“Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again. Talking about it; it’s hard—”
“Alright, keep goin’. Let’s get this done, so I can get to your friend Gibbs back there! So, the drone falling on you, is that what gave you that pretty face?”
September 2073
Rowen drifted in a long dreamless sleep, swaying back and forth, strange whispers echoing all around her, a deep throbbing in her bones. The roiling in her stomach told her something was off. The world was calling; responsibility was calling, like a hot needle picking at her brain. She could feel something bad was coming. She wasn’t ready. She was safe in oblivion. She wanted nothing more than to be home in Colorado, her bedroom window open just enough to make the room nice and chilly, wrapped in a warm blanket, sleeping the day away. Mornings, waking up, was always a chore. The breaking sun always felt like an obnoxious intruder.
Jonah hated the cold. They had shared a bedroom when they were younger and fought constantly about the open windows in winter. He loved the heat and the warm feeling of the early morning sun on his face, said it was the best part of the day. It was one of his more annoying habits, to wake her up to watch the sunrise with him. He said good soldiers were always up at dawn, that being up early fostered a sense of discipline.
The thought of her brother made her bury herself deeper, want to stay hidden forever, but she could already feel the pull of wakefulness. Little by little her senses came to life. The air around her was cool and damp, making her shiver, a strange, musty odor that she couldn’t quite place filled her nostrils, and dripping water sounded far away.
In a blink she came fully awake, a thumping in her chest, burning pain shooting through every muscle in her body, her face feeling swollen like it was on fire. She breathed in through her nose, trying to calm her thundering heart. She ran her tongue over parched lips that were so dry it felt like someone else’s mouth. Everything came rushing back, those last moments of horror, replaying over and over again in her mind, the final instant. Jonah struggling to reach them, the drone crashing down, the body-crushing press of the explosion that sent her careening through the air. It was her fault. If he hadn’t gone back for her... She tried to scream, only to have the smallest of whimpers escape her cracked lips.
Blinking her eyes open, she found herself on a small foldout cot, covered with a thin silver emergency blanket that kept her too warm. Somewhere behind her, a portable lamp of some sort gave off a cool-white light, barely chasing back the shadows from grimy walls. From what little she could see, only vague outlines of some boxes and shipping crates stamped in red. She was in some type of storage area. Alone.
Rowen’s mind raced, trying to piece together how she ended up in this dismal place. She hugged herself, suddenly cold at the thought that her father could have been hurt, or worse—was that her destiny, to lose everyone she loved?
Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the shuffle of boots on tile, making her flinch back, clutching the blanket in front of her defensively, jolts of sharp pain running up the side of her face. “Who’s there?” she said, her head spinning. “Mom?”
A pale-faced stranger came into her little circle of light, giving her a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, you’re awake, good. We were worried,” he said, speaking quickly.
“You’re the guy from the helicopter,” she rasped, recognizing his bright-blue eyes and shock of blond hair, still amazed at how young he looked, more so without his helmet.
“Yeah, yes, Gibbs, Scotty,” he said, putting a hand on his chest. “You saved me, got me out. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You looked like a superhero with the way that explosion tossed you down those stairs. I thought you were a goner for sure.”
Rowen shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “Water...please,” she rasped.
“What, oh sure, no problem,” he said, pulling a bottle of water from a shoulder bag and handing it to her. “Here, let me help. You got banged up pretty good. It’s best if you keep still.”
She tilted her head as he brought a bottle to her lips and drank greedily, water spilling over her chin, closing her eyes in ecstasy. In all of her fourteen years, nothing had ever tasted so cool and sweet.
Closing her eyes, Rowen ran a hand down the side of her face, trying to piece together what had happened, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Where’s my brother, my dad?” she said, looking around as if saying their names would make them appear.
He looked down, shaking his head. When he looked back to her, she could see his eyes were full of worry. “Your dad’s ok. He went back out to look.”
“Look for what?” asked Rowen, her eyes narrowing, already knowing the answer.
He pursed his lips, looking down again. “Your brother didn’t make it in time. A drone hit the storefront, and we don’t know what happened after that. Your dad...well, he just stood there, paralyzed, rubbing his jaw, looking back and forth between the debris at the entrance and where you fell. I guess he figured he could come back, so we picked you up and ran.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, wincing as the skin pulled tight again. “Where are we?”
“We’re in one of the old subway lines. Your dad says it’s some sort of FEMA supply dump left over from the last hurricane. We have supplies, and we’re safe for now, but the city’s a mess.”
Nodding, Rowen could only hope, maybe... Jonah was always lucky, always came away from the worst without a scratch. If he was still out there, she or her father would find him, bring him home…if they ever made it back home.
Gingerly, she touched the bandages on her face, tracing them from her forehead down to her chin on her left side, waves of jarring pain shooting through her with the slightest touch. “What...what are these for?” she asked, dreading the answer.
Gibbs stood, shoving his hands into the pockets of the blue flight uniform he still wore. “You were caught in an explosion, flew halfway down the street! That’s when Jonah raced out to get you,” he said, his face a rigid mask. “Then, when the last drone hit, you flew down the stairs, right through a glass window. We were shocked you were still alive; that amount of concussive force and impact should have killed you. By luck, random chance, you got away without breaking anything. I’m so sorry, we did our best, but without a med facility, you’re going to have some scarring.”
Rowen’s heart sank. Already she could feel the jagged cut every time she moved her cheek. “I have to see. Please.”
Gibbs turned down his lips, not meeting her eyes. “Are you sure?” he whispered. “I mean, you shouldn’t take off the bandages just yet.”
Rowen nodded, not liking where this was going. Gibbs shrugged, vanishing for a moment only to reappear a few seconds later with a tablet that he reluctantly handed to her. “I have a few things to do before your father comes back. I’ll check on you in a little while,” he said, reaching down to pat her shoulder, his hand darting back suddenly as she frowned at him. She sat unmoving, listening to his footsteps fade into the distance.
With a deep sigh, she activated the front-facing flash and camera on the tablet. She squinted at the brightness as her face appeared on the screen, wrinkling her nose at the small red-and-black gashes dotting her face. Holding it with one hand, she pulled at the surgical tape and gauze with the other, gritting her teeth through the pain as the dressing came away, her breath coming in short gasps. Rowen’s mouth fell open in a silent scream when she saw the angry red suture running from her hairline down below her chin, thick strands of dark surgical thread poking out from the jagged wound. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and the room was suddenly spinning, her chest tight, panic setting in. How was she supposed to go out in public? She was starting middle school in two weeks. She would be an outcast, a freak.
A jagged spike of pain shot through her face as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. The scar, she had to see it again. With her hands trembling, she raised the tablet again, tracing the long wretched thing with her finger, deciding
that it made her look like Frankenstein’s monster. All she needed were a few lug nuts sticking out the side of her neck to perfect the horrid image. Her parents had taught her to never make a victim of herself, to not wallow in self-pity, but right now, in this moment...all she wanted to do was bury her head under the covers and hide from the world.
In a fit of disgust, Rowen began pounding her fist against the screen, over and over, the glass fracturing like a web with each hit. She wanted nothing more than to smash her hideous face to a pulp, break it all up into a thousand tiny pieces like the shattered glass of the tablet. She hated herself, everything she was: her tangled bird’s nest of hair and thick lips, her ugly flat nose, the fucking freckles. She had thought they were the worst, but now she had this fucking scar—why, why her? She grunted, her burnt and bandaged hands throbbing with stabbing pain with each strike. Screaming hoarsely, she threw the tablet as hard as she could. It landed somewhere in the darkness with a satisfying crash as it shattered, she hoped into a million pieces. She sat alone in the darkness, breathing heavily, trembling in anger. She lay back down on the tiny cot, drawing the emergency blanket over her head, wanting nothing more than to lose herself in sleep. It came eventually, after an eternity of tears, not peace, not comfort, but oblivion, and it was good enough for now.
Chapter 13: Off the Wagon
February 2076
Gwen felt powerless. No matter how strong or tough she was, the only thing she could do was wait, and wait she had. Three days, seven surgeries, and still nothing. She felt like a monster for what she had done. She stood alone in the darkened gallery above the operating room, looking down at the brightly lit table as the base doctors tried to fix what she had broken. The operating room was cold and clinical, white tile and stainless steel, smelling of antiseptic. She watched silently as the doctors deployed dozens of miniature, multi-legged devices that crawled over what was left of Uriel’s face. She knew that sitting here day after day was for nothing, helped no one, but it eased her guilt.
Gwen heard the door to the gallery open, not bothering to turn around. She could identify him simply by the silent whisper of his stride. Always the predator, his silken robes making little sound as he approached and stood at her side. “I’ve been looking for you. You should not be here, my child,” said the major bishop, seething with anger. “You should be out with Arthur, reinforcing our lines. This is a waste of time.” Glancing over at the old man, she could see today was a good day for him. He stood tall and whip-straight, his pale-eyed gaze resolute. She was never sure what to expect; there were days when he was frail and weak, when she could have snapped his bones like dried twigs. But not today. Today he would be stubborn, strong as an oak.
“I did this,” said Gwen. “I need to be here.”
“You will be where I say! You need to do as you’re told,” he said with a rasp, his eyes drilling into her.
Sighing deeply, Gwen rolled her eyes. “That shit works with Arthur, but we know each other better than that,” she said, folding her arms beneath her small breasts. “I know how much you need us, how desperate you are, so give it a rest. Arthur can play errand boy all you want, but leave me alone. There is nothing you can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”
Gwen looked down to see the old man’s hands balled into fists, the old bones cracking. Her words had hit home. “The current members of Divinity Corps are due to retire. Already there have been...incidents,” said the old man, spittle dripping down his chin through clenched teeth as he spoke. “A new team, your team, will be leading the charge soon. We are running out of time. The recent mistakes have cost us dearly, and if we lose that foolish boy on the table down there, it will be disastrous.”
“I will be here as long as I want to be,” said Gwen, frowning at him, her anger matching his. “There’s nothing that will change that.”
The major bishop shook his head. “Foolish child, must it always be this way with you?” he said, dropping his hands in frustration.
Satisfied that she had won for now, they stood together, watching in silence, the only sound coming from the machines keeping Uriel alive. The shockwave of her strike had shattered Uriel’s skull into thousands of fragments, impossible to put back together. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again, she thought, but after ascension, the impossible became possible. Any normal person would have died from the blow, but they were no longer normal. The old rules no longer applied to them. The doctors had spent days painstakingly removing every piece of Uriel’s skull, and today they would be replacing the old with the new, a fully synthetic structure. He would never be himself again, but at least he would be alive, be able to fight. Gwen shuddered as the procedure began. Uriel’s exposed brainstem looked nightmarish, flesh peeled away like a discarded mask. Using a high-powered laser, the doctors began to fuse the titanium alloy to what was left of Uriel’s face and skull, doing the impossible to make him whole again. She began to look away, the smell of burning flesh obscene in her nostrils.
“Don’t look away, child,” said the major bishop, his voice calm now. “Remember this, the horror of this moment. You are not to blame our enemy is. If they had not attacked, we would not need to stand against them. We exist because they chose to attack us, so never forget that.” Gwen was confused by the terrible anger and deep compassion in his voice, unsure how they could exist in the same man.
“Do you really care about that boy lying down there?” Gwen asked in a sharp tone, not caring if she pissed him off, “or is he just another toy for you to play with, like me, like poor Arthur?”
The major bishop looked at her, indignation in his eyes. “You children are the only thing standing between the dream of America and the barbarians at our gates,” he said, leaning forward and gripping the gallery railing. “You are weapons, yes, and I will use you as such...but I am a man of God. I am kind. I love you as the Lord loves you, as the shepherd loves his flock.”
“We’re people,” said Gwen, leaning forward and gripping the railing, “not sheep, and I’m pretty sure the sheep gets it in the end.”
“Gwen, my defiant girl. I have never lied to you. To any of you children. We have rescued many of you from lives of poverty and despair.”
“Yes, but we didn’t really have a choice, did we?” said Gwen, crushing the steel gallery railing. “Do any of the children we take have a choice?” she asked.
“You are children,” said the major bishop matter-of-factly, nostrils flaring. “It is your duty to do as you’re told by your betters. We know what’s best for you.” Leaning away from the railing, he placed his hands behind his back, frowning. “You of all people should be grateful. You live a life of privilege and wealth, wanting for nothing.”
“Yes, but—”
Before Gwen could finish, he reached out in a fury, his mask of kindness falling away, revealing the predator beneath. His thin clawed hand struck out, lightning quick, ripping the top of her jumpsuit in a rage and throwing her to the floor.
“Enough!” he roared, towering over her. “I will not have you question me like this, not when I have given you everything. You were nothing when I found you, a little whore, who had run away from her whore mother. I made you a goddess, unbreakable. Athena herself would cower from you,” he said, shaking with anger. “I can take it all away, return you to a life of poverty and filth. Is that what you want?”
Shaking her head, Gwen scampered away cowering, trying to cover herself, not sure why she was afraid. She could not speak. In the blink of an eye she saw the mask return, the hateful look in his eyes replaced with a look of kindness and compassion. Gwen trembled at the swiftness of the transformation. “I show you every kindness,” he said, regaining his composure. “I will no longer tolerate this defiance from you, child, not when I do so much for you.”
Nodding, she wiped her tears with the cuff of her sleeve. “I’ll go meet Arthur. He’s going to Boston today with the rest of the team. If I hurry, I can ride the tr
ansport with him,” she said quietly as he helped her to her feet. She would not go back to that life; never again did she want to feel the fear and anxiety of not having enough. The acts of desperation she did to survive from day to day. For all his cruelty, his needs, he had kept his word. She had all she needed and more, and on his good days he was kind, almost fatherly...so she would deal with days like today as best she could.
Just as Gwen was gathering the courage to leave, she heard a guttural scream from below. The sound was inhuman, like the high-pitched wail of a pig to slaughter. She looked down to see Uriel’s eyes wide open, awake and moaning in pain as the doctors struggled with the grafting of his flesh to metal, bone to steel. In a mad rage, he reached out, gripping one of his doctors by the throat. Gwen winced as she heard the man’s windpipe being crushed. His corpse, thrown across the room like a discarded rag doll, landed hard, collapsing in a broken heap. “Jesus fucking Christ, hold him, hold him,” screamed the remaining three men, in desperation. Without thought, Gwen leapt from the gallery, not caring if the white skin of her breasts was exposed.
Landing gracefully beside the chaotic mess, she forcefully restrained Uriel’s arms, holding the flailing boy in place effortlessly like he was a small child. She watched in fascination as the doctors, relieved, scrambled to inject Uriel with a red viscous liquid that immediately calmed him. Then, as if nothing were amiss, they returned to putting Uriel back together, ignoring the dead man slumped in the corner, the quiet rhythm of the machines once again the only sound. Looking up to the gallery, she could see the major bishop looking on, giving her a brief nod of approval before vanishing into the darkness.
“What did you give him to calm him down so quickly?” she asked with curiosity as she relaxed her grip, wiping sweat from her brow.
Ascension: Children of The Spear: Book one Page 13
