Shadowstrike

by T W Iain

  Cathal continued to feast, drawing every last morsel he could from the caretaker’s bloated body. And all the while, a part of him focused on Brice, and on the sure richness of his blood.

  Cathal dug deeper into the wound, like an animal.

  “You remain unconvinced,” Murdoch said, one hand against his chin.

  “Unconvinced by what?” Ryann avoided his eyes, looking to the window. The arena was in darkness again, and all she saw was her reflection. She looked haggard, almost as old as she felt.

  “By the way we have rendered the NeoGens safe. They cannot attack those who have their lattices protected. And the procedure takes seconds. It’s little more than a tweak, merely a case of adding a specific marker to the lattice protocols.”

  She knew he was trying to wow her, but his ideas were too simplistic. “And who gets to choose?” she asked. “Who selects those worthy of protection?”

  Murdoch smiled. “Oh, my dear Harris! Are you really so paranoid? This would be a standard tweak. It is not a case of choosing who has it, but of turning it off in those who do not deserve it.”

  “Again‌—‌who gets to choose?” Ryann felt her arms move, wanted to cross them. But she kept them by her sides, just as she kept her voice steady. “You’ve made weapons of monsters, but who chooses their targets?”

  “Weapons of monsters?” He laughed. “You equate the NeoGens with‌…‌with Prebens or Tychons? Can’t you understand how my girls are so much more? Give someone a gun and they can shoot anyone, but think about what happened in this test? I am the NeoGen’s commander, and I gave a direct order. Yet Kesia was unable to fulfil it. The protection on our testers was stronger than my command.”

  He paced the room now, waving his arms in emphasis. “And we have one of your friends to thank for this, another positive to come from the mess on Haven. You see, we analysed the data from when you managed to capture both myself and Daman Myron. Our experts figured out how your Piran Remis linked your lattices to respond instantly the moment you cut the lights. The flaw he exploited in lattice technology should have been sealed years ago, but his actions alerted our techs to new possibilities.

  “In honesty, I was impressed. So much potential, that lad.”

  Ryann didn’t respond, but she listened carefully. And she noticed that Murdoch refrained from speaking of Piran in either past or present tense. He said neither ‘that lad has potential’ or ‘that lad had potential’.

  She still had no idea what had happened to Piran, or the others. Farrell was still absent from quarantine, and Ryann had to assume he would not be returning.

  Murdoch clapped his hands, the sound like a gunshot as it echoed off cold walls and dark glass. “But maybe another demonstration is in order.” He grinned. “I’m looking forward to see how Kesia deals with this. And I believe you will appreciate it all the more if you have access to our private conversation.”

  The lights in the arena flooded the space, and the NeoGen strode in. She took her place in the exact centre of the room.

  <‍How are you, Kesia?‍> Murdoch’s voice was deeper when it came through Ryann’s lattice.

  <‍Ready.‍>

  <‍A good answer. And I hope it is correct.‍>

  <‍What would you have me do?‍>

  <‍Do what you do best.‍>

  A short man wearing a lab coat entered the arena, carrying a bag. He walked round the room, reaching into the bag and placing certain items on the floor. Ryann looked harder, and recognised Prebens. Like the one Murdoch still wore under his jacket.

  The beast didn’t move. The man in the lab-coat eyed her warily, then left.

  “In case you’re wondering, they’re loaded. I could get someone in to prove that, but I hope you’ll take my word for it?” Murdoch raised his eyebrows. Ryann nodded, giving him a brief glance, before returning her attention to the arena.

  The door opened once more. A woman appeared, wearing a black uniform that clung tight to her body, and she led a chained prisoner across the floor. At least, Ryann assumed it was a prisoner. The man had a thin beard and long hair, and was dressed in a grubby grey boilersuit, and he pulled at the chain‌—‌especially when he saw the NeoGen.

  The woman took him to the wall, and attached his chain to a link in the floor, a short distance from one of the weapons. The man pulled harder, and Ryann saw his mouth opening and closing, spitting venomous words at the guard while darting his eyes at the NeoGen.

  The guard didn’t seem concerned, and she left, only to return a few seconds later with a second prisoner. This one was clothed like the first, but had a bald head, covered in tattoos. He sneered at the NeoGen, gesturing as much as he could with his hands.

  The guard attached him to the floor on the opposite side of the arena, near another Preben, before returning with a third prisoner, this one female. The guard positioned her by another weapon, before leaving and returning with a fourth.

  “We scoured the prison system for them,” Murdoch said, “gave them the opportunity to escape their life sentences. Of course, they jumped at the opportunity, especially when we told them that violence would be involved.

  Then a glass box entered, running on motorised wheels. The glass was darkened, but when it reached a spot half-way between the NeoGen and the back wall, it cleared.

  The four shades in the box stretched out their arms and flexed their claws.

  <‍How do you feel, Kesia?‍>

  <‍I am not sure I ‘feel’ anything, but I have analysed the threats, and have devised strategies to deal with them.‍>

  “Good to hear. But let’s make things interesting.”

  The door opened again, and four figures emerged. Three were those who had been in the previous test. The woman strode with purpose, stopping about half-way between the door and the NeoGen. The man in the lab-coat shuffled, trying to match her pace but falling behind her. His lab-coat moved stiffly, like it was stuck to his back.

  And slightly back from the woman was Farrell. At least they’d kept him alive.

  “What are you trying to prove this time?” she said.

  He smiled. “Wait. All will become clear.”

  The fourth figure was male, clothed in a heavy coat and thick trousers. He was bald, with a scar down the back of his head. His eyes were wide with fear.

  The NeoGen turned her head lazily. <‍Who goes?‍> she asked, her voice as emotionless as before.

  <‍That is for you to work out.‍> In the glass’ reflection, Ryann saw Murdoch grin. <‍Begin.‍>

  The thugs all moved at the same time, reaching out for the weapons and raising them. Two aimed at the NeoGens, but two aimed at Farrell and the others.

  And then the NeoGen blurred.

  Ryann forced herself to concentrate, but she still only saw the attack‌—‌the slaughter‌—‌as a series of frozen frames, the movement between each tableau too fast to catch.

  A man’s arm pulled up, elongating as it popped out of the shoulder. Talons raking across a throat, the blood turning that thug’s shirt dark red. A weapon twisting through the air, trailing bloody droplets from the severed finger that remained hooked around the trigger. A chest torn open, ribcage shattered, and the heart crushed under the NeoGen’s boot.

  Then one side of the cage slid across, and the shades joined the fight.

  One of them almost made it to the smart-looking woman before the NeoGen shoved its hand into the thing’s stomach and the shade’s entrails dropped to the ground.

  The other shades turned to the three fallen thugs, and they rushed forward, tearing chunks from the dead bodies’ throats.

  The NeoGen only attacked them once they rose and turned their attention to one of those still standing. She ended their lives as if they were nothing, slicing through their throats with her talons and snapping their spines at the back of their necks.

  Ryann’s vision turned hazy, and she reached out for the window, steadying herself with a hand on the glass. It was cool, and she let her forehead dip forward,
welcoming the chill.

  The NeoGen stood still now, right in the centre of the arena. Blood dripped from the ends of its fingers, but otherwise it showed no signs of having been in a fight. It was as impassive as it had been before the thugs grabbed their weapons.

  “You see?” Murdoch said, turning to Ryann, his arms wide. “It can protect others. Imagine how useful this could be!”

  “Useful?”

  “Of course. Picture an uprising, or a hostage situation. Previously, we’d send in special forces, but there was always a high risk of innocent casualties. But send in one of my girls, and the situation is resolved. Did you see how quickly she moved? None of them even had time to fire a shot. The others down there were never in any real danger.”

  “Because their lattices have the marker,” Ryann said, her voice level. There was too much about this that didn’t add up.

  “Exactly!”

  “So why wouldn’t the attackers have the marker too?”

  “It would be a small thing to remove the marker from anyone who committed a sufficiently serious crime.”

  “But who decides exactly what constitutes a serious crime?”

  Murdoch waved a hand. “Oh, we’d sort the legal side out.”

  Ryann cut him off. “What about a first offence? What if someone threatens to kill others while they still have the marker?”

  Murdoch grinned. “Once again, Harris, you show what a wonderful mind you have. Of course that is an issue. And that is why certain conditions can trigger an over-ride of the rules. Observe.”

  He must have planned this, because there was a glint of enjoyment in his eyes. They clouded for a moment, and Ryann knew he was sussing.

  She looked into the arena. Farrell shook, and stuck his right hand inside his jacket. When it emerged, it held a Preben.

  He brought it up, aiming at the man in the lab coat. Farrell’s hand shook. His face was pale, and his lip quivered.

  The NeoGen shot forward. It grabbed Farrell’s arm, and he yelled out, his knees giving way, his body wrenching round as the beast twisted his arm. Then it brought round its other hand and plucked the weapon from Farrell’s fingers.

  Only then did it release Farrell. He collapsed to the ground, then shuffled away from the NeoGen. The monster made no attempt to attack him.

  Ryann must have gasped, because Murdoch turned to her and said, “He’s fine. The NeoGen is instructed to subdue with minimal injury. Personally, I think our Kesia fared admirably.”

  “He’s injured.”

  “He threatened to kill another protected individual. The NeoGens are programmed to neutralise such threats whenever and however they can.”

  Neutralise. Not kill, or capture, but neutralise.

  And maybe that was good. If Farrell had never been serious in raising that Preben, the NeoGen intervened without bloodshed. The only injury was maybe a bruised arm‌—‌Farrell still rubbed it.

  “These beauties are perfect,” Murdoch said. “Strong, smart, and willing to follow orders‌—‌no, incapable of not following orders. They are an army, a peace-keeping force, friends to those under oppression and deliverers of justice. They are‌—‌and I truly hope you are starting to understand this too‌—‌Kaiahive’s greatest achievement to date.”

  In the arena, the NeoGen looked down at the Preben, then removed the cartridge from the stock. It threw the cartridge behind, far from Farrell and the others, then tossed the weapon itself. It landed by the glass box. Then it nodded to Farrell, and moved back a couple of steps until it reached the centre of the room.

  A rush of warm air hit Ryann as the door behind her opened, and a guard appeared.

  “Think about what you have seen, Harris,” Murdoch said. “Don’t let your emotions interfere with logic.”

  Ryann almost resisted when the guard pulled gently. But how could she? How could she stand in the way of what was happening?

  So she allowed herself to be led away, glancing once over her shoulder. Murdoch stood by the window, one hand stroking his chin, and his eyes fixed on her. The corners of his mouth curled up, and he gave her the briefest of nods.

  A reminder to think about what she’d seen.

  And that scared the hells out of her. Not because of the horror she’d witnessed, but because, as reluctant as she was to admit it, she had been impressed.

  Kesia knew she had passed this test. None of the innocent had a scratch. The man who had raised a weapon on the one in the lab coat might have a bruise, but that was all.

  The assailants were all dead, both humans and subjects. Kesia felt‌…‌was that pride? Yes. She had kept the suffering to a minimum. The guilty had been punished with expediency. The subjects had been removed. She’d even allowed them one final meal.

  But the man above was still watching, although his companion had gone.

  <‍Are we done?‍> she asked. She scanned the remaining people, checking that there was nothing amiss.

  <‍What do you think?‍>

  <‍I think you are still testing me.‍>

  <‍Correct. How?‍>

  There were many ways to interpret that single-word question. Kesia selected the one she believed to be his intention.

  <‍There are threats I have not yet eliminated.‍>

  <‍Very good. How can you tell?‍>

  Kesia pushed, focusing on those remaining in the arena, ignoring the cold traces and the heavy scent of blood. And she thought of last time, when three of these people had stood before her. Then, she had been unable to approach them in anger.

  She took a step forward, then another. Close enough to the man in the lab-coat that his breath, hot and slightly moist, brushed her own face. A moan escaped his lips.

  She pulled in traces from all four, matching the current data to what she had felt before, and analysing the flavours.

  <‍Not all of them are marked.‍>

  <‍Excellent.‍>

  Kesia hesitated. She studied the clothing they wore, searching for signs of more weapons.

  <‍Well?‍>

  She stepped closer to the woman in the suit. The woman quivered, the jacket stained under her arms, her face drawn and haggard. But she was marked. Kesia brought her hand up, extending her talons, resting them on the woman’s neck. She felt the first hints of nausea rising, and she stepped back.

  The woman exhaled, her breath strong with fresh fruit and coffee.

  Kesia returned to the man in the lab-coat, and he, too, was marked. So she left him, and turned her attention to the man behind, the one with the shaved head.

  His trace was a mess, jagged, vibrating wildly. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. He shivered, and moisture coated his skin. Kesia breathed in, catching the rank odour of his body, and‌…‌and there were other substances within that sweat. Substances that needed to come out of his body. Substances that were raising his heartbeat and blocking his nerves.

  She studied his heavy coat, saw bulges, calculated what they might be. And then she focused on his trace.

  There was no marker.

  One shaking hand moved across his body, dipping into a fold in his coat. His lips shook, like he was muttering to himself.

  Kesia did what needed to be done.

  There was no pleasure in his removal, and Kesia turned to the remaining person, the individual who had raised the weapon. The one who had seemed familiar in the last test.

  His hood was low, and Kesia couldn’t see his eyes. She tasted his trace. Yes, there was fear, but he was fighting it. He was doing all he could to still his increasing heart-rate. She noted how he clenched his fists and set his jaw rigid, both involuntary actions.

  She read this, and she also read how he had no marker.

  Kesia extended her talons and tensed her arm.

  The man lifted his head, enough that his eyes were visible. They stared at Kesia.

  The man shook his head, and Kesia hesitated. He had no weapon. He was not acting in an aggressive manner. If he were a threat, there were a number
of ways she could neutralise that without ending his life. And his eyes‌—‌they were not the eyes of a killer. Somehow, Kesia knew this was not a bad person.

  <‍There a problem?‍>

  But the man had held a weapon. He’d pointed it to another man, one who was marked. If he did that once, he could do it again.

  Kesia lunged, her talons slicing into his throat. As he staggered back, she hammered a hand into his head, with enough force to knock him senseless to the ground.

  At least he wouldn’t feel the agony of his blood leaving his body. At least his death would be as painless as possible.

  He landed in a heap, the hood covering his face. And Kesia was pleased that she didn’t have to look at his expression.

  <‍Thank you, Kesia.‍>

  She nodded, but she didn’t respond. She kept her eyes down as she sensed the marked ones leaving the room, the door closing behind them. She breathed, calmly and rhythmically, fresh air rushing down her oesophagus and into her lungs, stale air coming the other way. She felt her heart beat, the blood flowing round her body.

  Only when her Chief Supervisor reached her side and coughed did Kesia turn and walk back to her own room.

  The other bodies meant nothing. As Brice stepped from that hellish cavern, all he could think of was Tris.

  The tech’s face, with that annoying look of condescension, followed Brice in the darkness, and he found himself aching to hear Tris’ voice again, even if it was throwing those petty insults. He wanted to be back on the Proteus, watching the way Tris glanced at Keelin, and the way the pilot ignored him. That always brought a smile to Brice’s face.

  He thought back to that last mission, the one that Cathal had called off as the storm grew. Brice remembered Tris moaning as they left the abandoned Proteus at the top of the galley and headed back into their own craft, and Ryann telling him that they’d be back at Haven soon. Like she was mothering him.

  But she wasn’t around now. And Tris didn’t need mothering any more.

  Brice leaned against a rock wall and closed his eyes. Moisture pooled and ran down his face.

  A sound dragged Brice back to the present, and he knew Cathal had dropped the shade he’d been feeding from. Then he heard footsteps, and Cathal came round the corner. Brice could smell the blood on his breath. He seemed‌—‌not happier exactly, but more content.