Three lotd-1

by Jay Posey

  “Night, Jackson,” Wren answered, voice already distant and thick with impending sleep. Cass waved limply from the foot of the bed.

  “See ya, Three.”

  Three nodded. Watched as Jackson backed out, pulled the door to. Cass bent double and unbuckled her boots, slipped them off. Rolled her ankles, massaged her feet. Three watched her for a moment: small, tucked in on herself, with such fragile beauty his heart burned.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She rolled her head his way, eyes bloodshot, lids heavy. Smiled so genuinely, with such unexpected warmth; dawn breaking through a hurricane night. Three found he’d stopped breathing.

  “Hey back,” she said, voice low. No more than a meter away. She locked eyes with him: deep brown, dancing, golden. Vulnerable. She leaned back, propped herself on outstretched arms, lithe, feline in her movement. Cocked her head. “You gonna fix me up or what?”

  Three held. Evaluated. Wren’s breathing was deep, steady. Cass just sat there, staring back at him with those dark, depthless eyes. He stepped to her, brushed the hair back from her face. Traced her jaw with the back of a finger.

  “Lay back.”

  Cass lowered herself to the bed, slid her hands behind her head. Three planted a knee next to her, the inside of his leg firm against her ribs. Leaned over her. Wordlessly, he unfastened the first, then second clasp of her shirt. Lay back the left side. Her smile had melted into an amused smirk, but she never broke eye contact.

  Three started at her collarbone. With his fingertips, he traced from the notch at the top of her breastbone, out to her left shoulder and back, stopping about three-quarters of the way to the slender curve of her neck. Her olive skin was warm, impossibly soft. Now he ran his fingertips downward, sliding along the inside of her breast. She watched from stillness.

  He found a rib, placed a finger from his left hand there. Reached with his right into one of the many pockets of his pants.

  “I hate to hurt you.”

  “I’m glad it’s you.”

  She let her eyes fall closed. Drew a breath.

  Three took the Trivex jector from his pocket, placed its pepperbox-tip just above his finger, in the soft notch between Cass’s ribs. Aimed directly at her heart.

  “Ready?”

  Cass exhaled. Nodded. Inhaled. He fired. The jector hissed softly, punching its chems through the surface down deep into the center of her bloodstream. Cass’s eyes clenched so tightly a tear streamed, but she made no sound. The jector fell quiet. Cass exhaled. Three instinctively placed his hand on her chest, just above the jector. She dropped a cool, damp hand atop his. Opened her eyes, fixed him with a steady gaze.

  “Come on, cowboy. Just four more to go,” she whispered. She patted his hand. He nodded, watched her close her eyes again. Didn’t ask her this time, just fired again. When it was done, she barely paused.

  “Again.”

  Three didn’t want to jolt her again so soon, but he knew better than to ask. He fired the third dose. Three was no stranger to jectors, having had to dose himself during some of the more unpleasant times he’d endured. He’d also been stabbed, shot, jittered, slashed, and burned. Given the choice of the six, dosing from a jector ranked third.

  “Go, do it.”

  Cass was trembling now under his hand, heart hammering against her ribcage. Sweat beaded on her exposed skin, as if a heavy dew had fallen across her. Three leaned closer, brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. Ran his hand over her scalp, soothing, and knowing the pain in her chest was overriding every other sense.

  “Last one. You’re doing good.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Need a break?”

  She shook her head, furrowed her brow. She didn’t want questions, she wanted to get it over with. He dosed her the fifth and final time. The jector hissed out the last of its chems; a single dose intended to shock a still heart to beating, to trigger adrenals to flood the bloodstream at full capacity. Three knew quint was the emperor of high-speed chems, but he’d also seen a man’s heart explode from a double dose of Trivex. This little sister had strength beyond measure. He gently closed her shirt, refastened it.

  “We’re done, girl. Let’s get you some rest.”

  “I don’t…” she whispered, mouth parched. “I don’t usually let people call me ‘girl’.”

  Three smiled as he stood. He scooped Cass up off the bed, cradled her like an overgrown child. She didn’t resist. He walked around the bed and laid her gently beside her sleeping son.

  He hovered over the pair, thought back to that first day. The first time they walked into his guarded, disciplined, secure world. And he wondered at just how far out from that world they’d brought him.

  Three switched off the light in the room, tugged off his shirt, and decided he was going to allow himself a long, cool shower.

  Cass could tell from watching him that he’d assumed she and her son were sleeping. He’d already startled her once walking naked by the open bathroom door, and now Three seemed to be oblivious to any notion of being watched, which was surprisingly uncommon for the man. The Trivex was working its way throughout her body, juicing long-starved muscle fibers and nerve endings. She lay motionless not for fear of being discovered, but because every joint, muscle, and nerve stung with icy vengeance at the slightest provocation. But here, with Wren cuddled next to her, she was warm, and comfortable, and safe. For the first time in far too long. Her body was deathly tired, and she knew sleep would come soon. It just hadn’t found its way to her yet. Outside, twilight was descending.

  She watched Three in the dim orange light of the single bathroom bulb. Studied him, really. For all the miles they’d covered, and the trust she’d developed in him in spite of herself, she still knew so little of the man. He stood at the small basin in the bathroom, methodically shaving his head. His face. Careful, practiced strokes. Using a gleaming-edged knife not unlike the one Wren had cut his hand on. No, not methodical. Ritualistic. Preparation.

  He wore no shirt, and from her vantage, Cass could see the rope-like muscles of his back, shoulders, arms. Not bulky, like those splicejob showboys. Just authentic, well-used, well-formed, like they’d been doing work for fifty years and would continue for twice that much more. “Go muscle”, she’d heard Ran once call it, “not Show muscle”. She’d seen more genetically perfect physiology before. But the history that Three wore upon him was more fascinating by far. His back and shoulders were a tapestry of crisscrossed scars punctuated by the occasional dark stain of ink where a masterful calligraphist had inscribed captivating ideograms upon his flesh, in lines vertical and horizontal, in circles, in spirals. She wondered at their meaning.

  Three set his blade aside on the basin and splashed water over his face and head several times. After the final splash, he stepped back from the basin and knelt upon the floor, feet behind him, head slightly bowed. Cass watched as his breathing slowed to such a point that she began to wonder if he had ceased breathing at all. Several minutes passed, and his stillness amazed her. For a moment, she wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep, and if he had indeed even intended to do so. She couldn’t remember having seen him sleep at all since the beginning.

  Three rose like a liquid shadow, grabbed his shirt and blade, and switched off the light. A very faint residual glow emanated from panels placed around the room, like the softest of moonlight, intended no doubt to create an atmosphere that encouraged sleep while staving off the fears that a pitch-black room made of concrete might otherwise inspire. In it, Cass could just make out Three’s movements across the room to their loaded packs. The man was utterly silent, like a dark mist driven about by an unfelt breeze. It suddenly occurred to her that she might well just be dreaming the whole event.

  He crouched, then rose soon after with a bundle in his arms. He moved to the door.

  “Hey,” Cass whispered.

  Three halted. But didn’t turn.

  “Hey back,” he answered finally, in a low voice. He wa
ited. Waited for her to say anything more. That seemed to be his way.

  “I know your secret.”

  He was silent for a time. Still. Cass felt sleep’s heavy approach. She wondered briefly if she’d actually said anything at all.

  “I doubt that, girl,” he finally replied. “But we’ll talk when I get back. Maybe we can start being honest with each other.”

  Three opened the door, and the dim light from the corridor framed him. Cass saw he had slipped on his vest, with his pistol and short curved sword in place. And she thought she could make out a bundle of what looked like blankets in his hands.

  “Where are you going?”

  Three inhaled, held his breath. She saw his shoulders go up, draw back. Frustration? No. Steeling himself.

  He exhaled. Checked the blade at his back. Shifted.

  “To see a friend.”

  And was gone.

  Sixteen

  Three crouched atop the Vault as the final traces of day seeped from the heavens, unveiling the first stars. Clouds were rolling in, backlit by a half-moon on the wane, tinted red from the residual glow of the electric embers of the city beneath. The Weir cried to one another, some from a distance, others less so, the echoes reverberating through the steel and concrete sprawl. Three had learned to judge those calls, or rather not to misjudge them. Magnified by overpasses, twisted by alleys, muffled by high-rises. Misreading the sounds of the hunt could prove fatal. Or worse.

  Jackson hadn’t been eager to let Three back out of the Vault so close to twilight, but the kid knew better than to argue for long. And the fight had gone out of him anyway, once Three had explained. Now, out here on top of the Vault, the temperature was dropping steadily. A light wind swirled out of the surrounding alleys and moaned softly through the skeletal maglev structure, streaming like water over the top of Three’s freshly shaved head. He thought briefly about grabbing one of the old blankets he’d brought with him, but decided against it. The chill kept him alert, and comfort was an enemy.

  After an hour of waiting, Three allowed himself to sit rather than crouch. He massaged his calves, hoping to ease the burn. Sleep stalked.

  Not now, he insisted. When it’s done.

  He had assured Jackson that the Weir had lost interest in breaching the Vault, and he’d been more right than he’d known. Though he could hear their sporadic croaking, he had yet to see even a hint of one below. Clouds masked the moon, making darker the night and heavier the looming silence of the cityscape. He could barely make out the outline of the old rusted, V-shaped piece of scrap metal he’d dragged near the front gate, with his two firebricks inside.

  Three drew his pistol, flicked open its cylinder with practiced ease, considered the single shell within. Walking to Greenstone, of all places, with one shell in the pipe. As far as he was concerned, shooting was rarely a good answer to a problem. But when it was, it was usually the only answer. He shook his head with a smirk and flicked the cylinder shut, before sliding the weapon back into its well-worn holster. A few more slugs probably wouldn’t be the difference between living and dying out here. Probably.

  A shuffling noise from below caught Three’s attention, and his senses snapped alert. He rose to a crouch and peered into the darkness beneath him. For a long moment, there was nothing more. No noise, no movement, no blue-glow aura that always emanated from approaching Weir. Three remembered just the night before, at how Dagon had appeared without warning. He slipped a hand to the grip of his blade. Instinct crackled. Something was there, in the darkness. Watching.

  Three released the short sword, slowly took up his bundle, shifted away from the front of the Vault. Gradually he eased his way to the left side of the squat building, silently worked towards the edge. He carefully wrapped his bundle inside one of the blankets and then passed one end under an arm and the other over the opposite shoulder, tying the makeshift satchel securely upon his back. Then, there at the edge, he waited. There again, the shuffling sound. Footsteps. Definitely approaching. They sounded heavy for a Weir, shuffling rather than pattering as he was accustomed to.

  Three lowered himself over the edge, spidered his way down the wall. Slowly. Silently. When he reached the bottom, the shuffling had stopped again. He dropped to a low crouch, forced himself to move with painstaking care, towards the front of the Vault. An inch at a time. His held his mouth slightly open to ensure even his breathing made no sound.

  The shuffling began again, and Three could tell now it was just around the corner. Just at the front of the Vault. But moving away. Then a pause. Then shuffling again, towards the Vault. Then a pause. Three came up out of his crouch and slid around the corner. There, in front of the Vault, a hulking Weir stood with its blue-glow eyes fixed on the gate.

  “Gev,” Three said aloud.

  The Weir’s head snapped in his direction, its eyes rapidly scanning for him, sliding over him without seeing. Three stood his ground, studied the thing before him. This thing that had once been his friend. Three didn’t know how many weeks had passed since Gev had been taken, but apart from the electric blue light flooding out of its eye sockets, the Gev-Weir looked virtually unchanged.

  It flexed its hands, squawked a burst of organic-digital noise. Its eyes still roving.

  “It’s me.”

  The Gev-Weir hunched down, as if to pounce. But Three knew he was safe from its searching gaze. He eased a hand back and slipped his blade from its sheath. Somewhere deep in his heart, a hope that he hadn’t even realized he’d carried died. A hope for recognition. But there was none, and Three knew his friend was gone.

  “I’m here, old friend,” he said quietly.

  As he spoke, he threw his arms out wide. The Weir reacted to the sudden, sharp movement, and launched itself toward him in a frenzy. But Three’s calmness remained. And just before the Gev-Weir was upon him, he whirled to one side and whipped the tip of his blade expertly through the back of its neck, just at the base of the skull, severing the spinal column in a single, swift stroke, without beheading it. The blue-glow eyes doused instantly. The Gev-Weir collapsed headlong in a weighty heap and was still.

  Three flicked the acrid fluid from his blade, and returned it to its sheath. Then he untied the blanket from his shoulder, and unrolled it on the ground. With great effort and care, he lifted Gev’s body and laid it upon the blanket, and then knelt alongside.

  Three arranged Gev’s heavy hands over his heart, and then placed his own on top of them. They were cool to the touch, the flesh rough but not yet the rubber-like texture that death so often brought. If Three hadn’t just slain his friend, he could’ve convinced himself that Gev was merely asleep. Three covered Gev’s face, and then wrapped the blanket tightly around the body. He did the same with the remaining blankets, and then heaved Gev’s massive frame up over his shoulders.

  He strained to carry the body over to the scrap metal pyre he’d hastily formed, but once there, he laid his friend as carefully as he was able into the V-shape, atop the firebricks. Three stood and regarded the tightly-bound form of his longtime friend. He felt that he should say something meaningful, but discovered he had no words to speak. There seemed to be none worthy of so final a moment. So in silence, Three ignited the firebricks. In seconds, they grew white-hot and soon flames of many colors engulfed Gev’s remains, spreading golden-orange sparks heavenward.

  And with the task at hand completed, Three lay down on the cold concrete beside his friend and wept.

  A light knock on the door roused Cass from a depthless sleep. She remained still, drew a long breath, waited for her mind and body to synch. Wren was curled next to her, his breathing even. Undisturbed. The knock came again. She checked her internal clock. Twenty-two minutes to sunrise. No sign of Three.

  “Mama, Jackson’s knocking,” Wren whispered. Awake after all.

  “Alright, sweetheart.”

  Cass sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Tested them, glad to discover she could move without pain. It’d been a long while s
ince she could say that. She padded over to the door barefoot and cracked it open.

  “Sorry to wake you, Miss Cass. But, Three’s about ready to get moving.”

  “He’s upstairs already?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, then paused. “Sorta.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet. He just asked me to make sure you guys were up and ready to go around now.”

  “OK, we’ll be up in a few.”

  Jackson nodded, but lingered at the door. He tugged at an earlobe, unconsciously from the looks of it. He was nervous about something.

  “Need any help?” he finally asked. “I can carry your gear up, if you like.”

  “No, that’s alright. Just need to get dressed.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  Cass sighed to herself. She guessed he was lonely, that he was having mixed emotions about their leaving. Might as well give the kid something, however small.

  “OK, give us a minute.”

  “’K.”

  Cass closed the door and switched on the light. Wren was already sitting up, legs dangling off the side of the bed, blond hair sticking up like a halo. His sea-green eyes shone wet as he squinted against the light.

  “How’d you sleep, baby?”

  “Good,” he answered. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “This bed is nice. I wish it fit in my backpack.”

  “Me too. But when we get to Morningside, we’ll each have our own bed. Own rooms, even.”

  She smiled as her son slid to the floor, wishing she believed that they’d make it to Morningside, that there would be an end to their flight, to the pursuit. Wren sidled next to her, wrapped his arms around her leg. He seemed taller than he’d been last night. She dropped a hand on his back, squeezed him against her leg in a one-handed hug.

  “Come on, we should get moving.”

  Cass helped Wren pull a heavier overshirt on over the top of his thinner long-sleeved shirt. As his head popped through the top, she found him staring her in the eye with a look of serious concern.