"Remember what I did to the man in the cave?" the Empress whispers on her way past.
A side comment intended for my ears only. I've been in many caves, but it's obvious which one my sister means. Thera. There were a lot of men there that day. All of them died.
The Empress holds Kitty up to the window, displaying her to watchers below. “This peace cost billions of lives,” my sister says, speaking to the cameras again. I hope any parents still watching this horror show have sent their children to bed. “We've accomplished our goal. But any loss of vigilance, and we leave ourselves vulnerable to back-stabbing traitors."
She tosses Kitty through the hole. I'd assumed my sister intended to dump the poor woman into the crowd, but there isn't enough power behind her throw. No, she's aiming for that long glass spike on purpose.
Kitty lands on the shard. It skewers her body, sharp tip pushing through her bare chest. Blood drips onto the window frame. Kitty doesn't fight death, choosing to let it take her. Her corpse is perfectly balanced. Most observers probably believe that's by chance, but I know my sister. She's skilled – and twisted – enough to have meant it. Suddenly the connection with Thera becomes chillingly clear. This is exactly how she killed the German SS soldier.
“Long live the Dynasty," the Empress proclaims. To absolute silence. "I said long live the Dynasty.”
Activity from below. Rapidly shuffling feet. Was that loud whack someone being struck by a riot trooper? I can't see from here. The Empress points a finger at the sky, a signal for the camera drones to leave. Spotlights shut off, leaving us in near-total darkness.
“You may be wondering why I've kept you alive,” my sister says.
“Not really,” I reply, my voice quiet from exhaustion. “You're a crazy, sadistic--”
The Empress lifts me by the neck, thumbs pressed tightly together. I can't breathe. Freezing time won't help. There's no way out of this situation.
“Not just today,” my sister elaborates. “But all these years. It would have been easy to kill you, but I didn't. Because I wanted you to see this.”
She turns me around, lifting me up high so I can see over Kitty's impaled body. The hundreds of thousands gathered on the Mall are on their knees. Every man, woman, and child. Even the news reporters and police troopers. Their hands are clasped together, heads bowed toward the Empress. The rebellion was quashed in three minutes. No more pretending. Open tyranny begins now.
“You did nothing with your powers, little sister," the Empress says. "But look at what I've managed to accomplish. World peace.”
Before I pass out, the last thing I see are the Dynasty symbols projected in the sky above Buckingham Palace.
Chapter Three: Powerless
I'm free of her chokehold. The Empress let me go. Which means she still needs me. What for? Sentimental reasons? Doubt it. Words I'd use to describe my sister: manipulative, scheming, self-centred. But merciful? Compassionate? No.
I remain still, eyes closed. One thing's certain: I'm being watched. Could be a guard, more likely an automated camera. My wounds should have healed, but I feel sharp pains in both wrists, and something cold, round and metallic taped over my heart. My vital signs are being monitored by a cardioscope. Play acting won't deceive a medical scanner. Chances are my captors know I'm awake.
I don't have much time. There's no point in reviewing past events, wondering what I might have done differently. What matters is where they've brought me. It's too quiet to be the hotel. I don't want to risk opening my eyes. The Empress could be in here, waiting to begin an interrogation. Or a torture routine. Who knows what condition I'll be in later? I need to learn what I can before I confront her.
A soft couch cushions my body. The upholstery smells – and feels – like expensive leather. Circular metal restraints vibrate against my forearms, ankles and neck. There's a faint, constant rumbling from below. Rocket engines. This must be one of the Empress' private transport shuttles. The Dynasty usually executes rebels on the spot. Some are less fortunate, sentenced to Tibetan labour camps as an example to the rest. The Empress is giving me special treatment, so I must be important to her plans. Either that, or she wants to gloat again. Time to face her.
Except it's not my sister I see before me. A young, blond haired man blurs into view. I recognise him long before I focus.
“Ernst.” I greet my old nemesis with an icy stare.
“Edith,” he replies, stroking my chin. His fingers are deathly cold, which is appropriate. “I have known you since you were a child. We can be civilised.”
The man stood by the couch looks exactly like Gustav Ernst did when I first met him in 1924. Pale face, groomed beard and moustache, creepy eyes. And he talks in the same, thick German accent. But the real Ernst was much older when he died. I should know. I killed him.
This 'man' is a cybernetic copy. Artificially grown flesh on a titanium skeleton, with a quantum computer for a brain. He – or rather it - wears a bright red coat with gold, diamond studded buttons, cuff-linked sleeves, and a stiff, embroidered collar. The attire of a Dynasty general.
“I'm still a child,” I remind 'him' pointedly.
“You have a child's body.” The robot grabs my chin, tilting my head to one side. Green light sweeps across its pupils. Unseen sensors beep. Much like the original Ernst, the cyborg views people as test subjects. “But underneath your skin, you are fascinating.”
“That because I'm human?”
“You are more than that, Edith,” it says with synthesised fondness.
The cyborg retracts its arm, and steps away from the couch. I freeze time, partly to recuperate from the unwanted groping but chiefly to scan the cabin. There are porthole style windows every two metres, but from my low angle I see only black sky and clouds. I could be anywhere in the world right now. Furniture and decorations are Dynasty themed, with an abundance of red crystal lamps and gold vases. The sliding door is shut, its beige, rectangular panels too opaque to see through. Nothing that can help me, so I resume.
“You are special,” the cyborg says. "It is in your blood."
Ernst undoes his right cuff, and rolls up his sleeve. A fibreglass cylinder lowers from an aperture on his wrist – a timely reminder I should stop calling it a he. Light shines from the device, projecting an image on the ceiling: disc-shaped blood cells, in a sea of pale red plasma. Black metal, fishlike machines swim among them, exchanging electrical pulses. One pauses by a damaged membrane, and quickly restores it to health. Nanobots. This is the blood sample 'Ernst' took from me twelve years ago in Tibet.
“Wonderful machines,” the cyborg observes. “They store audiovisual information, allow instant memory recall. They preserve the body, the brain. Prevent the detrimental effects of age. Everything a scientist needs. Imagine what the greats could have achieved if they had lived to be a hundred. A thousand. Da Vinci, Newton, Einstein. My daughter Eden." A brief pause, but it's only pretend sorrow. Machines feel nothing. "Their knowledge is lost to us. But now we have the means to keep great minds alive indefinitely.”
Cyborg Ernst looks up, motors whirring as its neck bends back ninety degrees. It watches the projected image, multiple green light beams tracking the tiny machines. It's obvious what it wants.
“Your predecessor took my blood,” I say. “Tried to use it on himself. He wound up a cripple. But go ahead. Maybe robots are immune.”
The cyborg lowers its head to a more natural, forward looking angle. It shuts off the projector, and rolls its sleeve over the retracting cylinder. “As I once told you in Cambridge, great men are not afraid to--"
“Take risks in the pursuit of knowledge,” I recall without blinking. “That wasn't you. That was the real Ernst. Computers didn't exist in the 1920s.”
“No. But we have learnt much in the decades since. About the black metal. The aliens that constructed it. The machines in your blood.”
Ernst pulls a sealed glass tube from his - its - suit pocket. I can't see anything inside but colourless fluid and
bubbles.
“That your daily supplement?” I ask.
The cyborg ignores me, rotating the tube between thumb and forefinger. “It has taken over a century, but we are on the verge of replicating the technology. And our nanomachines will not be so limited in function.”
I shake my head, more in dismay than disbelief. For all its artificial intelligence, there's a massive hole in the cyborg's logic. The Empress doesn't share power.
“Have you run this by your mistress?” The double meaning is deliberate. Ernst - the real one - always had personal feelings for my sister.
“She is aware of my research.” A neutral reply that evades my real question.
I pick up on its earlier comment. “On the verge you said? So you can't get them to work. Maybe the Empress should think about upgrading your software.”
“Or downgrading yours,” my sister says.
I was so focused on Ernst I didn't see her come in. She's stood inside the open door. No battle armour, just a crimson and gold, sleeveless gown. The velvet is transparent enough to see her underwear. If that's for the benefit of her cyborg, it doesn't turn to look.
The Empress strides over purposefully, collecting the glass tube from Ernst's hand. She leans across the couch, and holds it before my eyes. Now it's up close I see brief flashes of blue between the bubbles. Every half second, never in the same place twice. I freeze and rewind to a flash. It's just bright light. Whatever is generating it is too small to see.
“What's in there?” I ask after resuming.
“What you've wanted for the last hundred and twenty one years,” the Empress says with a smile that's pure evil. “To be normal.”
She grabs my throat with her spare hand. Even without powered gloves my sister's grip is crushingly strong. I can't breathe. The Empress twists the tube's top. A needle extends underneath, dripping fluid on my cheek. I squirm, feeling my wrists scrape against the restraints. My sister's loving it, holding off while I contemplate her words. Can she really neutralise my abilities? The odds are already against me stopping her, but without--
As if sensing my fear, the Empress chooses that moment to stab the needle in my neck. The fluid drains from the glass tube, forced out by an extending piston. I pull back my tongue, ready to endure intense, agonising pain. But nothing happens.
“Did it work?” Ernst enquires.
The same question's on my mind. My sister releases her hold, and pulls out the needle. I cough, taking a couple of deep breaths.
The Empress is still smiling. I don't think she's stopped for the last minute. “There's your answer," she says gleefully. "Right there.”
What's she looking at? Something drips from my neck, landing with a splat on the couch. A blood drop. Quickly followed by another.
“She has not healed.” Ernst states the obvious, but his comment still makes me shiver.
I freeze time. Except I can't. I'm stuck in the present, forced to watch - and listen to - the Empress.
“You have a lot to think about, little sister. All those defeats. They must hurt. You could use some time to reflect. I have this prison in the Himalayas. You know the one. I've tightened security since your last visit. Don't expect any rescue attempts. It's somewhere nice and peaceful, where you can grow old and die. And I'll be able to watch - and rewatch - every minute.”
The Empress crushes the tube into tiny fragments. Not to show off her strength, but her healing wounds. She unclenches her fist, allowing the shards to fall from her unblemished palm. My sister beckons Ernst aside, and they converse in German. I used to be fluent, but now it's a foreign language I can't understand a word of. Psychological torture. She wants me to feel powerless.
I close my eyes, blotting out their voices. My memories are a muddled mess. I spent years learning how to avoid flashbacks, but now I'm desperate to trigger one. Everything's hazy. I can't recall what happened five minutes ago. A chilling realisation hits me. What if the nanobots stored all the audiovisual data? There'd be nothing in my brain to remember!
Unless I go back earlier. To when I was young, before the machines were in my blood. It's been over a century. Only one event springs to mind. I don't particularly want to relive it, but here goes.
I'm in a long, whitewashed hall, under a red cross sign. I stand on a wooden bench, peeking through a high window. Shadows walk behind me – featureless, vaguely human shapes. There's moaning in the background, the cries of many wounded men. I don't care about them. Mother's in pain. She's in the room beyond the window, screaming. I can see her face, contorted in agony.
Five shadows surround her hospital bed. Two pin her down. Another has his - her? - hands between Mother's spread legs. I can't watch any more. I climb down, and sit on the bench, sobbing. A grandfather clock chimes. I count eleven bongs.
“Eirene!” a woman shouts. “It's a miracle.” Her Eastern European accent is familiar, perhaps Greek or Turkish. I feel as though she's important. Why can't I remember her?
“Irene," Mother says. Her voice I do recognise. "Such a beautiful name."
A shadow comes to collect me from the bench. I follow without question, feeling safe in his presence. I think it's Father, but I can't see anything except shifting darkness. I walk past a hanging calendar. The page heading is November 1918, and numbers one through ten are crossed out in red. Today is the eleventh.
Father – assuming it's him – takes me into the hospital room. And I see her. A newborn baby girl cuddled in Mother's bosom. She's beautiful, quite big with chubby arms. Her blonde hair gleams in the morning sunlight.
If I could change the past, I'd grab those scissors from the medical tray and slit the baby's throat. They hung people for murder back in those days. Would they hang an eight year old? I don't know, but I'd still kill her.
Except I can't. History is fixed. My mother is about to introduce me to the child who'll become my worst enemy, and all I can do is listen.
“Edith,” she says. “This is Irene, your little sister.”
Then the baby's all grown up. I'm back in the Empress' shuttle, hooked up to a strange device by two clear, intravenous tubes. An unseen pump grinds, sucking my blood round in a circuit. There's a projector on top, displaying a holographic video. Picture and sound are identical to what I just experienced: blurry room, shadows, Irene cuddled in Mother's arms. I'm watching a delayed broadcast of my memory.
“Remember the interpreter you used to locate the missing vessel? The one you used to save me?” I have no idea what my sister's blabbering about. What a vessel is, or why I'd ever save her life. I must have had a good reason. I'd like to know what it was, but it's lost in the fog with my other memories. “This is a new and improved version. The images are much clearer now. No more secrets. You're going to tell me everything.”
Is she using that contraption to read my mind? And why has time passed? Usually I return to the exact same moment I left.
“Irene.” She says her own name with scorn. “It's been a while since anyone called me that. It's too soft, ordinary. Almost as boring as Edith. Not a name that would terrify my enemies. Lin Song is much better.”
“It's the same woman behind the mask. Doesn't matter what she calls herself.”
The Empress ignores me, and adjusts a large dial on her machine. The memory footage rewinds to the calendar. Eleven bongs ring out. The grandfather clock striking the hour.
“To be born at that exact moment,” my sister says. “The end of the first world war. That's destiny.”
“It's coincidence,” I say dismissively. “Quit deluding yourself.”
“Do you know how unlikely that is?” The Empress' voice is high pitched, incredulous. She really believes all this destiny nonsense.
“You'll have to ask your pet robot. My brain's a bit messed up.”
“Remind me why we need the interpreter.” She addresses Ernst, but keeps her eyes on me. “Recycling her blood would be far more quicker. And interesting.”
“Edith's memories are coded to her unique
brainwave patterns," the cyborg says. "Unbreakable even with my superior processing power. I can interpret the electrical signals, but accessing the stored data requires a mental trigger, a key image only she would know.”
The Empress ducks underneath a plastic tube, circling the couch. “Putting it in simple terms, we need you to think. I know that's difficult in your condition, but please try.”
She nods to the cyborg – a signal to do something bad. Ernst adjusts a dial. I feel a sharp jolt, then tingling all over my body. I know what the Empress is up to. She's trying to control the nanobots, get me to recall something specific. An image flashes before me: a three dimensional black metal shape. Eight sides, in the shape of a diamond. Then I'm somewhere else.
The data storage unit's heavy, exhausting to carry. But I don't stop. Rural Montana is dying around me: charred tree stumps, scorched leaves, baked mud. My eyes water from the smoke, and every uprooted branch is a potential hazard. Dynasty troops attacked the resistance camp yesterday afternoon. I escaped the ambush, but the Hermes scout squadrons are still hunting me. I've not slept in fifteen hours, and my survival suit is almost out of stimulants.
A twig snaps. The noise came from a clearing up ahead. I freeze time and check the undergrowth. Two people lie prone in the dirt. They're dressed in woodland camouflage, armed with molotovs, improvised knives, and ballistic rifles. They can't be Dynasty soldiers with outdated equipment like that. I exit the memory, and signal them to join me.
An old, bearded man leads his companion – a young girl about my size – to me. She nervously covers the rear, sweeping her weapon in wide arcs. A teen forced to flee her home, with little to no combat experience. It's been a week since the attack on San Francisco. She's lucky to have survived so long.
“Kwon sent word,” the man says. “I was expecting someone older.” He looks round at the trees. "Where is Kwon?"
I don't know what to say, so I shake my head. The man's chin sinks. He quickly directs his anger toward me. “Mind tellin' me what's so God damn important about that thing?” he demands, eyeing the black diamond.
2045: The Year of Defeat Page 3
