The Miranda Contract

by Ben Langdon

  The passage led from the service elevator along eight cubicles on either side, right to the back where a compactor sat silently behind double doors. It was funny, he’d made deliveries to this place during the daylight hours, smuggling hot food to the staff who craved something fattening but couldn’t be bothered walking across to the food vendors. It looked the same: low light, slight echo of the rumbling air conditioner. Normally there would be a handful of workers congregated around the compactor room, stealing a cigarette break, away from the prominent smoke detectors, waiting for their chicken combos and wraps. They would be leaning against walls, nodding in agreement over poor wages, tyrannical supervisors or the football.

  But tonight the place was empty.

  He walked slowly, a strange feeling of being disconnected coming over him. Out in the fluorescent world of the stadium, Miranda would be commanding the attention of her loyal fans. All eyes on her. Even the predators. She knew the dangers. At least, Dan hoped she knew. It had been her choice, her gift to him, a last minute distraction to draw the world to her and let him slip into the stadium and through unmarked doors into the world beyond.

  But it was a different, cut-off world. He wasn’t being chased, threatened, beaten up and left for dead. He was hidden and it felt safe, like he could just stop and let the world pass him by. It was familiar. It was the other option, the safer route. He knew he could return to his old life, he’d just need to stay in one spot, not challenge his grandfather. Let Miranda die.

  He hadn’t even stopped walking, his fingers trailing along the wire mesh of the cages. The idea faded, not even fully formed. When he got to the corner with the compactor and the stairwell, there was no indecision. He didn’t want the shadow half-life anymore, living from day to day, hour to hour, with nothing to look forward to. He’d seen his mother fade into a vague blue smudge of a person.

  Was she back now, he wondered. It was too early to tell.

  He knew he would protect her, though. The Mad Russian had messed with all their lives, and now he wanted Dan to be stellar, to grow into the family name, to eclipse his unpromising father who had blown himself up, and perhaps even to replace the Mad Russian himself one day.

  He slid the door open and looked into the compactor room. On the edge of the gaping hole which led down to the box crushing machine in the basement, Dan saw a phone with its power on.

  “Crap,” he said, pushing out with his senses, searching for Halo.

  And then he was kicked in the small of his back, and stumbled forward. Halo landed on the ground as Dan crashed into the compactor room, his hands up to stop his head from hitting the metal. In a flash, he spun around and looked out the door, eyes blazing with blue energy.

  Halo stepped to the right just as the electricity blasted outward and past him. Dan pulled himself up and tore energy out from the surrounding electric grid in violent bursts. The dim lights were extinguished and the air conditioner cranked to a halt, their power source lancing out and into Dan. He clenched his fists and moved out of the room, a blue glow emanated from his body.

  Halo punched low, crouching as Dan came out of the door, but it missed and Dan’s palms flared with a sudden light. Even blinded, Halo moved like a ninja, leaping up to the mesh roof, grabbing a hold and leaping to the top of one of the cages.

  “Where is he?” Dan called out. He traced the line of metal, seeing the criss-crossing mesh with his special senses, all the way to Halo who crouched above. It wouldn’t take long to stun him.

  “Take it easy,” Halo said. “You’ve got all night, Danny.”

  Dan reached out and clamped his fingers around the mesh. He flexed and electricity burst outward, travelling like lightning through the wires. But the energy was blocked and re-routed, shooting through a second, hidden network and back into Dan, knocking him back with a burst. He fell to the ground, his hands glowing brightly again.

  “You think I’m an idiot?” Halo called out. “I brought you here.”

  Dan could sense the subtle circuit-breakers attached to the mesh. It had been hidden from him but now that he had activated them they were revealed. He didn’t recognize whose work it was. Surely not Halo.

  Halo leapt down, landing in front of Dan who sat on the floor, his legs splayed to each side, still looking surprised at his glowing hands. Halo’s foot shot out at head level, but Dan deflected it with his charged forearm. Sparks flew and Halo spun again, switching his feet, moving like a street fighter. The second kick connected with Dan’s chest, shoving him against the opposite fence.

  “Don’t be shy,” Halo said and fell back to a defensive stance.

  Dan pulled himself up using the wire mesh. He was still fully charged but the kick had winded him.

  “Where is he?” Dan asked again.

  “Your conversation is a bit boring.”

  “I’m not here to talk.”

  “Good to hear,” Halo said and punched outward, but pulled up deliberately short. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to kick your ass.”

  Halo smiled, his face bathed in the blue glow. Dan felt a rising anger, a hatred for the way Halo could still smile so easily.

  “You’ve got your juice back,” Halo said. “Don’t waste it on me.”

  Dan clapped his hands together in front of him, releasing a thunderclap which blew Halo backward down towards the service elevator. Crackling energy wrapped around him as he stumbled, kicking his legs out and falling.

  Dan followed him, coming to a stop next to Halo’s twitching boots.

  “It’s a decoy,” Halo said, surprisingly calm. His eyes looked to the roof, but then crossed to meet Dan’s eyes. “You’re being played. Again.”

  Images from the hotel explosion replayed across his eyes. The shooter collapsed once the trap had been set, and now Halo had set him up again. Dan pushed his senses outward, taking in the surveillance camera network which was still down. Most of the explosives had been deactivated but he could sense more of them on the other side of the stadium.

  “Where is he?” Dan mumbled, searching still.

  “Don’t follow him, Dan. You don’t have to be the one trick pony.”

  Dan stepped over Halo’s body as he twisted on the ground and raised himself up on his elbows. Halo struggled again, his legs numb from the shock. Dan punched the elevator button. Then he looked back at Halo.

  “I’m not anything like him.”

  “Probably not,” Halo said.

  “Why are you here?”

  Halo shrugged.

  “I mean it,” Dan shouted. “He treats us like puppets. Why are you still with him?”

  “Because I can’t cut the strings, Dan. Only you can do that.” Dan thumped the wall and sparks flew out. He hit it again. “Look for the separate line,” Halo said. “The old man’s set up a single camera loop down there. Especially for you.”

  Dan narrowed his eyes but he was already searching below. Most of the cameras were down, the locks deactivated; but then he stumbled across a transmitting signal. He concentrated further and broke into the visual feed.

  “Sorry, man,” Halo said.

  Dan’s eyes widened as his began to assemble the fragmented images from below. A camera system had captured a woman, dressed in a silver outfit. It was Miranda. Her dark hair fell across her face as she clutched the microphone stand and Dan could see she was trembling. It was a stage, and posters of Miranda rippled in a manufactured wind behind her as she stood in front of the microphone.

  Her lips moved. He could see that. They moved quickly like they were reciting a prayer or going over lines before the performance.

  Her hands shifted on the microphone, fingers lifting and moving to take hold of it again. She didn’t look up at the camera.

  She breathed out.

  Dan held his breath.

  And then electricity shot towards her from all sides, white light shooting into her chest and blasting out the back. She stood, clutching the microphone, refusing to let it go. Her mouth
opened and more light spilled outward, directly towards the camera that Dan had hijacked.

  Everything was consumed with the blinding white light.

  The elevator door opened and he stumbled into it, pushing madly for the floor below, using his hands and his mind. The doors closed again and Halo was gone.

  Time seemed to stop.

  The image of Miranda burned into his mind. He shut his eyes and it was there. He opened them and she was still there. He pushed his way into the corridors again as the doors opened and stumbled towards the camera’s fading signal. It drew him in like a line. He knew it was a trap, that his grandfather would be waiting.

  But he didn’t care.

  He had lost everything.

  He came to a stop at the stage door. The signal was clear but he couldn’t do it, the door stopped him. He pressed his face against it and felt the coolness. He realized he was crying.

  He could smell burning.

  “Miranda…” he whispered.

  He didn’t expect to gag, had told himself that it wasn’t any worse than other times, but when Dan pushed through the doors onto the stage he had to step back again quickly. The stench was like a solid force, pressing against the door and the walls, shifting itself through the molecules, wafting like a wave.

  It was like burning meat.

  He slid down the door with his arms crossed over his face, the sleeves of his shirt blocking the smell. In the second he had opened the door Dan had seen her body, on its back with legs bent at the knees, melting into the canvas floor. The jagged struts of bone and the withered torso were unmistakable.

  He tightened his arms and heard his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

  A sob escape from his throat.

  The electrical pulses around the stage were chaotic, having been re-channeled into the microphone. He could trace the networks and see how they had been re-routed. It was deliberate, delicate even, but even now the resolute hum of the independent camera played in his mind and he knew it was safely transmitting moving pictures out of the stadium. He didn’t know where. He didn’t know why. The scene would be flashing across the internet even as he sat on the floor choking back the bile.

  “It’s not Miranda,” Halo said, from behind the door.

  Dan rubbed his arm across his eyes and scuttled forward, daring to lift his eyes back to the girl. The first thing he saw was the charred wig. He clutched it and threaded his fingers through it.

  The room wasn’t a stadium.

  It was too small.

  Halo slipped in around the half-open doors, keeping his back to the wall.

  “It’s not Miranda,” Halo said.

  Dan looked back at the girl. She was ruined. But he saw the slender neck now, closer than before, and the hint of blonde hair. It was Evie. He choked back another sob and shut his eyes feeling all his strength seep out of him.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” Halo said softly. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Fuck!” Dan said, spinning his head to stare at Halo. “Shut up.”

  He felt the spit and sparks of blue lightning fly through the air and rubbed hard at his face again to regain something of himself. He tasted salt.

  “He wants you to break,” Halo said again, ignoring Dan’s warning. “It’s not Miranda.”

  But it was Evie and that was Dan’s fault. He knew it was his fault, and he knew he’d never make up for it, not even if he got to leave this place and return to his rat hole of a life. Halo crouched down and put a hand on Dan’s shoulder. Dan went to shake it off, but Halo held firm.

  “I know it’s hard, mate,” he said, close to Dan’s ear. “But you’ll find out there’s usually more Evies out there. You’re missing the end game.”

  Dan felt himself shout but he couldn’t hear it over the explosion of energy which burst from his body. The cracking sound of the blast echoed through the studio even as the lights exploded and the last camera was obliterated.

  Chapter 31

  The Mad Russian

  Above him, the storm crashed together in bursts of lightning. He floated a little above a stage in the center of the stadium, directly under an ornate glass dome which had replaced the normal roof. All around him, the humans watched in terror. They were too frightened to run, petrified at the sight of the Mad Russian. He had his hands to the side, his bearded face looking up to the night sky through the dome.

  In times past he had appeared in crowded places like this with one thing on his mind: murder. Berlin in the 1990s, Vienna and Minneapolis before that. He had crushed the life out of them, leveled large tracts of their human world and etched his power in the minds of what few survivors remained.

  “Behold your last night,” he said in a voice which cracked a little. His powers amplified the words and the crack seemed to careen into madness, echoing as it was directed through the complex. “No one can save you.”

  He was welcomed with screams and he bowed as if receiving applause.

  Bodies were already littering the walkways, attempts at heroism met with casual cruelty. Security had retreated after the Russian had impaled more than a dozen of them with iron ripped from the walls. Their speared bodies served as boundaries for his final performance of the night, stabbed into the floor at each of the exits.

  The celebrity girl stood in the middle of the stage, flanked by fairy lights leading to an elevator. He had commandeered the light and sound systems, leaving the previous operators dead or dying in their little control rooms.

  He turned his attention to her, his eyes moving from the sky above to her slim figure. She was pathetic. Her hair was flat against her head, drenched from the rain outside. She wore a shimmering black t-shirt and jeans, an everyday girl. He wondered briefly how she had captured the hearts and minds of the people.

  Posters of her were spread like giant sentinels throughout the complex. As people regained their ability to move and scamper to safety, Miranda Brody stood her ground. She looked up at him, defiant.

  In the old country, he had known another girl with those daring eyes. As her town burned and her family and friends screamed themselves into hysteria, she had stood against him.

  “Sima,” he whispered and glided towards Miranda, lowering himself to float just above the stage. He spoke in Russian. “Kak dyela? It has been so long.”

  Sima had been his enemy and his love, switching from one to the other as easily as she changed bodies. Her dead eyes were the only constant. He reached his hands out and took hers, looking into the face which she now wore.

  “This is for you,” he said softly. “Our great work, coming here now.”

  The girl shook her head and struggled against him. He let her hands drop as it dawned on him that this was not Sima.

  “You’re a monster,” Miranda said, stepping back, reaching behind her.

  “Ah,” he said, forcing the sadness away and replacing it with the moment. “You are the Miranda Brody. Do you see these men and children and women? They worship you like the television, like the god.”

  He shook his head.

  “But you are not the god,” he continued.

  “And neither are you,” she shot back at him and drew a gun, leveling it at his head.

  She closed her eyes as she pulled the trigger and a blast of light exploded from its end. The Russian withdrew into the air, his eyes burning and his hands pressed against the skin.

  The light of the flare gun pulled into him, slipped in through the sockets, absorbed into the raging sun that lived inside his body. He opened his eyes, blinked, and steadied his body as it hovered above her.

  “Ah…” he said.

  He looked down at her from his height, hovering over the ground, and he took a hold of her with his mind, pulling at the invisible threads which formed her body and her clothes. She lifted into the air, although she struggled, and soon her eyes were level with his. He compressed his hold on her and she stopped moving, her body rigid as he sent electricity through her.

  “You should be ha
ppy,” he said as she screamed. “These people, they worship the dead celebrity persons, more than they do the living.”

  There was a disturbance in the air, a familiar one which made the Mad Russian halt his torture of Miranda. He turned to look around the stadium seating. People huddled in groups, holding each other as they trembled, as if there was safety in numbers. His eyes fell upon them, but he was looking for a familiar form, his former star pupil.

  He smiled as he saw the girl in the crowd. She was on the second level, directly opposite with a clear view of him.

  “Come, come,” he beckoned to the girl who secretly formed in their midst, most likely out of thin air. He had always loved her.

  Bree wore a black hijab and cloak which covered her body to her toes. Under the cloak was a scarlet shirt and black pants. Her hair was hidden, but she looked very much like her mother.

  “I’ve brought you something,” she said loudly through the veil. “Although I don’t think you’ll like it.”

  “I am not liking very much of this city,” the Russian said. “Perhaps your gift will change this.”

  “Probably not, Sir.”

  She bowed, and then the air around the stage began to coalesce, spinning itself into a sandstorm which then became more solid, taking the form of a large bearded man. It was the man who had battled Luke Ma and Grandfather Time. He wore white trousers and a white turban with a ruby in the center. His chest was bare and rippled with strength.

  “Salam,” he said and then thundered his two fists into the ground, sending a shockwave towards the Mad Russian. The force passed by underneath his floating feet, but then Suleyman leapt forward himself and crashed headlong into the floating man. They fell to the ground and landed on the jagged mess of concrete and seating. Shards pressed up into the Russian’s protective field, and together with Sully’s bulk, it managed to disrupt his concentration.