by Dan Rix
The halogen lights dimmed, sputtered, then failed completely. They were plunged into midnight.
Aaron’s blood continued to pool at the back of his skull. He wanted to scratch it, but where? The itch was inside him.
The lights flickered back on.
Then the oscillations began.
From the machine’s belly, the first revolution struck Aaron’s chest like a shockwave and knocked the breath out of him. It echoed off the granite walls. The second revolution hit his skull, the third his heart. Faster and faster. The machine revved up, growled.
The bulbs rattled in their aluminum funnels. Dust and bits of granite sprinkled from the ceiling. The revolutions blurred into a deafening drone. The pitch climbed.
“Clockwise—two degrees,” Dr. Selavio shouted to Clive. Meanwhile, his fingers blurred across the keyboard. “Keep the field stable.”
Clive spun a wheel on the side of the machine.
Aaron stared at its looming mass. Its edges flickered, blurry, sometimes not even there. Sweat dripped into his mouth. No way Casler was putting his son in that thing.
“Clive, watch the drift,” said Casler, his voice closer. He appeared over Aaron, his gaze radiating warmth. “How you feeling, bud?”
“What the hell did you inject me with?”
“A chemical agent. Like I said, it’s dissolving that scar tissue into your bloodstream. Give it three more minutes.”
“How much is going to dissolve? A sample, or the whole goddamn lump?”
Casler just smiled, patted Aaron’s shoulder, and returned to his station. And Aaron had his answer. Of course. The chemical agent was dissolving the scar tissue that had kept Aaron alive for eighteen years—dissolving all of it. Casler was simply removing the plug from Aaron’s severed channel. Without the scar tissue, Aaron would suffer half death. Of course the doctor was immune; he had a half.
Three minutes. Aaron had three minutes before his clairvoyance started to evaporate, before his soul leaked into the gaping hollow at the back of his head.
Well played, big man. If there was any flaw in Casler’s execution, it wasn’t that he had gone through all the trouble of starting the machine, then not used it. It wasn’t that he’d lied unnecessarily. It wasn’t even that every smile and every word that crossed his foul lips stank of treachery. It was only that he might have warned Aaron, given him half a minute, thirty seconds—just to contemplate his own death.
And to remember Amber.
Aaron collapsed on the floor, muscles limp. His cheek slapped cold stone. He could already feel something flowing out the back of his head, but the sensation was painless, surreal. Peaceful almost.
The machine whined ever faster, but Aaron had already done what was required of him. At least Amber was safe.
Fatigue weighed on his eyelids, closed them.
“Clive—” It was Casler’s voice, somewhere high above him. “Bring Amber back down here, would you? The machine’s ready for her.”
FIFTEEN
Plus 3 Days, 0 hours, 12 minutes
Aaron opened his eyes. The machine wobbled in and out of focus. It was his imagination, he hadn’t heard right. Dominic was upstairs. This was his house. The rugby player wouldn’t let Casler touch her.
Even so, the fight would be two on one without Aaron. He willed himself to move. First his pinky, then his whole hand. But with each passing second, his body weakened. He didn’t know how much longer the scar tissue would hold out.
“Clive, go get her,” said Dr. Selavio, “or is that too much for you to handle?”
“You said we wouldn’t,” said Clive.
Casler peeled off his mask and gloves. “I’ll get her myself.”
But Clive intercepted him on his way to the stairs. “Father, she won’t be the same afterwards—”
“She’ll be obedient!”
Clive didn’t budge. “But you promised,” he said.
Meanwhile, Aaron twisted, scrunched every muscle and dragged himself an inch across cold, grimy stones. His heart missed beats. Even his eyeballs slumped in their sockets.
Above him, the machine screamed like a jet engine.
Dominic reappeared at the foot of the stairs. “You guys trying to wake the dead, or something? Turn that shit down.”
“Would you bring Amber down here?” said Casler.
Dominic’s eyes flicked to Aaron, crumpled on the floor, then to the machine ten feet away from him, still unused. “What’s going on?”
“We’re doing Amber instead. Aaron doesn’t have enough scar tissue left.”
“No, you’re not, fuckface. It’s number eleven or no one.”
“Boys, she’ll be fine,” said Casler.
“Fine?” said Dominic. “She’ll be just like your half—the goddamned walking dead.”
“That’s extremely rude,” said Casler.
Dominic stepped around him and leaned over the laptop. “I’m turning this thing off.”
“Amber wants the operation.” Casler rested his hand on Dominic’s arm. “You know that.”
“Bullshit,” said Dominic, scanning the green lines of code. “That was for number eleven.”
Aaron inched closer to them, stronger now.
“Dominic—” Casler moved his hand up Dominic’s arm and massaged his shoulder. “She’s going to be fine, I promise.”
Dominic shrugged off his hand. “That’s a lot of promises, and I haven’t yet seen you keep one.” He lowered his eyes to the keyboard and started typing. “I’m turning this thing off and calling my parents.”
It happened very quickly after that.
Casler’s hand jumped two inches to the left, and he closed his giant fingers around Dominic’s throat. “Dominic—” he whispered, his smile barely faltering. “Please don’t touch my things.”
Dominic gurgled and scratched at the bulging tendons in the man’s wrist, but Casler only tightened his grip. In a split-second, though, Dominic clicked open his switchblade and sank the knife into the side of Casler’s neck.
Finally, Casler dropped him. He stared at the rugby player, bewildered, then struck him in the temple. Dominic flew backwards and landed in a heap. Casler pulled the knife from his neck and dropped it on the floor, and blood dribbled into his collar. But it must have missed his jugular.
Dominic was crawling away, choking for air. Casler followed him and stepped on his back, flattened him. He held out his hand. “Rope, please.”
Clive brought him the rope coiled on the floor next to the machine. Dr. Selavio knelt and unwound it, tied Dominic’s hands behind his back, then tied his ankles—and Aaron could tell the father’s knots were much stronger than the son’s.
“Clive,” said Casler softly. “Get Amber.”
“But Father, you promised we wouldn’t,” said Clive, close to tears now.
“And you promised she’d obey you,” said Dr. Selavio. “Look what happened on your honeymoon.”
“I said I’d deal with her,” said Clive.
“Yeah? Do you think the rest of us want to see bruises on her face?” said Casler.
“I don’t care what the rest of you think,” he said. “She’s my half!”
Casler yanked him forward by the sleeve. “Then keep the part I take out in a vial. Wear it around your neck if you want.”
“Father, that’s not the same—”
“This is because you and that brat stood up the potentate,” Casler spat. “Now go get her.”
“Soon, I’ll be potentate,” Clive muttered, lowering his head.
“Yes, you will. But until then—” Casler unclasped his fingers from Clive’s sleeve and touched Clive’s cheek, brushing his fingers along his jawline and lifting his chin so he could look him in the eye, “you’re still my son. Now bring me your half.”
Aaron saw Clive’s neck muscles tense up as he swallowed. “As you wish, Father.” Then he headed for the stairs.
Casler swung Dominic over his shoulder and followed his son up the stairs. Then the dun
geon was empty.
Now it was just Aaron. He was the only one left standing between Amber and the machine—and he wasn’t standing. In fact, his three minutes were almost up.
He had barely managed to prop himself up on his elbow when Casler returned and leaned over him.
“How you doing, kiddo?”
Aaron strained to speak. “You piece of shit.”
Casler brushed Aaron’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “But you were supposed to die on the delivery table. I’m afraid Amber belongs to the heir of the Brotherhood now, my son. As long as you’re alive, Aaron, you’re a threat to their future. I’m sorry.”
Aaron stared at him, dumbfounded. Casler had completely lost it. “Just . . . just let her be.”
“I have to fix her first,” said Casler.
“She’s perfect.”
“She disobeyed. They were supposed to spend their honeymoon at the potentate’s palace, but then—you heard what happened.”
“I heard . . . Clive . . . cold feet.”
“Aaron, it was her fault,” said Casler.
Aaron’s lungs rose and fell, still hollow. “It was my fault. I made her come back.”
Casler lowered his eyes. “Unfortunately, she makes her own choices.” He laughed quietly. “And she doesn’t realize that Clive will do anything for her.”
“Except stop you,” Aaron wheezed. Then his arm buckled and his shoulder crunched into the floor.
Casler leaned closer, his eyes full of concern. He glanced at his watch. “You’re running out of time.
“Still all here,” said Aaron, fighting the weight of his eyelids.
“You know, Amber’s truly lucky her channel can heal itself, because that’s what makes this operation possible. For anybody else, once we drilled that hole it would be a one way road.”
“What about mine?” said Aaron. “Why isn’t mine healing?”
“Oh, it is,” he said, “but it’s not instantaneous like it was during birth. Like all organs in the body, the channel needs time to heal—a few days or so. Unfortunately, you won’t have anything left by then.”
“What about Amber?”
Casler smiled. “We’ll drill a nice small hole so just the right amount of clairvoyance leaks out by the time her channel heals—I’m aiming for about two-thirds. It’s a slow leak, so naturally, she’ll still be herself at first. I wish you could see what she’s like after the operation, when she’s flawless—ah, here she is now.” He stood up, and his eyes beamed with pride. “Isn’t she stunning?”
***
“Amber, don’t come down here!” Aaron tried to shout, but she didn’t hear.
She bounded down the stairs in front of Clive, streaked across the dungeon, and knelt in front of him. Her golden hair shimmered under the lights.
“Aaron, he didn’t, did he?”
“He’s doing . . . the operation on you,” said Aaron, struggling to push himself off the floor. “Get out of here.”
Amber tugged him into an embrace, squeezing herself against him. “As if I’d leave you,” she whispered, and for a moment, the tension in her body thawed. “I lied. I do want to be your half.”
Clive just watched her from the stairs, the corners of his mouth held firm. Only his eyes betrayed his torment.
“Amber, there’s no deal,” said Aaron, feeling stronger now that they were touching. “He betrayed us.”
“He betrayed everybody,” she said.
Then Casler rose up behind her, blotting out the lights. His eyes gleamed as he snapped another pair of latex gloves into place and slid the mask over his mouth.
Aaron tried to push her off, but it was too late. Casler’s shadow swooped forward. He grabbed Amber around the waist, swung her onto the operating table, and held her down with one hand as he strapped her in. She shrieked and kicked him in the nose, wriggled free. He dragged her back, yanked straps tight across her stomach, her chest, her legs. Then he adjusted her body until her head lay directly at the focal point of the machine’s metal spike.
When it was done, Casler wheeled over his chair and sat beside her. He stroked her cheek and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “It’ll all be over soon,” he said. “I promise.”
Amber glared at him. “Take whatever you want,” she said, “but leave Aaron alone.”
“It’s too late for him,” said Casler.
“No it isn’t!” Amber strained against the straps, but nothing gave. Her body tensed, and then she collapsed, out of breath. “It isn’t too late for him,” she moaned.
Casler gave a sad smile, kissed her cheek, then pulled out another syringe. He rolled his chair behind the machine, where panels were missing, and extracted a loop of tubing coated with a sticky lubricant—mucous.
“Be gentle with this one,” he said soothingly to the machine, “She’s the potentate’s favorite.” Then he injected the syringe into the tubing. The tube pulsed vein-like between his gloved fingers before slithering back inside the machine.
Casler wheeled himself to the laptop, which flashed with an endless stream of green numbers. “Is everyone ready?” he said.
The machine wobbled, staticky, more like a projection than a solid object. Amber watched the quivering mass above her, too scared to look away.
And from out of the shadows, Clive was watching her. Aaron gathered one thing from the flicker in his pale eyes. He knew how much of his half would be missing when it was done. Clive averted his gaze, though, quickly wiped his eyes, and resumed his position beside the machine. “Go ahead, Father.”
Casler typed a command, then hit enter. “There—”
The entire cavern lurched. The machine groaned, as if suddenly encountering resistance. And Aaron knew why.
It was drilling into Amber’s clairvoyant channel.
He tried to climb onto the operating table, to Amber. But his fingers slipped. Again, the icy floor slapped his cheek.
Casler leaned back in his chair. “Keep it stable, Clive. Ninety seconds until we reach clairvoyance.”
***
Aaron’s three minutes were up. The resistance at the back of his head waned to a sliver, then nothing. Just the cold of empty space. By now, he should have been somewhere else. The golden fields of paradise, Elysium—the Abyss.
Somewhere else.
Not here in this dungeon with his cheek glued to frostbitten bedrock. Yet, by sheer willpower, his clairvoyance held. Miraculously, though it felt like a vacuum cleaner had been plugged into the back of his brain and turned on high, it held.
And if he could just hold it for another ninety seconds, he could fight. Aaron closed his eyes. First one arm, then the other. Then his leg. He dragged himself to his feet. His muscles wobbled, but they too held. He could hold anything for ninety seconds.
He could hold his breath for ninety seconds.
Fury constricted his pupils, and blood tingled in his fingertips. He wheezed, clenched his fists, and staggered forward, willing the strength back into his muscles.
“Counter-clockwise—three and a half degrees,” said Casler. “Eighty seconds.”
Aaron hooked his fingers over the backrest of a chair, grabbed the seat, and hoisted it over his head.
“Back it off, Clive. You’re drifting—two degrees clockwise.” The machine groaned behind him. “Keep it stable.”
“Father, watch out!”
The steel leg struck Casler above the eye. The impact knocked him off his chair. He dropped like a felled sequoia, and Aaron was on him before he hit the ground.
Seventy-five seconds.
Aaron landed with all his weight, sank his knee into the man’s back. He grabbed the first thing in reach. An old monitor. Fifty pounds of CRT, glass, and plastic. Cables snapped like roots as he dragged it off the desk and thrust it down on Casler’s head.
The concussion gave a meaty thud, and Casler’s face plowed into jagged stone. The monitor rolled off him, and a deep gouge oozed in its wake, right behind his
ear.
Seventy seconds.
“Aaron—behind you!” Amber yelled from the operating table.
The fight was two to one—he’d forgotten.
Aaron glanced up as Clive swung. He jerked his head back, and the serrated end of a rusty pipe grazed his cheek. Clive’s pale eyes gleamed. He swung again. Aaron backed his head into the desk. Nowhere else to go.
The blow deafened him, right on his ear. Slammed his head sideways. The pain made the cavern flicker. He scurried away, but the pipe clipped his shoulder. His left arm buckled, and he crunched into the floor, banged his lip. Salty blood gushed into his mouth.
Sixty-five seconds.
Behind him, Clive coiled his arm back.
“Clive, don’t!” Amber yelled.
He swung again. Aaron heard the whistle and rolled just in time. Where his head had been, the stone floor exploded into shards.
The pipe buzzed from the impact. Clive winced and clutched his wrist to keep from dropping it. He raised the pipe again. Swung.
Sixty seconds.
Aaron curled into a ball, cradled his head. He felt a crack, the sound of a broken rib—just below his heart.
Then another. The pipe stabbed into his lower back, bruised his kidney. And another. Deep into his shoulder.
“Stop it!” Amber shrieked.
“Clive—that’s enough!” yelled Casler from somewhere behind him.
One more. Payback for the night before.
“Clive—” The blows stopped.
Fifty-five seconds.
A shadow loomed above him. The halogen lamps winked out. Casler, his eyes glossy and bloodshot.
Aaron tried to crawl, but the man’s dense fingers sank into his shoulder and yanked him backward, stood him on his feet.
“Aaron, get up.” Casler’s eyes darted across his face, concerned—loving almost, as a reddish-black stain spread on his mask.
“You’re bleeding,” said Aaron.
Casler spun him around, and his thick arm clamped down on Aaron’s throat, choking him. “What you did to me was pointless,” he said.
“Yeah? Cry me a river,” said Aaron.
Fifty seconds.
Aaron jerked his head back, but Casler’s jaw was too high. His skull hit the man’s chest with zero effect.
