by S. S. Segran
The friends filed in, taking up spots around the table. Anya came in after them with Chief and settled in a corner against the wolfdog, her hearing aids already inserted. Victor made a mental note to find backup batteries for them.
“Sawyer said they were called Scourgers and Camazotz,” he informed them.
“It’s the cleanup crew,” Tegan said. “That’s what Reyor called them back in the Brazilian Sanctuary. The way they hunted people in Geneva, the way they moved . . . it’s like they were made to be permanently on the offensive, while the Marauders needed to be ordered to attack.”
Kody nodded. “They moved like waves, like a hive mind. Don’t think they’re real good swimmers, though, because the one that fell into the Rhône looked like it was having a rough time trying to keep its head above water. Ah, and before I forget, there was something I saw while tinkering with my vision. They had these collars—like, really thin, dark bands that were half embedded in their skin.”
Mariah shrugged. “So?”
“They all had them. Do you remember Marauders ever having collars?”
Aari frowned. “You’re right. That’s interesting.”
“Why would you put collars on these things?” Kody said. “Thousands of them? What’s the point? I’m pretty sure the bad guys aren’t sentimental enough to name them all and give ’em personalized collars.”
“You never know,” Gareth mused. “Maybe Reyor has a really soft spot for manmade monsters. Maybe they’ve all got names like Ace, or Bob, or Larry, or Toffee, or Cupcake—”
“Or Cinnamon!” Anya volunteered endearingly. The friends and Sentries chuckled.
“Okay,” Deverell said. “Kody might be onto something here. Let’s explore that a bit.”
“As far as we know, Marauders are controlled with a handheld unit.” Aari said. “I might have been mostly freaking out in Geneva, but I don’t think I saw anyone nearby overseeing this whole invasion.”
“Me neither,” Kody agreed, “but they could’ve been hiding out in one of the buildings.”
Tegan tapped the sides of her head with her palms. “Wait, wait. Remember the REAPRs? They had their own programming. They didn’t need people being with them around the clock, guiding them around to destroy crops. They were getting those signals from their base. What if the Scourgers are like that? Would sure be a lot more convenient.”
“True,” Aari conceded. “And for the remote control to work anyway, there would have to be implants in their heads.”
“Which would have required a lot of time,” Gareth said. “Ina—Dr. Deol mentioned that new creatures were in the works, and this wasn’t that long ago. If this is what she was talking about, then I’m inclined to believe these things would have had to be mass produced. There’s no way such large numbers could have been assembled otherwise. That would also explain the collars Kody noticed. There wouldn’t have been enough time for individual surgical procedures to put the implants in. Hence, the collars may have electrodes in them that pass off command signals.”
Deverell squinched his eyes. “Phoenix released the Scourgers after the EMP attack, not before, which suggests—”
“—the collars are not shielded from EMP,” his brother continued, “because they need to receive broadcast signals. And seeing as this is global in nature—”
“—it would have to be from satellites.”
“So Phoenix probably has its own satellites to relay information,” Aari said. “And for their own communications after they flipped the world’s power switch.”
“But launching private satellites would need permits or something, right?” Kody asked. “Which means people of authority somewhere would have known—”
“They could have been launched under any pretext,” Deverell said. “Besides, Phoenix has no qualms about greasing the hands of authorities to get their dirty work done.”
Victor took the jagged helix of his ear between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it absently as he listened. “As productive as all this talk is, it’s only conjecture. We have nothing to back it up. There’s still the possibility that the Scourgers’ directives were preprogramed, and the collars have nothing to do with it.”
Gareth clasped his hands behind his neck. “Shame that there’s no way to know for sure.”
“But there is.” The others stared at Victor dubiously. He folded his arms. “We catch one.”
Now they looked at him as if he’d sprouted another head.
“Are you crazy?” Kody exclaimed.
“I’m not too keen on that either,” Aari said warily. “How would we even do it?”
“The old-fashioned way,” Victor replied. “We tranquilize one and bring it back here.”
Deverell’s face split into a huge, sarcastic smile. “Ha. Hahaha. Ha. In case you forgot, upon rescuing your sorry arse in Kazakhstan, I stabbed a Marauder in the eye four times with tranq needles—two doses being enough to kill a full-grown human—and it still came after us. You really reckon these things won’t be as hardy, if not more?”
“Then we’ll just have to hit it with everything we’ve got.”
The Welshman gaped at him. “You’re a lunatic!”
“I’m kinda down for it,” Tegan said. “’Riah, you’ve been quiet. Any thoughts?”
Mariah was supporting herself against Aari, an empty mug of rytèrni in hand. The Dema-Ki sustenance drink, which Deverell made for her during breakfast, had helped return some color to her skin and steadiness back in her movements. “If we’re going to do this,” she said, “we need to find a way to make sure it stays down. I really don’t want it hurting more people if we do somehow manage to bring one back here.”
“But what good will capturing it do?” Kody asked.
“If we can find out what makes it tick,” Victor replied, “then maybe we can figure a way to neutralize the rest. That would save a lot of people. I’m assuming we all want that.”
The others exchanged glances, then nodded one by one, some more reluctantly than others. “But we also need to keep looking for Jag,” Mariah said.
“One thing at a time. We still need to recuperate and get our bearings anyway, so let’s do what we can while we’re here.” Victor paused, dragging his tongue over his teeth. “Before we left Brazil, I asked a few field Sentries to focus on finding Reyor’s pilots. They’ve been scouting all known Phoenix sites but there’s a lot to get through. They haven’t had any luck so far, and after the EMP, it might be almost impossible.”
“It was gonna be a long shot anyway,” Tegan said. “We knew that when Kenzo talked about it. But every little lead helps.”
Victor glanced at her, noting the calmness of her composure. Despite their earlier conversation, it was plain to him that her pragmatism was her strength. To face challenges and pitfalls without tumbling into the depths of despair would help her be a source of fortitude that kept her team above the waves. She would come to accept it eventually.
He looked around the table. “Alright,” he said, “if we’re all agreed, let’s start planning. We have a Scourger to catch.”
A consequence of having lived so long was that, aside from their technological advancements, human beings had stopped being remarkable, particularly when it came to their physical prowess.
Which was precisely why Jag was so impressive to watch.
An hour before sunrise, Mokun had freed the boy of his restraints and allowed him access to his abilities. Life had sparked in Jag’s eyes once he’d gotten used to having full rein of himself. Mokun had also seen those eyes scope around, searching for possible escape routes, but upon noticing at least fifty Stewards from the Vanguard in tactical gear holding various guns at him, a defeated grimace plastered itself onto Jag’s face.
“So why give me my powers back?” he asked as he followed Mokun through a few hallways, the steady snap of boots behind them.
Mokun smiled over his shoulder as they climbed a set of stairs. “It was suggested by one of our scientists that, instead of suppressing your abili
ties, we should let you loose, so to speak. Once we get the appropriate sensors attached to you, I will be putting you through a series of drills. The data will be gathered in real time so that further analysis can be done to assess why you seem to have made an evolutionary leap.”
“Okay . . . and where are we going?”
Mokun opened a door that led to the resort above ground. “Remember that circus-like structure you saw near the golf course?”
“Seriously?”
And so, from the crack of dawn through late afternoon, Mokun ran Jag through aerial acrobatics and freerunning, had him spar with some of the Stewards, and personally engaged him in a taste of capoeira and several Wushu disciplines. The boy already had a solid foundation and was quick to pick up new movements and techniques.
After a bit of tumbling on the dirt, Mokun flicked his hand and a Steward approached, handing Jag a towel and a bottle of water. Jag took it with silent wariness. Mokun popped the cap off his own bottle and strolled up, one hand in a pocket of his pants. “You are a natural at this,” he said. “Your abilities are well-suited.”
Jag slung the towel around his neck and used one side to wipe his face, being mindful of the electrodes. “Had to go easy while we were sparring. If I’d used my full strength and knocked you out, I would’ve been tranquilized. Pretty sure some of these kids also have actual bullets in their guns.”
“Quite right. Next time, though, go all in. I have given them orders not to act as long as it’s a fair fight.”
“I’m not sure you know what you’re asking me to do.”
“I am. Don’t hold back.”
Jag considered his words for a moment, then leaned against the main post holding up the giant retractable roof. He jerked his chin at the circular space around them. “You weren’t kidding before when you said this is a permanent fixture. But why is it so empty? There aren’t even stands for people. It’s just dirt and support frames.”
“It’s a front, Mr. Sanchez. We need to look legitimate enough. Should an inspection be requested by the Italian authorities whom we purchased this land from, everything would be passable in their books. It’s the same with the clubhouse next door—it has numerous rooms but no furniture, as you may have noticed during your attempted escape.”
Jag languidly pivoted on his heel, taking long sips from his bottle. The Vanguard were all stationed against the concrete wall, weapons trained on him. Mokun saw his lips twitch, though whether it was in frustration or annoyance he couldn’t tell.
Jag indicated the extended mural that adorned most of the wall. “What’s all that?”
Mokun regarded the mural fondly. “Scenes from my home. The merchant ships docked near the beach, the volcano, my people enjoying a yearly festival . . . See that over there, that large white temple?”
“It looks exactly like the one in Dema-Ki, except theirs is made from timber.”
“Reyor told me the same thing, how finely the details were emulated, right down to the human figures that hold up the dome. I left Dema-Ki long before its construction, so I never got to see it for myself.”
Jag’s gaze fell upon a set of wide metal doors. “What’s behind there? We didn’t come in that way.”
“Cages,” Mokun answered.
Shock crossed Jag’s face. “Why?”
“Not for people, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was part of the blueprint for the circus, where we’d keep performing animals if we had any. Not that Reyor or I would allow such cruelty in our vicinity.”
“So animals get treated better than the kids you guys nab. That’s real nice.”
“Contrary to what you believe, we take care of our young ones.” Mokun lowered his voice. “Be grateful, Mr. Sanchez. Things could be far, far worse for you.” At Jag’s glare, he clapped his hands twice. “Let’s continue. Remember, don’t pull your punches.”
Jag struck out with the speed and strength of a freight train. The triumphant look he wore was ripped clear off when Mokun caught his fist and sent him hurtling back twenty feet. Jag hit the wall with an audible impact and slid to the dirt. The Stewards shuffled out of the way, guns still at the ready.
With a drawn-out groan, Jag pulled himself up. “What the—”
“You never bothered to ask what my abilities are,” Mokun called. “Care to speculate?”
“Well, if I had to make an educated guess,” came the acerbic reply, “you have the ability to grow wings and fly.”
“Comedy doesn’t suit you. Take that as constructive criticism.”
Jag shook himself off and returned to his starting position, rolling his shoulders. “You know, you could have just volunteered the information that we share the same abilities.”
“You’re somewhat correct—we have enhanced strength in common. And telepathy. I was not fortunate enough to receive speed and agility like you were.”
“Are those the only abilities you have?”
Mokun tugged the sleeves of his beige linen shirt up to his elbows, revealing veined forearms adorned with ancient tribal tattoos that spiraled upward. “Understand, Jag, that there is a plethora of powers one may have. Sometimes they may be so subtle that they fly under the radar. They may not even seem like abilities. Other times, they are loud. Statement-making.”
“That absolutely did not answer my question.”
“No, those are not my only abilities. I have one more, though as to what its purpose is, I remain unsure.” Mokun reached into his pocket, fingers brushing over the dragonfly pendants nestled safely there, and pulled out a plain silver band. He tossed it to Jag. “Snap it, would you?”
Jag caught it, breaking the ring easily, and displayed the two pieces. Mokun spared them only a fleeting look before the fragments trembled and rose an inch above Jag’s palm, whirling ever closer to each other. Within seconds the ring was whole again.
“Huh.” Jag turned it over, inspecting with a critical eye before flicking the ring back to Mokun. “Good as new. You’re able to do that with everything?”
“Yes.”
“Can you fix people’s injuries? Like a reverse amputation?”
“No, though I’ve tried. It seems to only work with inanimate objects. Perhaps living beings are too complex, too special. Sinew, bones, muscles, tissue. Pieces of life.”
Jag scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sure your power would come in handy as a repairman. Not much to it otherwise.”
“Some abilities may not be wholly relevant to the life we lead, but that’s alright.” Mokun pocketed the ring. “As it is with the color of our eyes and hair, these abilities are part of us but they are not what defines us. At least, they shouldn’t be.”
Jag absently rubbed the lobe of his ear, seeming to drift away in thought, then jumped as a distorted voice crawled across the walls of the structure.
“And what, exactly, is going on here?”
Mokun tipped his head sideways toward the figure standing in the entrance at the far end of the building. “More tests, Reyor.”
She gazed around, her gold hood pulled up, taking in the armed Stewards. In what seemed to be an indulgent gesture, she leaned a shoulder against the entrance frame and folded her arms. Mokun looked at her approvingly, then turned back to Jag. “Keep going,” he instructed.
They sparred under Reyor’s watch. Jag, now aware of Mokun’s ability, utilized his speed and agility to seek the upper hand, but Mokun was dogged and had lifetimes of experience over him. Jag could think quickly on his feet and exploited his environment to its full extent, leaping an impressive distance up the main post and swinging from the stray wires and cords hanging from the roof. Mokun taunted him, calling him gutless for not staying on the ground. Jag’s eyes flashed and, for a moment, it looked as if he would jump back down. Instead, he muttered something under his breath and ignored all further insults, though occasionally his face would turn red, giving him the appearance of a disgruntled tomato.
So he does have the ability to control his pride and temper, Mo
kun thought, restraining a smile.
He hoped the data being transmitted to the scientists would be helpful, otherwise he’d be at a loss. What was it about Jag, and presumably his friends, that had allowed them to make an evolutionary leap?
Forty minutes later, both of them were soaked in sweat and heaving for breath, a few new bruises on their bodies. Mokun had won most of their bouts, but Jag got smarter each time he lost, assessing tactics and weak points. When he was truly in the zone, it seemed nothing could rattle him.
“That’s enough for today,” Mokun said.
Jag smirked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists curled in front of his face. “Tired already? Or are you afraid that I’ll start beating you more the longer we spar?”
“Hm. Apparently, teenage arrogance remains unchanging no matter which century it is.”
Once an ability suppressant and a mild sedative had been administered to Jag, he was shackled and marched back to the CUBE. With the circus now empty, Reyor removed her modulator, chuckling. “You seemed to be struggling during combat, Mentor. I’m surprised the boy managed to best you.”
Mokun raised a brow. “Is that a challenge?”
She shrugged out of the coat, resting it on the cleanest surface she could find. She usually wore sleeveless fitted tunics dyed dark colors with lighter seams, and today was no exception. She loosened the crossed strings lacing up the front of her shirt and stretched out her limbs. Both she and Mokun were staunch proponents of holistic lifestyles, and fitness was at the top of the list. With Reyor traveling the world and setting the final pieces of the Arcane Ventures into place, it had been a while since they’d last sparred.
“When was the last time you exercised properly?” Mokun asked. “You seem a little stiff.”
She barked an incredulous laugh as she joined him at the center. “I take offense to that.”
“It was an honest question. As the whetstone sharpens a blade—”
“Mentor, I beg of you, do not preach to the choir. If I seem stiff to you, a round against me will soon chase away that ludicrous thought. I always take care of myself.”
