura grew fierier and her eyes grew more condemning.

  “The site is clear,” Hessia called out to Hadrian, who’d just walked in.

  “Keep an eye on the sensors,” he said, sliding his bags toward them. “Everyone suit up. We move out in fifteen minutes.”

  Snofrid looked at Hadrian expectantly.

  “It’s done,” he said, answering her silent inquiry. He addressed Coyote. “Help the girl make her phone call outside the shield. She has ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Coyote led Snofrid to a table in the corner, where he produced a laptop from his bag. “You have two numbers?” he verified.

  “Yes.”

  “Enter the first one.”

  Snofrid eagerly punched in Atlas’s private number. Her optimism wilted a little when the call went to voice mail:

  “You have reached the tenth private line of Atlas Bancroft. Unfortunately, he will not be able to return your call personally. State your purpose in a brief message. If you receive no response within six weeks, your request has been denied.”

  “Six weeks?” Her jaw dropped. Lucian wouldn’t be that patient.

  “Go on and put in the second one,” Coyote prompted. “We have things to do.”

  Uttering a silent prayer, she entered Atlas’s home number into the keypad. She stepped back, clutching the lip of the table, and waited. The line rang three times before an automated voice droned:

  “This call will transfer until it is accepted. If you wish to reach Mr. Bancroft at a particular residence then enter the district code of that area
now. If not, wait until your call is received.” A shrill beep blared from the computer. “Dialing Stockholm residence, Sweden.”

  “What did she mean, ‘it’s going to transfer’?” Snofrid asked Coyote.

  “It’s dialing more than one house,” he explained. “The call will transfer to each residence until someone picks up.”

  She wondered if this was as fortuitous as it sounded. If the number routed through multiple houses, her chances of reaching someone might’ve just skyrocketed. Getting in touch with a maid, a butler, or a secretary wouldn’t be bad, as long as she had a way to send a message to Atlas.

  “No response,” the voice buzzed. “Redirecting call to Hong Kong residence, China.”

  She noticed Hessia glaring at her with disapproval. Hunched over the table, her fingernails gouging into the wood. “When a contact makes it difficult to get in touch, its code for: blow off,” she called.

  “Maybe,” Snofrid granted. “But I have eight minutes left, so maybe you could do just that.”

  “Watch your mouth if you want to keep your tongue,” Hessia hissed.

  “No response,” the automated voice declared. “Redirecting call to Peleș Castle residence, Romania.”

  Snofrid found herself bouncing on her toes.

  “No response. Redirecting call to Moorea Island residence, French Polynesia.”

  “We were in Moorea this past summer,” Coyote commented, the tiniest trace of amusement in his voice. “The Commander fell asleep under a coconut tree. By morning, he had a skull fracture.”

  She eyed Hadrian, supposing that explained a few things.

  “No response. Redirecting call to Zurich residence, Switzerland.”

  With each failed call, the tension became more smothering. When her stomach started to twist in knots, she exhaled a slow, easy breath. “How many houses can I reach in six minutes?” she asked.