“I won’t be searched,” Luscious says.
Mohr tilts his head slightly, squinting at Luscious for a moment.
The doors slide open silently behind Mohr. I didn’t even notice the elevator slowing down.
“Librarian,” a deep voice says. Once again, Mohr spins around, this time tripping over himself and falling over. Heap and I quickly catch him, sparing him further embarrassment.
“Everything all right?” asks the man in the doorway. Much of his body is covered in deep red armor, like Heap’s, but smaller, like overlapping plates of rigid skin. With a glance I can see that he is equally protected, but has a far greater range of motion than Heap. For a moment, I wonder why they haven’t upgraded Heap’s armor, but decide it’s because of his size. Even the back of the man’s head is armored. Everything except his face, which is stern. Almost grim. Which I suppose makes sense given what’s happening in the world.
“Fine, fine,” Mohr says, straightening himself. “We’re all fine, Sir.”
“Councilman Sir!” I say, stepping forward with a smile and a hand extended in greeting. “You’re the only Councilman I have yet to meet.”
Sir looks down at my hand, but makes no move to take it. In fact, he sneers a little. “An offensive custom,” he mutters.
I withdraw my hand quickly, realizing that hand shaking must have been a custom of the Masters. Like music.
Sir scans my body, bottom to top, looking me over like I’m some new piece of equipment. It’s unnerving. No wonder Mohr was nervous.
“So this is Freeman,” Sir says. “The man that will be better than us all. Kind of skinny.”
The way he says these words leaves little doubt that he’s quoting somebody. Probably Mohr. They also leave little doubt that he disagrees with the assessment of my potential, as do I.
“I’m not better than anyone else,” I tell him, hoping my agreement will cool him off.
“Humble, too,” Sir says, turning to Mohr. “You must be so very proud.” He looks beyond Mohr, to Heap. “I’m actually impressed with you. Wouldn’t have believed you could make it out of the Lowers, past the barricade and all the way through the city to our doorstep. And yet here you are.”
Heap just frowns. I’m not sure why until I realize that Sir has just implied that he knew we were being attacked and did nothing to stop it. This, I decide, is a dangerous man. Avoidance seems like the best protocol for dealing with him, and I’ll put the plan into motion just as soon as he allows us out of the elevator.
“A lot of it was Freeman,” Heap says. I think Heap is trying to improve my standing with the man for some reason, but I wish he hadn’t because the words turn Sir’s hawkish eyes back toward me. “He’s quick. And his reflexes—”
A red fist flies toward my face. For a moment, it’s a blur. Then it comes into focus and I can see every notched ridge of armor covering the fingers between his knuckles. Then it’s lost again, whooshing past my right ear. By the time I lean back up, I realize that Sir has just tried to punch me in the face. Tried being the interesting word. He missed. Not because he has bad aim. He doesn’t. I suspect the punch could have done serious damage. Maybe even killed me. But I dodged the blow by simply tilting my head to the side.
I see the fist pulling back for another strike as a second cuts through the air toward the side of my head. I lean back, bending my spine just enough so that the clenched fist slides through the air just millimeters from my nose.
The first fist comes in again, and is harder to dodge this time, but I manage it once again. More punches launch toward me, each faster than the last until we’re both blurs of motion. In the chaos of the moment, he changes his stance and style. The shifts confuses me for a moment and I see the fist approaching my face too slowly to dodge it.
So I don’t.
I catch it.
“Stop!” I shout.
Sir listens, locking in place, eyes on our joined fists. For a moment, he looks angry, but then, for the first time since the elevator doors opened, he grins, and it’s somehow worse than his grimace. He pats my shoulder with his free hand and says, “You might be worthwhile after all.”
“That was … a test?” I ask. I’m familiar with the concept of rigid testing to discover limitations. My first five days were spent undergoing tests directed by Councilman Mohr, but none of them would have killed me had I failed.
I glance back at Heap. He didn’t budge. But was that because he fears Sir, or believed I was capable of passing the test? Did he even know it was a test? More unanswered questions.
My thoughts are pulled back to Sir when he twists his fist inside my still clenched hand. The motion turns my arm—
—revealing the bite.
19.
Sir releases my arm and flinches away as though repulsed by a magnetic force. Based on our brief interaction I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but for a moment, he looks terrified.
And then outraged.
“You brought an infected into the Spire!” Sir looks past me, to Mohr.
“I—I didn’t know,” Mohr says to Sir, and then to me, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Security,” Sir says, almost quietly, like he’s talking to someone next to him. “On me. Containment three.” He looks at Mohr. “Make that four.”
“I was bitten,” I say. “I’m not infected.”
“He’s not symptomatic,” Heap says.
Mohr whirls around on him. “You knew?”
Heap nods. “I saw the bite mark and have observed his behavior since. He’s—”
“Resistant,” Mohr finishes, sounding hopeful. “His systems are different from ours. More resilient.” He turns to Sir. “This could be the answer. If we can identify what makes Freeman immune, then we could inoculate—”
Sir holds up his hand, silencing Mohr. “We have a long history, Librarian. We disagree about much, but you have never endangered our plans.”
I suspect that “our plans” should be reworded to “my plans” but keep that to myself.
“The mod was bad enough,” Sir says, glancing at Luscious. “But allowing someone carrying this … plague into the Spire comes dangerously close to undoing your perfect track record.”
Mohr bows slightly. “Understood, Sir.”
How can he just take this? I wonder. The disrespect and belittling tone is almost unbearable. The only thing keeping me from defending Councilman Mohr is the fact that I think his acquiescence is planned rather than a true fear response. While Sir is intimidating and dangerous, Mohr is undoubtedly the more intelligent of the two.
“I will be more cautious in the future,” Mohr says, raising his head back up.
Eight security guards approach the elevator. Their armored bodies are black and sleek like the exterior of the Council tower. In some ways, they remind me of the giants from outside, but their armor, like Sir’s, is less bulky, and their faces are concealed behind flat sheets of reflective black glass. After they stop in unison, the nearest of them says, “Sir.” I’m not sure if it’s a customary greeting or a way of asking for orders, but that’s all the man says.
“Put them in cells,” Sir says.
Mohr looks shaken by this. “What?”
Sir offers a phony grin. “Just a precaution, old friend. Once I’m positive there is no danger of the virus spreading, you’ll be released.”
“Yes,” Mohr says, sounding defeated. “Of course. You’re right.”
Though he’s not. From what I’ve seen, a simple touch cannot spread the virus. A bite is required. And since I’m the only one with bite marks, I’m the only real danger … and I’m no danger at all. But there has to be a reason for Mohr’s agreeability, so I offer no protest.
“Search the three of them,” he says, pointing at Heap, Luscious and me. “Full-body scans. If you find signs of infection, get samples and incinerate the carrier.”
Despite how horrible this is, none of us complains, in part because it’s probably the right thing to do—I’d rathe
r melt than become an undead monster—and since I’m not infected, I have nothing to fear.
For the first time since the doors opened, we’re allowed to step out of the elevator, but we’re quickly separated. Each of us is sandwiched between two guards who are careful not to touch us, but prod us along with the tips of their guns, which appear to be smaller versions of the railguns powerful enough to punch through buildings. The weapons seem a bit heavy-handed, but I imagine the effect of a single well-placed shot on a horde of undead and decide I would like to have one.
We’re led down a slightly sloped, white hallway. There are no lights to speak of, but the floor, ceiling and walls, which appear to be matte glass, glow from within. The illuminated surfaces stretch out twenty feet ahead of us and twenty feet behind. The rest of the hall is unlit. “Efficient lighting,” I observe aloud.
Nobody replies.
The hallway ahead glows gently to life as we approach, revealing two paths. Sir, who is leading our parade through the empty halls, pauses, turns on his heels and points to Heap and me with one hand. He points to Mohr and Luscious with his other hand and then motions to the two halls. As we’re led in separate directions, Luscious finds my eyes. She’s afraid, but trying to hide it. Then she’s gone, out of view.
“Don’t worry, Freeman,” Mohr says, as he’s moved away. “I’ll make sure she’s treated well.”
I nod my thanks and then we’re separated by the wall.
Sir stands his ground, watching Heap and me get led away. Then he calls after me. “Sentiment will get you killed, Freeman. Makes you weak. If you’re going to serve any real purpose, you’ll need to remember that.”
I stop in my tracks. The guards prod me to keep moving, but they’re afraid to touch me and as a result, can’t force me to move. “Fear makes people weak.”
Sir stares at me. Then he grins. “Is that one of Mohr’s lessons?”
“I learned it out there,” I say, pointing toward the wall, implying the outside world.
“Freeman,” Heap whispers. A warning.
“A life lesson, then?” he says.
I nod.
“You’ve lived a very short life, Freeman,” he says. “I hope you live long enough to see your theory disproved.” He waves his hands in the air, dismissing us.
The guards rib me with their weapons, which I notice are starting to glow orange. I hold Sir’s gaze for a moment longer and then turn away, not because I’m afraid for my life, but because I’m afraid for my friends. I know this is exactly what he was talking about. Had I not been afraid for Luscious, or even Heap, I would be free to act in any way I choose. I might even be dangerous, like Sir. But I can’t imagine that kind of life. Fear without companionship. Without love. It seems a pointless existence.
No wonder he’s miserable, I think.
As we’re led down the hallway, I watch Heap’s dark blue armor shift as he walks. The white glow of the hallway accentuates the scratches and teeth marks covering his body. Though he might not admit it, Heap is more like me than Sir. He’s a warrior for sure, but he was willing to give his life for mine. And I don’t think it’s just the way he’s wired. I think we’re friends, and that means something.
Of course, our relationship is also more complicated than I knew.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew I’d been bitten?” I ask. The guards all look at me, but don’t reply. For a moment, I expect them to order silence, but they just watch me with their blank faces.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Heap replies.
“I knew I’d been bitten,” I say.
“I didn’t want to worry you about what would happen if you became infected,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, thinking about what this means. It only takes a moment to sort through the possibilities and pluck out the most likely scenario. “You would have discontinued me.”
“Gently,” he says.
“Is that possible?”
The four guards turn to Heap as though wanting to hear the answer to this question, too.
“Some things happen so quickly that pain, or even the conscious mind, can’t detect it.”
So by gently, he means extremely violently, but quick. I’m not sure how I feel about this, but then he adds, “Far better than being incinerated.” He turns to one of the guards, looking at his reflection in the guard’s reflective face mask. “Isn’t that right, Sir?”
Sir?
The four guards face forward again, none saying a word.
Could Sir be listening through them?
Of course he could. And probably was. But Heap wasn’t really trying to engage Sir in conversation, he was warning me to watch what I say, which is a good thing because my next line of questioning was going to be about the Councilman himself.
The guards stop, and hold us in place with their still-armed weapons. The glowing white panels on either side of the hall slide open to reveal cells that are little more than luminous cubes. They are featureless in every way.
I’m suddenly shoved from behind, caught off guard, and stumble into the small cell. I catch myself on the far wall and turn around as the door slides shut. I see Heap’s blocky feet for a moment, stepping back into his cell, and then he’s gone, along with the rest of the world. All that remains is endless white radiance.
I spin around, looking for any aberration in the light, but find none. The room doesn’t even look like a cube anymore. If not for the physical sensation of my feet touching the floor, I might think I was floating inside a star.
The absolute silence of the cell begins to feel like pressure on my body.
“Hello?” I say, hoping someone is watching, or listening, and can reply. But my voice seems to be absorbed by the room and no one replies.
When the quiet is finally broken, twenty minutes later, I flinch in surprise. It’s not even a loud sound, just a gentle hiss.
Mist descends from the ceiling. It drifts through the air, bending the light through millions of tiny droplets. A rainbow forms above my head. The streak of color distracts me until the mist reaches my body. It’s like a curtain, a sheet being draped over me, but barely there, almost intangible, because it’s the same temperature as the air all around me. But I can feel it tickling my skin—being absorbed by my skin.
The white light of the room flares even brighter, stabbing my eyes with pain that drops me to my knees. My insides suddenly heat up, and sounds that were impossible to hear now come into focus. Voices beyond the door.
“Think he’ll survive the process?”
“I’m not sure. But if he does, perhaps something worthwhile will come from the destruction of the Lowers.”
The words, indifferent to my plight, frighten me, but don’t bother me nearly as much as the people speaking them, Councilman Mohr and Heap.
A whirlwind of agony consumes my body. I lose all sense of the world around me. The floor greets me mercilessly as I fall, curl into a ball and scream.
20.
When I open my eyes again, the white is gone, replaced by black. I reach out a hand, but can’t feel it. I try to sit up, but my body is missing. Opening my eyes was an illusion. I have no eyes. I am nothing. Consciousness trapped in a void. Am I dead? I wonder. Am I energy?
This isn’t exactly how I pictured it, but then I had no basis for what I was imagining death to be like. All of the people I’ve met who’d died and been resurrected were trying to eat me. I was too busy running and fighting to attempt striking up a conversation.
“Is anyone there?” I ask, but then realize it’s just another thought. I have no mouth to speak with.
I lack any real concept of time right now, so I don’t know if I’ve been awake for minutes, or hours. Possibly longer. Every thought could be an eternity or a nanosecond.
Lost and alone, terror sets in. It’s worse than being chased, or bitten, or maybe even incinerated. Not because I’m in pain—I feel nothing—but because the emptiness isn’t empty. It’s full of thoughts, and fears, and anger. With
no outside world to distract me, these emotions and the words, looks, touches and experiences that created them begin to consume my mind.
Were Mohr and Heap working against me? Was I really nothing more than an experiment to them both? And if they’re just using me, what about Luscious? Is she just along for the ride because I could save her from the undead? Is she part of the experiment, too? She must be. They all are. And the zombies, these impossible beings, are all part of some kind of elaborate test.
Focus, I tell myself. Slow down. Don’t panic.
There’s no context here. Nothing is real. Nothing is … nothing. For it to be any more than that would require something.
A white dot, just a pinprick, appears in the distance.
It is real? An illusion?
Real, I decide, as it grows to the size of a star.
When the sphere of light reaches the size of my fist, I realize that it is approaching me. If I’m dead, if I’m energy, free in the universe, perhaps it really is a star? What will that feel like? Stars consume energy. Will I become part of the star? Will it destroy what’s left of me?
The glowing orb brightens, surging toward me. Or am I being pulled toward it? No, I think, stars don’t pull in energy, they expel it. The solar wind would push me away.
Not a star.
A black hole.
But it’s not black. It’s—
I scream. The noise is horrible. Tearing and wet.
And real.
The white light envelops me, but I have a voice. And a body. I feel the floor beneath me.
The cell. My luminous prison. I never left.
I push myself up, feeling almost normal, but my body is slick with moisture. What is this? I think, rubbing the damp film from my body. The word comes to me in a blink. Sweat. Water expelled through my pores. A side-effect of being overheated.
Or overclocked. It was the mist. They overclocked me. But why? From my limited experience, overclocking is basically a way to speed up the mind’s and the body’s processes, the trigger for which is introduced through some kind of liquid-based medium. Here it was a mist. With Luscious and Jimbo it was a moistened tab of paper. In the Lowers, overclocking was recreational, used to stimulate artificial pleasure. Here? I have no idea. Mohr seemed to think it was dangerous, so why would they risk doing it on purpose, and with a heavier dose? The effects have worn off. My senses are normal. I can no longer hear beyond the walls of this room. Time is still a mystery, though, like my internal clock has been reset.
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