by Dan O'Brien
Pharaoh nodded.
“No doubt, but to attack them seems…”
“Crazy, yeah I know. I’ve been telling myself that same thing from the moment it crawled into my mind. But I have seen things that don’t make any sense. When the visor went down, the image was intense. It looked like the world had died.”
“The world did die, man. We are standing on what is left,” returned Pharaoh.
Dana watched their exchange with a mute expression.
“I don’t believe that anymore. There is something else, I can feel it. I don’t know what it is, but I know now that what we see isn’t necessarily what is there,” continued Marlowe, shaking his head.
“Thank you,” murmured Dana.
Marlowe turned from the window––his face haggard and though he had slept, his eyes seemed redder than ever. “Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t even breached the outer wall.”
Dana stood, her lithe frame moving about the apartment. “Thank you for believing. I cannot explain anything to you. But I will in time. Perhaps when we reach the desert, I can explain to you why you feel that there is something else.”
Marlowe moved toward her, his large frame towering over her. He grabbed her small hands in his. His face attempted tenderness and succeeded modestly. “You can tell me when you are ready, Dana. These things I keep seeing, and this feeling that burns in me, I cannot ignore them. Or this,” he spoke and revealed the spreading runic design that would soon claim his forearm and upper arm.
Dana grabbed his arm. Her lips moved eerily.
“I have seen this before.”
Pharaoh rose from his seat and moved closer to the two of them. He bent over and looked at the rune––the lettering was foreign. The designs, though intricate and beautiful, were indecipherable to him. “That is gibberish, man,” he said with a shrug and a slight air of disbelief.
Marlowe ignored him and looked into her green eyes. Hadn’t they been gray? “What does it mean?” he inquired slowly.
Dana brushed her hair back and leaned in closer.
“It is a map.”
Pharaoh scoffed loudly.
“A map? Why would it be a map?”
Marlowe cast him a dark glare.
“It is what it is. If she knows something, let her speak.”
The little man raised his hands in mock defeat and backed away. Dana shifted uncomfortably and continued. “The language is very old, before Orion. It speaks of the Tower and of the expanse of the Great Desert.”
Pharaoh shook his head and resumed his keystrokes, his interest lost.
“The Great Desert? The Tower?”
Dana let go of his arm. “It is incomplete. The sentences are unfinished. Perhaps in time more will be revealed. Hope for that, as those answers will be more satisfactory than what I can tell you.”
Marlowe looked into her eyes, seeing that she was keeping something hidden. He sighed and moved back to the window, stealing a glance at Pharaoh absorbed in some distraction. “We should go in under the cover of night. There will be many soldiers regardless, but by the moon we stand a chance.”
Dana nodded, drawing her thin legs to her chest.
“We must leave soon.”
Pharaoh spun, anger spewing from his lips. “Really, you think so? That is wonderfully vague and omniscient. Can you vague it up a little more? Like, I don’t know, danger is one step behind us or some other crap.”
Marlowe craned his neck. “Pharaoh, enough.”
Pharaoh shook his head and threw a little fist at the air. “No, it isn’t enough. You are buying whatever this girl is selling and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. These cryptic warnings and the fact that she seemingly speaks this defunct language that just randomly appears after you meet her sounds like a load of horseshit, man.”
“She didn’t know I was coming,” he replied.
Pharaoh pointed at him. “Says you. This smells like a setup. Like the man is trying to get at you because you know something that you don’t realize you do. This girl is taking you for a ride and you haven’t even asked about the destination,” he near-screamed, veins bulging in his small neck.
Marlowe held back a biting comment.
“Seriously man, how is this worth it?”
Marlowe struck the wall hard with the flat of his hands, the force of it shaking the foundation of the room. “Because she needs my help. There is no greater calling than to help another, Pharaoh. Just as you are helping me, I am going to help her even if it kills me.”
Pharaoh shook his head. “Different story, bro. I know you. You don’t know this girl from the Maiden. She needs your help? Why? She seems to know more than you do. How can you possibly help her in your ignorance?”
The sun had passed below many of the taller buildings of Orion––night was approaching fast. It had been only a day since he had met the girl, yet he felt as if he had known her his whole life. That he had been searching for her, to protect her from this world. He looked at Dana, her small frame, her distant eyes.
Was she protecting him?
“The sun is going down,” Dana whispered.
Pharaoh looked out the window as well. “That it is.”
“Where is the gear?” questioned Marlowe. Turning from the window, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over one another.
Pharaoh sighed. “Can’t talk you out of it?”
Marlowe shook his head.
“Basement Level. Container 1138,” the little man answered, his voice deflated.
Dana rose as Marlowe did so. Together, they made their ways toward the door. Silence hung awkwardly in the room. This was a goodbye, the kind between friends who would never again see each other.
They each felt it.
Marlowe turned to Pharaoh. “Good luck, kid.”
Pharaoh nodded. “Same to you, old man,” and then looking at Dana, “You take care of him. He has a tendency to get all worked up and not release it until it’s too late.”
Dana smiled. “Thank you for helping us.”
Pharaoh brushed it off. “Just be careful.”
They pulled open the door and disappeared into the poorly lit hall. Pharaoh sat in silence for some time, looking at the half-opened door and wondering what color eyes the girl had.
Hadn’t they been silver?
*
The basement reeked.
Despite the polished marble look of the place, it was indeed a refuge for those without homes. The scent of urine and sweat was overpowering as they moved into the containers. Whatever reprieve from the madness of the creepy denizens of the shadows Marlowe had received in Pharaoh’s apartment, it was now gone. His descent into the basement had awoken them it seemed.
They were indeed out in full force.
Their faces were hollow, only darkened indentions where there had once been mouths were visible. They were changing. Their bodies before were covered in rags. Now they wore tattered cloaks, each long and sweeping.
Each was the very essence of horror.
Marlowe counted the containers as he passed them. “1132. 1133.1134. It should be up here pretty quick.”
They had said very little as they left Pharaoh’s apartment. Glances had seemed enough. His paranoia had returned and her urging would resurface the longer they lingered in the darkness. The light had been a haven for the both of them.
The hall cornered into a dead end.
In the half light of the basement, raised symbols enumerated 1138. “This must be it,” he murmured as he ran his hands over the thick steel of the door. “Where is the handle?”
The door slid away.
The interior was dark, but lights flickered to life slowly. The room was no larger than Pharaoh’s apartment. At its center was a massive object cloaked in a dark tarp. The walls were lined with racks of weapons, body armor, and various wartime supplies. It was a treasure trove to be desired by any warrior.
Dana touched a chest guard.
“Seems like you were prepared,”
she said.
Marlowe ran his hands over the tarp slowly, looking around the room. “Prepared is relative. These are some things left over from a harsher time. You might want to consider body armor since they want you in a body bag, not for questioning.”
She flashed him an angry glare.
“Why would you say that?”
“Not my words, yours. You said they wanted us both dead. “
She scowled, scrunching her features as she pulled an assault rifle from amongst the racks of weapons. “Were you a solider or something?”
Marlowe pulled the tarp free, revealing a sleek piece of machinery. Oblong and tapered toward the rear, it resembled a rounded wedge. Twin turbine engines hung from the rear of the vehicle, silvery and polished as if they had just left the assembly line. “Or something,” he replied without looking to her.
“Wow, nice bike.”
Marlowe threw a leg over it. Straddling the seat, he ran his hands over the dash, which was set evenly with his chest. A blue sphere beeped rhythmically, methodically. “I wonder if she still runs…”
“She?”
Marlowe smirked.
He placed his hand on the screen, blackened lines tracing around his fingers until it had created a hand. Blurred images rested at the top of each finger: fingerprint recognition.
Pulling his hand free, he waited. “Maybe not….”
The thunder of the turbines starting was deafening in the small confines of the storage area. The bike lifted from the ground, hovering a half of a meter above the ground.
“Maybe so.”
Dana covered her ears and dropped the assault rifle in doing so. Marlowe reached across with a surreal quickness and grasped the weapon before it hit the ground. He looked at her. “Weapons, not toys. Can’t just drop them like that.”
“What?” she screamed.
Throwing a leg over, he dismounted.
He grabbed a suit of body armor and threw it over her slender shoulders, much to her chagrin. Strapping a sheath around his back, over the body armor, he deposited a glossy blade into its care. Weapons loaded, he grabbed Dana and placed her on the rear seat.
Her screams were part joy and part horror, and lost, as Marlowe engaged the bike. Together, they rocketed through the basement. Twisting and spinning, they navigated the underground facility. Ducking just below a sign, he craned his neck back.
“Sorry about that, close one,” he called.
She pointed with her hands wildly. “Watch out.”
Marlowe saw the exit. The light of the day had since faded and the artificial light of the night announced the outside world. He rolled the bike, drawing it lengthwise and then upside down as they veered through the door in a roar of machinery.
The night air was cold.
Marlowe watched the monitor on the main panel of the bike. The Cerulean Dreams tunnel that they had to breach was just ahead, beneath the building itself and then straight back into the desert.
“Hold on,” he called as he allowed the bike to drift for a moment, gravity pulling hard on them as they climbed.
“What?” she screamed, hugging close to Marlowe.
“Here we go,” he said through gritted teeth.
The bike fell, the forces of nature pulling it at surreal speeds. Marlowe engaged the twin turbine engines. The power as they plummeted and raced was immense, pulling at their bodies. They both screamed as the plunged headlong into the night and hopefully toward a reprieve from the hunt.
XI
R
oth watched the night with apprehension. From the 97th floor, Orion looked like a grid map, lights illuminating this area and that. All possessed names, but from up high it mattered little. They were below him. He knew that Marlowe had not been apprehended despite the massive, citywide manhunt. For nearly twenty-four hours had he managed to evade Cerulean Cleaning Crews, as well as OrionCorps squadrons.
The good doctor’s patience was running thin. The indicator beeped, announcing the fair Dr. Crowne. Roth did not bother to turn. He could not hide the frustration and venom in his voice. “Why do I bother to pay you people,” he spat.
She had her visor withdrawn and her hair hung loosely. Her shoulders were tense, eyes tired. Her voice, as she replied, sounded as if she had been speaking all day. “I don’t need to remind you, Aaron, I am not paid for this. I am in the same position as you.”
Roth twisted, craning his neck enough to see the defiant posture of the doctor. In the darkness of the room, he saw the silvery glint of her eyes. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. “Of course, how rude of me. I meant that in a very general way. Marlowe remains at large.”
“Quite so,” spoke Armon’s voice suddenly.
His figure was shrouded in darkness.
Roth turned.
Susan jumped, her hands coming to her chest.
“Armon, I….”
Armon emerged from the shadows, his smile intact.
He was no longer attired in a designer suit; instead, body armor with dark blue stripes along the pants and deeper blue splotches covering the chest plate. A blue circle pulsed on his left forearm, a red diagonal slash on his right. “Please pardon the theatrics. I, as well, require your counsel.”
Roth looked nervously at Susan.
“How did he get in here?” he demanded.
She shrugged. “Sir, I don’t….”
Armon stepped forward. Touching her shoulder reassuringly, he then gestured toward Roth. He smiled. “She was not aware of this, Dr. Roth. I am afraid she must be present for what must be said. I fear that there is indeed some danger in Marlowe’s persistent ability to avoid capture.”
Roth held his hands out.
“Out with it,” he demanded, patience dispersed.
Armon wrung his hands together purposefully. “Dr. Methias will no longer be a problem, though some children from OrionCorps were forced to suffer. You see, the late Dr. Methias foolishly revealed some information. Things best kept among those who must know.”
“Methias is dead?” Susan looked mortified.
Armon touched her shoulder gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I am afraid so, although there was something about him that I was unaware of. Something I find rather disappointing, I must admit.”
Roth looked at Susan, moving out from behind his desk. “You killed citizens? That was not part of my instructions.”
Armon nodded. His was sorrow genuine. “Nor mine, it is the belief of the Agency that all roads leading to this information need to be severed. It is what is best for all of us, I believe, for us to survive.”
Roth paled.
Armon’s words were the doublespeak of an assassin.
“All roads? What is it that Methias had in his possession that has vexed you so terribly?”
Armon walked around Roth’s desk, crossing his hands behind his back as he looked out upon the city. “He was not a child of Babylon, yet he worked as a conduit for our brothers and sisters. I find that a very terrifying realization. You see it was my understanding…” He turned and looked at Susan and then Roth. “…As well as the understanding of those in Babylon that the experiments would be conducted by Babylonians. This would eliminate the possibility of citizens coming to any startling revelations.”
Susan backed away toward the door. Her skin prickled. She recognized that they were in danger. Their very lives were on the cutting board. Touching the panel, the indicator light remained red.
“The doors are not working, Dr. Crowne. I assure you that listening is far more important right now than anything else that you might have to do,” announced Armon, still staring out into the night.
Roth looked around in a panic. “Armon, I order you to stand down. This inquisition is unnecessary. By Babylonian Law, you…”
The wave of electrical energy flashed across the room, illuminating a crimson trail as it flashed from Armon to Roth. It crawled over the doctor’s body, forcing him, writhing, to the ground.
“I am the Law here, a
s decreed by Babylon,” he spoke.
Susan covered her mouth with her hands as she knelt next to Roth. “Armon, why are you doing this? We are kin, we are brothers and sisters of Babylon,” she pleaded, her big eyes glassy as tears fought to the surface.
Armon turned from the window, sitting in the plush chair. “Because you and Roth have grown sloppy. You have lost the mission, the importance of the work at Cerulean Dreams. I fear that you have begun to pursue selfish means.”
The energy receded and Roth breathed out heavily. His skin steamed. Susan touched his arm and recoiled, sucking on her burnt fingers. “What have you done to Roth? Will he die?”
Armon sighed. “Not yet.”
She stood, her arms stretched out to her sides. Tears trickled down her face. “Why are you doing this? Monster. Bastard,” she screamed.
Armon’s face slackened.
He flashed across the room, his figure seemingly dematerializing and materializing before her. He lifted her with one arm, felt her delicate bone structure beneath his touch. “I do not manipulate life. I do not control others. It is you, Dr. Crowne, who is a monster, a tyrant. You, Roth, and your empire of fantasies and dreams are what have brought this wrath down upon you.” She clawed at his hands, her nails chipping and breaking. “Where are the others?” he asked.
She shook her head, her voice stolen by his grip. Launching her across the room, he released her. Reaching down, he grasped Roth, lifting him into the air with ease. “I ask you again, where are the others?”
Susan massaged her throat, feeling the pain that his powerful grip wrought. Armon flexed his arm, energy and crackling electricity flowing from the red diagonal panel through his hand and then over Roth’s body.
The doctor kicked from the pain, his face drawn. His eyes rolled back. “He does not have much time, Dr. Crowne. I fear if you do not tell me soon, then I will be forced to tear your playhouse down to find what I seek.”
“What others?” she screamed, her hair wild.
Armon drew back the energy.
“The failed experiments. The outcasts.”
She shook her head.
