The Renegades (The Superiors)

by Lena Hillbrand

  “Sorry.”

  “I meant for you to watch him through the eye. Not stand outside watching him, you rotten brain. If he’d caught you, he’d have squeezed my name from you, no doubt. Then my fun and games would be over.” Meyer wasn’t terribly concerned about Draven learning his name. He didn’t think the outlaw would do anything about it, or that a Third would have the power to harm him. But he didn’t like to think of anyone else being able to squeeze Molly for information, if she made such a careless mistake again.

  “I’m sorry, it will never happen again.”

  “Better not.” He smiled and shook his head. Yes, he would be able to use Molly quite well. Maybe he’d keep her within easy reach for a while, for the next time he needed her. If the eye she’d placed in the fence did its job, though, he wouldn’t need her to see what Draven was up to with Byron’s sap. He’d have it all on live-stream anytime he wanted to watch.

  Chapter 49

  While Cali slept, Draven sifted through the layer of new-fallen snow, rooting through the heap of trash. As a rule, Superiors did not generate much waste, but if something truly had no use, they discarded it. Superiors had found early on that nearly anything could be used many times. The endlot Draven and Cali inhabited held items that no longer functioned, that could not be repurposed to play a new role, take on a new identity, become something else.

  Draven admired Cali’s ingenuity in using things that to him had found their last resting place. He seldom found anything he could reuse. On this night, he found a stack of crumbling gypsum board. Under the soggy top layers, the sheets remained somewhat dry. The powdery gypsum leaked from its covering, filtering down through the pile. Draven began peeling away the covering in papery strips. Perhaps he could use them in starting a fire, if only he could find something substantial to burn.

  He stopped shredding the paper and stood when he heard the soft squeak of tires packing the new layer of snow atop the old. He had stayed near the tent since the little woman had spotted them, but he’d begun to consider resuming his old habit of searching for food each night. Cali had eaten little for the past few days, having nearly finished the supply he’d stolen for her, and they’d seen no one since the night he’d startled his observer. He no longer knew the month, the night. Only that winter had gone on for quite some time, and that snow continued falling every few days. Lately he had noticed a slight shortening of nights, and he knew that winter had reached her nadir and soon would turn back towards the warmer seasons. They would leave then, find a more secluded refuge.

  Draven crested the mound of trash, whose blanket of snow gave it an odd, soft appearance. For a moment, he stood watching the car and its small trailer making its way along the uneven road. When it passed the last turnoff, it had no place to go but the endlot. Draven dropped the bundle of paper strips and bounded toward the tent. He could intercept the car, drawing it away from Cali. But after the car’s occupants dealt with him, they might search for his hiding place. Even under a blanket of snow, the tent would become apparent after a short search. Trackers or Enforcers would want to retrieve Byron’s property, while less law-abiding citizens would want whatever valuables he chanced to possess—and what had more value than a sapien? Whoever was coming, they would have more interest in Cali than in him.

  “Cali,” he said, unzipping the tent so fast that the zipper caught on the fabric and lodged, immobile, with the door half open. “Awaken, Cali.” Draven reached into the tent and pulled one of the packs through the opening.

  “What is it?” Cali asked, instantly alert upon hearing the urgency in his voice. She clutched the wooden dagger in one hand, the one that had killed the trackers so long ago, now sharpened and honed to near perfection.

  “They’re here,” Draven said, sliding Cali through the tent’s opening. She had to struggle through the space he’d opened, bracing her bare hands in the snow to support herself. Once free, she stood, wiped her hands on her trousers and looked around. “Shoes,” Draven said, thrusting them at her. She pushed the knife into the top of her trousers and stooped to pull on her shoes. “Hurry.” On the wind, Draven caught the scent of the car’s contents, of Superior, metal, leather, and cannabis. From this, he determined that the car had arrived and dispatched a passenger, and that the car’s owner was a Second, as most Thirds could afford neither leather seats nor cigarettes.

  He left the tent and the other bag. They would have to do without. They hadn’t time to collect their things, or, more devastating, the tent. Draven gathered Cali into his arms and sprinted towards the back fence. Again, he caught a faint trace of Superior scent drifting over the new snow, but he did not stop to look back. They had yet to approach the camp.

  “Whatever you do, don’t stop,” Draven said. “If you must, go on without me.”

  “But what about—”

  “Do not stop.” Draven lifted Cali, and she scrambled up the fence.

  “Stop,” a calm voice commanded them from across the endlot. Draven did not turn back. Already the man had drawn too close.

  Though Draven had plenty of practice climbing, Cali did not. She picked her way down the other side carefully. Draven waited, each moment seeming to stretch into hours. If he leapt onto the fence, he feared he’d shake Cali loose and she’d fall.

  “Hurry,” he said again. When he could not wait another moment, he leapt to grasp the bar lining the fence top. As his feet hit the chain links, he used his momentum to push off the fence and flip over it, still holding the metal bar. A few weeks before, he’d detached a section of razor wire topping the fence behind the tent—perhaps the first sensible thing he’d done since stealing Cali—allowing him and Cali both to cross the fence unharmed.

  Upon reaching the zenith of his body’s arc, he took a moment to cast his senses, feeling for movement below him. He spotted the Superior passing their tent, closing in. The man did not rush after them as if he had any great concern for the escapees. This worried Draven.

  He released the bar and landed in the snow without a sound. He wrapped his arms around Cali’s legs, lifted her from where she clung to the fence, and began to run. When he heard the fence rattle under the Superior behind them, however, Draven knew he could not outrun their pursuer. He set Cali down, gripping her against him for a moment, pressing his face to her hair. “Run,” he breathed into her ear. “Defend yourself if you can.”

  “North American Law Enforcement,” the man behind them drawled. “I order you to halt.”

  Cali sprinted ahead. Draven continued, veering away from Cali in an attempt to lead the Enforcer astray. When the man had nearly drawn within reach, Draven turned to face his pursuer.

  Part Three

  Chapter 50

  Draven readied himself with the crude knife he’d carved. It resembled a rudimentary stake more than a knife, but it would accomplish the nearly impossible task of killing a Superior. Killing an Enforcer meant severe punishment, swifter and deadlier than if they pinned the trackers’ deaths on him. Perhaps this man only wished to satisfy his curiosity about the endlot’s dwellers…

  But he would scan Draven. In the absence of papers, he’d gather information through a scan, and Draven’s entire file would come up on the scanner.

  Draven crouched slightly, ready to spring, the stake held close to his body. The Enforcer halted just beyond striking distance, relaxed but wary as he regarded Draven. Moonlight glinted off the thick metal rod he tapped casually against his thigh.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Why’d you run?”

  Draven remained silent, inhaling the last traces of Cali’s fragrance. As she’d fled in the direction of the wind, her scent darted ahead of her instead of lingering behind. If only he could stall the Enforcer until she found a hiding spot…

  The Enforcer stepped forward, his eyes trained on Draven. Draven’s grip tightened on the wooden handle until he felt it begin to crack. “We had a report that someone had taken up residence in the endlot,” the Enforcer said, his voice calm and even. “
I just wanted to come down and make sure you weren’t causing any trouble. Let’s have a look at your papers.”

  Draven shook his head slowly.

  “Not a problem, I can scan you,” the Enforcer said. “We’ll just need to see your hands, and then I’ll scan your eyes and tongue. Standard procedure, nothing to be afraid of. You ever been scanned before?”

  Draven shook his head again. When he’d gotten arrested before, he’d been papered.

  “It’s our routine, to make sure we’re not dealing with anything illegal,” the Enforcer said. “Quick and painless, you understand. Do you speak North American?” He looked more interested now, turning his head to one side to study Draven.

  Draven didn’t move. He waited. He waited until the Enforcer stepped forward again, scanner in one hand and the metal bar in the other, hanging at his side as if he’d forgotten it. While he’d explained the procedure, he’d fished the scanner from his pocket and flipped it open. Draven kept his eyes on the Enforcer’s other hand, the one holding the weapon. The fingers didn’t tighten their grip even when the other hand, occupied or trapped in a pocket while retrieving the scanner, left the man defenseless.

  “Now I’ll need you to hold out your hands so I can scan them,” the Enforcer said. He stepped towards Draven, scanner poised. Draven held out one hand, palm up. “Both hands where I can see them.”

  The Enforcer’s calm frightened Draven. He’d have done this before, arrested or scanned shiftless Thirds. Enforcers who patrolled seedy parts of the city made arrests all the time. One more arrest meant nothing to an Enforcer—and everything to the one he arrested.

  Draven drew his other hand from inside his coat, stake poised, and thrust it at the Enforcer’s heart.

  The Enforcer moved to block the dagger so quickly that Draven had time only to register the movement before the Enforcer’s steel rod cracked his wrist. Before he had recovered from the force of the blow and its resulting shock of pain, the Enforcer had wrestled his smaller, weaker opponent to the ground and forced his face into the snow. He knelt on Draven’s prostrate body and twisted his arms behind his back until the shoulders separated at their sockets.

  Twin fireballs rocketed the length of Draven’s arm and lodged in the base of his skull. To avoid crying out, he bit down on his lip until his drawing teeth pierced through. This self-inflicted pain served to cleanse him, leaving only the instinct for survival. Bracing his chest on the ground, he writhed under the Enforcer, employing every shred of his strength in his attempt to break free. It proved futile against the older man. The Enforcer restrained him without difficulty. In his panic, all dignity deserted Draven, and he thrashed like a wounded animal.

  “Now you know I didn’t want to have to do that,” the Enforcer said. Then, without speaking further, he went about securing Draven, a frown of concentration on his brow. When he finished, Draven lay bound and immobile.

  “All that over a simple scan,” the Enforcer said. “Now, I don’t know where you got that wood, but if you had the need to use it, I’m assuming your scan won’t come up clean. Open your eyes and let me scan you.”

  Draven didn’t move.

  “I command you.”

  Still, Draven did not move.

  “Open your eyes, or I’ll take them out and scan them. Your choice.”

  Draven submitted to the scan. Losing an eye would matter little, as he’d be executed soon enough. But as the Enforcer would scan him either way, he might spare himself unnecessary pain.

  “I see you stole that human,” the Enforcer said, reading the screen in his palm. “So. I’m arresting you for violating the laws of the government of North America. You’ll be charged officially at the Enforcement Office. Come along,” he said, bending to scoop his bundle over his shoulder. At the fence, he heaved it over. Draven’s body thudded to the ground inside the endlot, his fall padded only by the snow. The steel bonds cut into his wrists, and a stab of pain flared between the broken bones.

  The Enforcer scaled the fence as nimbly as Draven ever had, lifted Draven and threw him across his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. He carried him to his car, opened the prisoner transport trailer, and flipped Draven off his shoulder to land inside. Draven fell onto his back, crushing his hands, still bound behind him, and jerking at his dislocated shoulders. He stifled the scream that burst into his throat, threatening to tear its way from his mouth.

  The Enforcer stood back and brushed his hands together before wiping them on his trousers. “I see you’ve been arrested before, so you probably know what comes next,” he said. “We’ll take a short ride down to the office to get everything set for your transport back to Princeton. If they’d caught you there, it would all be over by tomorrow, maybe the next day. This might take a few more days, til we have someone heading that way, but Princeton isn’t far. I don’t expect it will take more than a week to know your sentence. Just sit tight and we’ll take care of everything.” The Enforcer closed the door, plunging Draven into complete darkness. The lock activated with an audible click. Draven lay on the cold steel floor and waited for what came next.

  Chapter 51

  As Draven lay waiting for the vehicle to activate, his mind moved to the last time an Enforcer had caught him, when Byron had discovered him trying to secret Cali from the old theater. Then, he’d only wanted to help Angel, that ethereal creature whose chilling presence had so captivated him. This Enforcer had not used the Deactivator on Draven, and he was thankful for that small kindness. The terrified panic of his paralysis still haunted him even a year and a half after Byron had shot the steel spike into his brain, paralyzing him in the theater full of dead humans. If Angel had not set him free, he might lie there still, only his mind moving forward. Or perhaps the rats would have come, eaten him along with the human carcasses. The thought crawled over him like the paws of little creatures, sticking to his skin and dragging through his hair, clinging claw-like to his shoulders and neck, worming their way into his brain, tunneling into the deepest reaches of him and lodging themselves there, entombed in his coldest terror.

  Lying in wait, Draven let the memory take him over the way he seldom let them. For a Superior, memory was more like traveling through time, reliving the event. When first he’d evolved, before he knew how to block them, Draven had lost himself in these moments, unable to control them or prevent them from dragging him under their influence. Twice, he had run his car off the road when one overtook him while driving. Since then, he rarely let himself remember in that way, relive a moment. Instead, he retained the knowledge of what had happened without having to experience it again.

  Now, without thinking to stop it, he sank into the moment of his prior arrest, to the moment he’d lain on the floor of that room strewn with humans. The Deactivator had not had the same effect on Angel as it had him. Although he had fallen after Byron shot him, he had risen and began lamenting the loss of Cali, his heart’s apparent greatest desire, while Draven lay immobile. After a time, he had come to realize Draven’s condition. Crying, always crying, Angel had come to cradle Draven’s head on his lap, this time weeping for Draven, who, when paralyzed, must have appeared as dead as the humans that littered the floor. The hope that had sprung into Draven when he realized Angel’s miraculous immunity to the steel spike in his brain had drained away as quickly as it had come.

  And then, a new miracle had occurred. Somehow, Angel had detected the life left in Draven, though Draven would never know how. Any other creature on earth, perhaps even a Superior, would have concluded he was dead. But Angel, that strange and tragic mutation of Superiority, had done the thing Draven imagined impossible. Still cradling Draven’s head, he had ceased weeping and stared into Draven’s dry eyes with such strange intensity, hungry and envious and curious at once. And then, as if sensing Draven’s exact disability, he began to search Draven’s skull, his cool fingers sinking into Draven’s hair, moving over each cranial ridge and fissure. After a few moments, his fingers found what they sought.

  P
ain ripped through Draven when Angel’s fingers circled the wound Byron had left, but he could no more scream than he could make any other movement. So he lay helpless while Angel explored the surface of the wound. Nearly maddened with pain, Draven had wondered if Angel meant to torture him thus. He wished for Angel to drive the steel rod further into his brain, to end his life and therefore his suffering. Instead, Angel resumed his weeping.

  After a time, he laid Draven’s head upon the floor and slid down to lie beside him with the same liquid fluidity he used in all his movements, something so far from human as to seem almost serpentine. A charge of dread ran through Draven, a panic borne from his inability to see the boy’s movements and wariness of his strangeness. What alien habits might he have acquired, what taboos might he find acceptable, even routine?

  The blanket of dread that lay over Draven converged into something more desperate as Angel moved closer, positioning himself against Draven’s body. He turned Draven’s head a bit, nestled his face into Draven’s hair and pushed his mouth against the wound. Remembering how this particular being gained life and energy, panic exploded in Draven. He longed to thrash out, to writhe and flail at his attacker until he broke free, to explode from the building and run blindly, as a rabbit spotted while crouched and frozen bolts from its predator, heedless of destination or direction. But he could only lie frozen, corpselike, while Angel’s mouth began to pull at the wound.

  Though Angel had told Draven he gained energy solely from live humans, it seemed he had deceived Draven as easily as he eluded him. For several torturous minutes, he was certain Angel was siphoning his soul from his incapacitated body. Though he knew little of incubi, he knew that they fed on raw human energy, eventually draining the life from a human’s body and capturing the soul upon death. Could they not as easily take his soul, his life?