Burn

by Sarah Fine

  “Why are all The Fifty coming here now?” I ask. “Seems dumb to flock to a place that could be attacked at any moment.”

  Leo squints up the hallway. “They know the H2 are here, and they’ve been raised to believe the Core are the enemy.” He chuckles. “Some of them are probably pretty mad. The news of the Sicarii is brand-new and not yet credible. They might even think it’s an H2 ruse to get inside Black Box. Their priority would be to protect their interests from those who they believe are the greater threat.” He gives me a rueful look. “And I’m telling you now, they decide everything by committee.”

  We near the end of the hall, and I notice the birth and death dates beneath the portraits are becoming more contemporary. Then we pass a picture of a handsome blond man with a mustache and glasses. “Arthur Thomas,” the nameplate reads. “1971–2007.” Leo’s dad. I look up the hallway with a sinking stomach.

  Sure enough, Frederick Archer’s nameplate is already affixed to the wall. The picture’s not up yet, thank God. I wonder what my mom felt when she saw that. To me, it feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut. Christina doesn’t say anything, but she moves close so her shoulder brushes mine.

  “One day we’ll be up there,” Leo says quietly. “All the patriarchs and matriarchs are, after they’ve passed away.”

  I stare at my dad’s nameplate. “Patriarch of what? A family of one?”

  Leo reaches to push his glasses up his nose before remembering he doesn’t have them. “Unless we have kids.” His cheeks flush. “I mean . . .” He looks back at his dad’s portrait. It might as well be an older version of the kid next to me, right down to the inquisitive bright green eyes. “Having a family someday would be nice.”

  This is the most awkward conversation I could possibly have while my girlfriend—who is an H2—is standing right next to me. I’m scared to even look at her. I clear my throat. “Do they make a big deal out of it? You know, you being the last of the Thomases and all?”

  Leo gives me a one-shouldered shrug. “Not a lot. Not in front of me, at least. But several families have already tried to make arrangements with Angus for my . . . my—” He cuts an anxious glance at Christina.

  She gives him a gentle, teasing smile. “Your hand in marriage?”

  His face is beet red. “Um. Yeah.”

  “We should keep moving,” I blurt out, grabbing Christina’s hand and practically dragging her down the hall. I want to talk with Leo about this—he might be a few years younger, but he’s been dealing with this crap a lot longer than I have and understands it better, too. I just can’t talk about it in front of Christina. It’s so weird. We never worried about the future before, but now that we might not even have one, it feels like I somehow have to think about it.

  I’m the last Archer. A member of The Fifty, a group that’s banded together to remain genetically “pure.” Is that something I should care about? A pang of loss hits deep in my chest—I wish my dad were here to explain it. I wish we’d had the kind of relationship where I wasn’t too busy fighting him to really learn from him. I squeeze my stinging eyes shut and force away these pointless thoughts. I need to focus on more important stuff now, like how to stop aliens from taking over the planet.

  We enter a soaring atrium, walls of glass that give us a full view of where we are. In the cloudless afternoon sunlight, the grounds of Black Box look like this weird mix of parkland and industrial complex. There are wide expanses of lawn, copses of oak trees, and even a large lake on the eastern side of the crater. The entire compound is surrounded by a wall of rock at least two hundred feet high. They really did burrow into a mountain and make it their own. There are three tunnels in and out. Six perimeter defense stations have been positioned high on the rock wall, every half mile around the three-mile circumference of the crater. All smooth metal and big guns, those defenses have been anchored into the rock and jut outward, with two-person elevators ready to shuttle guards up from the ground to the bus-sized stations so they can defend the compound. And as I witnessed during the Sicarii attack, on the crater rim itself there are both manual and automated defenses, as well as sophisticated visual, geothermal, and acoustic shielding that prevent satellite spying, even though the compound lies under the wide-open sky. That technology is the reason it looked like an empty crater when I viewed it from the rim—it’s a complete visual illusion. Basically, this whole compound is stealthed out.

  Behind this main building, which juts up like a tower of glass with two gray wings on either side, is the actual factory. It’s a hulking shadow right now, a literal black box. No windows. Steel doors and cargo bays. Massive and mysterious. I can’t wait to get inside and look around.

  “Have you ever been in there?” I ask Leo, nodding toward the factory.

  “Oh yeah.” He smiles. “It’s badass. Uncle Angus won’t let me go in there alone, though.”

  Christina looks over at him. “He’s afraid you’ll get hurt?”

  He rubs at the back of his neck. “No, the last time I came here, I may have accidentally blown a hole in the south wall of the factory. They have some amazing artillery in there.”

  I wonder how much of it my dad designed. “Hopefully things that can take down a scout ship.” I remember that obelisk leaving the Black Box missiles behind like they were moving in slow motion. We’ll need to do better than that when they return. If Race and Congers are right about the scouts looking to control those with weapons and power in advance of the full invasion, then the Sicarii will target Black Box. It’s one of the most heavily armed places on the planet, and if they’re paving the way for a peaceful invasion, they’ll need to take it out.

  As we cross the atrium, urgent echoing voices draw our gazes. Along the front of the building’s main entrance is a series of doors, and there’s a security station there. The guards are out of their walled booth . . . and one of them is holding the scanner. This is where newcomers are being escorted, where everybody in the compound, including every worker who lives here, is expected to check in no later than three this afternoon—unless they want a warrant issued for their immediate arrest by Black Box guards.

  A small squad of those guards is currently wheeling in several gurneys, each conveying a black body bag. With a rigid jaw, one burly young guard holds the scanner over each gurney as the others roll them by, headed for the freight elevators behind us. Red off the body bag, blue off the guard. These are the Core agents killed in the attack, probably being taken to a makeshift morgue. I count ten, and then three more roll in.

  “I thought they said ten Core agents were killed,” Christina says quietly.

  Whatever’s in the body bag scans orange.

  “That’s what they said,” I reply. “One of them is that agent who tried to get the scanner from me. Race shot him.”

  Leo crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “The other two are George and—”

  “Charles Willetts,” Christina and I say at the same time. Our eyes are glued to the scene as the second and third body bags scan orange. The guards wheeling those three gurneys look like they can’t wait to deliver their cargo and get as far from it as possible. They’ve probably been warned that there might be parasites within those bodies. My mom told me she’s going to be in charge of the autopsies, so she’s tasked with figuring out what exactly the Sicarii are.

  After we watch all the gurneys disappear onto the elevators, we enter another hallway, this one marked with doors that indicate we’ve reached the executive offices. The first nameplate reads “Brayton Alexander, CEO.” The office is dark, the door closed. The second reads “Angus McClaren, CFO.” That door is open, and there are voices coming from inside. I enter to find my mom, Angus, Race, and Congers sitting stiffly on the couches and chairs in the large receiving area. There are a couple of smaller offices stemming from this room, as well as a back hallway that probably leads to a restroom or something.

  Race, Congers
, and Angus stand up as Christina, Leo, and I walk in. Angus glowers when he sees Leo, who walks quickly over to him. “Do you have any idea how much you upset your aunt?” Angus asks. “She burst into tears when I called to tell her we’d found you alive.”

  Leo scuffs at the carpet with the toe of his soccer cleat. “Sorry, Uncle Angus.”

  “She sent a suitcase full of clothes and a new set of glasses with one of the incoming patriarchs. It’ll be sent to your suite when it arrives.”

  Leo nods, his gaze on the floor. “I didn’t mean to scare you guys.”

  Angus’s mouth trembles for a moment, and then he pulls Leo into a tight hug. The kid disappears within Angus’s bear-like embrace. One of Angus’s hands ruffles Leo’s blond hair before he lets the boy go. It suddenly strikes me—Leo might be an orphan, but he has a lot of people who love him. Angus, George . . . my dad. I bite the inside of my cheek as he comes to stand next to me.

  My mother looks me over, seems satisfied that I’m properly stitched up, and nods at the rest of the couch on which she’s perched, inviting us to join. If anyone is tempted to ask why Christina is there, they manage to hold themselves back. We settle ourselves on the firm cushions, and that’s when I notice a young woman sitting in the corner, behind Angus. She’s got shoulder-length, white-blond hair, pale skin, round cheeks, and a delicate little chin. She’s wearing a gray suit and heels. No name tag, but she looks vaguely familiar. She regards me soberly, her fingers poised over the tablet in her lap, where I suspect she’s been typing notes. No one bothers to introduce her, so I turn my attention to the others. “What are we talking about?”

  “We were discussing the housing of our agents while we’re here,” says Race in a tight, angry voice.

  “Where exactly are they now?” I ask.

  “Apart from the ones in the clinic or in body bags,” says Congers, his face still streaked with soot, his clothes torn and dirty, “the uninjured members of our ranks are under guard in the main garage on these grounds. That wasn’t what we agreed to when it was decided the Core would come here. We shouldn’t be treated as prisoners.”

  This last part is directed to Angus, who gives him a sly smile. “Of course. It would be terrible if we treated one another with malice or suspicion.” He glances at me and then at my mom. “I’m sure you treated members of our contingent with the utmost care while they were in your custody,” he says to Congers.

  “We’re not in your custody!” snaps Race, but he shuts his mouth when Congers gives a slight shake of his head.

  “We’ve come to you at substantial risk to ourselves,” Congers says. “We’ve brought you technology that is, by all rights, ours.”

  “I beg to differ,” says Angus. “We have been in possession of the technology for hundreds of years. I fail to see how you can call it your own.”

  Race’s eyes light on me before moving back to Angus. “You have not been in possession of the technology.”

  “Fred Archer was one of ours.” Angus settles heavily on a large chair, and somehow, the fact that he’s sitting there makes it look more like a throne.

  “Gentlemen, perhaps we could stay focused on the task at hand,” my mother says wearily, like the testosterone in the room is giving her a headache. “I’ve had little sleep and less food in the past two days, and I have autopsies to perform.”

  Angus clears his throat. “Of course. Hopefully we won’t be adding any more bodies to your queue. We expect to have all individuals on the compound scanned before the emergency meeting tonight.” He rubs at a spot above his bushy red eyebrow, like he’s trying to release the tension. “With The Fifty arriving, we’ve got more people to keep track of. Given the reported breach in the Core’s ranks, they’ve already been scanned, though I think a period of observation might be in order.”

  When he sees Race open his mouth to protest, Angus holds up his hands. “Agent Lavin, I have hundreds of humans on this compound who believe to their bones that the H2 are the enemy. Most of them are armed. This is as much for your protection as it is a security precaution.”

  Race stiffens. He gives Angus a curt nod.

  My mother turns to the Core agents. “Do you have any idea at all how the Sicarii could have gotten to one of your agents?”

  Race clenches his fist and stares at the wall. “Devon Kerstein was stationed in Manhattan and participated in the raid at Tate’s school. He remained in New York with his unit when I left to reacquire the scanner.”

  Congers looks down at the soot on his hands. “He helped in the search of the Archer apartment two days ago. He would have been aware that we’d departed for the facility in Jersey with the scanner. He probably called in both attacks. But I’ve now questioned the agents who were with him over the past two days. They said they noticed nothing unusual about him.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “Is it possible the Sicarii can access the hosts’ memories when they take hold?”

  “Either that or they are very good at blending in and playing along,” Congers says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Keep in mind that they have some experience with this type of subterfuge.”

  Mom tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Her dark hair is in its usual ponytail, but several strands have escaped. “It’s unnerving to know how easily they can infiltrate.” I’m sure she’s thinking of Charles Willetts. It was obvious she didn’t trust him completely at the end, but because he was wearing the face of a friend, it took her a lot longer to pull back and be cautious. She raises her head and looks at Angus. “Do The Fifty understand the risks of coming here?”

  Angus rolls his eyes. “They’re more interested in making sure they have their say.”

  Mom glances at Race and Congers before returning her gaze to Angus. “You’ll have to be very clear in your expectations for nonviolence.”

  “Something tells me you’re worried about the Bishops.” I sigh, setting my elbows on my knees, suddenly tired. “Rufus isn’t going to be happy to see me, either. He only lost his son a few days ago, and I’m sure he blames me. He seems like the type who carries a grudge.”

  The blond woman in the corner shifts uncomfortably in her chair, like it’s suddenly too hot in here. She taps something into her tablet.

  Angus regards me for a few moments while he scratches at his thick beard. “I’m glad Rufus is coming, though. He could be helpful with upgrading the defenses. He understands the technology very well. He worked with Fred to set it up. We’ve already got those positions on the highest alert, seeing as the scout ships could return at any moment.”

  “We should be doing more than preparing for the next moment, though,” says Race. “That scout ship outstripped your missiles easily. They’re agile while your defense setup is largely stationary. We need more than that to protect your weapons factory—and this planet.”

  Angus presses his lips together, looking annoyed. “At the meeting tonight, we’ll agree on next steps, including appropriating and reassigning factory operations to focus on the assault vehicle we were discussing. Fortunately, we do have a large order of heavily armored vehicles in assembly, so it’s a matter of fitting them with the necessary tech.” Angus crosses his arms, his thick fingers closing over his biceps. “They were meant to go to the US government, but if the situation is as dire as you describe, perhaps they’ll need a more specialized machine like this one, and we’ll be able to assure them we’ve road-tested them. We’ll have to determine the function of each of those modifications, though. I have never in all my years seen a combat vehicle with a giant lens set into the roof.”

  Race and I look at each other. “The plans we found in my dad’s lab?” I ask, and he nods. Those vehicles will be more nimble—and portable—than the perimeter defenses. I looked them over while the wreckage was being packed. My dad designed the vehicle with next-gen artillery and a complex weapons console with all sorts of specifications, but I need to find time to take
a look at the plans to see exactly what all of it is for—including those lenses. “How much advance notice will we have if the Sicarii attack?”

  Congers turns to Angus. “Did they come up on your radar?”

  Angus shakes his head. “After Mitra called to report what she’d witnessed on the road, we heightened our alert level. Even with that, we had no idea it was coming until we captured the ship on our surveillance cameras. By that time, it was already on top of you. We’ve double-staffed the defense stations so that they can keep their eyes glued to the video screens, but that’s as much as we can do.”

  “It’s not much,” says Congers.

  “That scout ship certainly thought it was,” Angus replies with a hint of offense. “We may not have taken it down, but we did send it off with its tail between its legs.”

  Race lets out a bitter laugh. “You underestimate them. Its retreat was purely strategic—it likely went to report the location and description of your compound to the others. We suspect there’s a small squadron of them on this planet. If they attack en masse, the defenses might not hold.”

  Angus arches an eyebrow. “Which is why fortifying them is our top priority.”

  “Fortifications will be worth little if the full invasion happens,” Congers says. “You’re focusing on the wrong things. Planetary defense is just as important.”

  Angus glares at Congers as if the Sicarii are all his fault, but his expression softens as he turns to me. “Tate, we’ll need you to figure out your dad’s plans for using the H2 technology as some kind of satellite shield. My staff has looked at them but can’t get past the security in the files. They’ve been downloaded and stored in the Black Box mainframe, which is half a mile underground—not likely to be penetrated by any artillery those Sicarii possess. Our team of developers is ready to assist you.”

  It suddenly feels like the weight of the world has been set on my shoulders. “Yeah,” I say in a strained voice. “I’ll take a look at all of it. Oh, and I’ll need all available information about any satellites Black Box already has in the air.” We’re sunk if Ramses is the only one.