by Summer Lane
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.
I don’t flinch and I don’t take my sights off him.
“Now is hardly the time for games,” I tell him. “What are you doing here?”
“Peace,” he replies. “I don’t want to see San Francisco annihilated like this. Do you? I know you don’t. You could save it, you know. You could do something to stop this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Talk to her. Veronica.” He raises an eyebrow. “She would negotiate with you.”
I stare at him.
“Who are you, Proper?” I ask, suddenly afraid.
He smiles vaguely.
“Are you…are you Omega?” I whisper. “You are, aren’t you? Harry Lydell didn’t try to commit suicide…you tried to kill him, and you almost succeeded. You silenced him. But why?”
He says nothing.
“You killed Eli Morales and his daughters,” I go on. “You’ve been right in front of us this whole time.”
“I did not kill Eli or his daughters,” he answers. His smile is gone, and he looks furious. “That was not my doing. I am not a murderer. I’m just like you, Commander. I’m trying to protect the people I love.” He looks defeated. “But you’re getting the hang of it. Have you figured out that Omega is everywhere yet? That there is nowhere you can go where they haven’t touched your world?”
I narrow my eyes.
“How about I just kill you, and we end this discussion?” I ask, my finger on the trigger of the rifle.
“If you kill me,” Jack answers, “then you won’t be able to talk to Veronica.”
I hesitate.
“Veronica?”
“I can get you to her.”
“I don’t want to talk to her, Proper. I want to kill her.”
He laughs. It is a coarse, guttural sound.
“But you, Commander, offer something that Veronica doesn’t have,” he goes on. “Negotiation with one of the most important leaders in the movement. It would be the first time any of the militia leaders have talked with Omega personally.”
I think of the forty dead soldiers on the bridge. I think of everyone I love—both dead and alive—and I glare at Jack Proper.
“If you’re lying to me,” I say, “I will kill you.”
“Of course.”
“Where can I find Veronica?” I ask.
At this, his grim smile returns. I do not trust it.
He says, “She’s been expecting you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’ll take you to her.” He raises an eyebrow. “You can put the gun down. I’m not going to hurt you. Veronica wants you alive.”
As he talks, I know that I am playing right into Veronica’s hands. I’m walking right into her web, straight into her trap. But I am doing it willingly, because maybe—if I’m lucky—I can talk to this woman and work out some sort of parlay. Maybe I can, at the very least, stall the firefight long enough for the militias to make a retreat and head back to the mountains before this skirmish turns into an all-out slaughter.
And even if it ends with my death, if I have spared just one person’s life, then it will have been worth it.
“Take me to her,” I say. “And walk in front of me.”
“Very well, Commander,” he replies. “But once we get there, you’re playing by their rules, not yours.”
I don’t respond. I simply gesture with the barrel of my rifle and he turns away from me, walking across the road, heading off the highway. I begin following him, keeping a good ten feet between us. Enough of a distance for me to shoot him if he decides to try anything.
Different scenarios run through my head as we walk. First, that Jack Proper could be lying to me. He could be leading me into a blind ambush. He could turn on me and kill me. Veronica Klaus could be waiting with an execution squad when we arrive.
Perhaps the worst part is that I know that I am walking to my doom, willingly and deliberately. But what choice do I have? I am conscious that Jack is playing to my emotions, running high after seeing the death on the bridge and the destruction of the Golden Gate. I know this, but I still go on.
Sure, I could return to Alcatraz Island and let the militias—and Chris—know that I am still alive. But this represents a better opportunity, and if nothing else, a chance for the militia to escape this futile situation.
As we move away from the bridge, we delve into the city again, and I follow Jack Proper through the abandoned areas of town. The sound of battle is loud all around us as we snake through streets and back alleys, pulling farther away from the bay and the shoreline. Many of the buildings here have been freshly destroyed by the attacks from Omega on the city. They are still smoking, pieces of plaster and brick crumbling to the ground in heaps.
“So what made you choose them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“Hey,” I press. “What made you choose Omega over the militias?”
A long minute goes by before he answers,
“It’s not about choice, Commander. It’s about survival.”
“The militias are surviving.”
“For now. Look at Omega. They’re powerful, organized. Dominating.” He pauses. “I want to be on the winning side, because I want to live. Because I want the people I care about to live. This hellhole we’ve dug ourselves into since the Collapse happened? It’s disintegrating quickly. Omega will take over—they will. It’s not a theory or a possibility. It’s a fact. And I want to be on the side that will give me a life.”
“Omega won’t give you life,” I tell him. “They’ll give you an illusion. You won’t have freedom or choice with them. They’ll take that away from you. They already have. Look what they did to Eli Morales and his daughters.”
Jack is silent for a long moment before he replies.
“I told you. I had no hand in their killings. I did not know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’ve killed hundreds, Commander,” Jack responds. “You’re not a saint. You’re hardly one to point fingers.”
A Blackhawk thunders over our heads. Jack and I both crouch low, out of their sight.
“I’m not a saint,” I say. “You’re right. But at least I’m fighting for the right thing.”
Silence. We do not speak again.
We walk for another thirty minutes before we reach an empty neighborhood. The buildings here have been burned and charred.
There are two cars here, and just in front of them, five Omega soldiers. They are unlike any troops I have ever seen before. They are dressed in black, with white shoulder caps and collars. They wear reflective visors over their eyes, shielding their facial expressions from me.
This is a new enemy, a new form of Omega.
They are standing, motionless, as if they have been waiting for hours. It dawns on me then that perhaps my escape from Red Grove did not go unnoticed, and that my every movement has been anticipated.
I try not to think about it.
“Okay, Commander Hart,” Jack Proper says, turning to face me. “This is where you have to lay down your weapons.”
I swallow.
I have the sudden desire to turn tail and run, but I stand my ground. I know this is part of it. I slowly lower my weapon and set it on the ground. I slide my two handguns out of their holsters. I unsheathe my knife. I lift my hands up, showing that I am unarmed, and he nods. The trooper in the black and white uniforms open one of the doors on a vehicle—a black pickup truck. It reminds me of a truck I was once shoved into as a prisoner of war…
I walk toward it, knowing the game. I climb into the back seat, and Jack Proper climbs in next to me. My heartbeat quickens. He hands me a black cloth.
“Blindfold,” he says. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t seem sorry, though.
He is proud of himself. No doubt he believes that Veronica will reward him generously for delivering me to her front doorstep.
We’ll see.
The doors slam. The engine sputters to life.
The truck moves forward. I grip the seat with my fingers, feeling the presence of Jack beside me. All the while, I will myself to remain calm, to control my breathing, to refrain from showing emotion of any kind. The only betrayal of my fear is my thundering heart. I am surprised that everyone in the truck cannot hear it.
As we drive, Jack and the troops in the front exchange more banter in Russian. I pick up certain words, like Klaus, assault, and militia. But aside from that, I can’t discern the point of their conversation.
Judging from the tone of their voices, it sounds like they’re pleased.
Wonderful.
It seems like hours before the truck finally comes to a stop. The doors open. Jack puts his hand on my arm and pulls me out of the truck.
I hear the chirping call of seagulls and smell the salt of ocean spray. The wind is wildly powerful here. We are near the ocean. I can taste it.
“Keep the blindfold on,” Jack instructs, his tone threatening.
I say nothing.
There are more voices. I hear footsteps against pavement, car doors slamming. There is the steady thump of helicopter blades gaining speed.
Jack says something. Someone replies. I am grabbed—one person grasps each of my arms—and dragged forward.
I hear the helicopter and I am dragged inside. A chopper. We are going by air. We are leaving San Francisco. I may never see Chris or the militia again. Not Manny, Elle, Andrew or even Vera.
Doors shut. Blades slices against the sky. Voices, again. Words in Russian and Chinese. The chopper lifts off the ground. I remain seated, erect, surrounded on all sides by the enemy, on my way to meet my fate.
I can only imagine what is waiting for me on the other side of this journey.
I hope I make it. I hope we make it.
And at this point, hope is all I have.
*
We are not in the chopper for very long. My perception of time is slightly skewed, but I estimate that we have spent maybe fifteen or twenty minutes in the air before we land. I feel the weight of the chopper bouncing against the ground. I hear the blades slow down. The doors open and I am dragged outside. It is incredibly cold here—colder than the San Francisco Bay. Jack Proper pulls my blindfold off. I squint, adjusting to the light, taking in my surroundings.
Omega.
They are everywhere.
We are standing on a small airstrip. All around us, there are tall, rocky crags reaching into the sky. The ocean surrounds us on all sides. I see Omega battleships in the distance. Freezing raindrops fall from the sky, smattering my cheeks.
We are on an island.
Jack Proper wrenches my hands behind my back and binds my wrists together with a set of sharp, metal cuffs. They dig into my skin and draw blood, but I say nothing. There are several dozen Omega troopers on this island, buzzing around like flies, all dressed in the same bizarre black-and-white-checkered uniforms and visors.
There are no visible buildings here. There are only ships docked along the shoreline, and a single, large edifice on the west side of the island. It’s white, stained with a century’s worth of bird crap from the seagulls hovering overhead.
“Where are we?” I ask Jack.
“If I told you that,” Jack replies, “that would defeat the entire purpose of wearing the blindfold.”
“It was worth a try.”
He takes me away from the chopper, down a beaten dirt path away from the landing strip. No guards accompany us. I guess they figure that even if I tried to make a run for it, I wouldn’t get anywhere. After all…it’s an island. Where would I go?
That knowledge is sobering.
I am trapped here. This is it.
We keep walking, bypassing patches of dry grass and rocks. We arrive at the stained, white building. There are no windows, but there are at least five sentries posted at the door. Jack inhales deeply—nervous? Impossible.
He approaches the door.
“Jack Proper,” he says. “I’ve got a gift for the Chancellor.”
He gestures to me.
The guards exchange glances with each other. One of them stares at my face.
“Is that Commander Hart?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Jack replies. “It is. Now…do you mind?”
Another pause.
One of the guards suddenly opens the door.
“Keep your gun on her,” he warns, pointing to me.
Jack nods, jamming the muzzle of his rifle into the small of my back.
He pushes me through the door. Two of the guards follow us inside, stationing themselves by the front entrance. The interior is lit with typical bunker lights—orange and flickering. There is a table in the center of the room, and just beyond that, there is a row of chairs. And, sitting on the furthest chair from me, is the Chancellor.
“Veronica Klaus,” I state.
She is just as striking in person as she was on the satellite feed. Pale, powdery-white skin, full lips, and a pile of black hair coifed at the back of her neck. She is wearing a white shirt with combat-style pants and boots. She smiles as I enter the room and the door shuts behind me.
“Cassidy Hart,” she says. “Well. This is a surprise.”
“I’ve brought her to you,” Jack tells her, bowing his head. “Your Grace, I hope that this settles our agreement.”
I chance a sideways glance at Jack. His face is tight. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, slipping into the collar of his shirt.
Veronica slowly stands up. She is tall—nearly six feet—and willowy. She never removes her laser-like gaze from mine as she moves. She stops inches from my face, tilting her head. I see the fine lines around her eyes, betraying her age, as she turns to Jack.
“Perhaps,” she says to him, “this settles part of it.”
“But, my Grace,” he stammers, “you said that—”
“Do you really believe that I care what I said?” Veronica interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “Leave us. We will discuss our business later.”
A muscle ticks in Jack’s jaw, and another bead of sweat slips down his face. He turns on his heel, but not before he casts me a wary look, and marches outside.
“Guards,” Veronica says, staring at me. “Leave us.”
They do not question her. They immediately react, vanishing outside and closing the door behind them.
“You’re a strange creature, Commander Hart,” Veronica says, walking in a slow circle around me. “Why would you willingly surrender yourself to Proper?”
“What makes you think I surrendered myself?” I reply.
“Please. Proper is many things, but a great warrior is not one of them.” She shrugs. “He’s a soldier of convenience. You wouldn’t have come with him if you didn’t want to.”
“You’re right,” I say.
“I always am.”
“What do you want with me?” I ask. “Proper said you’ve been waiting for me.”
“Of course.” A sly smile spreads across her lips. “A militia commander like yourself simply can’t help but be painfully—stupidly—heroic. How perfect.” She turns from me and picks up something from behind the chair. She holds it up for me to see.
I gasp.
It is my knife. The knife that Jeff Young gave to me for Christmas, before I became a soldier. The knife with my name engraved on it. The knife that I lost in Sky City, when I was captured and tortured.
“Where did you get that?” I demand.
“Sky City is mine,” she answers. “I know its secrets. I know where hidden things can be found again.” She drops the knife on the table. I stare at it. “It’s special
to you?”
I say nothing.
“Let me guess,” she goes on. “It was a gift from someone who is now dead.”
I answer, “Dead, because of people like you.”
“I take that as a high compliment.” She leans against the table, smirking. “I know you, Commander. I know you and your boyfriend and your militia better than any other militia on the West Coast. Yours is the most efficient, the most dangerous. Yours has caused me the most trouble—and that’s not easy to do. You’re quite talented, you and Commander Young.”
“We try,” I quip, raising an eyebrow.
“You see, having someone like you on my side…” Veronica continues. “That would be divine. You know the state better than my troops, and you understand the culture, the people. You know what drives them—and you know what destroys them. That’s why you can lead them so well. They’re like sheep, and you, my dear, are their shepherd.”
“Get to the point,” I say.
She blinks, a flicker of irritation on her face.
“Wouldn’t you love to be on the winning side?” she asks.
I close my eyes, exhaling.
So there it is.
“You want me to turn my back on my country,” I say, “and become one of your cronies, so that I can help you destroy the western world and enslave free people?”
“You’re very blunt, Commander.”
“The answer is no.”
“Of course that’s your first reaction,” she says, laughing. “You’re so hopelessly heroic. You think you can actually save your home? Are you insane, Commander? We rule the world. All that’s standing between us and total domination are people like you!”
“Exactly,” I say.
“So give in,” she purrs. “Aren’t you tired of this? It’s torture, isn’t it? Watching your friends and family die all around you until there’s no one left, and you’re standing alone, in the cold, in a country that no longer belongs to you. In a place that is bringing your death, slowly, inch by inch.”
Her words are icy, like tiny daggers in my heart.
My worst fears, laid bare before one of the most powerful leaders of Omega.
“We will stop you,” I say firmly.
