by Russ Linton
"Gonna head on up to the center. Ya'll left a few trees there, unfortunately. Camouflage, landscapin', don't matter why."
At the central most point of the base, two scraggly cedars flanked an open patch of dirt and stone. The mess hall, several bunks, and walls made from filled rock and dirt enclosed this section. Hound slung the flamethrower canister off his back and slid down under the tree closest to where they'd come from.
"That a good idea?" she asked, eyeing the gnarled branches nervously.
"Don't you worry," he said. He fished another cigarette out of his pocket and lit it on the flamethrower wand. "Get yer ass over there." He nodded toward an open doorway, painted in shadow, and took a long drag.
She followed orders but took another photo first. This earned an annoyed look as he sat puffing the cigarette into life. The single spark glowed inexplicably bright next to the wildfire right beyond the trench.
He stuffed the pack of cigarettes into a side pocket. Lucky Strikes? What episode of Mad Men had this guy stepped out of? Jackie settled into the shadows to wait.
Hound arranged the fuel canister on the ground before him. The wick on the wand sputtered, then died.
A knot of tree and brush crept into view from the direction of the trenches. Hound lounged against the scraggly cedar, unconcerned. Jackie's shutter ticked silently among the crackling fires. She captured the moment he bit down on the cigarette as the tree behind him crept low, dipping empty boughs, and securing his arms. He clenched his teeth as it dragged him to his feet.
The knot of vegetation shambled into the open yard and unfurled. Layer after layer peeled away which Jackie froze frame after frame. The Lady emerged, birthed from the woods in her elaborate green dress. Heavy gold embroidery and flashing tassels spun like lures. Her patterned khimar flared open in the fire's breath to display a long-limbed grace. Her face, her eyes, glowed against the shadow.
She spoke the regional dialect, centuries older than the conflicts which brought foreigners here. Hound cocked an ear, grimacing at the pull of the cedar. The bony tree, once a joke among camp as their own bonsai, continued to entwine the old soldier's arms. He responded, in a clear enough Pashto Jackie could understand.
"We're passing through. Your valley is yours again. All we need do is leave"
She strode toward him, regal, leaving the protective shell of trees and earth behind. Jackie resisted the temptation to take a picture. A strange quiet descended. She held her breath.
Fear wormed into Jackie's thoughts. The men had fallen back as ordered. The cover fire had stopped, even from the ridge where she'd been with Franklin and Donovan. Their rescuer had given himself up for what? To buy time? Give the men a chance to escape which she'd turned down?
Laying on a grenade or rushing headlong into a hail of bullets to drag a fallen comrade to safety wasn't uncommon. Those types of actions typically came without a thought. Only a lunatic would sit down and sacrifice himself.
Maybe he had lost his mind. Worse had been thought of Augments. Old, ready to retire, she might have stumbled into his blaze of glory.
But he had said "us". She scanned the darkness. Nothing. Insanity seemed more likely.
The cedar tightened, and Hound's boots cleared the ground. A grunt and he looked down on the Lady. Below him, the slight Afghan girl dressed in wedding finery splotched with dust and ash glared up. Jackie risked another shot. Words ancient enough to have a common root lit from the girl's tongue and Jackie understood.
"Fire only makes us grow."
"My apologies," Hound said, his response broken and unpracticed. "I needed your attention. To talk."
The Lady laughed, harsh and cruel. Branches cinched tighter and the weathered skin around Hound's steel arms crumpled.
"This time we're gone for good." He grimaced, grinding on the cigarette. "Mighty America? It'll be a long time before she looks beyond her own troubles."
"Lies."
"You got no reason to believe a word I say. But we've both got our orders I imagine." Branches clasped tighter, their feathered ends blending with his engorged veins. Hound's eyebrows twitched. Jackie thought she saw a sideways glance toward the trenches. "No orders? Then who? Allah?" Hound shook his head as the Lady continued to speak, her words calm and forceful.
Bits and pieces made sense. No man. No god. Broken words about ghosts...spirits and whispers in the trees.
"You're an Augment," said Hound. "Same as me. You got juiced up somewhere, and all I want to know is who. Then we'll leave you to your valley, nice and peaceful."
"You'll leave?" she spat in plain Pashto. Jackie caught the barely restrained rage, but Hound pressed on.
"Yes. Won't be back. We've all seen enough dying."
The Lady's shriek filled the valley. More words came in a furious stream Jackie knew she had no hope of unraveling. Husband. She heard the word husband. Branches sunk deeper in Hound's flesh and he crushed the cigarette between his teeth. Blood trickled from scores of cuts, and Jackie saw him aim a rapid shake of his head toward the trench. The lady rose upward atop a pillar of earth and roots.
"Peace upon you, girl." Hound strained to speak through the pain. "Don't go down this path. Talk. Jirga." Supple tree limbs cracked and groaned while Hound's arms splayed painfully. "Damnit," he growled, in plain English.
As a rule, Jackie never interfered. She came to record history, not make it. This close to an Augment, and she could almost feel Ember in the heat. Hound might not know where she was, but he could at least tell her stories she hadn't heard, maybe send her in the right direction. The man couldn't die.
Besides, he sounded like he was looking for information. That was her job.
"I spoke to your sister," she called, stepping out of the shadows. "She was worried about you."
The towering platform of root and earth twisted like a snake, hungry and ready to strike. The Lady swung around with the motion to face her. She regarded Jackie with eyes like black voids. No color, no whites, just empty.
"What do you know of my sister?"
Jackie gasped as the earth clasped around her boots. She stiffened but fought the urge to run. "I spoke to her. She wanted me to tell your story. It's what I do, tell stories...with pictures." She raised her camera, hands shaking. Earth continued to spiral past her ankles, her knees. She cleared her throat. "I'd like to hear more."
The Lady considered her. In that long moment, Jackie felt the buildup of earth slow, the roots and stone slacken. Eye to eye the impassive face was impossible to read. Flattened by the even light of the encroaching flame, the strange eyes mirrored the flame. She couldn't have been much older than Jackie. High school, college, ways of describing age which didn't matter to women here.
"My story has been told a thousand times. One more will not matter."
Stone and earth piled around Jackie in a dense cone. Roots shot upward, crawling along her hips, her stomach. She wanted to scream but only released a shudder.
"Let her go."
Hound spat the cigarette from his mouth and flame erupted at the base of the tree around the discarded fuel tank. The maiden shrieked and whipped toward him atop her earthen pillar. Her shadow made long and immense, she rose toward the stars with hands clenched into fists. Hound arched back to watch, and wooden limbs clawed deeper into his flesh. They'd soon tear him apart. Jackie swallowed the harsh, raw air and raised her camera one more time.
A crack rebounded off the valley walls.
The shutter jittered as a dark fountain shot from where the Lady's head had been. Her fists unwound, and arms fell slack. A forward tilt and a lazy sway, she tumbled to the ground.
Jackie caught her breath. Stone encasing her crumbled and she fell forward, gasping. She tried to make sense of the mangled corpse of the Lady and searched the edges of the camp for anyone from the squad. Franklin, Donovan, maybe Jacobs had come back with a well-timed shot.
Out of the darkness came a man. He hadn't bothered with fatigues or even tribal dress. Street clothes clinging
to dark skin, he shifted a sniper rifle onto his shoulder.
"Why'd you wait so damn long," the man said, skirting the flames, and making his way to the tree.
"I was gettin' somewhere," Hound groused. "Get me outta this damn tree."
"You were getting yo' ass kicked," drawled the man as he unsheathed a knife and went at the branches. "This gonna take a while."
The man's eyes flicked from Jackie's face to her camera and went back to his work. "Jirga," he said to Hound. "You hear yourself say Jirga." He snapped a branch back, and Hound's weight shifted. "You sound like every other white motherfucker come through here since Alexander."
"Spare me your PC bullshit, soldier. Did you have to kill her? She's just a girl."
"Saving puppies died with Crimson. She's a weapon. Like you. Me." He pried a handful of branches away and tossed them into the fire. "Losing your stomach for this, old man?"
"Nobody ever got a stomach for it."
"Your boy, Spencer. He seems to know the score."
CHAPTER 20
CANTOR WATCHES THE HUD video on her tablet, glasses at the tip of her nose. The tablet is a few generations old, something I've come to expect from the government's technological resources. Seems to be, at one time, they were the ones ahead of the game. Then they fell behind and never quite caught back up. Could be similar to the Russian problem. All their money got poured into Augment programs. Killcreek must have cost trillions to put in place and manage. All destroyed in an afternoon.
Put that way, I don't mind taking credit for Killcreek. What happened at Pine Ridge with Tomahawk is a different story.
"Keeping him alive," Cantor says, flatly, "would've been ideal."
Xamse and Ayana sit quietly. I don't. "If you wanted ideal, you wouldn't have sent your army goons first," I say. "You wanted him dead, or me. I'm on the fence about which."
"As I've mentioned, I have slightly different priorities from Defense."
She's cool and collected. The words aren't an accusation, but they prod at the frustration knotting through my muscles. "Then I should probably mention my priority is to not be killed by your fucking lab experiments."
"Mr. Steele was no more a lab experiment than your father."
"Listen, bitch." There it is. The seething fire in my chest. "You might've read your share of classified dossiers about the Crimson Mask, but you don't know shit about my father." My hands tremble. If I were in the armor, I might light her up.
"Please." Xamse rises and plants a reassuring hand on the table as though he can tamp down the tension. "The mission was difficult, as we all knew it would be. My pilot is alive and your objective, secured. This is a good day."
Xamse's command of the situation is welcome. I don't want to think. I don't want to feel. All I want is to accept this role; me, the employee, him the boss. Routine. That's what all this is.
"You did well, Spencer," he says, patting my good shoulder and avoiding the one in a sling. He walks to the far end of the room, tilting his head in contemplation. "Mrs. Cantor, have you yet any intelligence on Vulkan's whereabouts?"
Cantor's gaze hasn't wavered from me. "He's gone dark. There's been no sign since Detroit. We discovered a tunnel beneath the theater."
"The basement?" I ask. Another wild flux in emotion and I've dropped my guard.
She regards me with her ever-present calm. "A tunnel Vulkan created, not anything part of the building's construction. A magma vent, I suppose. It ran deep, traveled three blocks south, and burned into a storm drain. He'd already had a week's head start."
Xamse gives me another reassuring poised look which comes across as a genuine We will find him. Fuck, he's right, he does understand this. My partner, my mentor in the ways of revenge.
My shoulder throbs and I gingerly rub at it. Sure, we'll find that bastard, I just hope I'm ready. Although, they found Vulkan's tunnel one week after the incident? I was in a cell for damn near three months.
"And what of our next mission," Xamse adds, lacing his fingers behind his back.
My mind stays in Detroit but begins to wander, past a week, a day, to the very hour my world went up in flames. I've tried my best not to think about Dad. We were at odds for so long. With him always leaving, the memories dredged up are fragmented and never whole. Whether a fight or a rare start at forming some sort of bond, we always got interrupted. What ultimately happened was the only logical conclusion. My attempts to undo his unwitting assistance in the Killcreek Initiative and to save him only bought time which karma cashed in at the first possible fucking moment.
Once, when I was a kid, he walked into my room to see the computer he'd just spent a couple grand on strewn across the floor. He'd been gone on a mission, his return always a surprise. I prepped for the lecture and the barely restrained rage. Never happened.
He sat down, picked up the graphics card and said, "What's this?"
For the next twenty minutes, I held an impromptu class on hardware. I should've been proud or happy, but I worried the entire time his hands would bend connectors or crack the thin silicon wafers. His pager went off. He left again and told me to just make sure I could put it all back together.
I could.
I can.
"Spencer?" Xamse leans across the table, waving away my distant look as though batting at cobwebs.
"Yes?"
"What do you know of this weapon?" He reaches to push Cantor's tablet closer, and she's quick to intercept him. With a perfunctory smile, she pushes it across the table.
There's a picture of a man from the batch of photos at Whispering Pines, one of those mugshots all the survivors of Killcreek got. He's pale, almost albino, and identifiable because of this trait. Xamse could call up Eric's database on the interface mounted on the conference room wall and answer the question himself. He wants me to answer though. Impress our client or wake me up, who knows. Either way, I appreciate the gesture.
"Jupiter. Post-Crimson Mask Alpha," I say, letting the name stay separated from my father by history. "Magnetism on an intense scale, he repositioned a destroyer through force of will if you believe the rumors. Why?"
"Believe them. And it's as I said," says Cantor, reclaiming the tablet. "He's our next target."
"What's he done?" I ask.
Xamse cuts the air with his palm. "These are not the questions we ask. Why is not our concern, only how." He and Cantor exchange looks: his oozing confidence, hers a redacted memo.
I should argue the point. But after that encounter with Tomahawk, the wisdom of his approach is clear. It'll make me strong, keep me alive until I can have the fight which counts. If a few uncooperative Augments end up removed from service along the way, how is that a bad thing?
Besides, it's either me or Ayana in the armor. The Black Beetle flies either way.
"Why don't you see our guest out, Spencer?" Xamse settles into his chair and ignores the look of alarm on Ayana's face. Let the untrustworthy hacker and the spook roam free? I'm as surprised as she is. Must be another of his tests.
"Can do," I say.
"We have one more item to discuss," Cantor interrupts. "Relocating the MANTIS program."
Xamse swats away the matter. "You may fill Spencer in on these details. He will catch me up to the right speed. This will be good practice for our future working relationship, no?"
Cantor hasn't finished her business here, but she takes the cue and collects her things. From the hall, I give Ayana a wink through the glass wall to indicate I am, indeed, “solemnly up to no good”. Her eyes stay glued to my every move until we're out of sight.
Yeah, I suppose if Cantor and I banded together, our powers of annoyance and deception would cause some havoc. Of course, I'm never out of sight here. Given yesterday, I need to find a way to turn the tables on Ayana's constant spying. And no way she even touches the armor again.
We continue silently down the hall. Cantor has her bag over her shoulder and tablet in hand. She's walking and tapping, intently enough I try to look. Her screen is a
jumble of characters. No known language, no code, I can't make sense of anything there. I wonder if she isn't just straight up insane. She doesn't lower her tablet until the elevator doors close.
"We'd like to relocate the MANTIS operations," she says.
This makes sense. Who knows what Xamse told the employees about the last launch. We left before dawn. Any noise or vibration could have been passed off as a low flying jet. Maybe an earthquake. But that's his problem.
"Talk to the boss," I say, watching the floors light up one at a time.
"I have. He's not interested."
This has my attention. Her unreadable face has transitioned into one which is plain.
"Why should I help you?"
"We want somewhere less public. Some distance from Nanomech." Her attention keeps drifting to the floor, read-out, her tablet.
"This place is a fortress with its own army. And since you control the news channels, can't you make up whatever you please to cover the launches?" I splash a headline in the air with open hands. "’Eccentric Billionaire Commutes to Moon Base’ or ‘Alien Abductions Spike in Silicon Valley.’ Just lie. It's what you do."
The barb doesn't land, and I get the feeling none ever will. "The spin has already begun. Check FreedomNet tonight. The White House has decided they want everyone to know we're making progress on disarmament. Tremendous progress."
"Pfft. Xamse doesn't want public exposure. He's all about the plausible deniability, as he says."
"Was," she says.
She focuses on the button panel, floors slowly counting down. I've read how intelligence agents groom their spies. Eric of all people drilled this into me in high school. They ask for little favors, something harmless, until you're doing shit which isn't so harmless.
"Lady, I've got one rule I can't break here, and I'm not about to do it."
"Fair enough. But less public means more privacy for you." Timing things just right, she steps through the opening doors first, leaving me hanging.
