by A. G. Riddle
When the X1-Mandera virus threatened to decimate the world’s population, he was herded into the conference room at Rapture Headquarters and told that the company had a contingency plan for such catastrophes—that employees were free to go home, but that if they stayed, they’d be evacuated to safety. It was an easy decision: be an anonymous name and number on the government relief rolls, or go to a private, company-owned island and wait it out. He thought he was saved.
He soon learned that he was trapped. And when Desmond Hughes arrived on the island—with a modified Rapture Therapeutics implant—Park became a forced participant in Conner McClain’s quest to discover the location of Rendition.
“Doctor!” Conner yelled from the driver’s seat.
Park studied the brain waves on the monitor. He opened his mouth, then stopped. The waves were collapsing. “He’s coming out!”
Conner cranked the van.
One of the mercenaries bailed out of the back and punched the garage door opener. The double door didn’t budge.
“Power’s out!” Conner screamed. “Roll it up manually!”
The man ran to the front of the van, pulled the garage door’s emergency release rope, and lifted it. A wave of heat barreled in.
Park coughed, struggling to get a deep breath. He felt like he was in an oven. Could barely think.
The soldier climbed back into the van. Doors slammed. The van’s tires barked and screeched as the vehicle swerved onto the road.
Through the windshield, Park saw a wall of black. It was night now. No, it wasn’t. The smoke from the blaze was blotting out the sun. Flames spread out thirty feet away, dancing on roofs, jumping to trees, painting the cars and driveways in black soot.
“Location!” Conner yelled. He waited a few seconds, then screamed the question even louder.
Location of what? Park thought.
“Doctor,” Conner growled. “I need that location.”
The app. Labyrinth. Conner had given Park the satellite-enabled smartphone. He opened the Labyrinth Reality app and quickly ran through the prompts.
Searching for entrance…
Conner shouted his question again.
The location appeared on the screen. A Menlo Park address. Less than three miles away.
“It’s close,” Park said, his voice coming out quietly, barely above a whisper.
Conner let out a torrent of obscenities.
Park read out the address, which was on Austin Avenue. “I’m mapping it.”
“Don’t bother,” Conner said. “I know it.”
Over the radio, he said, “Unit two, take down that checkpoint, and prepare to follow after we pass.”
“Copy that, Zero.” Orders followed over the comm line as the Citium operatives took up positions.
Park listened over the radio as Conner’s other men captured the X1 soldiers at the checkpoint. He was glad Conner’s men didn’t kill them—these people were just doing their jobs, in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Citium had told him they didn’t desire any more loss of life than was necessary, and he wanted to believe that was true.
All three vans were waiting when they passed the checkpoint, as were two Army Humvees. The five vehicles fell in behind them.
They drove at high speed through mostly deserted neighborhoods. The sun grew brighter as they cleared the smoke cloud. It felt as though they were driving out of a massive tunnel.
Conner brought the car to a stop at a two-story house surrounded by yellow police tape. The walls were stone, the windows clad in steel. The roof featured high-pitched gables, and its gray slate tiles were textured and uneven, as if they had been placed on a house in Europe hundreds of years ago.
In the front seat, Major Goins said to Conner, “Same approach as the Shaw home?”
“Don’t bother,” Conner replied, backing into the driveway and severing the police tape. “We searched it two months ago.”
Goins squinted at Conner, who slammed the van into park and opened his door.
“This is Desmond’s house.”
The Citium troops bounded through the yard, over the boxwood hedges, and opened a window. A few seconds later, the black, wrought-iron gates opened onto the home’s motor court. It was paved with an exposed aggregate, making it look like small stones that had been encased in cement. The vans backed in, followed by the Humvees.
On the smartphone, Park clicked the button to enter the Labyrinth.
Downloading…
Five minutes later the screen blinked again.
Download Complete
On the computer screen, Park saw Desmond’s brain waves change. He had entered a dream state. The memory was beginning.
Desmond wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as he walked to the door. The morning sun blazed through the leaded glass, shadowing the figure on the stoop and blurring his features.
Desmond opened the door. “Hello, Conner.”
Conner extended his hand and spoke with a thick Australian accent. “Morning, Mister Hughes.”
Desmond had asked him repeatedly to call him by his first name. Conner had never heeded the instructions.
Conner stepped inside and glanced up at the chandelier hanging in the two-story foyer. “I love your home. It’s an English manor, right?”
“It is.”
“It’s in amazing condition. You renovate it?”
“Built new actually, by the previous owner.”
“Incredible. The detail outside. Looks authentic, like it came out of the ground two hundred years ago.”
“They were meticulous. I bought the place after the dot com crash five years ago. Mostly for the land. Was thinking it would become condos in the future, or even a tear-down and subdivide.”
Conner raised his eyebrows. “You’d tear this down?”
Desmond smiled, happy for the small talk. “I figure the future is about urban density.”
Conner nodded. “Probably right. Reminds me of all the old estate homes in Australia. They didn’t quite know what to do with them after the colonial era.”
Desmond knew what they had done with some of them. One became a pediatric hospital where Conner had been taken after the bushfire, badly burned and on the edge of death. Others had served as orphanages, where his scars made him an outcast, a child constantly passed over by the parents coming to visit.
“Would you like a tour?” Desmond said.
“Sure.”
Off the foyer, they wandered left, down the gallery hall. Desmond had mostly left the previous owner’s art in place. He had hung only two photos of his own—both for this specific moment. He paused at the first, which showed him, age six, standing in front of an oil well, Orville Hughes towering over him, a mean scowl on his face.
“This you?”
“It is.”
“Your dad?”
“No, my uncle. Orville. He adopted me when I was five.”
Conner simply nodded. Desmond had hoped he would open up some, mention that he was adopted too, but only silence followed.
Desmond moved to the second framed photo, which he had also taken from Orville’s home. It was black and white and creased across the middle. Orville and his brother, Allister Hughes, stood in front of a fireplace, both in their teens, both with close-cropped hair and hard expressions.
“Your uncle again?” Conner asked.
“Yes. The younger boy is my father.” Our father, Desmond wanted to say. He watched, but Conner made no reaction.
“They were born in England,” Desmond said. “Orphaned during the war. They came to Australia as part of a program run by the Christian Brothers. They weren’t very kind to most of the children they adopted. Forced labor. Abuse.”
Desmond waited, watching his brother through his peripheral vision. Does he know?
But Conner’s tone was expressionless, and when he spoke, his words were emotionless, as if he were reading a speech. “That’s a shame. Orphans are perhaps the most vulnerable people on Earth. They have no one to defend
them—except for their keepers. If their guardians abuse them, then they have no one at all—except their fellow orphans.”
Those fellow orphans had ostracized Conner. He had truly been alone.
“Well,” Conner added, his tone brightening, “it would seem,” he motioned to the home, “that things turned out pretty well for you. And I can tell you that all is well at Rook.” He placed a hand on his messenger bag. “I brought updated financials and data center reports if you’d like to see them.”
“Maybe later,” Desmond said softly.
He led Conner through an opening with pocket doors, into a paneled study. “Like anything to drink?”
“No thank you.”
Desmond motioned for Conner to sit in a club chair, and he sat across from him. “I’d like to tell you a bit more about myself.”
Conner squinted, confused, but quickly made his expression blank again.
“As I said, I was five when my uncle adopted me. I was born in Australia.” He paused, hoping Conner would react. Nothing. “My parents both died in the Ash Wednesday bushfires.” The corners of Conner’s eyes tightened, but he remained silent. He looked like a dam on the verge of breaking.
Desmond leaned forward. “I grew up on a ranch. The day of the fire, I was playing far away from the home, in the woods. I smelled the smoke. The blaze… it was like it was walking across the ridges in the distance. I ran as fast as I could back to the house. But it was already on fire. Roof burning. Fences, too. Like a ring of fire. I tried to get through it.”
He slipped his shoes off, revealing his scarred feet, then pulled his pants legs up. The scars were thick and mottled, like tree roots growing up his legs.
Conner’s eyes widened.
“I don’t know if it was the pain or the asphyxiation,” Desmond said, “but I passed out. Relief workers found me. Saved me.”
He paused, but Conner said nothing.
“They contacted my next of kin. Orville. He adopted me. Didn’t want to. I assumed all my family was dead. I didn’t learn the truth until a few years ago, when I went back to Australia, to my parents’ grave, and saw that there was no marker for my baby brother. So I searched—and I found him. I had some help. My partner, Yuri Pachenko, helped me buy a hosting company, Yellow Brick Road. And we hired my brother. And I watched in wonder and joy as he transformed. What you’ve accomplished is incredible, Conner.”
Conner leapt to his feet, alarm on his face. “What is this?”
“I wanted to tell you—”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. You were Conner Hughes before you were adopted.”
“It’s a common name.”
“It’s our name. You’re my brother, Conner.”
“Impossible.”
Desmond leaned forward. “It’s true.”
Conner grimaced. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. You’re the only family I have. I just want—”
“Excuse me.” Conner turned, grabbed his bag, and marched out.
Desmond followed. “Conner, wait.”
Conner never turned, or slowed, or looked back. The door slammed as he left.
Desmond sat in the study after that, replaying the scene in his mind, playing out what-ifs, imagining how he could have done things differently.
He called Yuri, whose advice was simply, “Patience, Desmond.”
Desmond tried to be patient. He couldn’t work—his mind was too busy. He tried to read, but failed at that too. He exercised, then went out to the yard. He pulled every weed in sight. Trimmed the bushes. Then the trees.
He didn’t hear the doorbell ring. The sun was setting when the wooden gate to the back yard creaked open. Conner took two steps into the yard and stopped. Desmond walked over to him, covered in grass stains, with dirt on his hands and sweat pouring down his face.
Conner’s tone was flat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to. I thought giving you space was better.”
“You had me promoted—”
“No. I promise you, Conner. That was all you. You earned that. The company, hiring you, it was just a way to get you clean and healthy, to offer you a chance at a better life. The chance that fire took from you.”
Conner glanced away. His expression softened. Desmond thought he saw the start of a tear at the corner of the eye that was pulled by the scarred flesh. “What do we do now?” he whispered.
Desmond shrugged. “I don’t know. I just want to get to know you.”
Conner nodded.
“You hungry?” Desmond asked. “I was gonna order some takeout.”
For the first time that day, Conner smiled. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
They talked into the wee hours of the morning. Told stories about Orville Hughes and Desmond’s escape to San Francisco, about Conner’s youth in the foster homes. There were plenty of dark chapters, and some funny ones. When Conner rose to leave, both men’s eyes were bloodshot from crying. They didn’t shake hands. Conner didn’t call Desmond “Mister Hughes.” They hugged in the foyer.
“No more secrets,” Conner said.
“I promise you.”
Conner reached for the door.
“Can you come back tomorrow?” Desmond asked.
“Of course.”
“Good. There’s something else I want to tell you about. A project that could be very important to you.”
“Is it important to you?”
“Extremely.”
“What is it?”
“It’s called the Looking Glass.”
Conner stepped out of the van into the motor court. Desmond still lay on the hospital bed in the back of the van, the machines hooked to him, the display updating in real time as the memory unspooled. Soon, Conner would have his brother back. They would sort this out together.
He took the service entrance into the house, walked through the back hall, past the mud room and laundry room, and into the gallery hall. The frame that had held the picture of Desmond and Orville was empty—they had taken the photo, scanned it, and shown it to him a month ago on the Kentaro Maru, hoping it would jog his memory—and the home had been turned upside down by Citium operatives looking for clues about where Desmond had hidden Rendition. It wasn’t here.
Conner looked into the paneled study. Eleven years ago, his life had changed in that room. When he thought about what his brother had done for him, his heart broke. Desmond had tried to save him—had risked his life, burned himself. And then he had rescued him from the darkness his life had once been. He desperately wanted his brother back.
A voice came over his earpiece. “Zero, we’ve got comm chatter. X1s are looking for their troops missing from the checkpoint.”
“On my way.”
Chapter 35
Avery was searching near the mouth of the Cave of Altamira when her sat phone rang. She was surprised it even worked. She answered without looking.
“Price.”
“Ma’am. Austin Avenue location. I have a status update.”
Until now, Avery had heard nothing from the surveillance unit she had posted outside Desmond’s home. Hadn’t expected to, either. She paced to the mouth of the cave, instinctively moving toward better reception. The moon glowed behind the clouded night sky as she leaned against the timber-framed opening.
“Proceed.”
“House was breached five minutes ago.”
“By whom?”
“Unknown. All perps are wearing unmarked body armor.”
“Troop strength?”
“Four paneled vans and two X1 Humvees. We’ve seen five total operatives. Estimate there are between fifteen and thirty total.”
“Gear?”
“Looks like Citium field gear based on the tactical dossier.”
“Current status?”
“The vehicles are in the motor court. Two idling.”
Avery paused. She knew Citium operatives had already searched Desmond’s home. Why were they there? It hit her a s
econd later.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m still here.” Her surveillance team was small—just three special operators, rotating through eight-hour shifts. Not enough to raid the house. Or even cordon it. “Hold position for now. If they leave, you are to follow as discreetly as possible.”
“Copy that.”
She severed the connection and made a call she had dreaded.
David Ward answered on the first ring.
“David—”
“Avery, my God, where are you? What the hell happened after you left Oxford?”
“Lin Shaw didn’t want anyone to know our destination. Listen, McClain is in the US—outside San Francisco.”
“How do you know?”
“I put a team outside Desmond’s house. I think Conner McClain is there—with Desmond—right now.”
“But you don’t know.”
“I know someone is there,” Avery said. “And I can think of only one reason why.”
“A Labyrinth location.”
“Exactly. Desmond is the key to everything. Without Rendition, they’re up the creek.”
“It’s a lot of speculation.”
“I’m right.”
Ward sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Raid the house. In force.”
“Have you lost your mind? It could be looters—”
“It’s not. I can feel it.”
David’s tone softened. “I know what he means to you, Avery.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Sure it’s not,” he said sarcastically. His tone became serious again. “We’ll get him back. How about you? Need backup?”
“No. I don’t think we’re on the Citium’s radar. I agree with Lin Shaw for once. The fewer people who know our location, the better. I’ll call you when I have something.”
“And I’ll call you when we have him.”
Through the night vision binoculars, Yuri watched the blonde-haired operative slip the phone back inside her body armor and walk back into the cave.
He glanced at the Citium Security operative beside him.
