Rex Rising (Elei's Chronicles)

by Chrystalla Thoma

  Undercurrent. The terrorist organization fighting against the Gulturs’ dictatorial rule over the Seven Islands. The Gultur had chosen rich Dakru as their headquarters. Ost, being the island with the least resources, no more than a big rock in the sea, hadn’t drawn their attention. Hells, on Ost telespeaks were the standard method of communication. No wonder it had so little Gultur presence and the Undercurrent hadn’t surfaced there.

  Ost. He’d left Ost… when? Many hours ago. Too many hours ago. Automatically he checked for his watch. Oh, yes. Lost. It had broken off his wrist when he’d smashed into the ground. He’d taken a leap from the first floor to a terrace he’d seen below, but missed and fell to the street instead, after…

  Timmy was waving a hand in front of his face. “Hey, you sure you’re okay? I’m not putting you inside the aircar with Fia in this state.”

  Elei shook his head, rubbed at his possessed eye and sat up straighter, hissing. Still, the pain helped gather his scattered thoughts. Stay awake. Stay focused.

  It was all he could do while waiting.

  Chapter 4

  Hera strode through Sestos, the capital of Ost in the early evening. The buildings and shanty towns spread like a bad skin rash, uneven and filthy. Her mental map showed her the route back to Pelia’s apartment, and although she slowed to a nonchalant pace, she struggled not to drive her fist through every wall she passed.

  Interrogating Falx was out of the question. Such an act would raise too much suspicion. Interrogating the neighbors, which she’d tried, proved an exercise in futility. The boy was gone without a trace, like a fine trail of smoke dissipating in the clear sky.

  Caught in the flickering light of a street lamp, a bedraggled woman selling ama cigarettes at the street corner stared with wide eyes.

  Time to go. Hera turned and headed back toward the landing pad where she’d left the helicopter. She’d attracted too much attention already. Movements jerky with frustration, she fumbled in her pocket for the ignition key. She needed to let the other resistance members know. Maybe someone had a lead.

  One could hope, right?

  Things were going to the five hells. The shipment represented years of work and hope, experiments, failures and small victories. Then Pelia had spoken of a breakthrough, raising a frenzy of speculation and expectancy, and now she was dead and the shipment gone.

  I must find it. But how?

  “Hey, you!” a breathless female voice called behind her and Hera whirled around, whipping out her longgun and aiming in one fluid movement.

  The woman squealed, eyes going big and round, and raised her hands. A tray hung around her neck on a piece of filthy string. Ama cigarettes. The street vendor she’d seen before.

  “What do you want?” Hera grated.

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot me.” Tears rolled down the woman’s grimy face, leaving pale trails.

  “I shall not. Speak.” Hera lowered her gun and glanced at her helicopter out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she could hand the woman a nutrition bar; that would appease her, and Hera would leave sooner from this accursed island. Unlike Dakru, Ost reeked of disease and desperation. The sheer number of crippled beggars on the street was appalling.

  “You’re looking for the boy.” The vendor wiped at her eyes, smearing more dirt on her cheeks. “You are, don’t deny it.”

  “The boy?” Hera asked, feigning ignorance even as her palms sweated and the longgun began to slip from her grip.

  “The boy with the mismatched eyes. Eles. He used to drive the aircar for Pelia, who lived across the street. I know him.” She nodded, eyes red-rimmed. “He used to buy cigs from me.”

  Eles. A lead, an honest to the gods lead. Hera took a deep breath. “And what happened to him?” Deep inside, the cold lump of fear sprouted tendrils of ice. “Is he dead?”

  The woman shrugged her thin shoulders. “He ran.”

  Hera licked dry lips and instructed her heart to calm down. It almost worked. “Can you repeat that?”

  “He ran away.” The vendor glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid of someone overhearing. Hera scanned the street but saw no movement.

  “Where to?”

  The woman pointed west. Hera squinted at the squalid, dilapidated buildings. “Is that the way to the bridge?”

  But the woman shook her head and backed away. “I need to go now, they’ll kill me too, if they find me—”

  “Wait.” Hera made a grab for the vendor’s thin arm, but the woman twisted away. “I said wait!”

  The vendor fled down the street, moving faster than Hera thought possible for such an emaciated body, and disappeared into a dark alley. There went her only willing witness. Hera swore under her breath and turned her gaze again in the direction the woman had indicated. Where had the boy gone? Pelia must have told him to seek out the resistance, to seek help.

  Not over the bridge, though, that would have been too risky. The glow of yellow spotlights on high metal cranes caught her eye. The port. Her lips twitched. Yes, the port. She knew now where the boy had gone. Across the isthmus, to the closest shore.

  Dakru.

  Chapter 5

  Timmy shuffled papers and gadgets on his counter, whistling in between drags of smoke and keeping rhythm with his foot. Elei itched to silence him. Each sound was a thump inside his skull.

  A door at the other side of the room opened and a guard poked his head inside. “Fia’s here, Mr. Timmy.” The whiz of an engine and suffocating dakron smell confirmed the arrival of Elei’s transport.

  Timmy grinned. Sticking the cig back into his mouth, he strolled to the door and out to the street. “Fia, about time you showed up! I told you to stay close.”

  Elei didn’t hear the answer, if there had been one, straining to push himself upright on shaky legs. The feat achieved, he leaned against the wall, blinking furiously to clear his eyes, and made his limping way outside.

  The aircar was medium sized, easily twenty-six feet long and twelve feet wide, able to fit seven to eight passengers. It looked as old as Timmy’s telespeak, repaired and patched over, rusty in places. The name had been painted over but was still visible: “Ker IX: 298.” An old military aircar.

  Timmy was there, looking pleased with himself. He helped Elei up the first rung of the ladder and patted him on the arm. “Have a good ride!”

  Whatever. Elei kept a death hold on the rail as he climbed, not trusting in his battered body. Jaw clenched against the pain, he finally reached the deck. The door to the cabin loomed open. Elei entered. Two yellow nepheline chairs were the only furnishings, their covers split in places. A rolled newsprint lay on one of them.

  “Are you in?” a cheerful voice called from the driver’s deck. A woman’s small face appeared at the cubicle’s opening — a mop of chestnut hair and a dark, intense stare full of curiosity.

  “Yeah.”

  Hands braced on the armrests, he lowered himself gingerly into a chair. Outside the large windows, the street stretched, wide and full of other aircars. The overcast sky hung right over the buildings like a dirty sheet. He leaned his head back. The last stretch.

  Then Fia revved up the aircar engine, which sputtered and coughed. The vehicle lurched forward, almost throwing him to the floor, and he grabbed the armrests when it swerved wildly to avoid the white façade of a Gultur office building.

  Elei held onto his seat, teeth grinding together, as Fia sent the aircar in a zigzag trajectory, hurtling through the streets of Krisia, barely avoiding other vehicles and buildings. Another swerve, and another, and then, finally, thankfully, they were out onto the heavenway and heading toward the north.

  He allowed his fingers to release their white-knuckled grip on the armrests and slumped in his seat. A road sign read ‘Artemisia’, the rest eaten by brown rust, and a knot unraveled in Elei’s insides. Somewhere deep, he’d been afraid Fia would dump him in some suburb close by, leave him stranded and lost.

  Blood smeared the armrest where he’d clutched it. He pressed his l
ips together, fighting a cold surge of fear. Maybe he ought to check that he wasn’t bleeding to death. Right. With a release of breath, he opened the flaps of his jacket and lifted his t-shirt. He peeled off the bandage and, for the first time since his mad flight from Ost, he really looked.

  Small and round, the gunshot wound opened like a crimson mouth on his pale flesh, right above his pelvis. As he watched, blood oozed, thick and dark, spilling into his pants.

  Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard. He yanked the bandage and the t-shirt back down, covering the wound, and placed a hand over it. Shit.

  The newsprint poked him in the thigh. He picked it up and unrolled it, desperate for a distraction. The photo of the main article showed a beautiful red-haired woman, dressed in a form-fitting black uniform. Her shoulders were decorated with silver medals.

  ‘Nekut, head of the Gultur investigations department, currently residing in the Bone Tower headquarters,’ read the legend, ‘said eradicating the Undercurrent is only a matter of time.’ She claimed the necessary preventive measures were being undertaken to control the current outbreak of violence. Violence to contain violence.

  The Gultur reign seemed eternal. Elei doubted the Undercurrent would make any dent in their power. He pressed the image and the article unfolded on the flexi-screen. A bomb defused. Success for the Gultur. A warning to the populace. Nekut denied circulating rumors about the systematic rounding up and extermination of males ‘for being needless and outdated chromosome mutations’. He shivered when he remembered the Gultur temple and the group of naked men, and wondered at the contradiction.

  Then again, the news agencies belonged to the Gultur. They had control of everything. It all made perfect sense.

  Outside the window flashed streaks of color. Other vehicles. Small towns. The mountains in the distance. And then he saw Artemisia rise like a giant insect, tall buildings, glinting antennas and green reflections. The aircar exited the heavenway and spiraled down toward the ground, turning in claustrophobic circles, until it spilled out onto the streets of the city.

  Fia took an arching avenue that shot up into the sky, passing so close to the multi-story blocks of apartments and offices that Elei caught glimpses of people moving inside. His stomach roiled and he wondered if Fia would be upset to find he’d thrown up on her seats. He swallowed convulsively, trying to control the nausea, and held his hand to his side. His fingers came back streaked with fresh crimson that seeped through the bandage and the t-shirt.

  Hold it together. A little longer. Come on.

  He refused to think about what would happen once he got to the address. He gazed outside, his eyelids so heavy they ached. They were falling shut.

  And there was blood. Everywhere. On his hands. On Pelia. On her chest, for the gods’ sake, on her blouse, on her exposed neck. On her face. On the seats of the aircar. His hands slipped on her chest when he tried to stop the bleeding. Her words came out distorted. Something was pushed into his pocket, a piece of paper that crackled. And then he felt the gunshot, the impact in his side. More blood. Confusion. Fear. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  A hand on his shoulder. He gasped and flinched.

  “Wakey, wakey! End of journey.”

  Cronion jolted in his eye before the words filtered through. Then the parasite quieted. Elei came back to his surroundings, panting. Safe. He was safe.

  A lined, thin face bent over him, half-buried in the shadow of a hood, lips painted a garish pink. A moment of panic, then he remembered. His driver, Fia.

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “Hey, listen, honey. I know Timmy said to drop you off at Ponds, but you don’t look so good, you’re white as a sheet. I can see you're bleeding.” She sighed. “I brought you just outside Aerica. Think you can walk the rest of the way?”

  His eyes stung at her kindness. “Thanks. I’ll manage.”

  He had to.

  Elei pushed himself up and she reached down to help him. To his relief, his legs held. They walked out to the deck and the cold air.

  Clouds diffused the light of day. The aircar stood in a shabby suburb, dark even at midday — buildings blackened by fumes, people with hands lost in their pockets. They huddled into themselves, shuffled their feet and stepped from shadow to shadow.

  Fia helped him to the ladder, then stood leaning over him, a dark shadow against the cloudy sky, as he descended.

  “Go on,” she called out. “Aerica isn’t far, I swear. Take the boulevard toward the mountain you see — right there. Keep walking that way and Aerica will find you.”

  The aircar shot away. He remained staring at it for some time, sweat-drenched and shaky, trying to remember what he was doing there and why. Then he pressed the straps of his black jacket together till they clicked shut and huddled in it, glad for its warmth and the dark color that hid the blood. Pulling on the hood to protect his neck from the bite of the wind, he turned and started toward Aerica, a hand on the handle of his gun, an arm wrapped around his middle.

  His slow, limping steps took him along empty plots with sick-looking shrubs and fences covered in ghost climbers. Some dilapidated houses littered the emptiness. It was eerie. A junk, a small glidecraft, buzzed by and its driver leaned out to peer at Elei.

  He walked on and his steps became heavier; his head was too light. The overcast sky stuck against his eyelids and pressed them down. The empty plots gave way to square, concrete buildings, factories and process plants with tall chimneys, blackened with dakron fumes. Houses and shops appeared next, and even some neglected gardens overgrown with pale thorny weeds. Had he reached Aerica?

  He stood in a broad street, lined with small shops, dirty windows and trash. A woman came out of a drugstore and, without looking at him, turned down an alley and was gone. Nothing seemed real. He half expected the buildings to dissolve into fine mist and dissipate.

  Shaking himself, he took out the paper Pelia had put in his pocket. Stains of blood had eaten away its edges and half the word ‘Aerica’. He squinted at the address and looked up, scanning the street. Could there be… Ah, there.

  He stumbled toward the info-pole and stared stupidly at the coin slot. No money left. After glancing around to make sure nobody was looking, and with the ease of habit, he kicked the metal pole.

  Pain lanced into his side and he muffled a cry with his hand. He leaned against the info-pole as it hummed into activation mode. Pissing hells. Ow. For such a small wound, it hurt too damn much. Then again it was probably normal, since it was deep. He’d never been shot before. Now his hands were clenched so tight his short nails dug into his palms. He unclenched them, finger by finger.

  A black cat stared at him from a shop entrance as he blinked tears from his eyes. Stupid creature seemed to be laughing at him.

  He dashed the tears away. He only had to make it to this address. That was the grand plan. Just a little longer. Afterward… he’d have to see. If he survived. One step at a time.

  The panel slid back, revealing the oval, concave screen. He pressed the green button, read the address aloud — “apartment 32b, building Kay, 198 Broad Street” — and waited for the map to zoom in. A beep announced the map was done, and, tracing the web of streets with his forefinger, Elei saw to his relief that it wasn’t far. He counted the turns, memorizing the way, and pressed the button again to erase the address.

  Better leave no clues.

  Not that anyone would have followed him so far. They had to know by now, he had nothing they wanted.

  Rubbing his chest, he set off, counting the streets and turnings. He peered at the building façades as he passed. The numbers followed no apparent order. Number twenty followed number hundred and forty three, only to be followed by sixty one. Whose idea of a joke was that?

  When he thought he couldn’t go a step farther, he found the broad street with its faceless buildings. As he walked, he gripped the piece of paper in his hand to remind him what in the hells he was doing there, but when he looked at it, the letters seemed to be c
rawling and falling off its edge. He flinched. Now was not the time to go off the deep end.

  Something moved ahead. Dark figures separated from the shadows of a squat building with yellow doors. Cold crept down his spine and goose bumps sprang on his skin. Shit, not now. He fumbled at his belt for the Rasmus. Breathing raggedly, he drew it, yet they made no move on him and after a few steps they vanished into some alley and left him to trudge on alone.

  A man jostled him coming out of a dark storefront. A scar across his cheek disfigured his face. Elei raised his gun, but the man strode away, head lowered, muttering.

  Letting out a pent up breath, Elei stumbled on until he found the number he sought. He stopped and checked the paper, afraid to believe it.

  Yes. It was the one.

  He glanced up. It was a gray building, a non-descript square pillar. An empty concierge box stood at the entrance, its window broken. The metal door protested when he pushed it to peer inside. In the gloom, the red light of an exit sign flickered. A smell of piss and rot wafted on the air, familiar scents that reminded him of his childhood and sent a burning to his stomach. He could see no elevator. He raised his crinkled piece of paper to eye level.

  ‘Kalaes Ster,’ he read the name off the paper, aloud, to make it real. It sounded like a person’s name but it could just as well be a password of some sort.

  A whistle pierced the air when he stepped inside, startling him, but nothing moved inside the hall. Apartment number 32b. Thank the gods. That would be only the third floor. Before he lost his nerve, Elei started up the stairs. He took them a step at a time, telling his heart to slow down, hand pressed on his throbbing side. His pulse kicked and danced inside his skull, but worse still, his chest felt crushed and he just couldn’t catch his breath.

  He reached the first landing and started up another flight of stairs, when the stained steps tilted. Five hells. As he hung onto the rail, his desperation turned to mad rage and he slammed his fist into the metal. Fire sparked up his nerves and wrenched a strangled cry from his throat. He could damn well do this.