by S. S. Segran
His head throbbing, he forced himself up, trying to regain his bearings. He blinked through the rain and blood, teeth clenched, and sprinted unsteadily across the fairway until he reached the other side of the course. His abilities appeared and disappeared of their own accord, throwing him off balance every twenty or thirty feet.
Another roar surged from the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights, chilling Jag more than the cold, lacerating rain. It wasn’t the sound of an ATV or motorcycle.
Marauders.
He pushed on. Ahead, an extravagant three-floor clubhouse came into view. Strangely, the only light he could see from outside was a chandelier in the lobby. He headed towards it and shoved past the glass entrance. It was quiet inside, lifeless.
He locked the door then assessed his surroundings frantically, unsure which direction to take. Two marble staircases curved upward on either side of the polished lobby, and, with the dim chandelier above, every shadow was a creature lurking.
A loud thunk startled him. He snapped around. Three sinewy black beasts threw themselves at the fortified glass doors, sulfur eyes glowing. Cracks grew with each impact. Jag didn’t stop to get a closer look at the Marauders. He had seen them once, more than a year ago, and the memory was forever etched in his mind. They’d left blood in their wake that still haunted the farthest reaches of his nightmares.
He fled through the empty clubhouse, soaked and dirty. The sound of shattering glass filled the building seconds later, followed by guttural braying as the beasts tracked his scent. Jag’s stomach roiled.
He took a right, then a left, then another left and a second right. Without a clue where he was going, he ended up in the resort’s pitch-black kitchen. He flicked on the lights and flung the door shut behind him, then pushed an industrial ice machine against it. Taking a few steps back, he labored to catch his breath in the peace and quiet.
Okay, think, think. He craned his head back, examining the ceiling. A vent. I should climb into—
A resounding bang shook the blocked door. Then a second bang, and another, and another. Jag ran his hands through his damp hair. Marauders trying to break through, I’m stuck with powers I can’t rely on, and I have no idea where I am. Perfect.
He searched for a vent but they were all out of reach, away from counters he could climb. He tried to leap for them but his abilities refused to cooperate. Treading deeper, he found an exit at the back of the L-shaped kitchen. As he reached to open it, he realized the racket by the other door had ceased.
Hoping it meant the beasts had given up, he stepped through the exit and out onto a loading dock. Jumping down from the ledge, he emerged again into the rain and mist to cross the resort’s service lane. A curious sound hit his ears as he cautiously moved forward. On his eighth step the mist dispersed slightly and, through the downpour, he saw his foot hanging over empty space. He scrambled back with a cry, heart jackhammering in his throat. Almost walked off a freakin’ cliff!
Steadying himself, he inched toward the lip of the seventy-foot drop. In the gloom below, turbulent waves crashed against the side of the rocky precipice. He swallowed. That was way too close. Where am I?
He peered around, trying to get a feel for his situation behind the long structure. Over the noise of the storm and the waves was a rumble of distant thunder.
Jag froze.
No. Not thunder.
He slowly looked to his left. Two gleaming yellow eyes pierced the night, five feet above the ground. The Marauder skulked forward with smug ease, gaze locked on its target, muscled body rippling with energy that could be instantly unleashed. It drew its tongue over its jaws in a predatory smile, revealing ivory incisors the length of Jag’s palm.
Jag crept away, desperately trying to spur his abilities back into action. Guttural chuffing from his right made him drop into a reflexive crouch. A second Marauder closed in from his other side. The noises it made . . . it was as if the beast was laughing at him. Goosebumps raced up Jag’s bare arms.
He glanced behind him at the open exit he’d stepped out from. As he decided to make a run for it, a shadow appeared in the doorway, burly limbs stiff and short hackles raised. Jag pursed his lips, scanning his immediate vicinity for anything he could use as a weapon.
Before either he or the Marauders made a move, the sound of heavy, spinning blades cut through the rain. Moments later, a glistening helicopter ascended into view just beyond the cliff edge, its powerful searchlight shining down on Jag. He reached for his abilities again but still they did not respond to his call.
He shouted wordlessly, fear igniting his fury. Knowing he didn’t have any other choice apart from death or surrender, he glared up at the chopper, hands raised above his head. The next thing he felt was a sharp pain in his chest. His knees buckled and he toppled to the ground, slipping into blackness.
When Jag came to, he was back in his cell—the room called the CUBE—strapped to a reclined chair like that in a dentist’s office. Overhead, the ceiling displayed its usual scenery of a pretty sky and floating clouds. The silicone band circling his head extended down the back of his neck to wrap around his throat like a collar. It was an inhibitor, a device that suppressed special abilities without the use of drugs. Jag wanted to rip it off and slam it into the screen above him.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
As Jag tried to search for the source of the voice, the back of the seat raised to a sitting position. When he saw the regal man in a royal purple tunic standing by his feet, he narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess. I’m gonna be drawn and quartered as punishment for breaking out?”
The man seemed genuinely surprised by the notion. “Medieval punishments were as refined as they were barbaric. Why would you think I’d punish you so? I’m not inclined to such cruelty.”
Jag sniffed the air. “Hey, you smell that? We must be near a farm, because that’s some grade-A fertilizer you’re spewing.”
The man rubbed his face, hand sliding into his well-maintained beard. It was dark and tinged with silver at the edges, much like his short, curly hair. “Fine,” he relented. “Perhaps that isn’t entirely true. We’ve had to take extreme measures early on to ensure the secrecy of our mission. The losses were regrettable.”
“That’s nice. Real empathetic.”
“You know what I’ve come to learn in the many, many years I’ve been on this planet, Jag? Snark is often used to hide fear. So let me assure you, I am not the one you should be afraid of.”
“Maybe, but I’m not an idiot. You’re just as dangerous as Reyor.”
The man merely smiled, not addressing the statement. “Now, getting to the matter at hand. How did you manage to escape?”
Jag scowled at him. The man leaned closer, amber eyes locked with Jag’s own. “Alright, don’t speak. I investigated earlier, so let me tell you what I’ve deduced. You waited until you were taken to the bathroom by the two guards on shift. You probably figured that without the inhibitor, you would be home free. But you must have realized early on in your time here that your abilities never returned on your short trips to and from the bathroom, despite your inhibitor being off.”
Jag didn’t move a muscle.
“The guards bound your hands and weighed your ankles with chains as usual. When they led you out, you rammed one of them into the doorframe—a feat hardly beyond the realm of possibility considering your natural strength to begin with. Of course, I’m simply inferring all this from the mighty bruise I found on him, so do correct me if I’m wrong. His head caught on the edge, knocking him out. As the other guard reacted, you trapped him in a chokehold with your manacles until he, too, passed out. Then you grabbed the keys and freed yourself before taking off. You hoped that all your abilities would require to return was more time away from the inhibitor.”
He got everything down to a tee, Jag grumbled to himself.
The corner of the man’s mouth cocked up. “Judging by that little twitch in your cheek, I’m right.”
“Great, you h
ave your answer,” Jag said. “Bravo, good for you, here’s your gold sticker. Tell me why my abilities were acting crazy. They’d work and stop whenever they wanted and I had no control.”
“Come, come. Surely you don’t think we wouldn’t have taken precautions, especially during the brief periods you are away from the inhibitor.”
“What do you mean? What precautions?”
“Your food and water, Jag. It’s laced with ability-suppressants, the ones we used with syringes before the inhibitor was perfected. As to why your abilities switched on and off of their own accord . . . well, that was the drugs wearing off but still affecting your system. I’m actually quite impressed by how far you got.”
“Of course you are.” Jag rested back resignedly. “How did you even create something that specifically targets abilities?”
“I’m assuming the Elders ensured you were given a special sustenance drink? It helps you recover from physical, mental, and mystical exertion. It’s called rytèrni. Do you remember anything like that?”
Jag dipped his chin in response. Okay, seriously, who is this guy? Reyor’s from Dema-Ki, I got that. But this dude, her mentor . . . what’s his story? Where did he come from?
“Well, the drugs work in reverse. I suppose you could call it the anti-rytèrni. I spent quite some time developing it.” The man moved closer to inspect Jag’s temple, then nodded to himself. “You took a rather nasty fall. One of the SONEs stitched you up, but don’t worry, it won’t leave a scar. Humanity has advanced so far, you know. Back in the day, such a wound would have resulted in infection. It was not pretty, I can tell you that firsthand.”
“So are you just here to chat, or what?” Jag asked.
“Hm. Patience seems to wear thinner with each passing generation.” The man unconsciously ran his fingertips over the tattoo coiled around his left arm. His tone turned shades darker. “Listen to me, Jag. You cannot attempt to run away again. You are fortunate that I was the only one present with power here. Next time, you will not be so lucky. As much as Reyor and I are in this together, she has her share of influence and control.”
“You sound wary of her.”
“I am merely warning you, for your safety.”
“Right. And where is Reyor?”
“Away. Now, how fares your other injury? When we picked you up in Israel, it was in bad shape.”
Jag glanced at his restrained left leg. “It feels completely healed.”
The man patted his ankle. “See? We look out for you. As much as the Sentries and those in Dema-Ki have at their disposal, I know more tricks than they do in the art of healing.”
“What even is your connection to Dema-Ki?”
“It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“You have been questioning me for days, probably weeks, and I’ve been as honest as I possibly can. So now you owe me.”
“My debt will be repaid when I talk Reyor down after she hears about what happened today. I have affairs to attend to, but I will return. Best to continue being cooperative.”
“I have nothing more to say!” Jag snapped. “I’ve told you everything, and you keep asking the same questions over and over! What do you want? What are you looking for?”
The man shook his head. Almost imperceptibly, he whispered, “I wish I knew.” Louder, he said, “Rest now. And remember, don’t try to run again. I won’t be able to protect you then.”
Jag watched him leave with a numbness that weighed him to the chair more than the restraints. As the door quietly clicked shut, he hung his head.
So close. I was so close.
There’s something to be said when you become so used to the sight of riots and gang wars that it’s actually weird if you see anything civil, Tegan mused bitterly as the car sped through the roads of San Francisco. It’s like we’ve stepped into a different universe.
She’d accepted the fact that stopping to defuse every tussle was unrealistic and would only delay the search for Jag. The exception was if innocents were caught in the immediate crossfire. Then the group would jump in to help. Her friends, however, found it harder to cope with that agreement when they were forced to pass certain injustices that weren’t a priority.
She glanced at the man in the driver’s seat beside her. Victor Colback, a Canadian Sentry a few years shy of hitting forty, kept his eyes on the road. The helix of his right ear had been partially torn the previous month, courtesy of a bullet, and seemed to have healed well enough, leaving a jagged shape behind. Concentration furrowed his brow. Tegan couldn’t decide if his dark hair, shorter at the sides and fuller up top, was casually styled or just unkempt, and settled on it being unkemptly styled.
The man intrigued her as much as he annoyed her, if not a little more. Guarded and keeping the friends at arm’s length, he was a jarring contrast to Marshall Sawyer, the Sentry whom the friends were particularly fond of. Marshall openly showed his affection for them and exuded warmth like a radiator. Victor was an air conditioner set on full blast in winter.
Up close, his somewhat youthful, stubbled face was whittled with faint lines. Past hardships carved crow’s feet around his eyes whenever he glared. His mouth arched slightly downward and, though he carried with him an aura of weariness, he also had one of the most powerful presences Tegan had ever sensed in a person. She was aware that some of the Sentries were in awe of him; what she didn’t know was why and the mystery was killing her. Marshall had been reluctant to share much about the man. All she had managed to pry out of him was that Victor had gone off the rails for a while, and that he could be difficult to get along with.
Resigning herself to the fact that her curiosity might never be satisfied, she peered into the backseat where a boy her age was staring out his window. Passing streetlamps cast warm light over him in periodic flashes. Kody usually wore his red ballcap backward over his short-cropped afro, but now the brim hung low over his eyes, concealing them. His retractable staff, a parting gift beautifully brought into creation by his own hands with the help of a villager from Dema-Ki, was grasped tightly in his clenched fist.
Victor’s wolfdog took up most of the backseat as he dozed with his head on the boy’s lap. Tegan reached over to rub the thick silver fur. Chief grunted in contentment. Kody seemed not to notice and wore an expression as blank as stone.
I wish he’d talk, thought Tegan. Not even to me. Just someone. You don’t survive a virus that takes you to the brink of death and fills your mind with violence without it messing up your head. And it probably doesn’t help that the Elders sent Marshall to Indonesia...
“Hey, brother,” she murmured.
“Hey, sister,” Kody responded just as quietly without shifting his gaze from the window.
Tears stung her eyes as she looked at him. She forced them back, then held out her hand. He must have seen the motion through his peripherals because he took it, his hand warm in her cold grip. They remained silent, and Tegan faced the front again.
As they passed a bus, she observed the commuters inside. They were all haggard and shifty-eyed, some with the haunted faces only worn by those who’d witnessed the horrors of the virus firsthand. Tegan dug her teeth into her bottom lip. Despite their best efforts to deliver the cure from the Tree of Life, nearly a billion people were now reported dead worldwide. Various types of aircraft had been employed across nations, the U.S. included, to disperse the deconcentrated sap as a mist over cities and towns. Even now, she could see autonomous drones doing their last rounds of the day in the cloudless, darkening sky.
Her attention was momentarily torn from her glum thoughts by a little Asian-American girl sitting beside a window in the middle of the bus. She couldn’t have been older than four or five, and she looked the most blissful Tegan had ever seen anyone as of late. The girl played with her stuffed beluga, pressing it against the glass and moving it up and down as though it was riding a wave. When she gazed up through her dark bangs and spotted the teenager in the car beside her, she smiled so hard Tegan t
hought she resembled a beaming emoticon. Some of her tension eased away, and she returned the girl’s smile.
“It just doesn’t stop,” Victor muttered.
Startled by the first words he’d said in over two hours, she blurted, “Huh?”
Keeping his hand on the wheel, he lifted a finger to point. “Another store being looted. People keep taking advantage of a bad situation instead of working together.” He made a sound of disgust. “SF was already dealing with rising lawlessness over the past decade, and now it’s peaked unnecessarily.”
“To be fair, there are people trying to stop the looting,” Tegan said. “And communities are looking out for each other. They’re just quieter about it than the anarchists and opportunists.”
Victor grunted.
As they pulled up at a red light, Kody asked, “How much longer till we get to the HQ?”
Tegan checked the GPS on her phone where a little blue dot marked their destination in the heart of San Francisco. “We’ve still got twenty miles to go.”
Thinking about their mission made her squirm in her seat with excitement. They had rung in December by surveying Phoenix Corporation’s headquarters for the past two weeks, hoping to find clues as to Jag’s whereabouts. Tegan, using a variety of insects—some she never wanted to mindlink with again out of sheer revulsion—acted as the group’s eyes and ears inside the forty-story building. It was only through sheer luck that she had been in the same room as Adrian Black, the company’s CEO, when he placed a call complaining about a malfunctioning server. And when he’d specifically asked for an Arcane Ventures technician, she knew she’d stumbled on a potentially significant lead.
The Ventures, as the friends and Sentries had learned over the past few months, was the clandestine operation carried out under Phoenix’s legitimate shell. It included the construction of underground hideouts called Sanctuaries, the dispersal of nanomites that destroyed crops globally, as well as the spread of the dual-strain virus that had claimed millions of lives. The question that made Tegan’s skin crawl was, what else did Phoenix have planned?
