Violet City

by Page Morgan

  But I do like it.

  For the first time in days, I have something that can hurt them. Something I can protect myself with.

  A guard jumps the warden from behind, pulling him away from his attack on the commandant. Rowan’s father bares his teeth and lunges at me. I swing the blade without an ounce of skill, just instinct, and feel resistance as the tip shears through something. His sleeve? His flesh? I just know he draws back, surprised. He’s not the only one.

  I grit my teeth against the charged pressure of the handle vibrating through the small bones of my hand. The commandant comes at me again, and I swing again, but another blade smacks down on top of mine. A sharp zing claws through my hand, and the handle’s magnetic grip severs. The blade falls. Before I can reach for it again, a thick arm hooks me from behind. I toss my head back, but my skull only meets with a hard, armored chest. It’s a guard. He drags me along, and though I dig my heels into the gravel to try to slow him, it doesn’t work.

  I struggle against the guard as the commandant dives for the dropped blade on the roof—and nearly smashes his forehead into the sparking blue spikes of Rowan’s long staff. The commandant holds out his arms in surrender. Rowan keeps the staff steady, his chest heaving from exertion.

  The guard dragging me doesn’t stop. My hip hits the wall of the flat-topped brick ledge, and with a twist and thrust, he throws my legs out over the edge. God—again? What the hell is up with aliens wanting to throw me to my death?

  Rowan shouts, but the guard holds me steady, my butt teetering on the flat surface of the ledge. The soles of my sneakers scrape against the exterior brick as that way-too-familiar panic throbs through my legs and arms, my body breaking out in a cold sweat.

  I crane my head. Rowan still has his father at the end of the electric spikes. He flicks his eyes to me, then back to his father as they exchange a rapid volley of Volkranian, their voices rising and growing more and more agitated. I don’t need an English translation to know what’s happening. When the commandant gestures to me, I figure he’s back to using me as bait. He’d admitted that’s all I am, a valuable bargaining chip. Rowan will do what the commandant wants, or I’m pushed to my death.

  “Don’t listen to him!” I shout. Isn’t that what the hostage always says in the movies when they know their death will be for the greater good?

  Rowan has the commandant and his loyal guards backed into a corner. They have control now, and they can take it, completely. They can change everything; see that there’s peace instead of killing. Rowan has already told me they’re not leaving. But they won’t need to wipe out humankind—if Rowan lets me fall and removes his father from command.

  The hostage never dies though. They get saved in some ridiculous and totally unbelievable way, even when really, I’m sitting in front of the television with my bowl of kettle corn rolling my eyes and wishing, just once, they’d be more realistic.

  What’s real though, is that people die. Good, innocent people. People like Ollie. I’ve thought about death these last two years more than what’s probably healthy. Where did Ollie go when he left his body? What is out there, beyond this life? I’m not religious, so I don’t close my eyes and pray as my feet dangle a deadly number of feet from the ground. Ollie’s face comes into my mind; his snaggletooth school picture; his open-mouthed screaming laugh when Dad would tickle him; his grouchy pout when it was time to go to bed. Ollie. I want to see him again.

  Rowan looks at me, a question in his eyes. I remember the cemetery maintenance shed when our bodies were sealed together inside his suit. When I’d thought he was going to kiss me. His stare had been a question then, and he’d been able to read my answer perfectly. The ‘no’ had been in my eyes before my body had revolted and scrambled out of the suit.

  He reads it now, too.

  Rowan grimaces, anguish crumpling his face as the sparking blue spikes of his staff pierce his father’s sec-suit and lodge inside his chest.

  The Volkranian holding me relaxes his grip and nudges me forward.

  I’m suspended in the air for a second, as if gravity isn’t quite prepared to pull me down. It lasts long enough for me to clearly see the street below, people gathering on the sidewalks, their faces turned up. And then I plummet.

  The soles of my shoes skid along the brick, my arms out at my sides like I’m jumping into a pool. Rowan screams, and I know the hoarse shout is my name in Volkranian.

  My left hand smacks something hard and unyielding, but the pain doesn’t register. I can’t feel a thing. Can’t breathe. Something else plows into my left armpit, and my skull smacks against the building, rattling my teeth. But I’m no longer falling.

  I’m hanging.

  A protrusion of stone has caught my arm. My legs dangle, my body swinging to the left and my arm slipping off whatever has snagged me.

  I can’t believe it. This is the hostage’s second chance. The totally unbelievable rescue. I am not going to be the hostage that dies—not if I have anything to say about it.

  I’m sorry, Ollie. Not yet.

  With every ounce of muscle in my body, I swing my legs and hook my arm tighter around the protrusion—a gargoyle’s jutting neck and head. With another swing, I hook my other arm around the gargoyle. Now I’m facing the building, my dangling legs feeling like two sacks of cement.

  The gargoyle is old, with a face of pitted stone, barely recognizable teeth, and a whole eye chipped away. Bird droppings riddle it. I don’t care—at the moment, it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

  It won’t last for long though. I’m not a big girl by any accounts, but this gargoyle’s neck is probably only as thick as my waist. Voices shout from the sidewalk. Even seven or eight stories up, their cries of alarm are clear. One guy shouts in Spanish, and though I have no idea what he’s saying, I appreciate the concern in his voice nonetheless.

  It’s the voice shouting above me that feeds me real hope, though.

  “Penelope!”

  I crane my neck. Rowan leans over the ledge; close enough for me to see the plum-colored blood spattered across one half of his face and an electrical storm raging in his eyes. Yet, he’s still miles away.

  “Rowan,” I gasp.

  He disappears from view, and I’m left staring up at the dark rim of the cityship. Farther east, the clouds are tinged pink. The sun is already setting. It’s one of those sugary sweet sunsets where the clouds look like cotton candy and orange sherbet, streaked with blue raspberry. It distracts me for only a few seconds before I realize Rowan hasn’t re-appeared over the ledge with a rope or some other contraption to lower down.

  There’s still a furor of sounds up on the roof: shouting in the now familiar Volkranian tongue, the clashing of metal weapons, the hissing of laser beams, and the gargling groans of someone struggling to breathe around a throat filled with blood.

  “Rowan?” I gasp again. My hands sweat, and my shoulders and arms strain against my dead weight. Why have I never done push-ups? Muscle or no muscle, I can’t give up. I toe the side of the building. Boarded up windows are to my left and right, but I’m stuck in the center of them, without a window ledge to grip with the tips of my sneakers.

  “Penelope!”

  My heart throbs painfully at Rowan’s voice, but it’s not coming from above this time. It’s coming from inside the building.

  “I’m here!” I shout. Seconds later, a boarded window to my right rattles as something pounds against it.

  One board cracks and splinters, ripping clean out of the sill. Rowan grips the remaining boards to pry them loose, one by one. He fills the window, leaning out over the ledge, but I’m still too far.

  “Lower one hand to me,” he says, his voice as calm as ever.

  He hangs out the window, one powerful knee propped on the ledge as his arm reaches for me. His fingers brush against my ankle, and my skin and blood and everything inside of me swells toward him. But my mind stalls. Letting go of the gargoyle goes against everything common sense and survival mode is te
lling me to do.

  “Lower your hand—I can reach it,” he says.

  My fingers grip the stone tighter. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know I have to do this, but it’s feels like I’m about to commit suicide.

  “Penelope.” I open my eyes. Rowan’s right there. So close. His hand out to me, his arm Superman strong and waiting. “I won’t let you fall.”

  He won’t. I gather a breath and let go.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I wing my arm down and reach for Rowan, my other arm straining. His hand clasps mine just as the gargoyle’s neck fissures with a grating crack. I scream and drop—but Rowan’s hand doesn’t leave mine. He wrenches my shoulder in its socket and pulls me through the window, straight into his chest. It’s like hitting brick again as we tumble backward, into the open loft and onto the floor.

  I clutch him, hooking my knees around the waist of his exosuit and my arms around his neck. His arms cross at my back and hold me, the armor of his suit wonderfully solid. We don’t move. I don’t know if I trust my legs yet, but I trust the feel of Rowan beneath me. He came for me. He hadn’t left.

  His chest rises and falls underneath mine as his fingers rake up through my hair, then against my scalp. I wince, the pain from being dragged around like a cavewoman still raw.

  “Are you injured?” he asks.

  “No. Well, yes, but it’s better than being a splatter of blood and bones on the sidewalk.”

  We cling to one another until the roof access steps shake under a barrage of footfalls. I quickly extricate myself from the tangle of our arms and legs. Even in his suit, Rowan leaps to his feet faster than I can manage. He helps me up, and as if he senses that my legs are still unreliable, keeps my hand in his.

  At least a dozen Volkranians file down from the roof, the warden and Pencil Skirt among them. The warden doesn’t consider my lingual limitations as he speaks a rapid fire of Volkranian, shouting orders to the others. Pencil Skirt spares me—and my hand within Rowan’s—a look of acute wrath before she and three others continue down into the lower levels. Rowan brings me with him toward the roof stairs, following the warden and the rest of the rebels back up.

  The roof looks empty, and the illusion is nearly perfect. But the fiery sunset touches on the curves of three transports, and they shimmer into view.

  “There will be humans coming to inspect the commotion,” Rowan explains as we cross the roof, stepping around dead Volkranians. The fleet commandant isn’t among them.

  “There’s an invisible wall in the stairwell,” I tell him.

  “A plasma barrier.” He nods. “Good. It should hold for a while.”

  The doors on all three transports slide open as our group approaches.

  “What about the others?” I ask, thinking of Pencil Skirt and the ones that had gone back to the lower levels.

  “They’re securing vital information,” the warden says. He raises a muscular arm toward one of the transports. “The commanding sentinel will take you to your home.”

  The roof gravel grinds under my heels as I come to a stop. Home sounds awesome, but I can’t go back. At least not yet. I pull my hand free from Rowan’s and step back.

  “My mom came into city. I’m sure of it.”

  I could keep going uptown, to the water treatment plant where she might have been headed. If the attacks are ceasing, I could walk all the way up without fear of being fried. Mugged maybe, but not fried.

  Rowan takes my hand again. I glance around, remembering his previous warning. Just touching him in full view of others would earn me an instant execution. Volkranian eyes notice the contact, and my shoulders tense.

  “I will help you find her after I see to obligations on Volkron Six. Can you come to the cityship for a short while?”

  I hesitate and look up at the ship, shivers wracking my arms and legs. Rowan lowers his voice. “I can’t leave you here alone, Penelope. There might still be some of the commandant’s guards in the city.”

  There had been a mention of other auxiliary bases. Heading out on my own might be dangerous, then. Especially now that Volkranians know my face. I nod and chase away the shivers. At least I’ll have a better chance at finding my mom if I’m being flown around in a transport. “Okay.”

  That it will also keep me in Rowan’s company for a little while longer isn’t lost on me. I ignore it as Rowan turns to the warden. “I am no longer commanding sentinel. I am your fleet commandant. Do you recognize this?”

  The warden’s hulking chest expands beneath his exosuit. I hold my breath, waiting for him to challenge Rowan. He has the spike-tipped staff still in his hand, while Rowan has nothing. He must have given up his weapon when he’d come to rescue me from the side of the building. Rowan’s fingers loosen around my hand in anticipation, bracing for the warden to make a move.

  The warden lowers himself to one knee and dips his head, turning it to the left. All around him, the others do the same, taking a knee and bowing. I exhale, and Rowan steps back, allowing me to board the transport while he watches the warden. He doesn’t trust him, but as the others, including the warden, stand again, I figure for the moment, they’ll at least pretend to get along.

  Inside, the transport is packed with Volkranians—and Rowan’s father’s dead body. I stare at it, bile rising. Rowan had plunged the staff into his chest. There’s a gaping wound right where a human heart would be. He’d taken his own father’s life. I think.

  “He won’t self-heal?” I ask quietly, hoping no one but Rowan can hear. I’m not successful.

  An unhelmeted Volkranian steps through the crowd, stopping next to the body. It’s the pilot, her helmet finally off. A long, thin scar runs along the defined edge of her jaw, and her dark green eyes glare at the commandant with stark loathing. She nudges his shoulder with her foot. His body rocks without resistance.

  “The betrayer is dead,” the pilot answers. She has one of the permanently fused collars around her neck.

  Rowan leaves my side and rounds on the pilot, his chin down, eyes fierce. “Do not touch the body again.”

  She snaps to attention and reverses a step. “Of course.”

  Rowan raises a brow, waiting expectantly. The pilot doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s still there in the press of her lips. “Of course, your excellency.”

  There’s a definite undertone of sarcasm, but Rowan ignores it. The pilot’s direct gaze touches on mine as she turns to face the windshield, and though it’s just a look, it overflows with curiosity. She wants to know why I’m here. I’m sure all of them do.

  Rowan’s expression is wooden as I back up toward the small podium I’ve stood on a couple of times now. I can’t read his vacant expression, but I don’t believe he’s feeling nothing. He’s just killed his father. Just ascended to fleet commandant. I’m glad he’s in charge—but is he glad? And though humans might stop dying now, it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve been invaded by another species. Nothing is really fixed.

  The podium has already been taken by a Volkranian with a bleeding forehead. His eyes are closed, and he sags in the armrests; he needs it more than I do. So, I return to the wall and press my back against it, the craft shivering with preparations to lift off. I lock my knees, knowing now, at least, what to expect.

  Rowan shuffles back through the crowd of black and gray exosuits until he’s standing in front of me. He doesn’t take my hand again. Maybe it would reflect poorly on the new fleet commandant to show concern.

  He turns his back to me as the transport glides into the air. My pre-locked knees are no matches for the velocity of the craft, and I start crumpling toward the floor. Rowan holds out an arm, and I grasp it to keep myself steady.

  He turns his head just enough for me to see his profile, his eyes coasting down to make sure I’m all right.

  I can’t believe I actually think this…but I am. After everything that’s happened, I’m all right.

  Chapter Twenty

  It’s pandemonium on Volkron Six.

 
Our transports deliver us into the cargo bay where Things Are Happening. Volkranians are running and shouting, and in general, it’s pure panic. Rowan’s father’s body is carried out of the transport first. The quiet that falls over the artificers, as Rowan had called them earlier, at the sight of their fallen fleet commandant lasts for a respectful minute or so. The wind from outside whistles in, gaining volume, until hundreds of knees hit the hard cargo bay floor in a rumble of thunder.

  They’re kneeling before Rowan, their new fleet commandant.

  He stands as tall and as proud as ever, and yet his brow furrows with a hint of alarm. I’m the only one who can see it, considering I’m the only one who’s not kneeling and looking away. Even the warden has lowered himself to one knee again.

  Then, just as quickly, they all rise and launch back into what they were doing before.

  The Volkranians carrying Rowan’s father diverge from us and head in another direction. I imagine there’s a special place on the ship for dead bodies. An incinerator maybe. I stay behind Rowan and the warden as they carve through the parked transports. My eyes land on one of the artificers, and I feel the awkward jolt I always get when I make eye contact with someone who has already been watching me. The artificer glares at me with uncut loathing. A rash of awareness shivers up my arms and drips into my chest as he begins to walk toward me.

  Rowan and the warden are discussing something a few steps ahead when the artificer starts to pick up his pace. It’s not a great time to interrupt Rowan, I’m sure, and who knows—it could be another punishable offense. But something’s not right.

  “Rowan?” The noise in the cargo bay buries my voice. The warden is talking and another Volkranian has approached with some kind of tablet-looking thing. I guess it’s possible the artificer could just be coming over to speak to them.

  The artificer breaks into an all-out sprint. Okay, yeah. He’s definitely coming at me.