Nothing good.
I’m not sure how long I spent staring at Alton Parker’s allegedly napping form, turning over my non-options. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the slow, sickening spiral of realization as I closed in, pulled by the inevitable gravity of a black hole, on precisely what alternative was left to me—the only alternative my insidious companion had ever intended to leave me with, I was suddenly certain.
“What you said before the White Tower...”
I hadn’t meant to speak. Not really.
I wasn’t even positive I had until he cracked one eye open and peered at me.
“That you’ve been damned ever since the reels resurrected you a terrorist?”
I nodded absentmindedly, not bothering to wonder how he’d known exactly what I was talking about.
“You never answered my question.”
For a long few moments, I was sure he was going to toy with me, and ask me what question I meant—as if he couldn’t remember every word we’d exchanged.
“No,” he replied instead.
“No?”
He sat up, abandoning his nap ruse. “No, I did not know this was going to happen all along. No, I did not know from the moment I showed you the rakul. Or even before then.”
“But this was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To drive me away from my own planet? Leave me no choice but to...”
I hesitated, still not really sure what choices I even had left, but positive I didn’t want to speak the one that was on the edge of my tongue.
Alton arched an eyebrow in silent, critical judgment, like he was either waiting for me to continue, or silently asking if I understood just how egocentric I sounded, assuming his every action had revolved around me. It was probably both. But I wasn’t going to let him slither his way out of this.
“Tell me the truth, Alton. This is exactly what you were hoping for when you turned yourself in at Haven, isn’t it?”
He held my gaze for a stretch.
“The current outcome, I’ll admit, is more or less in line with what I’d hoped for,” he finally said. “But you presume too much. Much as I would enjoy possessing that level of insidious ingenuity, I did not engineer your downfall to this state of pariah incommunicado. Believe it was my wish and will if you must, but I think you know this has been inevitable ever since you first entered the public eye.”
“Trying to stop you and your people from destroying our planet,” I growled.
He only nodded. “Yes. Just as I and my kin sought to stop the rakul. And just as the masters once fought to save our species from the brink of annihilation at the hands of another. The path of blame continues, on and on, through the eons, if one wishes to trace it.”
“Which is all just a handy way of saying that none of this is your fault.”
He leaned forward intently. “Then let us not shy away from the heart of it. I was willing to sacrifice your people for the greater good of my own, and for that of the universe at large. I could say that it was easier, knowing that your people were all as good as dead anyway, with the inevitable threat of the rakul looming. I could even say that I have come to regret the decision. But none of that would change the fact that I was willing, agreed?”
I only stared at him, not knowing what to say, or what to make of the sudden intensity in his words.
“You wish to have the truth?” he continued. “The truth is that I came to you because both of my plans for this world have failed spectacularly, and because you seemed to be the only one left standing in the ashes. You were my last hope, Haldin. So I came to Haven. Because I had to. And everything that’s transpired since then, well...” He glanced meaningfully at the view of Enochia below. “I would be lying if I said I’d expected you to move as many mountains as you have down there. I stood patiently by, waiting for you to see the futility in trying. But move them, you did.”
“Not very far,” I muttered reflexively, thinking about the state of things below—Sanctum and Legion factions all crouched in their corners, Children of Enochia and one rogue raknoth Seeker lurking at the fringes. And all of it ready to catch fire at the slightest provocation. “Not nearly far enough.”
Alton cocked his head. “I wouldn’t be so certain. An insidious genius I may not be, but I doubt even the High Cleric of the Sanctum will be able to ride out this storm you’ve brought to his mighty tower steps. And with that scrutiny will come questions. Innumerable questions about what to believe, and whom to trust. And along with that, opportunities for those who would think to demonstrate their good will, and their value in the face of the obstacles to come.” He fixed me with a serious look. “You’ve done more to open the way for a safe and just Enochia than I would have imagined possible for any lone man—much less one hounded by a public spotlight of fear and ignorant hatred. You’ve done everything you can, Haldin. The rest is in their hands.”
I looked at him, searching his face for the reassurance I so desperately needed right then. I found it, too. And then I blew out a bitter huff, realizing that that was exactly why he was telling me these things. It was just another ploy. Another head game from the creature who’d just reminded me that he’d been willing to sacrifice untold thousands of Enochian lives to get what he wanted.
“And so I should just forget about Enochia now, right?” I asked, shaking my head. “All finished here, might as well dust off our bloody hands and fly off to go fix your problems instead?”
Alton didn’t shy away—didn’t even bat an eye. “I need your help, Haldin. And Enochia still needs it too. More than it knows.” He shook his head. “Just not here.”
I stood, not really sure where I was going, only that I needed to get as far away from this conversation as our confounded ship would allow. I made it across the room and to the corridor threshold before my temper commanded my feet to a halt, thinking to tell him that I wasn’t just going to forget about Enochia and move on, and that if he wanted to fly off on his wild rakul hunt, he was welcome to drop me back on my planet and get the grop out of here once and for all.
But the words caught in my throat. I couldn’t have said why. So instead, I stomped off down the corridor, resolving to tell the bastard when I was good and ready.
I’d never felt more alone.
The next few days passed at a disconcertingly paradoxical pace. With little to do but ignore Alton Parker and look forward to the next bit of news, or the next contact with Johnny or Elise, time passed with all the swiftness of a crippled snail. And yet, somehow, before I knew it, the displays told me it had been three whole days since Alton and I had gone into the White Tower, guns decidedly not blazing.
Probably, I figured, it had something to do with the fact that I no longer had a reliable night-and-day cycle to keep me tethered to the passing time. Probably, Alton could have clarified the matter quite easily. But scud if I was going to break my silent streak to ask him.
For the most part, we didn’t even see each other. I stayed in my barebones quarters, either perusing the reels or acquainting myself with the soft purplish curves of the walls. Sometimes for hours on end. I slept intermittently, and never particularly well. Occasionally—and against my better judgment—I even ate the meals Alton prepared and left at my door, stubbornly trying to convince myself with each bite that it wasn’t some of the tastiest damn cuisine I’d ever experienced.
Apparently, the bastard had had enough time to practice in his 2,800 years of life.
But scud if I was going to tell him that, either.
I was too busy stalking the reels, wondering more and more with each passing minute why I had yet to see a single flicker of movement on the battle lines out there, or to witness even a scrap of what had happened in the White Tower anywhere other than in my nightmares.
That the High Cleric had remained silent on our incursion was no great mystery. I could only imagine the Sanctum would sooner set fire to its own White Tower than willingly admit that the Demon of Divinity and his raknoth pal had come within spitting distanc
e of the High Cleric and lived to tell about it. But that only made me wonder all the more about what Glenbark was up to down there, and why she hadn’t yet acted.
Elise didn’t have any more insider knowledge than I did when it was finally deemed safe for her to make contact with me. Just the well-reasoned thought that, if Glenbark was holding the footage back, she probably had very precise and calculated reasons for doing so.
Johnny, on the other hand, had been oddly comm-silent since the White Tower, though he had told Elise on the sly that, if she heard from me, she should relay that he was happy I wasn’t dead yet, and also let me know, “And I quote,” Elise had said, “‘Bucky’s in the barracks, broto.’”
I didn’t have to think overly hard to imagine what he might’ve been trying to tell me by that. Bucky, as I’d started to explain to Elise, had been one of the most notorious tattle-tales in all of our tyro class. But Elise had cut me off before I’d gotten even that far, no doubt figuring that, whatever was afoot, it would’ve been unwise for us to unravel any bit of it over the Lights, even on a call that was theoretically secure. And she was probably right.
That alone should have convinced me that events were in motion, and that it was only a matter of time. And I guess it did, in a way. But none of that quite managed to silence the part of me that had begun to indulge in naive fantasies that maybe things didn’t have to explode from here. That maybe this could all just somehow blow over without the bloodshed, and that maybe I could even return back to Enochia soon, and start piecing my way toward a quiet life with Elise, far away from the Sanctum, and everything else.
It was a nice thought to coax myself to sleep with, at least. Even if it was delusional.
But then the news hit.
It started with an attack on Oasis—an attack, it seemed from early reports, that had not only been routed, but possibly even assimilated, as far as field reporters could gather. It was an outrage. A military coup, some were calling it, decrying Glenbark a false general, and a traitor to her planet. Others found the wrinklies to publicly point out that, if the reports were true, it might’ve in fact been more of a return to rightful power than a coup, seeing as there’d still been no satisfactory explanation for Glenbark’s unprecedented removal in the first place—especially given that the lack of a unanimous vote amongst the twelve Legion generals had been officially confirmed, and foul play was now heavily suspected.
But whether it was the lawful first step in restoring order to the ranks, or a grand betrayal of rogue Legion elements against the Sanctum and the world at large, the one thing the reels all agreed upon was that the Legion was in a state of flux the likes of which hadn’t been seen in all of its centuries of steady service.
Personally, I was just glad to see that Glenbark’s push to quietly secure the loyalty of Auckus’ more skeptical camp had apparently paid off, and that Oasis hadn’t been overrun for the second time in as many seasons. Other than that, I didn’t really know what to think. A part of me—the part that had been a tyro too long to forget—mourned at seeing the Legion in such disarray, no matter the what or the why. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I should’ve felt guilty, too, if for no other reason than having not been there to help to defend Oasis. But the guilt didn’t come.
Maybe I was just too tired, too emotionally drained. Or maybe I was truly starting to believe my presence would’ve probably done more harm than good.
The latter, it turned out, almost certainly would’ve been true.
Barely an hour after news of the Oasis attack hit, the footage of our hostile chat with the High Cleric joined it in the churning dumpster of the newsreels, and I watched in a kind of reverent disbelief as that dumpster caught fire, and the Mighty, Infallible Sanctum joined the Legion on the media chopping block for the first time in... ever.
To say it was unprecedented would’ve been a laughable understatement, and probably too eloquent a word to convey the chaos that followed. If even a tenth of the threats, rage, and ill-informed world views pouring into the forums had been given power, I was certain that whatever bloodshed might’ve been averted in the reversal at Oasis would’ve easily been repaid, a thousand times over. It was madness. So much so that even the WAN didn’t seem completely clear as to who should be blamed for it all—only that we should all look to Alpha for guidance in these trying times.
“Look instead to the river of blood in the streets,” read the top response to that particular vid. “Your Alpha is a lie.”
It was more than I’d ever dared to expect. More of what, exactly, I couldn’t even articulate. Demons to the wind if I could’ve even said whether I thought it was good or bad. All I really knew was that the fire was shifting. Too quickly. Morphing into something I couldn’t predict or quantify. And I’d been the one who’d carried the striker to the pyre.
I felt hollow inside. But I couldn’t look away.
I was still glued to the reels hours later, when the node chimed with an incoming call, and I felt the first pang of relief I’d felt all day. I jabbed the icon to accept the connection, and started blurting questions before Johnny’s image could even finish resolving on the display.
“What’s happening? Why’d she wait so long to—And what’s...?” I faltered as the connection stabilized, and I got a better look at him. “What happened to your face?”
The entire left side of his head was a mess of mottled purple bruising that culminated with a few impressively dark streaks right along the side of his nose, and the bottom of his eye socket. He looked like he’d taken one beast of a punch, or maybe just a mild clubbing. And the grim grin on his lips told me it hadn’t been for nothing, either.
“I, my good sir, may or may not have had a heroic round of the ol’ fisties, with no less than a Legion general.” His expression darkened. “Traitorous goat-gropper.”
For a second, I could only gape, trying to process that.
“That’s what she was waiting for,” Johnny explained, “to answer your”—he thought about it—”second question, I guess. Hi, by the way,” he added, with a pointed little wave. “Nice to see you, and all that.”
“Johnny, what the—What the scud is—”
My mouth kept working soundlessly, the questions flitting by too fast for me to catch hold of.
“Eaaasy there, buddy,” Johnny crooned, patting the air as if to say, It’s all gonna be okay. “Here’s the thing. Even after everything, Freya was still pretty sure there was someone on her high command here who was ready to stab her in the back when the time came. So when you sent her that vid—nice work, by the way...” He frowned. “I think. Anyway, once she had that shining demonstration of His Holiness’ not-so-holiness and other assorted mind-gropping revelations, I guess she figured it was probably her last chance to really spring our encamped enemy into action. So she shared it with her advisers. One at a time.”
“Smart.”
He shook his head. “You have no idea, broto. She was methodical.” A frown creased his brow. “I didn’t even realize what she was up to until it was already over.”
“So what happened?”
“Well...” He spread his hands. “General Hopper tried to stab her in the back. Literally. Bastard was apparently planning to frame the whole thing on me.”
“But...” I gaped, trying to wrap my head around it.
For General Hopper, the most vocal and steadfast of Glenbark’s supporters among the twelve generals, to betray her... It just didn’t seem to add up. He’d been a good man, as far as I could tell. A reasonable one. He’d even been kind to me—or not disgusted by my very presence, at least, as General Auckus and half the Legion had been.
And yet, he had seemed troubled every time the conversation had veered toward conflict with the Sanctum, hadn’t he? But then again, so had everyone else. It was a troubling topic, after all, and these were troubling times. Troubling, and apparently even more treacherous than I’d realized.
“So he was... apprehended?”
Johnny wa
ggled his fingers on-screen. “By none other than these five beauties.” He looked at his own fingers in appreciation. “Never thought I’d live to see the day I decked a general and got away with it.”
“You really...?”
“What, took him down?”
I nodded dumbly, still trying to wrap my head around it all.
“Technically?” Johnny asked, scrunching his face. “Well, let’s just say it was a joint effort between me and Freya.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully, as if reliving the moment. “And also that I’d never wanna throw down with her in a dark alley.” His fiery eyebrows rose incrementally. “You know, unless...”
“Uh, Johnny?”
He snapped back to reality with a sharp shake of his head. “Anyway, we brigged his traitorous ass, and Auckus sprung the attack on Oasis as soon as he realized he’d lost his inside man. But we were ready for that.”
“Yeah, I saw. Looks like Glenbark’s ally outreach paid off?”
“Enough to survive the day, at least,” Johnny said, his expression sobering. “It wasn’t as pretty as the reels made it sound. Hopper had been reporting to the outside, you know? Letting them know what units and officers they might wanna keep an eye on when the slugs started flying.” He dropped his gaze. “A lot of good people still died today.”
The heaviness returned to my gut.
“I’m sorry, Johnny.”
He shot me a critical look, and I could see the pain in his eyes, lurking beneath.
“Not like that,” I said quickly. “Not because I feel guilty, or anything else. I know they were fighting for something bigger. But I’m sorry anyway. They used to be my family too, remember?”
He sighed. “We’ll always be your family, broto,” he said, pulling himself together, though it was hard to miss the shadow that remained. “So what’s the situation up there?” he asked, looking over my shoulder at the bare walls behind me. “How’s Captain Red Eyes doing?”
Children of Enochia Page 36
