by Tam MacNeil
Sean nods.
“Helmet next,” he says. “It always hurts. Sorry,” he adds. He pushes it down over Sean’s head, adjusts it so it sits properly and sees through the clear visor as Sean winces again.
He looks at the cage, at the straps and the wirework, and he thinks of the ports. They’re gone now, a grudging modification, but the places where they were are all polished metal, ground down flush, and only the straps remain. Sean will be running manual. He won’t have augmentation. It’s probable he’ll end up with muscles torn and bones broken and feel everything in real time. He looks at Sean.
“I don’t want to do this to you,” he whispers.
He doesn’t think Sean can hear him, he never could hear much of the outside world when he was suited up and had the helmet in place. But Sean must see his mouth move, and read his expression, because the only part of his face that Alex can see, his eyes, soften just a little. He bobs his helmeted head in a kind of a nod. It’s ok. Go ahead. I’m ready.
He takes Sean’s shoulder, moves him carefully until he steps back a pace, and then another. “Step up,” he says and Sean must read his lips because he does, up into the cage. Alex is shaking. His hands fumble at the straps.
The straps are stretched and discoloured, white in places with salt, and some of them slightly frayed where they’re swallowed by the metal of the cage. He doesn’t want to do the final buckle. He doesn’t want to have to stand upright and look at Sean’s face. But he knows the mech could tumble, and the impact could break Sean’s neck. He needs to be flush to the metal of the cage. Whatever else it is, it’s also an exoskeleton, protection. He looks in through the visor glass. Sean is looking back at him, steady and calm. The corners of his eyes turn up just a little. A smile, maybe.
“Alex, is he ready?”
He turns. Rak is standing there. He’s got a headset held in one hand.
He nods.
“I want to test the comms before he goes out.”
He nods again, is sickeningly relieved to be able to look away from Sean. Rak puts the headset on and taps it. “Ok,” he says, “you hearing me?”
Sean nods.
“Try moving your arms, let’s see how that goes for you.”
Sean’s eyes narrow just a little. His forehead creases. The left hand strains against the straps and the cage groans just a little, then moves. He looks at Alex like, You’re kidding right?
“It’s always hard getting it started, and running manual sucks. Once you’re moving it’s easier.”
“Alex says it’s hard to get started but it gets easier. Your relays are on-line,” Rak says. “Everything looks good. We're going to feed a higher than normal oxygen concentration into your mask, Simone says that'll help in combat.” He nods at Alex. “You better get going. Mad’s waiting.”
He looks back at Sean in that nightmare place, for all that he’s in charge of a monster killing machine he is still hanging and helpless. “Be ok,” he says.
Sean closes his eyes. Yeah, yeah.
Alex follows Rak out to the desk. The door to the Tank closes with a boom.
It’s just rained, and the air is sweet and clear. He can see the shinigami and it’s strange to see them without a head’s-up display flashing in his face, and from so close to the ground. There’s comms in his ear though, and it’s weirdly comforting to hear Mad’s voice and know the comms go both ways, and if he speaks she’ll be able to hear him.
The gun’s an M40. Not his favourite one, that one might even be back in a gun safe somewhere near City Hall. This one has a synthetic stock and a barrel he doesn’t like. But he got used to at the range, and it’ll do. It’s nice not to have to take the gun apart for transport. Nice not to have to wonder if he’s got everything set up just right. She gives him ear buds too. They look just like cheap headphone buds with a little rubber ring around it to keep it snug in the ear. “I know you don’t need them, but I do. And I want to be able to hear you.”
Now he’s lying on his belly on the roof of the Tank with the buds in his ears, the cold seeping through his shirt to his skin, and the shinigami writhing and growing as they come up from the sea. Soon, he tells them before they can speak to him. Be quiet and be calm and I will free you.
Sean does it perfectly. He draws the shinigami back from the Tank, so that Alex has clear view of the three of them, and he can see Marshall standing among them, like a man standing in a meadow, the tendrils of the shinigami waving around him like grass. He does not want to hit the shinigami. He knows bullets don’t hurt them, but he doesn’t want Marshall to know he’s being ambushed. He doesn’t know magic like Rak does, and doesn’t know what might happen. He does not want Marshal to command the shinigami to tear him apart the way he commanded them to take apart SysCorp and the Annex.
“Here we go,” Mad says.
But the wind is changing. The shinigami and the mech are moving and he can feel the questioning of the shinigami, wondering why the creature in the mech suit is not Alex, wondering when all this will be over.
Soon, he tells them. Be still.
The tendrils stop, as if the wind had suddenly died, but it hasn’t. He squeezes the trigger and the gun recoils with a thump against his shoulder. For an instant there is stillness and there is silence and then Marshall topples backward from the shinigami and falls like a stone.
“There,” he whispers.
Marshall hits the water with a splash, and where he lands the water turns dark. Then a spreading stain like the night sky and like stars and the water rushing down the sides like it’s flowing out of the sea, flowing somewhere, falling like a waterfall into space and the shinigami are coming apart in the darkness, their stars winking out, their forms diminishing.
Goodbye.
He is not sure which of them thinks it. They vanish like smoke, like fog when the sun strikes it. Not like death, not the sort of death he could deal out in the mech suit, but something else. He looks at the empty place for a little while, then looks over at Mad. She's looking at him with a crooked little smile on her face.
“Done?” she asks. He cannot feel them any more. He puts his head down on his arm and tries to steady himself.
“Done,” he says. She touches his shoulder.
“Saved the world you know,” she whispers.
Doesn’t feel like it.
Twenty Nine
Silence, and only the crashing of the waves against metal. The shinigami have vanished, evaporating under his hands. He can hear the way Rak breathes out a huge sigh.
Done, Rak tells him. Holy mother of god, Sean. We did it. Good job. We fucking did it.
He smiles, surprisingly hard to do with the comms mask in place.
Hang on, giving you over to Alex.
A rattle of plastic, then Alex’s voice, soft, soothing. So boring, he says and Sean laughs against the mouth piece. Easiest fuckin’ shot in the world.
He wants to tell Alex he loves him. He wants to get out of this suit and this cage and pull Alex against him and tell him it’s over, everything is over, and it’s going to be ok now. The comms rattle as the headset gets passed back to Rak and then Rak says, Your vitals look good. Rest for a bit and then come back when you’re ready.
He wants out of the machine, wants out of the cage. He wants to fall into bed and lie with his hands tangled in the sheets and Alex warm beside him. He’s starting to get cold, didn’t realize he was so completely soaked in sweat.
He realizes sound has changed around him. He thinks maybe he can hear the thrumming beat of a helicopter. Seems crazy that the press should be out here so soon, how would anybody know where they are?
A shivering boom as metal strikes metal and then a moment later another. Something moves. He looks toward it. It is a door that’s opened. And framed in the door is Cameron.
Sean is suddenly aware of being alone, and helpless, strapped into this fucking thing, and the comms only go one way.
Sean, your heart rate is climbing. Rak’s voice is soft in his ear. I
’m, uh, I'm passing you to Simone, ok?
Sean? It’s important that you rest. Her voice is so calm. You need to have enough strength to get back to the Tank. Take a few deep breaths for me.
Cameron comes over to the cage and looks up at him. He smiles. It’s not a nice sight. Then he reaches up and pushes open Sean’s visor. The smell of metal and oil and diesel wash over him, and Sean can hear himself breathing, ragged and afraid, and the crashing waves, and he can hear Cameron’s voice.
“Well.” His voice is soft, almost lost under the hush and sigh of waves beating against the metal hull. “At least I get this.”
Simone’s voice in the comms. Sean, I think you might be having a panic attack. They are frightening but they will not harm you. Try to breathe normally.
Cameron comes around to the front of the cage, between Sean and the head’s-up display. He’s in shirtsleeves, hair carefully combed back. He’s holding something in one hand, but it’s half-hidden behind him, and Sean can’t see what it is. Not till he turns, revealing it like a present. It’s a baseball bat, smooth yellow wood, a bright logo on the end. Brand new.
“I once told Alex something about you,” he says. “And it’s important that he understands that I am never wrong. And I never, ever lie.”
Horror washes over him. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. This is how he’s going to die.
Simone's voice again. Sean, your heart rate is climbing. Please try to relax. Try thinking about home.
Cameron smiles the way that he used to smile. He leans the bat against the console and reaches up to undo the helmet and tug it off. Cool sea air rushes over him. It chills the sweat in his hair and running down his face and neck.
Sean, something’s happened to your relays. Please stop tampering with the mouth piece, that’s the only way we know your heart rate and your oxygen saturation.
Cameron thumbs the side of his face. He tries to hold still, wills this to be some kind of horrible hallucination. In his nightmares he is hanging helpless before Cameron, and now. Now this.
“You should be begging,” Cameron says. He unbuckles the comms and pulls it away, freeing Sean’s mouth. Sean, please, put the relay back in your mouth. Sean you need to listen to me. “Let’s hear it.”
His mouth is full of saliva. It’s no effort to spit at Cameron.
He wipes the slick from his cheek with his hand and then wipes it on Sean’s face. Then he reaches up, grabs Sean by the hair and smashes his head into the support bars. “Did you forget?” Cameron asks in a soft voice. “Did you forget everything you owed me?”
Something’s wrong. Simone’s voice, brisk, commanding. I want him out of there, now.
Cameron drags his head back and smashes it again. The world shivers. A third time. Lights pop in front of his eyes and the world lurches like a stuck clock. Cameron lets go of his hair and he sags in the cage, head pounding so that the grated iron floor whirls in a drunken spin under him.
Cameron’s hands at the strapping, his head first, then one arm free, then the other, then both legs. He can’t even tell which way is up, grips the grating when he falls on it. He’s aware that Cameron has turned, knows the bat is still there, right where he left it. Cameron turns and he’s holding it, lines up, and swings it like a golf club. The force of it and the pain of it take the air out of Sean. He falls, trying to raise his arms to cover his head. But it’s not his head that Cameron is going after, it’s his arms.
There’s a blur, another breathtaking impact, explosion of pain. His shoulder feels like it’s bleeding, feels like it’s pulp. Another swing, and this time he raises up his arm to try to stop the contact, to grab the weapon but he’s too slow and there’s a crack like ice breaking, and pain. He gasps, it blinds him. A nightmare certainty tells him the arm is broken, that he mustn’t get hit there again. He spasms around it, clutching it to his belly as if he can hold everything in place and make the pain stop. Doesn’t want to die this way. Desperately doesn’t want to die this way.
Cameron steps back. He looks down. He rests the bat on the shiny tip of his shoe. He’s not even breathing heavily. Not even sweating. He smiles. “Let’s hear it, Sean.”
He needs time. They’ll come for him. He just needs time. The pain is going to make him puke. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t get hit in that arm again. He has to find a way to buy them time.
“Please,” he says, hates the word. Hates it.
“Good.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He’s sobbing, and the begging’s coming naturally now. “Please stop.”
A soft laugh, soundless, just air. “You know I always liked you, Sean. You know I expected so much better out of you.” The false brightness and the fake kindness go running out of that voice. “I shouldn’t have to do this sort of thing. I wish you wouldn’t make me do this sort of thing.”
Cameron leans down close to Sean and Sean would give anything to have the strength to punch him in the face, would take more broken bones in exchange for a weapon, but there’s nothing and even his strength has failed. “You make it so damn difficult sometimes, Sean.” He touches Sean’s face again, like some kind of disappointed lover. “I’ve got enough trouble without having to discipline you too.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He needs to make time, time where there is none. He has to do what it takes, whatever it takes, if he’s going to have enough time, if he’s going to survive.
“I’m sorry Cameron, I’m… I’ll make it up to you.”
Cameron’s posture changes. He rocks back a bit, head coming up. Surprised.
“Lemme…” god it hurts, the arm. “Lemme make it up to you.”
Hooded eyes, a crooked smile. “And how are you going to make it up to me?”
He can’t think, everything hurts too much. “Anything. Anything. All… all the things Alex used to do.”
“You’re a filthy fucking slut, Sean. You always were.” That hand on his face, pushing against his mouth. “I only put up with you because I needed Alex to function. But you were never worth the trouble. You tried to kill me. You turned my favourite against me.” Forcing his mouth open, cutting his lips and his cheeks against his teeth. “You ruined my contract with the DND, and shut my mech program down.” He leans in close. “Do you think there’s anything you could ever do to make it up to me?” He grips Sean by the jaw and slams his head down onto the grate once, twice. “Do you think there’s anything you can give me that I can’t just take?”
His mouth is full of blood and his eyes are full of stars. He can’t get a fix on anything, everything’s lurching. He might throw up. Cameron’s turning again, turning, reaching for the bat. Oh god, oh god. He curls, tries to hide his broken arm, but it’s not the arms Cameron’s after now; the blows fall on his legs, beating them like he’s trying to break them into powder, the same spot over and over, and Sean wants the steel grate to open under him, he wants to fall a hundred feet just to get away, he has no air to scream any more.
And then it stops. He lies still until he dares to look. Look at Cameron. Now he’s sweating. Now his hair is messed up, and there’s a splatter of blood on his face. Now he looks like he looks in Sean’s nightmares. Now he throws aside the bat, grabs the front of Sean’s suit, heaves him upright. He’s so steady and Sean’s shaking so hard and he can hardly see. He leans in close and Sean can smell the soap he uses and the deodorant. He can smell all the smells of unwanted contact, of pain and humiliation. He pushes his mind away from it, from the memories and the pain, he thinks of Galway and the IRA guys. He stares at the place where the window connects with the ceiling, even though the world is rotating and then jerking back to position, he stares at the spot.
They’re not coming, something soft and sad whispers in his head. You’re going to die here. He stares at the spot between the window and the ceiling. Makes that the only thing in the world.
“I’m going to throw you over the edge when I’m done. I’m going to watch you drown.” Cameron’s hand is gent
le on his bloodied mouth now. “Maybe if you beg really nice I’ll knock you out before I throw you in.” The hand on his face grips, turning Sean’s head toward him. He tries to keep his eyes fixed on the vent, the place where the window and the ceiling join. “Ask for it. Beg.”
There’s something breaking the light of the windows. He can smell gunmetal mingling with the blood. He opens his mouth to beg, and hears a soft click.
Cameron stiffens. He moves slow, deliberate. Turns his head. Sean can see there’s the muzzle of a .22 flush to the back of his head. Mad’s holding the gun. Mad, her face hard, pitiless.
“That’s enough dad,” she says. Her voice is soft but the words ring in the cockpit. No one moves or speaks. There’s just the sigh of waves, the hum of an engine somewhere. The Arrow near by.
“Madeline,” Cameron says after an eternity. His eyes are wide, like he can’t believe this. Like this woman is an apparition. Neither can Sean. Not really.
“Get off of him.”
Cameron moves. He lowers Sean to the grate again. He shifts.
“Alex,” Mad’s voice is hard, cold, calm. “Get him to Simone.” It’s an order.
Mismatched eyes, mismatched hands. Alex. He kneels down by Sean and Sean wants to smile, to tell him he’s ok, not to worry, but everything hurts too bad and the world is spinning off its axis, he can’t even say Alex’s name. “Come on,” Alex whispers and the words echo weirdly in the comms still in his ear.
He tries, but he can’t get up. His leg isn’t working right, he can’t tell where the floor is.
“Hang on to me.”
He can do that with the one hand but not the other so Alex handles him like a corpse, wrapping an arm around his bodyweight and heaving him up under his good arm. He can’t get his feet, not really, can only lean on Alex. Wind blows in his face, sea-spray and diesel and the smell of vomit and blood in his nose. Rak takes his other side. He hangs between them, the world lurching, righting itself, lurching again. He looks at Cameron and Cameron is kneeling there still, he looks stunned. He’s looking at Mad.
