The Pursuit of Truth

by Aaron Hodges

  She had barely slept all night—but that was hardly unusual. These days she was lucky if she got a few hours. Silently, she tried to recall how long it had been since the insomnia began, but she’d long since lost count of the days. All through winter she had struggled on, but even the promise of summer’s return did nothing to ease her suffering.

  Nothing would; not now.

  Her daughter was dead, and she had given up hope of ever seeing her grandson again.

  Cursing, Maria pushed back the despair and willed herself into action. Climbing from the bed, she lugged herself across the room to her dresser. Her joints popped as she moved, stiff with cold and old age, and she sighed. In all her long life, her body had never let her down. Yet now, when she needed it the most, she found herself trapped in the body of an old woman. If only she were still young, then maybe she could have done something, could have saved them…

  Maria shivered. Pushing the thought aside, she struggled into the old uniform she had left folded on the dresser. It was a poor fit—the pants were too baggy, and the shoulders dwarfed her shrunken frame. But then, it had never been meant for her.

  Closing her eyes, Maria pictured her late husband’s face, forever frozen in his youth. He had always been smiling, his hazel eyes alight with a love of life. How he would rage now, to know what had happened, to hear how they’d treated his daughter. Margaret had been the light of his life, his special girl, his legacy to the world.

  Now she was dead, executed by the very nation Charles had given his life to defend.

  Maria picked up the last piece of the uniform. Holding the medal in her hand, she recalled the day they had presented it to her. Her heart full, she had stood with the other widows of the American War and received her husband’s honors. Now, her hands shook as she pinned the silver cross to her chest.

  My shield.

  She closed her eyes and sent out silent thanks for her husband’s courage. His sacrifice had saved them all—his wife, his child, his nation. He and a thousand others like him had stood together against the wrath of the United States, and emerged victorious. Now, Charles protected her still, granting her respect and admiration in a society desperately short on both.

  Moving into the kitchen, Maria prepared herself a pot of oatmeal. Her appetite had gone the same way as her sleep, and food no longer held any pleasure for her. Still, she needed the sustenance. It would be a long day.

  The sun was starting to shine between the curtains as she sat down for her breakfast. Her thoughts drifted as she ate, and she found herself wondering how everything had gone so wrong. They had started with such noble ideals, this young nation of hers, but somewhere, they had lost their way.

  That was the nature of war, she guessed. The conflict between the Western Allied States and the United States had been long and bloody, only ending when the WAS ignited a nuclear fuse in Washington, DC. Millions of innocent lives had been lost, but with their leadership shattered, the USA had finally crumbled.

  After almost a decade of war, peace had returned to the American continent. Yet even then, there had been those who questioned if the cost had been worth the victory.

  Twenty years later, Maria knew the truth. In the end, the WAS had become the very evil it had sought to escape. And that evil had come for her family.

  She had been the first to discover the break-in. As she often did, Maria had dropped by her daughter’s house for breakfast. But instead of the usual warm greeting, she had found the front door hanging from its hinges, a house in darkness, and nothing but a pool of blood in the kitchen. Struggling to control her panic, Maria had stumbled to the phone and dialed the police.

  The operator assured her that help was on its way, but it was two hours before a single police officer appeared. By then, Maria’s breath was coming in panicked gasps and a sharp pain was beginning in her chest. She followed the officer through the house, watching as he made a cursory inspection of the kitchen. She was desperate to hear reassurance they would find her daughter and grandson, but the officer only shrugged, and told her they would follow up with the appropriate departments.

  Afterwards, Maria returned home in a state of shock, terrified for her family, unable to understand why the police had treated her so coldly. The next day she called the station again, then when that failed, her local Elector. She even tried a private investigator, but after listening politely to her story, they all gave her the same answer: there was nothing they could do.

  A week later, she had finally received her answer. A letter had arrived, addressed to ‘The parent(s) of Margaret Sanders’. She’d torn open the envelope and read the fateful words she had been dreading.

  Guilty of treason.

  Even now, those words still rang in her ears. She had tried to petition the government, to convince them of her daughter’s innocence, anything that might clear her name. Their response had been a stony silence. In desperation, she’d begged them to at least spare her grandson Chris’s life, to grant him a pardon as they had done for her. Why should she be spared for her age, she had argued, when Chris had barely had a chance to live?

  When even that failed, Maria had begged just to be able to see them, to have one last chance to hold her daughter and grandson in her arms.

  But the next time Maria had seen her daughter was during the New Year’s celebrations. Sitting alone in her living room, Maria had watched, listless, as the President gave his State of the Union Address. At the end, he had read out a string of names. She’d known it was coming, but Maria still winced when she heard her daughter’s name.

  Margaret Sanders.

  Tears spilled down Maria’s cheeks as her daughter walked out onto the stage. Margaret was bound hand and foot, chained to her fellow prisoners. Her arms and legs were as thin as bone, her face shrunken to a shadow of itself. Her eyes were distant as she stared into the camera, and her hair hung in greasy tufts, doing little to conceal the purple bruises that marked her face.

  Maria sank to the floor as the prisoners stopped in front of a line of soldiers. In desperation, she clung to the television, as though by will alone she might reach through and pull her daughter to safety. The President was still talking, his voice ringing with passion, but Maria didn’t hear a word of what he said. All she could do was watch as her daughter fell to her knees, as the soldiers lifted their rifles, as the roar of gunfire filled her living room.

  Groaning, Maria tore herself away from the memory. Wiping her eyes, she stood and placed the half-eaten bowl of oatmeal in the sink. As she scrubbed the dish clean, she forced her mind to other thoughts—to the one hope she still had left.

  Chris had escaped. It was all over the news. Men had even come to question her, but she had gleefully told them to go to hell. Even under the threat of arrest she’d refused to speak. They’d torn the house apart searching for him, but in the end they had left with nothing.

  No doubt they were watching her now, but she knew Chris wouldn’t be foolish enough to return. It just meant she had to be more careful with her own objectionable activities.

  Rage had consumed Maria after her daughter’s death. She had fed it, directed it, and discovered new purpose. Rather than wallow in her grief, she’d gone looking for others like her, for the relatives of dissidents, the families of those taken by the government. It had been a difficult search. Government policy was to arrest the immediate family of traitors, and it had been weeks before she heard the first whispers of a resistance group.

  The Madwomen.

  Even now, the name made Maria smile. She didn’t know who had coined it, but it couldn’t have been more appropriate. Out of respect for the generation who had fought in the American War, those over sixty-five were pardoned for the crimes of their relatives—even in the case of treason. In its arrogance, the government no longer saw Maria and her aging generation as a threat.

  One day soon, Maria hoped to prove them wrong.

  For now, their numbers were small, and they could not risk outright defiance. But
they could remind the people of their past, of the war they had fought for their freedom. They could wear the uniforms and commendations of their fallen heroes, and stand in protest against oppression.

  They could march.

  30

  “We are still gathering information, but it is with profound regret that I can now confirm twelve civilians have been killed in the worst terrorist attack our nation has seen in decades.”

  Chris stared at the television, watching the scenes around the courthouse unfold. He barely heard the woman’s words, until the camera flickered back to an image of her. She stood alone on the podium, her face somber as her hazel eyes stared into the camera. Blonde hair hung around her ears, untouched by grey. A splash of makeup added color to her prominent cheekbones, and mascara around her eyes gave her a predatory look. Chris shivered as he realized that they were now her prey.

  She wore a neatly tailored blue suit and an expensive pearl necklace, but there was nothing else to suggest this was the most powerful woman in the Western Allied States. But then, the Director of Domestic Affairs did not need elaborate decorations to remind people of her authority.

  “We can now reveal that, an hour ago, the four renegades we have been hunting launched a treasonous attack against the Supreme Court in San Francisco. Using black-market rifles, they attempted to execute the judges and attorneys they believe responsible for their convictions. Fortunately, the timely arrival of special forces brought an end to their attack. Through the bravery of our soldiers, one of the fugitives was killed. Unfortunately, the remaining three again escaped custody.”

  “Richard,” Jasmine groaned.

  “As a precaution, the President and I have decided to implement martial law across the city while we seek to apprehend these criminals. The army is being brought in to patrol the streets of San Francisco and aid in our search for these fugitives—”

  The old television gave an audible clunk as Chris flicked it off and tossed the remote down on the coffee table. It was the only thing in the room left intact. The rest of the apartment had been torn to shreds by the SWAT team that had ambushed them there just a day ago. The front door had been smashed off its hinges, the kitchen table was missing several legs, and broken glass from the shattered window covered the floor. They had done their best to prop the front door up in its frame, but there was nothing they could do about the icy breeze blowing through the window.

  “What now?” Sam asked in a hollow voice.

  He was seated on the floor beside the coffee table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He looked at Chris with haggard eyes, his expression partially concealed by his long hair. The broad expanse of his copper wings hung limply behind him. His muscular frame radiated exhaustion. Of all of them, Chris had expected Sam to be the most optimistic after escaping the clutches of Halt and his guards. But then, Chris could only imagine the horrors his friend must have suffered during his prolonged captivity.

  “We go back,” Jasmine replied as she paced the length of the room. “We find him, save him, like we did with you.”

  Her voice trembled, and Chris could sense her rage, lingering just beneath the surface. Her fists clenched, Jasmine reached the window and spun to face them, her emerald wings stretching out to either side of her. Her black hair fluttered in the breeze as her eyes travelled over each of them, daring them to defy her.

  “Jasmine…” Chris trailed off as she took a step towards him.

  “He’s alive.” She grated out her words between clenched teeth.

  Chris flinched from the fury in her eyes, but another voice rose to meet Jasmine’s challenge.

  “He’s dead, Jasmine,” Ashley said, her voice sucked dry of emotion. “After what Liz saw…he couldn’t have survived.”

  Ashley lay with her head in Sam’s lap, her amber eyes staring up at the ceiling. Her scarlet hair hung around her face in a disheveled mess, but her white feathered wings were tucked tightly against her back. She had always been thin, but now she was almost skeletal, her cheekbones standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. In the weeks they’d been separated, she seemed to have shrunk—not just in body, but in spirit. The fire in her eyes, that had given them all courage on their darkest days at the facility, was gone.

  Jasmine strode across the room until she stood over Ashley. “You survived.”

  Ashley didn’t move. “Barely.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “And sometimes I wished I hadn’t.”

  “There were too many, Jasmine.” Liz moved between the girl and Ashley, forcing her back. After what had happened in the courthouse, no one wanted to get too close to Liz. “I saw him, at the end. They all opened fire. It was too much, even for one of us.”

  Chris nodded his agreement. It had only taken one bullet to knock Ashley from the sky. Despite their enhanced strength and accelerated healing, she had been incapacitated for weeks. She still sported a red mark, where the wound had almost healed. But from what Liz said, Richard had taken a dozen bullets or more in his final stand. There was no coming back from that.

  Liz and Jasmine stood off against each another, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Liz’s curly black hair matched Jasmine’s, but her eyes were a crystal blue instead of brown. Staring into those eyes, Chris felt a yearning to go to her, to pull her into his arms and run his hands down her black feathers, to lift his fingers to her chin and kiss her. He imagined those big blue eyes staring up at him, alight with passion.

  Then he saw them changing, hardening to grey, and he felt again the pain of her touch. Shivering, Chris forced himself to look away before she saw his terror.

  “I don’t care,” Jasmine snarled. “He’s one of us, remember? We’re family—that’s what you said. We have to go back for him.”

  “Jasmine…” Liz’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Chris could see her pain.

  Jasmine snorted, her eyes flashing. “So that’s how it is.” She shook her head. “I guess he was right. We should have never gone looking for you. Maybe then he would be here instead of you.”

  With that, Jasmine spun on her heel and fled up the corridor. Chris watched her go—flinching as a door slammed—and then turned to the others. They had taken to the sky after fleeing the courthouse, disappearing into the winding hills and skyscrapers of San Francisco. Unprepared, their pursuers had never stood a chance of keeping up with them. They had taken refuge here, in Daniella’s apartment, in the hope it was the last place their hunters would look for them.

  When they’d finally reached the apartment, the six of them had entered cautiously, taking care not to make any noise in case Daniella or her mother were still home. But the house was silent, and it was only when Chris and Sam entered Daniella’s bedroom that they’d discovered what had become of the two women.

  Daniella had lain facedown beside her bed, her mother just a foot away. A trail of blood marked the path the woman had taken to try and reach her daughter. Both were long dead, murdered by the same government they had sought to protect, for the crime of seeing what Chris and the others truly were.

  Looking at them, Chris had struggled to find some emotion for their deaths. It seemed like he should feel something, that their deaths should mean something to him. But after watching the vile guards attack Liz, after witnessing Halt’s cruelty, after seeing Richard die, it felt as though he had nothing left to give.

  Now, Chris wondered how much time they had before someone noticed the women were missing and came looking for them. The apartment had been staged as a home invasion gone wrong—only a giant crack in the television had spared it from disappearing with the rest of the apartment’s valuables. Sooner rather than later, they would have to leave this place, though where they would go, he didn’t know.

  After the news broadcast they’d just seen, nowhere would be safe. They were terrorists now, the instigators of a terrible attack on innocent civilians. Before, a few people might have recognized them from the fugitive reports, but now their faces would be known t
o everyone in the country.

  “What about…my brother?” a small voice croaked.

  Chris looked across to where Mira sat on the couch, her grey wings wrapped around her tiny body. She had hardly spoken since fleeing the courthouse, but now she sat up and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Mira,” Liz whispered as she sat beside the girl. She rubbed her back over her shirt, taking care not to touch skin. “We don’t know where he went.”

  The girl’s lip trembled, but she nodded. “They took him from me,” she whispered. “I want to make them hurt.”

  On the floor, Sam chuckled. “Where did you find this girl, Chris?”

  Chris smiled. “Don’t worry, Mira,” he said, “we will. But first, we need to rest.”

  Mira nodded. She stood and jumped down from the couch and disappeared up the corridor without another word. Chris watched her go, recalling what Sam had told them after the courthouse.

  Did you know she was Chead?

  It explained everything: how she had known the Chead that had escaped the facility, that Hecate was her brother, though he did not remember her. Halt must have separated them, used her to test whether Doctor Fallow’s virus could supersede the Chead virus. It appeared they had succeeded—for the most part.

  Chris shivered, recalling Liz’s transformation, how she had almost been lost to the Chead rage. Somehow, Ashley had managed to call her back, though Chris feared…

  “Does she give anyone else the creeps?” Sam murmured. He was still staring down the hallway after Mira. “Like, maybe we shouldn’t close our eyes around her…”

  “Afraid of a little girl, Sam?” A wry smile twisted Liz’s lips.

  “Little girl or no, she used to be Chead,” Sam argued.

  “Not anymore,” Chris said, a little too sharply.