by T. C. Edge
Not the fact that Ragan was at the CID, and probably about to be attacked, no, but the other part. The part that would, perhaps, bring the WSA and NDSA together in this mutual fight. They’d been at war for so long, that anything that would have them working together, even such an awful threat at this, couldn’t be all bad.
Could it?
Or maybe she was just being naive, not quite as wise and worldly as the others. Whatever the case, she was feeling more optimistic after the call with Dax, and with their path speeding eastwards as it was. Oddly, rather than being chased by the likes of the NDSA and WSA, she now felt as if they were allies, even if they didn’t know it yet, or would be loathe to admit it.
She’d spent her life alone, on the run, the world against her. Now, she was on the much bigger team. When the world woke up to this threat - fully woke up to it - then they’d all be forced to stand up against the MSA. Chloe would be one among many. And that was a rather nice thought.
The jet, with the sparrow still trailing just behind, loomed ever closer to New York, though slowed with the city barely visible in the distance. During the light of day, it would have been rendered invisible. But with night falling, its sheer volume of illumination had it appearing as a beacon on the canvas below, still many miles away.
A city of lights, a stronghold in the east.
And the stronghold, they all feared, was about to be stormed.
104
Captain Maddox marched down the corridor, the stamping of his step waking Ragan from a brief nap. He looked up from his thin mattress, eyes shooting down the hall. Maddox continued his approach right up to the bars, giving Ragan that typical steely-eyed glare.
“Stand up, make yourself presentable,” he said.
Ragan frowned, but didn’t yet move. He hated the idea of following this man’s orders. This despicable creature who’d continually, endlessly, refused to answer his damn questions, or give him any information at all…
“I said, stand up,” Maddox repeated. He looked over his shoulder, down the corridor. “You said you wanted answers, Hunt. Well, you might be about to get some.”
That didn’t help Ragan’s frown.
“What’s going on?” he grunted. Even that simple question was quite hard to utter. He’d quickly become conditioned to having all his queries rebuffed, and felt that brewing frustration even before the question had fallen from his lips. This time, however, Maddox obliged.
“President Rashmore wishes to speak with you,” he snarled. Then he smiled. “Perhaps he wants to inform you of your punishment in person.”
Ragan did stand up now, heart racing a little faster. He didn’t make himself presentable, though, as Maddox had requested. Really, there wasn’t much he could do to change either his appearance…or his smell.
He settled with pulling his hands behind his back, standing to attention. Whatever the President was about to do to him, he had to respect his commander-in-chief. Ragan’s actions had warranted the treatment he was getting, that he couldn’t deny.
Maddox sneered again and then stepped to one side. From down the corridor, a door opened and shut, and footsteps began pacing. Ragan watched as three figures materialised; the President flanked by two of his personal guards. He drew a calming breath as the men approached, Maddox and the other two Panthers standing to attention and saluting as he came.
“At ease,” the President said. He spoke calmly, quite unlike before in the command centre, when he’d been so ruffled.
Maddox and the other Panthers relaxed their posture, sinking off to the sides of the adjoining room beyond the cell. The two men guarding the President did the same, though stayed a little closer to the man, as Rashmore himself approached the bars.
One of them did speak, however, warning Ragan to stay where he was, and to not make any sudden movements. He was ten feet back, right in the centre of his cell, fingers gripped behind his back. He didn’t intend to make any move at all.
Rashmore looked Ragan up and down, studying him for a time.
“So,” he said. “How do like the accommodations down here?”
Ragan cocked an eye. Did that really require a response?
“I’ve…seen a lot worse, Mr President,” he said. “Though, I’ve never been locked away.”
“And you believe you’re being hard done by?”
Ragan considered the question. Then he shook his head.
“No, sir, I don’t,” he said, sighing. “I understand that this treatment is fair. I aided and abetted a known fugitive…”
“And that’s all?” asked Rashmore, voice deep, eyes narrow. “According to Captain Maddox here,” he said, glancing to the skulking man by the wall, “you’ve been up to more than that. You seem to know all about this secret base in the Colorado highlands that has been attacked, and the organisation that appropriated it. It seems you’re one of them, are you not?”
Ragan felt the warmth flow from his body. He’d all but admitted his involvement to Maddox earlier. He’d grown tired of trying to deny it.
What did it matter anyway? One way or another, Rashmore would have his revenge.
So he nodded.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Mr President,” he said, his voice growing hollow. “I’m sure you’ve made your mind up about me already. And the data’s gone. You’ll never get your hands on it now.”
Rashmore’s face curled up at that, a network of wrinkles appearing on his otherwise too-youthful visage, given his age. It was the sort of expression drawn up by years of frustration, by a constant search for something that would never now be attained.
“It was meant to be mine,” he growled softly. “You have betrayed this nation, Mr Hunt. You have betrayed its people, its future. That research was our secret weapon, designed to end this war. Now, because of you, how many thousands, millions, will die?”
Ragan didn’t answer. It was a debate he wasn’t willing to have, not with a man so obsessed as this, so self-righteous, so certain that his path was the path to peace. It was the same with all such men. And that look in his eye - that hateful, vengeful look - made it quite clear that Ragan’s days were numbered. What good would it do him, trying to defend himself?
He’d never get free of this place. He’d never see Chloe again…
He dipped his eyes away, shutting them quietly. Then a light noise sounded, followed by footsteps. He looked up to find Captain Maddox drawing his communicator to his ear, marching quickly away down the corridor. His footsteps were all that broke the silence in that cold, dim basement.
“It was all meant to be glorious,” Rashmore said finally, his voice taking on a wistful tone. “Professor Phantom was a remarkable man, truly ahead of his time. Oh the things he dreamt up…immortality.” He drew a breath and shook his head, then narrowed his gaze on Ragan. “You seem to think my intention was to swarm the continent with unkillable soldiers. To swarm the world, perhaps. That was never what I wanted.”
“And what did you want, sir?”
Rashmore shrugged lightly.
“A deterrent,” he said softly. “A weapon beyond anything the Western States possessed. A means of forcing them into accepting terms of peace. A way of ending all this…conflict.”
He looked again at Ragan and shook his head.
“Of course, that’s not how it seems, it is,” he went on. “But it’s the truth.”
“And Professor Phantom?” Ragan said. “He killed himself in that fire. He committed suicide to stop you getting your hands on his research. Why would he do that if he knew you only wanted peace.”
“Why did he do anything he did?” countered Rashmore. “Why did he install his research into his daughter, and curse her to such a life? Oh, I know it was never his intention for her to be hunted, and I know he didn’t expect…any of this. But he knew he wanted his research to survive. He knew it was too valuable to be destroyed. If only he’d have trusted me back then…Chloe would never have had to run. And our nation, this entire continent, would now be a
t peace.”
He sighed again, his voice almost melancholic, and looked off into the empty, dull space of Ragan’s cell.
“Well, I suppose none of that matters now,” he murmured. “Instead, if you’re right about what you say, then we’ll face a nation bent only on revenge. Tell me, Mr Hunt, who would be better to wield such power? A stable country seeking peace, or a vengeful one, seeking only to destroy?”
“No one should wield such power, sir,” Ragan said, resolute. “It’s too dangerous to harness.”
“Ah, of course. And now what are we left with? More war. More death. More suffering. Evolution, Mr Hunt, cannot be held back. All we can do is try to control it. But only in the right hands.”
And those hands are yours, are they? Ragan felt like biting. He chose instead to stay silent, to hold his tongue, to let the debate wither and die. They would never agree, so what was the use in continuing?
It looked as though Rashmore was of a similar mind. He noted Ragan’s refusal to answer, and pulled a long breath into his lungs.
“You’ll never understand the burden of rule,” he said quietly. “My father had it. Now I have it. Sometimes…you have to take drastic measures to secure the safety of your people…”
From down the corridor, footsteps came again, interrupting them. Ragan looked up and past Rashmore, and saw Captain Maddox coming forward from the gloom. He’d come and gone often down here, hearing updates from his superiors among the Panthers and the CID. Mostly, he wandered back in quite calmly.
This time, he was rushing.
Everyone turned to look at him as he came, jogging right towards them. The narrow nature of his eyes was something Ragan recognised. It was a shifty alertness all experienced men of war shared.
“What is it? What’s going on?” asked President Rashmore, turning on the man as he advanced.
Maddox reached them, brow furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead. He glanced at Rashmore’s two guards, who had both turned alert as well. The other pair of Panthers were the same. Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
“Captain?” pressed Rashmore.
Maddox drew a breath.
“It’s the CID, Mr President. Foreign soldiers have been spotted entering the building. They came down in HALO jumps, straight through our defences.”
Rashmore’s body swirled into a sudden panic.
“How many? Who…who are they, Captain?”
“Half a dozen, sir.” He looked at Ragan, standing in his cell. “We believe it’s the same men who attacked the base in Colorado.”
Now they all looked at Ragan. He might have drawn up a look of ‘I told you so’ if he wasn’t so alert himself.
“They’re synthetics from the MSA,” he said, certain of it. “Mr President, I advise your men get you to safety immediately.”
“Me? But, they’re storming the CID. Surely they wouldn’t…”
His words were cut off by one of his guards, the man’s earpiece crackling suddenly, enough for the rest to hear. They turned to him. The guard’s eyes narrowed, fingers pressing to his earpiece, eyes widening. He looked at Rashmore.
“Mr President, we need to get you out of here right away. Men have been spotted approaching the compound.”
“Here? They’re here?” Rashmore almost screeched out the words.
“Yes, sir. They’ve just engaged security at the outer perimeter. We must go, right now.”
At times like this, the President’s power suddenly waned. Any orders he might give to the men would be ignored, waved away, new protocols taking effect. Both guards were right to his flanks immediately, pulling pistols, advancing forward, dragging him along with them. The two Panthers under the charge of Captain Maddox followed with a nod from the man, hurrying ahead of the others, acting as blockers should anyone approach. They quickly moved down the corridor, hurrying into the gloom, leaving only Maddox alone with Ragan.
The Panther looked at his captive for a moment, his snarl clashing with something else - a reluctance of some kind. He puffed out a snort, and then approached the bars, pulling a key from his pocket. Ragan watched on, amazed, as he set about opening up the gate.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Maddox met his gaze with a heavy frown.
“This changes nothing,” Maddox grunted. “I still detest your guts, Hunt. But…we’re going to need all the help we can get. And, whatever else has gone on, I know you’re a capable soldier.”
“Thanks,” said Ragan, managing a grin.
“But it changes nothing, you understand?” Maddox grunted again, lifting a pistol to Ragan’s head. “You try something, I put you down. Got it?”
“Sure, sure. Loud and clear.”
Maddox stared at him a few moments longer - moments they couldn’t exactly spare right now - as if doubting his decision.
Or…was this just a ruse? Was he doing this purely to take the kill for himself, to shoot Ragan dead during the panic? He could quite easily tell the President that Ragan had tried to escape, couldn’t he?
The concern was a valid one, though Ragan didn’t act on it. No, he had to trust his instincts here. And those told him that, however cruel Captain Maddox appeared to be, he was a patriot, and he was committed to protecting his country, and his President, at all costs. Ragan could help with that.
He gradually lowered his weapon once more, eyes narrowing further. Then, he stepped forwards in a sudden motion, reached out…
And handed Ragan a gun.
Ragan’s hand hovered up, taking it cautiously.
“One move, Hunt,” Maddox warned, close enough for his breath to burn the air around Ragan’s nose. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Ragan nodded to him, stepped past him through the cell, and together the two men hurried up the corridor, speeding right after the President and his guards.
Too easy, thought Mikel. It was just…too easy.
He sprang through the corridors of the CID headquarters at the heart of New York, bringing death to all who came his way. Men, women, soldiers and staff. From experienced Panthers to janitors only here to clean the floors, anything that moved fell under his sword.
The others in his unit of six were similarly destructive. They encountered resistance, yes, but it never held them for long. They were too fast, too strong, too durable. They used the element of surprise once more, causing panic, surging up through the building with a rain of fire and death.
The usual bloodlust Mikel felt during such exchanges didn’t seem to be there. There was something different about all this now, the slaughter so banal, so predictable. It was as if there was no goal to it all; not like before. As Mikel, the nano-vamp, he sought to quell his hunger, to purge himself of his suffering. Every hunt was a mission, and had a great importance. But this…this was someone else’s war, someone else’s purpose.
Why am I even here? he thought, absentmindedly cutting through another Panther who’d surged around a corner. Then another came, and Mikel gobbled him up into his arms, slipping behind his back on instinct. He looked down at the man’s neck almost longingly, ran his tongue over his fangs.
No…not fangs anymore. Just synthetic teeth, in a cloned body.
He growled at the thought and twisted the man’s neck, turning his head the other way. Blank eyes stared up at him, rolling to white. He looked into those empty sockets and felt…nothing. No real joy in the kill, even of this Panther, once his sworn enemy. Just an emptiness, a numbness within.
He threw the corpse to the floor and went on, turning his thoughts down a brighter path.
Yes, he found it. Hunt…of course, Hunt. That was his purpose still. He could still kill the man, the agent, the spy; complete that little dance they’d shared for so long. He grinned at that thought, but still, that felt slightly artificial too.
A false, synthetic smile, beaming from a false, synthetic face.
There would be no challenge in killing Hunt now, he realised, despondent. That, like all of this, would
just be…too easy.
He hurried on, moving ahead of the rest. He knew the layout of the building; he’d been here before. He surged up the stairwell, covering flights of stairs in single leaps, listening out for resistance up above. He reached the correct floor, bursting into a corridor. Ahead, the thick security doors led into the command centre, locked down now.
They wouldn’t hold him long.
He surged towards the door, barging with his shoulder. His bodysuit, capable of partially absorbing kinetic energy, met with the metal, causing it to clang and vibrate loudly. He pulled back and noted the deep indentation in the surface. He flew back, then charged again. Hinges groaned and threatened to give way.
Now he kicked at the door, again and again, boot barging and banging with each connection. With a final thud, the entrance gave in, the door flinging off into the room. He was met by immediate gunfire, spitting from dark spaces, behind workstations and pillars.
His eyes found them, and his finger snapped on his trigger. Three more men - he couldn’t tell if they were Panthers from here - were quickly downed. He stepped into the room, the other men of his unit still some way behind and below, dealing with the detritus of human resistance they found on the lower floors.
Mikel saw figures cowering in corners as he wandered into the enormous room, covering almost the entire floor. He paid them no mind. Scanning with his eyes, he searched for anyone who might attempt to repel him. No one fired. No one attacked. It seemed that all Panthers, all fighting men, had been despatched below to try to hold off the threat.
Hold it off…but why? What use was it, trying to hold off an inevitable storm?
His eyes worked to the back of the room. A central station, curved into a semi circular desk filled with screens, faced outwards into the space. The shadow of a figure sat behind it in a seat, dressed in a functional suit. Not a combat suit for operations; the suit of a man who sat behind a desk. A man who managed things from afar, and used others to keep his own hands clean.
