Fractured

by T. C. Edge

  "We are drifting from the point," sighs Burns, growing weary of the debate over Perses and Amber's allegiance. "What is your plan, Ares? Are you saying you're to leave immediately?"

  Ares considers it for a moment. "No," he then says, "not immediately. We will travel until late afternoon and set off at our next break. It will give us time to consider options and form a plan."

  "And, you're leading this expedition, I suppose?" asks Hendricks. His irritation is fairly plain to see. I don't think he likes Ares, foreign as he is, calling the shots.

  "Do you have an issue with that, Commander?" Ares asks, guiding those intense eyes of his down to the much smaller man.

  "I...not especially, no," grunts Hendricks, wilting like a plant under the roasting midday sun.

  "You're welcome to accompany us if you wish," Ares goes on. "Someone of your skill could be very useful."

  "Useful?" says Hendricks, apparently insulted by the suggestion. "Well, thank you, Ares, but I will need to stay with my men, and will see to the protection of the convoy. You take your Neoromans and see Brie free of this nightmare. We're counting on you to see it done."

  With a quick nod and turn, he marches off.

  I watch him for a second, shaking my head. We don't have time for infighting, and Hendricks doesn't always make things easy.

  "We should get moving," I say. I turn my eyes around to the final stragglers returning to the vehicles. "Max, I assume you'll be joining us when we leave?"

  "Wouldn't miss it, my Lady," Maximus replies.

  "I'll consider others on the route," says Ares, running his hand over his short, bristly hair. "I'd prefer it if we only used Neoromans for this, Secretary Burns. It'll be a small team, and I want those I know well."

  "This is your mission, Ares," replies Burns. "Do as you see fit."

  "Thank you, Leyton."

  With that, the meeting concludes, the convoy set to get moving again. As Burns heads off to his car, speaking with Amber as he nears, I march back to mine with Max and Ares, already wondering who Ares might select to come with us.

  Frankly, the three of us would be just fine. Less is more in missions like this, as far as I'm concerned, and the three of us work well together. Still, I don't question Ares on it or make the suggestion. After all, Dom did make it clear that he is in command, not me, and I'm conscious, and confident, that he knows better than I do how to run this operation.

  We drive a little longer, several more hours passing as we venture further north. Sitting in the jeep with Max and Ares, we set into an early discussion about our plans, all of us having a voice within the conversation as we consider our options.

  The subject of Perses rises when I speak, and I take the opportunity to tell both Neoroman commanders of my discussion with him earlier. The early scepticism on Max's face soon fades as I go into more detail of Perses, and my, experience, with Zander. By the time I've finished, both men appear highly intrigued by the possibilities this new information affords.

  "It may help us pinpoint Brie's location in the convoy," Ares says. "If they are in transit, then tracking her will be extremely difficult. This could help considerably."

  "We'll have to get Kira in close," Max adds. "And have her well protected. It sounds as though you'll need to enter a deep state of focus," he says, looking at me. "You lost concentration completely outside of the Olympian base before. I had to haul her to the ground, Ares," he says, "to make sure she wasn't spotted by a patrol. I understand now that you were concentrating to try to make contact with this Zander."

  I nod. "Yeah. You're probably right. I'll need a couple of people watching my back while it happens."

  "It shouldn't be a problem," says Ares.

  "Perhaps it would be wise to bring Perses along with us?" suggests Max. "He may prove useful."

  "No," says Ares quickly. "In his current state, he might just be a liability. We will include only the best of the best, no weak links. Ten or twelve Neoroman champions should do it, don't you think?"

  "I would have thought that would be just fine," smiles Max eagerly.

  "They'll probably stop for breaks," I say, thinking ahead. "They may not be stopping to make camp at night, but they'll likely stop as we are, to give the soldiers a chance to use the bathroom and stretch their legs. And a convoy that large will probably have to break for longer than us. That could be our window."

  The others nod.

  "We'd have to track them for a while, once we catch up, to wait for the opportunity," Ares says. "During that time, perhaps, you'd be able to see if you can sense, or communicate, with Zander somehow, Kira?"

  "Sure."

  "The trouble will be remaining undetected," Max adds. "They may well hear the sound of our engine as we get near enough. And if we have to follow behind them, then they may have lookouts capable of spotting us from afar.”

  "Hmmmm," nods Ares. "We will need to assess when we get nearer. It's possible we'll be able to drive an alternate route, parallel to them, rather than following behind. That will, of course, depend upon the terrain we encounter. With that many carriages and vehicles, however, I would hope that the sound of our engine would be drowned out by the movement of their convoy."

  "They probably don't think we're chasing them anyway," I say. "Maybe early they did, but if we don't catch them for a few days, and they're much closer to their lands, they'll have relaxed by then. I doubt they'll be watching their backs too closely."

  "That is speculative, Kira," says Ares, "but logical. But what you say is true. We will likely take several days to catch them, so will have plenty of time to think about things further on the road."

  "We'll need at least two who can drive," Max says. "They can share that duty between them, taking shifts. I'm assuming we'll be driving through the night, taking only short breaks as we have to far?"

  "Definitely," I say, assuming that's the case.

  "Yes," confirms Ares. "We will also need a suitable transport in which our men can sleep en route. We will probably require two. And that means four who can drive."

  "We'll take a couple of the City Guard off-roaders," I say. "They're big and comfortable and can handle about any terrain. And they're simple to drive too, so that shouldn't be a problem."

  "Good," says Ares. "I will leave that for you to arrange with Commander Hendricks."

  We nod, the conversation moving at haste, matching the speed of the car as it bumps and rumbles along the track already forged by the vast Olympian army. Again, Perses has proven useful in this regard, informing us that many of the routes they carved and forged on their way here, were during the second half, primarily, of their trip. I have seen evidence of that already. Several forests have been cut through with a new road. Some of the highways we have travelled have had all obstacles pressed to the side.

  It makes the journey much quicker, of course, but the off-road sections of the trip certainly aren't paved, flat, or particularly comfortable. The constant bouncing and bumping as we rumble over the uneven ground limits our ability to travel at top sleep during those sections. When we hit a highway, and are able to enjoy the flatter surface, we can increase our speed too. If the entire route was along such paths, then it would be much quicker, and far more bearable to endure. As it is, many of the sections are away from the ancient roads, limiting our speed and progress.

  The same, of course, will be true of the Olympians, yet it remains a source of frustration for me.

  We stop eventually, with night incoming, and set about preparing our team for the mission ahead. As Ares collects his contingent of Neoroman champions - some whom I know, others whom I don't - I speak with Hendricks about arranging the cars. With a little shifting around of the men, two sturdy City Guard jeeps, quick and durable and perfect for off-road conditions, are packed and prepared for our departure.

  As the Neoromans prepare to climb in, I have a quick word with Secretary Burns.

  "Good luck, Kira," he says to me. "You know how important this is. We shall see you ba
ck on the trail in several days, I hope."

  "All things going well," I nod. I glance across, to see Ares and Perses in conversation, the two men sharing a final few words before departure.

  "He isn't in an easy position here," Burns says, looking across as well. "Perses is acutely aware that some of his men may well perish if your mission is to be successful. He wants to avoid unnecessary loss of life."

  "If we come away having killed no one, then that's a mission well done," I say. "He's got to accept that there are going to be casualties."

  "He does," Burns says. "But you can see how it would be hard for him. He's fully cognisant of the fact that the Prime need to go, but achieving that is highly likely to involve the deaths of his countrymen."

  "And ours," I say. "That's just war."

  "Ah, true," Burns nods. "But our path is clear, and we are united against a people we consider, in part at least, as our enemy. It isn't the same for Perses, or for Amber."

  "We're not targeting innocent people here, Leyton," I say. "I'd think the very same if we were talking about the innocent residents of Olympus. But we're not. We're talking about soldiers. Death is their life. They take it, and have to expect to have theirs taken too. Soldiers are never entirely innocent in war. They are merely tools."

  He nods slowly. "It is such a dreadful shame that you are right. Soldiers lose their identity, their individuality, in war. If we have to kill hundreds, even thousands, to overthrow the Prime, then so be it." He looks again to Perses. "He knows this, of course. But that doesn't make it any easier."

  He draws a solemn breath at that, and smiles at me once more, before stepping away. As I move towards the jeeps, set to take my seat, I see Amber standing nearby too, watching Perses and Ares complete their conversation.

  I wonder, as I look at her, whether her reservations are quite so fierce as her mentor's. She is only a recent addition to the Children of the Prime after all, and her loyalties to the people of Olympus cannot be so strong. When it comes to it, I wonder, will she fight with us? If given the chance, will she unleash the flaming power in her blood, and use it to protect her own people of the Fringe?

  Time will tell, of course. And soon enough, both she and Perses may be in a position where they need to choose. Because when news of their defection spreads, they can be damn sure that their own people, their own soldiers, will have no reservations of their own. Both will become enemies of the state. Both will have bounties on their heads.

  And until the Prime is dead, both will have to accept that the soldiers they once called friend and ally, are now very much their enemy too.

  20

  Brie

  I sit in my cell, more filthy and fetid than I’ve ever been before. My skin feels as though it's covered in a thick layer of grime. My hair, usually fairly luscious and glossy, hugs the back of my skull and neck, matted and lank as it clings against my flesh like a tremulous child gripping his mother's leg on the first day of school.

  The smell has gone beyond unbearable, though the removal of the chains on the wall has, in some stroke of good fortune, given me some respite from the stink as well as the noise. Several days ago now, after the Overseer's promises that the rattling chains would be removed, Bull saw to that very thing. Going from one to the next, he stepped into the cells, and merely ripped the chains clear from their fixings on the wall in a display of formidable strength.

  Yet mostly, he still did so rather deftly, like someone with the skill and velocity to pull a cloth from a table without dislodging the contents on top. When he pulled the chains from my cell, however, he accidentally took a chunk of wood with them, the chains fixed a little more stubbornly to the wooded wall. Now, I'm left with a small hole to see through, not much bigger than a tangerine. And when the carriage is in transit, the flow of air it provides, blasting right into my face, is a blessed relief from the putrid stench I'd otherwise have to endure.

  Marcus, of course, still does; Bull was able to remove his chains without doing any damage to the wall. He's happy enough, though, to be without that clanging racket. And the last few days, at the very least, have been quiet.

  I sit, now, with my head up against the wood, enjoying the wind as it bustles in through the gap. It's large enough for me to have a decent look of the outside world as well, giving my eyes something to do other than look at Marcus, the only interesting thing in here with me. Oh, he's exotically handsome yes, but after four or five days locked into this prison, even his face is becoming boring.

  I've pondered things plenty the last few days. Really, there's been little else to do, my mind ever wandering the landscape of my thoughts, trying to put everything in order, get some perspective on this predicament we both find ourselves in.

  We have fallen, too, into a routine of short stops and regular drug feedings, and I've grown better at reading the signals of when the drugs are starting to wear off, and when my powers are returning.

  It's allowed me to communicate with Zander a little more, though at the moment, there's little for us to discuss. The reality of our situation is quite simple: I am a captive, with no power over my own fate right now. Escaping the clutches of Nestor was one thing, with his overconfidence and, I might even say, hubris allowing me, with Zander's considerable aid, to overcome him. When that happened, I only had to fight my way out of a simple fort against a handful of soldiers. Oh, and I had a fully powered-up Kira with me too.

  This is...quite different. As soon as we pass the walls of Olympus, there may be no getting out for me. I will be trapped at the heart of a city, miles from the walls and gates, and with thousands upon thousands of enemy citizens, soldiers, and supremely powerful people in between. Right now, though I remain hopeful that I'll think of something, I can see no way out of this mess I've gotten myself into.

  And yes, that's the key point. I got myself into this mess, and have now dragged Marcus into it with me. And for what? For my grandfather, a man who, if the Overseer's ominous words are to be believed, might not be the same old man I've come to know and care about over the last few months.

  "You might just say, he's back to his old self," the Overseer had said to me.

  It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he said it, that makes me worry for what he's done. He has, I fear, replaced the grandfather I came here to retrieve, with the cold, callous, emotionally defunct man he once was.

  Director Artemis Cromwell, I fear, may have risen once more.

  I sigh audibly as the thought comes to mind, feeling the motion of the carriages slow once more.

  "We're stopping," says Marcus from the opposite cell. His voice has little vitality now. Too many days in here have stripped him of his energy and good humour. "You need the bathroom?"

  I shake my head, staring out through the gap as the convoy comes to a halt. The lands have changed recently, flattening out, becoming open and wide and endless at times. It's been a gradual change, but I'm getting the sense now that we're quickly approaching the lands of the Fringe.

  "Can you see anything?" he asks. I hear him stand and leap up to the window in his cell, peeking through the bars.

  "Not much," I say, turning my eyes over the lands, coloured in a vibrant sunset. "You?"

  I turn and see him clinging to the ledge, staring out. He drops back down again, only able to hold himself up for so long in his weakened state.

  He holds a frown on his face.

  "What?" I ask. "What is it?

  "The Overseer," he says. "I saw him walking with...I think it was your grandfather."

  "What? What do you mean?"

  He shrugs. "Just that. It's hard to see, as they're a little way off, but I'm pretty sure it was him. They're just strolling and talking and..."

  "Look again," I say. "Go on, Marc."

  He sighs and turns, leaping back up to cling onto the ledge. It's too small to give him much purchase or support. He lasts only a few more seconds before he falls down again with a pant.

  "Well?" I ask.

  "T
hey've gone. Too many carriages in the way."

  "Which way were they walking?" I ask. "Did...did he look healthy?"

  "Your grandfather? Yeah, I guess. I mean, I might be wrong. It could be someone else. He was dressed well. Not in rags or anything..."

  I shake my head. "White hair and a beard, right? Looks about the same age as the Overseer."

  Marcus nods.

  "Then it's him. Old men are few and far between around here." I shake my head, grinding my teeth. "Which way were they walking, Marc?" I ask again.

  He points towards the front of the carriage. "That way, I think," he says. "Off around the front of the convoy."

  "Right."

  I wait, impatiently now, for the door to open up, never quite sure until the last minute if it's going to be Bull or Dozer who steps in. By now, I can sense the drugs beginning to wear off. There's the lightest flutter of something in my head as I sense Zander rising back up, as though stepping through the thickest of fogs, moving towards me as it simultaneously begins to fade away.

  Suddenly, the door opens, and I see Dozer step inside. I let out a sharp breath of relief, and immediately stand up and rush for the bars of the cell.

  I have an act to play.

  "Thank the Prime," I call out, using the sort of vernacular I hear the Olympians say. I perform a short dance, the sort you'd do when holding in a desperate need to use the bathroom, legs twisted inwards, hopping from foot to foot. "I've been bursting for hours!"

  I glance at Marcus, who looks at me curiously. I can understand his confusion. I just told him, of course, that I didn't need to go.

  "Oh, right," grunts Dozer, the far more amenable of our two burly guards. "Er, you could have just gone in here." He sniffs the putrid air. "Wouldn't affect the smell."

  "What, with him watching," I say, nodding towards Marcus. "No thanks."

  "He some sort of pervert, is he?" asks Dozer. "You a pervert, boy?"

  "Oh, yeah," says Marcus. "All us Neoromans are." He drops me a wink, playing along.