by T W Iain
She’d know who she was, deep down. But when Cathal—her commander—sussed that name, memories flooded her.
She remembered piloting the Proteus, at one with the craft. She remembered Tris and Brice, and their stupid bickering. She remembered Cathal, how he could be stern and distant, yet she still trusted him implicitly. And she remembered Ryann.
Other memories. Alone on a Hermes, talking to Ryann via her lattice. Ryann organising an escape, as shades ran through Haven. Ryann telling her everything would be okay. Ryann racing toward the Hermes’ open hatch, firing at the shades, while Keelin prepared for take-off.
And later, Ryann hunting Daman, discovering him by Jettison. The infected beast hiding in the escape pod. Ryann pushing Daman through the open hatch.
And the creature’s fangs sinking into his neck.
<Is it done yet?>
For a moment, she thought the voice was Daman’s, that this was a flashback. But it was the other one. Murdoch.
<No. I’m looking for a suitable spot.> Her head throbbed at the lie.
<You’re far enough away from the Hermes. Finish him.>
<Of course.> Because it was what he wanted to hear. It was what he expected from her.
Cathal stood still, his arms by his side. He looked weak, already beaten. And to think how she’d looked up to him, how strong he’d been.
Her commander.
But that was in the past. Murdoch was her commander now. He had made her. He was in charge. And she must obey.
She took a step forward, and her stomach clenched. She raised her heavy arms.
This was a part of her training. She could end lives quickly. It was her purpose. The only ones she could not harm were those who had been marked.
There was no mark on Cathal.
Then she thought of that last test, when the familiar man had drawn a weapon. How she’d swiped it from his hand, and how relieved he’d looked to still be alive.
His name came to her now. Farrell. One of the survivors of Haven.
But she’d killed him anyway. Because Murdoch ordered it.
Just as he ordered her to kill Cathal.
The pain across her forehead grew, like a band tightening around her skull.
<Kesia, do your job.> Murdoch’s voice was cold and insistent. It drilled into her skull.
And she knew she must obey.
Cathal knew she could kill him with a single blow.
There was something admirable about her physicality, and Cathal felt a moment of pride. This was one of his crew, and she was part of an elite force now.
But that moment only lasted a second. Then he felt her hesitation. And her anguish.
His crew shouldn’t suffer like this.
<You don’t have to do this, Keelin.>
Her arms trembled. Her whole body shook. Her fists clenched, tight enough that her talons dug into her palms. Cathal tasted blood in the air.
There was a sound like a sob, and her voice was quiet, on the point of breaking.
<Yes I do.>
And her arm flew at him.
Her fist connected with the centre of his face, with the two holes that had once been nostrils. The pressure of the blow travelled along her arm, through her shoulder, and she automatically flexed muscles to compensate. Her fingers tingled.
His head snapped back, and he grunted. He tripped, falling onto his back.
<Stop playing about, Kesia!>
<I want to give him a chance.>
Murdoch was silent for a moment. Cathal didn’t move. She saw his chest rise and fall. She saw his snout tremble.
Her old commander, at her mercy.
<We don’t have time for games. Finish him.>
Her eyes stung, and her vision clouded for a moment. Two tears fell. Her head continued to throb.
<Keelin. You don’t have to do this.>
Her name. Her commander.
<Kill him now!>
Her boss. Her creator.
She felt her head shake.
<I’m sorry.>
As soon as the words were out, she couldn’t recall who they were for.
The grey beast, with arms that could crush the life from him, loomed over Cathal. But in his mind he saw Keelin, hair falling over the side of her face, down to the upturned corner of her mouth.
<I have to do this.>
It wasn’t a threat, but a statement.
The grey hand swept down, and Cathal twisted away. Razor-sharp pain sliced through his arm, releasing blood.
Keelin gasped, then groaned. She staggered.
Cathal blinked the pain away, and rolled over. When he put weight on his injured arm, he almost collapsed, but he managed to find his feet.
She hit him again, a fist ploughing into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath.
Keelin backed away. She held her arms fight-ready, but she paused.
“No.” The word was barely audible. Then she repeated it, and her voice was harsh, cracked. She raised her hands to her head, her face contorted in pain.
Again, Cathal saw the girl as she had been, back at the bottom of the waterfall, when they’d had to flood the Proteus. When Keelin had to sacrifice her craft to the water.
She’d been strong, knowing that was the right thing to do. But Cathal had known she was hurting. To a pilot, losing their craft was akin to losing a friend.
And that was nothing compared to the agony she was suffering now.
She screamed. The sound tore through Cathal, and he realised that Murdoch must have such a strong hold over her, forcing her to act against her will. She was not Keelin as he knew her, but had been transformed by Kaiahive into a slave.
She would kill him. She must. Because there was no way she could do otherwise.
Cathal wanted her anguish to end. Just as he wanted his own suffering to end.
Just as Brice had ended Tris’ torture.
And Cathal saw a way out.
<Kill. Him. Now.>
The pain behind her eyes sent shards of light across her vision. A shape blurred at her side, and she knew it was her own arm. She felt her fingers extend and her talons elongate, each one ready to pierce through flesh. She felt her muscles tighten, felt the nerve-endings tingle as the chemicals built up, ready for the signal to strike.
She screamed.
The pain burst in her head once more, and this time it darted through her body, doubling her over.
She wanted to kill him. Not Cathal, but Murdoch. And not for the pain he was causing, but for everything that lay behind it. For using her as a tool. For having her murder Farrell. For forcing her to kill her old commander.
<He needs to die. By your hand or that of one of your sisters, I don’t care. But understand this, Kesia—fail me once, and you’ll never get the opportunity to fail me again.>
The pain receded enough that she could stand straight. She arched her back, both arms pulled back. She placed her feet firm, balancing her body. Her fingers stretched, her muscles readied themselves.
She looked to Cathal. And he nodded.
<Do it,> her commander said.
It was the only way.
<Do it. Kill me, Keelin.>
Cathal felt her hesitate, her whole body trembling.
<No.> The word exploded out. <Want to kill him!> She doubled over, both hands clutching her head.
Of course she wanted to kill Murdoch.
<And you can. But not if you don’t finish this.>
Clarity flooded through Cathal. Words and ideas meshed together to form a plan.
Keelin wanted revenge, and Cathal would be a part of that. He would help her get close to this man she hated, give her the opportunity to make him pay. When Keelin ended Cathal’s miserable life, Murdoch would welcome her back to the Hermes with open arms.
That was worth dying for.
<If you don’t kill me, he kills you t
oo. Think, Keelin! You always had a good mind, and you always did what was right. You took some tough decisions. This is just another one. And I know you can do the right thing.>
<But I don’t want to kill you, Cathal.>
The first time she’d used his name. And it stung. He wanted to hide, to cover his hideous face.
<I can’t go on, Keelin. I’m a monster. I’ve done what I can, but it’s not enough. I want this to end. I…I need to die. You kill me, and you’re doing me a final service.>
Her head shook.
<If you want to have a chance to destroy Murdoch, you need to kill me. And I want you to have that opportunity. I want him to pay for what he’s done. I want this to end.> He crouched as he spoke, tensing for her attack.
<I…I can’t kill you. Not you, Cathal.>
<If you won’t do this for your commander, do it for a friend. Please.>
Cathal shifted, side-on, and raised one arm. He extended his claws. The residue of blood and gore from the shades still clung to them.
<But we have to make it look good. It has to be the slaughter he expects.>
And she nodded. The tiniest of movements, but it was enough.
He lunged, a hissing roar pouring from his mouth. He swung his claws round, judging where they’d strike, aiming for her throat.
He knew they’d never make contact.
She side-stepped, brought her own arm up and flung him away. He landed awkwardly, his leg gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. But he was up in an instant, and he rushed her again.
She stabbed forward with her talons, but the move was too reticent, and Cathal read it. He swerved, and those talons, so short when compared to his claws, barely grazed him. They tore through one layer of the cloth covering his body, but that was all.
<Call that an attack?> He recalled the times in Haven’s training rooms, putting Keelin and the others through their paces, pushing them to develop. <You’re better than that, Keelin. Stop hesitating!>
The harder he pushed his crew, the better they performed. He’d always been the cold commander, almost clinical and uncaring, because Keelin and the others gave as good as they got.
That didn’t mean he was uncaring, and as he realised how he needed to break through Keelin’s resistance, his stomach tied itself in knots.
But he had to do this. For her. For his crew.
He rushed her again, but this time he ducked low. One of her arms flew over his head, and he raised his claws straight up, their tips aimed at her chest. From this angle, if her internal anatomy was unchanged, he could reach beneath her rib-cage and into her internal organs.
Pain shot through his arm as she grabbed it with her free hand and yanked, hard, bringing it down on her knee. He hadn’t even sensed her leg move.
The crack was loud, and Cathal’s arm throbbed with heat. When he flexed his claws white-hot daggers ran along his nerves.
<Didn’t expect that.> Through the pain, he felt pride. <But you’re not finished yet, Keelin. Do it!>
But he had to help her.
Cathal roared, shutting out his own thoughts and emotions. He pushed with his legs, reached forward with his arms. Claws sliced through the air, aiming for the grey mass before him.
Then an arm was thrown back, and the pain increased. Something held it high, high enough that his feet only just reached the ground. Cathal ground his teeth, refusing to submit to the grinding agony running along that arm.
She was building on his weaknesses. That was good.
And then pain exploded in his chest.
Time froze.
It was like the very air in his lungs stopped, like what pathetic blood ran around his system pulled to a stand-still. And yet he could think, and he could sense everything around him.
She was close, so close his face was in her shoulder, her own head to one side. She breathed out hard, the exhaled air rushing through the cloth at his neck and into his pores, hot and angry, but also so alive. So very alive.
And her hand was inside him.
She pushed harder. The force of her attack had been enough to crack his ribs, and now her talons worked their way deeper. Cathal shook, couldn’t catch his breath, knew she’d punctured a lung, knew he was bleeding. And still her hand reached further into his chest.
And her talons found his heart.
This all happened in a fraction of a second—a heartbeat.
But he had no more use for heartbeats. He was free.
<Thank you.>
He shook, but maybe that was from Keelin, so entwined were they now. And he could feel her thoughts, feel the emotions pouring through her body. Her adrenaline swamped her system, but she controlled it. Cathal understood how she had aimed that final lunge to perfection, always knowing she would reach the target. She wanted his heart, and now she had it.
It was the perfect move to end the fight.
<Now finish Murdoch.>
He heard her cry as she pulled her hand out, ripping parts of his heart with it. When it burst from his chest there was nothing to stop his insides pouring out.
For a moment he was conscious of the spray of gore splashing onto Keelin. Then he followed his guts, crashing to the floor.
<I’m proud of you.>
Those words would have to be enough, because the world faded to a marvellous black.
Ryann struggled to remain on her feet. Her head swam, and sickness boiled in her guts.
Murdoch had forced her to watch the fight—no, the slaughter. He’d pulled the feed from Kesia’s lenses up onto the screen, and he’d stood by her side. He’d made sure she watched every moment of that execution.
But she saw the hesitation. She saw how the NeoGen didn’t kill Cathal instantly. It held back, almost like it didn’t want to attack him.
Murdoch had argued with it. Ryann hadn’t heard the conversation, but she could read his face. There was annoyance when it hesitated, and this turned to anger, his skin reddening and his jaw clenching. But then, when his monster drove its hand into Cathal’s stomach, he’d laughed.
As Cathal—her commander, her friend—died, this monster beside her laughed!
Murdoch grinned when he turned to her. “Poetry in motion.”
Ryann couldn’t respond to that. She swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth.
“You don’t see it? You don’t see the beauty in those movements?”
Her mouth was dry, but she managed to speak. “Beauty? That was an execution!”
“That was the removal of a problem. That was efficiency.”
She shook her head. “No. If it was efficient, he wouldn’t have suffered.”
Murdoch tilted his head. “You still cared for him, didn’t you? Even though he was…wasn’t what he had been.”
“He was still Cathal.”
“He was a monster!”
“Like your precious NeoGens.”
His mouth opened, then closed. Then he sighed. “I had high hopes for you, Harris. Out of everyone on Haven, you were the only one who thought clearly. You saw how those early subjects were driven by base desires rather than being creatures bent on death and destruction. You seemed to understand what was happening beneath the surface. And now, you call these wonderful creations monsters? No. That’s your emotions rising to the surface. That’s you talking without thinking.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought—I hoped—you were better than that, Harris.”
She took in a breath, forcing the adrenaline to work its way from her system. She wanted to close her eyes, to bite her lip. But actions like that would be admissions of guilt.
Because he was right. She had spoken without thinking, her words a knee-jerk reaction, a pathetic attempt at point-scoring.
The NeoGens were what they were—the result of Kaiahive’s dark experimentation. They weren’t monsters, no more than the shades were.
No. The real monsters were the
ones who made them. The shades, the infected, the NeoGens—they were all victims.
Murdoch was the only monster here.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t respond to his words. But as her nails bit into her palms, Ryann vowed that she would make him pay. She would make him suffer for the pain he’d caused.
This monster, through his orders, had killed Cathal. And for that, Murdoch must die.
Ryann knew she couldn’t act in anger. Murdoch was stronger than her, and he wore a Preben on his hip. He could also call his NeoGens in as protection.
So she allowed one of these poor creatures to return her to her cell. When the door clicked locked, Ryann lay on the bunk and closed her eyes.
She should think logically. She should plan. But she couldn’t. Instead, Ryann let the memories come, faces in her mind, a roll-call of Kaiahive’s victims.
Cathal. Arela, Ula, Lynet. Merna, and Torrey and Turi. And Tris—alive or dead, he’d been taken by the shades, another victim.
She had to assume that Farrell was dead, and that brought up other faces and names, the rest of the survivors of Haven. Piran and Eljin. Ronat. And Keelin.
So much promise! How was it fair that someone so young, someone with so much left to give, had been taken?
Ryann brushed the dampness from her face, reminded of the way Keelin wore her hair, and how she brushed it aside so often.
In her mind, Ryann saw her young friend, seated in the bridge of her Proteus, eyes half-closed, at one with the craft. She watched the soft smile as Keelin pulled off yet another smooth yet sharp turn. And Ryann heard her voice, the slight hint of sarcasm that was instantly disarmed by her smile.
<Ryann.>
The voice came to her, welling up from her memories.
<Ryann, can you hear me?>
A single tear rolled down her cheek, both hot and cold at the same time. It hit the corner of Ryann’s mouth, pulling it up into a smile, the memories triggering happiness.
<It’s me. Keelin.>
And then she realised the voice wasn’t from her memories. She was hearing this, through her lattice.
<Keelin?> She pushed out, gently, seeking the origin of the voice.
Or was this a trick? Was Murdoch playing old feeds? Was this his idea of torture?
