Implants?
The word tumbled violently around Marcellus’s mind. What was he talking about? What implants?
“We’ve spent the majority of our time and resources developing the technology to not only control the power-supply field, but also to fine-tune its coordination, to assure accurate and precise results.”
With a swift punch to the stomach, the smaller man went down, dropping to the ground like a sac of rocks. The other man took a menacing step toward him, glaring down at his opponent the entire time. He reared his foot back, ready to deliver a devastating blow.
“We are now pleased to report, after many tests, that we have finally perfected the algorithm and fully calibrated the voltage flow.” Dr. Cromwell nodded to Dr. Ward. “Back down to zero, please.”
Dr. Ward slid her finger across the screen of her device and, like a broadcast being paused in the middle of the playback, the tall man halted mid-kick. Then, a moment later, he lowered his foot and began to back away from his opponent.
Implants.
Neuroelectricity.
Power-supply field.
All of these words sat at the periphery of Marcellus’s memory, just out of reach. He pressed a fingertip to his temple, as though trying to squeeze them all back into place.
“As you can see, with our newly designed operating system, we now have total control over the subjects.” Dr. Cromwell turned back to his colleague. “Back up to two point five, please.”
The reaction was almost instantaneous. The man on the ground leapt to his feet and hurled his body across the cube, attacking his opponent with a fresh, renewed enthusiasm. His eyes flashed with fury, his mouth twisted in an angry snarl, and his hands clawed at the air.
And that’s when Marcellus noticed something he hadn’t noticed before. In the tumult of the fight, the man’s sleeve had ripped almost clean off, revealing …
Marcellus stepped up closer to the plastique, squinting under the bright lights of the lab.
Was he seeing that right?
No, he couldn’t be. It was impossible.
But there it was. As clear as day. A small, rectangular screen embedded in the inside of the man’s left arm.
An implant.
Marcellus’s head throbbed as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. But it was Gabriel who got there first.
“He has a Skin,” Gabriel breathed. His voice was smaller and thinner than Marcellus had ever heard it.
But he was right. Marcellus’s gaze whipped to the other man, who was fighting back, arms swinging wildly, fist connecting everywhere. But possibly the most disturbing sight of all was his sleeve that had been just barely pushed up, revealing the short edge of another screen.
“Furthermore,” Dr. Cromwell was now saying, “we have built in the ability to manipulate the subjects in any possible configuration. The application is completely customizable. You can group subjects manually or filter by similar characteristics such as age, gender, location, etc.”
But Marcellus could barely hear him anymore. He was far too focused on the glowing screens embedded in the men’s arms.
It’s impossible, he thought again.
No one on Albion had a Skin.
They were a Laterrian technology. Developed over five hundred years ago to keep the Third Estate in line. Small, multifunctional implants powered by …
But just as the thoughts began to coalesce in his mind, just as he started to realize what all this might mean, Dr. Cromwell said, “And now, maximum voltage at five point zero.”
Marcellus heard the command before he could process it. Before he could even begin to try to stop it.
“No,” came Alouette’s outraged whisper beside him. Barely audible.
Dr. Ward executed the order. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcellus saw Dr. Collins—the older scientist with the silver hair—visibly flinch. He turned back to the cube just in time to see the exposed Skins on the two subjects’ arms flash a bright, iridescent red.
Then, anarchy.
Alouette shielded her eyes with her hand. But Marcellus couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze away. He was too transfixed. Too horrified. His mind too overloaded to do anything else but stare.
The two men attacked each other with more aggression, more ferocity than Marcellus had ever seen in a human being. They were tearing into each other’s flesh with bare fingernails. They were delivering blows with the power of machines.
They weren’t just fighting anymore.
They had an objective.
An endgame.
A gruesome finish line in sight.
And now it was only a matter of who would reach it first.
Neuroelectricity.
The information came streaming back to him now. He remembered. He remembered as though he were sitting in his Ministère officer training right now, hearing the words echoing through his audio patch.
“… neuroelectricity is taken directly from the human brain, routed through a small power-supply field, and repurposed to fuel the circuitry of the implant, removing the need for any external power source.”
The Skins ran on neuroelectricity.
But according to what Dr. Cromwell had just said and what Marcellus was now witnessing, that process could be reversed. It could be manipulated.
And these Albion scientists had done exactly that.
The Third Estate made up 95 percent of the Laterrian population. And the general was planning to use them as a weapon.
His weapon.
A deafening roar snapped Marcellus out of his trance. The shorter man had managed to break free from a choke hold like an animal suddenly unleashed from a cage. He grabbed his opponent by the shoulders, dragged him downward, and then proceeded to ram his face against the floor of the plastique cube. Over and over and over. Marcellus swore he could hear bones cracking, ligaments tearing, and of course the stomach-churning sound of spattering blood.
He heard Alouette’s horrified chanting under her breath. “No, no, no, no.”
Marcellus finally escaped the prison holding his lungs and body and voice hostage. He lunged toward the scientist holding the device. “Please, stop. Make it stop! Now!”
Dr. Ward and Dr. Collins both looked up, their expressions bemused. Dr. Ward turned to her boss, Dr. Cromwell, who raised a curious eyebrow. And Lady Alexander simply glanced at Marcellus with a cool unreadable look.
But before anyone could respond, the taller man in the cube managed to get under his opponent, hoist him on his back, and then lunge him violently into the air. His body flew up, as if it weighed nothing, and crashed into the wall of the cube. Right in front of Marcellus.
The plastique cracked. A thin, jagged, dark line that splintered not only the cube but Marcellus’s vision as well.
Marcellus stood deathly still, frozen, paralyzed, as the man’s body slid back down to the floor with the most horrific, shattering thump.
Then the room went silent.
Deafeningly, ferociously silent.
The other man stood in the plastique cell breathing raggedly, while his opponent was sprawled out on the floor.
Unmoving.
Lifeless.
Dead.
“So, what did you think?” Dr. Cromwell was the first to speak. His voice exhibited no sign of a reaction to what had just happened a mere mètre away. “General Bonnefaçon, I believe, will be very pleased, don’t you agree?”
Somehow, Marcellus managed to drag his eyes away from the horrendous sight in front of him and focus his gaze on Dr. Cromwell. He was looking at Marcellus with a hopeful sparkle in his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips.
When Marcellus didn’t respond, the scientist continued. “As I explained to the general, we still have a few more rounds of final tests, but we are working night and day to get this ready for him. And I’m certain we will be able to deliver the final product on schedule in one week.”
The words bounced around in Marcellus’s brain like a death sentence. And he
supposed it was. The death sentence of a planet.
One week.
“Officer Bonnefaçon.” Lady Alexander was suddenly in front of him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Are you quite all right?”
“Y-y-yes,” Marcellus stammered, his lips heavy and numb and useless. “Is there … um … somewhere my associates and I can go to discuss these … these results?”
Cromwell looked momentarily flummoxed as he pushed back a rogue strand of red hair. “Of course.” He pointed toward a set of doors behind them. “There’s a courtyard right through those—”
But Marcellus couldn’t even wait for him to finish. Struggling to put one foot in front of the other and fighting for breath, he stumbled out of the lab. He could feel Alouette, Cerise, and Gabriel close behind him. He burst through the door to the outside. The Sols had set, but exterior lamps illuminated a small courtyard adorned with benches, a square lawn, planters of shrubs, and a fountain at the center.
“Marcellus?” he heard someone say. But he did not look back to confirm who had asked the question. He did not look back at all.
His stomach had turned to liquid, and his chest shuddered like a storm was about to hit. Holding up a hand, Marcellus ran to the shrubbery by the fountain and proceeded to be unceremoniously and horribly sick.
- PART 4 - DÉFECTEURS
For too long and for too many years, the people looked down. Down at the glowing squares stitched into their arms. Down at the small screens which promised to care for them. Watch over them. Store their hopes and dreams. And offer wondrous dancing images before their eyes.
But the people failed to see beyond the shimmer and the glow.
They failed to see the danger that lurked beneath.
From The Chronicles of the Vangarde, Volume 7, Chapter 9
- CHAPTER 40 - MARCELLUS
FOR A FULL MINUTE, THE peaceful bubbling of the fountain in the center of the courtyard was the only sound Marcellus could hear. For a full minute, he could almost bring himself to believe that the last hour had never happened. That he hadn’t just watched two men rip each other to pieces in a plastique prison. That he hadn’t just emptied the contents of his stomach into a planter in the middle of a weapons development complex on the enemy planet of Albion.
But then, the minute was over, and the tranquil gurgling of the fountain was disrupted by Gabriel’s frantic voice. “Can someone tell me what the fric just happened back there?”
Marcellus wiped his mouth and turned around to find Gabriel, Cerise, and Alouette all staring at him. Gabriel was looking a little queasy himself. His skin was clammy, and his eyes had gone glassy and dull.
Marcellus tried to speak. He tried to explain what they had just witnessed, but he couldn’t put it into words. And the memory of that man lying lifeless and defeated on the ground, blood trickling from the wound on his head, brought another wave of nausea.
In the end, however, it was someone else who spoke.
A voice that seemed to come from the deep, dark corners of Marcellus’s mind. A voice he had been dreading hearing since they’d landed. But a voice he knew would eventually return.
“Lady Alexander? This is certainly a surprise. I was not expecting to hear from you again so soon. Is there a problem with the delivery schedule?”
Marcellus froze as his grandfather’s voice reverberated through his skull like a war drum. The general was back in his office. Talking to the very woman who stood just on the other side of that wall. Which meant only one thing.
She knew.
Lady Alexander had witnessed Marcellus’s reaction to the demonstration, and now she knew.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” The general sounded more bewildered than angry. “We must have a bad connection, because I’m certain I misunderstood you.” He let out a low chuckle. “For a moment, I thought you said my grandson was on Albion.”
“We have to get out of here!” Marcellus shouted.
Alouette was beside him in an instant, her eyes flooded with panic. “What’s wrong?”
Marcellus’s gaze darted anxiously around the courtyard. He could make out only one exit: the way they’d come in. “My grandfather knows we’re here.”
“What?!” Cerise bellowed. “How?”
“Lady Alexander just told him.”
“You mean, she …” Alouette glanced anxiously between Marcellus and the door back to the labs.
“Yes,” he answered her half-formed question as he eyed the three-mètre high brick wall surrounding the courtyard and scanned the surface for a good foothold. “We have to get over this wall. It’s the only way out.”
“That’s impossible!” The general’s voice in his ear was louder now, but Marcellus could hear the restraint. His grandfather was trying to keep his temper in check in the face of his shiny new ally.
“It’s too high.” Cerise’s eyes tracked up to the top of the wall. “We can’t scale it.”
“Move aside, people,” Gabriel said, pushing his way past Marcellus and Alouette. “Make way. Coming through.” He interlaced his fingers together, extended his arms, and squatted down, creating a makeshift step. “Right this way.” He nodded toward Cerise with a smug expression. “Ladies first.”
For once, Cerise did not argue with him. Holding on to Gabriel’s shoulders for balance, she tucked her foot into his hands.
“I’d just like to point out, for the record,” Gabriel said with a grunt as he hoisted her up to the top of the wall, “that this was my idea, and I am helping the team with a very necessary skill.”
Cerise grabbed onto the top of the wall. “Yes, yes, well done. You make an excellent step stool.”
Gabriel gave Cerise a final push, which turned out to be just the slightest bit too hard. She was flung over the top of the wall and a moment later, they heard her land with an “oomph” on the other side.
“I did not appreciate that!” Cerise called back.
But Gabriel ignored her, already extending his hands out for Alouette. She disappeared over the top, landing with a much more innocuous sound.
“I most certainly did not sanction his visit!” the general thundered, and through Marcellus’s audio patch, he could almost hear the walls of his grandfather’s office trembling. “The stupide, worthless boy has hoodwinked you all. You must apprehend him immediately.”
“Your turn, Officer.” Gabriel proffered his makeshift step to Marcellus.
Marcellus glanced anxiously between Gabriel and the wall. “What about you?”
“Don’t you worry about me. Criminal mastermind, remember? Climbing is second nature to me. Only surefire way to escape a droid. Now, hop on.”
Pounding footsteps echoed from behind them. The door to the courtyard slammed open, and in the doorway stood Lady Alexander, the monoglass over her left eye glowing. “Don’t worry, General,” she said with a glare. “We have visual on him now. He will not get away.”
“Go!” Gabriel screeched.
Marcellus stepped into his hands, and suddenly he was flying. Gabriel was stronger than he looked. Marcellus grabbed for the top of the wall to try to slow his descent, but he only managed to scrape up his palms and knees in the process. He crash-landed on the grassy lawn on the other side, rolling twice before coming to a stop in front of Alouette who helped him swiftly to his feet.
He could hear Lady Alexander’s voice screaming from inside the courtyard. It was the most ruffled Marcellus had heard her since they’d arrived. “Security! Send all available guards to the Filbright Wing! We have a breach! I repeat a breach in the Hampstead courtyard.”
A second later, Gabriel landed expertly in a crouch and beckoned to the rest of the group. “Follow me!”
They took off along the back side of the building. The skies above were now completely dark and lights from nearby windows cast long golden shadows on the pathways.
“I don’t understand,” the general was now saying in Marcellus’s audio patch. “How did he even find out we were working together? He wo
uld have had to …” His grandfather’s voice trailed off only to return a moment later in the form of a low, menacing growl. “I will get right back to you, Lady Alexander. In the meantime, find him.”
Suddenly, sirens breached the night air, calling out across the complex. Above Marcellus’s head, a parade of stark white search lights began to swoop over the darkened ground.
“Move!” Gabriel shouted as he darted across a grassy quad and down another shadowy, stone-flagged walkway with Marcellus, Cerise, and Alouette following close behind. Marcellus had no idea where they were running to. But he prayed Gabriel did.
Then, a moment later, Marcellus heard a fifth set of footsteps. Not behind them. Not pursuing them. But inside his head. The footsteps were coming from his audio patch, and they were accompanied by the sound of objects crashing to the ground.
His grandfather was searching for something.
Gabriel slowed at the edge of the next building, finding a narrow sliver of darkness between the glowing range of the search lights. He held up a hand and they all careened to a stop behind him. He crept forward and peered around the corner, scouting his route and waiting for a clear opening.
In his audio patch, Marcellus heard the scrape of a chair leg, the squeal of a drawer being yanked open, followed by the crash of something—perhaps a lamp—being overturned. They were the sounds of an office being ransacked. Scoured. Torn apart.
He knows I’ve been listening.
The general’s footsteps soon quieted, and all Marcellus could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing as he pressed himself close to the wall.
He listened, waiting. He could almost see his grandfather now. Standing in the middle of his destroyed office, his skillful gaze scanning every centimètre, every corner. Trying to search out the source of the breach.
There was a tiny creak in Marcellus’s ear. Followed by another. And another. Like a wild animal creeping up on its prey. Then Marcellus heard it. Soft and muted.
Between Burning Worlds Page 36
