Crimson Son

by Russ Linton

  Her form becomes a featureless orb of light. The hammocks thrash along the wall. White hot heat emanates through her hand, but I don’t register pain, only a growing sense of isolation. That isolation is my worst days at the bunker, when wandering out into the Arctic waste felt like a good idea. Days where facing death as a Popsicle, cold and numb, would’ve been a relief.

  “Charlotte?!”

  She raises off the ground. A tendril of light lashes out in a frenzied swirl and books tumble to the floor.

  “I can’t… don’t…” Books rip past, and with each one my brain thrashes. My skull feels like it has been opened, the nerves steadily plucked and then yanked in fistfuls. “Charlotte! Please!”

  One of the books launches past and leaves a psychic smear, replaying over and over in my head. The Universe Against Her. The Universe Against Her. The Universe Against Her.

  “Charlotte, please stop!” Our hands unlace. My legs feel weak. Whatever supported me in this place has disappeared and I’m falling.

  Charlotte’s cries of anguish fade away behind the rumble and squeal of a heavy metal plate.

  “Mom!”

  I’m sitting on a beach. Barefoot, I watch the waves lap against the sand. No sun in the sky, but there’s a muted glow that gives the sand a bluish hue, separated from the water only by the wetness left behind in the retreating waves. And then she’s here, sitting next to me.

  Chapter 49

  “Is it really you?”

  Mom smiles.

  The blue ambient light saps the life out of this tropical paradise. Everything except her smile and her eyes, which are sparkle with no trace of the silvery sheen. She almost replies, but the words catch in her throat while her smile wavers. Those days when Dad was away come rushing back.

  She hasn’t answered, but I know I’m finally looking at her. Somehow, this is different from the other dreams. It isn’t simple intuition, or even the obvious fact her eyes are their normal color; I simply know.

  I lunge forward and wrap my arms around her. She squeezes and sighs. Her chest quivers. Again, I think she’s going to speak, her mouth right next to my ear, but there’s no sound.

  A long time passes before I can talk. “How did you get here? Where exactly is this? I mean, I know this isn’t real, is it? But you’re here.” Words tumble out, drunk and aimless.

  She pushes away, her smile a tight line, and she stares out toward the sea. “It was a terrible book, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah. Awful. I mean, some asshat of a father going on and on about how he knows everything. Making fun of his lazy kid because he’s a know-it-all, and the whole family slaughtering every living creature in sight.”

  “Spencer,” Mom sighs, but there’s the hint of a laugh.

  When I got older, we spent more time making fun of Swiss Family Robinson than reading it. But she was always serious about the message; the adventure, the can-do attitude that was so overwrought in every sentence. It was an antique parody of our situation and we reveled in the awkwardness.

  “You never did get me a flintlock like I asked,” I say.

  “I know.” She tucks a dark lock behind her ear. “You didn’t need to be shooting anyone.”

  I nod.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Mom pulls her knees up to her chest and leans on my shoulder. It strikes me how much bigger I am than the last time I saw her. Two years and maybe a few inches to my midget frame, but she can actually do this now, lean on me. “I needed you to see that,” she says.

  “Charlotte’s playhouse?”

  She tilts her head in my direction and searches for an answer. “Yes.”

  I check the beach for prying ears. Too bad I can’t check my head. “She’s a nutbag, Mom.”

  No amusement this time. Mom shakes her head against my shoulder. “She’s been hurt. So much.”

  “Yeah, well, she hasn’t exactly made my life easy. I think she’s been digging around my brain for days now. What about you?”

  “Longer.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Maybe longer.”

  “How long then?”

  “I don’t even know. Time here doesn’t make sense. How long have I been gone?” she asks.

  I could break that down to months, weeks, days, maybe hours, but I don’t. “Two years.”

  Mom sits up and straightens into a stale breeze that glides across the ocean. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “How the hell is this your fault?”

  “I refused to move. I forced him to leave us out of that cloak-and-dagger part of his life.”

  “No, he wasn’t right, Mom. I loved that house, too. I finally had a home.”

  “It wasn’t even about the house.” She closes her eyes and digs her toes into the sand. “I was angry. It doesn’t matter. A week before I last saw you, your father told me about the bunker. Said we might have to go soon. He was going to leave the program, go rogue himself.

  “Somehow they knew, and had their response planned. That was when the Black Beetle showed up to take a hostage, leverage, so your father would turn himself in. But we had agreed, you were our priority. No matter what happened, we would keep you safe.” Her face drops. “I never should have told Charlotte where you were.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She wanted to know where the bunker was.” Mom locks eyes with me. “At first, it was her handlers that made her ask. That was her job, to find answers, no matter the cost.” She pauses to straighten my hair and touch my cheek. “They were desperate to find Sean. He was the last Augment either not surrendered or in custody or at Killcreek.”

  “Drake was right.”

  She nods. “I tried not to tell her.” Her eyes well up. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

  “Watching that place get melted into slag was maybe the best day of my life.” I say, no trace of sarcasm.

  “The things she did.” Mom shivers and I put an arm around her. “But I thought we had made some kind of connection. She always asked about you and Sean, and I always wanted to remember. I knew that was part of her interrogation, but it was different. She really wanted to know all those stories. Those little details about us. I could tell she was looking at those for herself.”

  “She needed a family.”

  “More than that.”

  “Wait. What happened to you?”

  “When I thought we’d connected, I… I opened up to her.” Again, the ocean pulls her gaze. “I thought it might help me to escape. I didn’t understand the cost.”

  “Was that you, in my dreams?”

  “No. Always her. She got to you before I even told her where the bunker was. Through me. I think she jumps between thoughts of those close to each other. You were too far away for her to control so she used your dreams. Then I couldn’t fight her anymore. I told her. I told her exactly where the bunker was.” She can’t look me in the eye.

  “But I’m here now. You’ll be fine. I’ll get you out of this place.”

  “I’m gone, baby.”

  Truth rings in her hesitant voice and I start to feel my throat constrict. “You’re right here.”

  She raises her palms helplessly and looks around. “You already said it. Where’s here?”

  “But… I’m here too, then.”

  Her eyes glaze over and begin to reflect the endless sea. “You’re lying on the floor in one of the prison rooms. A man’s there with you, checking your pulse, your eyes. He seems like a nice man—you can get out of there, right? He can help?” The reflection slips away replaced by wild desperation.

  “Help’s on the way. Don’t worry about me. You’re going to come with us. You’re in another one of those cells, right? Along the hall?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I came for you,” I say angrily. “Not Dad. Not psycho girl. Not the Black Beetle. I came to get you!”

  Her head drops. “I can see what she sees, it’s really strange. I watched them with me. She was crying when
they dug the grave.”

  My mind flashes to a shallow grave scooped out by a robotic claw. But it isn’t Drake’s broken form, it’s hers. I blink away tears. “No, but you’re here. I can feel it!”

  “Once I opened up to her, she owned me, Spencer. I don’t even understand, but this is her place. Her rules. I got stuck here.” She clears her throat grabs my shaking hand. “Something has changed. She’s distracted or taxed her abilities, I don’t know. I can suddenly bend the rules, but I don’t know how long.” She keeps speaking even as I collapse into her shoulder, sobbing. “Listen, you need to go back. When I died, it broke her. She’s out of control.”

  “Stop saying that! Damn that freak!” I’m shouting now, and I don’t care if little Miss Scrambled Brains hears.

  Mom grabs my shoulder and pulls me tight. “Don’t blame her. She couldn’t help herself. She was only doing what they trained her to do.”

  “What, like Dad? Doing her job?” I spring to my feet, every word rubbing raw against my throat. “This is their fault! All of them!”

  From her seat in the sand Mom pleads, “Spencer, don’t.”

  “Why not? Why fucking not? Don’t blame him? Are you serious? It’s the damn Augments, the stupid program. You do know Dad was banging Emily while we were at home, right? While we sat there wondering if he’d make it back? While you got kidnapped. Tortured.”

  “That’s the same way she feels. Don’t you understand?” She looks away and squints, recalling tears that must have been shed long ago.

  The pain lingering in her eyes makes me realize what I just said. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to.”

  She stands and looks squarely at me, an expression I’ve seen once before, when she was pulled into the sky in the metallic arms of a robot menace. “This isn’t about me, Spencer. Or Dad. Or even you. It’s about Charlotte. She wants revenge. She’s going to kill every last soldier she sees.”

  “So? Let her!” I manage to say under that heartrending stare.

  “Spencer, this isn’t you. This isn’t the man I know. Kind, gentle. You’re every bit the hero your father might have been, and more.”

  I have to stare at the sand, the rising tide now lapping at my ankles.

  “She’s lost, Spencer. She has been for a long time. Until she met me, she had nobody. But as she wandered in my memories, she thought she’d found what she had been looking for. And she kept digging. “ Mom’s voice sounds empty.

  I can’t look up.

  “Deep down, she’s sorry for what she did.”

  “I came to find you.”

  “You did, baby.”

  I collapse against her, a bubbling mess of snot and tears. “I’m sorry, Mom! This was supposed to be Dad’s job. He was supposed to find you. Bring you back home. What could I do, trapped in a damn bunker?”

  “I think we both forgot how grown up you’d become. How much we needed to let you go.”

  “Did he even try to find you?”

  “Of course he tried. Your father had so much working against him.” She holds me gently at arm’s length. “I’m not happy with your dad. I won’t lie to you. What he did was wrong, but he’s your father.”

  We cling to each other for what could be forever, and maybe it is in this strange place. But it isn’t long enough.

  “I’m so proud of you. What you must have done to get here scares me senseless, but you did it. You found us both.” She steps back to arm’s length, keeping her hands on my shoulders. “Now Charlotte’s up there, trying to make her own family. And people who have families at home, wondering if they will ever return, are in danger. And I don’t know if she’ll stop there. If you can’t forgive your father, at least go and help them. Find a way to make her understand that what she’s doing is wrong. That, or stop her from hurting anyone else. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Suddenly, there’s that smile. Bright enough to once again cast off the dull film that hangs in the air of this place. “Ma’am?!” She punches my arm playfully. “Are you fucking serious, Spence?”

  I’ve got to laugh. Despite the burning tears and the gut-wrenching pain, I’ve got to laugh. We both do. We laugh until we’re back in the sand, gasping for breath and ignoring the waves trickling along our backs. That smile becomes my world, and this time, this time it stays.

  Chapter 50

  “He’s gone nuts.” That’s Eric’s voice, interrupting my laughter.

  The beach drifts away, empty, and I’m shooting into the sky. Below, the ocean glows as a solid ring of light around the chunk of rock and sand. A maelstrom, a giant eye, watching as I ascend.

  “Come on, man! Wake up!”

  I feel a sting on my cheek and Martin interrupts, “That’s not necessary.”

  Eric hangs over me, his open palm cocked inches from my face. Martin’s there, too, kneeling by the bedside. By the door, a butt crack peeks out of a tattered hospital gown. Thankfully, Hurricane turns, beaming his gummy smile instead of his weathered eclipse. “Blaise! Ya back with the living?”

  “Couldn’t you get him some clothes?” I ask Eric.

  Eric leans in close to my ear. “Hey, you’re not the one that had to hitch a ride bareback. He can’t wear normal clothes anyway. I think it has to do with the friction.”

  With a helpful shove from Eric, I sit up. “You got my message?”

  Eric hides his face and focuses on Hurricane.

  “Yeah, we got it. We were about halfway here, though, by the time ya sent it.”

  “What?”

  Eric blushes and hauls me off the mattress. “When you called from the Beetle armor, I heard the coordinates, triangulated the signal, and got a solid fix. Calculating a trajectory wasn’t too hard after that. Pretty easy to track.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I say with genuine respect. Eric can’t make eye contact but he mumbles a “no problem”.

  “All his idea.” Hurricane crosses the room and slaps Eric on the back. “Woulda brought Hound, but there’s only so much room on the ‘Cane train!”

  “I wish I could’ve kept you guys out of all this. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Sounded like you needed help,” Eric says, and clasps my arm weakly in what’s meant to be a show of bravado. “Hey, you were rolling around cackling. Completely mental. I thought this place,” he checks the door nervously and his face drains of color, “had gotten to you.”

  “Just a dream,” I say.

  Martin’s patient-assessing gaze follows me across the room, and Eric stays close as I cross to Hurricane’s post by the door. He puts out a gnarled hand.

  “Ready to skedaddle?” Hurricane asks.

  “What about Emily?” Martin asks.

  I start to peek through the door when Eric pulls me back. “Bodies, man,” he whispers. His once pride-flushed cheeks now seem feverish. I pat his hand and the grip loosens.

  “Yeah, I know.” I check the hall, keeping my eyes up and looking at both ends. It’s quiet and the cavern door’s windows emit a yellow glare. The exit at the far end is ajar and the remaining cell doors are open as well.

  “I checked this place top to bottom when we got here. Place’s empty aside from the GIs we found sleeping on the floor. And these poor bastards.” Hurricane’s reply tickles my ear with the smell of stale mints. Part of me wants to argue with him and tell him he’s wrong. I only nod and step into the hall. “Think everyone headed outside for the furball.”

  “Furball?” Martin asks as he steps out of the room.

  “Fight,” Eric translates from the doorway. “You should see it, Spencer. Every big-time Augment I’ve heard of is lined up against the rest of the US military budget. We need to get clear of this place and fast.”

  “My God.” Martin’s instantly crouching over the nearest body.

  Hurricane pulls Eric into the hall like he’s escorting the blind. Eric follows limply with his face frozen in fear. While I’m avoiding the gore, too, Martin’s moving among the corpses and checking for signs of life
. I start toward the crash doors into the cavern.

  “You comin’? I can get everyone clear, one man at a time. Won’t take long.” Hurricane whispers.

  I don’t answer and Eric shuffles to face me. “You’re going the wrong way!” he hisses.

  Martin looks up from a mangled corpse.

  “I’ve got to do something about this. I can’t ask you to stay.”

  A cavernous grin spreads across Hurricane’s face. “Hot damn!” Stooped at the shoulders, he lets a hand slip and rubs his palms together. Eric looks pale.

  “Hurricane can get you out of here,” I say to Eric. “But I need you to come right back, Hurricane. Martin, I’d feel better if you were here, too.”

  “I’m here to stay, dude,” squeaks Eric. Whimpering, he begins a double-time slide along the wall, squealing with every misstep. Finally, he bursts into the cavern room, gasping.

  “Hurricane, get ahead of him, check it out.”

  He nods and a pressure wave rolls by, carrying the condensed stench of death. I choke and Martin appears next to me, ushering me through the crash doors into the cavern.

  Hundreds of feet above, the entire roof has slid aside. A warm column of pure daylight pierces the room, wrapped in a translucent layer of dust. The distant pop of gunfire and the pound of larger weapons ripples into the cavern. On the platform in the center, all of the cylinders have been raised, their massive arms pulled high against a support built in the cavern wall. All except one.

  “All clear,” Hurricane says, then, following my gaze, adds, “Sorta.”

  I walk past Eric who stands on the edge of the catwalk gaping at the massive cavern. Even with daylight streaming in, there’s no obvious bottom. A skyscraper could fit inside this place. I clank across the catwalk and approach the closed cylinder.

  Charlotte. She looks so peaceful. Eyes closed, the hoses and bandages dance around her like strands of kelp among the gray smoke.