by David Estes
Minda and Benson get up together and then help Janice. “Okay,” Minda says. “Stick to the plan. I go first, Janice in the middle, and Benson guarding the rear. Whatever happens, we protect the key.”
To the death, Benson adds in his head, which is how Minda said it a week ago when she first took him through the plan. He agreed then and he agrees now. Protecting his mother is the priority now for so many reasons.
They dodge and slalom around the various objects scattered on the floor, trying not to trip. Janice kicks something, and when Minda trains her flashlight on it, a roll of toilet paper rolls away, unraveling a white carpet behind it.
Reaching the door, Minda waits a moment as thunderous footfalls stomp past. There are shouts and cries of “Full evac!” and other indistinguishable orders. “No matter what, we don’t stop,” Minda says. “Everyone will be on the move and we’ll blend in if we keep moving.”
Benson nods and looks at his mother to confirm her understanding. “Move out,” Janice says. And then she starts reciting a series of seemingly random letters and numbers. The key, he realizes. It’s an incredibly long and convoluted password, and he can’t help but be impressed by her ability to remember it. Despite the stress and strain her brain has been subject to in the last ten years, his mother is still in there somewhere, still the intelligent, funny, somewhat quirky woman who raised him.
Minda eases the door open and peeks out, motioning for them to follow her. She starts at a brisk walk, but quickly speeds to a trot. Both he and Minda know the diagram of the building by heart, and he thinks Janice does too. Two of them can fall, but not the third. Not his mother.
A stampede of heavily armed Hunters storm from a hallway to the right, but turn away from them, running in the other direction. They don’t look back. From their perspective, the threat is an outward one.
Minda turns right, down the passage from which the agents emerged. Her flashlight dances along the floor, bouncing with each step. They’re close now. They make a left and a short corridor ends at a final door marked Control Room. Authorized Personnel Only.
As expected, the door is locked. Benson’s father had informed them it would be, no matter what. It runs on independent power, separate from the rest of the network. He also instructed them on how to override the mechanism. But it’s his father’s last warning that worries him now. “The Control Room will be protected. Even if the building itself is collapsing, someone will be inside, fully prepared to die guarding it.” Originally the plan had been for Michael Kelly to use his authority as Head of Pop Con to breach the room and use the key to take down the system. They’ll have to use a less subtle approach.
Minda punches in the overrides and the lock clicks open. She looks at Benson and he’s glad to see the familiar steel in her eyes. Even if he shouldn’t, he feels safe with her on his side. If anyone can help his mother survive this, it’s her. She offers him a small, knowing smile and then pushes inside.
~~~
Michael Kelly hurtles over the president’s desk with reckless abandon. President Ford Jr isn’t ready for the sudden attack, but he recovers quickly, diving to the left as Michael’s fist glances off his jaw. His gun goes off, ripping through the ceiling and raining plaster around them.
As he lands hard on the leader of the free world, Michael’s body is screaming in pain, but he doesn’t care, raining blows into the midsection with one fist while grappling with the president’s wrist with the other hand, trying to wrench the gun away. Another wild shot rings out as the heavy beat of distant thunder rolls across the sky.
Michael barely registers either sound, so intense is his focus. He knows he’s running out of time. Whoever’s watching this room will be here any second.
As if in response to his thoughts, he hears a door open. Although he’s surprised not to hear a shout or the patter of frantic footsteps across the office’s hardwood floor, he doesn’t take the time to think about it, using his tongue to work the dispersal device past his teeth and between his lips while continuing to pin the president’s gun hand to the floor.
He lands two more punches and then reaches for the pin-like device, risking some of the poison on his lips when he removes the cap while still holding it in his mouth.
“That’s enough, Michael,” a familiar, but impossible, voice says.
The cap slips from Michael’s fingers as both he and the president cease their struggle to look at the owner of the voice.
Michael frowns when he sees the man holding the gun. He’s never met him, and yet…that voice…
“You—you—impossible,” President Ford says, awe in his tone.
“Then you know who I am?” the man says.
Michael frowns, searching the man’s age-worn face for some hint of his identity. Nothing. He’s a stranger with the voice of a dead man.
“My brother,” the president says. “Terrence. You’re alive. But how?”
Michael’s heart skips a beat. This can’t possibly be Terrence Ford. He doesn’t look anything like the man, despite the fact that his voice is like a ghost from the past.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” the man says. “You two certainly tried your best to kill me after my wife’s unauthorized birth. Of course, the fact that I fooled you didn’t save the lives of my daughter or wife.”
Michael can hardly believe it, and yet he knows it’s true. This man is the Destroyer’s father, the president’s brother, the father of the one and only Slip that he was ever involved in killing during his tenure at Pop Con. The man who changed his face to protect his brother’s reputation and then died on a rooftop protecting his illegal daughter.
Or at least that’s what Michael thought.
“Mr. Michael Kelly. You look surprised. The man you killed was a friend of mine. He would watch my daughter from time to time, so I could scrounge around for food. I would’ve expected a little more compassion out of you, considering our shared situations, but all you seem to care about is your own illegal child.”
“Benson,” Michael breathes.
“Yeah, I’ve met him. We never got along that well, perhaps because I knew he was yours the whole time.”
“You met Benson? How?”
The man laughs. “I’m no longer scrounging for food. I have resources. I have men and women at my disposal, willing to sacrifice themselves for a greater cause. Giving their lives to give the great gift of Life to others. Can you guess now or do you need some more obvious hints?”
Although Michael has the answer, it’s President Ford who speaks it first. “Jarrod,” he says. “You’re the Lifer leader? But we already caught him. We killed him.”
“It was all a ploy. We had to give you someone so you’d relax a bit. We needed that concert to move forward as scheduled. And don’t sound so surprised. It was the pair of you that made me who I am. If not for your sins, I might’ve taken my own life all those years ago. But instead, my hate for you was stronger than my grief for my family and gave me something to live for. And something to fight for.”
“You think taking the lives of innocents is the way to fight?” the president says. “You’re a terrorist, Brother, nothing more.”
“With all the blood on your hands, I’d say that’s a little hypocritical of you.”
Michael notices the president’s furtive glances at the door, as if expecting the cavalry to arrive any second.
Noticing his brother’s eye movements, Jarrod says, “No one’s coming. They’re all dead. I killed them. I’ve gotten quite good at that sort of thing.”
Thunder continues to roll across the sky, although Michael thought the night was relatively clear. A storm must’ve moved in unexpectedly.
Jarrod/Terrence cups a hand to his ear. “Ahh, the sound of retribution,” he says.
Michael listens to the thunder, finally noticing something strange about the sound. It’s more like fireworks. Or…explosions.
“What did you do?” he accuses, releasing the president. But he knows. Destroying Pop Con has been the Lifer’s goal
from day one, and Michael’s entire family is there, led by his very own pigheaded plan like lambs to the slaughter. We needed that concert to move forward as scheduled. A mix of fear and anger blooming in his chest, Michael doesn’t care about the gun in his face or the gun held by President Ford, which is now aimed at him from the side. Because both of these men are murderers, like him, and they all deserve to die together. He plucks the pin from his mouth, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
“I don’t think so,” Jarrod says, cocking his weapon. “My brother is mine. But you first.”
Michael’s life doesn’t flash before his eyes and time doesn’t slow down, but he does see his family in his mind’s eye. Not the way they are, but how they should’ve been. If the world was different. A mom and dad who loves their children. Twin brothers who are best friends one minute and worst enemies the next. Shared history and experiences, and deep unconditional love for one another. And when Michael blinks he realizes that all that is true. The perfect image he’s created is real. Not even Pop Con could prevent his family from becoming who they were always meant to be.
As Jarrod’s knuckles turn white and he slowly pulls the trigger, Michael knows he’s ready. He’s achieved what he always wanted to. He’s given his family a life. Not a perfect one, but one together, regardless of what happens tonight.
Out of nowhere, there’s a snarl and a bark and a white ball of fury attaches itself to Jarrod’s wrist a split-second before he pulls the trigger. A shot rings out, but it’s somewhere over Michael’s head, and he watches in awe as Lola clamps down on Jarrod’s arm, shaking her head from side to side as he tries to dislodge her. “Damn dog,” Jarrod mutters.
President Ford grabs Michael’s arm, and when he turns, his former friend is staring at the pin between his fingers. The president’s chin lifts and his eyes meet Michael’s. The look Jeremy Ford offers is an unexpected one: surrender. And then he turns and shoots his brother in the chest, the sound deafening. Although shocked, Michael reacts instantly, shoving the pin deep into the president’s flesh, just south of his neck.
The president drops the gun and looks at him with wild eyes, foam already bubbling from his lips. His body convulses three times and then goes still.
Disgusted, Michael rolls away, turning his attention to Terrence, who’s on his knees, clutching his chest, blood bubbling between his fingers. His plastic face is stark white, his lips parted slightly. Lola has backed off, but continues to bark at him. He gasps, struggling to breathe, but then manages to speak. “If you have any conscience left, change this world, my old friend.”
When he collapses it’s with an unquestionable finality that Michael feels deep in his chest.
An hour later, government officials from the city find him buried under the desk sobbing into his hands, consoled only by a BotDog named Lola, licking away his tears one by one as they fall.
They quietly take him into custody and begin the investigation into the president’s assassination.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Geoffrey is still pressing the button, over and over and over, wanting his pain to end, wanting to disappear, wanting to forget his life and his sister and go somewhere else, when Check pries the detonator from his grip. Geoffrey grabs at the wires, trying to shove them under his bulky shirt, trying to connect them, but Rod gently pulls them away, speaking in a hushed voice.
“Shh, little man. It’s over. It’s over.”
Somewhere in the distance, a series of explosions rock the city, BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!, while Geoffrey clings to his friends and soaks their shirts with his tears.
~~~
The Control Room glows with eerie red light. Along the right-hand side is a massive holo-screen, full of boxes with various status reports and other information that means little to Benson. Various controls are mounted on a long desk that runs the length of the screen. Five empty chairs sit at haphazard angles to each other, abandoned.
His father was wrong, he realizes. Even those who were meant to stay to the bitter end abandoned ship when the earth started shaking. He lets out a deep breath, relieved that the hardest part of the mission has suddenly become the easiest. Punch in the codes and get out.
“Mom,” Benson says.
“The key,” she answers, smiling and stepping inside.
“You’re up,” he confirms.
As Minda shows her where to sit and instructs her on what she needs to do, Benson scans the opposite half of the small room. Five large black rectangular servers take up the entirety of the back wall. They cast building-like shadows across the floor, spilling to Benson’s feet.
Another shadow appears, but this one is moving and looks like a mutated person with four arms, four legs, and two heads. Before Benson can raise his gun, a voice says, “Drop it.”
He hesitates, glancing at Minda, who’s on her feet, standing in front of Janice forming a human shield. A man steps from the shadows, one arm cinched around the neck of another man, a gun to his head.
“SamAdams,” Benson says, immediately recognizing the inner member of the consortium who saved them from certain death once before while they hid in an igloo on a snowfield.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I came here to try to provide cover for you, but he got here first.”
Benson recognizes the other man, too. Charles Boggs, the interim Head of Pop Con and tenured Crow boss. “Enough chit chat,” Boggs says. “Drop your weapons or I’ll blow his freaking head off.”
Benson doesn’t want anyone else to die on his behalf, but he also knows he can’t drop his gun. Not when his mother is speaking the key slowly into some sort of microphone, not when her life is at stake, as well as the success of a mission so important it dwarfs the value of any of their individual lives.
“Shirley,” SamAdams says, using the first part of Minda’s old codename. “Cut off the arm to save the person.”
“Shut your mouth,” Boggs orders, but Minda’s already nodding, aiming her gun at her friend, and pulling the trigger.
~~~
Harrison swears the labyrinthine corridors of the Pop Con building are part of some mad scientist’s experimental maze where the mouse is never supposed to find the cheese. Or maybe he just didn’t pay enough attention during the planning sessions, which is probably because his and Destiny’s part of the plan was supposedly confined to distractions and comedic relief. Instead, they’re now part of the rescue squad, although he suspects they’ve gotten themselves so lost they’ll need someone to rescue them.
At least the ground isn’t shaking anymore. Even on a hoverboard and hoverskates, the shaking floors were so vertiginous that they had to stop a few times and cling to each other for dear life.
Suddenly Destiny races ahead of him, shouting “This way!” just as the bang! of a gunshot rings out from the exact direction she’s heading.
When they turn the corner, a large door stands wide open and Harrison watches a body collapse to the floor. As he races forward, hot on Destiny’s heels, more gunshots shatter the silence and someone cries out in pain. Ahead of him, Destiny bashes into someone, and he realizes it’s Benson. As Harrison fills the space just behind them, a bullet whistles past his ear, narrowly missing. He glances left to find the man who was once a father to him clutching his abdomen and aiming his gun. Not at Harrison, nor at Benson and Destiny, who are in a pile on the floor, nor at Minda, who lies motionless nearby, but at a smallish woman hunched over a control panel, murmuring a series of letters and numbers.
His mother.
Harrison shoots forward, and leans back all the way, using a reckless and difficult maneuver he and his friends used to occasionally attempt at the end of hoverball practice just for the hell of it. Now he does it because he doesn’t know what else to do.
As he falls, his board flips up, still attached magnetically to his shoes. He feels more than hears the thud of the barrage of bullets that smash into the bottom of the hoverboard, the impacts punctuated by the blasts in his ears. The force of th
e blows knocks his heels over his head and he spins, twisting in midair to try to get control, face planting hard between Minda’s fallen form and the Benson/Destiny pileup.
Charles Boggs’s gun clicks, his ammo expired, and he reaches for another clip.
There’s ringing in Harrison’s ears and his leg is bent awkwardly beneath him, screaming with pain. He thinks it might be broken, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing the back of one of the chairs and attempting to drag himself to his feet, the board scraping the floor.
Boggs snaps the clip in place and lifts the gun and Harrison knows he doesn’t have enough left in the tank to stop him, but then—
Boom!
There’s a flash of flame from near the ground and Boggs is twisted around by the impact as the slug from Benson’s gun rocks him back. His gun goes flying, flipping end over end and bouncing off of one of the large black servers.
In the background, Janice says, “…D46K. Key confirmed.”
Key confirmed, the computer drones. Fingerprint confirmed. Retinal signature accepted. Program modification accepted. Initializing transfer. Transfer in progress. Transfer to be completed in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…transfer complooooooooohhhhhttttttttttttt
And just like that, the giant holo-screen and all the flashing lights on the control panel wink out.
Harrison throws his head back and screams at the ceiling in victory.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
If the right kind of care is received, most physical wounds will heal. Benson knows this. He’s counting on this. Harrison’s broken leg, now in a cast, will stitch itself back together and allow him to run and hoverboard and be an athlete again. After two emergency surgeries, Minda’s through-and-through bullet wound will close off and repair itself, and Benson suspects she’ll be kicking ass and taking names soon enough. If not for Simon, who knocked out a guard, stole his keycard, and showed up to carry her out, things might’ve been different for her, but that’s what friends are for. Even good old SamAdams, whose real name, Benson has recently learned, is Devon McDermott, made it through thanks to the pinpoint accuracy of Minda’s flesh-wound shot to his leg. Benson’s pretty sure he’d meant for her to kill him to save the world, but she found a way to save him and save the world.
