Fallen Angels (Dystopian Child Prodigy SciFi) (The Unmaker Series Book 2)

by Casey Herzog

  The green-eyed young man pushed forward and then took a step back to allow Shackle to throw a punch before stepping back inside the operative’s guard. The twin knives punched straight through Shackle’s back, slicing his thin layer of body armor, and he gasped, grabbing at the youth’s arms uselessly as life escaped him.

  Rogue cried out in dismay, throwing himself at the enemy, his blade lunging forward, but the fight was already over — the whole Outsider force knew what was happening and was already there to neutralize what remained of the threat.

  Something large picked Rogue off the floor from behind, before he could reach his enemy, and threw him several feet away as if he were a ragdoll, his body landing awkwardly. The blade went flying out of his hands with the impact, and the old soldier grunted as he crawled to recover it.

  Shackle’s young killer watched with glee as the Outsider crossed the corridor in a couple of steps and lifted Rogue up again, its hand shooting out to grab his wrist before he could stab a knife into the alien’s main heart.

  “Like I said, human,” the young man muttered softly, “That’s far enough…”

  Rogue struggled against the Outsider’s iron grip as it beat its large fist into his body over and over again, cracking ribs and pummeling his organs. His thin body armor did laughable mitigation against the force of each attack, and his strength was no match for the hissing creature’s furious hold.

  “End it,” he managed to hiss between blows, but all he got was a cruel, mocking laugh in return.

  “Not yet.”

  The Outsider pulled its fist back and released it into Rogue’s face with force, and he was sent into the painful darkness of oblivion.

  When Rogue woke up, he was strapped and locked inside a glass cylinder with a pair of green eyes boring into his soul.

  He threw himself forward, but it was useless. Only then did he spot the wiring surrounding his limbs and face. It wasn’t live yet, but he knew what was coming.

  “Torture? Isn’t the Outsider race above that?” He smirked. The aliens were known for simply extracting information from the mind through technological means, typically killing their captive or rendering them biologically useless after the so-called interrogation. He had lost comrades in the war in a similar manner, some came back as the empty, breathing husks that remained when their brains didn’t completely die, but were too ravaged to function normally.

  “This isn’t about them — this is about me and what I want. What do you call yourself now, Rogue is it? Fitting name for your reputation and status, considering what you’ve become. My name is Cassiel, and I shall be requesting some information from you today. Whether you choose to cooperate or not depends on you, but let me tell you right now: the punishment delivered by the Chamber of Sensations is not something you want to experience.” Cassiel paused before adding, “I’d know: I asked to be put inside it after I finished constructing it.”

  Rogue remained impassive, his eyes darting from one point of the cylinder’s sealed door to the other. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, and the glass didn’t look like something he would be able to break with a punch or kick anyway.

  I’m going to have to clench my teeth and take the pain, no matter what.

  “What do you want? Why am I still alive? You killed my friend, so why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?” He remembered Shackle’s death. The man had not deserved to lose his life on this mission; he hadn’t even been a part of it until he’d insisted on joining. Rogue promised himself to avenge the technician’s death. Life would be paid with life, and those evil green eyes would one day weep blood. “Tell me!”

  The figure standing outside of the capsule placed a hand softly on the glass of the surface. It was almost a soft caress by the youth — or whatever the being was — that made Rogue want to edge away from it.

  “Tell me your real name, Rogue,” Cassiel began.

  “What are you? Are you a clone? Or something else?”

  The tendrils surrounding him began to twist and creep closer, approaching him like vines climbing up a wall. A soft hum activated just below the metal floor beneath him, and the operative knew he wouldn’t get many more free questions before the pain began.

  “One more of those foolish questions and you get to know my creation for real. I am not a human, not a clone. What is your name?”

  Rogue sighed.

  “My name is Colonel Alexander Sanchez, and I am going to cave your skull in when I get the chance, mutant filth—argh…”

  True to Cassiel’s promises, the pain was excruciating, and it had taken all of Sanchez’s will not to scream. The tendrils didn’t just deliver electricity into his body; they lit up the nerves themselves and set them on fire. And that was just the minimum threshold.

  “Starting to understand how fucked you are, Sanchez? I’m so glad to hear you saying your name once more, war hero. I’d love to know from your own mouth how it was that you made this transition into Rogue. It counts as a question, so don’t skip the details.”

  “I fought for the Coalition and killed for them whenever they asked me to. My rifle became as much a part of me as my own arm was, and I bought into all the bullshit they fed me.” Sanchez fidgeted as he spoke, discreetly attempting to free at least a hand from the straps while keeping them both in place. “We fought, my fellow soldiers and I, for years until I opened my eyes. Many of us did, but not all were capable of doing something about their new disillusion.”

  “So you faked your death.” It was not a question.

  “I did die on those black, burned lands, you know? My fellow soldiers fought for long minutes to bring me back, but my heart had stopped and I was already growing cold. I wasn’t ready, I guess.” He was speaking openly now, his mouth spilling the memories out loud for the first time ever. “When I awoke, now alive and flanked by three people who, by now, have probably taken the secret to their grave, I became aware of something important: I had died for the Coalition. Whatever came next belonged to me, to the man who had previously been known as Alexander Sanchez. I was now something entirely different, I was…”

  “…Rogue.” Cassiel’s mouth spread into another easy grin, and he nodded. “I’m loving this, however…We must move on. There is a reason why you are alive and Shackle is not.”

  “What might that be?” Rogue asked, growing slightly nervous.

  “Rogue may be a loner, but Sanchez was not. Whatever may have happened, whatever you feel you are now, you were once a soldier of the Coalition, and you served alongside others.”

  “So what?” Sanchez asked with annoyance, recovering from his nostalgia. A soft shock pierced his nerves once more, and he regretted the outburst.

  “It is time we spoke about one of your comrades. He served with you for a long time, and you grew to be close friends. I need to know whatever you can tell me about him.”

  “Who? I served with many soldiers, and many of them became friends.”

  “I wish to know about Callum Thorpe.”

  Sanchez swallowed nervously. Callum. Why was this creature asking about his old friend, a ghost from the past who Rogue himself had believed most likely dead? It chilled him to the bone that Cassiel knew about their friendship at all, and suddenly Sanchez just wanted the interrogation to end.

  “Callum?” he managed. “Why?”

  Cassiel’s eyes shone again, their evil glint returning as the eerie, youthful man-thing approached the glass and lowered his voice.

  “Because, Colonel,” he said softly, “Your friend has something that belongs to us…”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Restart

  Finding new quarters wasn’t exactly difficult this time round, considering half of the building’s groups were dying for him to join or at least associate his name with them in any possible way. While none of them possessed the status of the Lucid Dreamers, there were certainly interesting prospects for Dante: Halo Star, an order of ‘knights’ that took themselves very seriously in terms of rules and bro
therhood; Omega, a small group of extremely intelligent students who planned to graduate together and use their abilities for the race’s advancement; Mother Earth’s Children, a mixed group of environmentalists, united in the attempt to recover the world as it once used to be; and several other student associations that approached the healer with extraordinary offers and words of praise.

  He respectfully rejected every single one of them with a pleasant smile, ensuring they wouldn’t pester him in the future by telling them he planned to start a group of his own. A lie, but it was an efficient way of getting them off his back, for at least his first term. He wasn’t going to bother grouping up yet, even though it would have brought him certain benefits. On one hand, if I’m attacked again I won’t have anyone to save me, he thought, but on the other, I can be sure there’s nobody else around to betray me. After King’s strange behavior and the way he’d manipulated Dante’s dreams, he didn’t want to be at risk of manipulation again.

  Despite not accepting to join any groups, he did allow several of the leaders to guide him to a place where he could find private quarters for those like him who didn’t wish to sleep in the group areas — the loner quarters, as one of them put it.

  Stairs led down from the ground floor of the First Term Building to the area housing the individual rooms, basically a small square with three other passages lined with doors on each side of the corridors.

  “There’s at least one vacant room here,” one of the group leaders said, a red-haired girl with a complex respirator. She was pointing at the east passage that led away. “You should check it out and let us know if you’re okay with it.”

  Dante nodded and opened the third door down on the south face of the corridor — the one marked XXVII — and peeked inside. It was certainly unoccupied, yet still had its furniture within.

  “Seems like it was recently housing a student,” Dante said with a smile as he returned outside.

  “Yes, it was actually. My brother, in fact; he’s second term now. Good luck in there.” The redhead winked and turned to leave, and a moment later the other group leaders gave their own farewells and left. They tried to remain as neutral and stone-faced as possible, but Dante knew he’d wounded their egos by rejecting them all. Better to reject them all than reject all but one, eh?

  Dante sat down on the old, comfy couch in the middle of the quarter’s small living room and crossed his legs.

  He had a lot to think about.

  “So, like I said, next week should be the earliest we get back to classes after what happened to the boy. Terrible stuff, and right beneath our noses, too,” the rugged teacher said. He scratched his beard and continued his conversation through the comms-link, though something had just changed.

  “Yes, I’ll do that. We won’t miss any classes—” With a single rapid movement, the teacher spun and threw a blade across the room, landing it just to one side of the boy’s head. When he saw who stood there, his eyes went wide. “I have to go, sir. I’ll let you know more about our schedule tonight; something has just come up that changes everything.” He cut the link and shook his head in disbelief.

  “Hello, sir,” Dante said. He carried a smile, despite the shock of his teacher’s sudden attack.

  The bearded man laughed out loud and approached to pull the knife out of the wall. He placed a hand on Dante’s shoulder and shook his head incredulously.

  “Haven’t you heard of recovery? Shouldn’t you still be lying in that hospital bed, at least for two more days, and let me stress: at least?” the man repeated. “Ah, nevermind. You just keep on proving us wrong, don’t you?”

  “I can restart my academic activities tomorrow. My first possible class is with you, sir, quite fitting if you ask me.” Dante tilted his head. “I still don’t know your name or role, sir.”

  The rugged man turned and walked to his desk. He sat down on top of it and put his thumbs in his pockets. Unlike other professors, this teacher had the look of a fighter — well, not just the look, Dante knew, having fought him on the roof of the building as a sort of surprise training.

  “It’s a shame that you ask; it ruins the mystery surrounding me. My name is Silas Webster, and I am the survivalist of the Universitas. I will also insist,” he added, “That you recover before joining my class. I will not have you lagging behind or tearing stitches during the activities I will impose on you. I am not lenient; I am not very patient, either. Some may even call me ruthless. Like I said: I have plans for you, Healer, but don’t rush. You’re not ready—”

  Dante wasn’t sure why he did it, but he had grown tired of people underestimating him. It was too much for him to leave the sick room in a bid to get back to class, and for the teacher to just reject him off the bat. In truth, he was pretty pissed off.

  …So he stepped forward and shoved the teacher back as hard as he could against the drawers behind him, pinning him there for a moment before realizing what he was doing.

  “I’m ready, damn it,” he growled, letting go of the man before matters could get worse. Dante felt his body hair rising and his blood going cold before he’d even finished talking, but what was done was done.

  The bearded man’s eyes were wide, and he was staring at Dante as if he’d been slapped — although to be fair, he almost had. It took him a moment before he finally reacted.

  “Was that your way of convincing me? Or, was it just revenge for the other night’s beating?” He began to laugh, quietly at first, but eventually rising to a roar. “I’ll give you a chance, Healer. If you fuck up, though, I’m not stopping the class or taking it easy. You’re gonna have to keep climbing, jogging or dragging yourself around with your guts hanging out and the blood seeping through your clothes. It’s a shitty mental image, I know, but it’s what you’re gonna get.” He pointed to the door. “Get out and go rest. You’re gonna need it.”

  As Dante closed the door behind him, he slid to the floor into a heap.

  Did I just curse at a teacher? He asked himself, until something even more shocking rose to the surface. Did I just physically abuse a teacher?!

  His walk back to the loner quarters was a thoughtful one. Despite Webster’s instructions, Dante knew he probably would have a lot of trouble finding sleep after what he’d done.

  Upon entering and lying down on the couch, however, his exhaustion took over and Dante’s eyes closed shut not long after.

  His awakening was sudden, violent even. The Healer stood up with his fists raised and his heart thumping in his chest. Something formed in his mind: an image of a knife-wielding enemy standing ahead of him in a corner of the room, an apparition simultaneously real and fake, a byproduct of the fear and trauma which poisoned his mind.

  “Hey, you,” Dante said to the shadow, immediately feeling stupid when he noticed it was just a corner lamp he hadn’t noticed upon entering the room. The Healer sunk into the couch once more and placed his head in his hands. It had been a nightmare, sure, but it wasn’t reassuring to become aware of the lasting damage the attack had left on him. The scars you can’t see, he’d heard before, but until now had never understood the expression.

  After the initial security the University had allowed him to feel — a security he’d never had in his life — he was now as lost as he’d been in the wastelands for all those years until he’d met Callum. The thought of Margaret, his foster mother and first person to actually care for him, returned to his mind, and he wished he had someone like her with him right now, if only watching him from afar.

  It’s okay to be weak and fearful from time to time, she’d have told him if she could see him trembling in the darkness alone as he was. Only when we fear can we learn our weaknesses and become stronger. Dante made a sad smile. Callum was never afraid, and he was the strongest person the Healer had ever met.

  I must kill my fears and purge my weaknesses, Dante thought as he crossed the room and flicked the lamp’s switch to illuminate the room. He had no other choice now, especially after attacking Mr. Webster like he h
ad. Within a few hours he’d begin his survival training, and Dante knew it would hurt. He had avoided grimacing in the professor’s office, but damn, did those stitches still burn and the wounds still release waves of dull pain across him. For all his healing gifts, he was human after all.

  “And that is why I must become stronger,” Dante concluded.

  With a grunt, he stretched his hands and crouched on the ground, getting into a plank position. As a sharp lance of pain ran through him, Dante lowered his body before pushing himself back up again.

  His abilities could heal him and the doctors and nurses could help ease the pain, but nobody else but he could make him strong enough to withstand everything his enemies could throw at him.

  He continued his pushups, grunting and gasping with each effort, but clenching his teeth to swallow the pain that ensued. According to the clock on the wall, an hour still remained before he’d need to be ready for class — breakfast would be a whole new story now that he had decided to avoid the mess hall for a while — so he had time for the physical activity.