Shadowstrike

by T W Iain

  “There was a warth, earlier. Kept back quite a way, didn’t pay us any attention. It’s gone now, otherwise I thought you might‌…‌you know, want fresh food or something.”

  The words washed over Cathal. His stomach churned.

  <‍What happened?‍> he managed. He pushed out, past Brice’s rich trace, and concentrated on the land in front of the fence. He caught his own trace down there, noted where it stopped. Where he’d collapsed. <‍You drag me back here?‍>

  “Thought it made sense.” The sound of a zipper opening reached Cathal. “You want a blood-pack?”

  <‍No!‍> That was too loud. It even hurt Cathal’s own head. But he couldn’t face blood. Not at the moment. <‍No,‍> he sussed, calmer this time. <‍Just‌…‌just tell me what you see.‍>

  “Where?”

  <‍Other side of the fence.‍>

  “Okay.”

  Cathal did the mental equivalent of shutting his eyes, and cut off most of the stimuli from his pores. He leaned back against the tree. Brice shuffled, off to one side. Just out of arm’s reach.

  “Tried finding traces,” the lad said, his voice coming to Cathal from far away. “Popped down to the fence earlier‌—‌didn’t leave you for too long, just had to move about, you know? Anyway, the fence looks climbable, but I didn’t want to do that without you. So I concentrated on the other side.”

  Brice paused.

  <‍Go on.‍> It even hurt to suss. Why couldn’t the lad simply carry on talking?

  “I can’t read traces as well as you, but there were some over there. People‌…‌and shades.”

  Cathal focused. It took effort, and when he reached out past the fence things were indistinct, like they were smothered by something, or obscured by smoke. There were traces, but he couldn’t read them clearly.

  <‍I can’t concentrate,‍> he told Brice. <‍Keep talking.‍>

  “Okay. Um, not sure what else to say. There’s a forest over there, bit like here, but a big open space runs through it. There’s a dirt track in the middle. Approaches the fence, splits up into smaller tracks, and these just fade into the grass. Strange.”

  Cathal couldn’t picture it. Instead, he though of what had happened as they’d been walking toward the fence, how he’d started feeling light-headed, how his body grew weary with every step.

  He’d been pushing too hard. He should have listened to Brice, taken a break, at least supped from one of the blood packs. The blood from the caretaker must have been polluted‌—‌too many sources, all decaying in that pit.

  “…‌some kind of block in the distance. Could be rock, or maybe a building. I’m not sure. And there’s‌…‌hang on.”

  The note of urgency in Brice’s voice grated. <‍What?‍>

  “There’s movement. People, a group of them, coming out from the trees. No‌—‌they’ve been following the path. But‌…‌there’s something else in the trees.” He paused. “The sun will be setting soon. If they’re shades‌…”

  Cathal felt the warmth from the sun penetrating his clothing. He felt the traces too, knew that there were kin in the trees. How many, he couldn’t tell.

  “The people are coming this way. Four of them. The one at the front is tall. They’ve all got dark green clothes on, like some kind of camouflage. Two male, two female. And‌…‌they’re stopping.”

  <‍What about the kin?‍> Their traces were still too blurred to read.

  “Can’t see them well enough, but I think they’ve stopped too. Don’t think the people have noticed them. They seem more focused on the fence. And one of the group’s walking forward now. The tall one. He’s holding some kind of weapon‌—‌at least, I guess that’s what it is. He’s moving slowly.”

  Cathal could sense the mass of traces splitting, and in the trees the kin did likewise. Most stayed where they were, but one, maybe two, moved level with the tall man.

  “He’s reached the end of the path now. He’s turning, waving at the others. They’re waving back. One of them’s shouting. They don’t seem happy.

  “He’s carrying on, but it looks like it’s hard going. He’s just stumbled, and he keeps holding one hand to his head. Two hands now. And he’s stumbled again. Almost fell. He doesn’t look well.”

  Cathal focused on the kin. They didn’t appear to have moved, even the ones who had initially gone forward.

  That should mean something, but Cathal had no idea what.

  “He’s down.” There was a questioning tone to Brice’s voice. “He’s curling up, and I think he’s screaming or crying out or something. And‌…‌and one of the others is trying to run to him, but the other two are holding her back.”

  <‍The man. Focus on the man.‍>

  “He’s rolling over, getting up. But he’s all over the place. He’s dropped his weapon. He’s in pain, has to be. It’s almost like‌…‌he’s down again. On his hands and knees. He’s crawling. And‌…‌and there’s something coming from his ears, black‌…‌no, red. Same as from‌…‌from his eyes. He’s bleeding from his eyes!”

  The sharp aroma of blood cut through the air, and Cathal’s stomach growled. He set his jaw firm and concentrated on the traces.

  “He’s collapsed again, all curled up. He’s‌…‌you must have heard that scream, Cathal. He’s dying over there! We’ve‌…‌there must be something we can do.”

  But Brice stayed where he was. The tang of blood mixed with the lad’s trace, so close to Cathal, so distracting.

  “He’s not screaming now. He’s not moving, just lying in his blood.”

  Dead, and his blood gone to waste, soaking into the ground.

  The kin stirred. Through the veil of the fence, he felt their agitation, their yearning to leap for the man and take their fill. But something stopped them. Their attention shifted.

  “The shades are moving.” Cathal knew this, but he listened to Brice anyway. “I can see them, at the edge of the trees.”

  <‍The sun’s setting.‍> Soon the warmth would disappear, and night would fall.

  “And the three on the path are closing in, tighter together. They’ve all got weapons. You hear that? They’re firing into the trees. I recognise that sound‌—‌a Neph, right? Like that’s going to do anything. And‌…‌and the shades are rushing out now. The people are panicking. They’re yelling and running. But‌…”

  Brice fell silent. Cathal didn’t need words, anyway. He could tell what was happening. He heard the cries that cut off abruptly. He heard the hisses of victory emerging from the throats of the kin, even from this distance.

  And he smelt the blood. He pulled in air, breathing deep, as if savouring that wonderful taste, the warmth as he imagined oxygen-rich haemoglobin hitting the back of his throat, the coppery tang and the wonderful bitter aftertaste.

  But there was blood closer, flowing through Brice’s arteries. It called to him.

  Cathal pushed against the tree and got to his feet. The lad was next to him, close enough to touch. Close enough to taste.

  “Cathal? What’s up?”

  He shook his head. <‍Just…‍> But he couldn’t find the words. He swallowed drool. And Brice reached out, a hand landing on Cathal’s shoulder.

  It would be so easy to grab that wrist, to pull Brice in and‌…

  No!

  <‍I need to go.‍>

  Cathal threw himself away from the tree and ran.

  Murdoch rubbed his hands together, and he beamed. “I think that went pretty well.”

  “It was a slaughter.”

  The only good thing about what Ryann had just witnessed was its brevity, but that did little to make up for the sickening violence. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. She closed her eyes, trying to stop the shaking.

  “It was quick and effective.” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d appreciate a lack of suffering, even in those things you call shades?”

  “I don’t appreciate unnecessary violence.”

  “Unnecessary? But
how else were we to take back Haven? I don’t recall you negotiating when you were so desperate to escape.”

  Of course she hadn’t. The shades didn’t listen to reason. They were mindless. No, that wasn’t quite right. They had minds, but they were driven by their desires. They were animals.

  Even though they had once been people. Like Cathal.

  “Why do you need Haven back?” she said eventually.

  “Why did we need Haven in the first place?”

  That caught her off-guard. “But‌…‌you can’t go ahead with the mining. What if there are more shades running around. The risk would be far too high.”

  “The issue is not the risks, but how they are managed. And I’d hope it would be clear that we have a very effective way of neutralising this particular risk.”

  “But those things are killers! What if‌…‌what if the markers don’t work, or someone forgets to alter someone’s lattice?”

  “Have you been paying attention?” Murdoch held up a hand, then raised a finger. “First, the markers work. The NeoGen’s lattices aren’t simply enhanced, they’re totally recoded, and the response to markers is a fundamental aspect of that coding.” He raised another finger. “Second, there are always robust checks on those working anywhere near the NeoGens, and these will only become more stringent as my girls take on more work.” A third finger. “And you’re forgetting those tests back on Metis. My girls can think for themselves. They’re not automatic killers. Even if someone had no marker, they are safe so long as they cause no problems.”

  Ryann raised four fingers, her nails broken, her skin lined and pale. “But fourth, mistakes can‌—‌and will‌—‌happen. The shades were your work, and look how they turned out. There’s no way you can guarantee these new monstrosities are safe.”

  Murdoch breathed out, a long sigh that blew air onto her face. Then he shook his head, his eyes half-closing. “There’s no pleasing you, is there, Harris?” The corners of his mouth turned up, raised in a half-smile.

  Cathal used to do the same, in private. But from him, it was a friendly gesture. From Murdoch, it was condescending. Murdoch treated her as if she were a child.

  But she wasn’t a child. She’d seen some of her best friends killed. She’d made a stand, and had fought shades. She’d put her life on the line for those she cared about.

  And he was a weasel from Kaiahive.

  “Is that what you’re trying to do?” she said, “Trying to please me?”

  He looked her up and down, pausing before responding. “It would make things a lot easier if you were more accepting,” he eventually said.

  “Easier for me, or for you?”

  “Why can’t it be both?”

  “Because you don’t care for anyone but yourself.”

  That came out like a petty argument, and Ryann regretted the words. They made her appear childish, and she understood how he was manipulating her‌—‌the pleasantries, and the way he answered questions with other questions. He gave the appearance of openness, but told her nothing. And he’d slipped beneath her defences, pushing her to give him some true emotion.

  “But I’ve treated you well. I’ve not harmed you, Harris.”

  She laughed. “You locked me up‌—‌and don’t give me that crap about quarantine being for my own good. You take my friends away. You tell me nothing. And now you drag me back down to Haven and expect me to be thankful to you?”

  He breathed heavily, and there was a moment when his jaw set rigid. But he recovered, speaking quietly. “You can’t see it now, maybe, but I have been good to you. There are many who wanted you and the others killed, but I argued against them. And quarantine has been for your own safety. Once the story started spreading that Haven was wiped out by a pathogen, we had to protect you. I had to protect you. Harris‌—‌Ryann. Someone like you doesn’t deserve to be in this situation. You deserve a role worthy of your skills. People look up to you, Ryann. They listen to you. You would be such an asset to the project.”

  And there it was. Murdoch wanted her to believe in this project because it would make him look good. If he could convince her that the NeoGens were safe, then others would be convinced too.

  She shook her head. “I can’t be bought. If people trust me, it’s because I do what I feel is right.”

  “And accepting the NeoGens is right.”

  She shook her head again. “They used to be people, until you tampered with them. You opened them up and turned them into something else.”

  “Yes.” There was a spark in his eyes now, and he brought his hands wide. “Just as this company made you something else. Tell me, what were you before you joined Kaiahive? What were you like before we enhanced your lattice? Every single advance in medical science turns people into something else. Something better.”

  He was passionate‌—‌she’d give him that much. He continued, gesturing to the screen. “Just look at what my girls achieved in a few short minutes. Haven was teeming with undesirables, with threats to everyday people. It was a cesspit. Any normal force going in would have suffered casualties. We would have lost good people. The way things stood, we might not even have won. But with only ten NeoGens, we succeeded. Those unwanted experiments have been ended. Harris, don’t you see? This,” and he once more waved his arms at the wall screens, “this is the future.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. And those things are still monsters, regardless of how they started. They are abominations.” Murdoch shook his head, but Ryann wasn’t finished yet. “You turned them into machines. Don’t you see that? This isn’t an improvement. This isn’t an advance. This is‌…‌is slavery. You call the shades your subjects, and you’re right. But these NeoGens are too. They might be ‘improved’, but they’re still your subjects‌—‌beholden to you, controlled by you. They have no life of their own. They…”

  The sound of his hand slamming onto the desk stunned Ryann into silence. And when he spoke, his voice was loud and angry. “Enough! Cut the bleeding-heart crap, Harris! Look to the bigger picture. This isn’t about a few people, it’s about everyone. It’s about the survival of us all.” He took a breath, his face red. He was close enough that his warm, musty breath brushed her cheeks. “You’re not looking big enough,” he said, his voice quiet, almost pleading.

  Then he turned. “Look.” He tapped a console, and the screen showed a single image now. The label at the base read ‘NG1’, so Ryann assumed she was looking through the eyes of a NeoGen, one of Murdoch’s girls. And they were all female. Ryann couldn’t believe that was down to chance.

  The image showed some of the others. Ryann had no idea which ones, because they all appeared alike‌—‌grey skin covered by the same uniforms, all of them stained with darker patches, surely blood. There were three on the screen, and they were‌…‌they were tidying up.

  She recognised the room as the rec hall, but it was a total mess. Tables and chairs had been tossed around, many of them broken. The games table lay in half, and the sofa by the large screen was shredded, foam littering the floor.

  The NeoGens were stacking the broken furniture to one side, as neatly as possible. One of them snapped a lone leg off a table-top and placed both items gently down before turning to the wall screen. It was webbed with cracks, and half of it was hanging loose. The NeoGen grabbed this part and pulled, easing it off the wall. Not yanking it, but moving gently so that it came away with minimal damage.

  They were tidying, and they were being careful.

  “They are not simple killers,” Murdoch said. “Yes, they have strength, but that strength can be used for far more than ending lives.” He reached a hand up, resting it on the screen, where one of the NeoGens was bagging all the loose material from the sofa. “How can you call such perfect beings abominations?”

  Ryann stared at the scene. They could be regular people, if she ignored the size and the grey colour, and the inhuman faces. They could be regular people, working together to make things better.

  And Ryan
n swallowed.

  Brice didn’t follow Cathal. Even if he could catch up, Cathal was too strong to stop. Best to let him get whatever it was out of his system.

  Instead, Brice focused on the other side of the fence. The light was fading fast, but he could still see the three corpses, their bodies discarded after the shades had feasted. The lone man, the one who had approached the fence, lay undisturbed in a dark patch of his own blood.

  Something else caught his eye, in the trees to the left of the path. A figure emerged, easing round a boulder and approaching the fallen trio. Brice guessed, from the way she moved, that the figure was female, but she was small, maybe a child.

  She darted across to the bodies and crouched down, touching each in turn, one hand placed against their heads, or maybe their necks. She moved round all three quickly then stood, wiped her hand down one leg. She glanced around before following the path, round the bend and out of sight.

  Brice walked to the fence, past the point where Cathal had collapsed. A few steps, and he had to stretch his neck to see the thick cable at the top of it. A couple more, and he reached out, curling his fingers round the cold links.

  Fences were designed to keep things out, or to keep them in. But how much of a barrier was this one? It would be easy for Brice to scale‌—‌and if he could climb it, a shade would have no problem. And yet those on the far side had seemed reluctant to even approach it.

  He started to climb, a part of him expecting pain. He glanced around, wondering who or what was watching.

  But nothing stopped him, and within a couple of minutes he sat atop the fence, one leg on either side of the thick cable that ran along the top. It felt warm, and it vibrated‌—‌power of some kind, but it clearly wasn’t affecting Brice.

  He climbed down. Then he walked away from the fence, toward the fallen man.

  His trace grew stronger as Brice approached‌—‌cold and still, but clearer, as were the traces of his companions further along the path. Brice turned to the trees, and felt the traces of the shades who had been watching this man.

  Then he turned, back to the fence. Cathal’s trace was there, but it was faint, and Brice lost it as it moved away into the trees. It was as indistinct as the traces on this side of the fence had been, before he climbed.