Ashes of the Fall

by Nicholas Erik

  Fucking kryptonite.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Thought we were having a moment.”

  “I like other women,” she says in a matter of fact tone. “Not men.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I’m already one day late because of Circle obligations and this Carina presence in your apartment. I promised Matthew.”

  “Lovely,” I say, gesturing towards her door. “Lead the way.”

  As my own door closes, I wonder if I should really leave Carina all by her lonesome. The hard drive’s still in there, and a spurned girl is a ticking time bomb. But I hear the shower as the door clicks shut, and I hope that, by the time I’m back, she’ll have cooled off.

  I’ll apologize, take a couple deep breaths. Throw her a bone about my family problems, maybe something about what happened in the West.

  “That ash cloud,” I say, “that’s something, isn’t it,” as this strange woman unlocks her door.

  She says nothing until the door is safely shut and we’re out of the hall. Then she answers simply, “Times will be difficult.”

  This seems obvious enough, but the flat and logical way she says it with absolute certainty forces a snaking chill up my spine. It says that the Circle might be bad, but if they fall, the world could tumble into absolute chaos.

  “I don’t know your name,” I say, following her into an apartment that looks remarkably like Matt’s. If I stumbled in here sloshed, it would be easy to mistake the two. The wall screen TV plays on mute, Old Silver Fox looking as if he’s about to collapse from exhaustion from eight straight days of increasingly ridiculous damage control.

  “Olivia,” she says, sitting down on the couch. “There are drinks in the kitchen.”

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing the bottle of whiskey without any glasses, “Love one. Two, actually.”

  She doesn’t laugh at my joke, but I don’t blame her. Something drops on to the coffee table as I walk over. When I get closer, I see that it’s the gun.

  “This is the gun I took from your brother’s apartment,” she says. I sit down, looking at it. “He asked me to remove it before you came.”

  “So I’d think he was murdered?”

  “To force you down a path that would test your readiness,” Olivia says. After a long pull on the whiskey bottle, I offer her a pull. Even beneath the mass of hair, her lips clearly curl in disgust. “You’ve drank from it.”

  “It’s liquor,” I say, then decide to drop the point. “Nice place.”

  “We’re the only two Inner Circle members who still live in this building,” she says. “Tanner considers it a dump. But we kind of grew up here, in the Gifted Minds Program.”

  “One of the nicest places I’ve ever been,” I say. “Tanner’s a jackass.”

  She actually smiles. Any doubts about whether I can trust her vaporize. Like Jaime, Olivia’s one of the good guys. Whatever that means in this world.

  Usually it just means the person is on the same side as you.

  I press my luck and offer her the whiskey again. The grimace returns. “No.”

  “Well, I’m gonna get wasted, if you don’t mind,” I say. “It’s been that kind of day.” Images of Carina lighting fires in the trash can, stamping the hard drive into circuit-board oblivion briefly flood my mind. “So did I pass?”

  “Pass what?”

  “Matt’s test,” I say. “Am I ready?”

  “You received his note from Jaime? The box,” she asks.

  I tell her I’m working on the hard drive, read the note and gave the HoloBand 6.0 with HIVE beta software to Tanner. Nodding along like she expected this, knew it, she finally brushes her hair from her face.

  I understand then why she keeps it long, like a veil.

  There’s a scar running from her temple to her jaw, jagged and white.

  “You must unite the factions and find a suitable political alternative to the Circle,” she says, like she’s reciting the ingredients from a box of cereal.

  I drink, because the directive’s caught me off guard.

  “You know,” I say, thoughts beginning to work again—after hearing you’re the chosen one to usurp the leader of the world, things can gum up a little, “couldn’t Matt have done it himself?”

  She gives me a strange look. “No. Tanner is too paranoid. Even though he liked Matthew, it would have been impossible.”

  “He could’ve rigged the beta HoloBand chip to fry Tanner’s brain. Or code a virus into the HIVE beta. He designed both.” It’s kind of an accusation—and a little bit of a fishing expedition.

  Olivia doesn’t bite. I’m not all that surprised. “Tanner rigorously tests his chips—an entire team dedicated to finding any flaws. Has tasters for his food. Personal security with no families, no affiliations, no loyalties other than his own. He’s untouchable.”

  “He’s dying.”

  “If he dies, the system goes on,” Olivia says. “Killing him alone fixes nothing.”

  “Don’t see how I was going to change the entire system.”

  “You have the gift of the silver tongue,” Olivia says. “Trust is the ultimate currency, more powerful than fear. And you can avoid detection, remain unseen, evade patrols—go where Matthew, the clumsy programmer, would have been unable. That, combined with access to the Inner Circle, might have been enough for a window of opportunity to curry favor.”

  I think about telling her how I called Tanner while I was out cavorting with enemies of the state—thus shooting holes in her whole “unseen” and “slick” ideal—but instead I drink and Olivia says, “But I’ve run the analysis. The prior plan, wherever it would have led, is no longer viable.”

  “Oh, is it now?” Liquor beginning to take effect, the black dog of anxiety and doubt quieted, I even crack an easy smile. “Maybe we should just drop a drone strike on National Hall. That’d do Tanner good, don’t you think?”

  “Your glibness does not fit the severity of the situation.”

  “I guess Matt should have warned you I can be an asshole,” I say. “Tell me why his plan won’t work. Thought he was a genius.”

  “Matthew’s plan of action to free us from the scourge of the Circle was a good one, according to the known variables. But the earthquake and volcanic eruption in the West change everything. The Otherlands, too. That was a surprise, even to the Inner Circle. The situation is far too fragile for current adjustment.”

  I don’t like where this is going. It sounds like my services may no longer be needed.

  “What I’d really like to know about is this.” I drag the note out of my back pocket and wave it in the air. Olivia gives no reaction. While it’s two pages, it’s short, since each letter takes up three lines.

  “Luke,” I begin with dramatic flair, “If you’re reading this, you’ve proved that you have the skills to complete my plan. I am sorry for leaving you with my body. But I scheduled that Special Committee pickup so close to my suicide so that you would be forced to see the only solution: to become the version of me that I could never be. I have created HIVE as a way to even the balance of power. But you must not allow the full code to get in Tanner’s—or anyone’s—hands. It is far too dangerous a tool for control. The contents of the drive will help you, but you must use the skills you’ve developed to convince others that they are stronger together than apart. Death was my only way of convincing you of this necessity—you would have said no, had you not been forced to do so, as becoming a hero requires great sacrifice. Love, Matt.”

  I’m still saying no, even after this string of events. Maybe because of them.

  It’s weird to think of him writing this note, talking about his death in the past tense—like it had already happened. I slide the note back in my pocket and drink.

  “I thought love was a nice addition. After making me play a game to prove my worth.”

  �
��It wasn’t a game,” Olivia says. She rises, and for the first time I see that, beneath the weirdness, she actually moves fairly gracefully. Athletically. “If you failed to reach Jaime Aslan before you were killed or captured, then he said that it would prove something.”

  “Prove that he’s sadistic, maybe. I walked in on his dead body.”

  “Prove that his second choice for the job was correct.” She takes the whiskey bottle from my hand and with a look of extreme disgust, takes a sip. I appreciate the show of comradery, but almost fall out of my chair when she says, “Me.”

  “Me who what now?”

  “If you failed, I was to pick up the hard drive and access the contents,” Olivia says. She doesn’t so much sit down as glide into the chair. This, coupled with the scar, make me wonder just where the hell her story goes. “But you did not fail. So I am here to help.”

  Strangely, she doesn’t seem jealous or upset about this fact. Which is refreshing. This is a big job, changing the world. Only one picture will be in the history books. No room for accomplices. Maybe there’s room for mention in the official autobiography.

  “But there’s new analysis you did,” I say, trying to run back the conversation earlier through the ever densifying whiskey fog.

  “Transcontinental Hyperloop travel, outside of the Otherlands line, has been shut down. Contact with factional leaders on the edges of those parts will be difficult. Surveillance has increased substantially in Manhattan, making a rendezvous with the Lionhearted impossible.”

  “You could just kill Tanner.”

  “The strain will plunge the world into chaos.”

  “Well, he’s gonna die anyway,” I say, rolling the whiskey bottle back and forth between my palms. A black sun is visible—tinted from the heavy shades. Olivia doesn’t seem to be one for the light. “What’s he got, a couple weeks? Months?”

  “He can’t die. Not now.”

  “As much as I like playing God, I don’t think we get to make that call,” I say. De facto victory. That works for me. The system plunges into chaos, I slip away, preferably to a beach full of naked women and margaritas. If such a place even exists in the world any more. Probably shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  “This was always about stability,” she says. “Creating a better world.” Now she almost sounds like Tanner, which raises red flags. Her eyes are on the floor, her fingers tracing some sort of pattern over her open palm. Like she’s weighing pros and cons. Through the whiskey, an alarm triggers in my mind, but I push it down, chalk it up to paranoia. “Yes, this is the only way.”

  “What’s that?”

  Olivia double taps the back of her neck and says, “Special Committee, I have caught a traitor.” Then, before I can react, she grabs the pistol from the table and shoots me in the leg. It burns like hell, even through the drunkenness, and I stumble off the couch. Clutching my leg up to my chest, eyes tearing, covered in blood, I look up at Olivia.

  She’s holding the pistol with a nondescript expression on her face. Not angry, not sad, just calculating. Like a machine that was told the odds, and then executed the plan with flawless precision. Something wet touches my hair, and I can tell from the smell it’s whiskey.

  With a smooth motion, she props the bottle up, takes my hand, and brings the rim of the glass up to my mouth.

  “Drink,” she says.

  “You shot me,” I say, edges of my vision going dark, “you shot me, you goddamn bitch.”

  “It’ll hurt worse if you don’t keep drinking.”

  “Fuck you,” I say. My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls. Craning my neck to look down at my leg, I can see the blood ruining the sensible khakis. With a groan, my head drops back against the floor, into the whiskey puddle.

  Hands trembling, I put the bottle up to my dry lips and force the burning liquid down my throat.

  “Listen carefully,” she says. “You will unite the factions.”

  “Like hell I will,” I say. “You and Matt can both go—”

  Olivia stomps on my leg, and I shriek in pain. “You’re familiar with cons,” she says. “Long and short. This one may be quite long.”

  Not knowing what to say, I keep chugging from the bottle of whiskey. When the SC Agents rush through the door and pick me up roughly, it feels like I’m being carried out on air.

  If this is what Matt meant by saying no to great sacrifice, he was right.

  Because I would’ve told him to go fuck himself.

  Limping in front of the magistrate judge—the SC Agents were nice enough to staunch the bleeding and dress my wound, even dig the bullet out—I stand and await my punishment. Less than twenty-four hours before, I was Matthew Stokes, esteemed member of the Inner Circle. Tasked with usurping the Circle’s rule by creating some sort of fantastical factional democracy.

  Now I’m Luke Stokes, small-time con, criminal menace.

  The Chancellor, to mark the opening of the Otherlands, has decided to make an example of me. I will be executed there, on live television, instead of in secret. An audacious send-off for an audacious criminal.

  I know this because, before they ripped out Matt’s HoloBand from my neck, they turned on HoloNet. And a voicemail message in that scratchy voice was there, simply saying, “You weren’t part of my plans, Lucas, but you will provide an excellent mechanism for this nation to move forward and believe in my vision. So I must thank you.”

  Thing is, I was most upset about him calling me Lucas. That’s not my name.

  The video screen buzzes on in the trial booth, and the magistrate judge appears, dressed in somber robes, bearing an equally somber expression.

  “Luke Stokes,” he says, reading from a sheet before him, “you have been charged with conspiracy to assassinate a public figure, illegal possession of technology, assault of an Inner Circle official with a prohibited weapon, murder of an Inner Circle official, and identity fraud. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty,” I say with an edge of defiance. I want to sit down, but there’s no place in the booth to do so. It’s only three feet wide, with a curtain behind it. Rumor has it, these used to be voting booths—before voting became a rather antiquated notion, like all the technology that wasn’t Circle stamped and approved. Now people can vote for their local government puppet candidates from the HoloNet.

  “Having reviewed the evidence found at Matthew Stokes’ residence, as well as the testimony of Ms. Olivia Redmond, I have determined that you are guilty of four of the five charges.”

  So much for mounting a defense.

  “It is clear that you murdered your brother, a truly ruthless act, and impersonated his identity for your own personal gain as well as to further your personal agenda to assassinate the Chancellor. A review of the stolen HoloBand’s tracking locations gives a clear picture of your associations with members of known terrorists. Witness testimony from Agent Sten attests that you were acting strangely, and a bartender remembers you falsely identifying yourself when he requested positive identification. He also testified to your association with a known member of the Lionhearted.

  “Furthermore, Ms. Redmond’s sworn statement indicates that you threatened her with the very firearm that you used to kill your brother, all in a desperate attempt to coerce her into joining your ill-fated scheme.”

  “He killed himself,” I say.

  Ignoring me, the judge continues, “However, I cannot charge you with illegal possession of technology. While Ms. Olivia Redmond testified that you claimed to be in possession of a 2.5” solid state drive, a search of Matthew Stokes’ residence turned up no such drive. While the forged note you wrote in a facsimile of Matthew Stokes’ hand—found on your person—alluded to the existence of such a drive, no physical evidence of a crime was recovered. As such, that charge was dropped.”

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  “May I remind you, Mr. Stokes,”
the judge says with gravitas, “that this is a court of law, and I will find you in contempt should you not show it proper respect.”

  “Sure thing, Your Honor.”

  There’s a look of intense disgust from the judge. Then, a horrible jolt of pain, starting from the base of my neck, surges through my spine, like I’ve stuck a fork into a wall socket. Crumpling to the ground, instantly in a cold sweat, I convulse until the tremors stop.

  “A new HoloBand has been installed in your neck, Mr. Stokes,” the judge says. I can’t see him, only hear his condescending voice. “One equipped with certain additional features, should you step out of line before your planned execution.”

  Pit in my stomach, I realize that, for once, I’ve given Chancellor Tanner something more powerful than propaganda: the truth. A plot to take down the government, in conjunction with Lionhearted forces. Murdering my own brother to get close enough to execute it all.

  The picture just shows how ruthless the Lionhearted and every other source of opposition are—and why they must be stopped.

  And really, how fair the Circle is in comparison—after all, they didn’t have evidence to convict me on the charge of the drive, so they dropped it.

  “You are dismissed,” the judge says. “Your execution is scheduled immediately after your arrival in the Otherlands at midnight.”

  I still can’t stand up, but it doesn’t matter. Two SC Agents come in, their shiny boots taking shots at my ribs before they haul me up. One of them is Bogden.

  “Nice to see an old friend,” I say.

  He wrenches my arm almost out of its socket and says nothing as they haul me into the back of a bulletproof prisoner transport. They toss me inside like a worthless sack of rotten potatoes, and then drive me to the Hyperloop station.

  Either as a kindness or some sort of cruel extra knife turn, Old Silver Fox is playing on the screen in the corner of the van. There’s my picture, with an instruction to tune in for my public hanging.

  A minute later, something more surprising comes on. A picture of Carina—identifying her as Carina Alonso—pops up in the corner. Apparently, she was my main contact in the Lionhearted. And she is considered highly dangerous and a threat to the existence of the NAC itself.