by Jason Letts
“You have greatness in store for you, boy. I can feel it,” the figure said, becoming more visible as Taylor’s eyes adjusted and he knew what to look for. “You’ll be an asset to us.”
“I’ll help you,” Taylor said, nearly breathless.
An eerie sensation took hold. He was completely sealed off from everyone else, locked in a room with a man of unknown power. Guard training hadn’t readied him for this, but it was all he had to go on.
“Are you prepared to discover the secret of energy? Once I open your mind to it, there’s no return path. Discontent and anger must be expelled through destruction. It can be a heavy burden.”
“I understand,” Taylor said.
“Kneel here,” the sect leader commanded, extending a long, pale finger. When Taylor obeyed, the figure lost its transparency and then pulled back his hood to reveal an elderly man with dark complexion, wrinkles, and a thick beard.
“Professor Omicron!” Taylor gasped. “It’s you?”
It hadn’t been so long ago that Taylor had sat in his office and heard him predict the complete unraveling of Cumeria, something that seemed farfetched at the time, but was now certain to happen. Omicron had also said that Taylor’s father would do anything for him, and he’d vowed to prove in reverse.
“What’s me?” the old man warbled. “We are all so much more than you can possibly imagine. This body, this family, this job, this nation, this world. We transcend all of those things, and it’s all rooted in energy.”
Taylor was stunned, but it was too late to turn back now. Somehow identifying the Ma Ha’dere sect leader as old Professor Omicron made him seem more dangerous, not less.
“Close your eyes, Taylor,” he said, reaching forward. “There’s so much more in your mind than you know.”
Taylor felt cold, bony fingers rubbing against his scalp. He wheezed and shuddered as a wave overtook him. A blue glow filtered through his eyelids. A strange feeling overtook him, to convulse or faint or fall apart completely. Then, all at once, the fingers pulled away.
“You harbor dark thoughts,” the professor announced, and that was Taylor’s cue. The sensation fizzled when the professor withdrew his touch, and Taylor wondered if he’d finished unlocking that power, but there was no time for delay.
He rose and pulled the knife from his thigh pocket.
“You nearly killed my father,” Taylor said, stoking his anger. He remembered his woozy dad in the ClawClinic after his procedure. “Was it you who did that, or did you merely order someone to do it? And then you thought that I would join you?”
The professor staggered back, but Taylor could sense a release of energy coming. He didn’t know how, but he knew something was stirring.
“Your family despises you for what you’ve done, Taylor. Let them go. You need not be bound by his vicious hegemony.”
But the eruption of a blue glow in the professor’s hands signaled that he had little faith his offer would be accepted. Before the old man could reach out, Taylor had the knife at his throat, sliding it across in a swift motion. First and foremost, Taylor was a Bracken. If his dad would give anything for Taylor, he would do anything for him.
“You said you’d help,” the professor gurgled, but the glossy haze crept into his eyes as the cut opened and spilled blood onto his cloak and Taylor’s guard jacket.
“I am helping,” Taylor replied.
The professor’s body became dead weight and Taylor let it slump against the floor.
Most bizarre of all was the intensely pleasurable sensation Taylor received for getting revenge for the attack on his father. He felt content in a way he’d never known, so peaceful that he wasn’t even fazed when his hand took on an azure tint. He pressed it against the mark on the door and opened it. Like the roaring adulation he had heard just a short while ago, the gasps he heard when he returned filled the room.
They stared at him, the blood on his clothes, and the dripping knife. If they attacked him he’d defend himself, but he wasn’t angry about it. Perhaps the others felt the same, because they all had puzzled expressions as he passed through the crowd. Taylor made it to the center where Nissa’s ex-boyfriend was.
“You want to fight against malicious cultural institutions? Yours is the worst one,” Taylor said.
Perhaps they’d come after him later when the euphoria passed, Taylor supposed. But for now they looked at each other in confusion. Maybe without a leader they had nothing to fight for.
Taylor breathed easy as he entered into the open air, wondering if the fight ahead would make him feel even better. The energy they spoke of didn’t make sense beyond a simple sensation bursting from his pores.
Breaking into the van and starting it up without keys was a snap, and Taylor tossed his bag into the passenger’s seat. Rolling down the street, he settled in for the long drive east around the FarmFields and then north to the ClawLands. If any of the Illiams’ people got in his way, they’d regret it. His family needed him at home, and he would be there no matter what. Even if they hated him.
But Taylor’s pleasurable sensation soon met a strong countervailing force. Somewhere near the Nagahosset River, a yawn caught Taylor’s ear and compelled him to glance toward the back of the van. Nissa giggled when he spotted her. She must’ve been hiding in here even before he’d met with the professor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Taylor asked.
“I’m coming with you,” she replied.
“No,” Taylor insisted. “The last thing we need is people like you running around the ClawLands trying to blow everything up.”
Nissa chuckled and rolled her eyes.
“You say it like we’re not already there.”
CHAPTER 19
With a gas-powered gun in one hand and Legacy in the other, Lowell stalked through the panicked streets in the center of town on his way to the amphitheater. Glickon was by his side carrying a burly broadsword, and together they wove around villagers carrying loose lumber for the barricades on the west side of town, all manner of household objects suddenly repurposed as weapons, their grim expressions fraught with concern over their dire position.
Lowell could sympathize. He’d been at his sword training for a week, not nearly enough time to lead his people into battle with any confidence. Fully aware that half the men who’d be fighting could best him, he hoped it would count for something that his love for his land and willingness to fight to defend it were second to none.
“Mr. Bracken!” a member of the village council shouted beside two men carrying a long bench. He hustled over, waving one empty hand. Lowell eyed the meat cleaver in the other.
“Update me.”
“The bulk of the enemies’ forces are shifting out to the west, but there are a lot of stragglers and some small disconnected groups heading straight for us from the north and south,” he huffed.
“Let’s see if we can pick those off. Get together a dozen skirmishers to lie in wait for them beyond the edges of town. It’s important they wait as long as possible to attack, because if the first engagement isn’t on the western flank, everybody headed that way might figure out that their bearings are off.”
“Of course,” the councilman agreed. “It won’t be long now until they reach the bowl beyond the hills. If they continue on and run into each other, so much the better, but if they turn east we’ve got scores camped out on the hills to give them a warm welcome.”
“Make sure everyone’s inside of the ridge where the explosives are. That’s our best bet to even the odds. We’re too far outnumbered to do anything other than play the tactical game. And if anyone sees a Bolt & Keize helicopter, make sure I hear about it personally,” he ordered.
“Behind the barricade we’ve got our own trucks and tractors to meet them head on. There are some Bracken Energy vehicles, as well, but I’m afraid they won’t hold up against the armored behemoths heading this way.”
“We’ll have to make do. Beyond the barricade in the hills, get anything on the
ground you can that might slow them down. Dropping fire balloons on them should work well,” Lowell said, wondering how much time they’d have left to get any of this together.
The councilman jogged up the hill toward the amphitheater to execute his instructions. Lowell smiled. Even though he’d lost his job, his wealth, and so much more, nobody in town had gotten the memo. He still carried the respect of the people with him, and at the moment that seemed more valuable than all the rest.
“What’s the outlook, Glickon?” Lowell asked over his shoulder as the swordsman caught up. He had some throwing knives clipped to his dark outerwear and a funny little doll’s head hanging from his neck.
“If you don’t walk into this knowing you’re going to die, there’s no way you’ll do what you must to live,” he said. Lowell squeezed Legacy, ready to do whatever it took.
“And what’s that?” Lowell asked, eyeing the doll’s head. Glickon glowered.
“My little girl died of food poisoning, something nasty in a pork chop. It’s for her. She wasn’t yet five years old. I hated the Illiams for it, but there wasn’t anything I could do. That’s why I went to the southern continents,” he said.
“You’ll get your chance to do something soon,” Lowell said.
“That I will.”
The floodlights around the amphitheater gave the place a sterile feel, but the rabble of the crowd made it sound like home. Lowell crossed the train tracks and took the path leading to the entrance.
“Please help us,” an infirm old man called from beside a pregnant woman and her two whelps.
“If you can’t fight, get on the next train and don’t stop until you make it to Ristle,” he advised.
The pathway led straight to the top of the stands, where Lowell stood to look over the thousands of assembled warriors stretching all the way around the amphitheater and straight down to the stage. There were far more people here now than there had been during Taylor’s crossing.
The people nearby quieted their chatter when they noticed Lowell, who left Glickon behind to shuffle down the steps and take the stage. It had been more than fifteen years since he had spoken to the entire town like this; the last time had been during the wire wars when vast amounts of money and information were at stake. But now it was their lives, their families’ lives, and their homeland.
Lowell crossed the stage, adjusting to the glaring light and the sense of having so many eyes fixed upon him. The moment was great, but their hungry desire to defend their homes and emerge victorious made it easy to rouse them. He raised Legacy high, ushering in thunderous roars and the clattering of steel.
“My friends, my brothers, my kin, please,” he called, waiting until the noise subsided. “I come before you not as the president of Bracken Energy, not as a man of great worth held in high regard throughout the country, nor even as an accomplished warrior who has felled legions. I’m nothing more than a man who calls the ClawLands my home.
“But it was ordinary men who defended this land long before Cumeria ever existed. They were known as the Clawmen, and they fought tirelessly to protect their families and their honest way of life. They served with unparalleled bravery and sacrifice, giving their lives when necessary to keep us free. These Clawmen were your great grandfathers, and their fathers before them, and so on. Now their blood and that same bravery course through your veins, instilling within you unfailing strength and limitless endurance. You are one with them.
“Iyne will give us one hundred hours of darkness, and not all of us will see the light, but we will carry each other through so that by the end we will all have shown the world that the hardiest stock comes from right here at home and that the Clawmen will never be defeated!”
The applause ripped through the air so loud that Lowell feared it would alert their enemies. He wondered if he’d said it right and given them the strength to fight on, but the moment was gone and the crowd broke for the exits.
“Get to your posts. Get behind the barricade. No matter what, we must keep them away from the plants and the pods!” he shouted, though his voice disappeared into the noise. The mass exodus from the amphitheater coincided with the harsh blare of the town horn. The time had come.
Lowell left the stage and took to the steps beside his brothers, losing himself among them as he’d so often wished he could.
Now all that remained was the swinging of steel, the spilling of blood, and the decision of who should win and who should lose.
CHAPTER 20
Click, click, click. Done.
Sierra leaned back in her chair and marveled at the program she’d created. On the screen in front of her, thousands of tiny dots flashed against a map of the ClawLands. Every one of the Wozniaks and a good portion of the incoming Bolt & Keize raiders used a headset radio to communicate with their respective groups, and Sierra had rigged it so that each communication pinged against the map, allowing her to see exactly where a large percentage of the attack was coming from and track their movements.
But what she saw didn’t give her much peace of mind. Apart from the large black space where the Illiams roamed unseen, the Wozniaks were spread out over a huge area. Too few of them were filing in from the west where they’d fall victim to traps. Then there were the helicopters flying in rapidly from over the mountains.
Sierra grabbed her phone, which could display the tracking program even on its cramped screen, to send a message to her father. She had to tell him to mind the north and the south; they didn’t have everyone in position for the perfect kill stroke.
Her next move was to watch the battle begin and wait for a good opportunity to send fraudulent messages that would get their enemies to attack each other. The bell down the hall rang, signaling the opening of the elevator doors. Most of the rank and file employees were out and involved in the fight. Sierra winced at the sound of a cane clacking against the floor. Her moment of reckoning had arrived.
Nemi hid behind her back. His heat was nearly scalding.
Skuire, the loyal boy that he was, got up from his desk and stood in front of the open doors to her office.
“I’m sorry, but President Bracken is not seeing anyone at the moment,” he said, standing steadfast. Carlisle’s hoarse voice echoed through the hall.
“Thank you, Skuire. Your services will no longer be required.”
A stinging pop hit Sierra’s ears and a bullet from a gas gun struck Skuire in the chest. Her assistant fell against the front of his desk, barely able to turn his head and cast one heartbreaking look at Sierra before the light went out of his eyes.
“Skuire!” Sierra shrieked.
The clacking of the cane continued, and Carlisle turned to enter the now-unobstructed office doorway. He had four men with him—Bracken employees Sierra didn’t know who had no sympathy for her or the young man they’d just killed. All of them were armed with gas-powered guns at their sides. The smug grin on Carlisle’s face was loathsome.
“You wretched glob of monkey spunk,” Sierra growled.
“Ms. Bracken, it’s a pleasure to see you, too, though you could try a line of insults that doesn’t degrade my humanity. Your family did quite enough of that to mine in the past,” he said.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on outside?” Sierra seethed. Carlisle scratched his graying blond mustache.
“Of course I do. And the people of the ClawLands will be heartened to know that the land has been wiped clean of the intolerable Brackens who have brought this misfortune upon us. I’m here to deliver the results of the ‘no confidence’ vote. Suffice it to say that you have failed, garnering not even a single vote, and that your tenure as CEO of Bracken Energy has been terminated, effective immediately.”
Sierra gritted her teeth.
“How can you waste your time with votes in a situation like this? What the people of the ClawLands need is my father to inspire them to greatness, not petty bickering and a monstrous attempt to grind an axe that’s been waiting for generations,” she said.
Carlisle smiled politely and leaned against his cane, which Sierra eyed warily. If she hadn’t known the cane contained a sword, she wouldn’t have understood how threatening a gesture it was.
“I disagree. We’ve gotten you out just in the nick of time. The people will rejoice now that the tyrant lineage has been eradicated, and it’s possible some of them will survive by the time I can negotiate a cease-fire with the enemies you’ve made,” he explained.
“And what, you expect me to go down and join them? I can’t fight,” Sierra scoffed, but it elicited an unnerving chuckle from Carlisle. He shook his head.
“No, the opportunity to leave was one afforded to your father for the simple reason that I wanted him to know what it was like to lose everything. He’s well on his way, but as long as he has his children, he will still have something. Make whatever peace you need, because you are moments away from entering After.”
Horrified and apoplectic, Sierra stood behind her desk and watched the four men standing behind Carlisle aim their guns at her. Her eyes widened as if she were looking straight into death until the word she’d heard from the old woman came to her lips.
“Nemi, sol,” she ordered. The tiny dragon emerged on her shoulder, beat its wings, and released a blood-curdling screech that put a hint of fear in even Carlisle’s eyes.
“What?” he gasped, quickly coming to his senses. “Kill it!”
The dragon leapt from her shoulder and Sierra dove under her desk. Crawling to the side as gunfire popped, she peeked around the desk to see the dragon flapping haphazardly around the room.
The pitch black creature fluttered about avoiding the gunfire until it landed on a stone mantle. He screeched again, seeming to taunt the gunmen, who aimed their weapons at it at point-blank range. More pops ripped through the air, and Sierra smiled when the bullets splashed off of Nemi like drops of rain. He seemed to revel in it.
Nemi leapt from the mantle and hopped from one gun to the next, scrambling to get a foothold to leap off of as the barrels melted like butter. One of the guards pulled his weapon away before it got destroyed.
