He’d been delighted when the plans adjusted to allow him to kill two more humans. The Hunters said it was necessary to prevent the human authorities from entering the well-guarded community too quickly, and the Leader had approved. The Assassin didn’t care about the reasons. He just needed targets.
Everything had gone well. He’d killed the two guards in a most artistic fashion, enabling the Hunters to enter the guarded community and wait for Stark to arrive. He’d gotten to the house without issue and entered with no problems. The woman was there, looking just like she’d looked in the picture.
The Assassin frowned. He knew he hadn’t killed her, that he’d failed in his mission. He searched his memory, trying to remember why. What had gone wrong?
The boy. Her son. Will Stark’s son.
He shivered at the realization. Stark had somehow overcome the sterilization protocols. Given the Oath against having children, most Aliomenti had opted in when the protocols were developed, and eventually it had become expected of all members of the organization. Stark had gone through it as well. Somehow, though, he’d overcome it. For there was no doubt the young boy was his son: same hair despite the different color, same face, eyes burning with a fiery intensity, and Energy that had been startling. He remembered now. The baseball the child had thrown at him had hurt, to be sure. But it was that resemblance to Will, and that Energy — a brief flash of it so pure and intense, beyond what he’d ever sensed from anyone — that had frightened him. His astonishment, and the boy’s burst of Energy, had both vanished when the mother, in a fit of insanity, had decided to tackle him. He seethed — a human woman tackled him, the Aliomenti Assassin. The boy’s fury had turned to concern for his mother’s well-being, and the Energy had vanished. The dog had attacked him, and he’d dealt with the stupid beast, and that had reminded him that he had at least one human yet to kill. The boy seemed uncertain as to what to do next, and the human woman had tried to put herself between him and the boy. He had them beaten now, could feel the fear of both of them, as his Energy worked its emotional magic and inflicted them with terror.
Then the two of them had vanished from his sight.
It was impossible. The boy was too undisciplined to manage it. The woman, of course, couldn’t dream of performing it. Someone had teleported them away from him, denying him his assigned third kill, and the unexpected bonus of a fourth. It had to be Stark. No one else had that kind of Energy power. He’d lost control of his emotions, and his fire had burst forth in explosive fashion. The fire must have absorbed the oxygen in the house, creating an air vacuum sufficient to render him unconscious.
Still in his dark prison, the Assassin assessed his likely situation. If Stark had rescued the boy and his mother, he’d likely defeated the Hunters yet again. Stark and the Alliance had captured The Assassin, taking him prisoner. That’s where he must be now, at the Alliance base of operations. He smiled. He could eliminate as many in the Alliance as he desired now. It would be self-defense for a captured prisoner.
He frowned, as another memory stirred. He must have stayed partially conscious for a time after the explosion of fire, for he remembered lying on the floor of the house, feeling the gentle touch of the flames warming him. Then there was a voice, one he’d never heard before.
This is for my wife. The Assassin winced, remembering the blow that followed those words. Was this an Aliomenti who’d broken the third Oath, like Stark? Perhaps a fresh recruit drafted directly into the Alliance? Reportedly, they didn’t follow or take Oaths in the Alliance at all. He snorted. Ignorance of the law was no excuse. This man’s wife had paid the appropriate price.
This is for my daughter. That made no sense. Had a member of the Alliance fathered a child? He chilled at the thought. If the Alliance were so devoid of tradition, they’d think nothing of flouting the fourth Oath, avoiding the sterilization processes. The Alliance could be breeding children born with high Energy. Like Stark’s son. The Assassin felt a chill. He wondered if the Leadership had considered that possibility. If not, they needed to know. Those children were a far greater threat than the traitors or the new direct recruits to the Alliance.
And that’s for the dog. Instinctively, The Assassin moved his arm to block his face from the blow that had already struck him, though he felt no pain on his face at the moment. The man must have seen the dead dog near him, and drawing on his weak human roots felt sympathy for the animal. The Assassin’s arm brushed the side and top of his dark cell, leading him to realize that it wasn’t much larger than a coffin. When he touched the sides of this cell, he remembered being thrown into this prison by the man who had struck him, and remembered hearing muffled voices from outside that suggested that a woman and another man were part of the crew. It was convenient that his current cell was the size of a coffin. The man who had dared strike him would need one in short order. He was sure that he could find similar accommodations for the man’s cohorts.
First, though, he needed to escape from this prison.
The minimal light in the space seemed to come from his right, and he twisted his head in that direction. There was a small seam and a faint glow. He had only faint memories of being thrown in here, but they ended with a door shutting on him. If he hadn’t been moved, the light must be coming from the side that opened to the outside world. He decided he’d emerge in his own fashion.
He and the three Hunters had each developed a unique skill that enabled them to perform their duties with exceptional efficiency. Porthos had an incredible sensitivity to Energy, able to sense even trace amounts over great distances. His skill had evolved over time such that he could actually identify the person who had produced the Energy he sensed, and follow it to the original source. He served as the Tracker for the Hunters. Athos could touch anyone and know if they were telling the truth, and his skill was such that no matter how deep within them the truth might be buried, Athos could sense it. Aramis, though not powerful in terms of Energy creation, possessed the Damper, the ability to suppress Energy in other Aliomenti. For most, his strength was sufficient to prevent one from using Energy at all. He essentially rendered other Aliomenti merely human. His strength increased the closer he was to a target, and so he was the first Hunter to lay hands on a fugitive tracked by Porthos. The suspect would be questioned, Athos would determine the veracity of the claims the fugitive made, and they’d return the criminal to Headquarters.
As an Assassin, he had no use for skills of such subtlety. The Assassin could generate fire from within, and the ability to shoot flames from his body added to his terrifying visage. He’d learned that he was immune from burns, though not from oxygen deprivation, as his experience in the Stark home had shown.
He would use those fiery skills to escape his prison. He shifted onto his right side, facing the seam, and touched his left hand to the crack. Then he shot forth a small amount of flame.
The material did not catch fire or burn. Frowning, the Assassin concentrated, and the flame from his hand burned with greater heat. The material still did not burn. He extinguished the flame, conceding that this approach would not work, but in the process confirming something he’d suspected.
He was definitely a prisoner of the Alliance. No human could build something able to resist his flame.
He shifted his left leg back, over his right, bent the leg, and then used his knee as a battering ram, slamming it into the wall he’d just tried to burn. To his mild surprise, the entire side popped open immediately. He blinked rapidly, allowing his eyes to adjust, and then rolled through the opening.
He dropped three feet and landed on a clean white floor. The Assassin grunted in pain, his ribs still tender from the attack he’d suffered earlier. He rose to his hands and knees, getting his breathing under control, and then stood, taking in his surroundings.
He was in a small room. The floor, ceiling, and walls were completely white, and there were no windows or doors, and no visible sources of lighting or air. Yet he was breathing pure air and there was plenty o
f natural light filling the room. He was standing next to a strange vehicle, which looked something like a human automobile without tires. It was a shiny, silvery color, and did not have a top covering the seats in the passenger compartment. He’d clearly been in the rear compartment, and that annoyed him. They had thrown him in a trunk? Yes, those people would suffer greatly.
“I see that you’re awake.”
The Assassin whirled around. A man stood there. The Assassin hadn’t seen him during his scan of the room, and assumed that the man had been hiding behind the front of the vehicle, out of his line of sight. The man looked to be older, with graying, thinning hair, and wore a one piece orange bodysuit.
The Assassin scowled at him, and amped up the Energy he projected at his victims, Energy designed to make the person feel frightened.
“I’m known as the Mechanic,” the man said, seemingly oblivious to the burst of fear Energy sent his way. Stupid human. “I fix things around here. I’d appreciate it in the future if you would avoid trying to damage my handiwork.” He nodded at the vehicle.
“What are you talking about?” The Assassin said, scowling with as much ferocity as he could muster. He was unaccustomed to people who didn’t cower from him in fear.
“It won’t burn,” the Mechanic explained. “I noticed the smell of smoke when you emerged with such grace.” The Mechanic paused. “Who are you?”
“I’m known as The Assassin.” He smirked. “I kill people who annoy me.”
The Mechanic shrugged. “OK, I’ll keep that in mind.” He squinted at The Assassin. “What happened to your face?”
“The scars come from those who tried to escape me. They scratched my face. I ended their lives. I consider them badges of honor.”
“Not that. Your nose. What happened to your nose?”
“Someone kicked me in the face while I was unconscious, apparently concerned I had killed a dog. The fool will suffer greatly, all for the love of a furry bag of fleas.”
The Mechanic laughed. “Impressive speech. I imagine the one upset about the dog was Fil. The man seems to have a soft spot for the creatures. I’ve told him it’s going to get him killed one day, and it looks like you’re interested in proving me correct.” He shrugged. “He never listens to me.” He fixed The Assassin with a pointed look. “Would you like me to bring Fil here to you?”
Was he serious? “I’d love to meet this Fil of yours.”
The man seemed to wince momentarily. “Then I’ll go get him. Before I leave, however, let me offer you a bit of advice. The terrifying killer routine won’t work around here. Save yourself the effort of trying.”
“And where would we be?”
The Mechanic smiled. “You already know exactly where you are.”
He walked toward one of the solid walls and went directly through it. The Assassin gaped at the spot in the wall where the man had just exited the room. There was no doorway, no opening in sight. Was it that easy? He walked to the spot in the wall and attempted to pass through. No, the wall was definitely a wall. His face collided with the very solid surface the other man had just melted through.
The Assassin roared, more out of frustration than pain, and tried hurtling his way through, ramming his shoulder into the wall. He tried other sections of the wall. He tried to burn the wall. He set his fire to every surface. Nothing worked.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat down, recalled his fire, and simply waited. He was trapped.
XII
Elites
The absence of pain was so startling that it nearly caused Will to faint.
It wasn’t the dead feeling caused by anesthesia, either. The pain simply didn’t exist, and there was nothing to mask. He felt no pain near his broken leg, or his broken ribs. There was no pain on the vast portion of his body riddled with cuts and bruises, no general sensation of heat from his burning skin.
Will sat up, clenching his teeth at the expected pain. None came. His movement was smooth, without even any muscle stiffness. He touched his face, and then looked at his hands. The burns were gone, replaced by clean, unblemished skin. He tapped his rib cage, wincing on reflex, but found nothing there causing pain either.
He took a deep breath. The big test was the leg. He slid off the table, as if he were sliding into a cold swimming pool, until his bare feet touched the white floor of the room. With extreme caution, Will let his full weight come down on the leg. Nothing. He hopped up and down, and then took a few steps.
Nothing. Every injury was completely healed. No scars, no blisters, no pain. He couldn’t remember ever feeling better than he felt right now.
Will sat back down on the small table he’d been using for a bed and lowered his head, feeling guilty. He was alive, his injuries completely healed, and feeling better than he’d ever felt before. Meanwhile, his wife and son were being buried, mourners there to pay their last respects to the two people who’d been his whole world. They would mourn his loss, too, and Will wanted to go to the grave site and tell everyone there to waste no breath crying for him. He was alive and his wife and son were dead through his failure. He’d vowed to Hope on their wedding day to always protect her, and vowed the same to his newborn son. He’d failed, and now a box with his name would be in the ground, empty like his heart, lower than dirt like the man he was.
He was still brooding when Angel entered the room, so mellowed at the thought of his family that he barely noticed her miraculous entry through the wall of the room. Whether it was his mental funk or the human mind’s rapid adaptability, he simply accepted the oddity and treated it as his new reality. Angel had the effect of brightening his mood, however, and his mild depression ceased as she walked toward him, smiling. Perhaps one day she’d tell him how she accomplished that feat.
“You’re sitting up!” she exclaimed. “I take it you’ve found your injuries are adequately healed?” She arched an eyebrow, combining that with a knowing smile.
He grinned sheepishly, finding it difficult to remain remorseful against her irrepressible cheer. “Consider this doubting Thomas an official convert. I’ll try to be somewhat less skeptical in the future.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because everything you learn from this point forward will test your skepticism like never before.” She pulled two chairs from around the other side of the table-like bed. They were a deep burgundy red, and appeared solid, with no cushioning visible. How had he missed them as he was standing up and walking around? The color alone should be noticeable in this room of nothing but white. He moved to one of the chairs and sat down, and Angel joined him.
He looked at her a bit more closely. Her hair was shoulder-length, a vibrant red that was shocking. Her face was round and cherubic, highlighted by friendly violet eyes that seemed to possess an eternal twinkle. Her skin was smooth and unlined. She was tall, nearly matching Will’s own six foot stature. She wore a deep green body suit that reminded him vaguely of those worn by ship crews on TV shows he’d watched as a child, shows about future missions into space. He glanced down at himself, and noticed that his attire was similar in style, though it was a bright white instead of the deep green Angel wore.
“Are you a witch?” he asked.
She blinked, startled. “What?”
“Are. You. A. Witch?”
She frowned. “What on earth would make you think that I’m a witch?” Then she burst out laughing. “Sorry for that, but your question is very amusing to me. I’m curious, though. Why do you ask if I’m a witch?”
His face reddened. “I’m not trying to offend you, trust me. All of you have done more for me than I deserve, or can ever repay. But it’s not just you, it’s Fil and...I don’t think I caught the other man’s name...?”
“Adam.”
“Right, Adam, too. All three of you. Everything I’ve seen and experienced, right since I was about to be killed by those men...it’s beyond my understanding how everything happened. I know I promised to keep an open mind, but I keep thinking about it, and I can’t explain any
of it. The only explanation I can come up with is magic, and I don’t believe in magic.”
Angel grinned. “I thought you were going to keep an open mind? What if I am a witch?”
He smiled, unable to resist. “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
Angel chuckled. “Neither, actually. I’m so accustomed to everything in our community that it’s difficult for me to see it from another perspective. I imagine many things seemed quite magical to you. Giving you a vial of liquid to drink that cured all of your injuries didn’t help matters, did it?”
“It would have been worse if steam was coming off of it, or I’d seen you stirring it up in a cauldron.”
She laughed. “Good point. But no, to answer your question, none of what you’ve seen is magic. There are a couple of things we’ve learned how to do — our group, that is — that are highly advanced. Our friends in the other group think it makes them almost a new species of superhuman. In fact...by any chance did they use the word human as a sort of put-down?”
He frowned. “I think so.”
Angel nodded. “To them, that’s exactly what it is. We are super humans, the Aliomenti, and everyone else is just human. We’re better, they’re lesser life forms. That type of attitude. If you call a Hunter a human, he’s likely to forget his vow not to kill you, because they perceive it as so great an insult.” She paused. “They didn’t think you were human though, did they? But they did think your wife was.”
A Question of Will (The Aliomenti Saga - Book 1) Page 12
