by Carl Damen
They rolled, grey colossus embracing frail human, to the edge of the roof and then tumbled down into what was once an enclosed observation promenade. They landed, E.H.U.D. down, then Edarus was thrown into the air, coming down hard in an evergreen a few yards away.
He tried desperately to fight loose from the clawing branches even as his opponent rose from the sea of shattered glass and leapt at him. He finally pitched himself forward and fell from the tree an instant before Ruiz's meteoric impact broke the tree off near the ground and sent it sliding away.
Edarus lay crumpled on the ground, gasping, bleeding. Somewhere up above he could feel his family, reeling and disoriented from his initial burst, their ears and noses bleeding.
He tried to stand, found his legs provisionally accepting of the task, and hastily strategized. There was little hope in defeating Ruiz through single combat—she had an advanced combat suit, as well as years of recent combat training. He was injured and only had a few months of basic training from his time in the military. She was well-versed in every form of psycho-kinetic combat; he had some theory gleaned from progress reports and two days of fumbling experimentation. There was no way he could hope to survive this.
A shadow passed over him and he dodged just in time to be swept up in a wave of sod spreading out from Ruiz's latest impact site.
Think. What would Lob do? No! Don't think about Lob. Lob got you into this. Lob suggested you participate in treason, Lob tried to talk you into playing along with his Messiah complex, Lob wasn't content to let you stay as a petty, corrupt politician, and stroked your ego until you were ready to believe you could actually rule the world. And you, not Lob, listened. You pushed yourself to the forefront of this war, dragging your family with you in your own personal quest for glory.
He didn't know when it had started—somewhere in the early stages of his rant against Mistaren—but at some point Edarus had lunged forward again, a bundle of raw meat wrapped in the bloody remains of a golf shirt, and had plowed into the immovable mass of the E.H.U.D., had forced his rage and self-pity and hubris into an impenetrable mass of his own, letting it move his body in a strange dance. He dodged a swing easily powerful enough to take his head off, ducked under the arm, jabbed the heel of his hand into the frill surrounding Ruiz's neck, felt the the internal structure buckle beneath his blow.
His left knee came up, landing between the plates of armor on the right thigh. Shockwaves rolled out, trying to spread the force of the impact, but the knee sank deeper, pushing a layer of gel out through the skin of the suit, sending the force of patella into femur, cracking both bones.
Ruiz let out a psychic scream of pain, dropping Edarus back to the ground. He quickly stood, only to fall again as his leg buckled at the knee. A quick burst of willpower, and the bones snapped painfully back into place, jabbing into surrounding muscle and staying leg shaped through nothing more than hope and wishful thinking.
He rolled, pushed forward with his right leg, and sent himself hurtling at the damaged leg before him. He collided with the rough armor, felt his face pull away from his skull, but also the pillar of leg bending backwards, pulling in on itself. Ruiz was down now, and Edarus sat astride her chest, bludgeoning her head again and again with his fists, his anger, his shame at failing as a father. With each blow the gel protecting Ruiz's head sloshed around in new paths, meeting with and deflecting from previous waves of energy, splashing around until the only outlet for the kinetic bombardment was Ruiz herself.
Her mind was now a continuous fount of terror; this wasn't supposed to happen. An easy hit, that was all this was, a step towards getting on with a normal life. She was in charge, she was the one who was supposed to bring down the corruption with the purging fire of the Q-bomb. Now—now she was going to die. Her mind suddenly dropped in volume as she realized that this would be the end of her life. With a last desperate plea, she ran to the mirror, saw the elegant news anchor, begged her to come out and save her from this fate.
A stream of gel jetted from between two plates and the helmet split into two pieces, loosely connected by strands of wet fabric. The familiar face of Melana Ruiz looked out through the gore, her face marred by welts and contusions, her honey-colored skin darkened by blood.
"Edarus... Please... it's me..."
Faded images... interviews for shows, off-camera camaraderie, a shared history going back years, trickled from her mind into his. It faded, shrunk to just a few recent images as it struck his mind, found nearly all the memories missing.
"Oh... That was all Lob..."
Edarus yelled, brought his arm down again—and it was over.
He slumped, barely managing to stay upright on the felled giant, and started to cry. Exhaustion, confusion, unspent rage forced its way out, and left him with nothing to anchor himself to in the waking world...
A jarring pain in his leg brought Edarus screaming back to consciousness. He was back inside the clinic, overhead lights burning into his eyes.
"Hold tight, mister president." Forre was somewhere near by, though the blurred, mushy sound of his voice made it impossible to pinpoint.
There was another jerk on Edarus's leg, and he felt the bones pulling apart, and then sliding back together.
"Okay! POTUS stabilized, he's ready to fly!"
The room vibrated subtly as the bulk of two E.H.U.D.s filled the room. They stood, one on each end of Edarus, and lifted the stretcher he lay on. Moments later, they were on the roof.
Marine One sat off to one side, its rotors dead, all the windows gone, blown inwards. Another helicopter, painted plain olive drab, was next to it, rotors in full swing, ready to fly. They didn't sound right, though. They were muffled, far-away sounding. Edarus reached up and felt a rivulet of brittle crust trailing from his ear.
As they neared the helo Edarus made out a cluster of other E.H.U.D.s surrounding what appeared to be prisoners near the an open bay door. The E.H.U.D.s parted and he glimpsed Amanda and Than, looking tired and disheveled. Water glistened on the sides of their faces where blood had been washed away.
There was a sudden feeling of weightlessness while Edarus's escorts jumped aboard the helicopter, then lowered him to the ground. They turned away and huddled together. Edarus pressed outward from himself, fighting past a wave of nausea and exhaustion, and felt them discussing where exactly they would strap him in. He pressed farther and felt a disturbance just outside the helicopter, centering around his family.
He jerked sideways, giving himself enough momentum to roll off the stretcher and to the door. His escorts noticed and turned to help him, but abruptly found themselves disinterested in the little man on the floor and returned to their conversation.
"Mandy, what's going on?"
Amanda looked down on him, her eyes empty, her body twitching slightly. "I'm not going, Ed."
One of the soldiers protecting her stepped forward. "We need to leave, sir."
"I'm not going," she repeated. "Neither is Than."
Than, standing beside her, whimpered.
"Sir, we can't put this off. Permission to sedate FLOTUS for ease of conveyance?" After saying this the soldier turned away with a sudden fit of racking coughs.
"Mandy, what are you doing?"
"What are you doing, Ed? You... you just turned into a monster back there and killed someone. I mean, you saved us, but..." Her unspoken words, this is all your fault, stood out plainly. "I can't go with you; as long as you're tied up in this, you're not safe to be around. I should have seen that years ago."
An image flashed through her mind: Lanlin, lording over the ball room, Edarus standing tall before him. This time, though, it was not seen from beneath the apparent safety of a table, but from eye-level, moving closer. This time, Amanda was not a passive player, waiting for her husband to do his job.
"What does Than want?" He looked at his soon, who took a step away from his mother and awkwardly hugged Edarus's head.
"I love you dad. I don't want to leave, but—I—" He let go of h
is father and hugged himself, convulsing in fits of nervous shivers. "Why was she trying to kill you dad? You had nothing to do with the E.H.U.D.s!"
"I'll... I'll tell you when I can figure that out." He looked back up Amanda. "I'm not the man you married."
"I don't think you ever were."
He nodded, then slumped onto the deck of the helicopter and let his escorts roll him back onto his stretcher.
Responsibility still nagged at him, though. Even if she didn't want him, Amanda was still his wife, his family. He couldn't just leave her alone. He franticly tried to think of where she'd be safest, where she could go that the Defenders couldn't reach her. And then the answer came to him, shining like a beacon. There was no safer place than the lair of the beast itself, the creature that was unconcerned when Lanlin had walked in, who had cooly calculated lines of succession even as the corpses of the dead cabinet members were still warm and wet. Everything in him railed against this conclusion, but in the end, he realized that it was the only way he would ever have peace of mind.
"Can I give you one last bit of advice?" he called over the noise of the engine. From the corner of his eye he saw her nod. "Lob has some real-estate in Philadelphia. You really want to know everything, want to help me, understand me? Lob can tell you anything you want to know, and absolutely nothing on earth is going survive getting on his bad side. You go to him, you'll be safe from anything. Call him; he'll get you settled." He saw her nod again.
He looked at the soldier he had sent into away coughing. "Make sure they get to General Mistaren, okay? They're not going wherever I'm going."
"Sir—"
"That's an order." He wasn't sure if he could give orders of this type, but he wasn't in the mood to be rational right now.
Just as the E.H.U.D.s were closing in to take his family away he called out one last time to Than. "Hey, Than!"
Than stopped and looked back at his father.
Edarus wracked his mind for something to say, a lasting bit of wisdom or encouragement he could leave to his son in case they never met again. Nothing came up. "Do good in school, okay?"
Than's eyes remained locked onto his as Forre hopped aboard, the doors were shut, and the helicopter lifted into the sky.
Not for the first time, Edarus realized that it was too late for him to do anything different. "Trent?"
Forre loomed into view. "Yes?"
"Get me some food..."
12
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
The official line was that Melana Ruiz had been injured in the riot on Wednesday, and would likely be in the hospital for at least another week. All of her colleagues touted her bravery, commended her on the sacrifice she had made in the name of journalism, and wished her well in her recovery.
Everything changed Sunday morning when pictures of Melana's broken body, leaking slowly from the armored form of an E.H.U.D., showed up on the web and spread like wildfire.
For the first time in nearly a week, the face of Melana Ruiz stared out of televisions at the world, the once polished professionalism of the television personality contrasted with the emaciated form that had gone several days without hygiene. One side of her face had collapsed, crushed inwards and disturbingly discolored. What once stared out at the world with vitality was now dead.
Within hours, investigators had the sworn statement of a soldier stationed at the Pentagon who had helped Ruiz, the killer of President Isaac Latterndale, escape. "She was a victim in all of this, a woman with convictions who carried out justice in a way no one else dared to. Yes, I aspired to that; yes, I had no choice but to help her."
That Melana had been found outside of a partially-destroyed, top-secret presidential safe house was lost on no one. Debate quickly divided along lines of Edarus Latterndale's sincerity during his brief term: was he the next guilty party to be rightly executed, or had Melana merely gone in for symbolic attacks?
Through it all, there was no word from the once vociferous president.
In his silence, other voices spoke.
By noon, Mitchel Terstein had called a press conferences and taken firm control of the story.
"Yesterday I received a call from President Latterndale asking for my support in producing new policy that would support the Defenders, compensate them for the lives they have lost and to ensure that such evil is never perpetrated by this nation again. These are goals I believe in, goals that I desperately hope can be achieved. And while I believe that Mr. Latterndale is sincere in his desire to see progress in this matter, I am greatly disturbed by the secrecy and stonewalling that continues to come from the White House.
"I understand why the need for secrecy was felt in regards to the late President's assassin. Knowing the killer was a Defender ran counter to the greater message, and knowing that the killer was none other than our colleague Melana Ruiz would have spread unease throughout Washington. But keeping her identity a secret shows a profound distrust in the American people and worse, the unwillingness to confront a messy situation head-on.
"Ms. Ruiz's death is more frightening still. At best, this was a case of incompetence and self defense, if it were true that she managed to escape military custody and assault the president's sanctuary. At worst, this was a calculated move to both eliminate a potential threat and maintain public credibility. Either way, yesterday's events have caused me to greatly question the president's resolve to make peace with the Defenders. His words are just fine; his actions are more than a bit distressing.
"But what of your, actions, America? Will you fall victim to fear and paranoia, or will you sit in fair judgement of this situation, and strive to do the right thing? It would sadden me greatly if this incident led to a wedge being placed between the peoples of America and the Defenders, a wedge of fear that would lead you all to abandoning those in need of help in such a hard time.
"Opposition will come to the Defenders because of what has transpired this weekend. Opposition from those in power, those afraid of finding themselves on the chopping-block. Don't let it come from you as well, America. Don't be poisoned by a president who speaks words of reconciliation, then shrouds his actions in secrecy and misdirection. Don't be poisoned by the actions of a single Defender, doing what she thought was right; don't hurt the Defenders more than they have already been hurt. Defend them.
"Defend them even as they are persecuted in the coming weeks, defend them against government retaliation. Defend them against even the thought of retaliation! This is your moment, America! Fight for the rights that have been taken from them! Defend the Defenders!"
As Terstein's cry was broadcast the world over it found purchase in the hearts of the people of Philadelphia, already stinging from the loss of one who had defended the Defenders. Though no official call was made, the population of the city moved to the streets over the next few hours, crowding in around City Hall; unorganized, but looking for something they could do to make a difference in their world.
Alice stood in the crowd surrounding City Hall, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the street with the thousands of others enraged at the police over the death of Raife Omerta. With his death, the once disorganized "Defend the Defenders" movement had found a martyr, and Alice was hopeful that now they could find some clear goal for the movement to accomplish. Since she had first become involved in the movement, proposed goals had ranged from merely swinging public policy in favor of the E.H.U.D.s and auditing the government to turning the city into an E.H.U.D. safe-city to outright dissolution of the government. As far as she could remember the current thought was to push the city, and hopefully the entire state, into making a formal condemnation on the federal government, but with such a disorganized movement, it was impossible to tell.
The looming shadow of a man passing over her caused her to look up to the bronze gaze of William Penn staring down on the sea of people here. What would he have wanted in all this? He was a founding father after all, someone who wanted freedom from tyranny, equality for all. What w
ould he think of the police's actions, of the government he had helped to create?
Wait. No, he wasn't one of the founders, was he? Alice couldn't remember; it wasn't something that usually came up in her daily life.
She tore her attention away from the statue and focused on a barely perceptible figure standing in the archway beneath the Hall's tower, blasting the crowd with a megaphone.
"Is this the way we treat opposing voices? Is this the way we treat young people looking out for their futures? No! No!" The crowd burst in with a chorus of "No!"s and some of the speaker's next words were lost on Alice. "—can't pretend this isn't happening! They took their rights, they abused them in the name of foreign policy, then they silenced any voice of protest! So we start yelling! Yelling 'til our voices are too loud to silence!"
The crowd roared with a concerted, animal yell, Alice shouting herself hoarse right along with the others. While she yelled she looked up and saw several tiny figures on the observation platform at Penn's feet. They walked back and forth, surveying the crowd. Occasionally light glinted off what appeared to be weapons. She shivered, despite the layers of coats she wore, and looked away. Of course there would be police here; why should she be surprised?
