Omega tgitb-5

by Robert J. Crane

  “What am I willing to do…to what?”

  “To find out the truth about Operation Stanchion and what it means for you.” Old Man Winter was unflinching. “To discover Omega’s aims. These are all questions which could be of great use to us if we were to find answers.”

  “I’m willing to question Bjorn as long as necessary to get some answers,” I said.

  Old Man Winter reached out to the door, finally looking away from me. He placed his hand in his pocket and withdrew a key card that looked no bigger than a scrap of paper in his massive palm, and ran it over the reader in front of the door. The glowing red light on the reader turned green with a subtle beep. “Follow,” he said and opened the door to the cell.

  The room was small, ten by ten by ten, like the rest. The squares that made it up seemed to blur together for me, and I put aside my thoughts about all else to focus on Bjorn. He didn’t look quite as he had yesterday when I’d been fighting him. His short brown hair was still powdered with the dust of our battle. He had blood on his face and chest that had gone uncleaned, though his wounds were gone. His shirt was missing, along with boots and any other sort of clothing save for his pants, which were a dirty corduroy and speckled with all the evidence of our fight. He was shackled to a chair that was metal, bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and he was still cuffed about the wrists and ankles.

  “Bjorn,” Old Man Winter said in some form of greeting. “It has not been nearly long enough.”

  “So it is you, Jotun,” Bjorn said, his brow arced in a forty-five degree slant on either eyebrow. “I had heard you were the head of the Directorate, giving shelter to this one. Do not expect me to remember the old times fondly and cooperate with you.”

  “I do not expect you to remember anything fondly,” Old Man Winter replied, his breath still frosting the air. “But you will cooperate with me, or your memories will go from less-than-fond to a much darker place.”

  Bjorn’s back straightened at this, his shoulders squared, even with his arms trapped behind his back. “You will get nothing out of me, Jotun. Do your worst.”

  Old Man Winter stopped in the middle of the room, towering over the seated Bjorn, who was not exactly a small guy. “Do you remember that time in…what did they call it, the Huns who lived there? I find myself forgetting the names the Germanic tribes gave to the old places. I have heard that in old age, humans default to their childhood remembrances. I find the opposite is true for me, that I cannot remember the names of the places from my youth, though I can recall the sight of them in vivid detail. For example, I recall that maiden that you bedded, that local girl from a tribe, how you called her a virgin sacrifice, and how when her brothers came after you in the morning, you caved their heads in with your fists as the girl cried behind you and begged you to stop. Do you remember what happened after that?”

  Bjorn showed little reaction, only the slightest of a smile. “I remember her voice, but not her name. Is that strange? I don’t remember any of their names.”

  “That does not surprise me at all,” Old Man Winter said, surprisingly gregarious, even as I was trying to keep down my breakfast in the midst of these discussions. “I wanted to kill you for that, did you know?” He bent at the waist, as Bjorn’s head jerked in surprise. “My respect for your father kept me from it, though. You lived as a god, and all you wanted was there for the polite taking; there was never a need for the sort of violence and thuggery that you and your kind visited upon the humans. But for you it was never about receiving the gifts of those who worshipped us for our power; it was about taking that which they did not wish to give freely.” Old Man Winter rumbled with every word, and the temperature seemed to drop in the room. “Strength over kindness, as it were. Force over grace. Did you thrill to the thoughts of what you did there?” Old Man Winter leaned in closer to Bjorn’s ear. “Did it keep you warm on the cold nights when we returned to our homeland? Did the memory excite you long after you killed the girl, her father, her brothers and all the others who did not stand idly by while you murdered their kin and fellows?” Old Man Winter’s hand landed on his shoulder, resting there. “Is that the way you like it?”

  I cleared my throat, and both of them looked up, seeing me as though for the first time since I entered the cell with Old Man Winter. “Perhaps we could…return to the main subject?” I asked, wondering if I was overstepping my bounds and figured I was about to get a warning to shut up from Old Man Winter. Or at least a gaze that would freeze me in place.

  “Quite right, Sienna,” Old Man Winter said, returning to his full height. “Bjorn, you will tell us every detail of this Operation Stanchion—its purposes, its players, its timeline, and you will do so now.”

  Bjorn did not laugh this time, nor smile, nor react almost at all. He kept his head facing forward, and I saw the slightest shudder from him. He opened his mouth as if to speak but faltered, taking a moment to recover before speaking again. “No. I will not.”

  “Very well, then,” Old Man Winter said, now beginning to orbit Bjorn slowly, one small step at a time. “Then we seem to have reached an impasse.”

  I blinked in surprise at Old Man Winter’s change in attitude. Was this as far as he was willing to go? I didn’t exactly want to be party to torture, but I assumed that perhaps there would at least be a face punch or two for Bjorn, who, as Old Man Winter had just established, richly deserved it and probably quite a bit more.

  Old Man Winter remained quiet for only a moment. “You realize, of course, that Sienna is a succubus?” He took a step around to the front of Bjorn and waited there, indicating me with a long, extended finger pointed at my chest. “That she drained the very life and memory out of Wolfe? That she can take your memories and leave you as thoughtless as a legume, break you to her will and make you no more?”

  Bjorn’s eyes flicked toward me, then went straight ahead again. “I had heard she was a succubus. I didn’t know you allowed meta-draining on your campus, Jotun. How low you’ve sunk, to allow a soul eater to go to work on your own kind.” He spat in Old Man Winter’s face and I flinched. “Let her do her worst. I won’t cooperate with scum, with her kind, or with you if you’re the sort who does that.”

  “I have not yet begun to sink,” Old Man Winter said, using his sleeve to wipe slowly across his face but not bothering to stand up and remove himself from spitting distance, “but perhaps, very soon, you will see that I will do whatever it takes to defend those under my protection.” He stood and glowered down. “Sienna.” He looked back at me. “Find out what he knows.”

  I froze for a moment, as surely as if he had just used his frigid breath to ice me into place. I felt my legs come back to me, and I took halting steps to get behind Bjorn, who watched me, his blank affect showing the first signs of strain. I began to take off my glove, wondering which would come first—Bjorn breaking or Old Man Winter telling me to stop. I walked a slow arc around Bjorn, trying to keep my calm, trying to portray winter’s cold, like the Director, to look like this was nothing, no big deal, something that happened all the time. I kept my lips a narrow line, ignored the stuffiness of the room, the lack of movement, the air currents that my body made as I swept along. It was as though all particle motion had stopped, neither Winter nor Bjorn were speaking, and I felt every step I took.

  The clammy feeling of a sweat crawled across my skin as I took up position behind Bjorn. I could tell by the twitch of his muscles that he was trying not to look at me as I stood behind him. I lay my discarded glove across his shoulder, and he blanched at the feel of it. It fell to the floor and made a soft plop as it landed. I looked up at Old Man Winter, but he was still on Bjorn, unyielding. I put my gloved hand on Bjorn’s other shoulder, and he looked at it as though a spider had crawled on him. His shoulders were tense, his muscles at full flex, hands still locked behind him.

  “Last chance,” Old Man Winter said. “Before she extracts your soul like a walnut, leaving only a broken shell behind.”

  Bjorn held his qui
et for almost a minute, and finally, Old Man Winter nodded to me. I lay my bare hand on Bjorn’s shoulder, and he tensed once more, as though he could shuffle off the chair and away from me. I felt the stir in my fingers first, as though the blood were running to them. I was warm now, my breathing slow but deep, each exhalation a sweet release. I felt the rush as my skin tingled all over, the sweet, warm sense that Charlie had talked about, desire and pleasure filling my mind as I heard the first scream leave Bjorn’s lips. It was a small howl, not only loud in the physical space, but in my head, through the tie between us created by my touch, the drag of his soul against the bond with his body as my power tore at him, ripping a little bit of him from it moment by moment. Thoughts began to cascade through my mind, flashes of images, faces, emotions, and I held my hand on him for only another second before I tore it away, my breathing turned ragged, painful. My hand shook, and craved what it had held only a moment before, and the rest of me did, too.

  I hunched over, hands on my knees, drawing slow breaths and unable to pull myself back up. I turned my head sideways to Old Man Winter, who looked over Bjorn and down at me, the closest thing to concern rimming his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I said. “But if I touch him any longer, he’s going to be a permanent spectator in my life like the others, and frankly, I could use fewer sickos in my head, not more.”

  Old Man Winter held his position, towering above Bjorn, far, far above me. “Sienna…you must extract this information from him. He will not tell us. Sifting it out yourself is the only way…and is necessary to begin to gain hold over your powers.”

  “I can’t…” I said. “I can’t keep them at bay without chemical assistance. And I don’t want another one in there. Not like this. Not ever.”

  Old Man Winter took two steps around Bjorn and knelt to one knee, still almost able to look me in the eye if I had been standing up, which I wasn’t. “You know the dire predictions of what is to come, not only from Omega now, this Stanchion, but of the other warnings, the storms that come for us and all our kind—indeed, all humanity as well. You will be one of their protectors, but to do so, you will need the strength to do what is necessary.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t even control them without chloridamide. I can’t do it.”

  “You must,” Old Man Winter said, his voice an urgent hiss that dragged out the word must. “You are vital to our success.”

  I stared at him. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?” The cold inside me was almost indescribable, my body crying out for the warmth of Bjorn’s soul, mine for the taking if I only reached out—but from Old Man Winter, for once…it wasn’t cold at all.

  “That you are key.” He stared at me, and the iridescent eyes of blue warmed. “But it is all at risk. If you are unwilling to do what it will take to protect even yourself, how can you protect anyone else?” His hand came to my shoulder. “You must learn to control your power. To not fear it.” He looked to Bjorn. “And you must be willing to kill when it is necessary.”

  “He’s a prisoner,” I said, and looked past Old Man Winter to Bjorn, whose eyes were open wide but rolled back in his head. His mouth hung open and spittle was rolling down his chin. The smell of fear and sweat filled the cold air in the room. “He’s helpless. Give it time, we’ll break him.”

  There was something I saw, a flash in Old Man Winter’s eyes, and he stood abruptly. “Time is not a luxury, and nor is it something we possess in abundance. This Operation Stanchion rumbles closer to fruition, and we remain like children running about in the woods after dark, unaware of the danger about to unfold around us.” He placed a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. “You will not use your power to unearth his plans?”

  I stared at the back of Bjorn’s head. The man’s head was turned, looking back at Old Man Winter, and just far enough that I could see the edge of his eye under his heavy, Cro-Magnon brow. “No,” I breathed, “not like that. Not him, not anyone. I just…I can’t.”

  He didn’t even flinch. “Your mother would.”

  I, however, did flinch. “I’m not her.” There was a pause. “We can find out another way. He’ll talk.” I drew a deep breath and stood, coming up to my full height. “We’ll break him.”

  Old Man Winter closed his eyes, as though pondering something, and then opened them again, now impassive. “You are correct. We will break him.” I felt the temperature in the room plunge, this time no product of my imagination. My skin, once clammy, felt ice form along the wet dampness of it, the freeze crawling up around me as a winter frost manifested before my eyes.

  Old Man Winter’s hand glowed where it lay on Bjorn’s shoulder, and a thin sheet of ice was forming around it. It grew thicker, denser, as I watched astonished, the frost crept down Bjorn’s arm to mid-humerus and beyond. Bjorn let out a cry, followed by a sustained scream. “Oh, yes,” Old Man Winter said, removing his fingers from Bjorn’s arm as the air in front of his mouth formed a cloud that was visible against his thick, black wool coat. “He will break.”

  With a subtle move, Old Man Winter brought his fingers back down in an open-handed slap that sent a cracking noise echoing through the room. Bjorn’s entire hand dissolved into shards of ice and cascaded to the floor in a pile, no more substantial than a mound of discarded snow. “If it takes losing every limb he has…he will break. And if that fails…” Old Man Winter placed his hand on Bjorn’s chin and held it up, looking into his eyes. “Then we will wait until tomorrow, when he has regrown his limbs…and begin again.”

  12.

  I was out the door before I realized I was walking, my key card granting me exit. I put my back against the wall in the hallway and listened, but heard nothing from inside, nor in the hall save for the vent fans and my own heavy breathing, sharp, punctuated with a gasp every few minutes as I tried to hold in strong emotion.

  The door opened quietly a few minutes later and I averted my eyes to keep from looking inside, and whatever was left of Bjorn. When I glanced, unable to control the instinct to look, Old Man Winter obstructed my view until the door was closed. “You don’t approve of my methods,” he said, stating the bloody obvious.

  “You tortured him.”

  “He would kill anyone who got in the way of capturing you, harm you in any way it took to get what he wanted.” Old Man Winter made no apologies as he stood there before me. He stood just as tall as he had in the room, just as imposing. “Why would I do any less to protect you from them?”

  “They’re a joke,” I said, almost expelling the words as a breath. “Everything they’ve sent, we’ve beaten. To cave to their tactics, to drop to their level—”

  “They will beat us, regardless of level, if we refuse to do what it takes to get to the truth of what they are planning,” he said, and I caught heat in his words for the first time. “You wish to believe foolishly that no matter what comes, you can simply overcome through some sense of unlimited potential or magical destiny, but that is folly. Your life hangs in the balance.” I could hear an urgency from him I’d never heard before, a stirring in his words that hinted at something darker, something deeper. “Omega and all hell that follows is inching closer by the day, and we have little time to prepare you for the role you will take when it comes.” He drew up again and hesitated, and I saw a hint of sadness. “I won’t always be around to protect you—to do what you will not. Soon you will have to do these things for yourself, to be ready to take your place—”

  “Are you leaving?” I asked, not sure how to respond, and not even sure why I was cutting him off. He stared coolly back at me. “Checking out? Bailing in the middle of the fight?”

  “I am one of the oldest metahumans on the planet,” Old Man Winter said, and the tiredness in his voice made it fact more than any of the words did. “I have seen much, done much, endured much. My power fades, even now, from a battle I fought over a hundred years ago that scarred me and left me weaker than anyone knows.” The glisten in the blue of his irises was unmistakable.
“Even still, Omega fears me.” The frosty sensation grew in the room, as though his skin were growing cold and infecting the air around him. “When the day comes that they find me—and find me they shall, sooner or later—I will be the first to fall.” His eyes glistened ever brighter. “But not the last, unless you are prepared to do whatever is necessary to fight the battle that they will not expect you to fight. Unless you are ready to do whatever it takes to win, to protect the metas and humans of the Directorate.”

  He moved his hand to my shoulder, a heavy, leaden weight, but the way he did it was unlike how he had touched Bjorn. “It is much responsibility I place on your shoulders, I know. The weight of the world, perhaps, it feels to you. But I do this because you…are the only one who can bear it. There is no other.” His shoulders were slumped now, his black coat billowing around them as though there were extra space, and the shadows from the fluorescent lights on his face made it seem like he was gaunter, bonier, more shadowed and skeletal than he had ever looked before. Like death, frozen and forbidding, as though he were already dead, as though it had settled on him down to the bones, and he simply had yet to stop moving.

  “Do you think they’ll be coming soon? For you, I mean?” When I asked, I sounded like a scared little girl.

  “I have no idea.” I heard him breathe again, back to life. “This Operation Stanchion is concerning…to see them moving resources toward us and not know their specific aim.” He grew quiet for a moment. “You must prepare. You must ready yourself for what is to come. To turn blindly away from this or to trust fate to be kind is a fool’s lot, and yields a fool’s results.” His voice grew hard like iron as he stood again. “And you are no fool.” He turned and walked toward the end of the hall, leaving me behind.