Dawnbreaker

by Posey, Jay

  Foe returned to him as he was standing up and held out his hand. Across his palm lay a small, horn-shaped device in silver and bright blue.

  “Have you seen one of these before, boy?” Foe asked.

  Wren shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Foe nodded and gripped the device around the narrow end and pointed the rounded, blunt end at Wren. There was a tiny rectangle at the center. Wren was just about to ask what it was when the device clicked, the rectangle lit with a lightning blue, and a needle-prick pain lanced through Wren’s chest. He yelped at the pain, and pressed his fingers against the place between his ribs where he’d felt the jolt. Already the pain was subsiding to a mild burn. There was no hole or mark on Wren’s shirt.

  “We just call them clickers,” Foe said casually as he held the device back out across his palm. “Go on, take it.” Wren took the clicker from Foe. Below them, water continued to fill the sunken portion. “Do you see how to operate it?”

  Wren turned the device over in his hand, ran a thumb along its smooth back. There was a hint of play in the curve, just behind the broad head of the device. Wren made sure the blunt end was facing Foe and pressed. The device clicked. Foe didn’t react.

  “Good,” he said. He glanced down at the water below, and then turned back to the panel. The hissing ceased. Foe went to edge of the ledge and turned around. “Down.”

  He bent down and descended, making use of a ladder embedded in the side of the concrete that Wren hadn’t noticed. Wren waited until Foe was down and then followed after. The old man waded out from the ladder to the center of the pool, weaving through the poles as he went. Wren estimated the water was about two feet deep. And when his foot touched it, he sucked in his breath at the cold.

  “Quickly, boy,” Foe called to him. Wren held his breath and forced his foot down into the frigid water. The water came up to the middle of his thighs, and drained all the heat from his body as he trudged his way out to where Foe was waiting. By the time he got there, his teeth were already chattering. Foe seemed disappointed. “You’ll want to control that,” he said flatly. And then, “Take a look around. Get a good sense of where you are, where I am, and what surrounds us.” He paused while Wren glanced around at the poles, the walls, the water. Wren wasn’t sure what exactly he was supposed to be looking for. He crossed his arms, hugging himself against his shivering.

  “Have you seen enough?” Foe asked.

  Wren nodded.

  “This is the Waiting Room,” Foe said. “You will spend a great deal of time here, and it will teach you many things. But the most important thing you will learn here is patience.”

  The idea of standing in freezing cold water didn’t sound at all like a good way to learn patience, Wren thought. How was Foe so calm? The water didn’t seem to be bothering him at all.

  “For now, we will begin with something simple. You have your clicker?”

  Wren unfolded his arms and held up his clicker. Foe drew a second clicker from his pocket.

  “A simple game, with simple rules. When I tell you to begin, try to hit me. Don’t get hit.”

  “That’s it?” Wren asked. Foe dipped his head in a nod. Wren glanced around again. The poles weren’t wide enough for him to hide behind completely, and they were only about three feet tall. Maybe he could use them for a little bit of cover at least.

  “Ready?” Foe asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Wren said. He hunched down, clicker at the ready. When Foe said to begin, Wren would feint to his right, and then dodge left. There was a cluster of poles that direction.

  “Very well,” Foe said. Wren tensed, waiting for the signal. Instead, the lights went out. Total darkness.

  “Begin,” said Foe. And in the next instant, a single spark flared and pain bored right through the center of Wren’s chest. He cried out at the shock, and Foe’s clicker glinted again, stinging Wren in nearly the exact same place.

  In the surprise and confusion, Wren forgot all about his previous tactics and lurched to his right. Another click, another ember of pain, this one catching him in the neck just under his jaw. He splashed on, operating purely in reaction, with no plan or purpose. Click, click. Two more stings, one on top of the other in his shoulder-blade.

  “Remember, boy,” Foe called. “You’re trying not to get hit.”

  The voice came from behind him, to his left. Wren spun and fired towards it as fast as he could, click click click click click. Silence.

  Then.

  Click.

  Lightning struck right between his eyes. Wren cried out again, earning himself another sting. He stepped back, caught his heel on one of the poles, went over backwards. And before he hit the water, Foe stung him again.

  Wren splashed down completely submerged, sucked in icy water, came up spluttering. As he tried to recover, over and over he felt Foe’s stinging attacks.

  “Stop, Foe!” he yelled at the blackness. “Stop it!”

  Click. A pang seared his cheek. Nothing he did seemed to matter; every move, every action, invited Foe’s deadly aim. And now, he was helpless and choking in the freezing water. The pain, the frustration, the debilitating cold; there was nothing to learn here, nothing except how to be a victim. He hugged the pole he’d tripped against, made himself as small against it as possible. His clicker was gone, lost somewhere beneath the glacial water.

  “Please, stop!” Wren screamed. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain he knew was coming. But only silence followed. Not total silence; he could hear the water sloshing against the walls, the sound of his own troubled breathing. He opened his eyes, though it made no difference in what he could see. The darkness was absolute. “Foe?” he said. And then louder. “Foe?”

  The lights came on, blinding. Wren squeezed his eyes shut against the brilliance.

  “Recover your clicker, boy,” came Foe’s voice from behind him and close. Wren turned and cracked an eye. Foe was standing over him, three feet away. When he saw Wren looking at him, the old man pointed away to his right. Wren followed the gesture and saw the shimmering shape of his lost clicker, distorted by the undulating water.

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to turn off the lights,” Wren said.

  In response, Foe clicked him. “Recover your clicker.”

  Wren dragged himself out of the water and sloshed over to where his clicker lay. His entire body trembled with cold. Capturing the device proved more of a challenge than it should have been as his chill-numbed fingers knocked it about in the water. Once he managed to collect the clicker, he stood and hugged himself again, trying to salvage any body heat he might possibly still possess.

  The lights switched off.

  “Again.”

  A splinter of fire shot through the middle of Wren’s back, and the pain tipped him over the edge. He cried then, cried at the unfairness of it, and at the joy this man he’d pledged himself to seemed to take in his suffering. Not loud sobbing, for he knew that would only give him away. Wren kept his mouth open, let the tears fall unrestrained. He was soaking wet anyway.

  Foe’s clicker fired again, stinging him at the base of the neck. Wren whirled in a rage, cried out, fired his clicker in a wild arc. For the outburst, he earned a rash of stabbing pain that stitched up his right side.

  “Remember your oath, boy,” Foe said.

  Was this really training? Throwing Wren into the middle of something and tormenting him while he flailed helplessly without guidance or direction? What good did it do to remember his oath, here in the middle of this senseless abuse?

  Another sting. He didn’t need an oath. He needed something to hide behind. A wall, or a shield. A shield.

  Discipline, my shield.

  The words came back at the same moment that Foe hit him again from another side. Wren clenched his teeth against it and just managed to stop himself from mindlessly lashing out in response.

  In all ways, at all times, I master myself.

  Another click, another scorching pain. Still, Wren kept his pl
ace, shuddering, tears streaking his face. At least he wasn’t splashing around.

  I master myself.

  Yet again, Foe jolted him. It hurt, yes, but Haiku had said Foe would never actually harm him. No permanent damage. Wren pressed his chilled hands to his face.

  Discipline, my shield.

  “Good,” Foe said from somewhere in the darkness. Good? What did that mean? Surely Wren was failing utterly. He took his hands away from his face. Drew a deep breath as quietly as he was able.

  “Of course I know where you are,” Foe said, and he fired his clicker again to demonstrate the point. “But that is because I know you have not yet learned to move quietly.” Wren wiped his running nose on his drenched sleeve. He turned at the waist in the direction of Foe’s voice.

  “Are you going to teach me that?” he asked. And he saw the blue flash of Foe’s clicker, took the hit, aimed his own at the afterimage still floating in his eyes, and returned fire click click.

  And then he lowered himself slowly into a crouch, down into the water, until it was over his shoulders. Foe fired again, from somewhere further to the right than he’d been when he’d taken his previous shot. But for the first time, Wren felt no pain. Foe had fired high.

  Wren brought his clicker up out of the water to fire back, but too quickly; his hand splashed as it broke the surface and undoubtedly Foe saw the flicker of Wren’s device low to the water. As if to draw attention to Wren’s mistake, Foe’s shot stung Wren right in the knuckle.

  Immediately after, the lights came on again. When Wren’s eyes adjusted, he saw Foe standing over by the ladder, quite a bit farther away than Wren had expected. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look upset either.

  Foe nodded at him. “Good,” he said. Wren stood up out of water, hopeful. A small victory. And Foe was standing by the ladder. Maybe that would be enough for the day. Wren couldn’t help but notice the old man was barely wet, except for where his legs were actually in the water.

  “Does that mean we’re done?” Wren asked.

  “Done?” Foe chuckled, and the lights went out. “No, boy. We’ve only just begun.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Painter reached over and took Snow’s hand. It was comforting to him, even though he knew it had no effect on her. They were sitting together in the shadow of a building, resting after their journey. And waiting for word from Asher, of course. Snow was wearing his goggles again, since Asher had once again driven them through the day to yet another enclave. Painter had genuinely lost count of how many towns they’d hit since Morningside fell. Six? Eight?

  His stomach churned whenever he thought about it, so mostly he tried not to. Sometimes his mind would wander back to the night when Asher had come to him, and he would find himself wondering what he had been so angry about, what injustice had been so great as to justify what he was now enabling. But he would never allow himself to linger on such thoughts for long. He’d made his choice, he’d chosen his side. These were the consequences. There was nothing to be done about it now. Painter squeezed Snow’s hand, drew strength from it. She was his reward.

  And yet, even his sister brought him pain now. Asher had given her to him, but he still made use of her for his attacks. She’d proven herself a deadly weapon, and once Asher had seen her effectiveness, he’d refused to let her stay behind. She’d become one of his favorite tools, in fact. For all his power, Asher still didn’t seem to have precise control over his armies of Weir. But there were a few that stood above all the rest. The ones Asher called his Hands. Snow was one of those. Painter had witnessed for himself just how effective she could be when they hit Briargate. He wished he could leave her here. Leave her to rest and to keep her out of what lay ahead. It was too late for him, he knew. But one day, he’d find a way to get his sister free.

  A ripple across his mind interrupted his thoughts; Asher seeking connection. Painter delayed opening the channel. He was exhausted, and the thought of having Asher in his head seemed for a moment like more than he could bear. The impulse grew stronger with each second. It was the strangest feeling, like a bulge in his thought patterns, something beneath the surface threatening to tear its way through. Painter was tempted to see what would happen if he refused the connection, but the fear that the outcome would be irreversible damage overcame his curiosity. He opened the channel, and Asher’s presence exploded into his mind.

  “What were you doing?” he snapped. “You answer when I call!”

  “Sorry,” Painter answered. “I’m... I’m just really tired.”

  “Whatever, it’s time,” Asher said, ignoring him. “Get moving. Offer the same.”

  “They won’t accept it,” Painter replied before he thought about it. He was so tired, he’d communicated it before he’d considered what he was saying. Asher didn’t like to be challenged. Painter had to be more careful.

  “Well they should,” Asher said. “It’d be a lot easier for everybody. Hurry up. I need you to meet up with Roh.”

  Roh. Even now the name sparked embers of anger in him. Roh was another Awakened from Morningside; fully Awakened, like Painter. And like Painter, he’d pledged himself to Asher’s service. Painter had known Roh, or at least known of him, in Morningside. He’d been Awakened a couple of months before Painter and had always had a chip on his shoulder. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Painter knew there was some aspect of... well, he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Not quite jealousy. But Painter had believed he’d been chosen by Asher above all others, to be his Voice. It had made him significant. Roh’s presence reminded him that maybe he wasn’t as important as he’d let himself believe.

  A location appeared in his mind, a beacon marking the rendezvous point with Roh.

  “Come on, Snow,” Painter said, getting to his feet. He drew her up, led her towards the beacon. It was several seconds before he realized that Asher was still hanging around.

  “Do you think I want to eradicate all these places?” Asher asked.

  Painter didn’t trust himself to answer.

  “I don’t,” Asher continued. “But you see how they force my hand. There have to be consequences. They don’t understand how I’m helping them.”

  Painter couldn’t prevent himself from responding. “Helping them?”

  “Yes, helping them, Painter. You’ve seen how they live. What about you? What were you before I found you? Before I chose you?” he said. “Nothing! And now look!”

  “By enslaving them?”

  “No!” Asher yelled, his voice sharp in Painter’s mind. And then, softened. “No, Painter. Listen. It’s not like it will be like this forever. It’s just for now. I just need everyone for now. When I’m done, I’m going to let them all go. Like I did with your sister. You know that, right?”

  There was a strange note in Asher’s words, an almost desperation that Painter had never heard before. Asher hadn’t been in the habit of explaining himself. It was this unpredictability that made Asher so fearful a master. But now he seemed conflicted, trapped between a need to be obeyed without question and a desire to be understood.

  “What will you do with us?” Painter asked. Asher’s words had sparked new hope in him, even though Painter knew better than to let himself trust them fully.

  “I don’t know. Whatever you want. It’s just... I have some things I need to do first. But when I’m done, you’ll see. The world will be a better place. Far better. You can’t see what I can–”

  He cut off suddenly. Not just his words. He vanished from Painter’s mind, left a sudden vacuum. Painter stopped and closed his eyes until the sensation passed.

  Afterwards, he pressed on to the meeting point, where Roh was already waiting for him, as expected. What Painter had not expected were the two giant Weir standing with Roh, one on each side. The Weir weren’t exactly natural to begin with, but there was something positively abominable about these two creatures, as if some otherworldly creature had found its way into human frame and corrupted it utterly. Painter had never seen anythin
g like them before. Weir, certainly, or had been as a start. But they’d been heavily modified with grafted musculature, reinforced with some combination of organic and mechanical constructs.

  Human war machines.

  “About time,” Roh said. “I need your skinny sister to get around behind the town.”

  “What... are those?” Painter asked.

  “Something Asher’s been working on. Don’t worry, they won’t bite,” he said with a smirk. “Just don’t get in front of them when we go knocking.”

  Painter didn’t want to look at the creatures anymore, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. And Roh. How could Roh be so oblivious to the horror? They weren’t animals. Those things had been people once. Even if they had been animals, Painter would have revolted at what had been done to them.

  “Come on, everyone’s waiting on us. Go give your little speech so we can get to work.”

  Painter nodded.

  “Unless you want to skip it,” Roh said. “You know what the answer’s gonna be.” He smiled with wicked intent. And for the first time Painter realized that Roh was actually enjoying this.

  A lightning flash of pressure exploded in his Painter’s mind, so forceful he actually physically staggered. Asher had reformed in his mind, had forced himself into Painter’s thoughts, uninvited, unannounced.

  “I’m taking a quarter, I need them,” he said. There was an almost manic intensity in his voice, or in his projection. “If they don’t surrender, burn it to the ground.”

  And then he vanished again, just as suddenly as he’d appeared.

  Not appeared. Intruded.

  “Asher’s taking some of the Weir,” Painter told Roh.

  “How many?”

  “He said a quarter of them.”

  Roh made a face. “Why?”

  “Didn’t say.”