by Jay Posey
He slid off the bed, and put his coat on. Slipped the knife into his belt, where it wouldn’t poke. Took a deep breath. And then stretched out beyond himself, from the place of his brain that did things he didn’t understand, things he just did without knowing how. Someone was sitting in the hall outside his door. One of the guards that wore black. Wren could feel him. Could see him. And the door. The door was locked.
And then it wasn’t.
Three’s vision cleared again, and he made a mental note. Guard to the right had a weapon. Asher had leaned back into his chair again, was watching with some mix of amusement and judgment.
“It’s a shame we got off to such a bad start,” Asher said. “A man of your talents… I could’ve had use of you.”
Three rolled his head to the side, popped his neck in the spot that always seemed to need it. Tried to relax his shoulders. The burn was intense, muscles screaming for relief from the way his arms had been contorted behind him. He’d managed to get his hands around so his palms were touching, which helped ease the pain and improve the blood flow. He could tell now that the binding was some kind of brittle synthetic. He rolled his hands into fists, knuckles together, increasing the tension on the bands around his wrists.
“Didn’t expect you to try to cross the Strand. I’m amazed that any of you survived. I would’ve guessed you’d all end up like Haven.”
So he did know. Asher seemed to read Three’s thoughts.
“I didn’t have the heart to tell Dagon. Figured he’d discover it on his own at some point. And until then, his obsession was useful. I was kind of hoping he’d blame you for it. I assume he’s dead too?”
Three didn’t answer, but flicked his eyes to Ran. Dagon’s trusted friend. Ran made no hint of response.
“Just as well, I suppose,” Asher said casually. “I think he might’ve gone mad if he’d known what happened to her.” Asher ran a hand through his hair. “He was the one that reminded me of Underdown, you know. I’d almost forgotten him completely. He was only with us a few months. Didn’t get on too well with my father.”
Three felt the back of his chair with his thumbs, found a ridge where two joints met to connect the back to the seat. He positioned the cuffs over that raised point.
“If we’d known what kind of man he really was, I think we may have kept him around. Spinner’s father, you know. Speaking of which. Ran.”
For the first time Ran took his eyes off Three, and looked to Asher.
“Go get him,” Asher said.
Ran stood motionless for a moment, staring back at Asher without any discernible emotion.
“Go on!” Asher said, louder. Ran dipped his head and turned to go. But as he did, his eyes slid across to Three, and the two exchanged the briefest of looks. Three had no way to interpret that look, didn’t have the information to know what was going on, but he had the distinct impression that something significant had just happened. Some kind of momentary breakdown of Asher’s hold over Ran, or the first signs of its erosion. Asher watched him as he exited, and then turned his attention back to Three, shaking his head slightly.
“Dagon was the one who guessed it, when I found out you were headed to Greenstone,” he said. And then added with a wolfish grin, “Your friend at the Vault wasn’t much for keeping secrets.”
Three remembered Jackson, imagined what Asher must’ve done to him. Burned with anger.
“I suppose Haven thought Underdown might remember her?” He shook his head again. “Women and their fantasies. I can imagine it now, the way she must have. Underdown learning of his precious son, Spinner. Falling in love with her again. Bringing them both in as his own. And I wonder what she expected of you, then. Maybe the three of you, living here together under his protection. Ha!” He spat a laugh.
Three tightened his fists. Reminded himself.
Guard on the right has a weapon.
And with a sudden motion, he swung his arms behind him, away from the chair, and then slammed them forward again. Already flexed tight, the binding on his arm impacted the ridge of the chair and split. The captain of the guard’s eyes were just going wide when Three crushed his fist into the groin of the guard on his right. The man reacted, and Three rocketed up, wrapping one arm around the man’s head and snatching the weapon from him with the other hand. Three whipped down and whirled, snapping the guard’s neck and dumping him to the floor as the others converged. Continuing the motion, he struck the closest guard across the temple with the rod. Two down, four to go. The captain of the guard leapt from the dais as the two guards from the door rushed towards Three. But the captain hesitated, as if he’d just remembered he had Three’s gun. He fumbled to get it out of its holster. Three closed the gap before he could draw it.
Three snatched the man behind the neck, forcing the guard’s head down into his shoulder, and whipped him around, putting the captain between Three and the other guards. With his free hand, Three trapped the pistol, and pressed its barrel against the captain’s stomach. Lined it up, and squeezed the trigger. The shot thundered in the room, tore through the captain, and dropped one of the guards from the door. Three slung the captain’s body to the floor and leapt at the next guard, intercepting the man’s jaw with a flying knee. Three rode him to the ground. As they landed, Three bounced the man’s skull off the floor, knocking him out cold.
Three whirled back to his feet, facing the throne with the rod in one hand and his pistol in the other. Its bulk was comforting. He’d missed it. Asher was sitting bolt upright in the chair, but his face was more one of disappointment than fear or surprise. The last guard stood trembling by Asher’s side. Asher looked at him.
“Well. Go on,” he said. The guard looked at Asher, and then at Three. And then back to Asher again. Asher sighed. “Useless.” He looked hard at the man, and the guard suddenly cried out sharply and collapsed to the ground as if his muscles had simply switched off.
Asher stood then, casually, confidently. “I told you I could’ve used a man like you. Too bad, really.”
“Bring Wren to me, and I might not kill you.”
“Oh… no, I don’t think I’ll do that,” Asher said. “The people of Morningside thought Underdown was something special, you know. Allow me to show you why.”
The guard had been asleep when Wren had quietly opened the door. A lucky break. Wren didn’t know what would’ve happened otherwise, and he hadn’t wanted to kill the man, after all. He’d shut the door behind him quietly and locked it back. For at least ten minutes, Wren had wandered the halls, listening for people approaching, sometimes hiding. The place was vast, with confusing hallways and passages, and voices seemed to come from funny places.
There was no way for Wren to track Three, and he didn’t dare risk trying to pinpoint Asher. So he did what Three had taught him to do.
When in doubt, trust your gut.
Wren followed a corridor down a long set of stairs, and kept descending, and descending. And the lower he got, the more terrible he felt. A growing, creeping fear crawled over him. He stopped several times on the steps, fighting the urge to turn around and at the same time trying to convince himself he was going the wrong way anyway. But each time, he knew in his heart that he had to go down those stairs. Three had once told him that it wasn’t bravery if you weren’t scared. So he gripped his knife in slippery palms and tried to ignore the trembling in his legs.
He passed a couple of landings as he went down, but no one seemed to be on the stairs. It didn’t seem like anyone had used them in a long time. Wren forced himself to keep moving, told himself there was nothing really to be afraid of. And all the while the dread grew. A terrible, terrible feeling like sweating and being cold and wanting to throw up all at the same time. It was like something he’d felt before, but the feeling was one he couldn’t quite place.
And suddenly, the stairs stopped. And there was a hallway. And at the end of the hallway, there was a door. Wren did not like that door.
There was a humming sound deep in t
he walls, a low drone that he noticed now seemed to vibrate in his chest. Wren sat down on the bottom step and hugged his knees. The door stood, staring back at him. Like so many doors Mama had gone through before. And nothing good had ever been behind them.
Wren cried a little then, silently, the tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He had to go through it. No matter what, he had to. He wished Three could be there with him. But he missed his mama most of all.
Finally he stood, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. And took a bunch of deep breaths. Then he started walking. It was the hardest few steps Wren had ever taken in his life.
The door was cool to the touch. Heavy, and a dull green, with big rivets around the edge. Locked. And then somehow it was open, and Wren knew he had opened it without really even meaning to. It was getting easier to do that. He pushed on the door, and it swung silently, smoothly inward. Inside there was only a dim reddish light, and it was hard for Wren to make out more than shadows and silhouettes within. He stepped inside, squinting. A wave of fear rolled over him, and he stood there shaking uncontrollably. In here, the hum was louder. No, not louder. Stronger. Or at least, he could feel it more. His eyes finally adjusted enough for him to make out what he was looking at.
There were boxes. Huge boxes, made of metal, with metal bars. As tall as Fedor. Rows and rows and rows. It made him think of the Vault, the first night he’d fallen inside.
And for all Wren’s fear, curiosity finally built up enough for him to take a few more steps inside to get a better look at the boxes. Though, boxes didn’t seem like quite the right word for them. And just as he approached the nearest one, his hand reaching out to touch it, he realized… not a box.
A cage.
From deep inside, near the back, two pale blue lights shone back at him. And just as a scream began rising in his throat, something clapped over his mouth and dragged him suddenly backwards.
In the wall behind the throne, a panel shifted quietly and slid to one side, revealing a dark passage behind. Though his mind couldn’t comprehend, it didn’t take but a moment for Three to recognize the aura emanating from it. The moonlight glow of a Weir’s eyes, growing as it approached, ascending stairs from below. Asher stood to one side, watching impassively, with except perhaps a look of muted pleasure on his face.
“They thought he was some great warrior. Or wizard. Or both, I suppose. Feared by the creatures. But he was neither.” He turned and looked at Three then. “He’d built a machine, you see.”
The Weir’s eyes became visible in the darkness, two soft stars in the gloom. The creature paused before entering the room, its other features hidden in the shadows.
“He hacked them. More or less. He could call them, he could drive them away. He even has a place to keep a few of them. But he never really understood them. He was about control, you see. Always control. Never got much beyond using them to secure a place of power for himself.” Asher returned to his seat, relaxed into it. “And that is why I am sitting here, and he is not.”
Three’s vision swam, his balance shifted awkwardly, though whether it was from the shock of this news, or from the injuries he’d sustained, he couldn’t tell.
“You look like you need to sit down.” Asher smiled. “Underdown was an innovative man in some ways, but he wasn’t terribly clever. Summoning the Weir and then driving them away again, for show. A one-trick pony. It took me to realize the full potential of his creation.” He looked vaguely over his shoulder to the creature behind him. “You can come in, my dear.”
The Weir stepped forward, something familiar in its movement. The creature snaked fluidly around the throne, and then poured itself seductively into Asher’s lap. If not for the eyes, Three would’ve sworn the woman was human. Her flesh a healthy olive tone, her hair dark and untangled. Her features perfectly preserved. Just as he’d remembered her.
Cass.
Three felt his legs go out, and he fell backwards, collapsing heavily on the floor, his weapons clattering heedlessly next to him. It was her. Cass. A violent chill shook him, and he nearly vomited. It was her. And yet it wasn’t. The she-thing looked back at him without recognition, without emotion. It wasn’t Cass, not anymore. Just a slave, using Cass’s body.
Asher ran his fingers through her hair.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said. “I’ve always thought so. And the Weir, the Weir are fascinating, you know. Not at all the wild animals you think they are. They found her. Repaired her for me. Optimized her. And when directed, they are capable of… things beyond your imagining. No mind of their own, of course. But with my mind…” he stopped and smiled. Robotically, the Weir-Cass turned its head and kissed Asher’s head.
Three felt feverish, felt like he might lose consciousness at any moment. He fought to hold on. Seeing her again, seeing her like this, was more than his heart could bear.
No, not her, he told himself. Cass is dead. That is a thing. An abomination.
“So, I guess in way, it’s all worked out just like she wanted,” Asher continued, running his finger along her jaw. Along its jaw. “All back together again. And so what do we do about you, then?” He made a show of considering it. And then shrugged. “I suppose you get to die.”
Cass stood then, and stalked towards him.
They stood in the passage outside the door, Wren shaking violently, Ran holding him in his arms.
“You shouldn’t be here, little one,” Ran said with gentle firmness. “This is a terrible place.”
The door was closed now, but Wren couldn’t stop trembling. He was freezing cold. Ran had managed to stifle his scream, and had quickly moved him back out into the passageway, Wren was sure that at any moment the door would open and they would flood out.
“Come, little one. I’ll take you to him.”
“Ran, please,” Wren said, his voice breaking as he fought back the tears. “Please, I don’t want to go back to Asher.”
“I know,” Ran said. “I will take you to the man. The one who brought you. And then we will see.”
The fear, the shock, the relief, it was too much for Wren to absorb. He burst into tears and went limp, letting Ran bear him back up the stairs. Back to Three.
Three scrabbled backwards on his hands as Cass approached. Her hands had looked normal at first, but as she closed the distance, claws had extended from the tips of her fingers. Not true claws; some kind of blades embedded beneath the nails. Deadly, either way.
He was just gaining his feet when she moved to strike. And it was all he could to slap the attack away, to get himself clear. The assault came furiously, and no matter what he did to break contact, he couldn’t keep distance. Three’s mind flashed back to the last fight, the night she’d fallen, the way she’d fought when she was healthy, and juiced on her chems. It was like that now; raw fury and surprising power, like a lioness defending her cubs.
But no matter how much he fought to tell himself this creature was no longer Cass, that she was gone, Three could not bring himself to harm her. He struggled to defend himself from her relentless advance. But he couldn’t bring her down.
“Asher!” a loud voice called. And in an instant, Cass stopped her attack. Ran stood at the door, Wren in his arms, and a look of horror on his face. “Asher! What have you done?”
Asher waved dismissively. “It’s none of your concern, Ran. She’s mine to do with as I please.”
“You… you did this?”
“Are we having a problem, Ran?” Asher said, his tone rising.
“Mama?” came Wren’s weak voice. Ran instantly covered the boy’s eyes, pressed his head back down on his shoulder.
“Don’t look, little one.”
“Let him look,” Asher said. “He’ll be seeing a lot of her from now on.”
“Mama?” Wren cried. “Three?”
“You demon!” Ran shouted. Asher rolled his eyes. In the passage behind him, a blue light grew. And more of Asher’s Weir emerged. Six of them. Well-muscled. Deadly. They moved to
either side of Asher, like wolves protecting their own.
Ran put Wren down, and slid the boy behind him.
“Three, what’s going on? What’s happening?” Wren called.
“Don’t worry, Wren,” Three said. “We’re gonna work it out.”
He started towards Wren and Ran, but in that instant Cass renewed her attack. Three managed to stop the first swipe, but the second caught his side, raking across his ribs. As he redirected her strikes, he caught a glimpse of her passionless face. Hollow. There was nothing of her in there.
She stopped again, but remained poised to strike.
“You’re boring me,” Asher said. “Are you just going to let her kill you?”
Three understood. Asher didn’t care how the fight turned out. It was the sport he wanted, the sheer torment of watching Three fight this woman he’d come to care so deeply for, and the pleasure that Asher derived from it.
“You have no power over me, Asher,” Three said, knowing it would enrage him. “I won’t fight her.”
“You will,” Asher said. “Or the boy dies.”
The six other Weir advanced, towards Wren. Three made a move to intercept them, but Cass was there, cutting him off, knocking him away, keeping him cornered.
“Your choice,” Asher said.
The Weir collapsed as one, lunging for the boy.
But Ran was there. He flung Wren away, into the corner, and with all his fury unleashed his fury upon the six.
Wren tumbled to the ground, and scrambled over to the corner, where he balled himself against the wall. Hands over his ears, he screamed and screamed and screamed at the chaos around him. Ran fighting so many. He was bleeding so much. And Three fighting Mama. But it wasn’t Mama, not anymore. What had happened? What was happening?
Cass attacked and attacked, and Three had shifted gears. He struck her in the legs, in the arms, in the torso. Anything to slow her down without doing any real injury. But he was getting tired. His wrists were bleeding, his shoulders were still stiff, and his head was still pounding. Everything was taking its toll, and Cass started landing strike after strike. His pant leg was soaked with blood from numerous wounds, and he was starting to get lightheaded.
