by Eve Langlais
“Just thought you were a dick,” he grumbled.
“I was. Which is why it’s surprising she chooses to make me the same over and over.”
“You’ve been destroyed before?” Titan asked.
“Many times. Although this body was my longest-lasting one thus far.”
“She made you. How?”
“Haven’t you guessed yet? It’s her gift. Metallurgy but on a psionic level.”
“What’s this psionic shit? You mean she’s got magic?”
“Magic might be what the lower citizens or the uneducated call it, but it is merely the proper result of an active Deviant gene,” Alfred lectured.
“A Deviant? How is it possible she’s not been banished then?”
“What a dense human you are. They didn’t destroy her because she’s the kind of Deviant they like of course. Or haven’t you yet figured it out? The Enclave aren’t like other citizens. They have powers.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“You lie. Some of the Wastelanders have magic, too,” Titan retorted. “But they aren’t given cushy Enclave lives.”
“There are many factors that go into the choosing of Enclave members. Strength of their psionic power is one of them. Genetics is another. Not to mention rarity.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I have the memories of Riella’s father who was king before the queen had him killed.”
He gaped at Alfred as he clued in. “Hold on, you’re serious? She killed the king?”
“The queen didn’t have a choice given what he’d done.”
“What was his crime?”
“Trying to hide his daughter’s imperfection.”
Alfred must be speaking of the arm. “But it works just like the real thing.”
“Doesn’t matter. Riella is flawed, and the cities don’t allow those kinds of people inside.”
“They must have changed their mind; otherwise, why would the queen come to find her?”
“I’m sure whatever she plans it’s not good for Riella.”
He refused to feel sympathy for the woman who lied to him. “So she is a…” He frowned. “What is she again?”
“Metallurgist. A psionic who works metal.”
“Seems like a useless skill given what we can create with tri-dimensional factory printers.”
“Those mass-produced items cannot be compared to her work.” Alfred managed to sound utterly indignant.
“What makes it different?”
“Because she doesn’t just sculpt metal; she gives it life.”
The statement made Titan think of the voice inside. The alien thing that had been quiet since he woke.
“You’re now claiming you’re alive?”
“I am a machine. But I can think and interact even if I don’t truly feel.”
He had to wonder about the last part. He recalled Alfred putting himself in the way to try and save Riella.
“What does the queen want with her?”
“Who knows? It’s none of your affair anymore. You’ll go home and forget you even met her.”
“Doubtful.” He had two bionic reminders. “Speaking of home, where are we?” He leaned over the console and flicked a few switches out of curiosity.
Alfred sputtered. “Could you not press all the buttons? You almost set off the rockets.”
“We have rockets?” His expression brightened.
“Of course. Burton is a fully equipped tank. It even has a submersion mode.”
“Can it get me home?”
“More than likely if you give the vehicle a proper coordinate,” Alfred said.
“I don’t know the fucking coordinates. Nor a direction given we’re underground.”
“Would it help if we moved to the surface?”
“I’m going to pretend you’re not actually that dense. Yes, it would help,” Titan barked. The confines of the tank and the knowledge the tunnel outside wasn’t much bigger began to press in on him.
“That might be difficult. Many of the exits were blocked over the centuries, some for safety reasons. Others are impassable because they’re under the control of organics that don’t like trespassers. And then there’s the natural disasters that sealed a few more.”
“Exactly what can you do that’s actually helpful to me right now? Because offering to take me above ground while, at the same time, explaining the difficulty is kind of pointless.”
“Let me drive and I will find an exit for you.”
“How do I know you won’t drive us off a cliff?”
“Having actually survived the battle that took my body, I am—unlike you—not in a hurry to expire. Even if the company is less than stellar. Perhaps I’ll find people more conducive to intelligent conversation if we do make it to this Haven you’re so fond of.”
Take a talking robot head home? That would certainly cause some tongues to wag. But did he trust it? “Fine. Get us somewhere we can get above ground.”
It took some maneuvering, as the mapping system of the tank could only show him places it had traced before. Given he knew Haven was in the southern part of the Wasteland, they headed in that direction, but they couldn’t locate an exit large enough for the tank, unless they blasted a hole. He wasn’t ready to waste those missiles yet, not when Alfred claimed he had another idea.
Funny how a few days alone in the dark with a robot head could make you desperate to listen to any idea.
When the vehicle finally stopped, Alfred announced, “I think we are close to the area you described.”
“All I see is tunnel and more tunnel.” No daylight at all through the slim viewing window.
“Because the access to the exterior is above us via a shaft.”
Smarmy fucker. “You stay here. I’ll go check it out.” A jab because Alfred couldn’t actually follow, and he knew it.
“You should bring me along.”
He glanced at Alfred. “I got this. You guard Burton.”
He exited the tank with a knapsack containing food, drink, and a few extra items. The tunnel stretched before him, a concrete rectangle with flickering lights that were motion activated, but only some of them still worked. Behind, more of the same. The network of tunnels below ground shouldn’t have surprised him. He knew of the ones leading from the bunker that served as home for Haven, but he’d never imagined how far they extended. Then again it made sense that, when the Earth went through its evolution where the surface proved unlivable, humanity stretched its expanse underground. Then abandoned it the moment they could.
With nothing rushing to eat him, Titan glanced overhead and immediately saw the grate Alfred spoke of. A vertical shaft to the surface. According to Alfred, most of them led into buildings. Those that survived their abandonment. For all he knew, going up would lead to a dead end.
His metal limbs were having a cooperative day, working well with him, and even better, no whispers. Perhaps it was the fever that made him imagine the voice.
He climbed the tank and stood on its roof, stooping slightly as he turned the crank to open the thick metal grate. It swung down and provided steps to climb up into the slim aperture. Within was a ladder built into the wall, which he climbed eagerly, the lack of light fixed by the glow projecting from the goggles Alfred insisted he take.
He saw no sign of recent passage. The dust was thick and filling the air, making his lungs tickle. He paused for a moment to draw a scarf over his lower face then continued. He reached another hatch, this one made of a solid piece of metal, meaning he couldn’t see what lay on the other side. Could be nothing. Could be a slavering beast that was starved for meat. Even a flooded space that would tumble down and sluice him with its passage.
He couldn’t help but tense as he heaved at the mechanism, his flesh hand slipping on the surface. Not budging it one bit.
Let me.
Less a request and more a statement as his bionic hand grabbed hold and twisted.
Screee. The metal mo
ved, complaining the entire way. He held his breath and listened. Not a single sound could be heard. He lifted higher on the ladder and put his shoulder to the hatch, readying to heave it and leap out—if a tidal wave didn’t get him first.
With a deep breath, he shoved, and the hatch swung open hard enough to fall over with a clang. The bobbing light showed nothing moving and no signs of imminent collapse or flooding. The illumination showed a room full of empty shelves stripped bare of everything but dust and fragments that disintegrated the moment he touched them.
He dragged the goggles over his eyes and looked around. The light through the filter lens showed him even more detail. Kind of disconcerting. More shelves. A skeleton, long dead, curled in a corner, a hole in the skull, a gun lying beside it. Another fucking door with no window.
He eyed the hatch. Leave it open, or close it? Open gave him the opportunity for a fast escape if needed.
He eyed the portal, grabbed the handle, and pulled. It remained shut. He twisted. It didn’t budge. He heaved and tugged, even braced his foot on it to really give it a yank.
When nothing worked, the whisper came again. Let me.
He ignored the voice, and caution, as he pulled out his gun and shot the handle. It and the doorjamb melted. Only then did he say, “Go ahead and open it.”
The heat of the hole’s edges didn’t even make his bionic arm flinch. Just how durable was it?
The door opened, and he found himself in a vast room that seemed really familiar in some respects. High-roofed in a curved shallow dome shape. No windows, but he’d wager a door at the end. If he had to guess, he was in one of the hangars in the Humps—the name given to the hillocks that provided a shelter for Haven—which meant he was close enough to walk home.
If he could make it across the room.
He knew better than to trust the silence and benign appearance. There was a reason Haven hadn’t expanded out of its cramped quarters. Danger lurked everywhere. The reminder meant he eyed the hatch behind him. He could return to the tank and find another exit. Where though? What were the chances he’d find another one close by? And what if he did? It might be even more dangerous.
Don’t be afraid.
Easy for this metal parts to say. The fleshy part of him could still be hurt.
He stepped into the room and eyed each side. The light on his goggles could only penetrate so far. He knew these hangars were about two hundred paces across. Tiny when you had almost fifty people with their junk and everything living in it. Massive when you were all alone in the ominous dark.
He stepped farther into the bunker, the silence pressing on him, the weight of it making him tense his jaw. I am not afraid of the dark.
A lie. He hated it. Had since his parents stuffed him in that little compartment, the one where he could breathe only through the tiny hole drilled into it. The reinforced box ensured no one knew he was inside. It didn’t prevent him from hearing his father die.
He heard the cry of pain and shock every time the darkness got too heavy and closed in.
He lifted his chin. He wouldn’t let it defeat him. His steps sounded loud as he crossed, the thump-clump muffled instead of echoing as he’d expect. The hairs on the back of his neck rose to fine, quivering points.
He glanced behind him and saw only a wall of darkness. Literally. The door to the room had disappeared because something covered it. Something that made no sound and didn’t show even the glint of eyes, teeth, or limb.
Now was not the time to remember the story of ghosts that liked to eat the unwary.
He ran for the main hangar door. He might not be able to open the large door, but he could certainly manage the smaller portal set inside it.
Not a single sound joined that of his pounding feet, and yet his gut knew danger reared behind him. Coiled over him like a serpent, ready to pounce and sink its teeth. Or coil around and crush him. He’d seen that happen once. Poor Uncle Leroy. Went for a piss without his gun.
Titan, however, had a weapon. He pulled it with his flesh hand and aimed over his shoulder. The missile didn’t make any kind of noticeable impact.
He’d just about reached the door, which had a pile of bodies in front of it. A taunting pile of bones with skulls balancing at the top.
Indicating no exit or meant to skew hope?
He ran for them, knowing if this hangar followed the design of others, then the door was hidden behind the pile. The bones scattered as he plowed into them, sending them in all directions, the dried sticks making a racket that would draw attention. Who cared about the noise when it revealed the portal he sought was welded shut.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he yelled, slamming his fist against it.
He whirled and perused the darkness, a gloom even the goggles couldn’t penetrate. He couldn’t fight a shadow, but when it enveloped him, he tried. He choked, the miasma of darkness clinging to his flesh, and he opened his mouth to scream, only the shadow slipped inside his mouth, down his throat, choking him.
Idiot. Close your mouth.
Why bother? It was too late.
We don’t give up.
His metal leg was the one to pivot and flip him around, and he hammered at the welds, his bionic fist smashing into the seams over and over. He didn’t expect it to actually do anything until the door tweaked and a sliver of light entered.
Hissssss.
Less the sound of the living fizzling and more that of something sizzling. The pressure on him eased as the darkness that sought to kill him retreated.
“You don’t like that, do you?” he muttered.
Encouraged, he kept striking the door, bending it and then prying at it, noticing how the gloom at his back kept reaching for him and turning to mist. He wrenched an opening large enough to slip through and tumbled into daylight. The thick scrub he landed face first in was the most welcome thing he’d ever seen. He rolled onto his back and would have smiled if he didn’t see the darkness oozing from the opening he’d created, hitting the light and turning into white fog.
Whatever that thing was, it didn’t like daylight. No surprise. Many of New Earth’s most dangerous denizens were strongest at night.
He coughed, and smoke burst from his lips. Rolling to his hands and knees, he heaved and choked as the mist that had entered him was expelled and dissipated. Hopefully leaving no lasting effect.
Getting to his feet, he moved out of range of the fog and climbed the hump he’d just exited, looking around to get his bearings. He could see the hillocks formed by the buried bunkers. Fifty-three was the actual count. Only one being used as a home.
Rather than risk his life going back for Alfred—He’s just a robot—or the supplies, he set off for Haven, wondering what he’d say. What his friends would think when they saw his new limbs.
Predictably, Gunner said, “Fucking awesome. Bet you that arm can jack off for hours.”
Axel shook his head. “Ignore the idiot.”
Whereas Oliander, their doctor, examined it and declared it, “A marvel.”
People kept telling him he was lucky to be alive. Lucky he’d made it back home. So why was he so miserable? And why did he want to leave?
Eight
Riella had yet to find a way to escape, though not for lack of trying.
She’d been in the dome a month, and the security around her remained tight. Earl Arianne suspected she’d try and rarely let her out of her room. When she was allowed to leave, usually for more tests or a walk outside for exercise, it was under heavy escort provided by the queen. How nice she’d donated extra Centurions to the cause.
Given her vaunted status, no one at least bothered Riella. But at the same time, she was more restricted than the usual Madres—what they called the women imprisoned here. Marked by their white dresses, they served the needs of the Enclave by providing genetic material to birth the next generation.
Riella was more than just a breeding womb. She was a metal manipulator, a strong one, descended from the queen. Problem was
the Earl knew all of her strengths and weaknesses. She’d ensured Riella had no metal at all to play with. Polymers and plastics surrounded her. She was fed simple fare, and she ate it even as she understood they drugged it. She could feel it in the way her senses were dulled. Her interest in the world was barely existent. Not caring meant she didn’t bother rebelling much. Why go through that pain?
The soldiers who escorted her only carried the pain rods and no metal armor. The times she left her room, she felt demeaned and dehumanized, as they saw her only as an object for testing. She wondered, why so many tests? She’d never had so many before. No one explained anything.
Despite the queen’s threat, they’d yet to send someone to try and rape her. The delay surprised her. She’d expected Mother to have her bedded the moment she was deemed fit to breed.
Which led to her wondering, Is something wrong with me?
During that long month of waiting and depression, she missed the citadel. Mourned the loss of Alfred. Not the father who’d raised her but a friend, despite his circuits. She couldn’t help but think of Titan. A man who’d given her the kind of pleasure she thought didn’t exist.
She played the what-if game. What if she’d left earlier? What if she’d never saved him? What if he hadn’t died?
The last was the most pathetic fantasy because it gave her a false hope that he would come to her rescue. Never mind the insanity of it. She had a dream where he smashed down her door and carried her away.
Therefore, was it any wonder her heart thumped and fluttered when, without warning, her door suddenly opened? The soldiers marched in as if they had every right, and they did.
“Let’s go. The Earl wants to see you.” They grabbed her by the arms.
“You know, you could just ask me to go with you nicely,” she said with a good deal of sarcasm.
A guard grunted, and she had a moment to notice neither of them wore any metal. Not even a button for her to filch.
They took her down to the main level but not out to the courtyard where she’d seen daylight only four times since her incarceration. She was marched down the hall to an office, already occupied by the queen and Earl Arianne.
