by Tom Abrahams
“She’s my asset,” said Frederick.
“Then tell her to speak.”
Frederick said nothing.
“I can give you Graham,” Li said.
“Graham?” Frederick asked. “The head of their intelligence?”
“He’s their top enforcer. He knows everything there is to know about the Tic, about you…”
The last two words hung in the dry air between them. They seemed to echo, to repeat themselves with an increasing volume in Archibald’s head.
About you. About you. About YOU.
Archibald was close enough to Li to smell the soap she’d used to wash herself. He chuckled. It was a throaty chuckle, the kind meant to tell others he didn’t find them funny.
“I’ll bite,” he said. “How will you do that? We’ve been trying to take him into custody for years. Neither Frederick nor I have come close. We don’t even know what he looks like. How could you bring us him?”
“I know how they work,” she said. “After I got out of their hellhole, they’ll be back to find out how. Graham will be there. He could be there now.”
“You want to go back to the place where they held you?” asked Frederick. “Now?”
“Give me a team,” she said. “We’ll go back. We’ll take him alive.”
“I don’t think so,” said Frederick. “Not a good idea.”
“How many men?” asked Archibald.
Now the tables were turned. Archibald was on her side and Frederick was the one resisting.
“Five? Six? Ten? Whatever you can spare,” Li said.
Archibald studied her, then looked up at Frederick. “We were planning a follow-up raid, regardless. We know there’s intelligence to gather there.”
“We should have done it when we rescued her,” said Frederick. “Now we could be stepping into a hornet’s nest. We could start a war with the Tic. We don’t need that. We should wait.”
Archibald stood. He put his hands behind his back and strolled around his desk, his back to the others. He looked at the tapestries, appreciating their colors. They were mostly blue, red, and what had once been white. The silk threads were woven with shades of orange, green, gold, and silver.
“You know,” he said, facing the wall, “there were originally ninety scenes in the tapestries. Ninety. It took decades of man-hours to create them.”
He tilted his head back to scan the top portion of the twenty-foot-high hangings. He sighed and motioned to them with a wave of his hand. “All these centuries later, they have survived. They have withstood shifts in economy, and environment, and power. They have survived because those before me had the foresight to do what was necessary to save them from destruction. Even as their own empires fell, and they reached their own apocalyptic ends, this masterpiece lived and was reborn into a new home.”
He turned on his heels to face Frederick and Li. He touched the sides of his irregular nose with his thumb and forefinger. He ran them up and down the bridge, recalling the moments that had disfigured him and left him hardened.
“I will not be one of those who meet his own end because I did not act,” he said, leveling his attention on Frederick. “Commander Guilfoyle has put the TMF in my control. I can use the Marines as I see fit. And I see fit to send them with your little spy. Let her prove herself, Frederick. If she’s who you believe her to be, then we’ve nothing to fear.”
Chapter Thirteen
Zeke emerged from the tunnel. His boots crunched on the coarse dirt in the back alley. He’d stepped from the darkness of that tunnel and into the light of day countless times. This was different.
It was early morning, and the sun was rising, warming his cheeks. The bustle of the day had yet to begin.
His apartment building stood one hundred yards away. It looked familiar and foreign to him all at once. He motioned to his comrades, and they all began the march along a dusty street toward the building. This was once a warehouse district. So, unlike much of the city, which had crumbled during the early days of the protectorate before being rebuilt, this part remained what it had been before the planet’s water dried up.
The corners of the brick buildings, mostly two and three stories, were chipped or missing pieces. The roofs were patchwork, most of the windows shattered, the curtains blowing in and out.
On the second floor of the building closest to Zeke’s, a wrinkled man sat in the window, one leg dangling along the facade. His heel scraped along the brick as he kicked his foot repeatedly like a pendulum. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the cigarette in his hand. Zeke recognized the man as his neighbor, but with his new duds and the handkerchief pulled over half of his face, he was certain the man couldn’t know who he was.
Uriel waved at the onlooker. He lifted the cigarette, took a long pull, and it glowed red at the end. He exhaled through his nose, and streams of smoke plumed away from him.
He was like a human gargoyle, sitting watch over those who came close. His eyes, dark and hidden beneath thick, heavy lids, followed them as they passed. He flicked the butt with his thumb, and a shower of ash drifted from his perch.
Zeke stopped in front of his apartment building. He stood in the faded parking space where he’d long kept his Plymouth. His gaze moved to the building itself. The red brick was washed out and covered with dust. Unlike the other buildings, his had glass in the windows.
He motioned with his chin. “Second floor. Up the stairs and to the right.”
“You think she’s in there?” asked Uriel.
He stared at the windows of what used to be his apartment. The glass was black. It was dark inside the home. No lights. Nothing to give him any sense that Li was there, that the Tic hadn’t taken her. Still, he had to check.
Zeke shook his head. “No. But it’s the best place to start.”
Gabe nudged Zeke with his shoulder. “We gonna face any resistance in there?”
“What do you mean?” asked Zeke.
“The Tic. Maybe they’re guarding the place?”
“Not if they think I’m dead,” Zeke responded.
“We need to be ready,” said Gabe.
He slung his rifle across his back and pulled his black rattan sticks free of the pouch he carried on his side. He clacked them together then spun them in his hands, twirling them among his fingers.
Uriel pulled free the magazine in her M27 and shoved a fresh one into place. Phil removed a weapon from his bag that Zeke didn’t recognize.
It was a cylindrical spiked ball attached to a handle by a foot-long chain. The spiked ball looked like hammered steel. The chain was a different metal. The handle was wooden with carved finger grips.
“Where did you get that?” asked Zeke.
“This ole thing?” Phil said. “Pedro gave it to me.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a flail,” said Phil. “But it’s not your average medieval weapon. It’s got a little more punch.”
“Same with your sticks?” Zeke asked Gabe. He’d first seen them when they were packing up to leave Pedro’s Cantina.
“They’re called Escrimas,” said Gabe. He touched the handle of the blade at his waist. “And yes. Same with the knife. Gifts from Pedro, they do special things. These are good for close combat, tight quarters. We don’t need to be shooting off automatic rounds inside an apartment building.”
Uriel scowled and mocked him by affecting his voice. “We don’t need to be shooting off automatic rounds.”
Zeke addressed Uriel. “What did you get?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t need anything. I’m a woman. I’m special as is.”
Zeke smirked. He drew his revolver and adjusted his grip. “Let’s go.”
He climbed the concrete stairs to a narrow landing at the front door. He turned the handle, pushed with his shoulder, and shoved. The door opened, its hinges responding with high-pitched creaks; then it banged against a doorstop. It rattled but stayed open enough for Zeke to lead his team into the dimly lit and narrow entry vestibule on the
first floor.
The walls were yellow-tinged plaster veined with foundation cracks. The ceiling, also plaster, was low. It made the entry feel even smaller than it was. Recessed floodlights cast artificial light into the space, illuminating it enough to offer a dingy hue across the room. The floors were wood planks bearing the scratches and dents of wear and were absent finish or gloss.
He nodded at the trio and moved to the stairs.
Uriel was behind him, carrying her M27 at the ready with the muzzle pointed down. Gabe was next, sticks in hand. Phil brought up the rear, holding the flail’s handle in one hand and the spiked ball in the other. The chain was taut between them.
Zeke started up the second flight. One step at a time, he moved closer to his floor, to the last place he’d seen Li.
He reached the second floor and crossed the narrow hallway to his door. Room 22. The numbers painted on the door were black and faded. He checked over his shoulder at his team. They were huddled behind him. Gabe stood watch, checking down the stairs. Phil looked toward the window at the end of the hall thirty feet away.
“You okay?” asked Uriel, perhaps sensing Zeke’s apprehension.
“Yeah,” he said.
He wiped his palms on his pants and reached for the knob. The brass fixture with a dent along its side was cold against his palm. He twisted it to the right. His heart thumped faster, harder in his chest. His mouth was drier than normal. He inhaled through his nose, the dry air suffocating, then pushed the door inward. As he opened it, the door swung oddly on its broken hinges. The door was splintered at its side and threatened to pull away from the jamb altogether. He stepped past it and over the shards of mahogany that littered the floor near the entrance.
The familiar smell of home washed over him as he stepped into the apartment. It was a mix of dust and scented candle wax. The furniture was as he’d left it, but Li’s and his trinkets were tipped over, out of place, broken. One of the sheers on the window that overlooked the street below was torn, and books were strewn across the floor.
He picked up a thick hardcover by Homer and set it back on the shelf next to a collection of essays by Jonathan Swift. He ran his fingers along the spine of a title he’d never read called Animal Farm. Li had urged him to read it. It was among her favorites, as it was among the books forbidden in the protectorate.
They were her books. How had she gotten them? A wave of regret washed through him. He’d never asked her about them even though they were contraband. Maybe he’d never asked because he wasn’t one to judge people’s proclivities. After all, Zeke himself was a bootlegger who’d spent his life flouting the law.
He moved past the pile, stepping over a thin leaflet titled A Modest Proposal, and maneuvered his way to the bedroom.
The nightstand was open, as was the biometric safe. The 9mm handgun Li had kept for protection was gone. There was a sprinkling of plaster on the floor beside the bed. The sheets were wrinkled, the comforter a heap on one side of the mattress.
Zeke knelt, set his revolver on the nightstand, and leaned forward onto the bed. He gripped the sheets with his hands, balling the cotton into his fists and burying his face in them. He inhaled deeply, and he smelled her. Memories of her flooded his mind, a slideshow of their life together flitted from one scene to the next. Her eyes, her smile, her fingers running through her hair. He could feel her hands on him and his on her, their bodies connected, their hot breath on each other.
Uriel’s hand touched his back, and he flinched. She retreated and apologized for startling him.
Zeke lifted his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“She’s not here,” said Gabe. “But it’s obvious there was a struggle. They took her.” Gabe stood at the window next to the torn curtain, his attention on the street below.
“There’s no blood,” Phil said. “That’s a good sign.”
“Little victories, right?” said Zeke. He stood and brushed off his pants. He tugged on his buckle, tucked in his shirt, and retrieved the revolver from the nightstand.
“Where to next?” asked Uriel. “Where could she be?”
“There are a few places,” said Zeke. “I know the most likely. It’s close to the government buildings.”
“The two tall ones we saw when we were driving in from the Badlands?” asked Phil.
“Yeah,” said Zeke. “We can walk from here.”
“Not sure about that,” said Gabe. He was looking out the window. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
“Seriously?” asked Uriel. She moved to the window. Phil joined her.
Zeke approached them and saw what they did. The human gargoyle had ratted them out. He was in the middle of the street, cigarette in hand, pointing up at them. Alongside him were a half-dozen men Zeke recognized. He cursed under his breath.
“You know them?” asked Gabe.
“Yeah,” said Zeke. “They’re Tic enforcers. There’s a good chance they’re the same ones who took Li.”
Gabe stepped away from the window, and he and Phil exchanged knowing looks. Both readied their weapons.
“There’s no going around them,” said Phil. “Looks like we’re gonna have to go through them.”
Uriel returned to the bedroom, slid the M27 under the bedframe, and marched back into the confines of the living area. She grabbed an elbow and pulled it toward her, stretching her triceps. She repeated the motion with her other arm and twisted her neck from side to side. Then she hopped on the balls of her feet.
“What are you doing?” asked Zeke.
“Getting ready,” she said. “Not enough space for gunfire. It’s gonna get dirty, Zeke.”
Zeke glanced out the window just as the last of the men disappeared from view. They were in the building now. He could hear their footsteps booming up the staircase.
Phil moved to one side of the open door. Gabe positioned himself on the other. They braced themselves.
Uriel stood next to Zeke and eyed his revolver. “Might want to take aim, big boy,” she said. “You’ll get one shot and then it’s gonna be chaos.”
Zeke lifted the revolver, stepped closer to the door to better direct the pulse, and braced himself.
The first man appeared in the doorway. A second was beside him. They were armed. It didn’t matter.
Zeke applied pressure to the trigger. The gun kicked and a blast of energy shot forward. The displacement of air filled the room with the whoomp of a low pulse, and Zeke was lifted and thrown back until he hit a wall separating the living area from the kitchen. The back of his head slapped against the plaster, and a burst of white light filled his vision. Air surged from his lungs, and he slumped to the floor, gasping for breath.
He rolled onto his knees, holding the cold and glowing revolver. His world swimming, he struggled to his feet. What he saw happening in front of him didn’t seem real.
Gabe was engaged with two of the Tics, fighting each one with a stick. The men were no match for his speed and skill. The weapons were an extension of him. They spun and twirled in his hands, and as the weapons hit the men, they glowed blue and emitted an electric shock. The men twitched and shuddered, their eyes wide with fear and shock, their faces contorted with pain. Gabe was unfazed by their failed counterattacks. He didn’t even appear winded. He advanced on the men, attacking with a fluid intensity that seemed dispassionate.
Equally as skilled, Phil measured the weight of the flail in his hand, stalking his opponent. When the man made a move to raise his gun, Phil struck. With a flick of his powerful wrist and a whip of the grip, the flail swung back and then shot forward.
It struck the target in the shoulder, eliciting a squeal of pain. The man fired an errant shot before he dropped his gun and retreated a step. But Phil was on him again. He whipped the flail across his body, the chain unspooled, and the spiked ball hit its mark again. It slapped into the side of the man’s face, cracking against his jaw, glowing a familiar blue when it connected. The man shuddered and jerked as he fel
l to the side and slumped to the floor unconscious.
Phil and Gabe turned to help Uriel. She didn’t need it. She was on the floor, her legs wrapped tightly around the neck of her opponent. The man’s red face was shifting to purple. His nostrils flared. He choked for air. But his movements only worsened his predicament.
Then Zeke noticed something odd about Uriel. The grit of her teeth and the strain of her muscles was frightening enough. But it was her tattoos that caught his attention.
They glowed the same shade of electric blue as the flail, the sticks, and his revolver. The color pulsed, making the tattoos appear three-dimensional and lifting from her skin to take their own form.
The man caught in her constrictive vise struggled for a moment more. Spittle sprayed from his lips. Then his muscles relaxed, and he slumped against her. She gave one last flexing squeeze and released him. Rolling onto her side, the blue glow dimmed with each successive pulse. Then it was gone, and the ink that decorated her skin returned to normal.
The room was silent save Zeke’s own wheezing breaths. He bent over at his waist, hands on his knees, and worked to slow his heart rate. His temples throbbed.
“I think we need to move on,” said Phil. He adjusted his hat, tucking a curl under the hatband. “There’s nothing here. We’re sitting ducks if we stay.”
“I wouldn’t say you’re sitting anything,” said Zeke, gawking at the bodies. “You’re killing machines.”
“You say the sweetest things,” said Uriel. She adjusted her top and tugged on her ponytail. “Such a gentleman.”
He raised the revolver and waggled it back and forth. “What’s with the glow?” he asked and motioned to the others. “My gun, your flail, your sticks, and…your…body? I mean, your tattoos. They freaking lit up like one of those sea creatures you read about in books.”
“You read?” asked Uriel. “Zeke is a gentleman and a scholar. I’m so impressed.”
Zeke scowled. “Seriously. What do they call it? Bioluminous?”
“Something like that,” said Gabe. “We can explain this stuff later. For now, understand that we need to finish what we came here to do. Let’s find your woman and—”
