Dawnbreaker

by Posey, Jay

  His eyes shifted to her and cleared but didn’t soften. The intensity of the look made Wren’s breath catch; he’d seen it before in another man. Then, as if he remembered himself, Haiku smiled again and the look was gone.

  “I apologize for my rudeness,” he said, dipping his head in an apologetic bow. And then he repeated, “It’s... difficult to explain.”

  “You’re like Three,” Wren said, drawing all eyes to him. It was the first he’d spoken. Then, realizing what he’d said, and what he’d meant by it, he wondered if he was betraying some secret Haiku did not want known. “I mean...”

  Haiku gazed at him for a time, and then dipped his head forward, as if he knew what Wren meant and was giving his permission to speak it aloud.

  “I mean,” Wren continued, “you’re not connected either. Like Three.”

  Haiku inclined his head to one side. “What makes you think that?”

  “I can feel it,” Wren answered. He looked back down at his plate. There was still a fair amount of food left. He’d felt a lot hungrier than he’d actually been.

  “Feel it?” Haiku said.

  “Yeah. I, um...” Wren said. He poked a piece of meat with his fork, pushed it back and forth across the plate, painting a meaningless design with its thin trail of amber glaze. “Well...” he said, then looked up at Haiku and smiled. “It’s kind of difficult to explain.”

  At the far end of the table, jCharles suppressed a chuckle.

  “You’re correct, Wren,” Haiku said. “I am not connected.”

  “Is that what House Eight was?” Wren asked. “What made it special?”

  “No,” said Haiku. “No, that’s not what made it special. Not that alone. But the House was the first to recognize the value of disconnection in the old world. Some others followed after, though none ever embraced it as truly and fully as House Eight.”

  The room fell quiet for a span, except for Grace smacking her hands on the tray in front of her. Wren got the impression that Haiku might continue if prompted but likely wasn’t going to offer much more on his own. Mol and jCharles both seemed to be waiting, maybe uncertain of how far back to draw the veil. Haiku’s past was Three’s past, and as much as Wren longed to know, he remembered well how closely Three had guarded himself. It almost felt wrong to dig much deeper.

  “And what of you, Wren?” Haiku asked, breaking the silence and taking the opportunity to change the subject. “What brought you back to Greenstone from Morningside?”

  The question shocked Wren so violently he actually physically flinched. Mol reflexively shot a look at jCharles, and Haiku, though he had no idea what he had just done, immediately tensed up and searched the faces of the others for some clue. It hadn’t occurred to Wren that Haiku might not know of Morningside’s fate, but then he couldn’t understand why he would have assumed otherwise. News didn’t much travel across the Strand. Certainly not quickly. And Wren’s own story as he’d told it had ended with Three; he’d had neither the energy nor a reason to tell more.

  “I apologize,” Haiku said. “Please forgive my ignorance, and my rudeness.” Even without knowing why he’d provoked such a response, it was apparent he hoped to undo any hurt he’d caused.

  “No, it’s uh,” jCharles said, “it’s my fault, I should’ve... It’s just, you know, we got to talking about Three, and uh...”

  Wren didn’t really hear whatever else it was that jCharles said. Haiku’s question had threatened to bring with it a storm of fresh, raw emotions and Wren thought for certain that all the past days’ terror and pain and loss would overwhelm him at any second. But instead, he found himself strangely calm; still and centered. The emotions were there, just beyond him, as if he could reach out and activate them, embrace them, if he so chose. Yet, the decision was his, and in his own stillness he found a small measure of courage.

  “Morningside’s gone,” Wren said. He heard himself say the words, understood what they meant, understood all that those two words didn’t say and yet knew the full measure of the loss they implied. But the storm didn’t reach him. The quiet calm remained his. “Morningside’s gone now,” he said again, and for the first time he thought maybe he could talk about it without feeling like he was going to throw up. Whether his subconscious had somehow finally accepted this new reality and adapted, or he was simply too emotionally exhausted to feel anything anymore, Wren didn’t know. Nor did it seem to matter for the moment. He took a breath and nodded to himself.

  “It fell,” he said. “To the Weir.”

  Haiku blinked back at him, with no sign of understanding, as if Wren were speaking some made up language.

  “Morningside?” said Haiku.

  “Yes,” Wren answered.

  “To the Weir?”

  “Yes.”

  Haiku looked to jCharles, then to Mol, then back to Wren again. “... Morningside?”

  Wren just nodded.

  “When was this?” Haiku asked.

  “Three days ago.”

  “To the Weir?” Haiku repeated. “I don’t understand. Morningside has stood for decades. It would take hundreds of Weir to overthrow it.”

  “Thousands,” Chapel said from across the room.

  Haiku’s brow creased slightly, a look of doubt he probably did not intend to express openly. But Chapel nodded.

  “Well. It wasn’t just the Weir,” said Wren. “Not exactly.” And in saying it, he knew he would have yet another story to tell. He was tired. Weary, deep into his bones. But the story wanted telling.

  “After... after all that,” he said, “all the things I told you today. The people made me Governor. Because I was Underdown’s son, and because of what I’d done to my brother. I guess they thought I could protect them, the way Underdown had.”

  Wren went quickly, sparsely, through the history. Not like before, when he’d told it all in the utmost detail he could recall. Now, it was just the barest sketch of events. Fifteen minutes in the telling, twenty maybe. The council, his personal guards, the attempt on his life. Underdown’s machine. Haiku listened intently, watched with eyes hard and piercing. He didn’t write any of it down.

  “My brother. Asher. I thought he had died, but I was wrong.”

  Wren went on to tell Haiku of his discovery at Ninestory, his return to Morningside, its turmoil, and its ultimate fall. But most of all about Asher, its conqueror. His brother. Mind of the Weir.

  “And Chapel brought me here,” he finished. He tried not to think about Mama too much. The strange stillness hadn’t yet left him, but thoughts of her were too close to the tempest that churned beyond it. He feared any movement towards those raging winds.

  Haiku sat motionless for a span. Behind his eyes, Wren could see him processing all he’d just heard. To the man’s credit, he didn’t seem to be rejecting it outright. Finally, he spoke.

  “What you’ve told me is nearly too much to comprehend,” Haiku said. “If all you say is true, our world has changed in dire ways.” His gaze dropped to the table, and he was lost in his own thoughts for a few moments more. Then, he looked up at Wren again.

  “This brother of yours, Asher,” Haiku said. “He... controls the Weir?”

  Wren nodded. “Not all of them. But some of them. A lot of them.”

  “And what does he intend to do with them?”

  “I don’t know,” Wren said. “I don’t know what he wants or what he’s trying to do. I never have. But he’ll come for me. Wherever I am. Some day.”

  “But you have stopped him before–” Haiku began, and Wren knew where he was headed.

  “No,” Wren interrupted. “He’s too strong. He’s so strong now.” The memory of his struggle within the machine flashed through his mind, with its terrifying strain, the feeling that Asher was pulling him apart, the sudden blackness. “I think maybe he could have killed me, if he’d wanted to. I know he could have. But he wasn’t ready for that yet.”

  Haiku sat back in his chair and though his eyes remained on Wren, Wren could tell the man wasn
’t really looking at him. He was lost deep in his own thoughts. Searching. Calculating.

  Wren’s heart started to race again, and the room was too bright, too loud, too hot. He felt sweat on his forehead, though his hands and feet were ice cold. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, like Mama had taught him, but it was a losing battle. The emotional toll of the day was coming due, and Wren knew he couldn’t take any more.

  “I don’t feel so good,” he said, looking to Mol, knowing she would be the first and strongest ally. “I need to go back to bed.” He didn’t even wait for a response, he just got up from the table. Mol made some reply, but Wren didn’t catch it and didn’t feel like turning around. There was panic rising; pure, unfiltered panic at the thought of Asher, out there, always out there, always pursuing. Unbound. Unlimited. Unstoppable.

  “Wren,” came Haiku’s voice. But Wren kept heading for the bedroom.

  “Wren,” Haiku called again, and this time his voice was more powerful; not louder, but full of authority. Wren couldn’t help but respond. He stopped and glanced back. Mol was standing and jCharles was still sitting. Both of them looked concerned and like they had no idea what to do. Haiku alone looked calm. He was turned partway around in his chair to face Wren.

  “I know a man who might be able to help,” he said.

  “Me too,” Wren said reflexively, the memory of Three still strong. “But he’s dead.”

  Haiku seemed to read his thoughts.

  “Not Three,” he replied. The barest hint of a smile touched his eyes. “The man who trained him.”

  SIX

  The wayhouse was cramped and stifling, with a dampness to the air that made everything feel too close. They had waited out their time on the roof and a little more with no sign of any trailing Weir, and afterwards, Gamble had led Cass and Sky back to this latest hiding place. Now, Cass sat on the floor, leaning against the front wall closest to the lone entrance. This particular wayhouse had been built to hold four, maybe five comfortably. They’d managed to pack twelve into the space. The smell of sweat and blood and fear floated thick, almost nauseating. Cass was reminded too much of old haunts; the chem-dens where she used to buy quint, where burnouts lay on dirty mattresses or amongst stained blankets, oblivious to the dank reality around them. She let her eyes float around the room, surveying without any particular intent.

  From the look of it the place had been a hasty add-on, wedged in the narrow space between two existing structures and just below street level. It was only one large room, or two if you counted the closet-sized washroom as its own. A flimsy, rubberized curtain hung on a rail and served as the divider between the bunks and the rest of the space. For now, it was pulled back. The ceiling was low, maybe six feet high, and there were no windows, no vents. In one corner of the ceiling was the only entrance: a round, rusted steel-rimmed porthole with a spot-welded ladder through it. Clambering down into the wayhouse had felt to Cass very much like climbing into a grave. She still hadn’t completely shaken that sense. The main lights were all off, and a single red emergency light cast the room in a sinister hue.

  The others had been here long enough now that the initial wave of energy and emotion had passed. Cass had missed that part, but she could imagine it. The overwhelming relief, the shock of survival, the guilt. But they’d been here a few hours and now, though a few slept, mostly the rest just sat in stunned silence. Gamble had put them on tight noise discipline, so there was hardly any conversation, save the occasional hushed whisper. One man, Cass didn’t know who he was, sobbed softly in the corner. No one tried to comfort or quiet him.

  They were all wounded, dirty, exhausted. They’d hardly had time to process their losses, and none at all to grieve them. Though she’d never had time to count them, Cass guessed they’d had around thirty people altogether during their flight from Morningside, holed up in that tiny building to make their stand. Gamble and her team. Lil and her warriors. A few Awakened and a handful of citizens who’d somehow gotten joined up. Over half of them were gone, and even now Cass wasn’t sure who had been lost.

  Lil, at least, was still with them, and that was something of a victory. She had welcomed Cass warmly, though they had exchanged few words. Lil had been busy tending to others, as was her way, checking their wounds, encouraging them. The exhaustion had finally caught up with her though, and at the moment she was curled up on the floor in one corner of the room, dozing lightly.

  Kit, too, was alive. Upon Cass’s arrival, Kit had greeted her with a bear hug so tight it nearly stole her breath. Now she was sitting cross-legged by the bunks, on the other side of the wayhouse, staring down at her hands in her lap. Cass watched her for a moment, watched as she spread her fingers and curled them into fists slowly, over and over. Kit had always been full of fire, but Cass doubted the young woman had ever faced the kind of ordeal she’d just come through. Though, then again, as an Awakened, there was really no telling what she may have experienced during her time as an enthralled Weir. Cass knew whatever else Kit was dealing with, her thoughts were almost certainly drawn to Wick. The two had become surprisingly close in a very short amount of time. Cass couldn’t help but wonder whether that budding relationship had been cut short.

  Sky and Gamble had left almost half an hour earlier to link up with the others, though neither had given any indication about Wick’s status. She hadn’t expected them to be gone so long and naturally her imagination ran to dark places. If she’d reunited with them only to lose them all again...

  Cass was so lost in the spiral of her own thoughts that when she heard a noise at the hatch, her body automatically tensed, ready for combat. The hatch shifted above her. Her claws extended. So far had her fears taken her, even when Sky’s face appeared at the entrance, it took her a moment to recognize him and for minutes afterwards, her heart continued to race with adrenaline.

  “We’re back,” Sky said. He quickly swung himself around and came down the ladder so fast Cass almost didn’t have time to get out of the way. She retracted her claws and clenched her fists, hoping no one else in the wayhouse had seen them. “All right...” Sky said, and then stopped when he saw her. “Hey, you OK?”

  Cass nodded. He gave her a look that said he didn’t quite believe her, but there was no time to waste.

  “You set?” a voice said from above in a harsh whisper. Male; Mouse or Finn, though Cass couldn’t tell which. Sky looked at her, and she nodded again.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Sky called back up, his voice low. Moments later, Wick’s limp form slid into the entryway and dangled in midair. She could hear the grunts and struggles of those doing the work of lowering him. Somehow those above managed to get Wick low enough that Cass could grab him around the knees. Cass held tight as Sky climbed up one rung to try to steady Wick. He backed out moments later with a surprised look.

  “Bring him down, bring him down,” he said to Cass, and as he did Wick started dropping lower. Cass felt the weight shift, but she clearly wasn’t holding all of it. Sky grabbed hold of Wick’s waist as it appeared through the portal, and they backed away from the ladder. A few moments later, other feet appeared on the ladder above Wick. Mouse was climbing down, one hand on the ladder, one hand gripping the back of Wick’s vest. Cass marveled at the man’s strength.

  When they got Wick all the way through, Sky reached up and caught him under the shoulders.

  “It’s all right, Mouse,” he said, “we got him. We got him now, Mouse.”

  Finally, with those words, Wick’s full weight descended upon them as Mouse relinquished his burden. As carefully as they were able, Cass and Sky brought Wick down and laid him on a pallet of coats and blankets they’d prepared for him. The moment Mouse’s foot touched down, he went to work. He gently but firmly pulled Cass back away from Wick, and knelt down by his stricken friend’s side. After the long, silent wait, the flurry of activity was shocking.

  Finn was the next one down the ladder, and he too went straight to Wick’s side. Able followed after. When h
is feet touched the floor, he stumbled from the ladder and collapsed to his hands and knees. Sky dropped and grabbed him, but Able waved him off. Gamble was there a moment later, bending down next to Able, her face two inches from his. Cass had been too distracted with the others to notice when exactly Gamble had shown up. They were all there now. Torn up, beaten down, worn out, but all there. The whole crew reunited. All except Swoop.

  For the next ten minutes or so, Cass stood by, wanting to help but feeling like, no matter where she stood, she was in the way. Truth was, that many people stuffed into such tight quarters made it impossible not to be in somebody’s way. A few folks stood up and crowded back towards the back wall trying to give the latest arrivals as much room as possible. Kit alone moved forward and, along with Cass, hovered at the edge of usefulness. Cass put her arm around Kit’s shoulders and together they stood watch.

  Once Mouse had done all he could, he stood and motioned to Kit. The ceiling was so low he had to duck his head and hunch over just to fit. They held quiet conference for a minute or so, after which Kit sat down on the floor next to Wick. She smoothed his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, then stretched her hand out and took hold of Finn’s. Cass touched Mouse’s elbow to get his attention. He looked to her with heavy eyes, the utter exhaustion nearly tangible rolling off him. He gave her a weak smile and squeezed her upper arm.

  “It’s good to see you, Cass,” he said. “Real good.”

  “Is Wick going to make it?” she asked.

  Mouse tossed a glance over his shoulder back at Wick, and when he turned back his expression didn’t offer a clear answer. “He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s been running too hot. Body just cut out on him. He’s a fighter though. If we can keep him stable, I think he’ll pull through all right. But my medkit’s real low, and I don’t have a lot of what he needs.”

  “What about Able?” Cass said, looking over at where Able lay motionless by the ladder. His breathing was deep and even.