Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  Vermen reconsidered his early assessment of these two. They weren’t random citizens living in Reverence, unable to watch peaceful protesters get assaulted by policemen. Hadn’t Lungvist mentioned tailing a grocer from Ferrea to Reverence? Maniel provided their names just as he reached his conclusion.

  “You’re Kinsi and Tia,” she said with a soft smile. “Henry missed you so much.”

  What was he supposed to tell Henry’s foster parents? Vermen gritted his teeth. If he didn’t have time for his grief and fear, he sure as hell wasn’t going to deal with theirs. The truth would have do to.

  “There was no plan,” Vermen replied. “Henry was with Andeal when they bombed Mount Kairn. We’ve had no direct contact with them since. We’re no better off than any of you.”

  Protesters had begun to gather around them as Hans clarified how little they knew. The White Renegade was dead. His rebels had no plans. They all sported stunned expressions of incomprehension, but added to those worried looks was determination and anger. Alex pushed through the crowd, bright red coat torn and fingers bloodied. Sweat covered their dark skin and their curly hair had entirely escaped their ponytail. Hurt shone in their eyes, which strayed to Seraphin’s body over and over. “I can’t believe they got him. We…we can’t leave it at that. If we all stay hidden in here, we’re no better than those who stayed out in the plains.”

  “We won’t hide.” Maniel’s brow furrowed into her characteristic stubborn frown. “My husband is in the National Radio Tower and last I heard, he was in need of some serious rescuing. We didn’t have a plan? Here’s one. We grab everything that can be used as a shield—trash can lids, cardboard, planks, things like that—as well as sticks and poles to defend ourselves against the soldiers’ charges. We find scarves and other clothes to cover our mouths against the gas and we try to get our hands on as many glasses or protective eye-gear as we can, in case they start to pepper spray us too. We dodge the riot squads whenever we can, fight if we must. Once in the tower we barricade ourselves in.”

  “Won’t they already be at the tower?” someone asked.

  If they weren’t when the day had started, they would’ve blockaded every entrance with Andeal’s first words. Their main hope was to be numerous enough and to use the policemen’s reluctance to kill civilians. How long would the last one hold, however? If Galen was on the radio, General Omar Clarin must be in charge of today’s operation. He had enough at stake to authorize deadly force.

  Odds couldn’t be helped, though. Maniel and Alex began to organize the expedition. She distributed scarves brought by their hostess, formed subgroups in which people had to watch for one another, designed an ideal route with help from the locals. Her confident pragmatism seemed to boost the morale of everyone around, and Alex had obviously seen several protests before. They had strong leaders again and they would take the Radio Tower.

  It wouldn’t be enough. Not while Omar Clarin lived to give the order to open fire upon them. Seraphin had known that. That’s why he’d led others toward the headquarters—toward the chain of command and their captured rebel. Toward the man whose orders had gotten him killed.

  Vermen crouched next to Seraphin’s body again. Holt had a plan, he always did, but what? He wondered if he had meant to do what he had six years ago: walk up to a ruthless general, raise the flint-and-lock pistol, blow his brains out. Deal with the consequences after. It’d worked the first time, hadn’t it?

  And it’d brought them together.

  Hans ignored the twisting pain in his stomach—he couldn’t think of that, not now—and reached for the skeptar at Seraphin’s belt. He wrapped his fingers around it and the red string felt warm against his palm. As though the rebel’s spirit lived in it, beckoned to him. Had Holt joined his family inside? Seraphin had used this pistol to kill Vermen’s brother and avenge them. The skeptar’s task was not over. The red string chafed Vermen’s skin as he held it, a reminder of the task ahead.

  He was not going to the Radio Tower.

  Vermen retrieved the holster and tied it to his belt. This weapon had turned his life upside down. He might die carrying it today.

  “What are you doing?” Alex asked. “It should be buried with him.”

  Hans raised his chin and met their gaze. They had a radio tower to reclaim. He intended to walk into the enemy’s headquarters and take down their general, giving Maniel a chance to succeed.

  “I need a weapon. You need me to have a weapon. There’s no point in taking the tower if you can’t keep it. And you won’t. Not against Omar Clarin’s troops. His soldiers are loyal. If he tells them to wipe out the unruly mob at the door, they will, no questions asked. We can’t give him the opportunity to give that order because he won’t hesitate to do so.” Vermen’s grip tightened. His voice, too. He glanced at Seraphin’s body and for a moment it seemed like the soil under his feet had vanished. Hans shook his head and grounded himself. Not now. He was a soldier. He could work through this pain the same way he’d ignore any other wound. He had to. “They aimed for his head. We should get theirs.”

  “Hans…” Maniel whispered his name, must have understood how slim his chances were of making it out alive. Perhaps the skeptar’s luck would follow him. Seraphin had escaped a camp full of soldiers, after all. It could be his turn.

  “I’ll bring it back, to be buried with him. Focus on Andeal, Maniel. He needs you.”

  A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “He often does. Good luck, Hans.”

  Vermen returned the courtesy with a smile. He slipped out of the house and into the deserted street. The policemen’s lines had moved elsewhere, but he could hear the distant smash of batons against shields. He still had no idea how he’d get into the headquarters. One step at a time, though. First he had to get there.

  Seraphin’s skeptar at his hip, Hans Vermen dove into the snaking streets of Reverence.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Sneaking through the city reminded Vermen of his first night forest battle. He could hear gunshots, screams, sharp orders and feet slapping the ground as folks ran around, but he could not see any of it. Houses and shops obstructed his view from explosions and whirls of smoke kept him guessing about what was happening a block away. Chaos seemed everywhere, waiting for him. His heart pumped with every corner he turned, every intersection he traversed. He stalked through Reverence’s winding paths with the certainty that sooner or later, he’d end up face-to-face with a riot squad.

  He was wrong.

  Vermen made it all the way to the headquarters’ neighborhood, sneaking past the last riot squad by climbing up an emergency staircase and heaving himself onto the roof. The baton hits from his earlier fall throbbed and he rested on his back, trying to catch his breath and calm the pain. The day’s constant sprints, leaps, and climbs were starting to take their toll.

  Or maybe that was just what he preferred to blame. It was easier to deal with physical exhaustion than to let his thoughts linger on why he was on this roof, Seraphin’s pistol at his hip. Alone. Hans had almost never left the Regarian’s side in the last months, but Seraphin had been ripped away from him. He would no longer wake to the sly smile, or watch Seraphin protect his sensitive eyes from the sun’s glare. He wouldn’t get to hear his short laughter, or share stories around a campfire, or touch the Regarian’s shoulder to reassure him.

  Hans would never get to pull him close and run a hand through his pure white hair, to look into the pale blue gaze and smile and kiss him again—really kiss him this time.

  He had waited too long, had let the past drag him down. And now it was too late.

  Vermen ran a hand over his face and realized he’d been crying. He swore, pushed Seraphin’s memory away, and pulled himself together. He couldn’t afford to break down now. Maniel depended on him, and Andeal and Henry. Hans took a deep breath, then crawled around the solar panels set on the rooftop. They gave no light during the day, only absorbed the sunrays and became almost burning to the touch. Vermen avoided them as he moved
to peek over the ledge.

  The headquarters’ octagonal structure could be spotted three blocks away, higher than the surrounding buildings. The top floor had large yellow-tinted windows—a recent invention that combined glass and solar technology. He’d heard it would be tested in some buildings, that they planned to use it in high apartment towers if it worked. After months dwelling in caves and crawling through forests, such a living area seemed alien. His journey with the rebels had disconnected him from the real world. Perhaps it was time to get in touch with his old soldier self again.

  Vermen surveyed the roads below him. He’d heard the quick whirring of electric motors half a dozen times during his trek through the city. Lone soldiers rode motorcycles out of the headquarters, speeding toward the city’s hot spots. Couriers, carrying messages and orders too important to risk saying out loud on the short waves.

  These men went back and forth so often, no one questioned them about it.

  Vermen’s lips curled into a pleased smile as he clambered down the ladder. It was his turn to hunt. He stalked down the street, strode across an intersection, then reached a narrow road many couriers sped through. He’d have to knock the man unconscious and off his bike without damaging either too much. Gunshots would bloody the uniform, while caltrops would destroy the tires and make him suspicious. The antique houses on each side sported staircases that led to the second and third floors’ balconies, putting him almost right on top of the biker’s path. A jump from above was the best he could think of. He had no time for anything more elaborate.

  As he started toward the street, his gaze fell upon an old, bright orange rope at the top of a nearby trash bin. He hurried to it, tested its strength; thin, but sturdy enough. Perhaps he did have time for something more elaborate, if frankly more ridiculous. He grabbed one end of the long rope, tied it tight to a metal staircase—with a few extra knots for safety—then ran across the street. If anyone showed up now, as he repeated the operation on the other side, he was well and truly screwed. Ousted before he could complete his cartoon-worthy trap.

  Vermen finished the last knot, then checked what rope he had left. The spool was still long enough for a second line, as he’d hoped. He sprinted back to the start, his palms sweaty from stress and exertion. A new messenger could be there anytime now. They should, judging by their average frequency.

  A soft motor whirring confirmed his suspicion. Vermen hurried with his last knots but as his heart pumped faster, his fingers began to slip. He swore, steadied himself with a deep breath, and finished. Then he dashed into the nearest alley, crouched, and prayed the two tight lines would suffice.

  The courier hit the accelerator as he reached the long stretch of road. He sped up as he came nearer to Vermen, bent over his bike, without a helmet. His gaze remained glued to the road and at the very last moment, his eyes widened: he’d spotted the rope barring his way. Hans could imagine the silent swear as the courier straightened up, hit the brakes. Too late. The motorcycle screeched, its tires smoked, but the taut line caught the messenger at shoulder height and flung him off his vehicle.

  Vermen sprinted out as the man hit the ground with a scream, arms over his head to protect himself. A bloodied trail marked his passage on the cracked asphalt. The courier rolled over and pushed himself to his knees, then reached for his gun despite his dazed look. He would shoot before Hans could knock him out. Vermen prepared to duck but unless the crash had messed up this soldier’s aim, he was dead.

  Another gunshot rang to his left, far from the courier. The soldier gasped and reached for his neck as blood welled between his fingers. Vermen closed the distance, his heart hammering against his chest, and kicked the courier out cold before he recovered from the distraction. Panting, he whirled around and searched for his unexpected ally. Stern strode out of a nearby alley with a familiar, victorious sneer.

  “That was the worst ambush in existence,” he said. “How did you ever become captain?”

  Irritation mixed with Vermen’s relief. Couldn’t it have been Joshua instead? Or any other rebel, for that matter? Stern hadn’t changed since their split in Elmsfield, except for a new scar along his chin. He held his arm close to himself, though, in a strange position. Vermen ignored him and used his sleeve to staunch the blood from the courier’s neck wound. Splatters of red already marked the man’s clothes.

  “You bloodied his uniform.”

  “Not a lot. I can bluff that away.” Stern stopped right behind him. Vermen frowned as he heard a strange tightness in his voice but before he could do anything, he felt a cold barrel against his neck. He froze, holding back a curse. Stern cocked his gun. “You need to explain what you’re doing here with Seraphin’s skeptar.”

  Vermen stared at the ground, his hands clenching into fists. “They shot him, Stern.”

  “So you figured that was a perfect time to get a trophy and run while Maniel tried to save him, is that it?”

  Run. Did it look like he was running? Vermen took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for Stern’s ridiculous theories. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the firearm pressed against his neck. “You misunderstand. He’s dead.” His voice was hoarser than he’d have wanted. He could hear the broken parts of him in it, showing through. Stern whispered a soft denial and Vermen turned around to face him. “The skeptar is him now, and we’re going into those headquarters to get the man behind that order.”

  It seemed to take Stern an eternity to recover. The rebel stared at Vermen, silent, and Hans recognized the strange mix of anger and sadness in his eyes. Then Stern’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He removed his gun and withdrew a knife.

  “I tried to warn him about you when we split.” He started cutting the ambush’s ropes, struggling not to use his left arm, talking more to himself than to Vermen. His voice shook. “I told him not to trust you with his life. You know what he said to that? He said ‘it’s okay, Stern, he’s already saved my life more often than you have. Besides, I kinda like him.’ And he laughed. You know the one. The dismissive, you-worry-too-much laugh.”

  Stern hacked at the lines but without holding them with his second arm, they didn’t cut. Hans suspected he didn’t care. He ignored the other rebel and pulled the scratched bike and body out of the narrow street before another courier came through. Stern’s words clung to his mind, however. I kinda like him. In Elmsfield? Vermen recalled a long kiss on the top of a hill. He remembered being told not to make a big deal out of it. Would Hans have been faster, had Seraphin not said that? Could they have been together, even for a little while? His head fuzzy and light, Hans pushed the questions away and started unbuttoning the soldier’s uniform. Stern joined him as he removed the shirt. He threw the spool of orange rope at his feet.

  “You’re not going in. I am.”

  Vermen’s eyebrows shot up. No way. He straightened to face Stern again. “No.”

  “I’m one of his oldest friend.”

  There was an unsettling plea in Stern’s voice. His scowl displayed Vermen’s own grief and hurt and thirst for revenge plainly, and Hans had to look away. They both knew what he was to Seraphin, or could’ve been. Vermen let the matter slide. There were more practical—and less awkward—concerns. “You have a broken arm.”

  “It’s my left, I’m fine. I can do it.”

  Vermen’s temper flared and he grabbed the front of Stern’s shirt. Wanting to avenge Seraphin himself was one thing. Lying about his well being and risking its success was another, far more stupid one.

  “Do you actually think I never noticed you were left-handed? You punched me several times with that left arm, under Mount Kairn.” Vermen let go before he turned violent. His urge to destroy something had grown steadily since Seraphin’s last pained scream. “You can’t shoot straight, they would remember a courier with a broken arm, and General Clarin’s entourage knows you. I am not endangering this mission to sate your desire for vengeance.”

  “Yours though, that’s fine.”

  Vermen shrugged a
nd started putting on the uniform. “I’m not going to fail.”

  Stern tensed but did not answer for the longest time, turning away as Vermen removed his pants to change into the courier’s. Hans almost laughed at his reaction. How many naked men had he seen in the showers, only to be bothered by the thought of him in his underwear? Vermen kept the comment to himself, however. Angering Stern any further would not be productive.

  “All right,” the other rebel said at length. “You go. But remember…When you shoot down Omar Clarin, you are not only doing it for Seraphin. You are doing it for every rebel you put in prison. For all of us.”

  Vermen lifted his head and met Stern’s gaze. The specific wording was an intentional reminder of his part in their deaths. He remembered what Andeal had told him, about rebels being like a second family.

  “I understand.” His answer was met with a doubtful frown. Hans ignored it and pulled his boots on. “Maniel and Alex are trying to take the Radio Tower. Go help them.”

  Stern accepted the order with a reluctant nod. He detailed Hans from top to bottom until his mocking sneer returned. “Fits you like a glove. Good luck, Captain.”

  The rebel strode away before Vermen could return the courtesy. Hans gritted his teeth. Something about the rank jarred him. He hadn’t been a Union captain in a long time, yet when he looked at his reflection in a window, his heart tightened. Instead of a downtrodden outlaw crawling through caves and countryside, he faced a proud soldier, ready to do his duty. His thumb ran over the red string, still warm.

  They had a rendezvous with Omar Clarin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Before he could find General Clarin, Vermen wound up in front of a holding cell, in which a green-haired prisoner waited tied to a chair. She had to be Seraphin’s captured rebel. She matched the description Lungvist had given of her, was the only civilian he’d seen since entering the headquarters, and her face and neck were covered in bruises. Those were not from David. Omar Clarin had probably interrogated her.