Anti-Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  Wires. And wires. And wires. They rise out of the floor like trees. They branch and splay through the room. They form rafters above us. A great web of them.

  Clyde reaches out to touch a bundle before us. “Neurons,” he whispers.

  I squint. It doesn’t help me see the metaphor any more clearly. “What do you mean?”

  Clyde looks around. “If this building was a creature… Well, it’s not. It’s a building. We’re walking around in it. Sort of definitional, I suspect. Well, actually I’m not sure what the definition of building is. It’s always that way—you know what a word means, but then defining it is a whole tricky mess. And, well, as buildings go, this one does blur the line regarding the whole creature-building divide, which, I have to admit, has never appeared blurry before. But if one discarded the building aspects of this place entirely. Just hypothetically of course. Not some sort of construction work I’m suggesting, just an exercise of the imagination. But if that were the case, then I would really think of Evil-Me as the brain of the creature that I’m positing here. But from the brain come the nerves. The neurons. And as Evil-Me is all digital and everything and not organic—going back to the whole hypothetical thing here, well then the neurons, the individual nerves will be wires.”

  “Why the feck are you talking?” Kayla is primed for violence, not metaphors.

  “Oh, well, you know, cultural-biological imperative. Man as a social creature. That sort of thing. A general species-specific desire to share insight and knowledge. The collective experience. Plus, it should be fairly easy to track these back to Evil-Me’s servers. So that seemed relevant.”

  Kayla narrows her eyes. “I can never tell if you’re trying to piss me off or if you’re just a guileless feckwit.”

  Clyde shrugs. Which may suggest the former. Or the latter. Damn. I don’t know. I don’t have the energy to work on team dynamics right now. Instead, I grasp at the sense that we’re finally coming to the end of this goddamn maze.

  “Which way?” I ask.

  “I think—”

  Clyde is cut off by a massive whirring noise. As if something vast and industrial has sprung to life. A sound that summons images of buzz saws five foot tall and aimed at James Bond’s crotch.

  “What the hell?” I turn around searching for the source.

  The wall to our left seems to be the culprit. But there is no machinery, just wires and space.

  Noises with invisible sources… They always work out so well…

  The wall bulges suddenly—an alarming streak of white manifesting as the rubbery building material stretches then tears.

  A colossal buzz saw. Six feet in diameter. Teeth an inch wide. It tears through the structure. Arterial cords snap and fly. Mucus sprays. Wires spit sparks. The whole room reverberates with sound, with echoing destruction.

  The whirring blade retreats, comes back again, slices diagonally into the deflating material. A great flap of wall collapses messily on the floor.

  The marines pour in.

  There must be fifty or more, all quick stepping to the frog march fandango. They push in, guns and bad attitudes on full display.

  “Plant charges,” booms an electronically amplified voice from the darkness beyond the tear.

  And then the saw’s owner steps into the room. A massive mecha, ten yards high at least. The saw has replaced its right fist. The end of the left arm looks like something that resulted from the ill-fated coupling of a glove and a bulldozer. The legs are equally sturdy and functional. Steel plates riveted around pistons. Three splayed toes grasp the uneven floor with hisses of pneumatic pressure.

  The torso is less substantial—a cage of thick steel bars. It reminds me a roll cage awaiting the car chassis, although someone has equipped this roll cage with a fairly substantial motor and a control panel that wouldn’t go amiss in an airplane.

  And sitting inside that cage, behind those controls… Well, long time no see, Agent Gran.

  83

  “Tear this shit out, dudes,” Gran yells, the steel mitten of his left hand pointing to the wires. To back up his point, Gran jams the buzz saw through one bundle of wires. They sever with a shower of sparks. Marines set about hacking at others. One guy just opens up with his rifle. Copper shreds and flashes.

  Panic alarms start ringing in my head. I turn to Clyde. “What chance is there that some of those are pretty critical to the wireless communications network we’re looking to hijack?”

  But Clyde isn’t looking at me. He isn’t looking at Gran. He stares at one figure standing near the mecha’s feet. A figure clad entirely in black. White tattoos standing out sharply against her dark skin.

  He stares at Tabitha.

  Oh, thank God, she’s alive. And despite the circumstances, despite the fact that she’s standing beside someone who threatened to execute me not so long ago, I smile. I have no idea how this will play out, but right there, that is someone we didn’t lose.

  I glance to Felicity, still slung over Kayla’s shoulders. Her hands have stopped clawing. I can still see the shallow pulse in her neck. But only just.

  Then Clyde steps toward Tabitha. He raises a hand in greeting. I try to bat it back down but it’s too late. He’s already been noticed. Guns swivel.

  Gran is among the last to twig. A bundle of wires comes apart and he notices everyone looking our way. Aiming our way. His saw whines to a halt. He looks too.

  “Dudes?”

  Despite knowing the pilot, it seems an unlikely phrase to come out of such a hulking machine.

  Gran takes heavy steps toward us. Tabitha moves with him, scurrying to keep up with the machine’s massive footsteps. When Gran stops, she stands before him, extending a hand toward Clyde.

  “Laptop,” she demands.

  Clyde steps toward her.

  “No,” I say.

  Clyde hesitates. Looks back at me.

  “We need that,” I say. “Tabitha’s not with us on this. So we keep it.”

  “My damn laptop.” Tabitha’s hand is still out. Her mouth set.

  “No,” I repeat.

  Clyde looks between us, torn. For a moment I think I’ve lost him, the laptop, my cause. And then he steps back in line next to me.

  “Dude.” Perched above us, Gran sounds like he’s somewhere between exasperated and amused. “Seriously? Still? There are, like, fifty marines here. You are not doing this. Give it up already.”

  Fifty marines. I look over at Kayla. She looks back. And doesn’t blink for a moment.

  “Just put Felicity down somewhere safe,” I ask her.

  She rolls her eyes.

  Gran looks between the two of us. “Dude. You are not seriously suggesting…” He looks down at Tabitha. “He’s not is he, dudette?”

  Tabitha stares straight at Clyde. “Give me the laptop.”

  Clyde shrugs so fast and so many times I think he’s going to blow a fuse. “I can’t,” he says. It sounds like it pains him. “Arthur’s right. And we have to save Shaw now.”

  Tabitha glances at Felicity for the first time. “Shit.” She turns to Gran. “He is. They will.” She shakes her head. “Stubborn arseholes.” Though maybe there’s an edge of respect in that last statement.

  Gran joins the head-shaking crowd. “Well,” he says, looking at me, “this sucks. I really enjoyed working with you.”

  “OK,” I say to Kayla, ignoring Gran, “time to put Felicity down.”

  “Wait.” Tabitha steps in front of the mecha, suddenly seeming to realize the impact of her words. She looks up at Gran. “Arthur’s not going to negotiate. But you…” She shakes her head, “you don’t have to actually shoot—”

  Gran isn’t even looking at her. He turns to the marines.

  “Weapons free.”

  84

  The world erupts. The floor hits my chin. The air above me fills with lead. Felicity slams into the ground next to me. She lies there, eyes staring, breath shallow.

  I keep my head down while Kayla works. I don’t want to s
ee this. I want everyone to live. I want everyone to be saved.

  But that can’t be. That’s not the way the world works. Bad people. Bad things. Bad decisions. And sometimes, just very bad shit happening to good people. Bad things like Kayla.

  Clyde is to my right, muttering, bullets ricocheting off him. I hear the crackle of electricity and the cry of a man flung across the room.

  I reach out and hold Felicity’s hand.

  Oh God. She is so cold.

  Something hits me in the head. I flinch back, with a spectacular kind of violence. Around the time I land, I realize that it’s not a bullet and that I’m not dead. I stare up, searching for an assailant. There’s no one nearby. But one of the marines’ assault rifles is lying where I was.

  “A little pissing help,” Kayla yells.

  She’s between two men. One aims the butt of his rifle at her head, the other the barrel. She ducks under both, almost too fast to track, comes up on the far side of the pointed weapons, arching her back—a dancer in the ballet of combat. She flicks her sword. The butt hits one man’s head, the blade hits the other. Blood blossoms. The men fall, victims of circumstance and head wounds.

  Gunfire to Kayla’s right. To her left. But she’s gone, weaving up and down and round. Her blade spins up, and I swear I hear the whine of a bullet deflected by the blade. She rolls, comes up at a marine’s feet. Her sword comes up with her—skewers him, balls to brow.

  There are three men behind her, their guns raised.

  I don’t want anyone to die.

  I grab the assault rifle, aim low, and pull the trigger.

  The largest thing I have fired in my life is my government-issue pistol. This thing is about ten times bigger. It leaps, slams back into my shoulder. I grunt as bullets spray around the room.

  I release the trigger. The barrel smokes.

  “I said feckin’ help, not hinder, you feckin’…” The end of Kayla’s insult is lost to gunfire and bloodshed.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. This is so messed up. I have no idea if I hit anyone. If my bullet took the brains of a man following orders, fighting to defend what he has been told is right. Jesus.

  I tuck the rifle tight in against my shoulder. Aim low. Not to kill. I don’t want to kill.

  The end of the gun disappears in a spray of sparks and fragmenting metal.

  Gran’s buzz saw lands five inches in front of my face. It chews into the floor, with a grinding, mulching whine. I stare at rotating metal, feel the wind of it whipping past my face.

  I sprawl back. Gran is a few yards away. He wrenches the saw out of the ground. It hangs above me. And then it doesn’t.

  I roll fast and hard, bouncing over the uneven surface as the saw slams down, chews through more of the floor. I come to a stop as I hit a bundle of wires.

  Gran whirls the mecha around, the saw blade chugging and jittering over the ground, spraying floor shrapnel at me. I roll back over the wire bundle as shards sting my face.

  I’m still holding a truncated gun. I have no idea why. I throw it away and try to figure out a plan.

  Gran. Gran coming for me. Gran massive and armored and with his mind set. I’m the enemy now.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  How is Felicity? Is she safe?

  No. Concentrate.

  Footfalls. Close. Coming closer.

  I scramble to my feet, put some distance between me and Gran. He lacks range. The wires will clog him. I am small, and—in this particular scenario—comparatively nimble. That’s an advantage. I can use that.

  But as I hear his buzz saw chew through another bundle of wires, I remember my earlier thought. If these are the neurons of this place, which ones do we need? How damaged can Version 2.0 become before we can’t use him?

  I need to end this. And I need to do it fast.

  I double back, swing around, head for places Gran has already punched through. Where he can cause no more damage. I stumble over marine body parts.

  Where is Kayla? Maybe she can help me?

  Unfortunately, one of the many problems with being chased by someone ten yards tall, though, is their stride-length. I’ve spent the past month getting more rigorous exercise than I ever imagined, but I get about eight strides in, about three seconds to formulate a plan, and then I hear the rush of air behind me. I duck instinctively. The buzz saw whistles over my head. I scramble up, on all fours, then running once more. The buzz saw swings again. I duck, roll.

  The blade swings closer this time. I swear my back brushes the flat of the blade as it swings. I swear I nearly piss myself.

  Where the hell is Kayla?

  Then I understand the way the marines are spread out, all facing one spot. They have, against the odds, pinned her down. I sprint parallel to her hiding spot, behind the line of their guns, catch a glimpse of her, hunkered below some organic outgrowth in the floor.

  Clyde is proving more elusive, if less fatal. He’s over on the other side of the room. Every time a marine lines up a shot he extends an arm, and they go sailing through the air. Marines are bleeding and bruised, but they’re not giving up.

  “Battery getting a touch on the low side!” he yells across the room. Then, “Probably shouldn’t have revealed that!”

  Where the hell do I go?

  And then that’s not a problem anymore. Because there’s nowhere left for me to go.

  The wall comes up hard and fast. I slam into it, just getting my palms up in time to not take the blow in the face. I feel the give of the rubber, the resistance of the thick cords. I spin, look at what little ground I’ve gained.

  Gran advances. His saw buzzes.

  Behind him, I can see Tabitha. I sort of expect a look of grim satisfaction on her face. Me finally coming to the sticky end she always knew I would arrive at. But she is standing in the middle of the room and screaming something at the top of her lungs. One word. Over and over. I can’t make it out over the noise of the saw, coming closer, closer.

  Despite the proximity of messy, violent death, or maybe because of it—some part of me desperately trying to escape the situation—I narrow my eyes and try to read that word.

  “Stop! Stop!” Over and over.

  And maybe… Maybe…

  Gran glances at her. Then back at me. And if he knows what Tabitha is saying, then he doesn’t care. His face is set. No hippy weakness. No peace and love. Not anymore. The chips are down. And I don’t have the winning hand.

  He steps toward me.

  Behind him a marine grabs Tabitha, shoves her roughly to the ground. I see the wide startled stare. The mouth open to shout. Then her head hits the floor. When she comes back up, her mouth is bleeding.

  Gran steps a little closer. My only hope is to time my dodge correctly. To move at the same moment he moves. To move in the right direction. So do I go left or right?

  Is Felicity OK?

  Concentrate.

  Behind Gran, Clyde bursts into motion. He starts running, hand out like a cannon. I see the marine who grabbed Tabitha fly roughly through the air. One impact. A second. A third. Clyde guns at him. The marine rag-dolls across the room.

  Gran steps closer. I edge right. He follows.

  Clyde skids to a halt at Tabitha’s side, leans down. He offers her a hand, helps haul her to her feet. They stand staring at each other for a moment.

  Tabitha darts forward and grabs the laptop from under Clyde’s spare arm. A bullet ricochets off Clyde’s skull.

  Oh shit.

  But then Tabitha stays there. Stays right by his side. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t head for the safety of the marines. Just stands there looking at him. Blocking the shots.

  “It’s over,” Gran says to me. Oblivious to this drama. His jaw is set. “Sorry, dude.”

  He pulls back his arm.

  Left or right?

  Concentrate.

  Gran lunges.

  He swings his arm in, left to right.

  Concentrate.

  85

  I dive left. I dive toward the b
lade. I dive toward death.

  But I dive low.

  The blade is hot, is screaming white at the edges. The air around it ripples as it is whipped and heated. Massive teeth chew up the space between it and me. They are directly in line with my eyes. They fill my vision.

  Then I am beneath the blade. It screams over my head. And Gran buries it into the wall.

  He eviscerates architecture. Mucus floods out of the great gash, a massive sticky tide. It catches me, carries me, extends my dive, sends me skidding over the floor. Out from beneath the shadow of the blade, as it stutters and rips deep into the wall. Across the floor. Beneath the mecha’s outstretched arm. And then I am, just for a moment, in line with the body of the beast. Just for a moment, in line with the open cage of the mecha. In line with Gran.

  And as I dive, I pull my gun.

  Felicity’s voice. Felicity’s intensity. Looking me in the eye. “Remember there’s still one in the chamber of your gun. If you need it.”

  The hero sacrifices.

  Not just himself.

  Not just his loved ones.

  Not just people.

  Ideas. Ideals. Promises. Dreams. Hope.

  The hero sacrifices.

  I just wanted to save everybody.

  I skid across the floor. Feet from Gran, from his wide staring eyes. From his good cheekbones and better teeth. From his easy manner. From his love for Tabitha.

  And I shoot him.

  86

  The bullet catches Gran in the throat. There is a great spray of blood and bone. Vital elements of his anatomy are ripped away and spread around the back of the mecha’s cage.

  I have time to think that at least the end will be quick for him.

  Then I skid out past the mecha. Past Gran. The sweep of the fluid ends and I land, bedraggled, stunned, and sprawled in the middle of the rough floor.

  My arms are still held out before me. My hands still grip the gun. I can see Tabitha staring at me. Staring at the unmoving mecha. And she knows.

  The marines know too.

  And I am lying in the middle of the floor with nothing that resembles cover near me.