The Raising (The Torch Keeper Book 3)

by Steven dos Santos

  I grip his shoulder. “Arrah, Dru—”

  Cage shakes his head. “Haven’t seen ’em.” He grits his teeth as he picks up a nearby helmet, rinses out the blood with the rain, and places it back on his head. “Dahlia, neither.”

  “I pulled Corin from —” The memory’s knocked away by another blast. Half our cover’s gone, replaced by a rain of shrapnel.

  Two of the Octopoda machines close in on our position, creeping nearer every second.

  There’s no time to wonder or grieve now. Besides, our friends could still be alive. I point up toward the tower. “We have to get up there and knock out the power before these things wipe us all out.”

  Cage digs into his pack and pulls out several silver grenades. “Got these. But from the pounding I’ve seen those machines take, I don’t think they’re going to do the trick, Mate.”

  I grab one of the grenades from him. “I had something different in mind.”

  He grins. “You little ripper.”

  “We can’t penetrate their hulls but we can destabilize them, blow openings into those holes they popped out of, and maybe find access up to that tower.”

  “I’ll give it a burl.” Cage reaches for one of the grenades with his damaged metal hand and nearly fumbles it. “Figures they’d knock out the dominant one.”

  Cursing, he tries with the other, but I shake my head and take the pack from him.

  “If you wanna help, I need you to distract them.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, then stops himself. He knows I’m right. Instead, he grips his particle rifle and aims it at the nearest Octopoda. With his back to me, he mutters, “When this is over, you and I are going out and gettin’ rotten, Mate.”

  “First drink’s on me.” Then I turn to the half dozen shaken and anxious soldiers in our group. “Take a grenade and follow my lead.”

  More explosions rock the beach. The searing heat of the blasts dries the cold sweat on my skin. Another chunk of our makeshift shelter disintegrates.

  Cage lets out a guttural roar and emerges from the corner of the shelter, firing multiple rounds at the nearest machine. The Octopoda’s sensors immediately fix on his position and it swerves, firing. I grit my teeth at the sound of his cry of pain and the sight of his prosthetic limb hurling through the air in pieces.

  Grenade clutched in my hand, I bolt from my hiding place, sprinting in an arc around the machine, almost colliding with another soldier. She’s dragging a wounded comrade—at least what’s left of his wriggling upper half. “I want my momma…,” he mutters.

  Before the Octopoda can shift its focus from Cage to me, I rip out the pin and lob the grenade, not at the machine itself, but by the ground beside it.

  A fireball erupts beside the contraption, displacing the sand around it. It wobbles for a second and tumbles to the ground. Before its stabilizers can readjust, I dodge and leap over its weaponized appendages, pouncing on the bulbous head before tumbling into the chasm it emerged from.

  In the darkness, I activate my helmet’s shadow imaging tech. The infrared images highlight a series of interconnected semicircular mazes leading far off into the distance—the same direction as the control tower.

  Doing my best to ignore the sound of muffled explosions still coming from above and their terrible implications, I rush down the sleek, steel corridor, the only pounding now coming from my heart and lungs.

  Even though it seems like hours, my chron tells me it’s only a few minutes by the time I reach the other side of the tunnel. I scramble up a long, metal ladder, twist open a small hatch, and squeeze my way through.

  I’ve made it to the control tower at last.

  Banks of blinking monitors, gauges, and controls surround me. Panoramic windows look out onto the beach below, a bird’s eye view of hell: human fireballs writhing in agony, thick, black smoke. At least it appears some of the others have taken down more of the Octopodas. And as soon as I punch in the override codes our spy in the Parish, gave us…

  Something’s not right. This is too easy. Why aren’t there any other personnel around?

  Approaching the controls for the installation’s defense grid, I begin to input the codes. If they’ve already been changed, this whole operation will have been for nothing.

  At first nothing happens. But then the lights on the instruments go from green to red, and I let loose a trapped breath. It’s working. Only a few more seconds and I’ll transfer control of the automated station’s drones and weapons to the rebel armada. With the Cape under our control, it may just turn the tide of this war.

  I toggle a few switches at the communications bank. “Torch Keeper to Base 1. The key has been turned. Repeat. The key has been turned.”

  “I should have known it would be you.”

  Cassius Thorn’s voice is like toxic adrenaline in my veins.

  I whip around, weapon raised.

  TWO

  It’s only a full-sized holo of Cass behind me, not the real thing. The image is low res, flickering and strobing, replaced by a blizzard of static every few seconds. Despite the poor quality of the projection, I can make out the conflicting emotions in the turbulent green of those terrible eyes.

  “You’ve lost the Cape, Cassius. And it’s only the beginning.”

  “You still haven’t embraced the truth. Who you really are. Tell me, Lucian. How many rescues of helpless children do you think it will take to wipe away all the atrocities you’ve committed? A hundred? Two hundred? You still think that by aiding the misguided rebels that you are somehow cleansing yourself? Saving your soul?”

  “More lies. I’m not who you say I am.”

  He sighs. “There’s proof. I wonder what your friends would say if they saw it for themselves.”

  I clear the lump from my throat. “Where’s my brother?”

  “If you are referring to Cole, he’s safe. Now that he is finally away from your influence.” He shakes his head. “You think this is easy for me, especially knowing how I’ve always felt about you? Can you even fathom what it was like to find out that the one person I cared most about in the world is a mass murderer? Is the one responsible for making me destroy my own father?”

  I’m trembling with rage. “Shut up. You’re delusional. Whatever happened to you during your own Trials has warped your mind.”

  He sighs. “Despite everything, I am not going to give up on you. Yet. I’ll keep your secret. But you have to help me end this war now. Telling me who your spy is amongst my advisors will be the first step in true contrition.”

  “Never.” I’m surprised he’s not threatening to use my brother as leverage.

  My hand goes reflexively to my abdomen and the knife wound scar hidden underneath my uniform. He obviously has other plans for him.

  “This conversation is over.” My finger hovers over the coms panel, ready to cut him off. “I’m not telling you a thing.”

  Cass’s image leans closer. “Will you tell him?”

  A flash of movement in the darkness above me.

  I grip my weapon tighter. A figure descends from the shadows, like a giant arachnid. It’s absolutely silent. No footfalls. No breathing. No tell-tale sounds of humanity.

  Even before his features come into focus I stifle a gasp at the familiar silhouette.

  It’s Digory Tycho—yet it’s not.

  Digory’s golden hair, long and full the last time I saw him, has been shorn into little more than a platinum, almost pure-white, buzz cut. The skin-tight black jumpsuit he’s wearing can barely contain his muscular frame, even bigger than it was before. His skin, once bronze, seems almost the color of chalk. Even from here I can make out the greenish hue of his veins pulsing in his hands and neck. But it’s his eyes that fill me with dread and despair. Once a brilliant blue brimming with warmth and compassion, they’re now a luminescent gray, dark clouds glowing with hidden lightning, heralding the approach of a violent storm.

  Cass’s experiment to create the Ultra-Imposer has succeeded. And once again,
I’ve failed Digory, the man I love with all my heart, cruelly torn away from me by this terrible war.

  “Digory.” My tone is the epitome of despair.

  He steps closer. “Who is your informant at the Citadel?”

  His voice is like sleet, emotionless. The fact that he’s not holding a weapon somehow makes his presence even more menacing.

  “I’m not sure what they’ve done to you, Digory. But you’re stronger than they are. You can fight—”

  “This is the last time we’re going to ask. Who is the mole feeding our intel to you rebels?”

  I search his face, trying desperately to find some trace, however minute, of the old Digory. Maybe this is all for show. Maybe he’s just pretending so Cassius won’t suspect. But there’s nothing there. It’s like gazing into the eyes of a corpse. Except this corpse has the ability to kill.

  Fighting the pain knifing through my chest, I raise my weapon higher with a trembling hand, trying to target the place where his heart should be, made all the more difficult by my blurred vision. “I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

  Digory takes a step closer—

  The trigger’s slick with sweat. “Don’t make me do this, Digory. I’m begging you. Please.” This can’t be happening.

  Cassius must be relishing the irony of me being the one to end Digory’s life.

  Digory moves in. An avalanche of emotions rips through me. At the last second, I shift my aim to his thigh, instead, and fire, just as his fist connects with my arm. It’s like colliding with a steel club. The impact sends my gun flying from my grip. I hurtle across the room, smacking my forehead against the instrument bank.

  Dazed, I try to sit up. I wince. Pain shoots up from where he struck me. I brace myself against the wall with my other arm, hoisting myself up, wiping the mixture of blood and tears from my eyes.

  Digory’s sprawled several feet away, his thigh still smoking from the shot I fired. But you’d never know he’d been wounded. His face is expressionless. He lifts up the tattered fabric surrounding his injury.

  I must have hit my head harder than I thought. The torn skin begins to knit together, like finely woven fabric. In seconds the dark wound’s gone, replaced by brand new flesh.

  That nanotech Cassius subjected Digory to back at Sanctum has given him regenerative properties. The perfect, unstoppable killing machine.

  Dragging myself across the console, I try and ignore the pain, both physical and mental. The only thing that matters is inputting the last of the control codes.

  Something yanks me away. I can tell from the pop that my shoulder’s been dislocated. The pain is excruciating. I whirl and slam a fist into Digory’s jaw, but it has little effect. Then I spin and catch him in the gut with a roundhouse kick. But he grabs my foot and twists, flinging me to the ground. Before I can get my bearings, he hauls me to my feet from behind, squeezing so hard it feels like he’s cracked a rib. He twists my body around to face him. One of his large hands clamps around my throat, squeezing.

  “Tell us the name of the traitor. Now.”

  If I betray Valerian, the rebellion will lose one of its most valuable assets, deep undercover in Cass’s inner circle.

  “N-not…a…chance…”

  As he squeezes tighter and it becomes almost impossible to breathe, he goes out of focus. I try to imagine his face as it used to be. It’s the last thing I want to remember before I die.

  There’s a muffled burst. The pressure around my throat disappears. I try to make sense of fragmented images. Troops bursting into the control center. Someone pulling me to my feet.

  “Tycho’s rigged to explode!” A familiar voice shouts.

  Arrah.

  “He’s sealed us all in!” Someone else shouts.

  I snap to my senses. Arrah, Drusilla, Dahlia, and Cage surround me. The other soldiers are backing away from Digory, who’s standing tall and erect like a marble statue. The top of his suit’s been ripped open, revealing the explosive device strapped to his body. The digital counter reads thirty seconds…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…

  “If we fire at him, it could set off the explosive,” Cage mutters in my ear.

  So this was Cass’s failsafe. If he couldn’t get the traitor’s name, he’d blow us all to hell…including Digory, a disgarded tool that’s served its purpose.

  I grab Arrah’s weapon, dispel the cartridge, and replace it with ampules of anesthetics from Drusilla’s medpack. Then I push past the others, aim my weapon at Digory and fire, round after round. He staggers and falls. I’m not sure how much of the medicine his system can take, but I’m on him in a flash.

  “Lucian there’s no time!” Dahlia shouts as she and the others try to batter down the door to escape the blast radius.

  With only seconds to spare, I splice the wires to the detonator, wincing as I cut, hoping I’ve remembered enough of my training to cut them in the right sequence.

  The timer hits zero. And no explosion.

  “Get Tycho restrained!” Cage orders.

  Half a dozen soldiers bind Digory with all manner of shackles.

  Arrah and Dru kneel by me. “We did it Lucian,” Arrah says. “We won this round.”

  I stare at Digory’s body as it’s dragged from the room for imprisonment and interrogation. Then I focus on the panoramic windows overlooking the beach. They’re filled with black smoke and littered with hundreds of dead bodies, stacked up like a fishing trolley’s catch of the day.

  “Yep. We won.”

  THREE

  I maneuver my way through the chaos of the Medical Ward’s stark white corridors, marred here and there by splashes of crimson. The stench of blood and death is suffocating. Despite my best efforts, I can’t help but keep a mental tally of all the body bags I pass, each one cutting a deeper notch into my brain as I examine the I.D. tags on every last corpse. Hundreds dead. Almost as many dying. The steep price for freedom these days.

  My breathing’s on rapid fire mode. The last transport of survivors and bodies from the battle of the cape has already checked in without any sign of Corin. I force a swallow. Maybe his body was never recovered.

  That’s when I spot him, sitting up in a cramped, corner cot at the very end of the ward. His skin’s very pale and his eyes are like glass, staring at a small holo-globe. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence in any way as I approach. Pausing, I glance at the holochart by his bed which some medtech left on projection mode.

  Patient: Corin Totus (Male), Age: 14

  Diagnosis: Shock, multiple contusions…

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I scan the rest of the readouts. I’m no medical expert, but it doesn’t look like he suffered any serious injuries at the Cape. He’s going to be just fine.

  “I really messed up.”

  Corin’s voice startles me with its emptiness.

  “How you feeling, Kid?” I switch off his chart and sit at his bedside.

  “Can’t really complain, compared to all those others,” he mutters, nudging his chin toward the body bags filling the hallway. “At least they died fighting.” He turns to me, his eyes dark pools. “I panicked. I should be in one of those bags. The rescue drone said you were the one who fished me out of the sea. Why’d you risk your life and do that?”

  I grip his shoulders firmly to steady the trembling. “You don’t think everyone was scared? You don’t think I was?” My grip turns into a hug. “The day war stops being a scary thing is the day we all lose.”

  He pulls away, swiping his eyes with a forearm. “I promise I’ll do better next time, Sir.”

  “I’m sure you will.” I grin and pick up the holocube that’s resting on his lap. The palm-sized device has obviously seen better days, judging from the scratched and dented chrome casing, and the static-filled resolution of the projected image of two young people.

  The first is a tall, lanky, grinning youth with acne-covered cheeks. I recognize him immediately. Boaz, the resistance member who perished at Infiernos during the Trials last year. Cori
n was his Incentive. The second figure is a girl of about eight or nine, with wild hair, dirt-smudged cheeks, and skinned-knees. She springs from a tree onto Boaz’s shoulders. The child’s eyes and smile are unmistakable. It’s Corin, before he Aligned. The two laugh and tumble to the ground. There’s a burst of static and the scene repeats itself on a loop.

  “You and Boaz look very happy.” I offer Corin back the cube.

  “I really miss him.” He takes it from me. “After my folks were killed in that Establishment raid, he did everything he could to make a home for me. He’s the only thing worth remembering from that part of my life.” He shuts off the projection and stares at the cube. “I would have gotten rid of this, but it’s the only image I have left of Boaz.” He stuffs the device under the sheets. “I wish I could see him for real again.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you two blokes.”

  We both turn to find Cage flexing a new, if somewhat battered, metallic replacement hand. “Spare parts are a bit of a luxury right now. It’s not as pretty as the last one, but I’ve still got pretty to spare.” A wide grin spreads across his handsome face, framed perfectly by his long, thick brown hair. “Besides,” he grips one of the cot’s metal frames and twists it easily in his fist as though it were made of rubber, “it’ll get the job done.”

  I crack a smile. “I’m sure it will.”

  Cage hands Corin a small white box. “Sssh. Don’t say a word. I smuggled some chokkie past the nurses.”

  Corin tears open the package and stares wide-eyed at the bar of chocolate. Treats like this are rare, if not impossible, to come by these days.

  “I’m not even going to ask where you got that, Cage.”

  He sidles up beside me and puckers his lips. “Hmmm. A little pashing on might loosen my tongue.”

  I push him gently away and grin back at him. “My fist might have the same effect.”

  Cage’s wink can’t hide the weariness in his eyes.

  I guess we’re all putting up a front these days.

  Corin stuffs a piece of chocolate in his mouth and nods. “Yeah. You two go make out and I’ll take care of all of this.”