Z 2135

by Wright, David W.

  “Jonah, have you come to compliment the drink or the company? The bed? Surely I’m not so fortunate that you’re already visiting with excellent news?”

  Jonah smiled, disarmed. Sutherland was a magnet like few men. When he smiled, Jonah wanted to smile; when he laughed, Jonah wanted to laugh; when he asked for excellent news, Jonah wanted to declare nothing but the best. He could see why the man had risen to power not once but twice in his life.

  “All of it. But the part you actually care about: yes, I’ll go behind The Walls, do what I can to reach Dr. Goelle.” Jonah could see Sutherland wanted to say something in approval, so he held up his hand and quickly said, “But I want to see my son once in The City, I want to know how he’s doing. And …” Jonah paused, trying to figure the best way to say what he meant, and understand it himself. “And I know something could happen to me while I’m back there. I want to make sure Ana’s taken care of if it does, and that she no longer has to fight.”

  “I understand. You want your daughter to have a normal life, without all the suffering.”

  “Yes.”

  “Truthfully Jonah, you know as well as I do—that’s not possible. There is no normal. Everyone must fight. Even the poor sheep behind The Walls are fighting; they’re simply in the dark about the battles and stakes. Understand: this is what we are trying to change, and what we will change, slowly at first, then like a cracked dam burst open onto arid land. We will attack Geralt and alter the current. This is why you’re so important, Jonah. To us all. No, I cannot promise you a normal life for Ana, nor can I promise that she’ll never have to fight. Hydrangea is the safest place in The Barrens, but still, we could be attacked by The State tomorrow. Surely Anastasia would fight then. What I can promise, though, is a comfortable place as long as she’s with us. How does that sound, Jonah?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Excellent!” Sutherland beamed on his way to a short counter lined with mostly tall bottles, picked one up—short and squat—then poured amber into a glass.

  He handed it to Jonah, who thanked him and swallowed it off before Sutherland could propose a toast. Then he set the glass on the counter. “What next?”

  Sutherland laughed, deep and hearty. He promised to show Jonah Ana’s quarters, and amaze him after that. He led Jonah back into the corridor.

  Hydrangea was confusing. Jonah couldn’t still the frames in his mind enough to decode the picture. One underground hallway followed another, some cold and made of steel, tinted blue; others old and wooden. Most looked like the tunnels where Jonah spent days tied to a chair when he had been captured by Egan. They wandered through several twisting corridors—Jonah was positive they were going deeper, though they had yet to descend a stair—until they reached a small cluster of three rooms at the end of a warm hallway with impossibly plush carpet. There was a door to Jonah’s right, another to his left, and a third directly in front. They were marked A, B, and C. Sutherland pointed to Jonah’s left.

  He said, “I thought A, for Anastasia,” then opened the door. Jonah gasped. The room was small, but cozy, about the size of her old room in The City. The magic wasn’t in the room’s size or its furnishings—a dainty bed, a dresser, a mirror and, most surprising to Jonah, a small pink-and-white area rug, embroidered with hydrangeas. Rather, it wasn’t just in those things. What shocked Jonah was that such a room could still exist in this world. It offered Ana something Jonah thought impossible: a spot to forget The Barrens.

  Jonah turned to Sutherland, overwhelmed, imagining the look on his baby’s face when introduced to her own little slice of heaven.

  Sutherland clapped him on the back. “Glad you like it, friend. Now, let me show you something you’ll really love.”

  Sutherland’s mirth turned Jonah curious; the man was clearly pleased with whatever he was about to show next. Sutherland walked one step ahead, long strides down the hallway, going faster than during their relative stroll to Ana’s apartment.

  The red-haired man turned back to speak with Jonah as they walked. “Of course I watched all of your Games. It was amazing how much they stacked against you, and how well you managed the odds anyway, pulling them toward you, even when we couldn’t help.”

  “I was well trained,” Jonah said. The words felt sour.

  “Yes, you were. As was I. Now we both must use our training to reclaim what was so unceremoniously stolen from our world. Are you ready to do that, Jonah?”

  He was surprised to feel a strong yes bubbling inside him, but there it was, fire rekindled where it was cold and dark for so long. He kept it inside, but it was obvious Sutherland could see it in his eyes.

  “I was most impressed with your use of the machete,” Sutherland continued. “How you held it like a whip and swung it like a conductor’s baton. When those three zombies had you surrounded, backed in that corner over by the Bone Pit, all of them gnashing and snarling, closing in, leaving you nowhere to go … instead of shrinking you roared, then proceeded to kill them all. It was beautiful, Jonah. I cheered for days. Everyone thought I was crazier than they already do.”

  Jonah didn’t comment on that last part, but said, “I’ve been trained in many weapons, but The Darwins were the first time I’d ever held a machete. I didn’t want to carry anything after that. Tool and weapon, it kept me alive when I had to hack through brush; the chopping power of a hatchet, but the finesse of a knife.”

  “It is a tool. Did you know Nepalese warriors were once farmers. They took their tools into battle when provoked and the machete was born.”

  “I don’t even know what Nepalese are.”

  Sutherland laughed and fell into silence. Then he laughed again—louder, following silence—and said, “You’re going to love this!” They reached a door, metal not wood, and he opened it, smiling as he nodded for Jonah to enter.

  The room was sparse, filled with long metal tables, no benches or chairs. There were what looked like refrigerators and tall cabinets lining every wall, screens filling the spaces where there was room. It was all black. The room felt cool, at least 10 degrees cooler than the hallway.

  “This is our lab,” Sutherland said, wide arms waving around the room. “We’re just traditional enough to take Sundays off, so today we have the lab to ourselves. Perfectly convenient, you’ll have the chance to admire it in private.”

  Sutherland crossed the room to one of the tall metal cabinets, entered something on the door’s keypad, waited a second for a hiss to indicate the latch had unlocked, then opened the door and reached inside. Sutherland withdrew a black sheath with a familiar shape.

  Sutherland handed the leather clad machete to Jonah.

  “I had this made for you, wanted it done for when you got here. Herb, our resident doctor and weapons specialist, finished it a few weeks ago, though I had no idea when I’d find you. Never doubted I would, though,” he added with a wink.

  Jonah drew the machete from its sheath, admiring the blade as Sutherland spoke.

  “We’re plenty armed here, and there are tons of machetes, but none are quite like this. I wanted you to have the best. I had one like that,” he nodded toward Jonah’s new weapon. “It’s beautiful, yes?”

  Jonah looked up Sutherland and smiled. It sure as hell was. The blade was beautiful, all black. The weight was perfect in his hand, slightly smaller than what he’d had in The Games, about 14 inches from tip to the hilt’s interior edge. He swung the blade and whistled the air, then anchored his weight and pulled back from his second swing, wrist and elbow singing in key.

  “Amazing blade,” Jonah said.

  “Yes, it is,” Sutherland was still beaming, as if he had forged it himself. “May I?”

  Sutherland held his hand out, and Jonah set the machete inside it. “There are a few additional features I had Herb add to your tool; I think you’ll appreciate them. This sheath is important,” he patted the leather as he slipped the blade back inside it. “It keeps your machete charged.”

  “Charged?”

&nbs
p; Sutherland was practically glowing. “Yes, charged. I wouldn’t send you back out into The Barrens with anything less than the best, Jonah. This,” he patted the sheath again, “is the best that I can do.”

  Sutherland handed him the sheath, Jonah drew the blade and studied it with new eyes.

  “Your blade is a perfectly weighted weapon, tailored to you from the data we could gather watching The Games. Even better, as you already said, it’s also a tool. Your machete has a jamming signal that will disable any orbs within range, charged by solar cells in the blade and sheath. It can burn hot enough to start fire, and if you press this button at the bottom and hold it for three seconds before you throw it, your machete will serve as a high-powered explosive and detonate on impact.

  Jonah didn’t know what to say.

  Sutherland made it easy. “I’m glad you like it!”

  “It’s perfect,” Jonah said.

  And it was. He could have stood there holding the weapon forever, but instead he simply thanked Sutherland and said he wanted a good night’s sleep—alone, he added, to which Sutherland grinned. He also said that he’d be ready to leave first thing in the morning. They reached the door when Jonah paused, turned to Sutherland, and asked if the lab had any sort of recording device he could borrow. He wanted to make a video for Ana, in case something happened on his way to or from City 6. Sutherland said of course, then went to a cabinet three feet away, opened it, and handed Jonah a vox.

  Minutes later Jonah was in his quarters, recording what he knew could be his farewell to Ana.

  “Anastasia,” Jonah stared into the green light, trying not to lose it. “I’m so so sorry for everything that’s happened. It isn’t fair and you don’t deserve it. I can’t explain what happened with Mom, but you must know that whatever happened, I loved her, just as I love you and Adam. I would never do anything to harm you, and would give anything to spare you from the horrors life has rained unjustly on you. You are my first born, Anastasia, and have made my life better for every day I was able to share it with you. I don’t know what happened, and maybe never will, but you must know I’ve never stopped loving you or your brother. I …”

  But there was nothing more to say.

  Jonah ended the recording, brittle, not wanting to cry through his good-bye. He set the vox on the floor beside his bed, and fell asleep hoping Ana would never see this video.

  Chapter 21 — ADAM LOVECRAFT

  Adam sat in the corner of a filthy apartment on the Orient Hotel’s third floor, watching while Carson and Fogerty interrogated the pimp.

  The apartment Adam once lived in with his family was small. Basic. Slightly larger but no fancier than those of most of Adam’s friends. He had one friend, Arnold Denny, whose father was a lawyer. They lived in the high apartments. Adam had seen his place three times; it was big and the ceilings were tall. The paint at his place seemed extra clean. Standing in Arnold’s apartment, Adam had felt somehow taller and stronger, like he could do anything he wanted, and that feeling had made him want to do more.

  This apartment was the opposite: it made him feel smaller, less significant, and made him want to die.

  The Orient Hotel was filthy from floor to ceiling—wall to wall the most disgusting place he had ever been in. There were rats and roaches, along with things Adam had never seen and hoped he could forget. The place was brown and smelled like it, reeking of piss and shit. Paint peeled where the walls weren’t already caved or broken. The building weighed on Adam like a wet blanket, and while Adam had only seen one apartment in the Orient, Little Mitch’s had to be the worst.

  “So where were you, Mitch? This is a simple question, and I’m not sure you’re seeing how patient I’m already being. My partner Carson’s a nice enough guy, but I’m starting to lose it. Word at the station is that I’m a total cock, and I’m at my worst since my old lady hasn’t wanted to fuck me for a week. You’re either gonna spill or not, and if you’re not, we’re gonna do some stuff that will spread through The Quarters fast enough to get us a month full of Yes SIR!s.”

  Adam wasn’t sure how long it went on like that, but it was awhile. A lot about The Quarters had surprised him so far, but nothing more than the way people were willing to argue with Watchers. These were bad guys doing bad things, yet they were acting like the Watchers had no power.

  Little Mitch laughed, as he had been since they stormed his apartment and Fogerty sent Adam into the corner. “Like I said, I’m not saying shit, and don’t have to. You don’t scare me. You got questions, you can ask my brother. He’ll tell you everything you wanna know.”

  “And who’s your brother?” Fogerty asked, smacking Little Mitch hard on the back of his head.

  “Mac Callum,” Little Mitch said, then leaned back in his chair, smiled, and watched the Watchers trade a glance. “Yeah, that’s right,” he added. “Mac Callum. So don’t fuck with me.”

  Everything about Carson’s face changed. He walked straight up to Little Mitch and launched his fist into the man’s face. From behind him, Fogerty yelled, “We don’t give a shit who your brother is,” then stood back as Carson shocked Adam by beating the holy crap from their suspect.

  Beating the man had to be wrong, but Adam knew rules were different in The Quarters, and that maybe Carson was doing what was necessary to keep Little Mitch from hurting other people. Carson was so nice—Adam would have expected Fogerty to do the beating, he was gruff and mean and it seemed in character. But here was Carson—with no hesitation—kicking the shit out of the suspect.

  Little Mitch was whimpering. Blood rained from a face that was starting to not look like a face. Finally, he started talking. Adam was bothered by the beating, maybe even a little scared by it. But the man finally confessed to killing the woman. “That bitch owed me,” he whined, as if it were a decent enough defense for murder.

  After Little Mitch was all bloody, Fogerty wrapped him in cuffs and dragged him downstairs, through the filthy Orient and into the back of the van.

  Fogerty got in and turned back to Adam. “Look kid,” he said, “we don’t like to get physical, but sometimes us Watchers don’t get a choice, especially here in The Quarters. It’s our job to show the criminals who’s boss, and sometimes what we did up there,” he glanced toward the burned-out letters in the sign, “well, that’s the only way we get people to listen.”

  Adam nodded, wishing he were anywhere but in a City Watch van, sharing space with a pimp and two thugs. He thought the ride-along would be exciting, or maybe scary in a good way. But right now he felt sick, and all he wanted was to go home to the Academy and climb into bed.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were hauling Little Mitch into the station. Fogerty agreed to book him so Carson could take Adam to the dining hall before the end of their shift.

  The station didn’t use ration cards, so Adam ordered what he wanted—a protein sandwich, macaroni salad, and an apple—then sat beside Carson.

  “Listen, kid,” Carson said, as soon as Adam sat, like he’d been waiting to say it. “Fogerty wasn’t bullshitting you in the van. What you saw, we don’t do that all the time, but today it had to be done. I know we set a bad example for you, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t want to tarnish your image of City Watch because we lost control with an asshole who wouldn’t fess to murder. That’s not who we are outside The Quarters; that’s important to understand. It’s an important lesson to take with you, because you’ll be in the driver’s seat someday. You have to be able to disconnect yourself from the stuff required from this job. I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Adam; I was good friends with your old man. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he was guilty.” He smiled. “But that’s between you and me, K?”

  Adam nodded, swallowing uncomfortably. He smiled back at Carson, though, and began eating his food.

  He didn’t want anything to stay just between him and Carson, at least not if Chief Keller asked.

  Chapter 22 — ANA LOVECRAFT

  If Liam had ammo left, this would’ve b
een easy—or at least easier. Six bandits total: poor odds, sure, but they would’ve had a better chance.

  “We know you’re there, come out now, with your hands up!” one of the bandits yelled as he approached.

  “Come on,” Liam whispered. He shoved the crowbar into a tool loop on his belt, held his hands in the air, nodded a trust me to Ana, and slowly stepped out from behind the tower and faced the six men.

  Ana walked with hands in the air behind him. Five of the six bandits fell back, all holding their weapons on Liam. One had the old gun that had been Liam’s grandfather’s. The man in front, a thick man with a pure black goatee, stepped forward and punched Liam hard in the gut.

  He cried out, clutching his stomach as he worked to regain his balance. He wobbled and swayed, then stood straight, looking at the man, defiant, eyes searching the roof for solutions, unwilling to surrender to what he couldn’t see. That was Liam—taking punishment to buy them time.

  Liam wasn’t standing straight long before the bandit hit him a second time, this time with a fist to his jaw. He cried out, louder and with a warble, clapping hand to jaw as he staggered back, again at war with his footing.

  Liam surprised the bandit—though not Ana—by regaining his footing much faster than he had let on and charging straight for him, lunging towards his gut and sending them both to the rooftop. Ana didn’t know—Liam couldn’t have either—if the bandits behind the goateed man would start blasting. She wasn’t about to find out, though. Ana put one foot behind the other, and started slowly backing away from the melee.

  Goatee had untangled himself from Liam and was now standing up. He waved his hand and his men fell back, holding their barrels on Liam as the leader punched him so hard in the jaw he must have been trying to prove the first two were tickles. Liam, who was also back on his feet, fell back, landing on his ass. He wheezed and looked like he might vomit as the bandit rushed him and slammed a boot hard on his chest.