He was safer now that he was in at CorMand. The Corporates, they weren’t perfect, but your life was more secure than in the Slags. He didn’t have to dodge police drones looking to fill a quota—not usually—or slip down alleyways to avoid a gang fight, or worry about some slag-trash raiding his garden. No, things weren’t perfect, but they were better. He believed that. He really did.
Eli pressed [Enter]. He was fixated on something in the paragraph. Project V-V1. It was a major development his parents were working on with Dr. Hersche that was never completed. Hersche was transferred to another group and then Medusa broke out and Project V-VI was dissolved.
Another word grabbed Eli. It wouldn’t have before, except for Hersche’s final words just before he died. Immunization. He opened another file. There it was again, over and over. Immune. Immunity. Vaccine. It seemed his parent’s specialty was immunization developments. Dr. Hersche had worked on several projects experimenting with viral strains. So why would the three of them be working together on an immunization project like V-V1—whatever that stood for? None of it made sense.
He thought he heard the front door but there weren’t any footsteps so he ignored it. Must be the neighbors coming home. He thought.
Eli continued to sort through the documents, but after a while his head began spinning. The medical jargon was part of the problem, the other was his stomach. When he first began reading the files on his parents he was nervous. A squirmy sort of restless feeling began to ruminate in his belly. As he read on, it crawled up his esophagus, burrowing behind his heart. Then it morphed into a hot thickness that inched into his throat and stayed there, a burning barrier, heating his breath.
Eli looked out the window. He was shaking. The pink moon glowed flirtatiously from the solar screens. Earlier he had admired its cherry demeanor, the way it was casting rose colored light along the high rises reflecting off the steel and glass. Rose colored glasses. Wasn’t that a phrase from the ancients of Live Earth? Did they predict a faux moon rising over the land one day?
Now when he looked up into the sky, he saw just that: a fake—manufactured and presented. He wished he could go back and see the real moon before it was hidden behind a nuclear cloud.
Eli lurched out of his seat and yanked the curtains closed, but the orb soaked through the translucent, gossamer sheen making it look like a floating marshmallow.
He sat, arms folded, taking deep breaths to slow his heart but the burning thickness in his throat was flaring. He was about to shut down his work station for the night when something in the corner of the screen caught his eye.
He scrolled down and studied the icon. It was different than anything he had ever seen before which was odd considering how long he’d been hacking.
He double tapped the screen. It took several seconds to open, but once it did, he fell back in his seat, unable to move. His entranced eyes drifted above the screen and he stared at the point in the curtain where the moon seeped through, mitigated and muffled. He swallowed, realizing all the burning in his throat had cooled.
Chapter 60
Kilt
Kilt entered the apartment shutting the door silently with his left hand. In his right, he held the knife, concealed by his long sleeved shirt.
The apartment was dark, myopic. The only source of light came as a faint glow from the crack below Eli’s bedroom door. Kilt slowly crept over to the room, careful not to stumble in his state of mind.
His heart rumbled beneath his chest. Pulsating blood beat against his eardrums, sloshing in his skull, his head swimming from trying to smother his rapid breathing. To him it sounded as loud as an engine.
He listened. Something was off. Silence. Silence was always significant. He thought back to the assassin in the woods. What was it telling him now? Kilt recognized the familiar light of Eli’s holograph reflecting off the floor. Perhaps he was asleep? Kilt pictured him hunched over, sleeping with his back to the door, an eager target.
His stomach shuddered, upset from the vodka. He was sweating heavily and hoped it was true what they said about vodka being scentless. The clammy sweat was like a sick layer of dread being painted over him, a sticky, suffocating tar. The vodka wasn’t doing its job. Was he actually disappointed that his mission tonight was laid out so easily?
There was nothing easy about it. Killing—assassinating—Eli was going to be grim, brutal. How would he do it? A slit to the throat would be the quickest, but he may not have that option. Either way, Kilt was going to stand by and watch him until the end. He wasn’t going to shield his eyes from Eli’s. He would stand there like a man. Betrayal was bad enough; he didn’t need to leave him alone to die.
This is no betrayal, he thought, we are not friends. I owe him nothing. He slowly raised his quivering hand to the knob like a baby reaching for shiny silver. He wrapped his fingers around the cold metal and turned.
Click. Click.
He stopped. It was coming from inside. Kilt froze, his breath catching in his throat. Eli wasn’t asleep.
Fuck.
He momentarily considered aborting his mission and trying again another time, but no. Bora was on his way to get James. Kilt needed to complete his mission and clear his name with the Eurasians before they got to one of them first.
Besides, tonight was about as good of a chance as he would get.
Kilt slowly turned the knob, feeling the bolt click silently beneath his palm. The door inched open and there was Eli. Just as Kilt pictured, his back was turned and he was studying the halo-screen.
It threw him off to see Eli reading instead of his usual pittering on the keyboard. No wonder it was so quiet.
Kilt squeezed the knife until it burned beneath his fingers. He cleared his mind of everything except his target. He had received no training but knew the basics. He pictured the attack in his head—grab the hair a quick slit to the throat, the whole thing would be over in less than a minute. Maybe forty seconds.
Forty seconds. Anyone could handle anything for forty seconds.
Kilt took a step to where his body was half-way inside and was just about lurch into attack when a drop of vodka-diluted sweat fell into his eye, stinging, clouding his vision. He forced himself to keep his movements controlled as he reached up with a sleeve and wiped his eyes.
Just then Eli stood up and Kilt’s heart all but stopped. But, Eli only grabbed the curtains and pulled them shut blocking out the valentine moon.
Kilt was dizzy and forced himself to breathe. He carefully opened the door wide enough for his shoulders to fit through. Raising his knife, he adjusted it into the perfect slitting angle.
If he didn’t make a move soon he would pass out. It was now or never.
Then Eli reached up and tapped on the halo-screen and a moment later, the room was filled with something Kilt had never experienced, yet he needed no explanation of its identity. Music was playing. An instrument—a cello maybe?—deep and bold, yet gentle in its climb, engulfed the room, as if a spirit had been released and was expanding into all four corners.
Kilt stopped. An invisible worm hole had opened and he was suspended into a vortex. The notes flooded his ears. His brain was electrified. Membranes that had never been activated were now pulsating with life. Everything had just changed and yet, he didn’t know how.
The music, it must have been from the Ancients of Live Earth. Such things were banned by the Corporates, and Kilt now understood why.
It was a lone cello player, unaccompanied, at first, the notes simple and pure. The purity, yes, that’s what was getting to him, and he could see, even by the back of Eli’s head, that he was feeling the same thing. There was no bass pumping, no robotics, no advertisements, no digital sound goading everyone to gyrate.
As the cello built, moving up and down the scales, something inside Kilt broke. A festering hot wound he did not know existed. The classical music (yes that’s what it was called, how did he know that?), filled the atmosphere and the notes swirled around him like a breeze, cooling his fev
erish head.
He kept his eyes on Eli’s shoulders, the way they were rounded, his arms wrapped around his body. He was shaking.
No children of the Rebuilding had ever heard anything from the Unmitigated Music vaults like this. This file was a rare artifact and they had discovered it at the exact same time.
The knife was loose in his hands and he realized it was because he too was shaking.
He stepped out and silently closed the door behind.
Hours later he was crouched in an alleyway, behind some Corporate structure. His dark figure was positioned close to the ground, his back leaning against a wall. The Kradle sprinklers were on, raining down upon the foreboding skyscrapers, drenching him. He hung his head rubbing the bridge of his nose, the water dripping off his eyelashes, his lips and into a puddle forming between his feet. He stayed there for a long time. To an outsider, he probably would appear to be thinking, but he was flying through that wormhole again, sailing through the negative space of time.
Eli had something special. Not just the recording, but he had something the world needed. Kilt didn’t know how he knew this, he just did.
If Eli was going to die, it would have to be at someone else’s hand.
You’re not cut out for this.
Kilt stayed there for a long time, until a police drone hummed down the adjacent street.
He stood up and walked down the alley into the darkness of the night.
The knife from Eli’s kitchen was tucked away in his pack, right next to the tracking device. He wouldn’t need it until he was outside the Kradle and in the wilderness.
He was going to have to hurry to make it to the shore on time to meet James and Mevia, otherwise he’d have a hellacious time finding them out there in the woods and they would need his protection. He considered the possibility that his presence would only attract more danger to the pair, but on the other hand there was also the risk that with Kilt MIA the Eurasians would go after James instead. There were no good options, so Kilt decided the best thing he could do is nab his gun from the bushes and make his way to the shore.
Once he left the Kradle, he’d be alone out in the open where there was a bounty on his head. There’d be drones, assassins and wildlife beasts to contend with. He knew that outside, his days were numbered and they would be filled with him jumping at every noise. His sleep would be restless. He’d go mad in a month. But now he realized that no matter what he did, it would always be that way, whether he killed Eli or not. Either the GovCorps would be hunting him down or the Eurasians would call on him for another job. He wasn’t sure what this meant for him and James, but before he could even think about their future, he’d have to first get to the shore.
Kilt continued walking, long into the night, leaving the Corporates far behind.
Chapter 61
Mevia
The night was long and black. Mevia spent the lonely hours star gazing. She pictured the earth, tilted at an angle, turned away from the sun like a jilted lover. Although she loved the stars, Mevia longed for dawn. The boat was pitch black. Cree and James were invisible. Her own body was invisible. As if she were floating in a coffin.
Hours earlier, just before dusk, James and Mevia finally put away the oars and settled themselves.
“Let’s see what we have,” Mevia had suggested, securing the oars. They shuffled through the contents and took stock of their supplies: netting, fish hooks, a bag of white beans, a jug of fresh water, one cup which caught some of the rain water, one ripped cloth, a blanket, a dozen flopping breadbringers and a rope.
They placed the live fish in the net and threw it over the edge, securing it to the boat. “They’ll keep us fed for a while,” Mevia said.
“Sashimi,” Cree mumbled with a smile.
Mevia lifted his head and helped him drink some of the rainwater from the cup. She then went to work undoing his bandages. “We need to clean the wound.”
Cree groaned with every movement, every touch.
She handled his wrappings with kid gloves, dreading the severity of the wound. At that moment she would have given anything for some herbal ointment…or Sandra. But Sandra wasn’t there and they didn’t have any ointment so there was no use whining.
Mevia braced herself as she removed the blood soaked layers of cloth. As she lifted the last bandage, her breath caught in her throat. Flesh spread open like a peeled banana skin. The ripped muscle was visible inside, shifting with his breath, burping pools of blood.
Mevia saw the look on her face reflected in Cree’s eyes. Immediately she was ashamed. She tore away two more pieces of fresh cloth and soaked them in water.
Carefully she wiped away the charred, dark blood from around the gash. She took the cup and slowly poured the fresh rain water into the wound, tilting his body to the side, letting it drain.
“Mmmmhhhh.” Cree bit his lip, his jaw clenching.
After she redressed his wound she looked into his frightened eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” she said evenly. She hated the way those words sounded coming out of her mouth.
“Bullshit,” said Cree.
A fresh wave of shame fell over her. “You will,” She said weakly wishing she could portray Sandra’s calm certainty, but then again Sandra never had to address a wound like this with little more than water and cloth.
Cree gave a hint of a smile. “Thank you anyway for saying so.” He closed his eyes. “She sails good don’t she?”
It took Mevia a second to understand he was referring to the boat. “She does.” But Cree appeared to already be asleep.
That night after eating sashimi, Mevia volunteered to take the first watch. “One of us needs to stay awake to check on Cree and make sure nothing happens to the boat.”
As she gazed at the stars, waiting for dawn, she began mourning her island friends. She couldn’t stop thinking about their bodies lying there, cold and alone on the dark island, their skin grey and matte in the pale moonlight. Maybe Sandra and Thomas would be able to sneak out when it was safe and bury them, or maybe they would give them a Viking funeral and burn the bodies at sea.
That’s how it was supposed to be: the living tended to the dead. She was alive, somehow spared from the slaughter, but instead of grave digging she was far away serving as captain of a doomed ghost ship. Don’t think like that. Don’t even start. Instead, she chose a star for each person and reflected on their lives, or at least their lives from when she knew them. On these things she mediated while sitting up, waiting for dawn’s first light.
By the following afternoon the sweltering sun left them cowering under the cloth. Mevia made a cover for Cree using the blanket and attaching it to the mast with shreds of material and fish hooks.
She and James agreed that they felt like the current was taking them on the correct route to the mainland. She prayed they were right. The current was their life source especially since there wasn’t a whisper of wind and James was deteriorating before Mevia’s eyes.
“Is it your heart?” she asked, already knowing the answer by the way he was leaning forward, clutching his chest. His ribs stuck out from beneath his skin, brown and thin as a potato peel. His back was turned, his spine curled outward to where every crook, every bone was visible under his tanned, stretched hide, glistening with sweat under the glaring sun. James was always on the frail side but she had never seen him looking so drained.
“You need to rest.” Knowing he would protest, she stood and adjusted the canvas, widening it for two people. She pointed at the spot next to Cree. “Here.”
James looked up through his snarled bangs and nodded. “Let me know when you’re ready to switch.”
Mevia replied that she would although they both knew it wasn’t going to happen. She looked down at her two shipmates as they lay with their eyes closed under the shade.
Cree had been sleeping all day, hot with fever. He awoke just long enough to eat a few bites of the beans she had soaked and mashed. He barely took any water. Now, every once in a while s
he would hear him mumbling things in his sleep, phrases of nonsense. “Robot food. Buy one get one free.” And “Mamma don’t cry.”
So, she thought, we have a wounded first mate, a frail skipper with a bad heart, and a one handed captain. Their pathetic armada was laughable.
Suddenly the boat struck something. Mevia was standing at the bow and fell backward into the water, except the place where she landed wasn’t in the ocean. Not really.
James sat up and peered over the still boat, his eyes wide when he saw Mevia.
“Wha-what…what is it?” he babbled.
Cree pulled himself up, also gawking.
Mevia, was not swimming, nor sinking, instead was sitting in bathtub-deep water looking down at the crystal white sand.
“What’s going on?” asked Cree, wincing in pain.
“I-I don’t know.” Slowly she stood and took a step forward. Her toes dug into the milky powder. “It’s solid!” she said.
Mevia looked around. They were still in the middle of the ocean, nowhere near a shore as far as the eye could see, but there she was, standing in the middle of the blue water under the golden afternoon sun. She turned to the boat.
“James, come try.”
He hesitated, but then tossed one of his thin, brown legs over the side, paused, and dropped into the water, his feet firmly planting on the ground.
“Wow,” he breathed.
They gingerly ambled across this new planetary surface. The ground was alive with brilliant green plant life dancing with the current. Little fishies skimmed just under the surface, flourishing under the protection of the shallow water. Mevia stopped and picked up a Conch shell, holding it up for Cree. “We can eat these, right?”
Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Page 37
