
Haven
Justin Kemppainen
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Justin Kemppainen
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Haven
Prologue: Civilized Society
"Quiet down, now. Please, take your seats. Class," the woman's voice increased in volume and developed a sharp edge, "please quiet down and take your seats."
Children, boy and girl alike, dressed in identical uniforms of baggy white scrambled to their seats. The teacher sighed inwardly, and thought to herself that pupils of any age should be much more disciplined.
Once the children had reached their desks, all lined up in rows and columns with their wide young eyes blinking in expectation, she spoke again. Her voice carried a sweet-like quality, belying the severity of her statements. "Your previous teacher has been deemed unfit to educate, so I will be filling in until a more permanent replacement can be found. You may call me Miss Ryan. If you are to remain in my classroom, you must follow several rules. You will not-"
One of the children, a little girl with her dark brown hair set in pigtails, interrupted, "What's your first name?"
The child shrank in fear as Miss Ryan looked over at her, disapproval etched across her youthful face. Her features bored into the frightened girl as she spoke, sternly, "You will not speak out of turn." The little girl paled and pressed her lips together.
As if nothing had occurred, Miss Ryan turned back and continued. "You will not speak out of turn. You will not pass notes. You will pay attention. You will not use the bathroom without permission. You will be silent, and you will listen. If you have a question, you will raise your hand. Stupid, pointless, flippant, or disrespectful questions will not be tolerated. These are my rules, do you understand them?"
The children, whether they understood or not, slowly nodded in unison, their eyes wide. "Good." She straightened the spectacles on her face and smoothed the hem of her pleated skirt. Her voice took on a tone of intense patronizing. "Today I am going to start instructing you in the correct history of this city. You are encouraged to disregard anything mentioned by your former teacher. His information was false and malicious."
Ignoring the confusion on the faces of the young children, she drew in a breath, rearranged her smile, and continued, "This place, this city was created many years ago as a shelter for the best of humanity."
"During that time," she continued, "there were many bad people who became sick and died from a disease called influenza." She pronounced this slowly and loudly, elongating each syllable as though the children were hard of hearing. "Your ancestors," pronounced 'ann-sesst-orrs,' "used this place to keep safe from the horrors of the disease."
One child raised a hand; she appraised him briefly before nodding for him to speak, "Mr. Wilson said that there are lots of, um," the boy looked up for a moment, trying to think of the word, "sprains of infleza. He said those people died because we didn't help them. He said we could have."
Miss Ryan cocked her head a little, smile wavering just slightly. She said, in a sympathetic tone, "Mr. Wilson is a liar and a criminal. He deliberately misled you because he is a very bad man." The boy gazed up at her with wide eyes and sadness on his face; the look of a child betrayed. "No, no." Miss Ryan continued, "We had no choice but to keep them out. They were bad, wicked people, just like Mr. Wilson."
She looked over the classroom again, gauging the children's discomfort and gullibility before continuing. "Now, Mr. Wilson said a few other things that I would like to correct." She kept that smile plastered on her face, adjusting the butterfly barrette that her straight blonde hair was drawn into. "First, unlike what Mr. Wilson claims," the name spoken with hints of venom, "this place is a paradise."
A little girl raised her hand. Miss Ryan motioned to her. "What's that mean?" she asked, big blue eyes tinged with confusion.
Miss Ryan walked over to the little girl and crouched, coming down to meet her eyes, "Well, my dear, paradise is a place of happiness." She stood up and addressed the entire class. "You're all happy here, right?" The children solemnly nodded. "Well, there's a good reason for that. Even though we were saved from that terrible sickness, our leaders refused to take the necessary steps to keep us prosperous."
One child's hand shot into the air, and before Miss Ryan could acknowledge it, the boy blurted, "Is that when Citizen One came in?"
A slight frown darkened Miss Ryan's face as the child half-spoke out of turn, but she quickly brightened, "Yes, that's absolutely right," she said to the beaming child, proud of his correct answer, "Citizen One created this happiness that we all share now. It is his vision that led to the creation of the sterilization field." The large word, 'stare-ill-eyes-a-shun,' again pronounced very slowly.
She gestured and every child looked towards the window, some across the room, craning their necks to see. "The field is why our beautiful blue sky looks the way it does," she said. The children nearest to the window were able to see the way that the sky flowed and rippled, clouds overhead bending and morphing. Sunlight refracted and wavered but gently provided its accustomed warmth.
"What is it made of?" one child blurted.
She frowned again, "Please, do not talk out of turn." She said, scanning the room for the source. Unable to precisely pinpoint the child, she continued. "The field is made of energy, and it keeps us safe from all of the very bad people outside and their terrible germs."
"But," she continued, "you can't forget; that's not all Citizen One did. He found out that some of the bad people from outside got into our paradise. He did what he could, but there wasn't much room in the valley to build more, and we couldn't move away."
"Why not?" asked a boy, probably the same one who interrupted before.
Absorbed in her lecture, she ignored his disobedience, "Because it's not safe outside. We can't leave unless we're well-protected and shielded," she said, nodding seriously.
"But," she said, brightening, "he came up with an idea to keep us away from the bad, inferior people. Now we live here, up and away where it's clean and safe. There's nothing but good, wholesome, smart, happy Citizens here." She looked back and forth over the class, smiling brightly.
A little girl with curly blonde hair raised her hand, and Miss Ryan gave a bright smile at her before nodding. "What's an asquition squid?" The girl asked.
Miss Ryan tossed her head back and laughed heartily at the mispronunciation. "Oh, my dear," she said, wiping her eyes. "It's acquisition squad. They are the brave people who made sure we were able to get food and supplies. They still do so today."
"You see, with so many Citizens to take care of, we needed to get sources of food, water and other supplies. So the brave and smart Citizen One had the idea to send out some courageous, well-protected people into the bleak and scary world." She turned her palms upward. "And they have done so for many, many years. Isn't that nice, to have so many people looking out for us?" She asked. Several children nodded in agreement.
"Where did they get the supplies from?" A male voice, sounding somehow out of place, piped up while she was smiling at another child. It came from the back of the room, and Miss Ryan frowned; she couldn't quite tell who spoke.
"Bad, inferior people had things that we needed, so our brave soldiers brought them back for us to use until we could set up more autonomy." Her word choice and cheerful tone of voice slipped as her irritation grew.
"So they stole stuff from other people that needed it." The boy spoke again. Miss Ryan's frown deepened, and she slowly moved towards the back of the class to face the speaker. It was a boy, still staring out the window. There was a clear look of anger on his face.
"Those people are a nasty, inferior lot-" Miss Ryan started.
The boy cut her off, raising his voice and finally turning towards her. "They aren't bad people, and they aren't inferior. My father says that we just left them behind to die. He says Citizen One is a tyrant." He stared at her with a defiant eye. His voice was lightly deepened, synonymous with early teens.
This outburst cracked any remaining sweet demeanor from the face of Miss Ryan. She briskly walked over to the boy who eyed her defiantly. "Well, you disrespectful little urchin, your father is as much of a liar as Mr. Wilson..." She trailed off, eying him more closely. "Young man, you don't belong in this classroom. Leave at once!"
The youth stood up, and the woman realized that her suspicions were correct; he was indeed far too old for this classroom. He had to be close to thirteen.
He set his jaw and glared at Miss Ryan, "My father is not a liar. Or a criminal. You and everyone like you are."
"Both you and your father are despicable, vile criminals against society. What is your name?" She demanded.
The boy glared at the woman. He yelled, "Evan Wilson." He spat the name. "You people arrested my father. He's gone, and they say he's not coming back." His eyes filled with tears. "He's gone!" The boy shouted.
The corner of Miss Ryan's mouth curled in a sneer. Without another word, leaving the angry boy standing at the back of the class, she went over to the desk and touched a button on the electronic pad, leaning down to speak into an intercom. "I need a disruptive student removed from my classroom. Evan Wilson." She clenched her teeth as though the name were somehow filthy or distasteful. "Yes, Evan Wilson." She repeated after a muffled response. "And tell the Inquisitors responsible to be more thorough next time!" she snapped, taking her finger off the key.
She leveled her gaze at the teenager, who lifted his chin, unafraid. "Now, despite anything your criminal father, Mr. Wilson, told you and this unfortunate class, this society is thriving because of men like Citizen One. Because we don't suffer the inferior. And because we remove criminals and dissenters like your father," she smiled, "and yourself."
As if on cue, two men wearing full black burst into the room. Miss Ryan pointed towards the back, and they rushed over towards the standing youth, who suddenly looked very frightened. They seized him by the arms; he struggled against their grip, screaming, but they quickly secured and dragged him from the room.
He was gone; the rest of the children in the classroom sat in shocked silence. A couple had tears rolling down their cheeks, and quiet sobs could be heard. Miss Ryan folded her hands in front of her, passing a sympathetic gaze all around the classroom, "As you can see, there are still bad people among us," she smiled at the children, "but I just know that no one here will be like that, right?" The classroom nodded, half of them out of fear.
Miss Ryan sat down at her desk, folded her hands, and spoke a little less cheerfully than before, "Well, then; let's continue your lessons, shall we? Please take out your mathematics books." After a short hesitation, as though the children were afraid to move, the clatter of moving desks and shuffling papers filled the room.
Miss Ryan continued, "We will review recent history in greater detail at the start of class each day, so that you all memorize the information and understand just how important it is."
She donned a bright smile again and started the next lesson, "We will be reviewing multiplication today. Can anyone tell me the product of..."
In an empty dark alleyway, almost completely buried in a mountain of garbage and refuse, a pair of glowing, white eyes opened. There was a brief lull as now-alive creature, unclothed and clearly male, blinked at the grime-encrusted walls. He took a labored breath.
Pain erupted everywhere on his body, and he cried out, an inhuman shriek lightly muffled by the layers of trash. Flailing about, the creature clawed his way free of the containment. Gaining his feet, he stumbled, rolling down the hill of filth and thudding onto the cold alley ground. He clamored to his feet, more cautious this time and assessing careful bipedal balance before moving again. His large slanted eyes blinked in the darkness, though nothing seemed at all difficult to see. Filth lay scattered throughout the alley, and dim light could be seen some distance away. The walls rose up high around him, and he could see a series of interlocking structures. His mind, foggy and addled, recalled a notion of something called 'sky,' but what lay above him seemed not quite right.
He heard a faint grinding noise from the sky and saw a number of indistinct objects falling towards him. He leapt out of the way as bags of trash, clothing, broken items, and various other refuse landed haphazardly around him.
Once the dropping finished, he crept forward, picking through the pile of garbage, almost as though instinctively seeking something. He saw a pair of tattered pants and looked down at his bare legs featuring grayish-blue skin, drawing some uncertain connection between the two.
He caught a glimpse of a shard of mirror and grabbed it, again impulse reminding him of its purpose. He raised the piece, using it to view himself. From his own memory, he could not identify who or what he was. He dropped the mirror in horror as he viewed his twisted, broken face...
Unclear images and memories flashed through his mind. He saw a twilight of two setting suns on a field of gold and blue, lighting the atmosphere with colors of brilliant red and orange. Another flash, and he was standing in a white room, hunched over a table, looking at something through a magnifying lens. Then the two memories mingled, and he watched two suns set in a sterile white room through the eyepieces while standing on a field of blue and gold...
Almost as though an activation switch had been flipped, hideous stenches of refuse and decay assailed his suddenly keen sense of smell, further disorienting him. He held one hand awkwardly over his nose, trying to block the incoming stimulus. Other senses piped in, asserting their own discomforts.
He felt cold.
An impulse to find warmth triggered in his mind. His muddled thoughts reconnected with the tattered jeans. He looked in the trash pile, noting several other articles that struck him with familiarity. After picking through the garbage for a time with several ill-fitting attempts, the creature emerged clothed in several layers. He found a long overcoat, a few pairs of sweatpants and jeans, and a couple of shirts. He picked up the mirror piece once more, noting the face, which had given him such a start, was now wrapped within several strips of long, warm cloth. The scarves reeked of decay but provided a uniformity that was less bewildering to his now-delicate sense. A battered, wide-brimmed hat adorned the top of his head. The only visible piece of him was his eyes, which glowed white with hints of swirling color.
An image of a small quadruped creature flitted through his mind. Covered in soft fur, agile, with a small face, pointed ears, and large eyes with vertical slits, glowing as the creature stared out from darkness. Another image passed of a large, six-limbed, crawling creature came to mind. This beast had rough, pebbly skin and powerful, carnivorous jaws. Three large, round eyes, also glowing in darkness.
On the ground he spotted a small object, flat and rectangular, nagging in its familiarity. He picked it up; on it were marred shapes that his mind recognized. Letters. An 'M,' an, 'L.' Brushing away some of the dirt, he also saw a 'C,' and another 'L' and 'M.' He held the object against his chest, near the shoulder. He didn't know what the gesture meant; it simply felt right. He briefly looked at it again before slipping it into a pocket of the overcoat.
The creature, confused and uncertain, walked out of the alley, and into his new surroundings.
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Far above the uncertain creature, a man named Jeffrey truly wanted to regret his decision to volunteer as fists pounded into his midsection, cracking his ribs. Another blow drove into his stomach and he exhaled violently, blood spraying from his mouth. He was in a dark room, a shed, tied to a chair. The floor was cold tile, a ceramic material, and a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Men, wearing black with a crescent moon over a star insignia on their shoulder, struck him over and over.
They'd been beating him for five minutes without a word. Elijah didn't say it would be like thi-
The thought cut off as a fist slammed into his cheek, snapping his head to the side and exploding his vision with white stars. His head lolled back and forth, and he coughed.
On and on this abuse went; fear began to seep through his beaten body that this effort would be entirely wasted. They would pummel him into a meaningless, futile death, and none of his preparation would have meant a thing.
He realized, long after his fears ran their course, that they had ceased striking him. He opened one eye; his other was swollen shut.
Blurry figures stood in front of him, silent, watching. A door opened and sunlight - he couldn't believe it - real sunlight, poured into the shack, gloriously blinding and warm. He heard heavy, sharp footfalls on the hard floor, approaching. A figure, silhouetted by the bright light, leered down.
"You will now answer questions. If your response is inaccurate or insufficient I will leave, and these men will continue for as long as is necessary. Do you understand?"
He let out a small whimper, knowing that he couldn't break just yet. "P-please..."
His head burst with pain as he was struck again.
"That was a warning. Answer the question."
The question? What was it again? His mind chugged around, trying to recall what he was supposed to answer as his head hung limp.
His scalp screamed as his head was yanked to a level position; his interrogator's face an inch from his own. "Do you understand?" The man repeated.
Jeffrey cringed and spat a mouthful of blood into the man's face. Curses and tinges of regret rolled through his head as his hair was released and the man's heavy walk could be heard exiting the room. The door slammed with a metallic clang, taking with it the brightness and hope of the sun. The beating resumed, hammer blows pounding into his battered body as he faded out of awareness. Elijah's words echoed in his mind: Don't break too soon, or they might not believe it.
Walking around at night. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Kaylee thought to herself. If Elijah wants food so badly, why can't he get it himself? She silently cursed the man who made her undertake such high risk.
Her reaction was not entirely fair. After all, Elijah had been salvation for so many people, starving and helpless. He took them into his enclave and kept them safe. Naturally, this made them inclined to do the things he asked. Kaylee didn't really understand why.
"Go alone," he had said to her. "You'll attract less attention." She didn't understand it. He keeps us safe, but still makes us do dangerous, pointless things, she thought.
Nervously, she inched a small mirror shard around the corner. She viewed empty, filthy streets surrounding a wide open square. In the center lay a crumbling, dried-up fountain with In Memorium on a bronze plaque, far too tarnished and vandalized to indicate what was supposed to be remembered. Kaylee was pretty sure that it was some kind of homage to the bastard, Franklin Lange.
Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she sidled along the alley wall, grime encrusted brick giving cold comfort. The square was easily one of the most dangerous places to be. Too close to Purgatory. Too easy to be captured and taken, added to the servant quota.
"Why do we keep doing this stuff?" Kaylee had complained to one of Elijah's highest-ranking men. Rick was the one who had found her, hungry and cold, picking through a trash pile. Painstakingly, against her intense suspicion and mistrust, he convinced her to follow him, saying he knew of a safe place. He had also bribed her with food, which hadn't hurt his cause.
When she complained, Rick had flashed her a grin, the same grin that slipped through her wariness when they first met. It was warm and inspired confidence, "He's got a reason for it. Even if it seems crazy." Rick had faith. Kaylee still didn't. "Maybe he's testing you?" Rick had shrugged.
After a quick glance behind, she thought. Clear, okay. Use the mirror. What else is in the square? Aside from the fountain and random piles of garbage scattered around, there was not much else. She crept forward in the gloom.
"You'll be fine. They've been sending fewer patrols, taking less people. It's only a few blocks." Elijah had told her.
She'd wanted to object because there wasn't any evidence to suggest a measure of truth to that statement, but she didn't. If anything, patrols and number of captures had increased in the last month.
A flicker of a handheld light flashed across the mirror, and she yanked it away, sliding back a few feet and crouching behind a garbage can. She pressed herself into the wall, hearing the soft scuffling of several pairs of feet. Barely fifteen feet away, a number of men dressed in black moved swiftly by her alley. A light briefly shined past her as one man made a quick check. She remained unseen, and they moved on, their quiet movements passing down the street.
Kaylee jumped up, moving to the opposite wall. She peered around the corner. They were moving quickly, already a block away. Odd, she thought, the capturing patrols never move like that.
Moments dripped away; she realized she'd been holding her breath. They were now a long ways down the street, still moving away. She exhaled, lungs burning. Not my problem anymore, she thought.
Cleaned up and well fed, Kaylee would have very likely been considered attractive. Medium height, strong, lean muscle structure and a modest yet appropriate amount of curvature, with chestnut-brown hair tied back. A small, angular face, though darkened with dirt and grime, featured striking eyes and full lips. She could have easily been considered pretty in another situation. However, dressed in dirty black jeans and a torn, black zip-hoodie, badly in need of a shower and several hot meals, and with a disposition filled with aggression and mistrust, she could only be considered generally hostile.
She checked around the corner towards her destination again. Seeing no one, she moved out of her cover, towards the end of the square that held the large building called Purgatory.
The building used to serve as the main entrance to the Citizen's Escape compound. Now, it was abandoned, and the rest of Old Haven with it. The Citizens, controlling the city's policy and wealth, wanted to build something grand. A way to distance themselves from the dregs of society. However, they were still afraid of the ravaged outside world, so they did the only thing they could: they moved up. They created a new level above, trapping those left behind in the darkness and decay of Old Haven.
During the months of Kaylee's recuperation from near-starvation, Rick had filled in some of the historical blanks. "You see," he had said as she noisily wolfed down a can of cold noodles, "that building used to be just a kind of social clubhouse. Only rich folks could get in. From what I've heard, they pretty much sat around drinking booze and smoking cigars." He had shrugged. "The idea of Citizenship became pretty big, especially when they loosened membership standards. I remember everyone I met wanted to get into that goddamn club. Hell, if I hadn't been thirteen, I probably would have too."
"Yeah," Kaylee had said, wiping her mouth. "I remember my parents sending in applications every other week." She remembered seeing commercials on her parent's tiny television set. The handsome, dashing Citizen Franklin Lange, owner and proprietor of the Citizen's Escape, encouraging applicants from all walks of life. "He was looking for people to do laundry and shovel shit."
Rick had nodded. "Yeah, that came later. At the point I'm talking about, the social club just comprised everyone with money and influence." He waved his hand dismissively. "Lange practically had the governing body in his pocket."
The story went, as Rick told her, that the Citizens, one evening, had gone through their usual brandy-laced socialization and empty-rhetoric about how everything would be better if "they were in charge."
From the corner of the room, leaning up against the stonework of the fireplace, Citizen Lange had spoken up. "What if we were in charge?"
No one spoke for several moments. The various men shifted in their seats, clearing their throats uncomfortably. Lange passed his gaze around the room, radiating complete sincerity.
"Well, then," someone piped up, "this city would be a much better place."
Lange smiled, "Exactly."
Kaylee shook the history lesson out of her mind as she picked her way past the dilapidated building now known as Purgatory. It was called that because, at some point, someone had been clever enough to coin it as representing the place between heaven and hell, and the name stuck.
The building itself, being the only viable entrance to the full compound, had succumbed to the ravages of misuse and lack of maintenance. No longer luxurious leather and oak furniture adorned the lobby. The marble-tile flooring was marred, broken, and covered in years of various grime and filth. The beautiful sculptures, paintings, and tapestries had been removed by Citizens, stripped away by thieves, or destroyed by vandals. The elevator in the lobby, at the very back, used primarily in its day for maintenance, continued to be the only part of Old Haven ever seriously maintained by those above. Only, of course, to allow soldiers to come and go.
She had asked Rick once about how they still got electricity. "Well, it's a giant pain in the ass," he had said, "but we either keep the streetlights running or learn to see in the dark." He had explained that, before gangs and factions had broken out in down below, a lot of cooperation occurred to patch together a semi-working power grid. "Some generators still function with a soft touch or a pipe wrench." He had shrugged. "Otherwise we find a way to hook into their grid." He jerked a thumb upward, towards the interlocking structures that covered the sky.
Kaylee was now in a spot of relative darkness, burned out streetlamps no longer lighting the crumbling section of wall that protected the Citizen's Escape compound. What had once kept out the inferior now welcomed them with open arms. Kaylee carefully picked her way around rubble, scaling the wall with ease.
She dropped down onto the crumbled remains of what used to be thick green grass, stretching for a few hundred feet back to the living quarters. A quaint little park in the middle of the compound. Even though she loathed the journey, she kind liked being there. The decay was little different than anywhere else, but the rest of Old Haven felt too claustrophobic, massively tall buildings pressing in on all sides with the sky blocked firmly by the next layer. Looking at the lack of daylight couldn't provide any measure of satisfaction anywhere, but at the very least here, in this little park, there was room to stretch out and relax a little.
She continued across the open area, passing by a few desiccated trees, long deprived of moisture and sunlight. It was easy for her to loiter there. Behind the walls, Lange's vision allowed for a very comfortable existence.
"People lived there." Rick had said. "Think about it. A huge, no expense-spared apartment complex. No need to worry about crime, beggars, or the filthy, filthy working class?" He had chuckled. "Lange had to extend the property all the way to the north valley edge and build like crazy. Thousands lived there, safe and cozy with their Citizen brethren."
The scenery appeared much different now as Kaylee walked through a housing complex. Junkies crashed on the decadent four-post beds, occasionally unconscious with a fatal overdose creeping through their veins. A great many of the Citizens had left without securing minor possessions, but, at their average wealth level, it hadn't mattered much. Some sections of the compound, apartments and storage closets, had been sealed off, with tinges of thought of eventual return. Often times, these were treasure hoards of various goods, food, medical supplies, even the sporadic weapon. Elijah had come across something much more impressive.
"Bullshit." Kaylee had told Rick flatly. This had been back before she'd ever taken any retrieval jobs. "You're telling me he's got a goddamn bunker?"
"Very poetic," Rick had laughed, "but yeah. Before I came in, Elijah had cracked into an honest-to-God fallout shelter beneath the living quarters in the Escape. We think it must have belonged to Lange for some kind of second apocalypse contingency."
"Good lord," she had muttered.
"No kidding," Rick had agreed. "Anyway, this thing had pretty disgusting security. Elijah bypassed it and took it all for his own. There's enough canned food in there to last years."
Kaylee had frowned, "It doesn't do us that much good. We still have to scour every living space and trash heap in the city for food."
"Would you rather Elijah kept it all for himself?" Rick had asked. "Or you could also try eating rats. There's a lot of food in the bunker, but not enough to feed a lot of people indefinitely."
"Okay fine," Kaylee had conceded, "but why don't we just pack up and move everything there? We wouldn't have to hike across half the city just to get a few cans of soup."
Rick had shaken his head. "Not a chance. It's way too high profile there. Way too many Citizens or whoever moving in that area. It kind of defeats the purpose of hiding."
Well, I'm not doing too good of a job hiding right now, am I, Kaylee thought with a bitter tinge as she walked through the wide halls of the living quarters. She always marveled at the massive size of their living spaces. Each individual apartment most commonly held a Citizen or two, plus any children, but was the size of a small one-level house. My parents' entire apartment could fit in their bathroom, she thought.
With all manner of random visitors and without any upkeep, the housing complex lost quite a bit of its charm. Doors hung off hinges or were completely gone, the wallpaper was torn or covered in graffiti, and the carpet in most areas was now stained with mildew, blood, sweat, and varying other human and natural waste.
Feeling slightly less on edge now, Kaylee carefully made her way down the hall towards the elevator. No one yet, she thought. Occasionally, she'd run into a vacant, emaciated junkie, whacked out on painkillers or glue fumes. She knew they could be prone to violence, but felt confident enough that she could handle herself if it became necessary.
Glancing down each end of the hallway, she patted her pocket to reassure herself. Inside was a small switchblade, given to her for protection. She didn't actually know much about how to use it, but it served as a strong enough deterrent to the occasional assailant. If it didn't, she could usually run quickly enough.
She came upon her destination: a set of elevator doors, which yawned open. This particular car had received no maintenance or power supply, and thus had been static for a while, patiently waiting somewhere between the twentieth and thirtieth floor. She couldn't see it up in the darkness of the long shaft, nor could she spot the bottom when looking down. She swung around the corner, gripping the utility ladder, and descended. It was always unnerving for her, climbing down into the darkness like that, and she shuddered.
"How did he find it?" she had asked Rick.
"I don't know, he never really told me." Rick had shrugged. "I think he just ducked in that elevator shaft one day and noticed that it extended deeper underground than the stairs did. After looking around, he busted through the false wall in the corridor."
Kaylee cleared her head of the memories once again, gripping the ladder and trying not to look down. She took a deep breath and descended into the shaft.
No slip-ups or problems on the way down, Kaylee stood in the corridor that Elijah had found so many years before. The security was indeed, as Rick had put it, disgusting. A red line painted on the floor spelled out, "Go no further." Beyond that was a metal grating that stretched for twenty feet, ending in a massive steel door, impregnable without significant hardware and manpower. The entire hallway was monitored by imbedded security cameras. A curious mechanical hum rang faintly in the background, and Kaylee knew this to mean that the high-voltage floor was ready to trigger at Elijah's remote command.
None of this concerned her because her jaw dropped to see two bodies, that of a dead man and woman, laying in twisted piles some distance away from each other. A stench of burnt flesh hung thickly in the air. Kaylee gagged, swallowed hard, and turned away from the gruesome sight. She had seen bodies before, but she hadn't exactly enjoyed or grown accustomed to the experience.
After a brief moment, she glared at one of the imbedded cameras. "God dammit Elijah! You didn't tell me there were dead bodies here!"
A small click was heard and the intercom responded with a shrugging tone, dripping with nonchalance, "I sent Jeffrey to clean up several hours ago. He must have been taken. Or possibly delayed."
She swallowed hard. "And then you sent me out, after that!?" She didn't -- hadn't -- known Jeffrey all that well. Whenever she saw him, however, he was always cheerful and friendly, even when she portrayed a prickly exterior. Even though things were often dismal, he always seemed to be smiling. Now he was simply gone...
"I did send you, knowing that, yes." The intercom replied without hint of remorse. "And you seem to have made it with little difficulty." So calm, detached.
She swore, angrily, "So much for less patrols! And what about Jeffrey? Doesn't he matter?"
"People do as they are asked, knowing the risks, and knowing the rewards. You do the same, do you not?"
Kaylee's anger rippled at the cold logic; Elijah sometimes seemed to have an irritating irreverence for other human beings, and at this particular moment, she was not feeling very magnanimous.
"Asshole," she muttered.
"Would you like to rephrase that?" the intercom inquired.
"I said please let me finish this so I can get out of here."
There was a click, and the mechanical hum faded from the background. One of the bodies lay near the vault door. The second, the woman, had fallen within a few steps upon the grate. Kaylee hesitated, waiting a moment longer before stepping forth, looking at the lifeless eyes staring, mouths gaping, freezing their last moments of agony. She shuddered.
"Keep moving." Elijah's voice issued from the intercom.
Tentatively, she put one foot forward onto the metal grating. Nothing. No ten thousand volts, no agonizing death. Maybe it would have been for the best, she thought. She skirted around the first corpse, striding directly towards the massive door. She paused, glancing back at the dead woman who stared lifelessly back.
Looking at how they were arranged, Kaylee figured that he had stepped on to the grating before the voltage was triggered and given a couple of warnings before he reached the end. Seeing his plight, the woman foolishly moved in to help. "She was trying to save him..." Kaylee murmured.
"It had to be done, to protect what is ours." Elijah said. "Just a moment." A brief series of grinding metallic noises resounded as the door began its unlocking sequence. A round central sphere spun counter-clockwise as heavy steel bars at several points along the circumference slid free of opposite housings. The door groaned loudly as the hydraulic pins released their hold.
Kaylee started to feel better, her task nearly finished. She didn't like risking her neck for Elijah, but she grudgingly admitted that he had helped many people, including herself. Elijah, despite his cold nature, inspired a fierce loyalty in his people. Kaylee, not having been around quite as long as some of the others, didn't quite understand it. Elijah seemed more than a little reluctant to dispense trust to anyone; outsiders and newcomers definitely no exception. Maybe he's not that bad after-
"Bring me a can of peaches," he said, breaking her train of thought.
Kaylee stopped dead on the threshold, in moderate shock. "You've got to be kidding me," she exclaimed. "That's it?"
"Yes, hurry up and keep quiet," he ordered.
This was too much. She spun back towards the camera, put her face inches from it and screamed, "You sent me into this festering shithole with corpses so you could have a can of goddamn peaches?! You son of a bitch. When I get back, I swear to God I'm going to-"
"Going to do what?" The intercom inquired back, a sliver of irritation seeping into the pool of calm. "Return to the streets, alone and helpless? No. You will do as I ask. Get going."
Trembling, Kaylee obeyed and pulled the door open. As she crossed inside, cool air washed over her. She turned, pulling the door shut. The hydraulics kicked in and tugged, sealing the door and trapping her.
She walked down the middle, past shelves holding canned vegetables, boxed dry pasta, cans of sauces and soups, and plenty of sealed bottles of water and juice. She stole glances about, fingers twitching, desperately wanting to snatch something and stuff it into her pocket. Stealing was frowned upon, and the penalty for such behavior was harsh. There, peaches. Sitting on a shelf next to pineapple, mandarin oranges, and pears. Kaylee began to salivate, anger momentarily forgotten, replaced with rampant desire.
With a squeal of feedback, the transmitted voice spoke, echoing loudly in the concrete room, "Are you finished?"
Cursing silently, Kaylee snatched the can of fruit from the shelf and trotted back to the entrance, which, remote released by Elijah again, swung open. She stepped over the threshold, turning to close the door.
Behind her came a noise of slapping bare footfalls, quickly approaching on the metal grating. She tried to spin around and face whoever it was, but she was seized from behind. A forearm clasped on her throat and something sharp jabbed into her back.
"Don't move," a raspy voice and breath like rotting meat assailed her as the arm tightened around her throat. She almost gagged, eyes watering, but she ceased struggling for just a moment. Lulled into a sense of security at her obedience, relief spread at the point of her back as her attacker took the knife away. Kaylee saw this knife hand reach past her, trying to hook around and pull open the bunker door, which hadn't yet closed enough to trigger the hydraulic sequence. As he fumbled with the heavy door, his grip around her neck loosened slightly.
Seizing the moment, she deftly slid the knife from her pocket and triggered the blade. She jammed it into the side of his thigh, the cold metal sinking deep into the tissue. Her assailant screamed with pain and anger, loosening his grip. Instead of fleeing down the hallway, Kaylee sprang in the other direction, throwing her weight against the door. It slammed violently upon his hand and wrist still hooked around it. With an audible crack, his undernourished, brittle bones shattered. The man screamed and sobbed, swinging wildly with his other hand to grab at her. She whirled, ducked under his outstretched arm and sprinted down the corridor, swinging around the elevator door to make a hasty retreat up the ladder.
Only he wasn't chasing her. Screaming curses, his hand was caught in the door. After it slammed, the door had engaged its hydraulics, trapping him. He tugged feebly at his injured wrist, bellowing in agony as the central sphere of the door spun round, setting steel bars back in place and tightening the seal on the door. The already broken bones in his hand ground into powder, blood spurting from the wound and splashing down onto the metal grating. The vault door finally nestled back firmly in its cradle, becoming silent. The man continued to scream obscenities and yank at his pulverized hand.
The new wound seemed like the least of his problems. Finally able to fully view the man, Kaylee was horrified to see the nearest to death one could get. His skin was ashen. His hair was thinning and filthy, matted against his scalp. His cheeks, like the rest of his body, were gaunt and hollow, his whole face looking like a bag of loosely hanging skin. Needle marks decorated both of his arms, along with festering open sores found everywhere on the exposed skin.
He was wearing a tattered brown T-shirt, whether natural color or just stained that way Kaylee couldn't tell, and filthy jeans. He wailed, an agonizing sound that made Kaylee cringe. He turned towards her, glaring at her with bloodshot yellow eyes, filled with hate, his cracked lips barely concealing rotting teeth.
She froze, watching in horror as he turned back to his trapped, pulverized hand, and wrenched over and over, each time a sickening crack greeting her ears as he exacerbated his injury. His struggle to free himself came accompanied by a low, mechanical hum, and Kaylee felt a chill run down her spine as she thought she knew the source.
He, too, paused for a second, listening to the din which grew less faint. He glanced down at the dead man next to him. Dark realization crossed his eyes as he connected the burnt corpse to the metal grating upon which he stood. Frantically, he turned again, head jerking back and forth in terror, looking for something to help. Finding nothing, he began frantically pulling at his trapped hand once more. Kaylee could hear him wheezing, "Help me, help me, help me," over and over. The statement didn't seem to be directed at her, but she had no idea who or what he was talking to.
Electricity slammed into the poor addict's body, causing him to spasm violently. Kaylee looked away, tears in her eyes and the fresh smell of burning flesh and hair wafting over, along with something bizarrely sweet. Sparks flared, creating an eerie, inconstant blue glow, casting shadows upon the walls. The man himself was silent, trying to cut loose an agonized shriek with muscles bound too tightly to allow any noise to escape. After what felt like a lifetime, the sounds of electrical discharge faded along with the deep hum, and there was silence for several moments.
"Hurry up," came the pitiless voice. Kaylee wiped her face with her sleeve and turned towards the elevator shaft.
"You're not forgetting anything?"
She paused. The peaches. She no longer held them. She looked back over. Three bodies now adorned the small corridor, one still-smoking caught within the hold of the powerful steel door. The can of peaches, dropped when she was attacked, had exploded from the electricity upon the metal grating, coating a small area with sticky, sweet, preservative syrup and bits of fruit. That's what the smell was, she thought, cooking peaches.
Without warning waves of revulsion coursed through her body, bile raged in her stomach, threatening to-
She turned towards the elevator shaft and voided the contents of her stomach into the yawning darkness, faintly splattering heard some distance below. She gripped the ladder, taking several deep breaths, spitting a few times, trying to clear her mouth of the bitter acids.
"Are you all right?" An almost sympathetic tone resounded in the corridor.
"Yeah..." She muttered. She looked, sadly, down upon the mangled can of peaches with the sizzled, burned fruit. It seemed like it should have been metaphorical or poetic somehow, but if it was, she couldn't figure it out. She walked over to the elevator shaft and carefully scrutinized the area as far as she could see. Nothing. No one else.
"Okay. I need to get a new can." She said.
"Are you certain the area is clear?" Elijah's digitally transmitted voice came once again, sounding doubtful.
"About as certain as I was a couple of minutes ago, but I'll go quick, and this time, I won't drop 'em no matter what." Kaylee took a deep breath.
The room filled again with the sounds of grinding, mechanical devices as the door once again laboriously unlocked and disengaged, the deceased, cooked captive falling next to it. Barely looking down, Kaylee stepped over the corpse and into the bunker, hurriedly striding to the shelf, and grabbing another can. On her way out, she snatched a bottle of water. "I've earned this." She said before the intercom could object.
"Very well."
Once she was back outside, the door sealed itself shut one final time, secured and near impenetrable. This time, thankfully, it held no starving madmen in its jaws. Kaylee walked briskly without so much as a downward glance, through the hallway to the elevator shaft. She cracked open the bottle and rinsed her mouth out before taking several generous gulps.
She secured the new can of peaches under her chin, swung out to the ladder above the yawning darkness, and carefully began to ascend. Elijah hadn't said anything more, yet. She briefly wondered if she'd be punished for the trouble. She cast aside the thought, understanding that, as she reached the ground level of the living quarters, she would once again need to focus upon passing undetected.
Citizen Gregory Michaels pulled the round spectacles from his face. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, frustration tearing at the edges of his concentration. He wiped the sweat from his receding hairline with the white sleeve of his laboratory uniform, and turned back towards the subject.
A shirtless man, roughly mid-thirties lay on the table, drugged and helpless. His head lolled back and forth, mouthing and vocalizing random gibberish, breathing in short gasps. Bruises and abrasions adorned his body. His face was purple and swollen, nose still broken. A surprisingly well-groomed beard adorned his face but was stained with crusted bits of dried blood.
An apparatus, oddly like swimming goggles, covered his eyes, appearing entirely black from the outside. The casing stretched over his ears, enveloping them as well. A few wires snaked into both sensory pieces, connected to a controlling device with buttons and dials. The device also connected to electrodes on his body, monitoring his vital functions.
Michaels was privy to scenes like this repeatedly throughout his work week. He found it to be a pointless waste of his time. The conditioning of subprime, genetic wastelands was technically his area of expertise, but his impending promotion had left him frustrated with his old tasks.
The conditioning process was necessary to integrate the vermin into their roles in society. First the body must be broken, he heard his own words ringing in his mind, then the mind. Once this is accomplished, there exists no will or spirit, and the subject will be prepared to accept any instruction. His presentation had received thunderous applause, as it would solve many of the insubordination issues created by the menial labor force.
Of course, when it was approved and set into widespread usage, he didn't expect to be the primary person responsible for dealing with the subjects himself. The process itself was practically automated; sedatives and mild psychotropics were administered along with an overload of sensory bombardment, primarily audio and visual. The overwhelming nature of the process effectively crushed the person's mind; hours of constant panic and fear drove them to regress to a fragile state. Then, through careful, gentle coaxing, they were conditioned into perfect servitude. Combined, then, with a chemical castration to purge their inferior genes from the human race and facilitate docility, the perfect, obedient servant could be trained to do any task. It was a brilliant system.
But why do I have to be the one to deal with them? Michaels wondered.
The man on the table coughed, spitting up a jot of blood. Michaels frowned. So uncivilized. He glanced over at the intravenous apparatus. The bag was empty. Close enough, he thought, glancing at the vitals.
He leaned over, slowly twisted a knob, dialing back the intensity of the visual stimulus, and said, as per protocol, "You're safe now."
Over the course of another couple of minutes, he reduced the stimulus to nothing, whispering assurances. "Tell me your name," he said softly to the man.
The man opened his mouth, coughed again, "J-Jef-Jeffrey."
"Do you know where you are?"
The man took a few quick breaths, "I... I-I'm... safe now..."
Michaels raised an eyebrow. What a strange response, he thought, never having heard it before in hundreds of subjects. Whatever.
Moving away from the center of the circular room, he touched a button at the wall, contacting the receptionist at the front desk. "Tell Inquisitor Gottfried that his 'priority' subject is stable and prepared for transfer." Michaels didn't really know, or care, why the high-ranking Inquisitor had any interest in the subject. As far as Michaels could tell, this Jeffrey was just another worthless denizen of Old Haven, ready to serve.
A female voice came back, "Yes, Citizen Michaels."
"Oh, have someone bring me a cup of coffee; I'm returning to my office to see if I can complete any real work today. Let no one bother me for the next three hours." He said wearily.
"Of course."
Michaels sighed heavily, not even looking at the misfortunate soul laying, stretched out, unlikely to have any status improvement in the future. No matter, the man's fate was not his concern. He slid his glasses back upon his face, pushed them up with his index finger, and walked towards the exit. The doors slid open, and he passed through them, unmindful or caring about the armed guards standing at attention on either side.
With his usual hunching posture, he ambled down the sterile white hallway with its clean tiles and lack of any sort of intrigue or imagination. It was just as he liked it to be. Clean. Efficient. No unnecessary ornamentation to interfere with work.
He turned down another hallway, identical to the last save perhaps only in distance. His body was keenly aware of the correct path and went through the motions. His mind was occupied elsewhere, with the curious situation that fell into his lap not terribly long ago.
Citizen Marcus Lexington Coleman used to be the head of the Natural Philosophy branch of The Institute of Intellectual Research and Development of Haven, commonly referred to as the Institute. The Institute was the pinnacle of Haven's power and intellect, the crowning achievement of Citizen One, Franklin Lange. Citizen Coleman was a not-terribly old sort of man with a very grandfatherly attitude of tolerance and benevolence.
Another significant waste of time. Michaels gave a thin smile, remembering for the hundredth time very clearly, 'Citizen Coleman used to be...'
Citizen Coleman used to have access to the near unlimited resources of the Institute. He used to sit in a very similar plush leather chair in the large office that Michaels found himself once again giddy to be entering. It was the size of a small apartment, even including a lavatory. Coleman used to have a kitchen facility, but after the incident, Michaels opted not to bother replacing it. He knew very little about cooking, and eating was something he seldom did. Even then it was only with the strongest of urging from his thin, reedy body. Instead he used the space to put in more storage.
Coleman also used to have access to the terminal laid into the desk and the database within. He used to be able to house every single file of potential interest within the vast storage space, as well as access to huge volumes of research materials. He used to enjoy the finest, most unbreachable security on his files, ensuring that only he and possibly Citizen One or Inquisitors with a potent override code could view them at his leisure.
As was noted, Coleman used to be a grandfatherly sort, from the old realm of thought that there was some intrinsic value to be found in every person, including the desperate urchins from below. He used to feel that they could be helped, cared for. He used to be a champion for their rights, fighting to integrate them into society, rather than continue to keep them apart or, worse in his mind, destroy their capacities with physical and mental abuse before putting them into slavery. He used to be a brilliant man.
Coleman used to have a lot of things; used to be a lot of things, Michaels thought smugly. He also used to be alive.
That thought, morbid as it was, provided Michaels with the impending promotion that he felt was so richly deserved, and it seemed that Citizen One felt a similar way. That was probably why Coleman's office was destroyed, the poor man still inside, with a mild incendiary device, or so it was rumored. Officially, the report stated that the coffee maker he owned had started a fire, which somehow tripped the sprinkler system and shorted the electronic locks. Never mind that what remained of Coleman had been found imbedded in what remained of his leather chair.
There weren't even enough remaining features of the body to be identified by sight, thought Michaels with macabre satisfaction. They had to pry open the jaw on his brittle blackened face and check against his dental records. In the end, it was confirmed. Marcus Coleman was dead, and his place as head in the Natural Philosophy wing was wide open.
In the beginning, Michaels respected and even admired the man. That was well before Coleman continually and publicly spouted all of the old-world drivel about equality and tolerance towards the genetically inferior. It was odd behavior, especially from one with such a high standing in society and a place on the secretive 'advisory council.' That mattered little to Michaels, however, because it wouldn't have mattered if he had worshipped Coleman for a hundred years. Michaels was a man of ambition. Anything within the farthest reaches of blocking his path was despised, undermined, and ultimately eliminated.
Michaels seated himself in front of the terminal, summoning the interface to begin digging through the files once more. In reality, he thought, it was a merciful favor that Coleman had died when he did. Were it much longer, I may have had him dragged from his bed and shot in the night.
He paused for a moment, considering, wondering if he could have that kind of authority. A touch of a smile crossed his lips, and he returned his attention to the console. Despite being granted access to the most extensive resources anyone could enjoy by the most important Citizen in existence, Coleman apparently did not retain much confidence in his fellow man.
There has to be something useful in here, thought Michaels, not for the first time. Normal procedure when transfers such as these occurred was to purge the computer of all personal files. Michaels had tried to, but the system wouldn't allow it. From there, a cursory perusal revealed some very odd things. Twisted, bizarre directory paths. Quite a bit of personal and extra security measures. With that much protection, Michaels had decided that there had to be something worth finding.
Michaels cursed in frustration again. Months of this! It had taken long enough to crack the extra security to even view half of the material, which he borrowed a tech to assist him with. Now he had to dig through hundreds of dummy files filled with nonsense text and scrambled picture and video files. Directory searches had proven fruitless, as he hadn't a clue what he was looking for. In addition the program that ran the searches could only be described as fickle with a cursed sense of humor. The thrice-damned thing would randomly come up with different results for the same search, as though taunting him.
He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. Coleman was mocking him three months after his death. Three months! I've been digging through this garbage for three whole months, his mind raged. Lord only knows which files mean a damn, which ones are intended to mislead, and which ones provide clues to proper pieces. "What am I going to do if they all have some kind of bloody importance?" He hissed.
Blood boiling with frustration, he slammed the lid on the display inlaid into the desk and leaned back into the extravagant chair, sighing heavily. Maybe the old fool deserved a little bit of credit after all, thought Michaels grimly. It won't last. There has to be something in here. Determined, he once again set to work, trying to keep his irritation under control.
No one he had spoken with or could give the slightest indication of what Coleman had been working on in the months before his death. Everyone noted that he was very excited and doubly secretive. He rarely engaged in conversation and spent days in his office without leaving. He delegated other important work to lower-ranking assistants, in violation of protocol, citing vitally important research as holding priority. While Michaels wholeheartedly agreed that most anything required by protocol was often a horrid misuse of time, he also grudgingly understood the necessity of it.
Insubordination without adequate explanation was itself grounds for a terrible fate. Often times even good reasons for it still ended unfavorably for the offending party, so Michaels was keenly aware that he needed to adhere to the rules, if not in thought than in practice, lest he find himself on the wrong end of retribution. At least that was the theory.
Sighing heavily again at his fruitless efforts, he sunk back into the chair once more, rubbing his eyes. His eye lighted upon the near-empty cold cup of coffee, delivered... He glanced at his watch and felt the realization of temporal passage wash over him; he'd been working for hours. He picked up the styrofoam cup, swirled the muddy dregs into the remaining cold liquid, and poured the silty contents into his mouth.
His reverie was broken by a knock at the office door. Slightly annoyed at the interruption, yet glad for a diversion, he spoke sharply, "What?"
"Oh come now, don't be that way. Everyone could use a visitor from time to time!" the lightly-muffled jovial voice spilled in from the hallway. Michaels rolled his eyes and pressed a button on his desk, disengaging the lock on the door.
The door swung open, displaying a large bearded man with deep-set twinkling eyes, striding with purpose into the room. Michaels forced a smile that ended up looking more like a grimace, "Good afternoon Citizen Dunlevy."
Dunlevy gave a slight frown and wagged his finger, "Now, now, my dear boy Gregory, how many times must I tell you to call me Arthur?" He threw back his head and laughed loudly, his substantial girth shaking along with what felt like the entire room. "I mean, really. We're colleagues, friends even! I trust and respect you, even revere your insight from time to time. You simply must call me Arthur!" he exclaimed before abruptly launching into recent gossip. Michaels, for the most part, ignored it, because the statement about being on a first-name basis seemed like less of a request than an order. This irritated Michaels, mostly because the cheerful idiot technically had seniority.
Michaels' assessment of Arthur Dunlevy's intellect was born more out of irritation than actual fact. Citizen Dunlevy was, in fact, the rather intelligent, if a little short-sighted, head of the Sociological Research in the Institute. He had been around for hundreds of changes ranging from slight to large that had brought about the current state of enlightenment, having been around and involved for close to forty of his sixty-something years. He had occasionally claimed to have assisted in various decision-making in the Acts of Separation.
The truth behind it was mildly suspicious but plausible. The timelines worked in Dunlevy's favor, and he did also retain a place as a member of the advisory council, whatever it actually was, but it seemed very few could claim meeting Franklin Lange, Citizen One, much less exerting any influence upon him. It was rumored that Lange hadn't been directly seen by anyone for years, decades even, trying to remain unexposed to danger and thereby ensuring that he continued to rule.
Michaels' mind drifted to the rumor overheard recently regarding Coleman's death. "The only people to see the real Citizen One," the man or woman had spoken, "are people about to die. He's got access to everyone's terminals. He can pop in for a visit, and then... curtains." Michaels briefly wondered if it was true. If Coleman, sitting at the desk now belonging to Michaels, had seen the true face of his own death.
While Michaels considered things, Dunlevy had continued speaking without pause, having seated himself in a chair opposite Michaels. He was completely oblivious to the fact that Michaels hadn't listened to a word of it. "So you see, in spite of everything, they've still managed to survive. It's absolutely incredible! I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't been observing for so long. It actually looks like sheer tenacity can be a deciding factor in survival, even if natural selection demands that such profound inferiority be purged."
Michaels' attention became focused, "Really, now?"
Dunlevy's grin widened at this statement. "Oh ho! I thought that might get your attention," he said, eliciting a scowl from Michaels. "Now maybe you'll listen to what I have to say, mhmmm?"
Rolling his eyes, Michaels sighed and gestured for him to continue.
Dunlevy rubbed his hands together and grinned again, wider yet. "Excellent. As you well know, we left them behind a number of years ago, offering them low level positions if they joined us, and then later collecting them as a labor force. We were assuming that whatever remained of the rest would kill each other or die out very soon after, and we wouldn't need to concern our populace with their existence any further, correct?" Without waiting for Michaels to respond, he continued. "Well, as you also know, they are still alive. Not thriving by any means, but they continue to survive, despite clearly unfavorable conditions. After twelve years, hundreds of them are still left!" He exclaimed.
Michaels rubbed his eyes "Yes, yes, I know all of this. Vermin have a knack for survival. What's your point?"
Dunlevy roared with laughter, slamming his open hand upon the table, "Oh ho! You are quite right my friend! However, what is most remarkable is how they continue to do all but thrive!"
Michaels thought about this for a moment, brow furrowing. It was true that every indication had suggested that the dregs of the city would die out quickly and cleanly, but maybe they were wrong. Probably worth a little investigation, he thought.
"All right, tell me." Michaels sat back, attention focusing a little more.
"Interested now?" Dunlevy inquired, eyes twinkling, thrilled to recite his research once again. "They have generated small communities."
Michaels cast this aside as unimportant, twirling his hand in a 'yes, fine, go on' gesture.
Ignoring Michaels, Dunlevy continued, "These communities could more accurately described as tribes or gangs; a hierarchical society that ends in one prominent figure." He smiled, almost longingly, and added, "It's incredible; one of the leaders has created what appears to be an 'animal pack' out of a large portion of the former criminal class. He's put himself in the position of the 'alpha male,' taking all of the women for himself. His men are fearfully loyal, but are frequently captured or killed. Oh, and this is the best part: he calls himself the Silver Fox." He roared with laughter again. Michaels gave a polite smile. The nickname was a little silly, but not quite as funny as Dunlevy seemed to think.
Still shaking with mirth, Dunlevy continued. "All of the head figures appear to retain little love for their underlings. An endearing quality, don't you think?"
Michaels cracked an appropriate smirk, "This is all very interesting, but it doesn't explain anything. Yes, they appear to be capable of surviving. Yes, they've created fascinating," the word dripped with sarcasm, "little societies. The bottom line is that they haven't managed to do anything actually worth mention. All they're good for is," he grimaced at this cut-and-paste answer, reminded of the constant disturbance he faced, "a menial-labor force."
"Right you are my friend. Absolutely correct! A keener mind we have not around here, not since poor Citizen Coleman passed on. You know he actually recommended you to replace him. I, of course, agreed and have been trying to convince Citizen One of your merits..." irritation at the attempt at flattery and especially at the talk of Coleman flared through Michaels' body, heating his blood once more.
After babbling for a while, Dunlevy reached an important point. "But what you fail to comprehend, my dear Gregory, is that there may be a threat."
Michaels scoffed at this, "Please. What could there possibly be? They are nothing. They've survived longer than we expected, but soon their resources will run dry and they will all quietly die."
"No, my friend," a grim seriousness, uncharacteristic, seeped into the dialogue, "It is unlikely that they will. We've caught wind that someone has been living down there, helping the vermin to survive. Someone that doesn't belong with them. This person has been assisting them, and recent information has come to light that he may be trying to organize a serious military presence."
Michaels hadn't heard this before, "Really..." he felt skeptical about the very notion, but it was still not something that could be so easily ignored. "Is that all?"
Dunlevy sighed, "Not quite. There has been increased pressure in recent months to come to a more final solution. Acquiring subjects," Michaels thought he almost caught a hint of disgust in Dunlevy's tone at the word 'subjects', "uses valuable resources. The labor force is useful, yes, but some are concerned about leaving the rest unchecked."
Michaels was curious; usually Dunlevy didn't discuss things of higher importance, "Why the sudden change?"
Dunlevy gave a sad smile, "Without Marcus' support any longer, the opinion against those living down below has shifted rapidly towards the negative, and the notion of intelligent and cunning leaders among them makes the case even stronger."
Michaels gave a slight sneer. Good riddance to that old fool, I say, he thought. He recalled the image of the stiff, unrecognizable, blackened and charred remains of Coleman. He recalled with a slight measure of satisfaction as he had the body dumped into the trash receptacle, intended for deposit down below. If you love them so much, he had thought, then you may certainly be with them, feeling satisfaction as the receptacles opened, dumping the trash and human refuse to the vacant streets below.
"Ah, so you think you know where this is going?" Dunlevy remarked, misinterpreting the slight smile that had crossed Michaels' face, "Well, you're likely correct. Some of us wish to eliminate the current faction leaders entirely, to keep them from organizing properly. This could throw their plans into chaos as others fight for control of the regime."
Michaels thought this made sense, so he nodded, motioning for Dunlevy to continue.
"Well, my dear friend, you would normally be correct, but others don't think the solution to be as," he gave a little cough, "permanent as they'd like it to be. They believe it is time to be finished with Old Haven. Others yet wish to keep the flow of servants as the Citizenship stays more content when they don't have to do menial tasks. Unfortunately now, without Marcus' voice, the balance has tilted in favor of a permanent solution." Dunlevy sighed, "and those who support it are gaining ground."
"Why is that such a problem, shouldn't we simply be rid of this vermin, once and for all?" This seemed quite logical to Michaels.
Dunlevy glared, a very uncharacteristic expression on his large face. "Such a policy change should not be taken lightly, dear Gregory. We pride ourselves on our civility and enlightenment. Does that mean when we get rid of anyone who is of mild inconvenience?"
Intriguing, Michaels thought, I've never thought Dunlevy to be sympathetic with those from down below. Maybe he spent too much time with Coleman. Yet Michaels wondered what it was that spurred Dunlevy to be spilling this information, and why it seemed to be of such great concern to him.
"What's the point of all this?" Michaels demanded.
Dunlevy sighed again. "It would seem that some very useful information has, just today, come into light from that fellow who was captured; I believe you administered his conditioning?" Michaels' memory flashed to his earlier task of the day, and he nodded. "It would seem, from what that man revealed, that there is more concern, and it has moved what was simple talk into action."
Michaels cocked an eyebrow. "Really, now? What's going to happen?"
Dunlevy appeared to come to a sudden realization about where he was and with whom he was speaking, "Oh. I'm... sorry, Gregory, but," his demeanor changed abruptly, and he radiated cheerfulness again, "that would be telling, wouldn't it? You'll find out, soon enough, I'm sure." He said with a wink.
"Wait, hold on-" Michaels objected.
Dunlevy suddenly sprang from his seat, ignoring Michaels. "Well! That's enough gossip for one day. I'm sure I will see you very soon, Gregory. This promises to be an exciting week." He swiftly strolled out the door, saying nothing else, leaving Michaels with his swirling thoughts. Are they planning an incursion? He wondered. He definitely got the sense that Dunlevy wasn't supposed be saying as much as he did, and the false cheer at the end of the visit did little to cover it up. He's probably right, though, Michaels thought. I'll find out all of this soon enough.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. Still a few hours left in the day; time to get something done. He raised the lid of the terminal, and set back to his search.
Kaylee ran with carefree passion through the small park in the middle of the Escape, relishing the feel of vibrant grass beneath her bare feet. She ran and ran, enjoying the light, cool breeze. She leapt up, caught a low branch of a large oak tree, pulling herself up with a relaxed effort. She crawled along the branch towards the trunk, unslinging her pack as she did. She eased up next to the trunk, crossed her feet upon the branch, and reclined, taking a moment to find her center of balance. She rummaged through her pack, smiling broadly as she located the two items she sought.
She pulled an enormous apple, so red and shiny it seemed to produce its own light, and her favorite book. She settled in, easily keeping her balance, perched ten feet off the ground, and took a bite of the juicy fruit. She savored the sweetness for a moment before chewing slowly. It had been years since she or anyone she knew had eaten a fresh apple. She turned her attention to her book, thumbing through the pages.
She read quietly for a while, occasionally pausing to take another bite. The feeling of the sun on her skin, filtering between the branches and leaves of the tree, was beyond marvelous.
She swallowed hard, her breath hitching as a small bit of fruit jumped into her windpipe. She fell into a fit of coughing, her book slipping out of her hands, dropping safely down into the soft grass beneath.
After a moment, she recovered and resumed her normal breathing pattern. She spotted her book, and dropped nimbly from the tree, crouching to scoop it up. As she bent over, a cold shadow passed over her, and she shivered. The light, so bright and vibrant was fading. She looked up; something passed over the sun, slowly blocking it out. Wide plates of steel rushed across the sky, expanding in all directions, sealing portions of it away.
"No..." she whispered, frozen. "No, no, no..."
It became cold, and as soon as the shadow fully enveloped the oak, it began to wither. The leaves disintegrated on the branches, not even pausing in their demise to fall from the tree. The trunk shriveled into a desiccated husk, branches spindling awkwardly out. The grass took on an ashy gray as the shadow passed over it, dying without a whisper, brittle and lifeless.
She ran, chasing the disappearing sunlight on the ground, willing herself past the racing shadow. She came up against a high wall, which began to crack and crumble near the top, casting dust down upon her. She coughed, eyes stinging with tears, and she collapsed against the wall. It became so cold, as though all of the warmth of the earth had evaporated. She slowly opened her eyes, seeing the dull gray darkness, dimly lit by pale yellow street lamps. The sky was gone. Replaced. She huddled against the wall, watching as the beauty she adored decayed away. The air took on a metallic, dusky taste, and the breeze simply stopped. Everything was dead, dark, and silent.
She slowly rose, terror seeping into her every limb as she peered into the darkness, eyes unaccustomed, jerking back and forth.
Sudden movement in the darkness, directly in front of her! Something stretched out, a single shadowy hand, reaching for her. It light brushed against her cheek, and numb shock jolted her mind. She opened her mouth and tried to cry out, but no sound came.
Thousands of dark hands suddenly burst out of the shadows, grasping at her. A brutal cold enveloped her entire body, seeping into her bones. The scream finally tore loose from her lips and she burst forward, sprinting with terrified passion away from the shadowy creatures. All around her, voices whispered, wailed, shrieked in her ears, spurring her onward. Shadows rose from the ground, trying to snare her legs.
She tripped, stumbling awkwardly for several feet before falling to the ground face first, skinning her arms and knees on the rough grass. She rolled over, but before she could try to rise, hands burst from the earth in a shower of dust. They quickly enveloped her, holding her secure, their touch chilling beyond belief.
A face coalesced from the darkness in front of her. Matted hair, bloodshot, yellow eyes. Sunken, hollow cheeks. Cracked lips, barely concealing rotted teeth. He leered forward, madness in his eyes and arcs of blue electricity haloing his visage. He grinned and gave a chuckle, letting a small burst of sickening breath into her face. He murmured in a wheezing voice, "Goodbye."
The hands that bound her began to pull. She sank, deep into the ground. Cold beyond measure, cold to the very core of her being. Smothering her, earth filled her mouth, nose, lungs, suffocating. Darkness all around, senses...
She broke through and began to fall, into sheer darkness. She coughed and spat, clearing her mouth and nose of soil as she fell. Wind rushing past her, a faint thought sparked. It's hollow inside, the tiny voice murmured. She could see a dim red glow speeding towards her. As she approached, it divided into two, slanted lights, glaring more fiercely all the time. They looked like... eyes. An opening gaped ahead. Jagged teeth. A deep thrumming filled her ears and the rushing wind transformed into hot, rotting breath. She opened her mouth to scream, eyes wide, but once more no sound escaped. As she fell further down towards the terrible maw, the deep thrumming dissolved into a rumbling laughter, as the creature of shadows in the hollow of the earth opened wider, swallowing her into final darkness. Before she faded away, the monster spoke to her, in Elijah's voice, "There is a heavy presence in the streets, stay hidden for a while."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee bolted upright and the scream finally tore loose from her lips, piercing the silent darkness. Her eyes jerked back and forth in the massive room, tense, watching for movement in the shadows. Her breath came out in ragged gasps, adrenaline coursing through her as the nightmare began to fade from her mind. She glanced at the door, with the heavy dresser shoved haphazardly in front of it. It hadn't moved. The windows; still bolted shut. A little grimy, but undisturbed.
She let out a lungful of air, exhaling slowly, and flopped back down on the bed. Her heart, rushing like mad to fulfill its duty, began to slow as the dream began to blur around the edges. The dark had become a tool for staying out of sight. It was safe. However, her subconscious retained the old childhood fear of it. She shuddered, remembering what Rick had told her once.
"Some people couldn't get used to the constant dark." He had sadly shaken his head. "They didn't last very long at all, frightened half-to-death all the time. We're lucky we could figure out how to handle it."
Are we really that lucky? Kaylee wondered wryly, leaping up from the bed. She walked over to the dresser.
The platform and bridge construction had begun well before Kaylee's birth, a project that took decades before the final pieces settled in and Old Haven became underground ruins. "I actually remember some of what happened up until then." She had told Rick. By that time, her body was no longer wasting away from malnourishment, and her temperament had softened somewhat. "How could I forget it?"
Rick had merely nodded, letting her continue.
"My parents worked nonstop." She had explained. "Dozens of their applications were turned down. Their genes just weren't good enough or something. Still, I remember seeing a lot of the platform bridges being built. I even remember some of the construction-related deaths."
Rick had winced. "Oh yeah... it didn't matter how gruesome the mess; progress didn't stop for any reason."
"Yeah. I didn't understand it. My parents were worried and I didn't know what the upper platforms were used for." She had laughed, smiling sadly. "I actually thought, at first, that they were to help the buildings stay standing."
Rick had shaken his head, chuckling, "Hah, I wish it were something so nice. The Citizens just didn't want to share the air with the people not in their club. The Citizens could live in the Escape, but they still had to do business in the streets with the dregs."
"Yeah, I know that now." Kaylee retorted. "I was only eight. I didn't understand anything about inequality back then, so people trying to get away from other people didn't make any sense." She had laughed bitterly. "My parents knew. They knew and they were getting worried."
"A lot of people were," Rick had said. "Lange could do anything he wanted. He had his Citizens eating out of the palm of his hand, and that included the government. He probably could have put 172 in place without the assembly approval."
Rick somehow knew, word for word, the speech that Lange had given, regarding Proposition 172 before the general assembly. Kaylee recalled Rick's recitation, bitterness in his tone, lacking the righteous fire that Lange likely used.
"There is plague. A disease. An affliction that all of us see, feel, and smell every single day of our lives. We do our best not to notice it, but it cannot be ignored any longer. We share these streets with the poor, the destitute, the addicts, the criminals, the prostitutes, the mindless working class. We are Citizens! By birthright we deserve better; we have earned better. We will create better."
And they did, she thought, laboring against the heavy dresser. They've got their nice happy paradise, free of us filthy nobodys. She scowled and shouldered into the dresser, shoving it away from the bedroom door. She paused for a moment, remembering the free-fall of her nightmare, the hollow center of the earth, and the hideous creature. She, like anyone else, had bad dreams. Unsurprisingly, they usually related to the sun disappearing.
"I remember when I couldn't find it anymore. The sun." She had told Rick. "My parents were gone by then. My mother had a single application approved so she just left. My father stuck around for me. He was able to get papers for the two of us, but when he went to get 'em, he never came back."
Rick had winced. "Oh shit. He got mugged."
Kaylee had nodded. "I think so."
"I saw a lot of people beaten or killed for those approval papers." Rick had sadly shaken his head. "But by then the new city was already operating. Working as a garbage man or personal servant was better than sticking around here."
"Yeah, that's why I don't really blame my mom," she had muttered with obvious tones of bitterness. "She saw her chance to get out and took it."
"A lot of families got broken apart by that. Not everyone could get approval. Hell," he had said, "some people were just too paranoid to even try."
"How much worse could it be than this," Kaylee muttered, creeping once again through the dark hallways of the living quarters. She had taken a brief nap in one of the luxurious bedrooms, as per Elijah's instruction. A little weird, but those beds are really nice, she thought, smiling.
After her parents were gone, she shuffled back and forth between squatting in abandoned apartments to the few foster homes still remaining. There were still tens of thousands of people living below in the darkness, but it seemed almost everyone was clamoring to escape. "Everything else down here collapsed within months because people wanted to be Citizens." Rick had mentioned. "It's not surprising that you had trouble finding a place to stay or people to take care of you."
Kaylee knew the next part quite well, as did everyone else who was still left. A number of years after the final separation, the Citizens grew further complacent. They needed servants, so they just took people. Kaylee didn't know anything about the conditioning process pioneered by rising-scientist Citizen Michaels, but she knew that she didn't want to be captured.
In her many discussions with Rick, Kaylee had finally grown weary of discussing the Citizenship regime. "What about Elijah? Where does he fit in?"
She recalled very keenly the first time she had heard the mysterious man's voice. "Give this one something to eat, or she will be of no use." His transmitted voice droned through the intercom when Rick took her to "meet" him.
"Well, he stays out of sight. Only the people he trusts the most can meet him in person." Rick had told her.
"Have you seen him?" She had asked. He had merely smiled.
That's why I don't trust Elijah. I don't know anything about him and no one will tell me. Is that so weird? She thought to herself as she exited the building. Crouching low, she faintly heard a percussive chattering in the distance. She stopped for a moment. Is that gunfire? She wondered, apprehension spreading through her body. She remained motionless for a moment, nervous and scared, wondering if she should wait a while longer before moving. She looked at the can of peaches tucked under her arm, remembering her task.
Damn.
She moved hastily across the barren central area of the Escape, shuddering as she recalled her recent subconscious encounter in the location. It wasn't quite as dark as her nightmare portrayed, but there were plenty of shadows and places for creatures of the most sinister nature to hide.
Her nervous energy brought her pace to a brisk run, crossing the distance to the crumbling wall in short order. She arrived, heart pounding, more from anxiety than from exertion, and picked her way through some of the rubble to the lowest point.
She glanced at the can of peaches in her hand, frowning and wishing she had brought a pack with her. She needed both hands to climb. She shrugged and muttered, "the hell with it." She chucked the can over the break in the wall. It thudded into the hard soil on the other side.
She leapt vertically, grabbing at empty spaces and protruding bricks. She carefully ascended the wall as she had earlier. She scaled it with ease, reaching the top in moments. She reached upwards with one hand, grabbing at the apex, some twenty feet above the ground.
The stone came loose in her hand, striking her in the shoulder as it fell and cascading dust into her face. Her free hand flailed wildly, straining to grasp at anything possible as her feet slipped in her panic. She experienced a short drop and a jolt of pain firing up her arm. Her fingers clenched, and somehow her remaining hand managed to keep gripping the stone. Her head, carried by the momentum of her sudden drop, cracked against the wall.
She dangled for a second, bright stars flashing in her vision, as her hold began to slip. Distant realization, along with a mild desire to prevent broken bones, gnawed at her faint consciousness, and she lazily swung her other arm up. She grabbed at a blessed, solid handhold. She slowly, methodically, tested the stones at the break in the wall before hauling herself up onto it.
She collapsed on her back in the nook, legs and head dangling on either side of the wall. She felt a warmth on the side of her head. She gently probed the injury, just above her right ear, with her fingertips. A little blood, a large bump, but nothing serious, she thought, wiping her fingers on the wall.
Head pounding, she sat up, taking in few deep breaths. She rubbed the tense muscles of her strained shoulder and wiped her face with her sleeve, doing little but smearing the blood.
"This is just not my day." She muttered as she eased herself over to the opposite side, turning to descend back down. As she maneuvered, something caught her eye back inside the wall some distance away in the park. A pair of small, faintly glowing lights within the shadows. She blinked hard several times and shook her head, vision still swimming from the impact. They were still there.
The image of the hollow underground and the eyes of the monstrous shadow creature from her nightmare flashed into her mind. She swallowed hard as a feeling of intense apprehension crept through her weary body, cutting through the haze. She descended the wall hastily, luckily not twisting her ankle or even incurring a minor scrape. Once her feet touched bottom, she scooped up the severely dented can and sprinted towards the nearest alley. She crouched there, watching the wall for several moments. Nothing followed, and nothing emerged from.0 the crevice.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and her rational mind reasserted itself. "Probably just a cat anyway," she mumbled, before turning into the alleyway and continuing along the grimy concrete path.
Tired, high-strung, and already feeling as though she needed another long nap, Kaylee's vigilance slipped as she plodded back towards home. When she rounded one corner out of an alley, she collided with a man going the opposite direction, sprawling them both on the ground.
Adrenaline pumping, she leapt nimbly to her feet and gasped, staring at the three other very angry-looking men with assault rifles leveled at her torso. She froze, eyes lighting upon the Citizenship symbol of a crescent moon imposed over a five-point star etched into their uniforms. Unlike the usual clean appearance of the soldiers, their clothing was torn, bloody, and encrusted with filth. All of the men appeared to be ragged, sporting injuries and makeshift bandages of various degrees. It looked as though they had just come out the wrong end of a brutal fight.
The lead man clamored awkwardly to a standing position, grunting in pain. He clearly favored his right leg which had a strip of bloody cloth bound tightly around mid-thigh. He pulled a silver .45 handgun and pointed it at Kaylee, limping up to her.
His breath reeked of tobacco, and his voice sported a thick Cockney, "'oo the 'ell are you?" He grimaced at her. She took a step back.
He pulled the .45 into a two-handed grip, eyes-widening, "Don' run off now, luv, 'fore we ge' a chance to ge' acquainted, like." He grinned, revealing a set of yellow teeth. "You'll be comin' wif us."
His companions stole brief glances at each other, and at the streets behind, "We gotta get outta here, Cap! Shoot her and let's go!" hissed one of them, long cut on his cheek bleeding freely. Kaylee swallowed hard.
The leader whirled around, his aim wavering. "We don' go until I say we do, and we don' go back empty-'anded!" He glared for a moment at the soldier who mumbled a quick "Yes, sir," looking at the ground.
Kaylee saw an opening. Her fingers tightened upon the can, still firmly in her grasp. As the leader turned back to face her, she hurled it into his face.
The can smacked him squarely into his nose; a wet crunch resounded followed by a scream of pain. Blood oozed from the injury as he toppled backward, blocking his companions' line of sight. Kaylee used the moment of disorientation to duck back into the alleyway, sprinting through the darkness. As she ran, she heard angry yelling. She glanced back, seeing her pursuers begin the chase, but they were injured and moving too slowly. A few ill-aimed bullets whizzed by, ricocheting off the walls around her. She ducked her head and turned forwards. She had time to let out a quick gasp-
-colliding once more into something very solid and sprawling backwards. She scrambled to her feet, mouth dropping open as she viewed her assailant. She screamed, a high-pitched cry piercing the night. A pair of glowing, slanted eyes stared down at her from a figure, man-sized, wrapped in the shadows of the alley. Oh my God! Her mind shrieked. The shadow creature came to get me! She whirled around and began running in the other direction, terror clouding her thoughts.
With a dull whump! the air rushed out of Kaylee's lungs as the butt of a rifle pounded into her midsection. She immediately crumpled to the ground, eyes wide, gasping for breath that would not come.
"How do you like that?" someone shouted down at her. The same man grabbed her arm and hauled her roughly to her feet. She immediately stumbled and collapsed against the wall, coughing and wheezing. A hand closed around her throat and the barrel of a handgun was placed under her chin. Inches away from her face was the visage of a furious man, nose bent awkwardly and blood streaming down his lips and chin.
"Ya god an' broke be dose." Men on either side gripped her arms; she struggled, feebly, still wheezing to draw breath. "Oh, now, don' try goin' dowhere else. Ya see; you're cobid' wif us," came the incoherent nasal Cockney. He pulled the gun back and struck her with it, snapping her head to the side and drawing blood on her cheek. "Ya broke by goddab dose!" She reeled, shaking her head as the world swam. She glared back at him, eyes glazed but very angry.
She kicked out, aiming between his legs. He twisted to the side, blocking the attempt with ease. One of the men holding her rammed his fist into her stomach, once again blasting the wind from her lungs, leaving her gasping. The lead man stepped forward, and her scalp screamed as he pulled her head, by her hair, to meet his face. The .45 loomed in her vision, close enough so that she could read the etching. He placed the barrel on the tip of her noise, aiming to the side.
He smirked, "Eye for ad eye is fair." He chuckled. "A dose in dis case."
Kaylee's vision swam, she felt weak and battered, unable to struggle as the man prepared to permanently disfigure her face before taking her away to the surface to be tortured, then going on to God only knows where. She gave a feeble laugh. At least I'll get to see the sun again...
"You tink dis is fuddy you ruddy little bitch?!" He shouted, cocking the pistol. She squeezed her eyes shut.
She heard a wet, muffled crack just before she was deafened by the roar of a gunshot, deafening so close to her ears. The two men holding her arms released her and she vaguely heard the sounds of shouting as she fell to the ground, entirely numb. Her eyes popped open, expecting to see a twisted red, mash of tissue where her nose used to be. It was completely intact, if a little dirty. Her hands immediately went to her face, confirming the information from her eyes.
She spotted the leader, his smoking pistol clenched in one hand. He laid flat on his back, a wound on the side of his head gushing blood as he stared, dazed up at the sky. His mouth worked up and down, as though he was trying to speak.
One of the other soldiers flew through the air past her, screaming as he crashed headfirst into a filth-encrusted metal trashcan. She turned back and watched as the other two soldiers shouldered their assault rifles and fired into the creature with the glowing eyes. She heard the rounds strike home, shaking and rattling the creature's body, but no sounds of pain, anger, or anything else came from it. Kaylee still had yet to get a decent look at the thing as it staggered backwards under the hail of gunfire.
The glowing eyes slitted, and the creature hurled itself at the two men, knocking the left man's gun arm sideways. Still firing, the wayward weapon sprayed several bullets in an arc into the torso of this companion, who crumpled against the opposite wall. The creature grabbed the remaining man by the shirt, hauling him up into the air before slamming him into the cold concrete. The creature knelt, lifted what Kaylee now noticed to be gloved hands, and pummeled the man on the ground with powerful, rapid blows. The soldier quickly ceased struggling as the sounds of dull, cracking thuds filled the night.
Kaylee felt a chill spread through her as the creature rose from the unconscious, maybe dead, body, turning its gaze to her. She squinted, and her mind twisted up in confusion as she finally beheld the...
... man?
Around six feet in height, hunching, and definitely human in shape with the appropriate amount of limbs, a stocky, thick body wrapped in a dark brown trench-coat. Above the coat was a mass of tangled scarves. Atop that was a tattered, wide-brimmed hat; the combination obscured any facial features save for the eyes, which continued to glow out at her in the darkness, very much like a cat's.
She slowly rose to her feet, never taking her eyes off of the figure, which continued to stare at her in silence. He/she/it was completely covered without an inch of flesh exposed to the air; layers of patched clothing adorned his legs and arms, wearing large boots and thick leather gloves. She crouched, scooping up the silver .45 from the now unconscious leader and training it shakily on the figure, who continued to do nothing.
"W-wh-who are you?" she stammered, finding her voice.
The figure issued strange, muffled noises through the cloth. After a moment, Kaylee realized he was trying to speak. His vocalization separated out into, "Mmmyy..." a throaty, grating, masculine voice, "hkhnnnayymmme issss..."
He paused, appearing to be considering how to go about saying it. Kaylee's mind had long since flown off to greener pastures, leaving her behind to wonder if she perhaps needed another tongue to say it.
"Mlacxo." He struggled. "M-al-clo." Bizarre throaty noises issue forth in what may have been frustration. "Mmmmaarrcccclloommm."
Kaylee stood, passively observing the strange whatever-it-was attempt to vocalize its name. It seemed to light up with the potential for an idea. The figure stooped down, scooping up a small chunk of brick, and etched into the grimy alley wall several letters.
Even with the darkness, Kaylee could make them out, but it was fragmented, lacking vowels. It read "MLCLM."
"Malcolm?" She asked. "You're name is Malcolm?"
The figures eyes widened and scrunched together, in clear, and to Kaylee, comical confusion. He shrugged, a very human gesture, and nodded. He raised his hand, and pointed at her.
"Oh, me?" Her eyes widened. "My name? I'm Kaylee."
"Hhhhkkhhaaayylhee" came the harsh tones.
"Close enough," Kaylee said, dizzy. Adrenaline still coursing through her veins presented a sudden giddy exhilaration from her against-the-odds survival. She clapped her hands over her mouth as a small, trickling giggle escaped. Her mind replayed the elongated butchering of her name, and she lost herself in a torrent of hysterical laughter. She doubled over, wincing at the pain in her midsection, still trembling with lightly manic mirth.
Malcolm watched her, head cocked slightly, as the catharsis of her laughter ran its course. Kaylee wiped tears from her eyes, smearing them with the blood from the cut on her face. A certain clarity and relaxation settled over Kaylee's body, and she started walking, gesturing for him to follow. She took an involuntary glance down at the leader, nose still oozing blood and a gaping head wound that Kaylee concluded occurred from the chunk of brick lying nearby. His eyes were closed, and she couldn't tell if he was breathing.
"Bastard," she whispered, spitting on him. She walked down the alley, the bizarre man-thing following her. Kaylee crept around the corner, surveying the area before nodding and relaxing. They stepped out, washing in the pale glow of the street lamp. She looked at him again in the better lighting and jumped, startled. His eyes looked very alien. They were oval and slanted in shape with a milky, translucent off white swirling with dull pastel colors, shifting and changing as Kaylee's mind struggled to put it them discernable shape. As the light caressed his eyes, he squinted and the formula solidified, becoming more opaque. Kaylee could see small patches of dark grey-blue flesh around in the eye sockets. She halted, staring, mouth slightly agape.
"What the hell are you?"
Malcolm tensed up at the inflammatory inquiry. "Paainn." He hissed.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Kaylee asked, puzzled.
"Hkkhhiittt hhhurrtss." Malcolm said, gesturing with an open palm at his chest, where dark red blood leaked out of holes in his clothing.
Kaylee had forgotten that he had been on the wrong end of assault rifle fire. "Oh my God," she cried out, "they shot you! Are you okay?"
Malcolm stared intently. "Hkkurrtts innsside."
"Here, let me take a look," Kaylee approached, reaching for the trench-coat. She didn't really know what to do or how to treat bullet wounds, but the creature had saved her and she-
Malcolm expelled a hissing screech and recoiled, striking her arm away. He shoved her backwards with surprising strength, sprawling her out on the street. She scrambled to her feet, raising the pistol to fend off the impending attack-
Nothing. Empty streets, quiet. She spun around, aiming in other directions, but he was gone. She glanced down the alleyway but saw no hint of movement. She lowered the weapon, shaking her head.
"What a day." She sighed. "No one is going to believe all this shit." I don't even believe it, she thought.
She continued muttering to herself, once again scooping the very battered can of peaches, now featuring a few flecks of blood. She polished the can with her sleeve, wiping it clean. She sighed again, gently probing her sore ribs, cheek, and forehead. Nothing seemed broken or too severely damaged. Bruised and battered, dirty and exhausted, she sighed one final time and began trudging back, beat-up prize and handgun in tow.
As she skirted the streets, ducked into alleyways, caution ever in the front of her mind, she considered the strange inhuman creature. Something from the surface? Kaylee shuddered, letting her mind wander at the immense possibility of horrors and wonders that could have occurred in the past twelve years. Aliens? Armageddon? A free utopian society? She gave a hollow laugh. Anything would be better than this shithole.
She emerged from another alleyway into a more open section of street. In front of her, a long stone staircase lead up to a once-preserved gothic cathedral. She gasped. Dozens of dead men lay scattered on the steps, riddled with bullet wounds. They all wore dark, urban camouflage with a Citizen insignia. Vacant eyes stared lifelessly up at the nothing. She continued down the opposite sidewalk, noticing several more dead soldiers, all from the surface. She stepped around them, continuing.
She encountered a few more scenes similar to this at various locations, accounting for something like fifty or sixty dead soldiers. Something had clearly happened while she was away. She didn't pause to figure it out. Instead, she continued her steady pace, progressing quickly and cautiously.
Back in the dark alley, surrounded by the unconscious and dead forms of his men, blood oozing from a head wound, the former leader of the group that ran into Kaylee lay, unconscious, his breathing shallow. Blood from his nose dribbled into his mouth, causing him to cough and sputter every now and then. He lay there, likely dying, for hours.
Several men dressed in all black came down the alleyway. They took crouched positions with automatic weapons swiveling in all directions, watching every shadow. In the center, with an unbreakable air of confidence and authority, walked a tall, built man, wearing the usual Citizen insignia. However, behind the crescent-moon and star lay faint etchings of an eye. This was the mark of the Inquisitor, the individuals who watched over the proceedings of Haven and its Citizens.
"Inquisitor Gottfried." A soldier stepped up, "This is the last group we found, sir."
In a voice layered with bands of steel, he said, "Bring the survivors. Leave the dead." The group of men grabbed the unmoving forms, picking up Cap and one soldier, the man who was hurled into the garbage can, in a fireman's carry, hauling them back towards the Escape lobby. Gottfried squinted into the darkness for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and strode after them.
The former leader drifted awake as he bobbed up and down on the shoulders of one of his fellow soldiers. He fell roughly, dropped as they reached the large elevator. His stomach churned as the lift rose, bringing him and the rest of the survivors out of Old Haven, to the surface, as he once again faded out.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
The one known as Malcolm crouched in the shadows, watching as the soldiers carried off the unmoving forms of the men he had encountered. His eyes once more glittered in the perpetual night. Turmoil and confusion coursed through his mind as the integration process continued. He flexed his hands and arms easily, powerfully. He moved aside his various wrappings and clothing, and rummaging around for several moments with a sharp piece of glass. One by one, he painfully extracted the flattened slugs from his body. He found them all relatively close to the surface, although he didn't know how or why. He held the bloody ammunition in his hand, staring at what the fledgling rational portion of his mind repeatedly informed him should have been lethal.
He tilted his gloved hand, letting the bullets fall to the ground, tinkling faintly as they scattered about. He caught sight of his reflection in a dirty window. He walked towards it, wiping off some of the grime. The same glowing eyes flanked by a wide-brimmed hat and covering of scarves and cloth that Kaylee had seen stared back at him. He tenderly touched the face covering, making a small grunt at the still-formidable pain.
He slowly unwrapped the covering, breathing hard and heart racing as the ache sang a crescendo. At last the wrappings came off, and he winced again at what he knew he would see.
His face was human in relative shape. His features were sharp and angular. The top portion of his skull had bulged somewhat with the enhancements to his optical apparatus and other senses. The top of his head featured a tangled shock of white hair, matching his eyes save for the glow.
His nose had drawn upwards and closer to his skin, as though the outer half had gotten cut off and the rest pushed backward. Exposed to open air, the stench of decay and filth once again flooded his olfactory senses. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He sifted through those scents, identifying each of the departed wounded and dead men through their sweat, what aftershave they used, the rations they had eaten recently. There was also something else he detected in the air, a scent similar in nature to the men though very different, lighter. Unlike the others, in which it merely clung feebly to their clothing, this lighter scent was wrapped and suffused with the filth, decay, and odors of this environment. He knew at once that it was the woman's scent. Kaylee.
Opening his eyes once more, he saw his skin, which held a bluish-gray tint. There was a dark green line passing through the center his face, vertical until it reached his upper lip, then it skewed beneath.
This was due to the fact that Malcolm's lower jaw hung open, low and twisted, as though held in a perpetual death scream. Still severely broken, though much better than it had been when he first awoken, it just lay slack with his tongue hanging out.
He an attempt to vocalize, "Hkkhhaaylleee. Nmaallhkkolm," phlegm and spittle issued forth from his throat, and the slight motions sent shards of lancing pain into his jaw.
He pulled the broken jaw up with one hand, ignoring the pain, and rewrapped the scarves around his face, securing it back in its closed position. He wandered off, back towards the Escape.
Kaylee traveled without incident for several hours, her stiff body working out the kinks as she kept a steady pace. Eventually, she arrived at her destination, the former city's arts district. It was a strip-mined center for cultural beauty and entertainment, filled with museums, theatres, art galleries, and more.
She came to stop outside an old live theatre building, the dingy marquee reading the cracked lettering 'Highland.' She walked across the street, standing in front of an apartment building once co-owned by several of the local managers as housing places for musicians, actors, and the like.
She placed the pistol and the can on the ground in front of her, facing the marquee, then held both hands up, palms facing outward in front of her. She turned them inward, crossing them over her front until her thumbs met, angling her still-open hands slightly upward in a birdlike symbol.
This, of course, was the entry ritual. It stated, "I am returning as instructed, and to the best of my knowledge, I have not been followed, and this location has not been compromised," in not quite so many words. She knew that at least two men with high-powered rifles were appraising her. She heard a faint radio crackle. A small flash of light signaled from the roughly boarded up windows of the theatre box office. She smiled.
All of this was necessary to gain entrance to the Highland, the place where the members of Elijah's little cadre came and went. The entire district was filled with his people, staying in various buildings, offices, apartments, and whatever else was available. To remain hidden, they tapped into the sewers in every occupied building, closing off all other passageways save for the ones they used. The exterior remained boarded up save for a few seldom-used entrances. Thus, no one outside his enclave knew exactly where to find Elijah and his people. Thus, they stayed hidden, and alive.
If Kaylee had not allowed herself to be carefully perused, and had not administered the proper hand signal, she would have been shot, no questions asked. Her body would have been dragged away and tossed down an unoccupied alley to rot, far away to minimize the stench.
She grabbed the weapon and can from the ground and trotted across the street, sidling up to the entrance of the dilapidated building. She slid her hand along one of the rough plywood board, feeling for the seam. She felt the slight divot, and pulled it open six inches. She placed her items inside the small space, sliding the board back into place, snug and nearly undetectable without flashlight and intense scrutiny.
Kaylee stood there for a few moments, waiting, until she heard a faint murmur, "Password?" She recognized the voice as her savior and mentor of recent days.
She rolled her eyes, "Go to hell, Rick."
She heard a small chuckle, "Jeez, Kaylee; lost your sense of humor?" He asked.
"Just open the damn door."
She heard the scraping of a heavy lock disengaging; a portion of the wall swung outward. Disguised by a few layers of plywood on the outside was a heavy, patchwork metal door. Car parts, metal sheeting, and other random bits had been scavenged and welded together to create a solid barrier around the entire front of the building. It would, as they hoped, be able to withstand a decent amount of punishment if it ever became necessary. The door groaned and shuddered, shaking loose bits of dust and debris clogged in its many open spaces.
She ducked inside the dark room, eyes adjusting to the change in light from dim to dark as the door behind her was pulled shut by the door guard on duty, Rick. If she hadn't felt so battered and exhausted, she might have wondered why Rick, a very highly-ranked person in Elijah's enclave, was watching the door personally. Once properly secured, he turned back, shining a dim flashlight on her.
"You look like hell!" He exclaimed in a low voice. "What on Earth happened?"
Kaylee closed her eyes and tenderly touched her injured face. "I..." she winced. "I'll tell you later, okay? I just... I need to deliver this and go lie down."
"Sure, sure, that's fine. Go right in." He gave her a concerned look. "I'll catch up with you later, okay?"
Kaylee nodded, picking up her items once more and walking through the dark lobby area. She stepped through moth-eaten, red velvet curtain into the dim theatre space, open and silent. She trudged the raked aisles down to the stage, walking off to the stairs on the right side of the stage. She glanced back at the yawning space as she often did, imagining what it must have looked like with a full house.
Now it was empty and desolate. No set, no players, no audience. She grimaced. They probably still have this kind of stuff on the surface, she thought. She turned and walked around the corner, pushing the enormous stage curtain aside to the backstage area, which was mostly empty; a few chairs, boxes, and scenery flats in various states of disrepair lay scattered about the area. She skirted around the debris, passing through a high door that once served to bring in scenery.
She came into a hallway going further back, walking by several rooms and offices that had served various purposes before, a few used for housing, many more currently used for supply and munitions storage. She glanced in a window as she went by, viewing crates filled with clothing next to a few ammunition boxes and weapons. She continued through the tall hallway towards what used to be the scene shop. The companion high wooden door on this end was closed and locked. To the left was a small entrance, a regular-sized, patched-together metal door, very similar to the one on the front of the Highland, guarded by a single seated man reading an old magazine. He gave a quick nod to Kaylee as she approached.
She pounded on the door a few times, the hollow sound ringing in the hallway. A small panel slid open, and a pair of bright blue eyes glared at her from within. Elijah.
"You're late." The passive voice came out.
She held up the dented can. "There was trouble."
The eyes narrowed. "Of what variety?"
She sighed, "Junkies, soldiers, and monsters, okay? Just take the goddamn peaches and let me go."
"Oh, I don't want them. I hate peaches."
Kaylee was stunned. "W-what?"
"I don't want them. You may go."
Fury boiled through her veins, igniting her nerves. He mouth worked up and down, grasping for some kind of appropriate response, but no sound emerged. She shook with anger, white knuckles gripping the can. "Y-you... You're joking, right? Do you have any idea what I've been through?"
"Aside from taking far too much time with a simple task, no."
Kaylee cut loose scream of rage and pounded the can against the door several times, causing Elijah, surprised, to retreat from the opening. The startled guard by the door dropped his magazine and leapt to his feet. He grabbed her arms, struggling to restrain her as she jumped up and down, kicking at him and the door, screaming curses and threats. She managed to stomp down on his foot, and he bellowed in pain.
"Get her out of here!" Elijah shouted from inside the room.
The sounds of commotion brought several other men into the hallway. Rough hands grasped Kaylee and dragged her off, moving down a few flights of stairs as she screamed and struggled. Finally, after being hauled around for a time, she was tossed into an empty room with a bed and a bucket. The door slammed shut behind, and she flung herself against it, pounding and yelling. After a few minutes of slowly withering intensity, her hoarse voice could barely muster a whisper, and her exhausted body ran out of adrenaline to fuel her efforts. She leaned up against the door, sliding down to a slumped position. After a few moments of hard breathing, her eyes slid shut. Exhausted, she fell asleep almost instantly, still cursing Elijah as she drifted off.
Gregory Michaels awoke with a start in his four-poster full-sized bed to the sounds of pounding on his door. As always, he was alone in his very ample-sized room in the Institute's housing complex. He glanced at the clock, which read, in dark green light, 3:00 AM. Disoriented, he pushed the covers aside. Swinging his legs to the edge of the bed, he rose to his bare feet. He shuffled towards the door to his bedroom wearing only an undershirt and boxer shorts. He grabbed a thick, blue bathrobe from a hook, donning it. The pounding increased in urgency.
"Just a minute!" he yelled, fumbling at the tie rope.
He padded across the lush carpet in his small living room with very little furniture or decoration and glanced through the peephole. He recognized the stiff figure of Inquisitor Herman Gottfried standing in the hall. He twisted the deadbolt lock and opened the door.
"You are needed in your laboratory immediately. Your assistance is required for the treatment of several subjects, some of whom will not live out the hour." He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Michaels standing dumbfounded in the doorway.
"Wait, I'm-" Michaels shouted long after the Inquisitor was out of earshot.
I'm not a bloody doctor, Michaels thought. He sighed heavily, which transformed into a gaping yawn. He shuffled back into his apartment, crossing the living room, into his bedroom once more. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, fumbling around on the nightstand for his glasses, knocking over a half-full glass of water. The liquid spread across the surface, spilling down onto the carpet.
Michaels swore loudly, using the sleeve of his robe to mop up the liquid. He jammed the spectacles on to his face. He glanced in a mirror on the wall. Balding, bad posture, bags under his bloodshot eyes, unclean and unshaven. He rubbed his face again, sighing once more.
Several minutes later, he emerged from his living quarters, dressed in the previous day's clothing, tired, and irritable, having contacted the housekeeping staff about the small cleanup. Hopefully, they'd send out one of their drones before too long; he hated having any contact with them, especially if they happened to have been one of his prior subjects. Of course, that was fairly common now, as he'd been administering the conditioning process for years; he'd given the treatment to quite a few people. He walked down the tile hallway, heavy footfalls echoing.
He passed several doors that contained other apartments of various sizes and shapes, housing other important people working for the Institute, researchers and a few high-ranking assistants. Cleaning and maintenance staff, some of the conditioned subjects, lived in what almost appeared to be a barracks outside the compound. It was a long rectangular structure with rows of bunk-beds, footlockers, and a couple of unisex showers and bathrooms.
An uneventful walk later, he rounded the corner, heading towards his lab. The usual guards with automatic weapons stood flanking the door, but rather than lazily staring off into space, they appeared apprehensive. As was his custom, Michaels paid them no attention. He palmed the panel next to the door, which slid open.
Absolute chaos greeted him. The usual single patient bed had been cleared out, numerous tables were arranged in no particular order in the large circular lab room. Over a dozen men of in various states of severe injury lay upon them. Several were unconscious, most of them were bleeding, seeping off of the tables and dripping onto the floor, and those still awake expressed their injuries by crying out or moaning. A few surgeons and medics milled around, binding wounds, tying sutures, and fiddling with IV's, occasionally conferring with one another. A few soldiers were positioned at the circumference. The place was a flurry of activity and noise.
Michaels gaped. He paused in the doorway for several moments, staring at the scene.
"What the-who the-why-" he stammered to no one in particular. A few people gave him brief glances but returned to their work. He spotted Inquisitor Gottfried speaking with calm at a visibly upset doctor. Michaels waded his way through the room, catching bits of the discussion as he neared.
"-critical condition and cannot be subjected to any questioning! They must be moved to a hospital for treatment and observation!"
"They may contain valuable information that must be attained at the first available moment," came the stern reply from Gottfried. "When it has been determined that they have divulged everything useful, they will be released to receive proper care."
"But some of them will die very soon if they are not treated immediately!"
Gottfried turned towards Michaels as he approached. "Some of them will die regardless. Information needs to be retrieved from them before this occurs, and it needs to be done without any delay. Do you not agree, Citizen Michaels?"
Michaels glared at Gottfried, aware of the man's authority. "I'm sure if you deem it necessary Inquisitor Gottfried, then any loss or permanent injury for these men will be regrettable."
Gottfried nodded and gave a thin smile. The doctor, frustrated, stalked off towards the room center, pausing to evaluate a few patients.
Michaels glared at Gottfried, "Tell me Inquisitor. What in the nine hells is going on in my lab?!" He demanded.
Gottfried regarded Michaels with the same intense calm as he gave the angry doctor. "I apologize for the late hour, but as the good doctor was kind enough to mention, several of these men have very little time left." The stone face cracked slightly, displaying a tinge of an emotion that looked something like concern. "You have been roused this evening to assist with the interrogation of the survivors."
"But I'm not a doc-" Michaels paused, thinking, "Wait, survivors of what? What the is going on?"
The Inquisitor's calm appearance faded further as his jaw clenched, "I advise you, Citizen Michaels, to get to work immediately. The soldiers are dying as we speak, along with their valuable information."
The edge of Michaels' fatigue faded. "Was it a failed incursion?" He looked once more across the busy room, then back into Gottfried's face, which betrayed an affirmation. "How is that possible?"
Gottfried's calm shattered, clear irritation in his gaze. "That is what I would like to find out. Get to work!"
Michaels hesitated a moment longer, then pushed past the Inquisitor, towards the subjects. He technically had a doctorate in biology and chemistry, but his clinical knowledge of treatment was limited to the effects of various drugs on various organisms. Well, if Gottfried wants them awake and not screaming, maybe I can help. He pulled out several vials and syringes out of drawers. Working on the table, he tapped into the vials, filling several of the needles with the drugs.
He poised over one injured subject, who bled from several torso wounds, ready to administer. The same annoyed doctor reached over and grabbed his wrist, "You can't give that man an adrenaline shot. If his heart rate rises before we can stabilize him, he'll bleed out in minutes."
Michaels scowled at the doctor, "Out of the way, or I'll have you shot." The doctor paled and released his arm, backing off. Michaels cracked a smile, and thought, that was kind of fun, before plunging the long needle into the unconscious man's chest.
Michaels jumped as the man awoke, screaming bloody murder and trying in vain to struggle against the restraints. His eyes were wild, and he continued yelling and screaming. Michaels jabbed him with another needle, a painkiller, and watched as the man's eyes took on a glazed-over look; his yelling gradually faded into soft whimpering. The man breathed in rapid gasps, and Michaels could tell by the amount of blood welling out of the wound that his heart rate was erratic and rapid.
Michaels shouted and waved Gottfried over, who hovered over the soldier, who, shaking, quietly answered the questions that were asked of him. Michaels watched as, a few minutes later, the man slipped into unconsciousness again. Gottfried gave a nod to another angry-looking female doctor who rushed in, trying desperately to save the soldier's life.
An indeterminate amount of time passed as Michaels passed from patient to patient, pulling victims of horrendous injury to consciousness. Several of them screamed in agony prior to administration of numbing agents or painkillers. He worked quickly, pouring chemicals into their bodies. Gottfried followed close behind, hovering inches away with questions. Once he finished, the men were given emergency care. A few died before, during, and after being questioned. They were carted off without question.
At last the final man was removed from his lab. All of the doctors and soldiers had moved elsewhere, leaving a hideous mess and the smell of sweat and blood lingering in the air. Michaels leaned against a table as Gottfried spoke in hushed tones to a soldier, who saluted and left.
At last he turned around and walked towards Michaels. "You have attained a status privileged enough to be made aware of a few things regarding the events of the last several hours."
Michaels raised an eyebrow, and motioned for him to proceed.
"Due to information gleaned from one of your subjects yesterday it was determined that the denizens could no longer be left to their own devices. There has been intelligent organization. Several tactical teams were dispatched to the given locations. When they failed to return or report, additional men were sent." He gestured around the empty room. "What you saw here was the remains of over one hundred trained soldiers. We cannot account for any enemy casualties."
Michaels did a double take. "That's impossible!"
Gottfried grimaced slightly. "Clearly not." He folded his arms behind his back. "They were ambushed. Cleanly. Proficiently."
Michaels stared in disbelief, "How could that possibly happen?"
"It is still unclear," Gottfried gave his head a slight shake, "but it would appear that our informant's information was correct, if more advanced than we realized."
Michaels rubbed his chin, still shocked, "Did you find anything else?"
"One of our men, who died of knife wounds in hand to hand combat, held in his hand a torn strip of cloth from an enemy uniform. A fox insignia etched into clothing. Perhaps we may divine something useful out of this, perhaps not."
Michaels' mind whirled. "What is to be done?"
The Inquisitor considered the question before responding with, "Unknown. Yet. None should dare strike against us in such a fashion, and this will not be forgotten. Whoever engineered it must be dealt with."
Michaels nodded seriously before letting out a gaping yawn. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly six.
"You must be tired," Gottfried said. "Return to your quarters and rest."
Yawning again, Michaels nodded and departed the lab, hoping that he either wouldn't need to be there before it was put back together.
A few minutes later, he arrived at his room. He passed his ID badge over the scanner on the wall, hearing the lock give a faint click. He walked in and pulled the glasses from his face, closing his eyes as he moved towards the bathroom. As he arrived, he heard a noise.
His eyes popped open and he jammed the glasses on, seeing an intruder standing, facing the night table bent over. Michaels grabbed a lamp sitting on his dresser near the door, brandishing it in front of him.
The man stood up and turned around, jumping slightly when he noticed Michaels wielding a lamp. He held a blow dryer and towels in his hands.
Michaels' mouth hung open. "What the hell are you doing here?"
A man with a bruised, swollen face and short, now-clean hair gave him a little smile. It was the man he applied the conditioning to earlier that day. What's his name? Michaels couldn't remember. James? John?
"I'm very sorry to bother you, sir. You sent for cleaning." He kept his eyes to the floor as he offered the towels and blow dryer as proof of the statement. "I'm finished here, sir. Sorry for the delay. Have a good morning." He started walking out, making short, stuttering steps.
Michaels moved to the side and stared as he passed, hand clutching the lamp hanging limp at his side. There was something unnerving about the fellow that he couldn't place. What was his name...?
"You there!" Michaels called out. The man stopped and turned around, standing in the doorway, staring at Michaels' feet with vacant eyes.
"Sir?" came a soft, polite reply.
"What was your name?"
"Jeffrey, sir."
Michaels appraised the man, wondering what it was that bothered him so much. Jeffrey merely stood there with a dull, vacant expression. "All right, you may go."
"Thank you, sir." The servant departed.
Ah, that's it, Michaels thought, realizing what was so bothersome. He doesn't seem to blink.
In a rare moment of weakness, Michaels briefly entertained the idea that what he was subjecting people to could have been, in some ways, inhumane. It was just yesterday that the man was captured, beaten, interrogated and subjected to alteration of mind and body. He's already working in housekeeping, how strange.
"It's nothing," Michaels muttered. Pulling off his lab coat, he lay down on his bed. He remained awake for quite some time before gradually drifting into a fitful sleep.
The man called Jeffrey, upon exiting Michaels' room, ceased his stuttering walk and traveled as normal through the hallway. He couldn't believe the stroke of luck allowing him to get into Michaels' living space so soon. Of course, the Re-education Center was always relieved to have such a willing, eager subject, ready to dedicate his time and effort towards making those who made his new existence possible. They were just happy to be rid of me so easily, he thought.
The servants' building was located about one hundred feet away from the western face of the Institute in a small park area; a safe distance with concealment that kept any Citizens nearby more at ease. It was widely understood that, although cured of any aggression or barbarism, the impure denizens gleaned from down below for labor purposes were still inferior specimens of humanity, and no one really wanted much direct contact with them.
As he passed outside, he again marveled at the sidewalks, which was a lightweight yet dense ceramic tile material of a milky white hue. Panels of these stretched everywhere, and the city floor was largely composed of similar materials. Strong, but not so heavy as to collapse everything below as existing structures continued their rise and new ones cropped up. Maintenance was in the forefront of concern; no one wanted to let their decadent society crumble, especially not in any literal sense. He looked up again, at the circular field overhead, shimmering, letting the clear blue sky and soft, morning sunlight filter through. Jeffrey had no idea what it was or why it was necessary. Some kind of force field, maybe? He stared for a moment, contemplating possibilities.
Jeffrey had spent less than three hours at the Re-education Center before they deemed him appropriate and prepared. It had merely take a measure of proper eagerness and gratitude to convince them to send him to work at the Institute as part of cleaning and maintenance. They weren't monsters; servants were given at least a measure of regard after having emotions stripped and their reproduction crippled.
It actually seemed a little too easy. Jeffrey was uncertain as to which method of preparation allowed him to keep pieces of his mind intact. Perhaps it was the deep, drugged conditioning that Elijah subjected him to for months, feeding him the answers he would, hopefully, unerringly repeat under similar conditions.
In addition, they devised another measure that would hopefully keep his mind relatively together. In a small false tooth at the back of his mouth, was a dose of rohypnol. Just before he was strapped in the patient bed, he loosened it with his tongue, painfully as his face was swollen and tender from the severity of the beating, and swallowed it. Shortly after, he blacked out.
Jeffrey was unaware of how Elijah knew so much about what he called the 'conditioning process,' but he was assured that the delta wave, deep unconsciousness gained from the drug would minimize the effects of the sensory bombardment, keeping his mind from being panicked into any weakened state.
Of course, had Michaels been paying a great deal of attention during those hours, he may have noticed that Jeffrey's heart rate and blood pressure dropped almost dangerously low, and he nearly expired on the table. Michaels also would have noticed that Jeffrey didn't move much or react as prominently as other subjects.
As Jeffrey, lucky to be alive and luckier to retain conscious thought, passed from the tile sidewalk onto the grass, he marveled at the lush, green grass. He smiled just before his body convulsed. His entire muscle system seemed to spasm, and he collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain. He wanted to scream but fought to keep silent, biting down on his cheeks to keep all sounds in check.
Of course, there had been a few side-effects. Most times his body trembled a little, whether out of withdrawal or something else he didn't know. He'd barely eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours since he'd been captured, discreetly throwing up everything he took down. He suffered from a droning headache, as well as the occasional severe muscle cramp. He had been dealing with a medical condition for years before this, but it seemed to be getting worse.
After a moment on the ground, his abused system relaxed, leaving his body feeling drained. He picked himself up, swaying and unsteady, on his feet before resuming a slower pace towards the servants' quarters. Once inside the structure, he proceeded to the laundry room to deposit his cleaning supplies. He stopped in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He was still heavily bruised and beaten. He winced at the sight. He held his head under the sink, letting cool water rinse away his perspiration. He dried himself with paper towels, and put on his most passive, agreeable face, phasing into the servile character that was expected of him.
Once the servants were indoctrinated they were largely ignored by Citizenship, who often would go out of their way to avoid any contact with them. They trusted so much in Michaels' skill and procedure, as well as the ignorance and inferiority of those taken from down below, that the servants became nearly invisible. "Perfect for intelligence gathering," Elijah had said.
Of course, the nature of strategic, political, and military planning was handled by the higher class Citizenship, and they guarded their speech carefully. Jeffrey held no illusions of receiving tactical data, but that was not his primary purpose.
He volunteered for the job in order to cultivate a brief deception, leading to a massacre of Citizen soldiers. Anything else he managed, Elijah would consider a bonus.
When he had been approached by Elijah with questions about the feasibility of an operation like this, Jeffrey volunteered immediately to do the job, considering it of vital importance. However, there was another reason why he agreed so quickly to the mission that would not entail a return. He was dying.
Jeffrey was another insightful, gifted young man left unwanted by any guardian when restrictions on Citizenship loosened. Elijah seemed to have a knack for finding people of that caliber, and Jeffrey's mild-mannered temperament and average physique would have left him, as a child, starving in a month. Indeed he nearly did.
During the planning phase, he and Elijah had crafted the perfect set of information to bring concern to the high-order Citizens. Intelligent leadership mobilizing forces in a certain location, munitions discovered, and other worrisome bits set leadership in a flurry, just as Elijah predicted it would. The difficult part, making sure Jeffrey could relay that specific information after interrogation and conditioning, had already been completed.
As he continued to stare into the mirror, Jeffrey's body started getting chills, shaking. He gripped the sides of the sink, willing his body to cease trembling. Pale and sickly, he looked horrible. He was briefly thankful for the bruises scattered across his body, giving him an excuse to appear to be in poor condition; he did not want very much scrutiny in his direction regarding anything, including bad health. Not that it matters, he thought.
His health had been on a steady decline for months, and it was only in the last day that the cramping, nausea, and vomiting had gotten this bad. At first, he thought it was merely something like ulcers, but it seemed much worse than that. Without any access to someone who could diagnose it, he could only fear the worst.
Jeffrey stepped out of the bathroom, taking several deep breaths. Unsurprised, the cueing light on his bed was light, indicating a summons. He pressed the button, displayed a message directing him to Inquisitor Gottfried.
He swallowed hard and exited into the soft morning light. He hadn't any clue if his body could handle the punishment; if he would seize, swallow his tongue, and suffocate, or if his heart would simply stop. He shook his head, clearing it, and resumed his duck-footed walk and passive expression. His job was finished; any other information about the surface he could manage to pass to Elijah.
Jeffrey crossed back into a hallway of the living quarters of the Institute, passing by numerous guards, scientists, and other Citizens. They ignored him. He turned a corner, keeping his head down as he continued his stuttering gait and vacant expression, until he moved through a hallway and a set of doors into the main lobby of the Institute. The large, square room featured four columns spaced evenly from the corners and a large, circular central reception desk with a marble top and various stalls. Jeffrey thought it looked like a bank.
During the peak hours of the day, there were usually at least three people seated at the large desk, handling everything "Business?" One woman, seated front and center, asked.
"I'm here to speak with Inquisitor Gottfried. My name is Jeffrey." He said in a small, polite voice.
She woman glanced down and typed something into a keyboard. She said, not looking at him, "Go through those doors." She pointed behind, northward. She pressed a button, and a buzzing could be heard.
Jeffrey crossed over, pulled the door open, and moved through it. The white tile flooring shifted to waxed, obsidian black. The walls and ceiling remained a sterile white; markings of the eye insignia adorned the hallway on both sides, giving a constant feeling of unease and imbalance. The long hallway ended in another reception area, complete with a similar desk and two wings. Different from the civilian section of the Institute, the Inquisition area held three elevators at the north end instead of a set of doors. On the back wall, emblazoned above the receptionist and elevators in block letters read one word imposed over the eye. Vigilance.
The receptionist, a severe looking woman with glasses wearing a conservative suit, gave him one appraising look before pressing a button. The elevator doors on the right slid open. Without a word, she gestured, and he moved inside.
The vertigo of motion without motion rattled his upset stomach as the elevator moved upward. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to resist the nausea. Eventually, the doors slid open once more, and Jeffrey found himself facing a large office. He walked out of the elevator.
Commendations decorated the walls. Bookshelves containing countless volumes on interrogation, surveillance, and various other related techniques lay at the sides. A large maple desk inlaid with a terminal screen, which was closed, was at the center in the back of the room. On his left, a bay window to the outside could be seen, and Jeffrey could see into east side of the park.
The most important offices of the Inquisition were found at the head of the double-armed, cross-shaped Institute, which also served as the north-most structure. As a result, out the window, Jeffrey could see a stretch of the northern wall, built at the top edge of the valley. Above the wall, instead of horizon, a deep, dark blue haze appeared from the strange unknown shimmering energy. Obviously, no one saw fit to tell the servants about the sterilization field, not that most of them would be able to comprehend it, so Jeffrey was left uncertain and uneasy about it.
He was unable, however, to stare overlong out the window, as he was being watched by the shrewd and observant Inquisitor Gottfried. Jeffrey steeled himself to play his role carefully.
There he was, sitting at the desk, watching him. Jeffrey had flashes of a shed with a cold concrete floor, swinging bare bulb, physical torture. A figure silhouetted in the first sunlight he'd seen in twelve years, asking question after question, pausing only to allow thugs to pound him further.
Gottfried was seated in a high-backed black leather chair, observing Jeffrey as he approached. "You do not look at all well."
Jeffrey gave the Inquisitor a vacant stare, letting silence permeate before widening his half-lidded eyes in realization. He flung his hands up to his bruised face. "Oh! No, I'm fine, sir. It was my fault for being so stubborn." He put on a grin. "You saved me, in spite of myself, sir. I owe you everything." He clasped his hands together.
Gottfried kept his face blank, not acknowledging the gratitude. "Sit."
A metal folding chair sat opposite the Inquisitor, and Jeffrey seated himself in it, crossed his ankles, and absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Don't over play it, he thought, toning down the fidgeting.
Gottfried watched him for several moments, sizing him up. Jeffrey felt nervous but was trying very hard to remain absorbed in the beige carpeting.
Finally, the Inquisitor broke the silence, "How much of your prior life do you remember?"
Jeffrey screwed up his face, as if in thought. "Most of it. I think, sir."
"Do you recall our session yesterday?" Gottfried referred almost casually to the interrogation and battery of questions post-conditioning.
Jeffrey gave a huge smile and nodded, vigorously. "That was when you saved me. Thank you, sir!"
Gottfried blinked. "Who did you work for?"
"Elijah, sir."
"Where is he located..." On and on, the repeated questions from the previous day continued. Jeffrey answered each in similar fashion with exuberance and the air of one pleased to serve his master. Questions came about Elijah, what he knew about the other community and faction leaders like Sergei and Desmond, locations of dwellings, rough layouts of certain areas, weapons capabilities: all of them rattled by. Gottfried's eyes continued to bore into him, as though willing him to provide some other bit of useful information.
"What do you know about a Silver Fox crest?"
Jeffrey almost broke into a huge grin. Had his face not been so marred and distracting, he was sure some subtle reaction would have given him away. "It is the symbol of a man named Miguel. He's a faction leader. Very mean."
Gottfried frowned, moving on, "You were the most rapid individual to be re-educated in the Center's history; were you aware of that?"
Jeffrey gave an awed smile. "Me? Really?"
"Why did you request assignment here?
Jeffrey offered a confused look. "This... this is my home, now, sir. It was where I was..." He screwed up his face again, with visibly intense thought. "Where I came into my new life. Sir."
Gottfried glared at him, frustration edging into his passive expression. "You desired to be near the Institute and Citizen Michaels."
"He... they, you... saved me. From myself." He put on a disgusted face. "and Elijah," he added.
There was a twinge in Jeffrey's stomach. It felt uncomfortable. He held his expression as the discomfort formed into a cramp, knotting the muscle painfully. He clenched his teeth together. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, and held his breath, hoping the Inquisitor wouldn't notice the changes in his behavior.
Gottfried rubbed his eyes with one hand. Jeffrey jumped on the opportunity to try and divert the questioning. "Is there anything I can get for you, sir? Coffee? Do your quarters need cleaning?" He fought to keep the strain out of his voice.
Gottfried shot him a look. "No, that will not be necessary. You may go."
Jeffrey stood, gave a tidy little bow, and walked to the elevator. He kept his vacant expression and downcast posture all the way until he was outside, through agonizing stomach cramps. He hurried from the Institute building over to the servants' barracks and into a bathroom stall. He collapsed against the toilet and let out huge, gasping breaths. His body shook all over, and perspiration cut loose, drenching him in a cold sweat. Waves of nausea passed over him, and he labored to fight them off.
Even though he was in intense pain, he cracked a smile. After a few minutes, the pain subsided, but his smile lingered. I win again, he thought. He stood up straight, stretching his back out. He returned to his slumped posture and expressionless face, and walked out of the bathroom, sitting down on his bed. Not standing out, even among the other mindless servants, was still a good idea. With no other immediate tasks, he lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes, still hints of a smile on his bruised face.
Kaylee awoke. She kept her eyes closed for several moments, letting consciousness sweep through her. She had roused a few hours earlier, still hunched up against the door with horrid cramping in her neck and spine, long enough to crawl over to the smelly mattress and pass out again. Now, she woke once more in the room, feeling somewhat refreshed and renewed. She stood up and stretched, ignoring the complaints of her sore muscles. The can of peaches lay, still dented, on its side on the floor.
The outburst and rage she had thrown around the previous evening seemed like a distant memory, vague and nonspecific. Overall the experience proved cathartic, and the half-dead sleep was life-saving. She went to the door, which was surprisingly unlocked.
No one stood outside to guard. Kaylee shrugged, assuming that she would have been in trouble after her angry outburst. She traveled through a hallway and up some stairs, moving within the bowels of the theatre building until she found herself facing the same guard who appeared to be reading the exact same magazine in front of Elijah's secure room. He looked up at her with clear irritation in his eyes. He rubbed his foot. Kaylee ignored him and pounded on the door, once again.
Those same glaring, blue eyes appeared as the door slot slid open. Elijah said nothing, only watched.
Kaylee stared back at him. The two stood in silence, heavy metal door between them. She relented.
"Sorry." She said.
"That's better." He replied.
"You really hate peaches?" She almost didn't want to know.
"Terrible food."
Kaylee frowned. "Then why did you send me out? Do you have any idea what happened to me?"
He disappeared from the doorway, leaving Kaylee in a confused silence. She imagined she heard some whispering. Before she could give this possibility consideration, the blue eyes reappeared.
Elijah looked over at the seated man, "Leave." The man folded his magazine under his arm and strolled off without hesitation.
Kaylee was growing ever more confused; nothing like this had ever happened. Before she could puzzle out the details, several sounds of various metallic scraping filled the hallway as locking bolts slid. The door shuddered open. She blinked, uncertain of what to do. "Hurry up," came Elijah's voice from inside.
Kaylee entered, hesitant. As soon as she was inside, an enormous bald man in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt shoved the door back in place. She waited as he slid no less than half a dozen heavy bolts in place. Kaylee could see he carried a huge handgun in a shoulder holster.
"Elijah?" Kaylee asked. The bald man looked at her with those piercing blue eyes she knew so well and shook his head. He pointed at something behind her.
She turned around to see a short, thin man who looked to be at least in his sixties with gray, wiry hair and soft brown eyes. He rattled away at a keyboard on a workbench, staring at an old CRT monitor. In and around the workbench were several computer units. Mounted to a rack on the wall were about a dozen other monitors of different sizes with various pictures and text. She could tell a few were camera feeds, and one she recognized as grainy, black and white images of the bunker hallway, empty and corpse free. Swiveling around in his rolling chair, the man squinted up at her.
"Ah, Kaylee." A quavery yet confident voice came from this man, one she didn't recognize. "I apologize for the poor treatment." He chuckled in a grandfatherly sort of way. "That was quite an impressive outburst you had."
"Who the hell are you?" she asked.
He presented her with a warm smile. "Why, my dear, I am Elijah. It is good to finally meet you face to face." He stood up and offered his hand, which tremored lightly as he held it out. She gave him a wary look before slowly extending her hand to shake his. "I'm glad we can finally speak. I hate having to use Victor," he gave the huge, bald man a little wave, who nodded back, "as my mouthpiece, but you understand the necessity. Coffee?"
Kaylee sputtered, at a loss for words. She just shook her head, unnerved and off-balance by the hospitality he offered. It was entirely unlike anything she'd experienced with Elijah prior. But I guess that wasn't really him, she thought.
"I understand this must be very strange for you. Or," he chuckled again, "at least a little different than what you're used to. I, unfortunately, have to be a bit unyielding until I know who can be trusted. I assure you, deceptions like these are important to survival.
Kaylee found her voice, "Survival for who?"
He smiled at her, creasing lines over his aging face, "Everyone." Far from comforting, his smile put her on edge.
Elijah laughed out loud, watching her tense stance. She didn't move and didn't join in the mirth. Her eyes moved back and forth, taking in all of the room, but never leaving the old man long enough to give him any opportunity to make a move.
Woodworking equipment, radial, table, and band saws were shoved into the corner. Next to them lay a pile of welding tools. Stacks of plywood, two by fours, and miscellaneous scraps were against the far wall. Faded paint stains of various colors decorated the floor. A ventilated room for paint storage, now likely in use for something else, was set in an alcove across from a sink a few feet inside the room and to the left. Despite confirmation that set construction used to happen here, Kaylee was not thrilled to notice that there was only one other visible exit at the far side of the room, which had numerous layers of sheet metal welding it to a sealed status.
"Yes, you'll notice it's impenetrable. Well, mostly." He gave another grin. "That's why I prefer the anonymity, even from some of my own people. You can never be too careful." He sat down at the workbench again; he turned another dusty swivel chair around, offering it to her. Warily, Kaylee pulled it a couple feet away, and sat down, keeping watch on both Elijah and his immense bodyguard positioned near the doorway.
"You would like to ask some questions, perhaps?" asked Elijah, blinking at her.
"Like what?" She asked.
He gave a loud laugh, "Like what? Like anything you want! Perhaps why you were sent on a pointless errand? Perhaps what occurred in Old Haven last night? Or perhaps you'd be interested to know how and why I intend to bring everyone in the down below area to the surface?"
Kaylee drew in a sharp breath. "Really?"
"Oh yes. We've already started." He gestured at her. "Even you are a part of it."
"Me? How?" She frowned.
Elijah paused, looking suddenly awkward, as though he had somehow said too much. "Ah... we need you to do," he cleared his throat, "something." He gave a warm grin, displaying his off-white but very straight teeth. "But let's not get into that just yet."
He took a drink from a mug on the table. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" Before she could respond, he spoke again, "I do apologize for what must have seemed like a rather pointless errand."
Kaylee grimaced, absentmindedly rubbing the tender bumps and bruises she had incurred. Elijah spoke again, "I assure you, it had great importance towards many things," he looked sheepish, "though none of them are specifically related to peaches."
Kaylee frowned, staring at the old man. Before she could summon a biting retort, he continued. "The truth is that we fed distressing information to the Citizenship then caught their forces in a crossfire. We never intended for you to come across any of them fleeing."
Kaylee cocked her head, curiosity overriding her irritation. "How exactly did you manage to feed them information?"
Elijah cast his gaze to the side. He cleared his throat. "What Jeffrey divulged in his interrogation was vital to the success of the ambush." He leaned back in his chair. "And it worked." He said with a sad smile. "Far better than we could have hoped."
Kaylee did not like this. "What about Jeffrey? You just sacrificed him?"
Elijah gave her a shocked look. "I assure you it was entirely necessary-"
"Screw necessary, you just used him!" Kaylee balled her fists.
"No, that isn't it at all-" Elijah objected.
"I can't believe I ever trusted you." Kaylee leapt to her feet. "You're nothing but-"
Before Kaylee realized that her gesture could have been considered threatening, Victor had already jumped up and pulled his weapon.
"Stop!" Elijah yelled at Victor, who didn't fire but kept the pistol trained on Kaylee. She glared back and forth at both of them and slowly seated herself again. Victor instantly sat down, holstering the handgun.
"How could you?" she asked.
Elijah gave a grim smile and said sternly. "No one regrets Jeffrey's loss more than I do, but he volunteered for the job."
Kaylee swallowed hard, not wanting to forget her anger. "What did they do to him?"
Elijah grimaced. "He was beaten. Tortured. Subjected to an attempt at strong mental conditioning that I believe may have failed and given drugs that would eliminate his ability to reproduce."
Kaylee gasped and covered her mouth.
Elijah nodded. "Horrific, I know. This is the typical treatment of anyone they pick up. After they're done, they send them for rudimentary societal and task training. They end up doing servant work for the Citizenship. They don't want to cook, clean, or," he frowned, "speak to their children, unless it's absolutely necessary."
Kaylee's mind whirled. "This is what they do to the people they take? H-how do you know these things?"
Elijah cracked a half-smile and ignored the questions, continuing the story, "Jeffrey was preconditioned to respond in precise fashion to questioning with very specific answers, as well as prepared to withstand the brainwashing process." He coughed. "That's what we were hoping would happen, anyway. That is why I sent you to the bunker last night."
"Wait, what for?" Kaylee was confused.
"To keep you out of the line of fire. The ambush and fighting could have spilled into any location." Elijah shrugged. "Even here, if things had gone quite awry."
Kaylee narrowed her eyes. "But why some dumb errand?"
Elijah cocked his head. "You don't seem to consciously avoid danger, so removing you by far from its source seemed appropriate. Bunker errands are something you've done before, and there seemed little chance that you'd return before all Citizen soldiers were dispatched." He grimaced. "Of course, I didn't anticipate you having such terrible luck. I'm very glad you're okay."
"Okay..." She ignored his relief for her well-being, a wary feeling rising in her, "Why did you need me out of the line of fire?"
Elijah stood and strolled a few paces away. "Are you familiar with the man named Miguel?"
"It sounds familiar, who is he?" Kaylee felt her apprehension rising.
"He calls himself the Silver Fox."
Kaylee made a disgusted face. "That filthy pig? Everyone knows who he is and what he does to women..." She trailed off, noting that Elijah was fidgeting and trying not to look at her. "No. No, no, no. I am not getting close to that son of a bitch. It's not going to happen. I don't care what you need. No way!" She glared him, still turned away from her. "Do you understand me? There is no goddamn way I'm going near that man! Do you hear me Elijah?"
Elijah turned back towards her, looking sad and frustrated. He paced back towards her. "There is no one else for the job, do you hear me? We can't send one of our men because they won't be able to get close enough. None of the other women..." he trailed off, wincing. "Look, we feel as though none of the other women in this compound have nearly as good a chance as you at surviving the encounter, much less completing the task."
"Why?"
Elijah gave a sad smile, "Various reasons, but mostly it's your blind determination to survive no matter the odds."
Kaylee frowned, "Yeah, but-"
"Listen," he searched her eyes, "do you want to see the sun again?"
"Of course, but-"
"Then you must do this for me." He grabbed her shoulders.
Kaylee's emotions flailed around her. Everyone, especially women, stay away from the northwest corner of the city. Always. No exceptions, she thought. Everyone knew it. Miguel was a horrible man who used women and threw them away to be used more by his greedy and hungry crew. She wanted nothing to do with that man. What if it's really that important? A tiny voice sounded in her head. It can't hurt to hear him out.
She almost felt herself caving in, as though a small question would seal her fate. "What is it you need?" she whispered, closing her eyes and almost wishing she hadn't spoken.
Elijah breathed a sigh of relief. "Infiltration. I need you on the inside when we move."
"Move how?" Kaylee asked, feeling detached.
Elijah sat down in the chair across from her. "All right. In order to strike against the Citizenship, we will need more forces. We need to recruit everyone we can in Old Haven. Miguel's people, as barbaric as many of them are, are greatest in number." He rubbed his face. "Miguel himself is a hostile, untrusting, power-hungry, chauvinistic, and selfish man. As he leads, they will never consider any alliance of equality."
"What am I supposed to do?" She got an uneasy feeling. "Do you... do you want me to kill him?" Kaylee was unsure of how she felt about this.
Elijah looked away. "Maybe. It's possible that you won't need to. The attack, if it happens, should bring about sufficient chaos that someone might make a grab for power." He leveled his gaze back upon her. "Just understand that he does need to be eliminated at any cost, but be careful. He's had some experience in dealing with attempts on his life, particularly," he gave a small cough, "from the women."
Kaylee clenched her jaw at this, balling her fists. "Why me?" She asked. "I mean, aside from my blind determination."
Elijah hesitated. He finally said, "He prefers them to be of a more... volatile temperament." He cleared his throat. "You were the obvious choice."
Kaylee shot him a look. "So I need to get captured, is that it?"
"Well, yes..." Elijah gave her a consoling look. "Once you're brought to him, you should be, ah, mostly safe."
She bit her lip. "What else do I need to know?"
Elijah blew out a breath. "Hopefully, right now, the Citizenship thinks that Miguel is responsible for the bloodbath we handed them last night. If they do, they will move against him, and they will send devastating forces. During that confusion, something bad is bound to happen to him," he looked at her intently, "and that's when we will come to the rescue of the remaining people. Without Miguel, we will be their timely saviors, and their substantial numbers will be added to our ranks. Once the alliance becomes known and we spread the word of our escape from this lightless hell, every other faction and person under Haven will flock to our banner." Elijah beamed. "Then," he added, "we will ascend."
She sat in silence, considering the proposal. Elijah watched her intently. She knew she was already convinced and suspected he knew it as well. Why drag it out, she thought, sighing. "Okay. I'll do it."
He clapped his hands together. "Good! Good. Okay." He put on a huge smile. "You don't have to leave just yet; we're waiting for a few other things to happen."
Kaylee cocked her head. "Like what?"
"Well, if an attack on Miguel is going to be organized, we need to know about it. No sense in sending you off to be captured for no reason." She shuddered, wondering how he would find out about an impending attack. She didn't ask.
"But enough of that business, for now." He radiated relief. "Tell me, what actually happened to you after you left the bunker?"
Kaylee rubbed her eyes, sat back, and unfolded the entire story of her staying in a room up to her encounter with the fleeing soldiers. Elijah frowned, apologizing repeatedly and wincing at every bump, bruise, or knock on the head she described. Kaylee included her mysterious savior, as well. She didn't mention his glowing eyes or oddly-colored skin, for some reason, and she did not speak about her nightmare.
Elijah rubbed his chin. "It's amazing, and very fortunate, that you didn't get killed or captured. Again, I cannot apologize enough for your trouble. It seems my plan to remove you from danger was completely futile." He threw his hands up. "Well, whatever. If you see this Malcolm character again, send him my profound thanks."
Sensing that it was time to get moving, Kaylee stood up and stretched. She still didn't trust Elijah entirely, but she felt less on edge the more time she spent with him. He didn't look like much; thin, old, gray hair, not terribly tall, but he had a natural charisma around him that was difficult to despise or feel uncomfortable about. I guess this is why people like Rick and Jeffrey trust him so much, she thought.
"Our time is short, but if I am correct, you should be able to spend the next day or so relaxing. The accommodations, I assure you, will be most excellent." He smiled at her again. "Thank you for your help, Kaylee."
She just nodded, not saying anything as Victor scraped the bolts free once more, swinging the door open enough for her to squeeze out. Before shutting it completely, he spoke in that familiar, passive voice. It was difficult for Kaylee to shake herself from thinking that as Elijah's. "You will be summoned when it is time." He passed her an object: a key. "Up the stairs, to the top floor. Second room on the left." He disappeared, and closed the door.
The guard came back down the hallway, magazine tucked under his arm. He sat down without a word.
Kaylee stared at the key in her hand. She shrugged, and followed the directions. Up the stairs, passing a few random people, who nodded or muttered brief greetings. Second door on the left, she slid the key into the lock and turned it, hearing the click. She twisted the knob, opening the door.
Her jaw dropped. A king-sized bed with massive patterned quilts, a little faded but in excellent condition. A small cabinet which, upon inspection, held several cans of non-perishable foods. Floral wallpaper, an easy chair, even a television, not that there were any broadcasts. The bathroom had a wide tub, which she gave a cry of delight to discover had clean running water. "Excellent accommodations is right," she whispered, giddy.
Back in the main room, she flopped down on the bed, feeling pleasure of the softness of it radiate through her body. A stack of magazines and a few books lay on the table. She rolled over and let out a long sigh of contentment before giggling with excitement. Not bad, she thought...
\*\*\*\*\*\*
After sliding the heavy bolts into their proper position, Victor turned around and watched Elijah, who sat at one of his ancient computer terminals, peering at something and, on occasion, typing on the keyboard.
Victor returned to his seat. He flipped open a magazine to which he paid little attention.
"Her blood is on my hands, Victor." Elijah spoke without looking away from the screen.
Victor folded the magazine and leaned forward, "Not yet. She is resilient. She may come out of this intact."
Elijah turned towards Victor. His hands were visibly shaking. "If she doesn't?"
Victor set down the magazine. "Then her sacrifice, though regrettable, will have been necessary. There is no better way."
The trembling had spread to his arms, and Elijah could sense tingling in his feet and legs as he reached into a drawer on the table, pulling out a small kit. Out of that he extracted a needle. He gingerly inserted into his thigh, depressing the plunger. He closed his eyes and took long, deep breaths. He knew his heart, at his age, couldn't deal with excessive strain, so he kept a sedative on hand. After a moment the shaking slowed, then ceased altogether. When he opened his eyes Victor was watching him.
"My heart is weak." Elijah muttered. "Weak from sending others to complete what I lack the courage to do myself." He slowly shook his head. "What if we were wrong? What if this is all in vain? What if he is already dead?" There was no mistaking the malice in his voice.
Victor looked away for a moment. "Do you remember your mother?"
Elijah closed his eyes, painful memories washing over him. "How can I forget?" He whispered.
Victor stood, crossing away towards the far wall. His voice's timbre was almost his accustomed passive, but Elijah knew him well enough to hear the tinges of emotion in it. "I remember her very well. I remember what she-what both of you did for me." He turned his intense gaze back towards Elijah. "It is the very reason that you remain alive."
Elijah's eyes flooded with tears. "Victor..."
Victor continued, his face lighting with anger, "My greatest regret is that I could do nothing to save her from-"
"Stop." Elijah commanded, rubbing his forehead. Victor obeyed, standing up straight and resuming his emotionless exterior. Elijah sighed. "You are blameless in that... situation. I understand that."
Silence hung in the air between the two men. Finally, Victor spoke again, firmly. "My debt remains unpaid."
Elijah gave him a sad smile. "So it does, since I'll never be able to convince you otherwise." The two men looked away, each lost in their thoughts of the past for a few moments.
Victor returned to his chair, changing the subject back to Kaylee. "She'll be fine. She may even prove useful beyond the next few days." He opened his magazine, pausing to look back at Elijah. "Don't forget what happened. Remember what has been done to you and do not hesitate to do what you must."
Sweat beaded upon Elijah's forehead. He leaned forward, cradling his head in both hands. He slowly nodded. "Yes. Whatever it takes." He stood up and straightened his shirt. "The cost may be my very soul, but that doesn't matter. His empire will fall, and he will suffer." Moisture condensed in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Kaylee. Jeffrey." He ran his hand through his gray hair. "Ryan. Tobias." He gave a short laugh. "Everyone else who has sacrificed for this cause."
Victor didn't respond; he thumbed through the magazine quietly. Elijah returned to his terminal, tapping a few keys on the keyboard now and again.
-One Day Later-
It was late morning. Even though he'd gone through an entire workday and night since Gottfried woke him in that early morning, Citizen Michaels still felt tired. He had awoken from his fitful slumber at about 8AM, feeling bleary-eyed. An hour and a half later, showered, shaven, and caffeinated, his mind remained fuzzy from the recent upheaval of his biorhythm. Because of, Michaels assumed, decisions still pending regarding the ambush, the patrols and flow of subjects for conditioning had ceased, pending action.
It was thus that he had little to do. He sat, hunched over the computer terminal in his office, one elbow perched on the desk, his hand propping up his face. The other lazily moved the cursor around the screen.
It was absurd. Another of Coleman's ridiculous software tricks. There was a video file that magically appeared on the desktop. Called 'mlc-dscv.' He had noticed the tip of it, doing what could only be described as cowering beyond edge of the screen.
When he passed the cursor over it, the file skittered... Yes, Michaels thought, that's exactly the word to use. The file sprouted tiny insect-like legs and skittered across screen. His sluggish mind was trying to get irritated about it, but he felt unfocused.
He lazily dragged the cursor around the screen, the video file retreating away each time he moved too close, and he considered the situation now a day and a half past. Something had continued to nag at him regarding the subject Jeffrey. Michaels, checking up, had contacted the Re-education center, and indeed they had approved Jeffrey fit for service and had honored his request to serve in the Institute.
"Sentimental fools," he muttered. He rubbed his eyes. Maybe I'm just not used to seeing a subject so quickly, when they're still...freshly interrogated. He couldn't think of a more proper way to say 'beaten to a pulp.' Still, something about it just seemed... off.
Then there was the business about the ambush. Inconceivable! How was it possible that the vermin could have planned it so efficiently? He scoffed. It was luck. There had to be just as many enemy casualties, the surviving soldiers were just addled with wounds and fear. He stared off into space, considering the other possibilities. What else could make an ambush like that successful? He wondered what munitions and supplies they had gotten a hold of, but strategic planning and guerilla fighting tactics were out of the realm of his expertise.
He pondered this and other similar ideas when he realized the icon had stopped moving. His eyes snapped to the screen, the legs, apparently having retracted, popped back out and the file began skittering around on the screen again.
What the hell? He blinked. This is ridiculous. His eyes set upon a small circular dot at the top of the screen frame. The device served as a camera for live feed messaging or recording of some variety.
A crazy thought struck him. He focused his sight on the left wall of his office, away from the screen. Through his peripherals, he smiled as the file-creature did indeed seat itself and retract the limbs. He looked directly at the screen again, and the file started running around again. He shook his head. Clever, Marcus, he thought. You programmed the camera with eye-line detection.
Michaels focused his gaze on the side wall again. He moved the cursor over the file, and double-clicked. He looked back; the video file was open. The still image, at the beginning of the video, sat on the screen; it was the smiling face of Marcus Coleman. Eccentric, clever bastard. Using something so bizarre as the in-screen camera for file protection. Then again, who would have thought of it? Michaels cracked a smile, in spite of himself. As much as he hated the man, there had to be a little grudging respect.
He clicked the play button, and the on screen Marcus Coleman sprang to life, reaching his hands towards the screen, fiddling with the tilt to align the camera. He sat in a similar chair at the same desk in the same office. A timestamp at the corner of the video placed the day March 17th, 2032. Michaels glanced at the time signature on the computer. September 15th, of the same year. This file was nearly six months old, putting its creation at around the same time as Coleman's strange behavior started. Michaels perked up as the dead man began speaking, barely containing his excitement; this was three months prior to his death, and it simply had to be important.
"...extraordinary discovery by a man in one of the Acquisition Squads, who fortunately was willing to part with it for a small," he grimaced, "fee. It is the remains of some object of foreign origin, buried in a small depression, possibly a crater." He frowned. "Unfortunately there are no photographs of the site for confirmation, nor will the man divulge anything further about it."
Coleman continued. "The object appears to be a small material inside a clear, dense casing. The encasement is a transparent synthetic material which, so far has proven impregnable to any attempts at access. The object inside the containment is a small piece of a blue-grey material. I am only willing to provide light speculation on what it might be at this time." He shrugged, grinning with excitement. "It could be a strip of cloth, but why encase a patch of fabric in such an impregnable material?" The onscreen Coleman rubbed his bearded chin. "The other possibility exists that it is a tissue sample. If this is the case..." He smiled, eyes twinkling. "Then we might have evidence of an organism not from this world. Very exciting!" The video ceased, freezing the image of Coleman's grinning face.
"So this is what the old fool found," Michaels muttered. Very interesting, he thought. But this must be only the beginning of it. He stared at the timestamp once more. There has to be more.
The intercom on his desk buzzed loudly, breaking his chain of thought. Irritated, he tapped a button and said, "What?"
Dunlevy's exuberant voice passed through the speaker, "Well, my dear Gregory; cheerful as always, I see!"
Rolling his eyes, Michaels replied, "What do you want, Citizen Dunlevy?"
"I want you to call me Arthur, dear boy! Always so forgetful!" he chided.
Michaels sighed, "Fine. What do you want, Arthur?" clenching his teeth and spitting out the name.
Dunlevy didn't appear to notice, "That's much better. I have some news for you, my boy, and an invitation, if you are interested."
"Look Citiz-... Arthur. I am very busy today, and I've just found something very intriguing, so I simply don't have time-"
Cutting him off, Dunlevy spoke. "Never mind that! There is an advisory council meeting in half an hour. You are hereby invited to participate, being just today approved as Citizen Coleman's replacement as the head of the department. Of course, we could always find someone else, if you are not interested..." Dunlevy took on a teasing tone.
Michaels exhaled a long breath, his heart suddenly beating as if to burst, "No, no! Of course I'll be there."
"That's more like it! I knew you'd warm up, my boy. I hear Citizen One is eager to meet you. Half an hour; I think you know where." With a click the intercom fell silent.
Michaels sat in his chair, staring off into space, numb. Finally, a smile spread across his face. Finally. It's my time, now. He caught a glimpse of Coleman's smiling face, still staring out at him from the still image of the video file.
Michaels frowned at the image, and closed the lid to the terminal. Are you proud of me, Marcus? No? What a shame. You're dead, and your job is mine.
He pulled on his lab coat and walked out the door, ready to officially begin his new tasks. Despite the happiness about his new promotion, for some reason, he couldn't shake the image of Coleman's smiling face on the terminal screen.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Jeffrey swept the stairs, ignoring impulses to hide or run. He had discovered that, unless a specific summons occurred, servant tasks were independently handled and no one person bothered to coordinate who did what and when. As long as he went where he was requested by whomever when it was necessary, he could spend time pretending to work.
He "worked" outside the main entrance of the Institute, across from a square that mirrored the one several stories beneath it. In this way, he was able to see many people come and go, noting how important they appeared and catching snatches of rumors.
Jeffrey had been sweeping the same ceramic stairway for about three hours. He hadn't heard anything useful save for a lot of gossip about some recently disgraced Citizen named Davids or Davidson; he heard it both ways. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people had walked by, and he was disappointed by a lack of anything concrete.
He had just about given up, already having moved to the edge of the staircase, when he saw an elegant black car pull up. He froze, keeping his back to the entrance of the Institute as he noticed Inquisitor Gottfried come outside and walk to the vehicle.
Gottfried opened the car's back door and a rather short, hunching figure emerged. The other man, older, had an extremely ruddy complexion that appeared imposing and sinister from the scowl he wore. Jeffrey turned his back again, lest he be recognized by Gottfried and arouse suspicions. They were just close enough for him to hear what they said.
"High Inquisitor." Gottfried greeted him. "The council meeting is set to begin-"
"Spare me," his superior growled. "The only reason I'm wasting my time here today is because you failed to convince them of the necessity of another incursion in your messages."
Jeffrey stole a glance, a measure of smug delight filling him to see Gottfried's clenched jaw and stiff posture as he was chastised.
The High Inquisitor walked past his subordinate, who fell in step beside him. "It doesn't matter anyway," the man said, "I've already organized the reserve military. They'll be ready to commence this evening whether or not the council approves of it." He turned towards Gottfried. "Against my better judgment, I'm still placing you in charge of monitoring the battle progress against this 'Silver Fox' character when it starts. Do not mess it up. And let me do the speaking in the council meeting." Gottfried nodded stiffly and both men entered the building.
Jeffrey was already walking back towards the servant barracks. This sounds like something Elijah ought to hear about, he thought.
The man, one Kaylee knew as Rick, walked through the ruined remnants of Old Haven, specific location in mind. He traveled to one of the well-known garbage repository sites, near Purgatory, looking in the heap of trash for some sign from a man he knew. He clamored up the veritable mountain of both useless and worthwhile Citizen garbage, digging through a good portion of the latest dump. A few people salvaging had already come through, overturning much of the newest material to pull out the useful things that had been thrown away. These items, however, were not his concern.
After a while of searching, he extracted a filthy white towel. Upon the dirty cloth was written in marker, "JF19 -- Forces likely incoming tonight. RE -- Silver Fox." He smiled and folded the message, tucking it into a small pocket of his pack. Jeffrey's identification code and a message regarding another possible attack. Seeing no apparent threat in the streets outside the alley, he jogged along the sidewalks, heading out of the downtown area of Old Haven.
Rick had been happy enough when he found the first message, saying "JF19 -- A OK," dropping at the allotted time and place. Jeffrey had not only provided the proper information that allowed the successful ambush, but he appeared to be still functioning as a spy, ready to pass further intelligence.
After a time, Rick arrived back at the Highland, bearing the message. He passed it through the slot to the blue-eyed man that he knew was, in fact, not the real Elijah, who passively read it and stated, "Gather your men, have them on standby. Have the Escape building under constant surveillance and have your forces ready to move at a moment's notice. The target will most likely be the former red-light district."
The message from Jeffrey was straightforward enough, but Rick often wondered from where else Elijah received information. Elijah was very thorough always having as many sources of intelligence as he possibly could. Hell, he's probably hacked into the database that keeps track of personnel deployment, Rick thought. If that's the case, then was handing Jeff to those bastards really necessary? He disregarded his concerns, taking a deep breath. Elijah knows what he's doing.
Victor continued to stare at him, waiting for the response. Rick flashed a smile. "No problem."
"Good." Victor replied. The slot on the door slid shut. Rick started walking down the hallway, already on his radio, in contact with his men to get things moving.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee sat in her room, just before noon, lounging on the soft, cushiony bed, thinking about the potential the next few days would bring. She tried to keep her mind off of it, but every time she did, she always ended up thinking about her impending capture.
It fortunately did not stop her from enjoying the luxury of her accommodations. She had spent the entire previous day relaxing and reading various magazines published between two and ten years ago.
She did nothing; it was amazing. No fears, no concerns. Just the joys of not having to do anything at all. She got up, went into the bathroom, and appraised herself in the mirror. The cuts on her head and face had scabbed over, and the angry welt from being pistol-whipped had faded somewhat. The bumps on her head still felt tender, but, otherwise, she felt rested and renewed. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be long-lived.
There was a knock on the door. Kaylee grimaced. She exited the bathroom and slowly crossed the room. Sighing reluctantly, she opened the door.
A nondescript man stood in the hallway. He said, "Elijah wants to see you," before walking away.
Kaylee sighed again. She took one last look at the room, representing one of the best times she could recall. Without fear, without thought of starvation. Just simple relaxation. Not one for long goodbyes, she scooped up a few random belongings and passed down the stairs without a second glance backwards.
A few minutes later, she arrived at the heavy door, the outside guard already absent. Before she could even knock, the panel on the door slid open, revealing those familiar bright blue eyes. The man most folks knew as Elijah, but Kaylee had recently discovered was Victor, spoke.
"It's time." He tilted his head towards the empty chair. "Those are your supplies. You are to pose as an unaffiliated wanderer."
Kaylee nodded. There was a pack sitting on the chair. She dug through the it. A little food and water. Some extra clothing which she assumed would fit her. A small black .22 pistol, easily concealable, different than the one she had taken from the Citizenship soldiers that she had run into...
She shook her head. Her encounter was only a couple of days prior, but it felt like a lifetime ago. She continued to rummage, and came across a new switchblade. She held it in the open palm of her hand, and shuddered, recalling where her previous weapon had ended up. She smiled as her hands ran across a severely banged-up can, containing... peaches. A souvenir?
When she looked up at Victor, he continued. "You'll travel west along the street in front of the Citizen's Escape. Miguel's main base of operations is an old club known as Heavenly Bodies, within the former red-light district at the far northwest side of the city. Continue moving in that direction, and you'll be captured before you get very far."
Kaylee said, "I kind of know where it is," she stopped, thinking, "but really only as a place I was supposed to avoid."
Victor continued without acknowledging. "His forces will likely take you directly to the club and to him for appraisal. Offer resistance when you meet him, and there's a good chance it will buy you some time." He blinked. "From what we know about his behavior, Miguel enjoys the pursuit of his female companions." Kaylee frowned. "The Citizenship should send their retaliation force to the location before anything unpleasant occurs."
"What if they don't come?"
Victor paused. "Then do your best to escape."
Kaylee grimaced. Not helpful, she thought, but she didn't press the issue. "All right..." She rummaged through the pack, discovering a very small device, the size of the very tip of her thumb. "What's this?"
"Keep that concealed. It's a transmitter that will broadcast your location to us. Activate it, and we'll try to find you, but don't use it until after the Citizen attack begins."
"How will I know?"
She could see a hint of a smile tinge the piercing eyes. "They don't know much about subtlety. You should be able to figure it out."
Kaylee took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do this." She turned back, "Anything else I should know?"
"Be careful. If you must fight him directly, avoid his face or sensitive regions. He holds extreme pride in both and has severely tortured and killed people for such things."
Kaylee shuddered and walked down the hallway. As she turned the corner, towards the backstage area of the theatre, she heard, echoing down the hall, "Good luck!" in the voice she recognized as belonging to the real Elijah.
"Thanks," she muttered, passing through the Highland stage area again, this time too wrapped up in her thoughts to look around or absorb the grand, empty space. She reached the box office, and Rick caught up to her.
"Keep that device hidden, and we'll find you." He promised.
She smiled at him. "Thanks, Rick."
"I'm not going to let you get hurt." He winced slightly. "If I can help it, that is."
She laughed. "Great confidence. I don't know what I could have ever been worried about."
Rick gave a sheepish grin. "I do what I can." His smile faded, and he regarded her with a serious eye. "Just be careful, okay?"
She nodded. "I will." She moved out of the building and walked down the street, passing out of the arts district.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee's traveling took her into the mostly-empty residential area again. The red-brown stains of old dried blood remained in the locations that once held Citizen soldier bodies. Kaylee briefly wondered where they moved them to, but, upon consideration, decided that she didn't really want to know.
Within the residential area where Kaylee now walked, the buildings were separated by a few feet, if they were separated at all, barely enough for a person to walk between. The buildings were very tall, apartment-style structures that housed hundreds of people and families. Houses, due to limited space since the isolationism, were fairly rare. Only a few remained, and only for those who were wealthy or stubborn enough to avoid replacement by more economical living arrangements.
Kaylee walked on an old broken up sidewalk with weeds running rampant, bursting through the cracks. A few people must have lived in this area, as there were a couple of working streetlamps to keep a little bit of light. Kaylee didn't know which of the houses or flats were home to refugees, criminals, or anything else, and she preferred to keep it that way. It always seemed safer not to meet anyone.
Which is why she dove behind a set of steps leading up to a tall brick housing complex, upon seeing two figures walking down the street. She scraped herself on the dried husks of shrubbery, cursing under her breath as the people approached. She poked her head just over the edge, watching as they neared. She ducked back down, held her breath, and listened to their hushed tones.
"...not a clue where this man is supposed to be. How in the hell are we supposed to find him if all they give us is a general location? Sergei is out of his mind!" A loud female voice with a prominent accent.
Sergei? Kaylee had heard this name before. He was another faction leader. A small-time Russian underboss, a couple of generations removed. The group was gutted when the call for lower level Citizenship came out, losing a significant amount of their members. Long before that, they were a thriving organization, still clinging to some ideals of their old nationalism. This, in turn, attracted more members to immigrate to the city from other areas, before Lange took over and shut down any movement to or from the outside. In terms of their organized criminal activities, they remained very mild, mostly dabbling in black market activities and running their own acquisitions when they could. From what Kaylee had heard, Sergei was actually a fairly good leader who worked hard to keep his people alive. She also heard he was a little bit crazy.
The other person, a man, chuckled. His accent was less obvious. "Take it easy Tanya; he has got the right idea by going and trying to make contact. If the bastard Citizens are going to be sending people to kill us instead of just kidnapping, then something has to be done."
"Yes, I understand that!" she snapped back. "Why don't we deal with it ourselves instead of trying to find this phantom man?" asked Tanya.
The man sighed. "Our organization is nothing like what it was. You know this. We don't have enough people left to fight the Citizens ourselves. Besides, you saw the bodies; they say that this Elijah lured them down here into an ambush. We need such a man; he could help us."
She remained indignant. "You are a mewling pup Eugene! If we showed strength instead of behaving like weak little sheep, the Citizenship and fools like the Silver Fox would run and cower!"
The footfalls stopped about ten feet away from the stairs behind which Kaylee hid. She could hear the sounds of small scuffling. She peeked up, watching as the man grabbed the woman by both shoulders. She struggled to shake him off.
"Listen to me. Listen!" He shook her; she stopped resisting long enough to shoot him a deadly glare. "The time for strength will come, but we cannot manage it by ourselves! We have to make alliances with proper people. This Elijah is one of the few people who has taken on the Citizens and won!"
Tanya rolled her eyes. "Fine. Just remember: we don't-hey, who's there?!" She shouted, seeing Kaylee.
Oh shit. Kaylee jumped up from her hiding place, pulling the small black .22 out of the waistband of her jeans. She held it in front of her, yelling "Don't move!"
The girl, Tanya, had already yanked a huge combat knife from an ankle sheath, brandishing it front of her in overhand fashion. She half-crouched, poised to strike, baring her teeth in a wild grin.
Eugene grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her backward. "Just wait a-" Instead of listening, she threw a quick elbow to his stomach. Not expecting it, he let out a blast of air and a loud "aaaauwf!" as he went down on one knee, clutching his midsection.
Kaylee held the pistol in both hands, training it carefully on the woman who inched her way towards her, dancing back and forth, feinting. "Stop! I'll shoot!" She shouted.
The woman kept the grin on her face. "You couldn't hit me anyway." She said. "Look at you, you didn't even remove the safety."
Kaylee scoffed. "There's no way you can tell from that distance." She realized her mistake as, the moment she diverted her glance to the pistol, Tanya juked to the side and sprang. Startled, Kaylee squeezed the trigger before lining up the shot. The bullet, unaimed, went wide, missing Tanya by several inches. The small recoil snapped the pistol in her hands as Tayna raised the knife.
Tanya didn't arrive. Eugene, on the ground, grabbed her leg and yanked. Tanya sprawled face-first forward onto the ground, knife flying out of her hand. Kaylee took a few steps back and held the pistol in both hands again, switching her aim back and forth between the two Russians. Eugene was holding his stomach, still breathing hard, as he stood up.
Tanya rolled over and screamed angrily. She maneuvered a crouched position, baring her teeth before hurling herself directly into Eugene. His eyes went wide with surprise as she impacted his midsection, tackling him to the ground. She perched on top of him, pounding him with her fists, spewing insults and curses at him.
She was partway through calling him something Kaylee thought might have been "red-assed whore shit," when he threw her sideways, using the momentum to roll on top of her. He grabbed her wrists, yelling "Calm down, damn you!" She continued yelling curses and struggling, but eventually relaxed enough to just glare at him, fuming.
Kaylee watched the entire exchange with mouth slightly agape. Finally, she realized that they were ignoring her. She tried to walk away, giving them wide berth and keeping the pistol aimed as she moved around them.
"Hold on a second!" He yelled to Kaylee. Looking down at Tanya, who, at his brief distraction, struggled again, "Enough already!" He yelled. The two scowled at each other for several moments.
The man called Eugene sighed and stood, grabbing Tanya's wrist and hauling her to her feet. The woman took a few steps away and glared at the two of them, back and forth, in a defensive stance, breathing hard. She had dark blonde hair, slightly mussed from the activity. She was a little taller than Kaylee and quite scrawny.
Eugene hunched over, hands on his knees, speaking between deep breaths. "Please... everyone... relax..."
Kaylee raised an eyebrow at Tanya, who scowled, then folded her arms. Kaylee kicked the fallen knife over. Tanya smirked, picked it up, and held it in one hand, twisting the point lightly into her fingertip. Eugene stood up and took one final deep breath.
"Okay. Now that we're all nice and calm, could you not point that at me?"
Kaylee looked down, almost surprised to notice that she still held the gun, aimed at Eugene. She lowered it, thumbing the safety and replacing it again at the back of her jeans. "You're Sergei's people?"
They exchanged glances, "Yes, we are. Who do you work for?" asked Eugene.
"Oh, no one. I'm alone." Kaylee lied.
Eugene shook his head. "Really? Huh... well, what-"
Tanya cut him off, "What were you doing spying on us?" She accused.
"What? Oh! Sorry about that." Kaylee feigned an apologetic face. "I wasn't sure who you were. I saw you down the street, so I ducked behind the staircase. Can't be too careful," she said with a shrug.
Tanya eyed her warily, "I don't-"
Eugene rolled his eyes, "Tanya, be civil." He turned back to Kaylee. "Well, where do you usually stay, miss...?
"Kaylee. I wander around wherever I can scrounge up a little food. I avoid the downtown area for the most part, too risky. Well, I guess I do stay in the Escape sometimes. Nice beds." Kaylee hoped she was playing her role carefully enough.
Eugene raised an eyebrow at Tanya, who continued to scowl.
Kaylee looked back and forth between the two. "What? What is it?"
"Well, you say you move around a lot... How much do you know about the area ahead?" He gestured down the street from where she had come.
"A little," Kaylee responded, "the arts district is that way. Past there, not too far, is the east wall. If you head south you'll find another residential area like here." She made a sweeping motion around.
"All right. Are there any inhabitants near there?"
Kaylee raised an eyebrow. "Like who?"
Eugene shrugged, "We're looking for a leader, someone named Elijah?" Kaylee tried to keep her face motionless.
Tanya jumped forward. "Hah! See! She clenches her jaw. She knows the name!"
"Wait, what? Hey!" Kaylee stumbled backward as Tanya seized her shirt.
"Tell us where he is!" She shook Kaylee.
"I don't know!" yelled Kaylee, trying to pry free of the woman's grip.
Eugene stepped in again, grabbing Tanya by the shoulders and shoving her away. He held both hands up, standing between the two. "Enough!" He looked at Kaylee once more. "Please. If you have any information, tell us."
Kaylee pondered for a minute, pacing a little, making a show of it. "Well, I don't really know anything about him." She held her hands out in a helpless gesture. "I've heard the name before, and I think you guys might be on the right track. It's rumored there's a settlement around here somewhere, and that some guy named Elijah is the leader," she paused, considering again, "Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "Be careful though. I hear rumors that he's really paranoid, shooting trespassers on sight without questioning it. Maybe you'll want to declare your intentions loudly and often from now on? Otherwise they might just kill you without you ever getting a word in."
Tanya poked her head over Eugene's shoulder. "How is it you are still breathing? You came from that way and they did not shoot you! How do you know these things?"
Kaylee shrugged, internally worried she was giving too much information away. "Maybe they recognized me? Or maybe it was because I just passed through without stopping to snoop around? I don't really know why." She craned her neck, looking around in all directions. "Look, I'd rather not get caught standing in the middle of nowhere chatting, so if you don't mind..." She made as if to start walking again.
Eugene blocked her path. "Yes, of course. Thank you for your help and sorry for the trouble." He offered his hand, which Kaylee shook.
Tanya scowled at the gift, her arms folded. "Let's go, Eugene. Leave the silly girl." She started walking down the street.
Eugene looked back at Kaylee and smiled. "Good luck."
She smiled back. "You, too."
Kaylee walked in the opposite direction; she hoped that she was convincing enough without being too obvious. As she went she searched her memory for anything about Sergei. She thought she remembered hearing a few things during the several years that she was alone.
Sergei had a decently high rank in the syndicate but had found himself to be near the top of authority when all others deserted, clamoring to avoid being trapped in the darkness. The organization spiraled into chaos, dozens of men trying to fill the vacant leadership spot using various means.
Sergei, even though practically fearless, was smart about it, and he avoided an iron fist approach. He took several trusted individuals into hiding with him while the war for control raged outside. Eventually, clear winners were decided, but the new leadership soon discovered that the dark, abandoned city held no allure of profit. Any who sought personal gain soon left when the Citizenship looked to fill out the ranks of their armed forces and Acquisition Squads. They were attracted by the compensation of good food and accommodations, as well as an unspoken promise of the capability to cause suffering. Numerous criminals flocked to the opportunity, finding an outlet for twisted desires.
Sergei had stepped back in, leading the remaining group and welcoming in many others. They had since survived, but early on faced a great deal of pressure from more aggressive leaders, like Miguel. Sergei had been considered weak because he engaged in little hostile action and was concerned more with the safety of his remaining people than with ruling over them. However, Miguel soon learned to leave him alone when, one morning, his men found a basket full of severed fingers and toes: the only remains of a small force he had sent to procure food, supplies, and women from Sergei.
Kaylee gave a little glance backward, but she could no longer see the two in the darkness. She hoped for the best for them. She had wanted to give them more information, but she was unsure of how trustworthy they could be. Elijah's people made a point of doing everything possible for survival, and that meant no outsiders were allowed to know important locations like the Highland. Besides, Kaylee was working on more important things at the moment. Eugene and Tanya would have to make do with what little they were given. Hopefully, they wouldn't get killed, as they appeared to represent exactly what Elijah was looking for: alliances.
Kaylee smiled to herself. I guess I wouldn't be too upset if Tanya got a little roughed up, she thought.
The round black elevator rose through the spire of the Institution complex, located in the lobby of the Inquisition sector. It was the pillar that rose above the city of Haven, and housed the most important meeting places and some of the most important people. The single occupant of the elevator was almost giddy, trembling with excitement as the car continued to ascend. It was attached to the outside of the spire, and the back portion was clear glass. The view of the clean, white city of Haven was breathtaking. He did not notice.
Gregory Michaels put his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, rubbing them together. He paced back and forth in the small space, smoothed his lab coat, straightened his name tag. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, rubbed his chin. He continued all manner of fidgeting as the doors slid open.
A circular room lay before him, just past a small ramp. He looked past the short incline, and saw the room itself was symmetrical, and could see another ramp across from where he was leading down to, instead of another elevator, a set of heavy double doors. A table, crescent-shaped, the points angling towards the back wall, was centered in the round room. There were eight grooved chairs placed at even intervals, all facing a podium, which was set between the two points of the crescent.
No one stood at the podium, and all but one of the seats was filled. He ceased gazing around in awe and stepped out of the elevator, which slid shut behind him. He moved up the ramp, still glancing around the room a little in spite of himself. He closed his eyes, pulling from his memory the appearance of the spire from the outside.
No, this room is not at the apex of the spire, he thought. Maybe that's where Citizen One stays. He looked again at the double doors, wondering what they concealed. A staircase, perhaps?
As he approached the table he saw a few faces looking him over. A man in a black uniform that Michaels recognized, but had never met, as the High Inquisitor, Julian Wresh sat middle-right. Lined up in the next three seats over, Michaels noticed Herman Gottfried and two other people wearing Inquisitor black, a woman and a man. Adams and Levine are their names? he thought.
Looking to the left half, he noticed the center chair was vacant. To the left of that, Dunlevy sat, smiling broadly at him with twinkling eyes. He resisted rolling his eyes, also seeing Claudia Laverock, a pretty woman in her mid-thirties. She had long brown hair knotted neatly in a bun; he had seen her on occasion but they rarely spoke. She headed up the Experimental Design branch of the Institute, the wing opposite of to the one that Dunlevy and Michaels shared. It was a place where practical devices were created for the purpose of doing harm and good on both large and small scale.
The man next to her Michaels didn't quite recognize but knew he had seen the face before. He was a large black man, bald, wearing an elegant pinstripe suit, and Michaels could see several heavy rings adorning his fingers, but he still could not quite place him.
"Gregory, my boy! Welcome, welcome! Have a seat!" He motioned at the empty seat, center-left. Right next to the middle-aged Wresh, who, with his square-jaw, intense gaze, heavily pockmarked facial features, and short-cropped silver hair, gave Michaels a feeling of unease. The High Inquisitor had not turned towards him yet, conversing quietly with the other Inquisitors, who nodded or whispered responses.
Trying to not appear intimidated, Michaels seated himself immediately with an air of confidence. No sooner did he sit than Dunlevy pounded the table with his fist and clapped Michaels on the back with his other hand, violently lurching him forward and catching his breath in his throat. "Wonderful! Absolutely splendid!"
Michaels dropped into a coughing fit. He grabbed the clear glass of water he now noticed was placed in front of each of them. He gulped it down, still hacking a little. Red-faced and breathing hard, he glared at Dunlevy.
The plump man did not appear to take any notice, busily making introductions, "...believe you may know Citizen Laverock, yes? Our inventor extraordinaire?"
"Claudia." She said with a modest smile. Michaels leaned forward, stretching over Dunlevy awkwardly to shake her hand. She smirked him.
"And that, over there, is the head the H.I.B.N." Dunlevy turned back towards Michaels, looking down his short nose, "You know. The Haven Information Broadcasting Network." He whispered.
Michaels rolled his eyes at the patronizing as Dunlevy continued, "Dennis Myers, our speaker of... err... truths," He put back on his broad smile as Myers looked over at Michaels with mild curiosity, holding an unlit cigar in one hand and sipping at his water with the other. Michaels gave him a curt nod, which was returned in kind.
Having finished the brief introduction, Dunlevy began speaking to Claudia, telling her the latest sociological findings of both Citizens and survivors of Old Haven. Oddly enough, she appeared genuinely interested.
Michaels turned, sat upright, and faced the podium. On his right, he noticed that Wresh was now facing him, openly staring with penetrating eyes, sizing him up. Michaels fidgeted under the scrutiny, eyes darting back to see if the man was still looking at him.
Michaels finally clenched his jaw and turned towards him, offering his hand. "Gregory."
A smile split the lined face, and Wresh offered his own. "Julian. I do not believe we have had the pleasure."
Michaels met the piercing gaze, "Indeed not."
"I believe you know my associates here. Gottfried, Abrams, and Levine." The two men and woman gave quiet greetings. Abrams, that was it. He gave a quick nod back.
"I've heard some things about you-"
Before Wresh could highlight exactly what those things were, there was a quiet whirring noise as two small rods extended from the floor, lined with something that looked like clusters of lenses. Lights of various colors began to issue from the devices. They overlapped behind the podium.
Fascinated, Michaels watched as the patterns of random light spun, whirled and crisscrossed, spiraling together. Eventually, they appeared to solidify, coalescing into the form of a man.
Eyes widening, Michaels stared at the apparition with unconcealed interest. It was Citizen Franklin Lange himself.
The image was a man in his mid-thirties. He was average height with handsome features, dark brown hair and striking, hazel eyes. Completely clean shaven and wearing what looked like Inquisitor black with no apparent insignias.
Something bothered Michaels immediately; Lange should have been over a hundred years old by this time; not near this young. Franklin Lange was the figurehead of this city when I was still a child, how can he still be ruling? It can't be the same man, can it? He wondered.
"Greetings, advisory council." A voice, strong and confident yet smooth, sounded from the apparition. Obviously through speakers of some kind, yet the quality was crystal clear as though the hologram was actually speaking. He doesn't sound over one hundred, that's for sure, Michaels thought.
Michaels briefly wondered if Lange had gotten some manner of access to medical or rejuvenation technology, to look in such a manner. However, being near the forefront of research in chemistry and biology, Michaels felt certain that he would have been aware of it. On the other hand there could have been-
Michaels' reverie was broken as Lange, Citizen One, spoke. "Special greetings to our newest member, replacing Citizen Coleman on the council. Welcome, Citizen Gregory Michaels." The apparition clapped, politely, causing Michaels to marvel at the efficiency of the imaging software to produce the sound. Lange's applause was echoed by the rest of the room. All members, save the beaming smile of Arthur Dunlevy, kept stoic expressions.
Michaels stood, gave a slight bow, and said, "Thank you," and sat again.
Dunlevy caught his eye and gave a wink. "Excellent speech. Lengthy and moving." He whispered.
Michaels cracked a slight smirk in spite of himself. He settled in, smoothed his white coat, and paid attention to the hologram.
"I apologize for the short notice for the council meeting, but there is urgent business regarding the remaining population underneath our fair city." Michaels marveled at the image, so real and lifelike. "In spite of invitations of integration into our thriving culture, barring certain limitations, and even various measures to forcefully relieve them of their ignorance, hundreds of these inferior people remain in exile. It would seem as though they are capable of survival beyond what was expected. The issue requires further examination." He gestured towards Dunlevy. "Could you please provide your summary once more?"
Dunlevy spoke, with an uncommon seriousness, "Their behavior had appeared to have regressed to an almost tribal situation of governing; the small, nearly self-sustaining bands scavenging what remained behind for food and supplies. In the long term, with no change to the situation, it is very likely that what little resources remaining would dry up. In addition, the fighting amongst the people below, along with our servant acquisition program, eliminates dozens per month." He cleared his throat. "However, now with what looks like the possibility of larger scale organization, they may be capable of changing that formula. Given further time, they could represent more of a..." he pursed his lips, considering, "a nuisance."
"Yes, your assessment is correct, Citizen Dunlevy," said Lange, "although given the events of the other night, I would express a term stronger than 'nuisance.' We have offered our hand once again, and it has been struck away, with surprising force." He chose this moment to turn towards his left, gazing directly at the High Inquisitor and his subordinates.
Wresh radiated calm, and his gruff, growly voice filled the chamber. "It is regrettable that such a situation was allowed to come about. We believe in our haste to swiftly deal with the terrorist leader known as Elijah, we underestimated the desperation and aggression of the forces under the command of this 'Silver Fox' character." He spoke the name with disgust. "Our intelligence suggests that despite the ambush, our soldiers inflicted an equal to or greater number of casualties, but the enemy disguised their losses." Suspicion seeped through Michaels' thoughts. What Wresh was saying seemed plausible, but Michaels' contact with the survivors and other information received suggested no such thing. Nor was there any real reason to discuss enemy losses, except to make the battle not seem like less of a catastrophe. Where is this 'intelligence' coming from? Michaels wondered.
Perhaps, saving face and making crippling losses seem like stalemates is a necessary part of remaining on this council, Michaels thought, frowning.
"Do you have something to say on the subject, Citizen Michaels?" inquired Lange.
"Nothing too specific," Michaels cleared his throat, "although I am wondering how useful this council intends to be when members engage in pointless posturing." Michaels finished. He kept his gaze fixed on Lange.
The room sat in stunned silence. Even Dunlevy was unsmiling, eyes wide. Wresh scowled, and hunched over the table, not meeting any eyes. The other Inquisitors looked straight ahead, keeping passive features on their faces.
The image of Lange smiled. "Indeed. High Inquisitor, further assessment? Please do avoid unnecessary coloration."
Wresh shot Michaels a quick glare and began speaking again. Michaels felt very satisfied that he had already established himself and called out one of the highest ranking members in the Citizenship of Haven. If speaking your mind and pointing out the mistakes of fools isn't how things are supposed to work, he thought, then things may have to change.
He turned his attention to the High Inquisitor, who continued as though he had not just been spurned. "...we have information regarding the whereabouts of this Miguel and his forces. They currently occupy a club known as Heavenly Bodies, and most of his followers live in and around the district."
Lange and everyone else around nodded, and Wresh continued.
"Intelligence suggests," he growled, glaring again at Michaels, "it is a guarded area but would easily fall. His people are ruthless and aggressive, but cowardly and uncoordinated. They will be crushed by our retaliation strike."
Lange nodded and turned to Dunlevy, "You have studied them most out of everyone, what is your assessment?"
Dunlevy cleared his throat, "The Silver Fox, as he calls himself, Miguel, runs a loose dictatorship. He, as though in an animal pack, designates himself the leader; the, ah, alpha male, if you will. His concerns are with, ah, females and remaining at the top in the power structure. The man himself is said to be brutal and unyielding, which has led him to survive many attempts on his life by his various underlings, including the women he preys upon." Dunlevy paused, checking some notes. "Ah yes, most of his fairly large body of forces have no military training; they represent a large portion of criminal and unstable population. There are a few more disciplined members, and most are obedient when given proper incentive, be it advantages or threats. Ultimately, however, they are self-loyal, and will do anything they can to make sure that they survive, no matter the cost." He folded his hands. "It does seem very likely that the High Inquisitor is correct. A retaliation strike will devastate their forces, create panic, and shatter the organization."
Dunlevy rubbed his beard. "Another possible effect of a successful action could be a loss of morale for remaining population. It could conceivably spur numerous individuals to surrender to us." He nodded. "The proposed action could effectively eliminate the, ah, problem. Forever."
Michaels smirked, marveling at the ability of Dunlevy to sound halfway intelligent. He spoke up, "I understand that my knowledge on the subject is limited, but how can we be certain that using a similar tactic of direct assault will not fail? Maybe the intelligence that we have received is not accurate and there needs to be more data collected."
"You are correct about something; your knowledge is limited," Wresh unfolded his hands on the desk and looked over at Michaels, who met the gaze. "It is interesting you would mention this intelligence, as it was gleaned from one of your subjects, was it not? If you think the information faulty, would it not be a failing of your own methods?" Wresh smiled at him.
Michaels swallowed hard, but did not falter. "Anything remains a possibility. However, the technique has never failed. The subject in question was no different, and I believe Inquisitor Gottfried himself has observed the man." He looked over at Gottfried for confirmation.
Gottfried sat up in his chair, sparing a quick glance over at the High Inquisitor, who gave a slight nod. "There was nothing unusual about him; he behaved in one of the many often observed fashions of subjects post interrogation, conditioning, and re-education. His procedure took less time than most, and his request to work for the Institute near myself and," he motioned at Michaels, "our newest member was unusual, but he expressed an infantile fondness for this place and the people he believed 'saved' him. Any strangeness regarding his case was not extreme enough to set off any warning indicators."
Claudia Laverock spoke up, "Yet it was this information that specifically led to the failed mission in question, is this correct?"
Dennis Myers, the H.I.B.N. executive, spoke. He had a deep, rumbling voice, "What if he was fed information?"
"Fed information? Are you out of your mind?" Claudia finally spoke up. "You're assuming that they can somehow manage to break a conditioning process that they know absolutely nothing about; technically they shouldn't know it exists at all. Assuming that everything else failed, the conditioned subjects would simply divulge that they were told to be deceptive. They're just not smart enough to cultivate any sort of deception. Unless they have a single subject isolated who thinks that they know everything, but then they'd reveal all the details of their captivity and their information would be suspect..."
Michaels was impressed. She seems to know quite a bit about my work, very interesting. I wonder what she thinks of the process...
Michaels' mind returned to the discussion to find Dunlevy arguing loudly, "...they have killed a force of our soldiers with what appears to be ease! It is impossible to know how extensive their abilities are!"
Claudia shot back, "Just because they can surprise arrogant, complacent men once does not mean they could do it again when they're more prepared!"
Myers spoke again, very calmly, "We've already underestimated their abilities once. We may have to face that our intelligence just can't cover all of the bases. Isn't that correct, Julian?"
Wresh frowned slightly, "I don't deny it, Citizen Myers."
Myers turned back to Claudia, "Then we've got to handle it with proper caution."
Michaels spoke up, settling into having a presence, "Caution won't do any good here. A show of strength and superiority will," he took a breath, "Once Miguel and his forces are dealt with, no one else down below will dare do anything against us."
Wresh jumped in, nodding, "And if we do nothing, it will suggest that we are incapable."
Claudia said, "Who cares? It's not as though they can actually do anything to us. Just leave them where they are to rot."
Dunlevy shook his head and said adamantly, "We're already doing that and it's not working. If one small ragtag band of people can surprise and slaughter our soldiers, think of what hundreds of them could do!"
"We can contain news of trouble down below. If their mischief manages to reach surface, we could a lot of angry Citizens on our hands," said Myers.
Claudia opened her mouth to speak, but Lange cut her off with a short gesture.
"Your concerns are valid, but further argumentation is unnecessary. Here is what will be done." He looked at Wresh and the other Inquisitors. "You will take your sufficient retaliation force to destroy this Silver Fox and any who follow him. Use caution; they may be expecting a strike. Take as many prisoners as possible for interrogation and re-education. Our opportunity to obtain more servant stock is becoming limited." He looked at Myers. "Broadcast information regarding an attempted ambush on our forces that was met with crushing defeat and the capture of numerous enemy soldiers who are now prepared to make amends by serving our people. This will keep public opinion pleased for the time being, as long as we intend to deliver." He spoke to everyone, "Understand this: in spite of what some of you may think, these are threats that require immediate attention and action, lest they spiral out of our ability to easily contain them."
One of the other Inquisitors, the woman Abrams, finally spoke, "What about the contingency?"
Lange answered, "There is still reluctance to resort to such an extreme measure of," he paused, looking for a proper word, "containment. Even as a failsafe."
Michaels perked up. He'd not heard of anything like this before.
"Citizen Laverock, what is your progress in this area?" Lange asked.
Claudia's air of irritation at losing the argument faded, as though the subject was uncomfortable for her. She swallowed and said, "My best estimations still indicate a minimum 19 percent backlash on our population with the current prototype agent," she sighed, "assuming ninety-five percent containment."
Inquisitor Levine, a smallish, soft-spoken man, said, "That figure could be a low-end estimation, as well. We still experience an occasional wanderer that finds their way into our city from below through various means. Most of our structures remain joined with those below. We have spent a great deal of time and effort to block these sections, but there remains a lot of ground to cover, and it cannot all be watched. With a mass panic and escape attempt from a removal situation, we cannot be certain of how many would find a way out."
Claudia piped in, "This makes any mass-purging dangerous. We can't-"
Cutting her off, Wresh said, "Regardless of the danger, the contingency has to be ready for use."
"But we need more time to work on something that won't kill so many of our own people!" Claudia objected.
The High Inquisitor replied, sternly, "Then continue working and be sure that it will be available upon request." Claudia paled.
Lange spoke again, "It's use will be permitted only in the most dire of circumstances," his eyes narrowed, "but understand that nothing can be allowed to threaten our way of life." He raised his chin. "In spite of their flaws, these people have been given countless opportunity to join our society. If they are so deranged that they cannot understand this and insist upon causing trouble to those who are clearly happy, then perhaps they forfeit their right to exist."
No one responded or met anyone else's eyes. It was a very serious statement to make. Michaels wondered why they were so somber. It's not like they're real people anyway, he thought.
"Is there anything else?" Lange scanned the room. When no one spoke up, he nodded. "Very well, then. You are dismissed until further notice. Be vigilant." The apparition disappeared and the hologram apparatus descended back into the floor. Everyone seated at the table stood, gathered up belongings and notes, and moved towards the elevators. Michaels remained in his seat as everyone packed up and left through the elevators. Dunlevy gave him a wide grin and a pat on the shoulder before he left. Claudia and Myers smiled at him and, and they exchanged farewells. The Inquisitors gave curt nods, and the High Inquisitor didn't look at or acknowledge him. Michaels almost laughed when Wresh stood. It was hard to tell when he was seated, but the High Inquisitor was surprisingly short for a man of his rank. Michaels stifled his mirth, hiding a grin behind his hand.
After everyone had gone, Michaels still sat alone, absorbing everything. He sat back in his chair, lounging with smile on his face. He craned his neck, looking at the door in back of the chamber. It seemed so innocuous, but Michaels figured that the all areas past there were well-beyond off-limits, with some manner of brutal preventative measures in place to discourage visitors. If Lange did indeed live in the area above the council room, he probably didn't want to be disturbed. After all, he went to great lengths to make himself appear young and vibrant. Assuming he's still alive and it's not some other person using his image, he thought.
Michaels was still curious, but not stupid. He assumed that, in spite of appearances, he wouldn't get within three feet of the door before being reduced to ash, vapor, or some other kind of mess. He didn't really want that, especially not after his new promotion.
He gave one last look around the room before standing and shuffling down the ramp to the elevator, which awaited him. He hit the control for ground floor, and looked outside at the field of white rooftops, rising above him as he descended.
Finally found something of value in Coleman's files, and finally got my job on top of that. Michaels smiled. Not a bad day.
Kaylee had seen no other signs of life since meeting the Russian pair in the residential area near the arts district. She now found herself in relatively unfamiliar territory, having passed Purgatory on the road in front long before. Moving cautiously, she saw no people and no sets of glowing eyes. Not that she was disappointed.
She knew the area ahead of her was likely to be riddled with guards and members of Miguel's enclave, but she felt hesitant to move forward. She sat in the corner of what used to be a diner, now scarcely intact. The front had caved in, likely the result of a vehicle accident. Any of the ceiling and remaining wall portions had fallen since, but one corner diligently held up.
Kaylee tucked herself into this corner while eating a can of cold soup. Chicken noodle. It was delicious.
She was reluctant to move forward because she knew that luxuries like decent, regular meals would disappear. She made a disgusted face. As would rest, dignity, self-respect, virtue, and anything else Miguel felt like taking. Assuming she made it that far. They'll probably just shoot me for trespassing.
She tossed the empty can aside and stood up, shouldering her pack and grabbing her little .22 from the ground. She placed it snugly back in the waistband of her jeans. With a forlorn look at the comfortable, safe corner, she took a deep breath and rounded the edge of the broken wall. Nothing besides the usual desolation and decay greeted her, and no one in the gloom could be seen as she walked down the cracked and worn sidewalk.
Every instinct she had screamed for her to duck into alleyways, stay in the shadows, and only skirt the streets when necessary, but she constantly reminded herself that she wasn't trying to hide. She needed to pass as a semi-ordinary traveler trying to find food and shelter. Such people were less common these days, as it ended up being safer to be affiliated and stay with a group of people, even one with a reputation as bad as Miguel's.
For a few hours she continued her anxious stroll, still without seeing a single soul. She had actually passed into the red light district after going through more businesses, office buildings, and eventually cheap slum-style housing. She found herself surrounded by bars, liquor stores, clubs, and even brothels. The most extreme of these kinds of 'unsophisticated' places had been outlawed by the Citizenship government years earlier, before the Separation. Of course, part of the hedonistic approach of the higher-ranking Citizenship allowed for almost any sort of pleasure, so business in the red-light survived several of the previous transitions.
Kaylee shuddered as she looked around at the various locations, containing all manner of pleasures from garden variety to bizarre and twisted, all advertised without a hint of shame. The community here hadn't exactly been booming or thriving, but it had been, at the very least, tenacious.
It shouldn't be long now, she thought, trying to keep the tension out of her body and appear mostly oblivious. Not that anyone was likely to notice any of her behavior, strange or otherwise. I'm just being paranoid.
"Screw it," she said, hiking her pack up. She abandoned timidity and walked forward with purpose. If I'm going to get caught, I might as well get it over with. The thought of turning tail and hiding somewhere for however long had its appeal, but Kaylee was not going to back down.
Her chances to do so ended. "Well, hello there, miss." She froze, hearing a masculine voice. "What's this we've found? Hey Trip! Red!" He shouted. A medium-height but well-built bald man stepped out from behind a corner. He wore an open thin leather jacket revealing a mesh tank-top. Over his shoulder he casually slung a dirty AK-47 assault rifle, gritty to the point where Kaylee wondered if it actually worked. With his other hand he rubbed his goatee as he sauntered over towards Kaylee, sporting a grin. His muscled arms sported tribal tattoos.
Kaylee stood perfectly still, wincing as two other men came jogging up, each carrying their own assault rifles, wearing similar casual attire and tattoos. They spotted Kaylee standing there, looking frightened, and smiled wickedly. They slowly advanced on her, with something like hunger in her eyes.
She shuddered involuntarily as they approached. She backed away, and they made no sudden move to stop her; they just continued advancing. She thought about using her pistol, but decided that it would probably just get her killed.
One of the men, probably Trip, who was black, with short stringy hair, said, "Very nice find. Mr. Miguel is gonna like this one."
The other man sported a long scar along the side of his face. He had long tangled red hair, likely the source of his name, and a month's growth of facial hair. He grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "That's right, he is, and we're going to get the credit for it."
The bald one stepped in front of them, huddling together. "Hold on a sec, boys." He put his hand on Red's shoulder. "We're way out here. No one's around." He spoke in a low, hushed voice. "What if we don't bring her back?" Kaylee felt a shiver down her spine. Oh, this can't be good, she thought, reconsidering the gun.
Red and Trip exchanged nervous glances, and Trip spoke, "But Miguel always have very specific directions. All girls go to him. No exceptions."
The bald one held up his hand, "Yeah, yeah, I know how it goes, but it's like this," he held his folded hands in front of his mouth before saying, "He doesn't have to know, right? I mean, it's not like he doesn't have enough to keep him occupied."
Red spoke, nervously, "I-I don't know, Griff, you see what happens to people who don't listen to him."
Griff grimaced, and snapped, "Look! I'm tired of getting' nothing but the used up limp fish that he's done with." They avoided meeting his eyes, clearly uncomfortable about the discussion. He looked back and forth between them. "C'mon! Don't you guys want a piece of something fresh?" He eyed her hungrily.
Oh, bloody hell dammit, Kaylee thought, continuing to curse in her head as she backed up against the wall, eyes darting around, looking for an escape.
"Griff, c'mon man, just grab her and we'll head back. We give her to Miguel like this and we won't have to come out this far for weeks! We'll get to eat twice a day." Red pleaded.
Trip piped in, "Yeah, yeah; he's right! We don't want to be messin' with Mr. Miguel's property. What he'll do to us just for knowing about it-"
Griff whirled around sharply, "Then get out of here. You don't have to know anything. I'll get rid of her when I'm done, and no one will know the difference."
Ah the hell with this, she thought. As his sight was turned, Kaylee bolted. At her first sign of movement Griff and the other two started shouting and sprinting after her down the sidewalk. Kaylee cursed her luck as she ran, hearing the heavy footfalls behind her. She was hoping she could run into a few more of Miguel's people; more witnesses to prevent Griff from doing something unseemly to her. He'll kill me, and this will have been for nothing.
She was about to turn a corner when she was tackled from behind. She and her assailant sprawled forward and rolled, banging hard against the cold concrete. She found herself lying on her back, with her arms and legs pinned, with the grinning face of Griff leering inches from her own. He slapped her, stinging her face and blurring her vision. While she was dazed, he stood up dragged her from the middle of the intersection into a nearby building.
It was the lobby area for some risqué-themed spa whose painted title on the wall had long since been tarnished into unreadability. Griff dragged her behind the secretary's desk, yelling "Keep watch!" to Red and Trip, who exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Kaylee kicked at him as he stooped down. He grabbed her legs and dropped down, pinning her to the ground once again. Wave of revulsion crawled over her as his hot, stinking breath washed over her neck. She writhed and struggled. With one hand, he gripped held both of her arms together over her head, the other fumbling to unfasten his pants.
"Sit still, blast you!" He said, slapping her again. Her vision blurred to darkness for a moment, and her struggles weakened. He took the opportunity, and she felt him lift off her enough to start tugging at her own jeans. In her daze, she tried to push at his rough hands, feeling a white-hot rage boil up. Pulling together some clarity, she screamed, pulled her legs up, and kicked him hard in the face.
Griff yelled and stumbled backwards. The secretary's desk had nestled into a rounded corner, with doors going deeper into the building flanking either side. Griff, tripped over his half-removed pants and fell through the right doorway. Kaylee seized the opportunity to spring to her feet. She reached back to grab the pistol in her waistband, intending to shoot the bastard no matter the cost.
Only it was gone. Kaylee swore and spun around, running through door opposite where Griff had fallen. She stumbled through a swinging door into the female locker room, sprinting through the area.
She plowed through the back door, into a wide open lounge area. There were pillars that supported several tiers of balcony that wrapped the open area in a square-shape. It was dark with no lights running, but from what meager lighting from outside, Kaylee could see there were a few circular whirlpools off to one side, and several small square pits that must have served as mud baths. Numerous lounge chairs were scattered around and the entire tile flooring was grimy and unclean.
Kaylee stood in the doorway, scanning about as she heard clamoring from the opposite side, where the opposite gender's locker room laid. Quickly and quietly, she slid around the wall to hide behind the door, sliding the switchblade out of her pocket as she did and snapping it open. Here we go again, she thought.
The door burst open, and Griff paused as she had done, jerking his head back and forth, looking for some sign of movement. Kaylee leapt forward at his flank, and, with a battle cry, jammed the knife into his chest, just under his right collarbone.
Griff shrieked as the knife sunk deep in to the hilt, blood spilling down his midsection. He took a swing at Kaylee, with his opposite arm. She anticipated it and ducked under, running deeper into the room. At that moment, the sound of glass breaking snatched her attention, a window breaking in the far right corner. In her distraction she tripped over some unseen object on the ground, stumbling forward into a pillar. Before she could collect herself, he was on her.
"You're dead, bitch." He growled, pinning her against the column, blood oozing out of the wound which still carried the knife.
He put his powerful grip on her throat, choking the air from her. She gasped and pounded at his arms. She grabbed the knife hilt protruding from his chest and twisted. He bellowed in rage and agony, but it only served to tighten his grip. Stars danced before her eyes and the world took on a hazy blur; her hand slipped off the blade. Reality dimmed and fell towards darkness.
Just before she blacked out, he released her. She fell to the ground, coughing hard and her vision too blurry to make anything out.
Her ears brought to her the sounds of struggle, scuffling and exertion noises as Griff fought with some other assailant. The sounds of shuffling feet reached a flurry and crescendo, then with loud thump and a quickly stifled cry from Griff, they ceased. These were replaced by the horrific noises of gagging and choking. Kaylee opened her eyes and lifted her head, which felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Her vision swam lazily in front of her, but she could see Griff on his knees, with some figure standing behind him, arm wrapped around his throat. Griff, eyes and veins bulging, flailed his arms backwards, trying to save himself to no avail. The figure twisted its body, snapping Griff's neck with an effortless crack. He fell to the ground face first, eyes wide and mouth still hanging open.
In slow motion, she pulled herself into a sitting position, finally seeing the figure who wore a long brown trench coat and wide brimmed hat, sitting atop a mass of cloth which hid its face.
"Malcolm," she whispered.
Automatic weapons fire roared through the air, and Malcolm was propelled sideways as several bullets tore into his body. Kaylee opened her mouth and screamed as she watched the form tumble through the air towards the shadows in the room.
Red and Trip were yelling expletives as they continued firing wildly into the darkness. After a moment, the two ceased firing and ran forward, still sweeping their weapons back and forth.
"Do you get it? Do you get it!" Trip shouted, frantically watching the shadows.
"Yeah, but it ain't dead!" Red cried, kneeling over Griff. "Did you see where it went?"
"No, I didn't! Did you-"
"Shit, oh shit, man. He's dead!" Red jumping to his feet.
Trip grabbed Kaylee's arm pulling her to her feet, eyes wide and scanning the room. "What the hell was that thing?"
"I don't know, man. I don't know!"
"We shot it! It should be dead. W-we both shot it!"
"I know, man. I know! Let's just get outta here before it comes back!" Red scooped up Kaylee as she started to topple over. He threw her over his shoulder and started running towards the exit, tossing Griff's assault rifle, which he'd taken earlier, down behind him. Kaylee's vision swam again, and she might have gone briefly unconscious in spite of the frantic running and cursing of her captors. Outside the building in the street, her eyes opened long enough to light upon her small .22, knocked free of her waistband when Griff tackled her. With a small effort, she shoved herself free of the man's grasp and tumbled onto the ground, rolling over the weapon and grasping it in her hands. The two men, still yelling, hauled her up again. With their fear and distraction, neither man saw her return the weapon to the back of her jeans, concealed under her thick sweatshirt.
Several blocks later they stopped, too exhausted to keep going. Red dropped Kaylee who fell unceremoniously onto the ground. Her throat and head hurt, and her vision remained slightly hazy, but she felt a little more in control of her motor functions.
"You!" A gun barrel wavered in front of her face. "What the hell was that thing?!"
She coughed, rubbing her throat. In a weak voice she said, "I...I don't know."
Red was watching all sides, jerkily sweeping his gun back and forth. "What do you mean you don't know?! You were right there, you saw it!" he yelled.
Her strained voice came out, "I didn't get a good look!" She glared up at the two of them. "I was too busy being strangled!"
Without another word, she was hauled roughly to her feet again and they set off at a hurried pace. She half-jogged, half-stumbled between them as Trip, behind her, urged her onward with the occasional shove. They kept glancing backwards, startled by every shadow, jumping at every sound as they maintained a hurried pace.
Finally, they stopped again, outside a chain-link fence with a small opening, guarded by two men. "Shit, Red, you looked like you've seen a ghost!" Came the jeering call.
"Shut it, Griff's dead!" He snapped back.
"What?! How?" The other man looked shocked.
"I don't know man, some big, creature thing just snapped his neck. Like it was nothing!" He looked at his gun. "We shot it, both of us did, but it didn't die; it just ran off." He turned to Trip. "Nothing could have survived that. Nothing!"
The fence guards looked at Trip with eyes wide, waiting for him to confirm or deny the story. The haunted fear in his eyes was confirmation enough. "Look, just keep an eye out for it, okay?" The guards exchanged anxious glances. They didn't want anything to do with some freakish monster. Trip shoved Kaylee forward, and said, "We found this girl in the area. We brought her for Mr. Miguel."
With tightened grips on their weapons, nervously watching the streets in front of them, they stepped aside. Trip walked through the opening, gripping Kaylee's arm with one hand, pulling her along behind. Red followed, still nervously twitching his eyes around, looking. They came into another district, laid out in the same grid-fashion as every other area. They walked by several low-income housing apartment buildings, more empty bars and clubs, with various people milling around, chatting in small groups. The two seemed to relax slightly as they came into more familiar territory with more familiar people around; the grips on their rifles seemed less white-knuckled.
They continued on for a couple of blocks, until they entered a small square, more like a diamond, with entrances to the buildings on each corner. In front of them stretched the massive club, more like a hotel, Heavenly Bodies. All of the large red neon letters of the sign still, surprisingly, glowed in the night, featuring a few silhouetted women laying stretched across or leaning against them.
Kaylee made a brief struggle to break free, but Trip's grasp did not loosen. He half-pulled half-dragged her up the staircase to the door, where a huge, burly man sat, cradling a submachine gun in his lap. He saw the two pulling the unwilling woman behind and opened the door for them without comment, as though it was a common sight. Kaylee frowned. It probably is, she thought.
Inside was only slightly more illuminated than the constant darkness of outside. Dim, recessed lighting provided an ambiance and a soft glow. They walked through a bar area where dozens of people, mostly men with a few women, sat, chatting, drinking with some rock music playing from a speaker by the counter. Through the bar, they passed through a set of thick, frosted-glass doors into a lounge area with a circular stage, which was empty save for a few poles that extended into the ceiling.
Kaylee hadn't been in a place like it before, but she had a pretty good idea of what this room had been used for. Trip dragged her along, past people lounging in huge leather chairs, as some soft music began to play. Kaylee looked over at the stage and, in spite her being right about what it was for, her jaw dropped slightly when she saw a woman, barely dressed, saunter out from behind the back curtain.
Before she could stare any further, Trip gave her one final shove, and she stumbled and fell to her knees, just outside a large circular booth with a small round table in the center. She looked up staring into the face of a surprisingly handsome, fit man with lightly bronzed skin. He wore clean, white cotton pants, a button-down white shirt, and a crème-colored sport coat. He wore a heavy silver chain around his neck which held a pendant of a fox. He held a long, smoldering cigar in his left hand. His other arm lay around the shoulders of a clearly uncomfortable woman, wearing-
Kaylee gasped. The woman was dressed in a bikini, and goosebumps stood out on every inch of her thin, exposed skin. She looked extremely cold. Kaylee looked back over at the stage, seeing the woman dancing around the poles. Her face was a stone mask and her eyes were lifeless as she swayed and twisted her body in the dance. There were a couple of people in adjacent booths and around the lounge that had ceased watching the dancer, turning to see the newcomer. Kaylee shuddered and turned back towards the man, who finally looked down at her.
He grinned, revealing a couple of gold teeth, "Well, hello there, my dear." His voice was smooth and deep, with a hint of an accent that Kaylee couldn't identify. Probably faked to make him sound more exotic, she thought. It would have been soothing had Kaylee not sensed the flood of carnal desire creeping into it. "You are quite the pretty little thing, aren't you?"
Red stepped forward, "Boss, I-"
Miguel's head snapped upward, his face a mask of anger. "Quiet! Can you not see that I am trying to comfort this poor girl?" Red's mouth snapped closed, and he stepped back.
Miguel turned his attention back to Kaylee, his anger melting into a warm smile. "I apologize for the behavior of my men. They are brutish and stupid." He glared up at the pair, who lowered their eyes in submission. "Come, sit beside me." He gestured at the open seat next to him. Kaylee looked into the eyes of the other girl, whose face was pitiful and filled with sorrow. Miguel transferred his cigar to his other hand, which sat right in front of the girls face. Her eyes widened, noticing the large chunk of burning ash hanging precariously over her bare legs. She squirmed involuntarily away from it.
Miguel calmly removed his arm from her shoulders, placed his cigar on the ashtray on the table, turned towards the woman, and viciously backhanded her.
"You stupid, filthy cow! You dare express revulsion at my touch?" She squealed, cowering in the seat, as he raised his hand to strike her again. "I am a gift to you, woman! You would have nothing without me. I give you food, shelter, care. I give you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams! And this is how you thank me?" He lashed out, striking her again. She flopped facedown onto the cushion, sobbing softly into the black leather. Miguel rolled his neck and dusted off his shoulders. His face still betrayed his irritation as he looked at Kaylee and gestured at the seat next to him, "Perhaps you, dear girl, will understand my generosity. Have a seat."
Kaylee sensed an opportunity that she wouldn't likely get again. I don't have a chance in making it out of here anyway, she thought hopelessly. Still kneeling in front of him, she crawled over towards him. She reached behind her as she did, smiling at Miguel to distract him. He cocked his head slightly, confused at her sudden warmth, and smiled back. She gripped the small .22 pistol in her hand and put the other on Miguel's knee. She heard Trip and Red behind her gasp as she pulled it free and whipped it around, sticking the gun into his ribcage.
Kaylee squeezed the trigger, filling the room with the polite crack! of such a little weapon. She was slightly shocked after the discharge to find her wrist across her body, in grasp of Miguel's hand, the pistol aiming into the leather cushion. The girl on the stage screamed from the gunshot and dropped, covering her head. There was a small, ragged hole in the cushion, barely an inch away from Miguel's torso.
Miguel smirked, and turned over Kaylee's wrist, causing her to cry out, examining the weapon. "Look at this! Such a tiny thing, yet I would imagine still potent." He looked down at Kaylee, whose arm was bent at an awkward angle. "Much like you, I would wager, my dear."
Kaylee gritted her teeth and searched her pocket, looking for the switchblade. Dismayed, she remembered that she had not retrieved it from Griff's chest.
Miguel wrenched the pistol out of Kaylee's grip with his other hand, and put it on the cushion next to him. He then reached in to his jacket, pulling out a large magnum revolver, placing the barrel at Kaylee's temple, still holding her wrist.
"If you are carrying anything else, I would suggest leaving it." He cocked an eyebrow at the nervous-looking forms of Red and Trip, who remained poised, half in action to try and stop Kaylee. "Of course, this wouldn't have been a problem if you had brought her here properly prepared." His intense gaze bored into them.
Terror seeped into their eyes, and they exchanged glances. They both started babbling apologies, "So sorry, sir-Griff's fault-won't happen aga-" rumbled together.
Miguel cut them both off, "Quiet! I won't have your foolish excuses on top of your incompetence." The two fell silent, hanging their heads. Kaylee would have thought it comical in another situation.
He hauled Kaylee up in a deft move, spinning her around, releasing her wrist and curling his arm around her midsection. She now sat on his lap, fighting the urge to vomit at his touch. She didn't struggle, as he now held the gun at an angle on the side of her face, caressing it with the tip of the barrel. She felt his breath on her neck and could tell he was grinning. "I suppose I can't be too upset can I? You've given me the opportunity search her myself."
She shuddered as his hand roamed across her figure. On certain places, he lingered longer than was necessary, filling her with a bitter anger, but when she tried to pull away, he pressed the gun into her cheek. She fumed as he completed his extensive search, satisfied that she didn't carry any other weapons. He slid her from his lap to his left, opposite his other girl. The woman had since sat up again, a few tears rolling down her cheek as she shivered from her state of undress. An angry red welt was rising on her cheek.
Miguel extended his arm around Kaylee, who slid away on the cushion from him, slapping his hand and glaring at him, "Don't touch me, you piece of shit."
Miguel tossed his head backwards and laughed, "Such fire, such spirit!" He threw his arms wide open, grinning at Trip and Red, who still stood there, waiting to be dismissed. "Well done, my friends. Any of your foolishness today is forgiven a thousand times over by bringing me this delightful creature."
The two beamed, standing up straight. Kaylee again had the urge to laugh out loud at them standing there, like little children proud of their accomplishments and the praise. Miguel turned away from them, appraising Kaylee up and down with obvious enjoyment. She scowled back at him with her arms folded, inching as far away as the edge of the cushion would allow, wishing she still had her weapon...
Which she now noticed was sitting on the cushion next to Miguel, who had seemingly forgotten about it and the other girl, in the presence of Kaylee. He noticed the pair of underlings still standing eagerly, as though waiting for a reward. "What are you still doing here? Get out." He waved them off. They exchanged dismayed glances and turned away.
During this brief exchange Kaylee saw that the woman kept sliding her glance down to the small pistol and inching her hand towards it. Kaylee's eyes went wide and her breath caught in her throat as the girl's hand closed over the weapon and started to lift it.
Miguel turned and fired his huge revolver without hesitation, filling the room once more with a roar that made Kaylee's gunshot sound like a tiny squeak. Kaylee screamed as blood, bone, and brain matter sprayed in what seemed like every direction as the bullet shredded a huge exit wound out of the woman's head. The smoking barrel held poised as Miguel frowned, looking down at his clothing, which had a few splatters on it. The dead woman remained upright for a moment before sliding from the couch onto the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath her.
Everyone in the room, including the dancer, who hadn't yet gotten up from the previous event, froze, watching Miguel. He sighed, sliding the revolver back into his shoulder holster. "Such a waste." He mumbled, straightening his jacket. Kaylee couldn't tell if he was speaking about the woman or his clothing.
Red and Trip came running back up, holding their rifles. Miguel stood up, "Good, you're back. You." He pointed at Red. "Get rid of that." He said, motioning to the dead woman. The two exchanged brief glances before awkwardly grabbing the woman's arms and extracting her limp, body from the booth. Red tossed her over his shoulder and walked out of the room, the woman's blood dripping along behind him as he went. The woman on stage had disappeared behind the curtain, and several of the other people in the area, were on their feet watching.
Miguel sighed again as he looked at the trail of blood leading away. "Good help is so hard to find these days." He turned to Trip. "Find someone to clean this up."
Trip stepped forward, "Boss, I need to talk with y-"
Miguel walked up to him, until he was inches away. He bared his teeth and snapped. "Was there something unclear about my instructions?"
"No, boss, but-"
"Then why are you still standing here?!"
Trip winced and backed away a couple of steps, and spoke again, "I need to tell you something-"
Miguel bore down on him again, anger etched into the lines of his face, "Do you understand that there is nothing you can say that will interest me in the slightest? Get moving, now!"
"Boss, Griff is dead!" He blurted.
Miguel stepped back, attitude abruptly changing from anger to curiosity, "Really? What happened?" He didn't seem concerned by the news.
"I don't know, boss, we were by that big spa building." He slid his eyes to the floor, considering whether or not to tell him everything.
Miguel picked up on the hesitation, grabbing his shoulders, "What is it? Tell me all that happened."
Trip looked at the floor, "It was Griff, boss. He didn't want to bring the girl to you. He took her inside the building, and made us stand outside and keep watch. He was going to just get rid of her when he was done."
Miguel scowled, "Then the swine got what he deserved. You took care of him, yes?"
"No, boss-"
"Then who? The girl?" He looked back at Kaylee with a huge smile on his face. "My dear, you continue to impress me!"
"No, boss. I mean, yes, she did stab him, I think, and they were fighting, but..." He trailed off, clearly frightened.
Miguel shook him, "What is it? Tell me!"
Trip stuttered, "It, w-was some kind of monster. It grabbed Griff and broke his neck, like it was nothin'! Then, me and... me and Red we came in, and-and..." he stuttered, "and started shootin'! The thing takes, like, a dozen bullets, like it was nothin', and, and then it just disappears!"
Miguel eyed Trip for several moments, hands still on his shoulders. "I think I believe you." He said, slowly. "Hmm... what do you say?" He asked Kaylee.
Kaylee, still in slight shock from the recent violence, merely glowered up at him. "Go to hell." She snarled.
A quick flash of irritation passed across Miguel's face, but it faded into another smile that made Kaylee want to crawl out of her skin. "It is all right, my dove, you will warm up to me," his eyes darkened, "one way or another."
Kaylee swallowed hard as Miguel turned back towards Trip, whispering some series of instructions that she was unable to hear. She leaned in closer, but couldn't make out anything of importance.
Trip nodded, with vigor, and walked off, slinging his assault rifle over his shoulder. Kaylee tensed up as Miguel turned back towards her. "Why don't we move to somewhere else; this will need to be cleaned before we can return. Perhaps we can head to the restaurant and get something to eat," he smiled at her, "I'm dying to get to know you."
The thought of something to eat didn't sound terrible, sadly even after witnessing the poor woman's death, so Kaylee stood. Miguel put his arm around her waist, guiding her out of the room. She resisted the urge to shake him off or hit him in the face. The thought crossed her to try and grab his revolver from the unbuttoned jacket, but her mind replayed the splatter and the surprised look on the woman's face as her life abruptly ended, so she decided to behave. For now, she thought.
Without a fuss, she allowed herself to be led out of the room, people with buckets and rags already filing into the room. With as much malice as she could muster, she thought to herself, you'll be dying all right you son of a bitch.
The creature called Malcolm crouched in the alleyway outside of the spa, bits of glass shaking around on the folds of his clothing from his rapid entrance and exit. He had his coat open and layers of clothing lifted, revealing his bluish-gray skin. He used a long, thin chunk of sharp glass to form a wide-slit. He peeled his skin back, plunging the glass into the bullet hole and twisting it around.
Pain shot through his body as he pulled the glass out in a swift motion; a flattened slug came with it, falling to the ground and tumbling away. He tucked the flap of skin back into place, blood flow from the wound already slowing. He repeated the process several more times on various places of his body, slicing into his body and removing the numerous bullets.
Satisfied that his body had been emptied of foreign objects, he pulled his clothing back into their proper places. By the time he stood up, most of his wounds had ceased bleeding. He hoisted himself up, through one of the broken windows into the spa once more, rolling to his feet inside. The body of Griff still lay where it had dropped.
Malcolm felt a very slight pang of regret. He didn't relish hurting people, but he didn't like people hurting anyone else either. He stood over the corpse, and crouched. For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was doing. Then, as if by instinct, he reached out and slid the poor man's glazed eyes closed, and moved the slack, gaping jaw to a closed position.
His glowing eyes landed on the hilt of a knife protruding from Griff's chest. He gripped it and pulled, ignoring the wet sliding noise as the knife came free, slick with Griff's blood. He examined the knife, discovering its simple mechanics. He dropped the weapon, not interested in keeping it.
He walked through the locker room and lobby, out the front door in the direction he sensed was correct, spotting the recent treads of shoes in the dirt. He followed in that direction, keeping watch far ahead so as not to be surprised by any people. It probably wouldn't be a problem; he had hidden himself enough times to know his vision far surpassed anyone else's. In addition, he felt little concern anyway. With the few encounters he had experienced, he was becoming aware of how much stronger, faster, and more resilient he was. The pain from the wounds had ceased entirely. He looked down at his coat, which was riddled with small holes and dark blood stains, still fresh and wet. However, as he ran his gloved hand across where the wounds should have been, all he found was smooth, scarless skin. He adjusted his clothing again, securing it in place.
Save for one piece. He loosened the cloth surrounding his face, exposing it to the open air. He inhaled deeply, once again flooding his olfactory sense with the decay of Old Haven. He picked out the light scent imprinted on his mind as Kaylee's. He'd been following and waiting for her for days for some reason yet unknown in his own mind.
Just as he was deciding to do again. Securing his facial wrappings once more, he took off at a rapid pace, cutting back and forth across the streets, sticking to the areas not illuminated by street lamps. Even with the random detritus scattered about, he made little sound and continued moving in the same general direction. Suddenly he stopped, and crouched in the shadows.
Two men, chatting as they walked, came by the place where he hid. They sauntered carelessly, speaking to each other regarding something Malcolm thought he recognized, but only in a vague fashion, as though he had heard about it years ago.
His memory, still chaotic and unreliable, filled his mind with images of fantastic places that he was almost convinced that he'd never been to. Towering crystalline structures of translucent pastel colors, swirling around, mingling with the red-orange sunlight, shining off of the glassy streets, illuminating a city of beauty and luminescence. His face scrunched up as the image mingled with crumbling brick and bright, white-colored buildings.
He was still not entirely sure why he continued to follow Kaylee, but he knew that she was still in trouble, and he felt determined to help her. He sprang from his hiding place, hurrying along in the direction that the two men, with their captive, had passed.
For someone who led a pack of half-starved criminals and vicious men, making a pleasurable life out of the abuse of people already experiencing great suffering, Kaylee found Miguel to be quite dull.
There were several empty levels to the Heavenly Body club, filled with gimmicky bars and other stages, as well as dozens, maybe hundreds of small, private rooms. Also in the building were a few restaurants. They weren't any longer in direct service, but Miguel had people and supplies enough to have someone provide cooked meals.
In spite of her captivity, Kaylee could not resist the hot, delicious food. She devoured it without speaking, guzzling the offered wine. Her head felt a little cloudy from the alcohol, yet still everything the man across from her said was incredibly boring.
"This man turns back towards me," Miguel was entrenched in some story about a man of his trying to take control of his organization. "and notices that all of his 'followers' are actually aiming at him instead of me." He chuckled. "I never thought a man could remain standing for so long while being filled with holes."
His stories were consistently violent, and she found herself either in disbelief or generally less disturbed by them the longer he spoke. She yawned.
"Tired are we, my sweet?" Miguel took a small sip from his wine glass. "Would you like some more to drink?" He pulled the bottle from the ice bucket and filled her glass once more. She drank the deep, red liquid without saying a word, gulping it down as he watched intently.
Kaylee had not spoken more than ten words during the entire course of the dinner. Miguel had entertained himself by chattering almost nonstop as Kaylee bolted down her meal. He told stories of how he came into power, how he killed 'so and so,' and numerous other of his conquests. One story Kaylee found particularly amusing, not in a positive way, was how the man described his nickname, the Silver Fox. Apparently he received it when he first took control of the organization.
"So there I was, bound with my wrists behind my back. My adversary was gloating away about my failures against him. So, I spoke to him. I praised him for his brilliance. I applauded his craftiness, and I expressed nothing but careful reverence for his abilities. He let himself bathe in my admiration." Kaylee could barely keep her eyes from rolling out of her skull as the narcissist droned on about it.
Miguel had given a laugh, continuing. "Little did he know, I had secured a small paperclip and managed to disengage the handcuffs I wore. Having forestalled my execution with quick wit, I leapt forward, snatching this very weapon from him." He opened his coat, revealing the massive revolver. "It was all a part of my plan, you see. He kept himself carefully guarded, so the only way to get to him was to feign being captured. When I seized the weapon from him, my loyal men had already secured the building." He leaned back in his chair. "I beheld him, helpless, and laughed at him about his failings and his arrogance. The man begrudgingly lowered his head and spoke. 'Truly you are a silver-tongued fox, Miguel. May the devil take you screaming to hell.' I told him, 'perhaps we will meet there someday,' and shot him." Miguel concluded.
Kaylee really didn't believe it. She had a suspicion that he had merely bought or stolen the pendant he wore and thought it would provide a good nickname, making up a really stupid story to go along with it.
She was all but openly hostile throughout the entire time she spent with him. She made no effort to appear even slightly interested in anything he said, any of his conquests or close calls. Instead she kept her eyes roaming around, looking for hiding places, exits, weapons, and anything else that she could use to her advantage if the opportunity ever arose. She considered sliding her fork up her sleeve, but decided it wouldn't be a very useful weapon. That and he seldom took his eyes off her.
Miguel wiped his mouth and hands with his light pink napkin, matching the thick cloth covering the table. Kaylee couldn't help eyeing his clothing from time to time, looking at the long-since dried blood splatter from the woman he murdered only a short time earlier.
He of course, misinterpreted her consistent gaze to be motivated out of interest and desire. His eyes glittered with a carnal hunger, sliding up and down her figure every so often. She tried very hard not to notice the unwelcome attention; it was as confusing as it was offensive. I'm wearing the same dirty jeans and hooded-sweatshirt that I've been wearing for weeks, she thought.
He slowly swirled his glass of the deep red wine, enjoying the aroma and flavor as he took a long sip. "So." He let the word hang in the air as Kaylee sat, plate and glass empty, hands folded in her lap. "Miss Kaylee." She just stared at him, waiting for him to get to whatever he planned on saying. "You are a mysterious woman. I like that."
Kaylee smirked, curling the corner of her mouth in the slightest of sneers. "Well," she said with a sickening sweetness, "that's such a relief. I was very worried; you have no idea."
A dark cloud passed over his eyes as the irritation at her flippancy washed over him, but it faded just as quickly. Kaylee clenched her jaw slightly, wondering how much more he would tolerate. Still, she felt delighted to once again cause one of his crazed, bipolar reactions based upon the smallest of inconveniences.
"I have come to realize that despite speaking with you for the last hour or so," he took another sip of his wine, "that I have yet to discover anything about you."
Kaylee thought, that's because you've been chattering nonstop about yourself the whole time, you dumb bastard. Instead of expressing her opinion, she shrugged, "I was orphaned, and I didn't want to be one of their slaves, so I wandered around scavenging food and finding places to rest. Now I'm here."
Miguel frowned. "That's it? All of your years, summed up so quickly?" He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I pity you, girl. You have not understood what it means to live." He reached across the table, offering his hand, which she ignored. Not noticing the rejection, he said, "I will see to it that your days here are most memorable."
Kaylee gave him a cheerless smile. His eyes lit as an idea struck, and he leapt to his feet. "Come with me! I have something to show you. Something quite fascinating."
She warily stood and walked towards the exit staircase, with Miguel just behind her. She stopped, folding her arms expectantly. He motioned her down the stairs.
They came out of Heavenly Bodies and crossed the street, Miguel again filling the void of silence with mindless self-important chatter. "...I had to tell him, 'I am sorry, my friend, but the male figure simply does not interest me.' He was such a loyal man, I could barely bring myself to shoot him for the insult..." Wow, Kaylee thought, and here I was thinking he couldn't disgust me any further.
They entered a building called "The Dungeon," which was across the street from Heavenly Bodies. Kaylee cringed when Miguel gleefully told her of the fetishistic practices that used to occur within. He tossed his head back and laughed at his own cleverness when he spoke of how he repurposed it to be used as a prison. "After all," he said, chuckling, "most of the rooms already have chains."
Like most of what he said, Kaylee found this to be not nearly as amusing as he did. They walked through very gothic-style gloomy grey-stone hallways, heavy wooden "cell" doors with sliding viewer plates lining the corridor. They apparently took the 'dungeon' theme seriously when the place had been in operation. The rooms were generously spaced out, as they were made to entertain paying clients not actually keep people prisoner. She couldn't see into any of the rooms, but she had a suspicion that Miguel probably kept more than a couple of them occupied.
"I'm performing an experiment, you see," he spoke as they walked along electronic torches that almost looked like real flame illuminating the halls. They came to a stone spiral staircase, leading both up and down. Miguel walked downward, "I always find the thought of being underground to be more unnerving, don't you?" Kaylee didn't respond.
They descended a level. There were still further stairs down, but Kaylee guessed that it probably would have been for maintenance and utilities for the building. Not for clients, so the decoration would disappear. In any case, Miguel didn't continue down any further. Instead, they came out in a similar hallway to the one a floor above. On this level, for whatever reason, the illumination in the flickering "torches" was much more dim and gloomy. The stone walls glistened as though with cool moisture, but running her hands across their surface, Kaylee discovered it was just a glossy sealant. She stifled a laugh.
They walked all the way down the hallway, which ended in a wooden doorway, with the same access slot. This one was wide open. Kaylee heard the sounds of shuffling footsteps from inside the cell with a little bit of gruff muttering.
As they approached, a foul smell grew in intensity. It was the most wretched thing Kaylee could ever conceive of, and she started gagging as they came nearer. Miguel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth and nose. Kaylee winced at the odor that smelled like month-old death and decay mixed with human waste and burnt hair.
Muffled by the cloth clamped over his face, Miguel said, "Allow me to introduce you to my latest social experiment." He pounded on the door, which rattled and groaned, "Nigel! We have a guest!"
Kaylee peered through the slit into the dark cell. From the dim light spilling in from the hallway, she thought that it looked more like a hotel room. She could make out the outlines of a queen-sized bed, miniature refrigerator, and even a television over on the far right. To the left, obscured slightly in the shadows, she could make out a figure and some tall object, like a sheet of plywood standing on its end.
"Nigel! Don't be so rude." He moved his hand to a section of brick, and pushed. All of the lights in the room came on, followed by a shriek and stream of raving.
Kaylee almost vomited when she viewed the contents of the cell. The accommodations portion, with the bed, fridge, etc was for the most part untouched. The sheets looked unrumpled and unused, and there was a thin layer of dust over everything where poor Nigel could only dream of going.
The other side of the room featured a tall wooden board with leather straps at various positions, ideal for securing a willing prisoner. Next to those, chains were set into the wall. They had about ten feet of give and clasped around the wrists of a man, who appeared more than slightly worse for the wear.
The walls and floor within a 15-foot radius of the man were splattered with stains of gore and filth. The purple carpet, so saturated with blood, looked a deep brown. The walls were streaked with bloody handprints. A bucket in the corner was overflowing with waste, which in turn was tracked about the area; traces of it spattered the walls.
Kaylee gagged again as she saw a mangled corpse on the ground, stripped of various portions of its flesh, teeth and bite marks apparent across its torso and extremities. The arms sprawled awkwardly out, and the face, conveniently positioned to be viewable from the door, was etched with the agony of his final moments.
The occupant still alive wore a filthy, stained white outfit. Skin hung loosely off his thin, hollow frame, and he shuffled towards the door, blinking in the unaccustomed light. A month-old white beard adorned his face. This, too, was encrusted with brownish-red dried blood and the patches of visible, pale skin smeared with it. His brown eyes sunk into his gaunt, vacant face. Almost in front of the bars, he reached out, revealing blood and filth-stained hands. He reached towards the door and was brought up short with a loud clank as the chains drew up to their length. Vague moaning and gibbering issued forth from his lips, which were whitish with frothy spittle. A pained expression crossed his face as he struggled against the chains to move closer to the door.
"That's far enough, Nigel." Miguel spoke as if to a child.
Kaylee covered her mouth with her hand as she saw a ring on the man's hand, bearing the mark of Citizenship. She wanted to leave, but she found herself unable to look away from the torturous scene.
"P-pl... Please... Help me..." came the piteous moans from the man, still reaching in vain towards the closed door. "S-so. Hungry..." Nigel's face contorted and he threw himself forward, his arms wrenching behind him, bringing his face only a few inches away from the door.
Miguel held a satisfied expression, but Kaylee could see that even he was disturbed by the sight of it. Bile raging in her stomach, she wondered if maybe even his depravity had its limits.
A new odor of decay assailed Kaylee, as his rotten breath passed through the slit, and she backed away from the door as Nigel cut loose a stream of raving nonsensical gibberish. Her gag reflex triggered once more when she saw his bloodstained lips and rotting teeth. He wrenched against the chains, screaming at the top of his lungs, eyes rolling back showing the whites.
Miguel slammed the viewing window closed, muffling the madman's shrieks. Kaylee turned away and walked briskly down the hallway. He caught up to her quickly, talking about something. She completely ignored him, focusing her attention on not vomiting. A couple of tears rolled down her cheeks as she ascended the spiral staircase.
They soon came outside, and in front of the entrance Kaylee doubled over, taking several deep breaths of fresher air, still imagining the suffocating stench all around her. Miguel was talking about something, and he had a somber tone.
"...freely admit that it has, perhaps, gone further into the realm of the vile than I ever intended." He rubbed his chin. "Yet I can't seem to abandon the experiment. In a grotesque way, I find poor Nigel and his reactions so utterly fascinating. It's such an interesting study in human behavior."
Kaylee shot a glare at him, "What the hell are you talking about?"
Miguel looked surprised, "Have you not been paying attention?"
"To what?" Kaylee snapped. "Your justification for that horrific torture?"
Another of the intense scowls passed over Miguel's face, melting into that same warm smile as he relaxed himself from the insult. He wagged his finger at Kaylee, "Someday you will have to learn to listen and obey, my dear."
"Oh really?" Kaylee made a rude gesture. "Then today I'll stick with pissing you off."
Miguel looked suddenly surprised, as though he'd been slapped. It passed quickly, and he smiled sadly. "What you don't see, my dear, is what Nigel teaches us."
"Whatever," she said dismissively.
Miguel displayed a heavy scowl. "Tell me, do you think, if given the opportunity, that gentleman in chains below would afford us any mercy?"
Kaylee scowled back. "How should I know?"
Miguel smiled thinly. "Let me tell you, then, what he intended." The smile faded. "He broke through a sealed section of his own apartment up above with the goal of hunting and killing one of the 'elusive vermin,' as he called them. One of us."
"Bullshit." Kaylee said, disbelieving.
Miguel drew in a deep breath. "No. I assure you it is the absolute truth. He had a hunting rifle, and he brought his servant along to carry equipment." He frowned, "Since their culture holds us as little more than beasts, he believed it would be easy sport."
Kaylee cringed. He never stood a chance, she thought. The image of the man in the festering gore-stained cell came back to her, "But why are you doing this to him? Just kill him or let him go!"
He rounded on her, anger in his eyes. "And what do they do to the people they take to the surface, hmmm?" He bared his teeth. "Do they let us simply go? Do they give us an easy death?" He shook his head. "I recognized the man he brought with to carry his weapons for him. One of mine, taken months ago. What remained in him was nothing. He became a mindless slave. They did that to him." Miguel raised his chin. "So tell me, is what I've done to this man any different?"
Kaylee frowned, trying to come up with a response.
Miguel smirked. "Do you see us, starving under their heel as we are, devouring our own dead? Perhaps we are not so barbaric after all." He shrugged. "Or maybe the term has no meaning at all, and people, Citizen or otherwise, are capable of doing horrific things in the proper circumstances given the proper convictions."
Kaylee felt a flare of anger. "No. You don't get to say that." She glared at him. "You don't get to pretend to be some misunderstood saint." After his posturing, his desperately boring stories, his calm execution of that poor woman, and his depraved torture of the poor soul chained to the wall, she simply could not handle him discussing any sort of morality. "You're so full of shit. You talk about how they're worse, but they aren't. You didn't even give your own former man an easy end. He's in there, being eaten for your little experiment." She shook her head. "No. You just like to hurt people, that's all there is to it. It doesn't matter how you try to justify it. You're just some sadistic son of a bitch."
Miguel glowered at the insult and paced away a few steps. He sighed, hanging his head. "How much longer do you think you can try my patience?" He whirled around, striding towards her. "It is not unlimited."
Defiant, Kaylee sneered up at him. "Oh, really? What a shame. I feel so sorry for you."
His arm shot out, grabbing her wrist. She tried to pull away, but he held firm. Into his jacket he reached, pulling out the huge revolver. Kaylee's eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to scream as he held the gun next to her face.
He released her arm and cupped her chin. "Understand this. Your life is mine. You live and die by my whim." His smiled at her, revealing his gold teeth. "I like you, my sweet. Your spirit is most impressive." The smile faded. "Do not test me." To add insult, he leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.
He released her. She took a few steps away and spat. She scowled at him.
"So, the Citizen lasted two weeks before starting to consume his dead servant," he said, continuing the story. Kaylee's mouth hung open as Miguel switched gears in conversation as though nothing, including his big 'we're no different speech,' had happened. He really is crazy, she thought. God... what have I gotten into?
Right then, as he, with animated vigor, began to tell the story of Nigel's capture, Kaylee realized that she had never felt quite so alone and helpless. How am I going to get out of this, she wondered. As Miguel continued to chatter without pause, she felt a crushing despair seep into her mind as no answer came.
Michaels again found himself sitting at his desk. His new promotion entailed new responsibilities; most of them seemed to regard a large amount of paperwork. He wasn't sure if they were expecting him to continue working with prisoner subjects and conditioning, but, with the large impending raid, patrols down below had ceased.
In the late afternoon, he had finally gotten back to his office. He realized that the day before, instead of properly closing out and shutting things down, he had simply closed the terminal lid when Dunlevy contacted him. When he reopened it, he noticed that the end of the video file had provided a string of random text. He wrote it down right away, just in case it was a clue to something important, and just in case he couldn't find it again.
For a couple of hours, he had the computer running searches again, this time looking for specific file dates one at a time to narrow the field of search. It had appeared to have become more cooperative since his initial success, returning plenty of files as opposed to nothing at all.
Michaels clapped his hands together in an uncharacteristic victory gesture as he spotted another video file in and among several text and various program and system documents. The date was two weeks after the initial discovery. He moved the cursor over it, and the file vanished.
He raised an eyebrow, and attempted the unfocused stare pattern again, to see if the file would make itself reappear. When this failed to work, he searched for the file name itself, frowning when the search result turned up nothing on the file "mlc-spcmn." Damn, he thought.
Trying something different, he took a look at the small scrap of paper which contained the random series of letters, separated at various intervals with backslashes.
hfrefPbyrzna/svyrf/ubzr/v/i/vk
He cocked his head, thinking that it looked like a directory path filled with nonsense words. Maybe... he thought. He started scratching letters on the bit of paper, trying to catch patterns. He smiled as his hunch proved correct. It was a fairly easy letter substitution cipher. Almost too simple, he thought. A few minutes later, he came up with what actually was indeed a clear directory path.
usersColeman/files/home/i/v/ix
He progressed through the folder paths, arriving in the 'home' folder. This folder held at least a dozen other ones with Roman numeral designations. He opened 'i,' which brought up another identical screen. Interesting, Coleman thought, a "combination lock" made of folders. Each folder for three levels contained the same dozen numbers. I have to follow the right path to find the files, he thought.
He clicked on 'v' and 'ix' in succession, smiling as the "mlc-spcmn" came up on the screen.
Opening the file, he saw Coleman's frozen face once more. He clicked play, and the image began speaking, barely contained excitement radiating from his predacessor.
"The containment material, by itself a technological marvel, had proven entirely impervious. I couldn't penetrate the substance. No matter how strong the drill, extremes of heat and cold applied: nothing. Entirely indestructible. Although," a wide smile split his face, "after a great deal of effort attempting to crack it, I discovered how the mechanism works by sheer accident." He cupped his empty hands forward. "I held it in my hands." He chuckled. "I do admit that it was a foolish thing to do, what with the possibility of residue radiation or toxicity, but I simply cradled it gently. As I did, it responded to my touch." Coleman shook his head and laughed, "I, of course, dropped it in my surprise, which caused it to reseal. With a little further experimentation, I discovered that the key was contact with, specifically, organic tissue warmth; it creates a seam in the material, which, then, easily twists apart." He broke into another wide, excited grin. "I have already confirmed that the material itself inside is a patch of skin. From a nonterrestrial creature." He emphasized the last statement, letting the monumental nature of the discovery permeate Michaels' mind.
There was a knock on the door. Irritated, he looked up and yelled, "What?"
At the same time he heard Coleman say, "Yes?" Michaels rolled his eyes as he realized that the knock was on the recording.
Coleman stood up and pushed his chair away. His face appeared again briefly, saying, "More on this very soon." After this, the video file ended, Coleman's hand still stretched across the screen, touching the button to cease recording. Michaels scanned the whole screen. No extra information, nothing to indicate if there was another file or any clues regarding it. He closed out the video file, noticing that a text file had appeared in the folder along with it.
He opened it, and inside lay:
Only one in color, but not one in size,
Stuck firm to the ground, yet easily flies,
Present in sun, but seldom in rain,
Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.
Oh hell, Michaels cursed. A riddle. He hated riddles. His mind just didn't function very well thinking with abstract concepts. He preferred a more rational, logical approach, not tricks of language.
On a scrap of paper he scrawled down the riddle. He checked the clock on the wall, startled to realize that it was getting quite late. I suppose that's enough for today, he thought to himself. He stuffed the piece of paper into the pocket of his lab coat, donning it as he pushed the lid of the terminal closed.
As he walked out of the door of his office, smiling as he realized it now truly belonged to him. As he traveled to his dwelling, he held a passing curiosity in his mind, wondering when the assault down below would begin.
Malcolm didn't know what to do. He sat in a chair a few floors up, in a tiny slums apartment building, watching out a window. He was just inside what was considered Miguel's territory, in one of the many buildings that served as housing for the people who operated in the area.
He found the corner apartment, which provided a nice long view down a couple of streets. He'd been watching for a few hours, seeing various people walk back and forth, patrolling. They always carried weapons.
He guessed, and hoped, that it was somewhere near there that they had brought Kaylee. He observed, trying to get a sense of the pattern of guards. He didn't really notice it, but his cognitive faculties had been steadily improving. He experienced fewer juxtaposed and jumbled memory flashes. His actions were more thought out and planned, less instinctual and improvised.
Such as his current observation. Anyone who happened to look up may have been fairly unnerved to see something that appeared to be a pair of slanted glowing eyes staring down at them, assuming they could see that far, but he wasn't worried about it. While he watched them pass, he saw very few people looking around or paying any attention to anything at all.
Although he didn't know it, these people, given the light patrol duty, rarely encountered anything. The people who roamed further out were the ones who had to keep a careful watch. Still, very few observers could compete against his stealth and swiftness. He had traveled through the streets to the building in which he sat, passing within feet of them. They didn't notice.
More figures were coming down the street. His eyes narrowed as they closed in. He recognized them. Two men, one with long red hair, and a black man. They walked in total silence, looking very nervous and uncomfortable.
As Malcolm watched them, as he recalled the feeling of automatic weapons fire tearing into and through his body, the burning, shredding pain. One of his hands gripped the windowsill, fury seeping into his body. He remembered having to flee when they dragged Kaylee away, and his anger flared a hot white.
A moment later, Malcolm was slightly surprised to notice that he was in a standing position, holding his chair in both hands. The two men were now in the intersection, approaching the corner where Malcolm's building stood.
Their heads jerked up, eyes wide with startled fright and assault rifles aimed shakily as they heard the sound of glass breaking above them. Red looked over at his companion, "What was..."
He didn't finish his sentence as a wooden chair crashed into the ground inches away, splintering into kindling. The pair screamed simultaneously and fired their weapons in no particular direction. The chatter of automatic weapons fire filled the air for a moment, and the two men backed away, still firing the occasional burst into the darkness. They turned back the way they came and fled.
As they passed out of sight some distance away, Malcolm's anger started to abate. He leaned up against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself. The rational portion of his mind struggled to assert itself, where as the survival and instinct portion demanded further fight response.
He had gained enough control over his own behavior to understand that charging in blindly, despite his resilience to harm, would not likely result in any success. A few more deep breaths allowed his rationality to resume control. He walked out of the room, and a few minutes later he emerged, crouching low, in the narrow street once more. He decided that little more could be accomplished by mere observation; both ration and instinct agreed with this.
He dove into the shadows, having spotted someone coming down the road towards him. He sidled along the brick wall, cutting around a corner to an alley and taking refuge behind a dumpster. He peered around the corner, waiting for the man to go past.
As the man crossed in front of the alleyway, Malcolm heard the faint fup! of violently displaced air. The man's body convulsed and a spray of red burst from his back, the weapon he carried falling from limp fingers. Mouth agape, the man made a slow turn, and Malcolm could see a small red hole in his chest. The man, wearing a now-bloodstained sweatshirt, looked down at his wound. Almost disbelieving and likely in shock, he reached up to touch the injury. He held his bloody fingers up to his face.
As he did this, Malcolm heard the same fup! noise, and the next bullet passed through the guard's head, spattering the street with gore. The man crumpled.
Malcolm remained where he was. He could hear the sounds of a couple of people hurriedly running, coming close, obviously trying to keep their movements quiet. He saw two figures pause in front of the alleyway. They were wearing all-dark camouflage colors, and several of them wore an odd face apparatus. Some half-functioning portion of Malcolm's memory muttered, 'gas mask,' but he couldn't quite pin down anything else besides the words. The other men paused long enough to drag the body over to the dumpster. He pressed himself into the wall and tilted his head down, hoping they didn't notice him.
He heard a clang and felt a slight vibration as the body unceremoniously thudded against the inside of the dumpster. He heard the men moving away, out of the alley and down the street where he intended to travel. When Malcolm looked up; all of the people were already gone. The only sign of their presence, the splatters of blood and human tissue left behind by the dead man's exit wound.
Malcolm stood up, but dropped back to his hiding place when he heard a radio crackle, very close by. He waited for what felt like hours, and, as he did, two men appeared, walking slowly and silently by the alley entrance. They were followed by two more, and two more, and so on. A long column of soldiers passed by as Malcolm watched from the shadows. There was something about them that he didn't like, and he gave a slight, involuntary growl.
One of the soldiers heard a sound and looked towards its source. He squinted into the darkness, a chill running down his spine as he thought he saw a pair of eyes staring back at him. He shook his head, clearing it, and it was gone.
Malcolm was already running silently down the alley in the other direction, scaling a fence and ducking around a corner. The scout force that had eliminated the patrolling soldier was already ahead by a good distance, and both groups appeared to be going in the same direction as Kaylee was taken. Despite the obvious danger and what seemed like inevitable violent confrontation, he decided to continue to try and find her. As he ran, his rational mind wondered what he was going to do when he got there, almost surprised when he came up with nothing.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
The heavy door to the scene shop clanged open. The man in the chair jumped to his feet, startled. He yelled a loud, "Sorry sir!" and started jogging down the hallway; no one was supposed to be present when this door opened, but they were usually given a warning to leave the vicinity.
He heard the door screeching closed as he neared the entrance to the backstage area, as well as the man he believed to be Elijah call out in that calm, smooth voice, "Wait." He slowly turned around, seeing the tall, bald, blue-eyed man standing, dusting off his hands.
Victor walked up to the man. "It is time to stop hiding. Take me to see the prisoners."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Eugene sat in complete darkness with his hands bound behind his back, a gag in his mouth, and a cloth bag over his head. Tanya was in the room with him. He knew this because she had not stopped her muffled screaming and raving since they had been ambushed and captured.
Following Kaylee's advice, once the pair had entered the arts district, they had called out every couple of minutes or so, yelling that they were looking for Elijah and that they represented Sergei. "This is stupid." Tanya kept repeating.
Suddenly they found themselves surrounded by people clad in black outfits, holding submachine guns. They were quietly instructed to put their hands up and not resist. Even Tanya complied with this, if only briefly, although Eugene had to kick her when she started to mutter curses and insults at them while they were searched for weapons.
Their hands were bound. Because Tanya refused to keep silent, they tied wide strips of cloth across both of their mouths, gagging them. Finally, dark cloth bags were pulled over their heads, and they were then roughly led a distance that Eugene guessed to be several blocks. They heard the sound of a large door sliding open, and they moved inside. After several turns, some more time spent walking, and a few flights of stairs, they were shoved into a small empty dark room.
There was a click as the door locked from the outside when it closed. Then they were left for some amount of time that Eugene, without being able to look at a timepiece, wasn't certain of. He was sure that it felt a lot longer than it actually was, with the constant muffled yells of Tanya. He was starting to get a headache, but he knew better than to try and silence her; it would only make things worse.
They heard the door open and turned towards it, seeing fragments of hallway light shine through their head coverings. The bags were pulled off their heads and their gags removed. Eugene winced as the room filled with the sound of Tanya's loud cursing and insults as her mouth was freed. The soldiers, surprised at her intensity, were taken aback for a second. They stepped forward again, one of them restraining her. Tanya's eyes lit up with rage, and Eugene gave an internal sigh of relief, as the other replaced the gag over her mouth. She thrashed around, but the soldier held her firm.
Eugene raised his eyebrows at the other man, who warily removed his gag and hadn't quite stepped away. Eugene bowed his head and gave a polite, "Thank you."
The soldier gave a sigh of relief and unbound Eugene's hands. He rubbed his wrists and thanked the man once more, completely ignoring Tanya's jumping, thrashing, and muffled yelling, as the other soldier struggled to keep her under control.
The man who released Eugene walked to the entrance and flipped the light switch in the room as another person walked through the door. Eugene's mouth hung open slightly as the person had to duck under the frame. He was easily more than six feet tall. Eugene could instantly identify the large man's European descent; fair skin, prominent bone structure. His bald-head and piercing blue eyes were unnerving as they drilled into Eugene. Even Tanya had ceased struggling as the man came into the room, looking at him with a wary, nervous eye.
"Who are you?" inquired a very smooth, calm, deep voice.
"Eugene," he hesitated, "who... who are you?"
The man cracked the slightest of smiles, "I am Elijah. I believe you were looking for me."
Eugene's eyes widened, and he broke out into a huge smile, "Oh, yes! Yes, good! I am here representing Sergei. He, I... We wish to speak with you regarding a... union. Of sorts."
The man calling himself Elijah cocked his head slightly, "Yes, of course. But tell me; how is it that you were aware of our presence in this area. This is very important, so speak. Now." Eugene felt a chill at the order, understanding in Elijah's tone that an improper response would likely cause him and Tanya a great deal of trouble.
Eugene stammered, nervous, "I, uh, we. We had, uh, heard some... some rumors about your relative location. When we were traveling, we, we came across a wanderer. A woman! She told us that, uh, that she thought we were heading in the correct direction." He cleared his throat. "We came through this way when your men captured us."
'Elijah' stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. "All right, then. Come with me." He tilted his head towards Tanya, and the soldier holding her pulled her gag, untied her hands, and released her. She shot him a glare but held her silence as the large man beckoned to the two of them and walked out of the room.
Not turning back, he said, "You must be hungry. Come with me, and we shall speak." Eugene and Tanya exchanged quick glances then followed the man out. Initial shoddy treatment aside, this was exactly what they had hoped for.
As soon as one of his scouts reported movement out of the Escape, Rick mobilized his troops. He commanded about fifty trusted men, all well-versed in guerilla tactics: it was this force that had executed the successful ambush of recent days. Due to extreme fortune, that Rick himself could easily admit, and enemy incompetence, which was certain, they had incurred no losses and only a couple of minor injuries. Wholesale slaughter, but really only because they were idiots, he thought.
Rick's group hurriedly moved down the streets, in a half-crouch, donning black and gray camouflage. Due to there not being a huge amount of weapons, or ammunition for that matter, they carried an assortment of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and submachine guns. For the most part, they each held one that they preferred or displayed aptitude with. In terms of organization, they were divided into five groups of ten, each with a squad leader. They were expected to act independently and make decisions on their own, if it was necessary.
He received another radio transmission, giving him rough estimates of enemy troop numbers. His slid the radio back into its pouch and clenched his jaw. This isn't going to be easy, he thought. Hopefully, Miguel's people didn't get caught with their pants too far down. As much as he hated to admit it, he would probably need their help.
His scouts reported in again, saying that the flow of soldiers out of Purgatory had appeared to have ceased, totaling about four hundred well-armed soldiers. Yep, definitely going to need their help. A couple dozen or so of them had remained behind to garrison the Escape building, and they appeared to be setting up for an extended stay.
Rick paused, considering his options. He called together his squad leaders for a quick conference. He always tried to keep an open policy with them, giving them every possible piece of information, and their insight was often valuable. He was unquestionably the leader, but he didn't operate with a tight fist.
After he finished speaking, there was quick, unanimous agreement about his proposed first objective. It would entail a delay in getting set up to help out Miguel's forces, and it involved a great deal of risk. If they succeeded, they could do a great deal of damage to the enemy's position.
When they finished speaking, they started down the street again. He radioed to his scouts, and told them get into position to hit Purgatory.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
The real Elijah sat in his room. He had briefly tried to get some sleep, but as soon as the radio calls came in reporting Citizen troop movement, he sprang up and listened to the back and forth chatter. He had very little experience in tactics or strategy, so he remained silent, just listening. When he heard the report of the size of the incoming force, he started to pace back and forth, hands trembling.
This continued for some time until he finally sat down, cradling his head in his hands. He took several breaths and thought once again of his goal. He clenched his teeth again as he thought of the bastard Lange, who they called Citizen One. He has to still be alive. He wouldn't just let himself expire from old age.
Tears welled up in his eyes; he shook his head, clearing it. This is the only way, he thought.
Victor had gone. They agreed that, when it became necessary, that someone would have to go into the outside world. In spite of Elijah's protests, Victor insisted that it be him. Being potentially close to the line of fire from Citizens and ambitious individuals alike, Victor falling wouldn't be as devastating, as Elijah could then step in. In addition, with everyone thinking that Elijah was out and about, the real one didn't have much use for a bodyguard. He's also worried about my health, Elijah thought. He doesn't think I have the strength to see this through.
Victor immediately left when the pair of Sergei's people arrived, bringing with them the suggestion of unification that was intended. Given the chance, Victor intended to negotiate with everyone representing people in down below for an alliance. With his powerful presence and piercing charisma, as well as what would hopefully be a demonstration of military might, it was doubtful that Victor would fail. Elijah winced. Assuming enough of us survive tonight to make a difference, he thought.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee waited in a small flat, what she assumed was one of many of Miguel's many places of personal residence, located several stories above the bottom-level bars and clubs of Heavenly Bodies in the same structure, used for guests to stay in for however long they desired or could afford. The accommodations seemed to have suffered a little since the occupation; she sat on a hideous brown couch, fairly comfortable. Aesthetically, however, it featured off-white, dull red, and other various brown in thin strips. You'd think he'd get something a little more appealing, she thought.
Miguel had left to tend to some business and meet with a few of his higher-ups. Two well-muscled thugs stood outside, guarding the room, and bars blocked the windows making sure she couldn't leave by that route either. She was four floors up anyway, and the fire escape had been torn out for scrap metal years ago. She sensed that he brought a lot of his girls here. There's really no escape, she thought with a shudder.
She had taken a while to search the place. On the left of the entrance, the kitchen was partially concealed by a short section of wall with two openings, one that lead to the entryway, and the other that came out into the living room area.
Miguel was an arrogant man, some would say fearless. Kaylee thought he was just plain dumb. On the kitchen counter sat a knife block containing a dozen sharp implements. Kaylee had already taken one of the longer ones and snapped off a section of blade. She then stuck the handle back into the block as though nothing was amiss. She wrapped the sharp edge in a few layers of thick medical tape she found in a first aid kit under the sink to create makeshift grip. She hid the blade under the pillow in the bedroom. She grimaced at the thought of being in there with Miguel but assumed that he would give her little choice in the matter.
The concealed weapon made her feel better. If I can surprise him, she thought, I might have a chance. As much as she hated to admit it, the bedroom was the place that he'd likely let his guard down the most. She knew one thing for certain; she would either kill him or die trying.
So she waited, patiently, on the couch, for him to return, wondering how far she had to let him go before he'd let his guard down enough. She shuddered again.
She walked around the flat again, checking and rechecking her concealed weapon. She moved a few pieces of furniture in the main living space, adjacent to the hallway. She found a bottle of oil in the cupboard and unscrewed the cap, setting it on the ground just around the corner to the tile floor in the kitchen, easy to kick over. She pulled out a few chairs around the small kitchen table.
She set the entire house up to have as many places to trip up and fall over as possible, carefully memorizing each one in case she needed to use them to her advantage. With all of her preparation, she almost felt as though she stood a chance against him. He may be cruel, brutal, heartless, selfish, narcissistic, and arrogant, she thought, but he seems to be constantly alert. I just need to find a good moment.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Rick had four expert snipers at various positions looking at a few different angles into Purgatory. They counted around thirty men total, eight standing guard outside, one on a mounted heavy machine gun. The men outside would be easy to take care of, but he didn't know if those inside would run away, dig in, or come outside to assist their fallen comrades. He didn't intend to give them a chance to do anything at all.
He pulled up his heavy weapons team. They carried a machine gun with bipod, and a grenade launcher. He hated to spend what little explosive ammunition they carried. They possessed five rounds for the launcher and even fewer hand grenades, but Rick quickly decided it necessary: the effect of firing it into a smallish space like the lobby would be devastating. "We just have to get close enough to use it without getting sliced in half by that MG." He muttered.
Rick's squad leaders returned to their groups and dispensed orders. Rick whispered into his radio, giving the snipers their instructions, he watched through his binoculars. The enemy soldiers were strolling around out in front. They looked to be somewhat bored, not paying a whole lot of attention.
This is almost sad, Rick thought, they'll never know what hit 'em.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Out in front of the Citizen's Escape building, designated Alpha Base, several soldiers peered out into the darkness. Their floodlights gave enough illumination to see as far as the memorial fountain.
The soldiers milled around both inside and out, expecting that this location was going to be the light duty. From what it had sounded like, most of the enemy forces capable of fighting were the objective, miles away. Nothing to do at Alpha Base except relax and make sure the techies set everything up.
The soldiers couldn't see much further than the fountain, even with the pale street lamps shining in the street. One of them squinted, thinking he saw something moving around a distance away. He took a few steps out, peering.
The bullet passed at a downward angle just above the right side of his brow, exiting out the back of his neck. He died instantly, falling to the ground as the echoing crack of a rifle report filled the air. The other seven men jumped to attention when they heard the sound and saw their man falling, shouting and frantically looking around. Three more of them fell to fatal head injuries, blood pooling inside their defensive border. One of the men started gasping and screaming as he tried to run for cover, cut-off abruptly by the next shot. The final few fell within moments, their twitching bodies joining the other dead men just outside the building.
Through his binoculars, Rick could see a flurry of action within the Escape as a several men ran to investigate the screams and gunshots. A couple of soldiers foolish enough to move by windows or peek outside fell just as quickly. Soon, it appeared no one inside was willing to try any further. He gave a quick hand motion.
The heavy weapons team sprinted forward to the fountain, throwing the bipod open and mounting the machine gun. They pulled the string of rounds out of the underside ammunition box, feeding it into the weapon.
The machine gun roared to life, pounding dozens of rounds into the building and filling the air with the deafening chatter, chipping huge divots into the wall surrounding and shattering what few shards of window remained.
The man holding the grenade launcher, an M-79, crossed half the distance to the Escape, and with a light plunk, he sent a 40mm high explosive grenade directly into the Escape. A deafening explosion filled the air along with the sounds of screaming men and a billow of smoke and debris.
Rick and the rest sprinted forward. Under the cover of the suppressive fire of the machine gun, they took up positions along either side of the entrance. He held up his hand and made a quick gesture with his hand; the firing ceased. Another hand motion and they moved in, pouring in on either side of the entrance.
Several soldiers were already on the ground, bleeding heavily from shrapnel wounds and moaning in pain. Other soldiers were starting to pick themselves up, and several technicians, those who were still alive and conscious, whimpered and cowered on the ground. Rick fired his sidearm handgun several times, a large .45. Well-placed shots sent lethal rounds into enemy soldiers, who, too disoriented or wounded, didn't fire back.
The rest of his men cut through the room with surgical precision, cleaning up all of the remaining soldiers inside Purgatory. Unconscious and cowering men alike, all were dispatched in short order, save for a couple of surviving technicians who were spared. When the area was secure, Rick holstered his weapon and addressed the prisoners.
"Listen up!" He barked, causing them to jump. "You've been left alive for one simple reason! You are to use those nice, little radios of yours to relay whatever information we tell you to!" He pulled his weapon again and placed the barrel at one man's forehead. The others gasped, and the man went pale, swallowing hard. "If you refuse, if you hesitate, if you try to be clever and try to tip them off, if you do anything even the slightest bit suspicious... these fine men will kill you without a second thought." He reholstered his weapon, motioning towards the few people he planned to leave behind as guards. "If you behave, I promise that no harm will come to you by any of us, ever. Understand?"
Shakily, each one of the techs nodded before being directed to gather up the still-working radio equipment; a lot had been damaged beyond repair. What hadn't been set-up still lay in boxes near the elevator, shielded from the shrapnel by tables and people. The techs gathered up the equipment and were quickly herded out of the building to a new, nearby location.
A few of Rick's people gathered the bodies and moved them out behind the building, just inside the Escape compound. Rick checked his watch, apprehensive, as a few other men cleaned up the room and unloaded some of their own equipment. He had a surprise in mind in case any groups of soldiers came running back this way.
One objective down, Rick thought, as his people filed down the narrow street. It'll help later on, but only if we manage to drive the bastards out. He glanced at his watch again and winced. Miguel's forces had to already be fighting.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Quiet as a whisper, Malcolm slipped past the milling group of Citizen soldiers, who appeared to be waiting for something. From what Malcolm could see, they had moved to this point undetected by Miguel's forces. Aside from passing by several bodies on the way, there had been no noise or visual signs of any real struggling.
He passed through the shadows, sliding a few feet behind a guard on watch, and slipped down an alleyway that was void of any activity. Foregoing silence for a moment, he sprinted through it, and was finally through the loosely guarded border. He continued for several blocks, moving towards where he thought Kaylee had been taken.
Finally, Malcolm came to a clearly occupied building with huge neon lights glowing in the darkness. The sign read "Heavenly Bodies." He stared at it for a moment, trying to decipher the meaning, but he disregarded it as unimportant. He could see numerous men carrying weapons and walking about, coming and going out of a few buildings adjacent and across the street from the club. By their lack of concern or preparation, a part of his brain assumed they were unaware of what he assumed was a coming assault. The corner of the large club, along with an entrance that cut into the building with a wide staircase, was hedged off. The flattened corner rose up the entire length of the building, translating into windows on some floors.
As he looked the structure up and down, he noticed that, a few stories up, lights were on, showing through a few of the windows on one of the floors, completely isolated. He slipped his cloth face covering aside, trying to find Kaylee's scent once again.
The smells of dozens, hundreds of sweaty, dirty men wrapped in tobacco and liquor washed over him, along with various other ones. Concentrating for several moments, he finally picked out her lingering presence. He could tell that she'd been through the square a few times, but he couldn't quite detect, from where he stood, which building she was in and couldn't investigate further without being seen.
Scooping up a small chunk of crumbled rubble, Malcolm cast it in the direction of one of the men walking around, far off to the left side of the square. The man gave a yell of pain as the piece struck the back of his thigh hard enough to rip the cloth and draw blood. Soon after, the man started a loud commotion of angry accusation and lewd insults, limping towards someone else.
Most of the other men in the square took notice of the disturbance, walking towards it as a small scuffle broke out. Malcolm took the opportunity of distraction to run off to the right, through some well-lit portions of the square. He was only a short distance away from the Heavenly Bodies building, next to one he could see was called the Dungeon. He detected a particularly foul aroma emanating from that place.
Kaylee's scent lingered, but it seemed to be traveling away from the building and not inside it. He was glad. Something about the building, not just the disturbing stench, was unnerving, but at least he could now reasonably guess that Kaylee was being kept in the other place, with the neon sign.
Still emboldened by the successful distraction, which had escalated to a brawl between the two individuals but was now being broken up, Malcolm cut across another narrow street to the tall structure of the club. He heard a yell, quite close to him, as he passed again into the shadows. As silently as possible, he sprinted away from the square down the street, unsure if it had been directed at him. After a distance he turned back and watched; no one came looking for him. Satisfied that he was not being pursued, he resumed looking for other ways into the building. It appeared as though most of the windows were barred, and no fire escapes were present.
He moved into the alleyway behind the building. There wasn't anyone to be seen, but he did discover a locked back door. He threw himself against it, trying to break it down, but the door was thick and sturdy enough to do no more than shudder and groan. He stopped for a moment, looking around again.
He was startled when, after a quiet click, the door was thrown open, and a largish man was staring at him open-mouthed. The guard pulled his pistol from a shoulder holster, but Malcolm's hand shot out and snatched the weapon. The man barely had time to look down and notice he no longer held his gun before, with his other hand, Malcolm seized the man's outstretched wrist. In a swift motion, Malcolm yanked the man with overwhelming strength, ducking down underneath and throwing him overhead.
Eyes wide and mouth gaping with a surprised yell escaping his throat, the man sailed through the air, ramming into the alley wall face-first with a loud crunch. He flopped to the ground, unmoving.
Without hesitation Malcolm walked into the building. Immediately on his right was a staircase upward, which he took. He didn't exactly know where he was planning on going, but Kaylee had to be in here somewhere. He was going to find her.
Captain Wayne Redgick stood in a large command center, designated Gamma Base, set up two miles southeast of the Heavenly Bodies club. He had several men running radios, keeping constant communication back and forth between the various squads of men getting into position. Redgick had full authority over the Citizenship forces stationed under Haven.
During their progression to this point, his people had eliminated more than two dozen of Miguel's men on patrol quietly and without incident. He now had two main groups of over one hundred and fifty men each, surrounding the northwestern corner where Heavenly Bodies lay, ready to strike from the east and south streets.
To his knowledge, there had been no communication back to Miguel or any of his people, so the strike would come completely by surprise. He had them completely boxed in on all sides, and with a word, he could send his men in to make short, bloody work of the entire area.
He held his radio up to his mouth, engaged it on the wide channel, communicating with all of the waiting forces. He said, "This is Captain Redgick, you are ordered to commence the strike on the objective 'Heavenly Bodies.' Code: Echo-One-Three-Six. Take prisoners if possible, dispatch when necessary." He paused, releasing his finger from the button, thinking. "Use caution, and be vigilant." He added. He put the radio back into its cradle.
About thirty soldiers remained behind at the command post for defense and coordination of the assault. Captain Redgick took a walk out of the garrisoned building, what used to be a large liquor store. Everything had been stripped out of it, making it a hollow empty shell, a perfect space for tables, bundles of radio equipment, maps, and spare supplies. He strolled around the outside, supervising the set up. He paced back and forth, waiting for news.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Out of mostly sheer boredom, Kaylee had continued her search of the small flat. In the bedroom she found an assortment of women's clothing, further cementing her notion that she was not the first one brought here. As she looked through the clothing, she found a small sundress.
Thinking it could put Miguel off-guard, and admittedly just a little curious to see herself in a different light, she put it on. It was a tight fit; if she had eaten three decent meals a day for a month she probably wouldn't have been able to squeeze into it. Perhaps it was some innate feminine sense or just obvious aesthetic choices, but she felt very strange wearing dirty black tennis shoes with the dress, so she went barefoot, enjoying the feel of soft carpet on her skin. She looked in the full-length bedroom mirror, lightly enjoying her appearance.
She used the bathroom and discovered that the plumbing was nonfunctional. This didn't really surprise her much, only a few places in Elijah's district had working plumbing. It took a lot of work to manage, and only a couple of people had any idea how to do it. Miguel probably just had someone come and clean it out for him when it was used. In the nonfunctioning refrigerator was a pitcher of stale, lukewarm water. She drank a little and damped a cloth, using it to wipe away some of the dirt and grime from her face.
She once again found herself bored, sitting on the couch. She was considering standing up and taking a fifth look around the place. Or was it the sixth? She was pondering this question when the door banged open.
She jumped to her feet, slightly startled, and the pungent aroma of too much cologne applied too recently wafted into the room. Miguel stood in the doorway. In his arm he cradled a bottle of wine or champagne; Kaylee couldn't tell the difference at first glance. When he saw her his mouth dropped open a little. Slowly, a wide grin spread across his face as he drank in the sight.
He appeared to have cleaned up entirely. He was wearing what appeared to be a clean, button-down, silk shirt and white khaki pants, free of bloodstains. His collar and a couple of buttons were undone, revealing a little of his smooth chest, with his signature pendant around his neck. Kaylee was surprised to find that she found herself just slightly attracted to him. It caused her little concern, however, because the repulsion from his hideous cruelty was much stronger.
Settling into her role, Kaylee tried to give him a modest smile which looked like more of a grimace, feeling like a piece of meat under his intense gaze. She folded her arms under her chest, uncomfortable and self-conscious. She kept herself from giving an involuntary shudder as he remained in the doorway, staring at her. In the hallway, she could see the two large men flanking the door, facing outward. Part of her screamed to duck past them and run away, but a larger part commanded her to stay out of some sense of duty. Not that I could get past them anyway, she thought.
Miguel finally snapped out of his spell and closed the door with a loud thud. He rushed forward, dropping the unopened bottle on the carpet and swooping in to grab Kaylee. She let out a yelp as his arms encircled her waist and his face moved inches away from hers. She tried to move away, but he pulled her close, grinning at her.
He whispered, "I see what's going on here, my lovely little dove."
Kaylee's heart skipped a beat and a cold wave of anxiety swept through her body. Trying to maintain her composure, she said in a tiny voice, "Wh-what do you mean?"
His wide, hungry smile remained, and he said, "I felt it the very moment I laid eyes on you, and I knew... I just knew... that you felt it too."
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she played along anyway, "Of... yes, of course," she said with a nervous smile. In spite of living in and around a theatre building, acting was not one of her strong suits.
Miguel was too deep in his reverie to notice anything. "Absolutely perfect. What a lovely creature you are." He held her close, and she could feel his warmth. "You were meant to be with me," he actually sounded somewhat sincere.
"M-Miguel..." she whispered his name as he caressed the side of her neck. It filled her with a warm, tingling sensation. Internally, she cursed her body for responding to his touch.
"But let us not be too hasty, yes?" He said, suddenly releasing her. From their positioning, the unexpected change caused her to lose her balance and nearly fall. He didn't notice, scooping up the bottle from the ground and carrying it into the kitchen. She could her him clattering around, pulling wine glasses from the cupboards as he called out, "This wine, it is very rare and valuable." She heard a pop as the cork came loose. "You remember our friend, Nigel?"
Kaylee couldn't help but shudder as she remembered the bloody, stinking mess of the cell. Miguel walked in with two glasses filled with a dark red liquid and the bottle, recorked, tucked in the crook of his arm. "Once captured, he was quick to reveal exactly where it was that he descended from." He handed her a glass, which she took. "I sent some people in, and they brought a few nice little luxuries back." He gave a light laugh. "A shame they couldn't bring a little sunlight with them, no?"
He handed her the bottle. The label was written in a language she couldn't comprehend or even identify. She looked it over, turning it in her hands and feeling its weight. She briefly contemplated hitting Miguel with it, but decided to wait for a better moment and better weapon. She didn't think she'd be able to swing it fast enough, and he was not taking his eyes off of her.
"So, he just left it open? Where was it?" Kaylee asked, curious, as she passed the wine bottle back to him. She figured knowledge of an access point to the surface would be useful, especially if the Citizens didn't know about it.
"He broke through a sealed off section of the condominium buildings on the mid-southern section of the city." He said, turning his back to set the bottle on the table. Kaylee cursed silently at the missed opportunity of his diverted attention.
She did, however, know the location of which he spoke. Fancy, expensive housing had existed along the mid-southern edge of the valley, used by the wealthy before Citizenship established itself. It was pretty far away from the Escape. It became another good place for salvaging materials, so not very many people inhabited it.
Miguel turned back and held up his glass. "A toast. To you, my dear, and to us." Kaylee could barely keep herself from rolling her eyes as she clinked glasses with him. She took a small sip. It was rich and bold, a dry wine. She didn't like it. Still, she smiled at Miguel after taking another drink. He walked over and sat on the couch, motioning for her to follow.
She complied, sitting a foot or so away, facing him. He didn't say anything, just watched her, occasionally taking a drink of wine. Kaylee drained her glass and set it on a small coffee table, looking at him expectantly. He set his glass on the table, and inched closer to her, putting his arm around her shoulder and coming in close.
Kaylee stood up and moved out of his reach, walking towards the bay window and looking outside. She tilted her head slightly, seeing Miguel's facial expression mix of bewilderment and frustration at her sudden retreat. She gave a tiny smirk as she gazed out the window.
The corner of the apartment featured a bay window, full view of the square below. She stood there, watching the milling of Miguel's various people.
She heard Miguel standing and moving towards her. He came up on her left, putting his hand on her waist. She turned towards him. His expression was empty, almost solemn. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. With a sudden motion, he pulled her in and kissed her, passionately, on the mouth.
Her eyes popped wide at the advance and she pulled back, giving him a shove backward. She pulled her hand back and slapped him in the face. Miguel held a surprised mingling with furious expression as a bright red mark rose on his cheek.
Panicking, Kaylee remembered what Victor told him about Miguel's reactions to attacks on his face. Worrying about what how he might respond, Kaylee leapt forward, planting her lips on his.
Miguel let out muffled cry of surprise as he was shoved backward into the wall by the force of her charge. Yet as she kissed him, his eyes slid shut as his anger melted away, getting exactly what he desired. Kaylee winced slightly as he pulled her, roughly, close to him.
They broke away from each other. Kaylee let out a yelp as Miguel swooped down and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder, carrying her through the living room. As he passed the coffee table, he stumbled slightly, knocking into the coffee table. His half-full glass of wine tumbled over and spilled onto the carpet.
Oblivious to the permanent red stain he was leaving behind, he carried Kaylee through the hallway into the bedroom, tossing her unceremoniously onto the bed. She flopped down on her back, sidling up and resting her head on the pillow. She reached her arms back behind her, faking a stretch as she felt underneath it for her concealed weapon. She was reassured to find it still there.
Miguel stood at the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He watched her with a desperate lust in his eyes, fumbling with the buttons. Not meaning to, she gave a wicked smile when she noticed his frantic behavior. If ever there was a time when his guard was down, it would be now. He, of course, misinterpreted her smile as a craving desire and tried to hurry his efforts
He finally managed to unfasten the last button on his shirt and pulled it off, jumping forward on top of Kaylee. He leaned in close and kissed her again; she pretended once more to enjoy it. His hands ran up and down her body, lingering at certain areas and curves. She put all of her effort into not tensing or shuddering.
As they kissed, Kaylee once more reached up behind her, ready to seize the moment. Her hand slid around the blade. She curled her fist around the makeshift grip she had made, tensing her body, ready to strike. Now or never, she thought. As she inched the knife around the pillow, there was a noise.
A chatter, like the sound of weapons fire. It was slightly distant and muffled, but unmistakeable. Kaylee released the knife, hoping it was out of view as Miguel raised himself up, kneeling on the bed. A look of suspicious concern crossed his face as he held that positioning, listening. The chatter of gunfire repeated itself, this time clearer. He sprang from the bed and ran out of the room, not bothering to grab his shirt. Kaylee jumped up and followed after him, pausing only to readjust the knife to be certain it was still properly hidden.
He was already to the bay window when she emerged out into the living room, a deep scowl spread across his face. She came over beside him and looked. She saw dozens of Miguel's mercenaries running off in various directions away from the club, and she could hear indistinct shouting back and forth between them, shaky attempts at mobilizing strategic groups as they moved towards the source of the now fairly constant gunfire.
"What's going on?" Kaylee asked innocently. Miguel didn't respond; he just continued glaring out of the window, concern seeping into the corners of his scowling face.
Kaylee walked over to the end table, her foot kicking the wine glass that had tumbled to the ground and getting wet with the spilled wine. She picked up the half-full wine bottle, gripping it in her hands as she moved back towards Miguel. She held the neck in both hands, like a stunted, thick baseball bat. She tensed once more, ready to swing as there came a loud rattling of the knob, followed by a rapid knock on the locked door, followed by a frantic-sounding, "Mr. Miguel? Are you there? Something has happened!" She spun around, hiding the bottle behind her as Miguel snapped his attention to the entrance.
He stood, saying nothing for a moment as though paralyzed by indecision. He finally shouted, "One moment!" He moved away from the window, navigating around the coffee table towards the door. He hissed to himself, "Someone is going to pay for this indiscretion."
Kaylee started to panic. She knew if he had his bodyguards inside, she'd never have a prayer of doing anything to him, and who knows if he'd be killed or not in the assault. He probably wouldn't take any risks. Her thoughts raced and she was convinced that he'd never be out of the way unless she did something at that very moment. It really is now or never, she thought.
She cursed herself for not grabbing the knife, but there wasn't time enough to go get it. His back was turned, and he had almost reached the door; she ran forward, swinging the bottle wildly with both hands.
With a hollow thunk! the makeshift club collided with the back of Miguel's skull. He gave an angry yell and staggered forward, thumping into the door and dropping to his hands and knees on the ground.
Kaylee moved forward, as though in slow motion, hearing the rattle of the doorknob and the frantic knocking, accompanied by the yelling of, "What's going on? Are you all right?"
She positioned herself next to Miguel, who remained bent over. She raised the bottle over head, ready to smash in his skull with it. Miguel threw out a hand, shoving Kaylee away. Surprised by his quick motion, she stumbled backwards, dropping the bottle onto the carpet. She tripped, falling just inside the kitchen. She scrambled to her feet as Miguel clamored shakily to his. She stared for at him for a moment as he held his hand to the back of his head, fingers coming away bloody.
He turned towards her, his face a mask of livid rage. He breathed hard, but she could see that, past the fury, his eyes were slightly glazed and unfocused. She put herself into a boxer's stance, weight distributed evenly on the balls of her feet, hands out in front of her. She backed away as he stood, half-hunched, staring at her and sucking air in and out.
He finally moved. As he sluggishly stooped to pick up the wine bottle, she hooked her foot around the plastic container of oil and kicked it over. He started moving towards her, white-knuckled grip on the bottle, eyes filled with hate. He didn't say anything, and didn't appear to notice the slick liquid spreading over the tile as he brandished the bottle in one hand. Kaylee backed away, wincing as her eye caught the knife block that Miguel now stood within feet of. God, why am I such an idiot, she thought desperately.
Luckily, he didn't notice it either; he passed by it without taking his eyes off of Kaylee. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking for some other weapon, not seeing anything she could use. The frantic pounding on the door ceased; instead now a steady, heavy rhythm of the outside bodyguards throwing themselves against it, still shouting, could be heard. It was ignored by the occupants.
Miguel sprang forward, swinging the bottle towards her. Kaylee let out a short cry and tried to dodge out of the way. As he neared, his foot slipped on the slick, oil-coated linoleum. He flailed his open hand around, trying to catch his balance. His swing went wild, sailing over Kaylee's head and smashing into the wall.
The bottle shattered, spraying wine and glass around, splattering all over Kaylee's back and head. She ducked into the living room, wine droplets trailing behind her. She heard the sounds of mild squeaking and loud cursing as Miguel continued slipping and trying to regain his balance. She heard a thud as he finally fell down. Kaylee hopped over the couch and snatched her empty wine glass. She struck the bowl of it on the coffee table; it shattered, leaving the base with a sharp stem. She whirled around, gripping the small weapon in her fist.
Miguel had already scrambled to his feet, charging forward. His shirtless body was splattered with wine and bits of glass. His right side was scored and bleeding, slick with oil and sporting dozens of tiny cuts where he had fallen into the broken bottle pieces. Kaylee could see that he also cut his feet, through his thin socks, on the fallen glass and was tracking fresh blood onto the carpet of the living room.
They stood, half-crouched, on either side of the couch, facing each other. "You filthy little cow." Miguel spat. "I could have given you everything! You could have been mine!"
Kaylee gave a wild grin. "What could you ever offer me you impotent son-of-a bitch?"
Miguel looked stricken, as though slapped. "Oh, what's wrong?" Kaylee jeered. "You thought I actually liked you?" She tossed her head back and laughed. "How could I? How could anyone?"
Miguel clenched his teeth, veins stood out on his neck and forehead. He held one hand out in front, jabbing his finger at her, "How dare you?! I am a gift! You should be so lucky to have one such as me!"
Kaylee laughed again, "Oh, but I could have." She mocked him. "I felt it the very moment I laid eyes on you."
Miguel let out a roar and leapt at her over the couch. She ducked underneath his outstretched arms and struck out wildly with the glass in her hand. She felt a light resistance, like a pin pushed into a piece of ripe fruit, as the sharp point punctured the skin of his shoulder and slid into his flesh with ease. He screamed in pain, a high-pitched wail resounding through the room as blood welled up and dripped on the floor inches away from the previous spill of wine.
He flinched hard with Kaylee gripping the base of the broken glass. Part of the stem snapped off under the torque, an inch or so remaining lodged in Miguel's shoulder. He cradled his shoulder and put on a mixed expression of pain, rage, and sorrow so piteous he looked as though he would start crying soon.
Kaylee gave a fierce roar and feinted a leap towards him, brandishing her now-tiny sharp piece of glass. Miguel cringed backwards and threw his arms up to defend his face, howling as the pain of the stab wound flared.
Kaylee took this opportunity of distraction to dash towards the hallway, intending to find another weapon. Miguel recovered from his cowardly display, growling. His anger and resolve became renewed by her trickery and flight. Gingerly, he used his thumb and forefinger to grip the cylindrical glass shard. With an agonizing lack of alacrity, he tugged at the piece. It slowly slid out of his shoulder, eliciting another wincing growl from him.
He cast it aside, hearing the slight tinkle of breaking glass as it shattered on the wall. He stepped around the coffee table and moved cautiously out into the hallway.
"Come out, girl. You cannot hide from me." He called out, softly.
There came no answer.
"Stop this foolish game. Come out, now."
There was a thump at the door again, harder. Miguel could hear the definite sound of cracking wood as the jamb began to give way. He smiled to himself. "Do you hear that? When they get inside, they will kill you," He ran his bloody hand through his hair, "If you come out, I could be lenient. Or I could open the door and just let them in." He started to make a half turn towards the entrance.
An indistinct and incoherent, muffled shout came from outside the flat. Miguel heard the soft scuff of bare feet on carpet as Kaylee moved within the bedroom. He crept forward, looking through the open door. He didn't see her but guessed she was standing just to the right of the door, waiting to pounce and expecting him to be disoriented and off-guard. He didn't notice that the pounding at the door had ceased, nor did he hear one of his men cry out, "Oh God!"
"This is your final chance. Reveal yourself and you will be treated fairly." Not even giving her a chance to respond, he jumped around the corner. As he came into the room, she let out a battle cry and swung a heavy lamp at him.
Miguel easily ducked and grabbed her wrists, ignoring the shredding pain in his shoulder. He yanked her arms apart, causing the lamp to drop harmlessly to the floor. Kaylee struggled, but he held her firm. She tried kicking at him, but he twisted to the side, easily avoiding her strikes. He moved his face close to hers, grinning at her.
Kaylee spat in his face. He stepped back, stunned. Then, with surprising force he slapped her with an open palm. Face stinging and vision blurred, she was flung to the side, stumbling over and falling onto the bed. She whirled around, but in less than a moment he was on her, and her arms and legs were pinned.
A triumphant look crossed Miguel's eyes as he considered his positioning; he grinned wickedly. Kaylee flailed about in an effort to throw him off of her, but he held fast. Still pinning her wrists up over her head, he swooped in and kissed her neck, biting down almost hard enough to draw blood. She snarled and thrashed her head; he jerked back before she could hit him.
He chuckled down at her. He released one of her hands, far too tempted by his impure thoughts. She struck him, pounded against him, but she couldn't provide enough force to even phase his advances. She tried to reach over and strike at his injured shoulder, but he twisted away again. She clawed at his skin, pounded at his scratches and bruises, but it didn't seem to bother him. His free hand roamed across her body. She shuddered as a wave of revulsion spread over her when he caressed the bare skin of her legs, sliding his hand up her dress.
Panicking once more, she flailed and thrashed her body around. She used her free hand to fend off Miguel's, which pushed up at the fabric of her dress, exposing more of her bare skin. She pulled her other arm free and scratched at his face, drawing blood as she tried to reach his eyes. He unclasped his belt with one hand, pulling it free. He held a length of it and lashed her, across the bare skin of her thigh.
A loud slap echoed through the room and Kaylee gasped at the sharp pain, pausing her resistance in a moment of shock. Miguel took the moment to loop the belt around her wrists and pull it tight. With her wrists bound together, he held them against the headboard with one hand and continued roaming around with his other hand. Kaylee bared her teeth and growled.
Miguel looked back up at her, catching her eye and smiling. He leaned in close, inches away from her. "Now you will see, my dear," he whispered in her ear, "Even with your poor attitude, I can still be generous to one like you," he caressed the side of her face, pulling his hand back when Kaylee snapped at it with her teeth. "Soon, you will understand what a gift I can be. Then you will beg me," he licked his lips, "you will beg me not to stop."
A detached calm settled over Kaylee's mind as Miguel turned his attention downward again, and she ceased her struggling against him. He fumbled awkwardly with his free hand at his trousers. The grip of his injured, likely very painful, arm loosened on her bound wrists, and the unfastened belt slipped.
Kaylee looked up, passive expression on her face as she noted the slackened grip on her wrists. As Miguel's attention still lay elsewhere, Kaylee pulled her wrists apart, and the belt loosened further. In a quick motion she slid her right hand free once more. Her arm shot underneath the pillow, gripping the knife that still lay underneath.
Miguel glanced back at Kaylee with just enough time to see a mote of light from the hallway glinting off of the stainless steel blade of the knife. Just enough time for his eyes to widen and a cold chill to sweep through his body as the blade jammed into the side of his neck.
He released a raspy, gurgling scream and a jot of blood sprayed from his mouth down onto Kaylee. He jumped up and stumbled out of the room, leaving a bloody handprint on the doorframe as he exited. Kaylee pulled the belt off of her remaining hand and flung it aside. She jumped to her feet, and, after hastily straightening the dress, ran out in pursuit.
Miguel had fallen down and was feebly crawling away, leaving a smeared trail of blood on the carpet as he went. Finally, as he reached the edge of the couch, he turned around and sat against it, collapsing as the strength and life flowed out of the wound. Wet gasping noises issued from his throat.
Kaylee felt a grim satisfaction as she watched his struggle; she walked to the couch and stood over him. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with fear, as he sputtered and gurgled. He opened his mouth and gave a pathetic cough, unable to speak, clutching at his bleeding throat, knife still imbedded deep within it.
She watched him, as he lay dying, with a slight sneer curling on her face. Finally, with short, sharp gurgling gasps, Miguel's eyes slid out of focus, and his hand fell to the ground. After a couple of twitches, he did not move any further. Kaylee stared at him, vaguely aware of the sounds of muffled thuds and activity out in the hallway, not caring about what the guards would do to her when they saw what she had done to their leader. She had succeeded. Elijah would be proud of her.
The door burst open with the sound of splintering wood as the jamb shattered. Kaylee spun around just in time to see the upside down body of a large man in a suit flying through the air and flopping to the ground, at her feet.
In the doorway stood a familiar figure. He wore several layers of clothing across his body and a large trench coat. Across his face he wore a loose wrapping of cloth and scarves, and atop his head laid a battered, wide-brimmed hat.
They stared at each other across the short distance. Malcolm's eyes, with the swirling hints of color set in milky white, narrowed as he saw the body of Miguel.
A lump formed in Kaylee's throat as she stood there, once again battered, exhausted, and bloody. And triumphant, she thought. Much to Malcolm's surprise, she jumped forward and flung her arms around him, hugging him tightly. His arms flailed around briefly, unsure of what to do before settling awkwardly around her shoulders. He stood, moderately uncomfortable, as she sobbed lightly into his shoulder.
She broke away from him, eyes still wet from the flood of tears, "Thank you." She whispered.
Malcolm nodded. A grating, hoarse noise issued forth from him, a sound like a man with half of a lung clearing his throat. "Hkhwellcomm." Came the reply
Kaylee smiled, comforted more by his presence than his conversation ability. After another quick hug, the distant, constant chatter of weapons fire brought back the desperate circumstances outside to the front of her mind. She ran over to the window. She could still see a few vague shapes running around. In the distance, a few blocks away, down the street running off to the right of the club, Kaylee could see forms of men. Some twisted bodies were lying in the street, unmoving. Others were taking cover against the cold and half-broken brick walls, jumping out occasionally to fire their weapons. Several of them pulled back, ducking swiftly around cover as they fled.
They looked like they were being driven back. Cold apprehension swept over Kaylee. She glanced off to the left, seeing the street fairly empty, a few men sprinting with their various weapons in that direction. She frowned.
She jumped slightly when she noticed that Malcolm, without a sound, moved to her side, also looking out the window. He didn't appear to be concerned about startling her; he silently watched out the window.
Kaylee looked down at herself. She still wore the dress, although now it was disheveled, wrinkled, and smeared with Miguel's blood. She straightened out the hem and twisted the fabric around until it sat properly. She frowned; it's so impractical, why am I still wearing it?
She looked outside once more; at a loss for what to do. She shrugged. It's safer in here than out there, she thought. Until we figure out what we're doing.
Victor smiled; the icy cold of his blue eyes thawed slightly with the warmth and sincerity behind it. Not that it mattered; the size, imposing nature, calming voice, and easy speaking of the large bald man still made Sergei feel on edge.
"I am certain, my new friend, that you understand the urgency of the situation," Victor said, "but we need to get moving right away. The Citizenship has already begun to siege the red-light district. Miguel's forces total nearly one-third of the population under Haven," his smile faded, replaced by a grim demeanor, "you understand that we can't waste the asset. The longer we wait, the fewer there will be left."
Sergei wiped the cold sweat from his brow. "Yes, I see that. I... I am concerned about committing what little army I have to the fighting," he frowned, "if there are as many Citizen soldiers there as you say, I see adding what few men I have doing little good. I do enjoy a good fight, but won't this be a massacre?"
Sergei had been struck with surprise when Eugene and Tanya had returned so promptly with such profound success. To his mind, Elijah would have been much more elusive to discover. When they told him that not only was he found, but politely standing outside with his small entourage, waiting to be invited inside the warehouse building, Sergei thought their brains addled.
Surprised though he was, Sergei was not put so far off balance that he was going to immediately agree with anything. When the huge man came inside, his imposing presence and reputation made Sergei feel distrustful, no matter how sound his proposal was. I wanted an alliance, but to launch an attack, right now?
Victor sighed inwardly, keenly recalling his distaste for diplomacy. On the outside, he maintained the picture of perfect calm and confidence. "Sergei, my friend. My people are soon going to be working very hard to expel the remaining Citizens, but they are outnumbered eight to one."
Sergei nodded seriously, as though this proved him right. "However," Victor continued, "they are accustomed to long odds. The Citizens are on unfamiliar terrain, and they will have their backs to us. If we strike hard, and fast, they will be completely off-guard." Victor laid a hand on Sergei's shoulder, "I've received word that my men have taken the fortifications at Purgatory, without any losses. The Citizen forces are cut off from the surface and completely unaware of it. As soon as we move everyone in, we will be able to surround and crush them with little difficulty."
Sergei opened his mouth, an objection boiling on the tip of his tongue, but Victor held up his hand. "It is also important, as a symbol of our new alliance, for your people to be present at the victory." The way he said 'victory' sounded as though it was already a foregone conclusion. Sergei struggled in his own mind, resolve weakening. "Our alliance will make a strong case for Miguel's people to join, as well as the others." He ticked off a few names. "Quinton will certainly join, as will Desmond and Olivia. If we appear strong enough, Fredericks is sure to-"
Sergei shook his head, "Fredericks was killed by Miguel three months ago; all of his people scattered."
Victor frowned, "A shame."
"Terribly so, but I understand your thoughts on full unification, and," Sergei let out a heavy sigh, understanding that he had crossed over. "I believe," he said slowly, "that you are right, my friend. I think it is time that I put my trust in you. I will support your action." He turned and shouted over to someone behind a makeshift wall. "Gregov, Nalim, Piotr!" Two similar-looking men immediately rounded the corner and came jogging up. They wore dark jeans and brown jackets, and had M-16 assault rifles slung across their backs.
"Elijah, I would like you to meet my heads of security here." He gestured at each of them, both brown-haired, brown-eyed, with sharp features. "Gregov, Nalim, and Piotr." For the third man, Piotr, Sergei pointed to an empty space. Victor frowned as he noted Gregov and Nalim exchange exasperated glances.
Victor, thought the two could easily be brothers, if not for Nalim's slightly darker skin tone. He shook each of their hands in turn; the pair muttered quick greetings and turned their attention to Sergei.
He spoke quickly. "Pull together everyone capable of fighting, arm them, and get them mobilized. I want them ready to start moving in twenty minutes."
The two exchanged startled glances, and both men eyed "Elijah" warily, on the verge of objecting. Sergei waved them away, "This man is my guest and is to be trusted without question."
"Piotr," Sergei spoke to the empty space again. "I want you to find my weapon and a city map. We need to plan our attack.
Victor narrowed his eyes, not understanding. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on. Gregov and Nalim, who had not yet departed, gestured frantically for his silence. Victor raised an eyebrow at them but decided to hold his question.
Sergei finished his conversation with the invisible man, turning back towards everyone else. "What are you two still doing here?" He demanded of his heads of security. "Get moving!" The two gave him a nod, muttered a brief discussion, and took off in opposite directions, running to awaken some and inform others.
Sergei rubbed his chin. "I hope you know what you are doing my friend." He wagged his finger. "This is a large step for my people. To enter direct conflict."
Victor laid a large hand upon his shoulder. "Your wisdom led you to seek this beneficial arrangement." He cracked another smile. "With your help, we might pull this off and take the fight to the surface.
Sergei let a slightly dreamy smile seep across his face as he considered the possibility. "That would be nice." He nodded. "That would be very nice. Let us get to work, then." He gestured towards the outside.
"Rejoin your people; we will be prepared to move very soon." Sergei said before jogging off back through the main floor of the warehouse to the office rooms. Victor took just a moment of self-satisfactory pride in his success before turning and leaving the warehouse to rejoin his escort.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Malcolm sat on the couch in the flat where Kaylee had been held prisoner. He had spent the last twenty minutes rotating between it and the window, restless while waiting for her.
She had told him, once she had regained composure, that she wasn't sure what to do next. "I hadn't expected to survive, honestly." She had said.
Malcolm offered no suggestions as he did not really have the clearest idea of what was going on. Kaylee took a moment to fill him in on a few of the details, which he absorbed in silence. "Regardless," she had said, "I'm filthy and covered in that bastard's blood." She decided to mull over the options over during the course of a rudimentary cleanup.
After swigging some, she took the remaining stale water from the broken fridge and had gone into the bathroom to clean herself up as best she could. While he waited in the living room, Malcolm had moved the bodies to the outside. One of the guards, the man left outside, was dead, a product of over-application of strength. The other, used as a battering ram to the room, was unconscious, his breathing shallow. He had sustained such a serious head injury that his survival without intense and immediate care was unlikely, not that Malcolm knew it.
So he dumped them, and the late Miguel, into another empty suite across the hall. He wasn't sure if anyone would be coming up to investigate or not, but a stack of dying and dead bodies would be a bit of a giveaway.
He walked back over to the window, looking outside. The intermittent sounds of gunfire still filled the air, and from what it looked like, Miguel's forces had gotten pushed back even further. They barely now held the line just outside the square, several of them fell to the onslaught every minute of combat, and Malcolm could now see a few of the opposing soldiers. They were well-organized and took advantage of every opportunity to advance forward. They incurred losses every so often, but not nearly as many as the disorganized rabble that frequently featured some person turning tail and running off.
This occurred less and less because it tended to expose them more, and very few of them made it away before they were targeted and taken down. What surprised him is that several Miguel's downed men appeared to be still alive.
An image flared through Malcolm's mind. He saw a shirtless man lying on a table, his body bruised and battered. A tube ran into his arm connected to a plastic bag hooked up to a metal stand with wheels. Clear fluid filled the bag, which in turn seeped into the man's arm. Another image flashed before him, of the same man's face, eyes and ears covered by an apparatus. Slack-jawed, the color in the person's face faded as he twitched back and forth, tired, beaten, and terrified.
He shook his head, clearing the confusing images from his mind. He still didn't know where they kept coming from or what exactly they meant. Watching out the window, he saw a cloud of white vapor envelop the edge of the square. He could see several of Miguel's men burst out of mist gagging and coughing. They crawled around on their hands and knees, gasping for breath.
Kaylee came out and stood next to him. She had removed the dress and put on her old clothes. "Jesus," she whispered, "they're gassing them." The term clicked with something in Malcolm's mind, and he nodded.
Suddenly she remembered something. The transmitter. She reached inside the bottom hem of her sweatshirt and flipped it upward. She stuck her finger into a hole in the fabric, retrieving the small device from the crude hiding place. She used her fingernail to press a tiny switch on it, and a faint blinking light told her that it was working. Or at least functioning. Whether or not it was giving Rick her location, or if it was even a transmitter and not some piece of false hope, Kaylee didn't really know.
She stuffed the device in her pocket, hoping that it wouldn't lead some other sort of unseemly characters to her, as she looked outside again. The combat line around the square appeared to be crumbling, as many of Miguel's men had moved backward. The ever-closer rumble of gunfire suggested that some were setting up inside the slight overhang alcove which was a few floors beneath them.
Kaylee turned to Malcolm. "We should get out of here, but I don't know where to go. If they find us, we'll be killed or taken back with them." She looked back outside, grimacing.
They heard the sound of rapid footfalls outside, like the sound of someone running, and the door was thrown open. A single man entered, yelling an inquiring, "Miguel?" as he came inside, gasping for breath. He looked as though he'd been running for a while. He saw Kaylee and Malcolm standing by the window and confusion touched his face. "Who are..." His eyes slid around the room, noting the bloody trail on the carpet as well as various broken objects and even more blood, around the room. He slowly backed out of the room, eyes wide, and bolted down the hallway.
Without a word, Malcolm sprang forward, out of the room after him. Surprised, Kaylee started running as Malcolm burst into the hallway. Just as she reached the doorway she heard a thud and a short cry of pain. Looking down the hallway, she saw that Malcolm had leapt upon the poor man and pinned him to the ground. He was still conscious, but he must have gotten the wind knocked out of him as he gasped for breath on the ground. Kaylee watched as Malcolm raised his clenched fist, striking the man in the back of the head. He went limp on the ground.
Malcolm picked him up and as Kaylee walked down the hall to join him, he tossed the man, unconscious or dead she didn't know, into the room with the others, who hadn't moved or appeared to have stirred at all since being deposited earlier.
As he came out, Kaylee walked up to him, "Lets go, they've probably been looking for him for a while," she eyed him, waiting for some kind of response. When she received none, "It looks the club is surrounded, so..." She gave a little shrug. "Maybe we should just go up a couple more floors and wait it out."
"No," Malcolm responded. Kaylee cocked her head in clear confusion as he elaborated with a brief, "Followw," he grunted, taking off down the hallway at a startling clip.
Kaylee ran after him, calling out a, "Wait up," as he moved with that same fluid speed that surprised her every time. She shook her head slightly as she followed. I hope he knows what he's doing, she thought.
Rick thumbed the button on the radio; he stuck it back into the dirty leather pouch on his belt. They were bunkered down inside of an office building, in the large lobby. A tight fit for his all of men. He smiled.
"Good news?" asked one of his men.
"Yeah, just heard from V-," he coughed suddenly, realizing and covering his mistake, "Elijah. Sergei's on board, and his forces will be covering the southern flank."
Many of his soldiers gave grins, sighs of relief, and applause at the news, glad they wouldn't have to be facing all three-hundred something soldiers by themselves.
Rick laughed, "Yeah, looks like we might make it through the night after all. Sorry to disappoint you folks."
A light ripple of laughter went through the ranks. He kept the light banter going for a bit, trying to take the edge off. No one was saying just how dangerous or suicidal this mission was, but everyone knew. Even with Sergei's help, it still put the odds on them at least three-to-one against, and no one was really sure of how good Sergei's people were at fighting. They'd heard rumors that they were fearless and brutal when necessary but had no concrete experience to know for sure.
Rick didn't like the situation. The entire operation depended on some pretty big mistakes from the Citizens. Just like the last one, Rick thought.
Rick just wasn't sure of how he was going to go about it. Baiting them could work, but whoever plays rabbit is going to get chewed up, he thought.
One of his men piped up, "How about we just kill their officers again, like last time?" He was referring to the ambush of days before, where well-placed shots had taken out the more-intelligent individuals who kept the others in line. As Elijah had told him, the reservist army was negligent, didn't have extensive training, and most of the enlisted men had never seen fire coming in their direction. When the officers fell, the enemy discipline had crumbed very quickly.
"Only if they're dumb enough to wear their tags in the open again," Rick responded. "But don't waste time looking for 'em if you've got fifty other guys to take care of."
Rick pulled out his little map. "Listen up!" He called out, and everyone gathered around as best they could. He pointed at the street just east of Heavenly Bodies, "We're going to come down this way. Squads one through seven will take up positions in these buildings on either side." He tapped both sides of the street. "Everyone else is going to form a loose rabble and attack the Citizens from behind." He slid his finger along towards the club, stopping at the intersection just before it. "Get their attention and start running back. Squad six," he said, referring to the heavy weapons team, "will donate their launcher in order to better provoke their awareness and response. If anyone not involved in the distraction's got any pineapples," he said, referring to the hand grenades, "offer 'em up to our bait."
Rick continued. "Be smart, don't stay exposed too long, and make sure they come after you." He stood up. "Let's move."
The room became a mess of activity for a moment as everyone grabbed their packs and weapons, a few passing equipment to others, and filed out into the street.
Outside, Rick checked the small device in his pocket, noticing that it was now glowing with a faint red light. It was the other end of the transmitter he had given Kaylee. Its activity meant she had engaged her device. Did she succeed? He wondered. Or did someone else kill her and use it by mistake? He shook his head. I guess I'll find out soon enough.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Captain Redgick received the latest report from his sub-officers. They had pushed the enemy soldiers all the way back into the club, which was now completely surrounded. The building was well-garrisoned, and almost every window two floors up had gunfire spewing out of it. Total casualties were comparatively light. Dozens of individuals and small groups of Miguel's people had surrendered, and they had been brought to a temporary holding area. All in all, it's going quite well, he thought.
Although he realized there wasn't much that could have been done to prevent it, he frowned at the thought of digging them out of the building. He considered calling in reinforcements to speed along the process but thought better of it. The High Inquisitor had been reluctant to give him as many soldiers as he did, which was surprising considering how much he stressed the importance of the mission. Granted, they had pretty much brought the entire reserve army to keep the soldiers in the Acquisition Squads at their task. It wouldn't have been difficult at all to temporarily reassign a few hundred more, but all requests were flatly denied. Redgick sighed and shook his head. That's what you get when soldiers are controlled by politicians, aristocrats, and spooks, he thought to himself.
"Do not fail," the Inquisitor had told him. As much as he didn't intend to, he knew it wouldn't be him in the fire if this went poorly. Well, I won't be alone at least.
Failure seemed unlikely at this point, anyhow, as he walked outside the building once more. He gave a curt nod to his posted sentries as they saluted him. He enjoyed the authority, and this mission had given him a chance to prove his ability to command.
The enemy had dug in; that was fine. It would take a bit longer without any backup, but that was fine too. Victory was assured.
It's only a matter of time.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"Word just came in!" yelled Bates, the ranking officer in charge of the eastern assault on Heavenly Bodies, having just finished talking on his pack radio. He had his back to a wall, the battle raging in the square just around the corner. He had to shout to be just barely heard over the ping and patter of bullets whizzing past and ricocheting off of the walls around them. "We got 'em surrounded, and we need to push forward and secure the target!"
The soldier next to him, closer to the live fire, half-peeked around the corner. He looked at the square, which had turned into a no-man's land of just in front of the club with weapons fire pouring out. He muttered, mostly to himself, "Just how in the hell are we supposed to do that?"
"We improvise." Bates said to the man whose name he didn't remember. "Hey!" He yelled to the machine gunner team waiting in the alleyway across the street. "Get that rig upstairs and put some suppressive fire down on that building!" They snapped quick salutes and ducked into the building.
A moment later, Bates heard the heavy machine gun roar to life. As he peeked around the corner he saw little clouds of dust and mortar flying as the weapon traced large divots into side of the building, shattering several windows. He thought he could see a few silhouetted figures inside duck down under cover. He grabbed the man next to him, "Find Tucker, tell him to get another MG in on this side!" He jerked his thumb towards the building he stood against, "we gotta keep their heads down if we want to get across this mess!"
The soldier next to him saluted, and ran out down the alleyway, cutting around a corner and moving out of sight. Bates sidled over and glanced out. A bullet pinged off the wall a couple of inches above him, showering him with dust and brick fragments. Cursing, he ducked down and fired his assault rifle at one of the windows. He couldn't even tell where his shots ended up with all of the other ammunition bouncing off the building.
He took a glance backward and noticed the rotating-chamber tear gas launcher clutched in the hands of a dead man lying in the street. He shouted some quick orders, and the soldier nearest him, a man named Lee, sprinted out and scooped it up. He ducked and danced as bullets zinged by him, but he made it back to cover unscathed, if mildly shaken. After shouting more instruction, the soldier and several others, one carrying a heavy riot shield, managed to get up beside him with some quick maneuvering.
"Okay! We're going to pour on the suppressive fire! Then you," he pointed at Lee, "Young, and Miller are going to advance forward and see if you can get some gas into that building. Hit the first floor! Go!" He grabbed his radio again. "This is Bates! We got three men advancing into the square for high priority task; they need cover! Let's give it to him, now!"
He heard the sound of dozens upon dozens of rifles, pistols, and whatever else they had roared close to Bates as clouds of deadly ammunition peppered the club. The return fire slackened almost immediately as the enemy forces ducked into cover, and the small trio of men sprinted forward. Two of them hefted the thick shield and the man with the tear gas crouched safely behind it.
"Sharpshooters! Move up and take out anyone aiming at 'em!" He had them pull back to keep safe because one had already been killed. Probably by some lucky stray bullet, he thought. Little did he know, the man had actually died with a long blade between his shoulders an instant after hearing a scuffing noise behind him as he fired from the eighth floor of the building. Someone had since taken his place.
"Machine gun teams, keep up the suppression! Everyone else, get your masks on and prepare to charge on my signal!" The team had reached the center of the square. He saw the two men carrying the shield shudder and stumble under the impact of a few rounds, but thus far no one had been able to keep their heads up long enough to sustain any fire on them.
Lee popped up and launched a canister directly into the front entrance, the gas trailing behind it as it sailed to a perfect placement. He fired two more, and the obscuring cloud was already seeping out.
"All right, let's go! Everyone move!" Bates shouted into the radio. As he watched, Lee aimed upwards towards the windows. The kid's ambitious, he thought. He might be a good shot, but I doubt he'll be able to get one in-
Bates' last thought was cut off violently as Lee's head snapped forward and a red splatter of gore coated the backs of the other two men. He sagged forward, knocking into them as he fell to the ground. He could see the other two men, panic as they hefted the shield. Bates watched, mouth open in horror, as they each went down within seconds in the same way, shot from behind.
By now the alleyway was filled with running men, several dozen spilling out into the square. The obscuring cloud of teargas wafting upwards, along with the still-howling machine guns, kept them covered. The gunfire coming from the club still seemed sparse, but that wasn't what Bates was worried about.
Bates yelled into the radio, "Those shots came from behind! Who's behind u-"
A deafening explosion and a wave of concussive force blossomed twenty feet away, right in the middle of a group of charging soldiers. Bates was lifted off his feet, spun around, and hurled to the ground face-first in an instant.
His eyes opened, vision blurred, and a high-pitched whine streaked through his hearing, obscuring most everything else. He clamored to his feet, promptly stumbling and falling down. He stood again and shakily leaned up against the same brick wall, watching numbly as men, with agony etched in their soundlessly screaming faces, crawled around, bleeding from shrapnel wounds. Several others ran past him, opposite of the club. His indistinct vision saw dark shapes down some indeterminate distance, firing on his exposed rear flank. Many of his men, just recovering from the blast, were cut down in the street.
One soldier, Bates didn't know his name, ran up to him, grabbing him by the shoulder, looking like he was shouting something at him. Bates could only hear muffled fuzzing, nothing else. The soldier kept shaking him, yelling and gesturing frantically down the street. Bates' eyes lazily drifted that way again; he saw the fleeing shapes of the ambush party. Not sure what the soldier wanted, he just nodded. The man snapped a quick salute and swept his arm over his head in a "follow me" gesture. A large group of soldiers, dozens of men, sprinted down the street with him in pursuit.
Bates looked back the other way; several of his men lay in a twisted line up to the edge of the square where the cloud of tear gas concealed everything else. He couldn't tell if anyone had gotten through or not. As he leaned up against the wall, the high-pitched whine in his ears started to abate somewhat, and he could hear the sounds of percussive gunfire and the yells of various people.
He stumbled out of his hiding place, moving down the street following after the men chasing the ambush party. He staggered down the street, still in a haze from the concussive force of the blast. His mind casually informed him of bullets whizzing by, ricocheting off of the walls and streets, but he just kept going.
In the distance, more than a hundred yards off, he could see a few of his men running and firing in front of them, and he stumbled forward at a quicker pace, trying to catch up to them.
Muzzle flashes blazed on both sides of the street, filling the space containing his pile of soldiers with live ammunition. He watched, horrified and numb, for ten seconds as every single man in the street screamed, writhed, twisted, and fell to the hail of gunfire.
He stared for a moment longer, and about a couple dozen soldiers in black poured out of the buildings into the street. They ran out, checking each of the bodies. He watched, a couple of times, as someone drew a pistol and shot one of the people on the ground, executing the survivors.
His radio crackled, he ducked into an alleyway as he heard the frantic voice of Olson, who was in charge of the southern flank, shouting, "We're surrounded, requesting support! Ah, Christ dammit. Get in here!" He yelled to some unseen soldier, neglecting to release the transmit button. Talking into the radio again, he yelled, "Enemy forces started spilling out of alleyways and side buildings. Jesus, they fight like animals." The voice became faint as he spoke to someone else. Bates could hear the sound of gunfire and indistinct shouting through the radio. "You! Find another way out of this building, do it now!" came the unintended transmission. "We're trapped in a side building. Is anyone out there?"
Bates held the comm. up to his face and keyed the command channel. His mouth moved slowly and felt as though it were stuffed with cotton, "This is Bates." He said in a hoarse whisper. He stole a glance around the corner. The ambush party started to move forward again.
Relief flooded Olson's tone. "Ah, damn, Bates! It's good to hear from ya. We're trapped, can you send some of your people to help us out here?"
"Negative. Call a retreat. Get out if you can." Bates mumbled, adrenaline desperately trying to stimulate his nerves and senses to get a semblance of urgency out of him. He ignored the squawking as Olson voiced objections in response. He moved down the alleyway, ducked around another corner. He didn't see anyone else nearby, so he keyed in the open channel. "This is Bates; we have encountered unknown enemy forces on all sides. All forces pull back. I repeat, everyone: full retreat. Head back to Gamma Base, if you can..."
He started running; his legs were still quite shaky, but he managed to keep a decent pace. As he went, the radio crackled again and he heard Captain Redgick's voice angrily shouting, "What the hell is going on there, Bates?!"
Bates grabbed his radio again, keying into the base's channel it as he ran, half out of breath, "Ambush... severe casualties... need to pull back." He stuck the comm. back in its place and continued running. He heard the sounds of Redgick still yelling at him, but he ignored it. Get back to base. Just gotta make it that far, his sluggish mind thought.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Captain Redgick, at Gamma Base, slammed down the receiver of the radio and stormed out of the command building. "Get another machine gun set up here and make sure that building," he stabbed a finger at the place next door to the liquor store, "is clear inside and ready to house troops!" He barked to no one in particular. Even so, several people started scurrying about to accomplish the orders. The tall apartment would hopefully be sufficient for temporary troop storage and regrouping.
He stormed back inside, cursing silently at his luck. "Severe casualties..." he muttered, "What the hell does that mean?! Someone get Bates back on the line!" He yelled, again to no one specific.
"Sorry sir," some apprehensive-looking man piped up, "He doesn't seem to be answering."
Redgick took a deep breath and sat down heavily into a wooden chair, shaking his head. Victory within grasp. Now we have to get settled in; so much for wrapping this up tonight, he thought. He slunk a little, trying to relax his nerves and taking several more deep breaths.
After a moment he stood. He was about to order the operator to update Alpha on the situation, but decided to do it himself. He jogged over to the comm., relieved the man on duty, and switched over to Alpha Base, located just inside the Citizen's Escape entrance building lobby, "Alpha, do you copy? This is Captain Redgick."
A male voice crackled through, "This is Alpha, go ahead, sir."
"What's your status, Alpha?" He asked.
"We're green here, sir. No sign of anyone or anything moving out there so far." There was a pause, and he thought he could hear whispering. "Were you guys going to come back through here anytime soon? It stinks down here, sir."
Redgick grimaced but allowed a thin smile, "Doesn't look like it, soldier, unless it's with our tails between our legs." He stopped, wondering again how many casualties rated 'severe.' He spoke, "Any word from above?"
He heard what almost sounded like a nervous cough, "No, sir. Last transmission was twenty minutes ago with a report on the combat situation. Shall I contact them with another update?"
"No!" Redgick blurted before composing himself. "Ah, no. That is not necessary just yet. In the next scheduled transmission, tell them there are delays, but everything is running smoothly." He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "If there's anything else, we'll keep you informed. Gamma out."
"Yes, sir." Came the reply before the transmission ceased. He replaced the receiver, this time more gently, and sighed.
Over the next hour or so, his troops filtered in. They dragged, carried, or assisted various wounded men as they came, grim and ragged looks in their eyes. Eventually, Bates, looking like a frightened yet sedated rabbit, staggered in, out of breath and favoring one leg.
Redgick watched his approach with a frown. He beckoned him over with a sharp gesture, and Bates obeyed, giving him a shaky salute when he arrived.
"What happened?" Redgick asked, calmly.
Bates, clearly battered, exhausted, and only dimly aware of his surroundings related most of the story. Once he got to the part about the ambush, the tale became twisted and confusing.
"Who attacked Olson's men? From where?" Redgick demanded, his blood pressure and irritation rising once more.
"I don't know sir," he mumbled half-coherently.
Redgick had a thought and grabbed a small flashlight from his belt, shining it in Bates' face, moving the light back and forth into his eyes. He sighed. "Get over to a medic; it looks like you might have a concussion."
Bates gave him another half-hearted salute and went off in search of some help.
Redgick watched with growing apprehension as more of his soldiers continued to pour in, not entirely sure of what he was going to do next.
Rick honestly didn't think he would encounter more trouble just trying to talk to Miguel's barricaded forces than he did inflicting the crippling losses on the Citizens. Overall, losses were relatively light.
Seven of his men were wounded in extremities, each one from the bait team. They were all in pain and out of commission but would live. Two others incurred light flesh wounds or nicks and could still fight. Seven of his men were killed; six on the street and one to a lucky stray shot up into the building. The grenadier had been killed, several bullets punched into and through his chest. The sentimental thought struck Rick about burying the beloved grenade launcher with him, but he cast it aside. Wasting valuable resources was not something he was willing to do.
Being a commander, Rick hated losing men, as much for the loss of capable soldiers as for humanitarian reasons. As he surveyed the street east of the club called Heavenly Bodies, viewing the twisted, heaped remains of dozens upon dozens of dead Citizen soldiers, he vaguely wondered how their commanding officer was feeling right now. Not that he really cared.
Any who had survived and were merely bleeding and unable to move had been dispatched by the intermittent fire that still came out of the club from the paranoid and disorganized rabble of Miguel's men.
This is also why Rick had his back pressed to the very same brick wall that the unfortunate Lt. Bates had found himself not long ago. He was trying to figure out how to get them to stop shooting, without resorting to violence himself. I haven't really come up with much so far, he thought.
An idea occurred to him. He nudged the soldier next to him, "You wearing a white undershirt?"
The man looked confused. "Well, uh. Yeah, I think so." He shouldered his rifle and pulled his uniform up, squinting. "Why?"
"Take it off, I need it."
More confused than ever, he reluctantly obeyed. He set down his weapon and pack, unzipping his uniform jacket and folding it carefully on top of his other possessions. The white shirt resembled more of a yellowed-grayish color from the grime and sweat it had absorbed. The soldier peeled it off and held it out.
Rick eyed it, frowning. He thumbed the safety on his rifle, for precaution's sake, and used the barrel to lift the shirt up. "I have no idea if this is going to work." He said to the man who was shrugging back into his uniform, clearly uncomfortable to have the rough material directly on his bare skin.
He poked the end of his gun out, with the off-white cloth dangling from it, and waved it up and down and back and forth. A few bullets whizzed by at the initial movement, but Rick imagined he heard the words 'cease fire' yelled. He thought it also could have been something like, "Wait until they're exposed, then fire," but he was too far away to be really sure.
Some of his men, who had taken up cover positions, gawked at him. "What are you doing, boss?" Someone asked.
He continued waving the shirt up and down, "This is an old battle signal used for calling a truce. Or surrendering, I can never remember which."
"You wave a dirty t-shirt on the end of a gun?"
Rick shot him a scowl, "It's a white flag. You wave a white flag to signify that you want to talk peacefully and negotiate."
"That's not a flag."
Rick gave him a look, "Really? Are you sure?" He rolled his eyes. "Of course it isn't a flag, but it's the closest thing I've got here."
"Do you really think it's going to work?"
Rick thought about this. "No." He admitted. "Probably not. Then again, I don't have any other ideas and neither does anyone else. I can only hope that someone in there recognizes the symbol."
Sometime during that exchange, the weapons fire from the building had ceased completely. Rick was tempted to step around the corner, but he didn't know if it would hold, so he continued waving the "flag" up and down.
His radio crackled. He grabbed it and muttered, "Go ahead."
It was one of his marksman/scouts who informed him, in that icy-cold voice of someone accustomed to killing efficiently and often, "Someone is coming out. He is not holding a weapon, but it looks like he has a handgun in a shoulder holster."
"Continue to watch, and hold your fire," Rick replied. He replaced his radio and peeked around the corner. The report was confirmed; there was a man approaching. Good Lord, I can't believe this actually worked, he marveled.
Rick put the weapon and shirt on the ground. He knew it was a gamble, but he walked out with his hands up, displaying himself as non-threatening as possible. The man opposite him did not do the same. He was an average height man with long sandy-colored hair. He had a square jaw and prominent brow. His skin was weathered and lined, and all together made him look like he wore a permanent scowl. He wore dirty jeans and an open flannel work shirt with a white tank-top underneath.
As he approached, through the open shirt, Rick could see dark, sweat-stained leather straps that he assumed connected to the semi-concealed weapon. They met in the middle of the square in a deathly still silence. The bodies of fallen men scattered around, both Citizen and Miguel's people alike. Rick still held his hands up, not wanting to make any sort of motion that would spook any trigger-happy people in the building.
The man's scowl expression remained on his face as the two men sized each other up. After a moment, he broke the silence, "You're not Citizen." Hints of a question shaded his inflection.
"No. I'm not." Rick replied.
"You used a surrender signal. Why?"
Rick grimaced. White flag of surrender; that's what it is, "I wanted to speak with you on peaceful terms. We have some important things to discuss."
Rick could see the gears grinding in the man's head as he gazed around the square. He looked past Rick, seeing the street filled with the bodies of enemy soldiers. "You did this," again a statement with a questioning tone.
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Rick. I represent Elijah."
The man's eyes widened at the name drop. "Elijah? Why would he want to help us? We've been fighting for years."
Rick gave a grin and lowered his hands. "That, as you can see," he said, tossing a sweeping gesture around at the dead soldiers, "is changing."
The man nodded. "So it would seem. My name is Isaac." He turned and yelled behind him, "Everyone, stand down! Get some security around the square and tend to the wounded!"
Rick gave a bitter laugh, "Don't get too comfortable." Isaac raised an eyebrow. "By my best guess, we still have two hundred Citizen soldiers camped somewhere around here. Evicting them is a priority."
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "A counterattack already? You sure got brass."
"Yeah, so they tell me," Rick said dismissively, changing the subject. He was curious for news. "Are you in charge around here? Where is Miguel?"
Isaac scowled, deepening the lines on his face, "We don't know where he is. He disappeared sometime around the attack trying to woo some captive bitch." Rick fought to keep the anger out of his face from the insult to who he assumed was Kaylee. "We haven't heard from him in hours." Isaac stiffened up, standing up straight and raising his chin. "With him absent, I'm in charge."
Rick grinned broadly, "Excellent! I'd like to immediately negotiate a truce and alliance." People were starting to filter out of the building and move to their assigned tasks. "There are times when it's stupid and pointless to be fighting when there are bigger problems to solve." Isaac nodded at this. "This'd be one of those times."
"How did you know what was happening?" Isaac asked.
"Since the attack we repelled a couple of days ago, we've been keeping a close eye on Purgatory. We were half-expecting something, but four hundred troops was a hell of a surprise. We did the best we could, considering the circumstances." It was a half-truth, but Isaac seemed to accept it.
Isaac nodded again, "It seems we owe you quite a bit. I don't believe that we would have lasted the night without your help."
Rick grinned once more, "In that case, why don't you return the favor by joining us in a retaliatory strike? We certainly could use more firepower, and I'm sure your people would enjoy the payback."
A smile cracked on the man's face, "It seems a good possibility."
"I'll tell you what," Rick said, extending his hand, "Gather together as many of your people as can be ready to move out soon, and we'll meet back here in five minutes to discuss our plan."
Isaac stared at the offered hand for a moment before giving his own in a firm grip. They shook and parted. Rick jogged back to the street, already on his radio. "All units, stand down; get some sentries posted and inform me immediately if there is any of the slightest hint of enemy activity. We've got some delicate negotiations to make here, and I want them to proceed unhindered. Get to it."
Once he disengaged the talk button, he switched his radio over to a different frequency and spoke once more into it, "We're ready for you in the square."
Victor's calm voice came back, "Acknowledged."
Rick stuck the radio back into the pouch once more. He picked up and slung his weapon, noting that the filthy shirt had already disappeared, probably back on the soldier who had graciously donated it. He walked back out into the square with a more relaxed feeling, despite having to step around dozens upon dozens of dead men. At least for the time being, he didn't have to worry about joining them.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Captain Redgick's hands shook as he received a final count on number of remaining soldiers. Under two hundred, counting those back at Alpha base. Less than half of what he began with. This is a complete disaster.
Part of him wanted to run over to wherever Bates was recovering from his trauma and throttle him for such an appalling failure. The other part vaguely understood that there was little that the lieutenant could have done to prevent it. It doesn't matter, he thought. We assaulted the club and encountered calculated strikes from both south and east sides from still-unknown numbers of other enemy forces. There is no possible, tactical way that I can finish this. We're done down here.
Olson had been dragged in, unconscious and severely wounded, missing three fingers from his right hand along with at least four other bullet wounds. He had come to long enough to scream and rave something about crazed Russian madmen butchers before passing out again. From what Redgick could gather, he was referring to another down below faction that had joined the fight, spilling out of sewers and other buildings in the midst of the Citizen soldiers. Very aggressive and haphazard tactics, but Olson's interior had been torn to shreds by the frenzied assault. His men were scattered, disorganized, and frightened by the ferocity of the enemy.
On the other hand, Bates and his remaining forces couldn't provide any information about the ambush group from the east. It sounded as though they attacked, fled, then caught the subsequent pursuit of Bates' men in a crossfire. Efficient and brutal, but no one had seen enough to identify the attackers; the only one left being the lieutenant himself, who's brains had been scrambled by some explosion.
Redgick scowled as he considered the possibilities. Yet another faction out of hiding? Such a coordinated attack on both flanks of the siege of the club? This took planning and consideration to pull off. A small stray thought passed through his head. It's almost like...
It dawned on him, as though his head had broken the surface of turbulent waters. They knew we were coming. A world of possibilities spread through him as his stressed mind began to frantically fire around ideas.
If they were careful enough to detect an attack and respond accordingly, that meant they used careful intelligence gathering. If they minimized their casualties by utilizing careful hit and run tactics, then it implied a familiarity with strategic planning. If more than one faction was involved, that meant alliances had been formed and they were no longer a loose rabble of undesirables.
Redgick's hand gripped the back of a chair, his knuckles turning white. All of this meant one terrible thing. The people of down below were not some passing nuisance or mild annoyance. They were a real, tangible, and serious threat. They were organized, unified, and they had learned how to fight. He almost didn't want to believe it, but the proof it rested with two hundred of his men, killed in a strike both swift and brutally efficient. Then what would an intelligent military leader do next in this case? He asked himself. His eyes widened, knowing the exact answer to that question. He would send a vicious strike against the nearly-crippled enemy forces engaged in retreat... We need to get out of here, he thought.
Of course! He ran to the radio and called the other base. They had a direct line with the surface and could send for reinforcements. "Alpha base, come in!"
"This is Alpha, go ahead."
"Has there been any contact with the surface since our last communication"
"Yes, sir. They requested an update, and as per instructions they were informed of the delay but an overall smooth campaign." There was a pause as the tech cleared his throat. "The High Inquisitor did not sound very happy about the setback. He said-"
"Look, it isn't important right now!" He said sharply, cutting the man off. "I need you to contact the surface again and tell them to send every available soldier as reinforcements. Tell them everything we thought about the inhabitants was wrong. Tell them we were attacked by a highly trained force of unified factions. Tell them that they knew we were coming!"
There was silence on the other end. Finally, the man spoke, "Jesus. Are you serious?"
"Yes! Do it now!" Redgick shouted.
"All right! Okay, I'll contact them right away!" The tech shouted back. "If they send troops, where do you want them to go?"
"We set up Gamma base inside of an empty liquor store building about a mile and a half southeast of the target. It's by, hold on," he ducked his head out the window and saw a bent and faded street sign, "Trenton Avenue. Send them in this direction, and tell them to hurry. If enemy forces discover our location, I believe they'll send a counterattack." Tension once again filled his voice, "We're going to try and pack up and vacate this area, but tell them to hurry; I don't know if we can hold them off if they come here."
"Yes, sir. I'll contact them immediately, sir."
"Good. Thank you." He put the radio down and breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing just slightly. With reinforcements, we might just make it, he thought. Of course, even if we make it out, they're going to flay me alive. He walked outside and barked some orders to uninjured soldiers waiting for instruction. He kept some on a wide patrol pattern with specific direction to avoid enemy contact and provide an immediate report if they found anything. Back inside he started coordinating the teardown of Gamma base. God willing, we'll come back to finish this sometime soon, he thought.
The prospect that they had so severely underestimated their enemy still made him nervous, but with more proper attention, he knew they could not possibly stand against the full attention of the Citizen regime.
Citizen Gregory Michaels lay on his back, head propped up on his pillow in his incredibly soft bed. In spite of the luxury in which he lived, it was near 3:00 AM, and his eyes were wide open, staring at the dark ceiling of his room. He had not slept at all because his mind would not be silent. He couldn't stop it from stumbling around, blindly looking for an answer to the riddle which plagued his thoughts.
Of course, he had stared at it for so long during the evening that it had become etched in his mind. He could see the words burning in bright letters every time he closed his eyes.
Only one in color, but not one in size,
Stuck firm to the ground, yet easily flies,
Present in sun, but seldom in rain,
Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.
As always, his mind provided a deep, sinister-sounding narrator to voice the riddle. Perhaps because it was 3:00AM and he hadn't slept at all, but that voice made him shudder.
Once more, as the riddle finished its dark trail through his thoughts, the consideration began once more. In spite of the knowledge that he was terrible at this sort of thing, his mind, unbidden, still ran with it, and he began the internal discussion anew.
Perhaps it refers to grass.
Well, yes, grass is most often green and blades come in different sizes. It sticks to the ground, but when pulled or cut gets "flies" by the wind, but...
Why would it be seldom in rain? That makes no sense.
Maybe it could mean too much rain; that kills grass.
Too rational for a riddle, too many maybes. Not grass.
What if it's a plant species that thrives in dry climate?
Too obscure for a riddle. You shouldn't need obscure knowledge to figure it out.
Why not?
On, and on it went.
Let's figure out a portion of it. What doesn't feel pain?
Plants don't feel pain.
No, no, no! It's not going to be vegetation-related. Think intangibly! More conceptual!
Fine. How about light?
Yes, present in sun, not usually in rain, but nothing else fits.
Frustrated again, Michaels cursed angrily and bid his weary mind to cease. Obedient as always, the voices fell silent. They always did, for a little while. Then he would close his eyes and the riddle would blaze through again. Of course then the speculation would start once again until he grew weary of the internal argument.
On, and on it went. He had ruled out dozens of suggestions, many of them too stupid to contemplate. Air, gravity, flower petals, wind, snow, radiation, the moon. His mind featured an irritating fixation on vegetation; he contemplated dozen species of vegetation, including grass, trees, cacti, and wheat. Still, nothing seemed to make any decent amount of sense.
So he stared at the darkness on the ceiling. The half-moon hovered in the sky, filtering slivery light to those on the surface. The slight illumination reflected off of the pearly white buildings and shone through the windows, casting various shapes in the shadows on the surfaces of his...
He sat up, eyes wide and pulse racing. That's it. That's it! He thought.
Excited, he sprang from his bed, ignoring the soft slippers as he ran out of the room. He made it to the door out of his apartment and began turning the knob before he glanced down and realized he wore nothing but an undershirt and boxers.
He hurriedly threw on whatever clothing he could grab and ran out the door. Mismatched brown socks with black shoes. Horrible coordination and wrinkled clothes. Normally he'd be appalled if anyone dressed so slovenly, but more important things were on his mind.
Several minutes later, after a brief but intense argument with the on-staff security person and a sprint back to his room to get his identification badge, he was admitted by the cheerful guard into the Institute.
A few moments later, he found himself in his office. He sank into the luxurious chair that could have been on fire for all he would have noticed as he impatiently drummed his fingers on the desk as the computer booted.
He mistyped his login and password three times before taking a deep breath and inputting them once more, this time carefully enough to avoid any mistakes. As soon as everything was loaded, he pulled up a directory search. In the field signified by the blinking gray bar, he wrote what he sincerely hoped was the answer to the riddle.
Search keyword: 'shadows'
Michaels clapped his hands and gave a cry of triumph as the next entry in the video log came up into 'items found' window of the search engine. It, of course, did not contain the word shadows or anything like it, but he had long since given up on wondering about the eccentricities of Coleman and his programming. It was easier to just play the dead man's game and hope for the best.
The video file was named 'mlc-nanit,' and the creation date was only a couple of weeks prior to his death. He opened it, seeing the frozen, kindly, bearded face of Marcus Coleman wearing a stoic expression. He hit the play button, and the image sprang to life.
"Lange has personally expressed irritation at my absences at meetings and, as he put it, 'dereliction of responsibility.' Ancient fool. Everyone knows the 'youthful' hologram is just a pitiful ploy; how can he not realize it?" Coleman sighed, "Of course, that kind of talk, even from a well-established individual like myself, could get me into serious trouble." He sighed, forced a large, hollow smile, and said with obvious sarcasm, "Citizen One knows best." He took a deep breath. "Anyway, none of my 'duties' are nearly as important or fascinating as the recent discoveries. Although there is no way of knowing its precise origins, I know now that the tissue sample must have come from some very highly advanced and enlightened race."
All irritation with Lange was forgotten as Coleman spoke with building excitement. "The tissue sample is still alive. At first, it completely blew me away. It seemed so inconceivable. However, the specimen, in spite of being naught more than a scrap of skin and having traveled through the vacuum of space for God only knows how long, still features functioning cells. But that's not even the best part," he took another deep breath, and Michaels leaned forward, his face inches from the screen in anticipation, waiting for Coleman to continue. He paused for quite a long time.
It took Michaels a moment to realize that the recording had stopped. Michaels sat blinking for several seconds at the glowing screen. Then in a storm of curses and shouting, he slammed the lid of the terminal down. "What's the best part you incompetent fool?" He yelled. "Tell me now and spare me your eccentricities!"
His voice echoed in the otherwise silent room as he slumped back into the chair, fuming. His hands gripped the chair arms in frustration as he breathed hisses through his clenched teeth. After a time, he took deep breaths and his body calmed and rage subsided. As he sat, thoughts of the clearly justified brutality to the bastard filled his head, and the exhaustion seeped back into his body. I wish he were alive again so I could kill him myself... he thought.
Rick couldn't help but display a wide grin as he replaced his radio once more. No one saw this, but they soon would notice his glee as he walked back to the group now embroiled in serious discussion.
Isaac, representing Miguel, stood with his back to the Heavenly Bodies club where a group of his people loitered around the entrance. They toted weapons of various kinds and sizes and all glared, mistrustful of everyone else in the square. A similar crew stood behind each of the three leaders now meeting. Sergei stood rigid with his arms folded, his crew of imposing Russian soldiers behind him. Victor, still going by Elijah, stared at each person in turn with a penetrating gaze. A few of his soldiers and bodyguards stood at attention, and the rest were walking around the edge of the square and keeping an eye on things.
They had still yet to locate Miguel. Granted, they had only been searching for about half an hour and once they were out of immediate danger. Rick wasn't sure exactly what the man's absence meant, but he fingered the transmitter in his pocket. He received a stronger signal when pointing it towards the club. That meant that Kaylee, or at least her end of the device, was somewhere inside. In any case, Isaac and most of the others seemed very unconcerned about it. Rick assumed it must have been because of Miguel's unlikable nature or his poor treatment of subordinates. It's good that they hate him, he thought. That way if they find out we engineered an assassination attempt, they might not be so pissed.
Regardless, the three leaders were still speaking about agreements when he moved back towards them. Victor was saying, "...secure all of Old Haven and make sure that no Citizen, soldier or otherwise, can set foot down here before we are prepared to move up."
The half-crazed grin on Rick's face was difficult to ignore, and even Victor stopped long enough to grant him an inquisitive expression. "I take it you have some good news," he said.
Rick nodded and licked his lips. "I just got off the radio with my team over at Purgatory."
Isaac raised an eyebrow at him. "You have a team at Purgatory?"
"Oh, sorry," Rick said, "let me explain. Our initial attack, before we came here, was upon their exit point. We secured what they call 'Alpha base,' and we now are intercepting communications."
The corner of Victor's mouth curled just slightly at the news. The other two just stared with expressions of disbelief on their faces. Each opened their mouths as though to ask a question, but Rick started speaking again.
"The Citizen field commander, Captain, uh," he snapped his fingers a couple of times, trying to remember the name," Redgick. He radioed Alpha to relay a request for reinforcements." He rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Naturally, no one's going to send any aid; the almighty above thinks that the campaign is going fine, if maybe a little slow." Rick grinned once again. "Oh, but the good Captain was kind enough to provide a location of where the additional troops should be sent."
Isaac's weathered face smiled, "I take it you want to attack immediately."
Victor nodded and spoke, "Yes, the opportunity could not be clearer. There are still around two hundred soldiers remaining, but they and their commander are obviously rattled. It will not take much to devastate what remains."
Sergei jumped in, "Yes! With an aggressive push they will panic! They will fall like wheat to the scythe while they flee, and-"
Isaac rubbed his chin and finished, "-and when they pull back to their exit point, a trap will be waiting for them," he looked at Rick, "but you figured that one out already."
Rick nodded. "The trap is set. If that doesn't work, they still can't leave; the elevator's already disabled. The up-aboves won't be able to tell if its sabotage unless they check over the car itself, but they wouldn't send someone down for quite a while yet. Of course, we wouldn't let them fix it anyway." He shook his head, laughing, "After all these years they still haven't gotten rid of the failsafes on that elevator; one chunk of busted brick wedged in the wrong place and it goes nowhere." He finished speaking, noting the mixed admiration on the faces of his new allies.
Sergei grinned broadly and said to Victor, "This man is quite an asset for you, yes? Tell me, how much to buy him?"
Victor shook his head, "Not for sale, still too useful."
Isaac nodded thoughtfully, "Not that it matters. Assuming we succeed, this alliance is intended to be long-lived, is it not?"
Sergei and Victor both nodded at this, and Rick spoke, "Speaking of alliances we should consider our counterattack while they've still got their tail between their legs." He cleared his throat, and highlighted ideas and strategy for the upcoming skirmish.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
As he spoke, Kaylee and Malcolm moved through the unoccupied back door of the club, where Malcolm had originally entered. Kaylee winced at his earlier handiwork, a fallen body with a smear of blood on the wall where he had impacted. They sidled along the alleyway. Kaylee squinted out, towards the square, noting Victor's presence among that of Rick and two other men she didn't recognize. She assumed they were leaders embroiled in some discussion.
She also decided that, being the last person known to have been with Miguel, that she would be in danger when they found him. That and the fledgling alliance would suffer greatly if they could connect her to Elijah.
I'm just glad to be alive, she thought.
"I'll check in with them after they separate," she whispered. "Let's move along this way and get behind them."
Malcolm grunted an affirmation and followed her. No one appeared to notice them as they darted across the street and into the alleyways. They walked a twisted pathway, trying to get around behind and mingle with Elijah's soldiers.
They had reached a side street, parallel to the one they were aiming for, when they heard, "Stop right there!"
Shit, she thought, whirling around. She saw the black uniform; something seemed familiar. The patrolman lowered his weapon and said, "Kaylee?"
However, at the same time, Malcolm let out a low growl and launched himself at the man, who panicked and raised his weapon. Malcolm gripped the submachine gun and tore it out of his hands and, with his other arm, lifted the man by his throat. He kicked and struggled, but couldn't break free of the hold.
Kaylee ran forward. "Malcolm! Malcolm, stop! I know him!" She tugged at his arm. Malcolm looked over at her, then back up at the man, whose eyes rolled back in his head while he face faded to an ashen blue color.
He released the man, who collapsed to the ground, gasping and rolling around. He clutched at his neck. "Sssoorry." Malcolm whispered. The man coughed weakly in response.
Kaylee knelt next to him, "Sorry," she whispered, "He's a little jumpy. Are you okay?"
The man looked up at her, still wheezing, and nodded. "Good," she said, "we should get moving, I gotta talk to Rick," the man nodded once more and waved them on.
The pair stood and jogged on, this time they were able to skirt around the prying eyes of anyone and end up behind Elijah's men. They waited in the shadows.
After a time passed, the group negotiating in the center dispersed, and Rick came jogging back over to his men, already on the radio calling the rest together. Victor went along with Sergei, and Isaac walked back to his people.
Once off his radio, Kaylee stepped out of the shadows and gave a little wave. He did a quick double take and brushed past his soldiers to get over to her. "Kaylee, my God. You're okay!"
She smirked and held up the transmitter device, "Yeah, no thanks to you."
Rick opened his mouth in a retort, then thought better of it, saying, "Yeah, uh... sorry about that..."
"What, that's it? Sorry?" She flicked the device at him, which he caught, and jumped forward. She flung her arms around his neck and he gave a surprised grunt. "What the-?"
"It's good to see you, Rick," she said as she pulled back.
"Well, uh, it's, uh, good to see you too, I guess." He stuttered, surprised at the sudden burst of affection.
Kaylee scowled at him, "You guess?" She made a fist and punched him in the chest. "What do you mean, you guess?"
"Hey, ow!" He yelled, wincing and rubbing the spot.
Several of Rick's troops had gathered to watch the reunion. Most of them were either smirking or poorly concealing laughter at their commander. "She too tough for you, boss?" One of them asked.
Rick gave a little cough and composed himself. He stood up straight and said, "Well, uh yes, Miss Kaylee. It is good to see that you are alive and have accomplished your... um, mission?" His attempt at posturing in front of his troops, who were still laughing at him, fell flat as he trailed off with an upward turn in his inflection. He had no idea whether or not she succeeded in her endeavor.
Kaylee smiled and dropped her voice to a whisper. Everyone leaned in to hear her, "The bastard's dead. I killed him myself."
Relief washed over Rick, and an admiring smile crossed his lips, "Very well done. Excellent job, Kaylee."
The other soldiers were nodding in agreement, and the same one piped up, "Shit. She is too tough for you boss. She's too tough for anyone." This garnered several grunts and words of affirmation.
Rick grabbed Kaylee's shoulders, "Do you think that some of his people would recognize you?"
She thought about it, "Probably. He paraded me around for a while."
"Then you should get out of here, it's not safe." Rick said. "They still haven't found him, but if they connect you to either us or his death, there's going to be a lot of trouble."
Kaylee nodded, "Yeah, you're probably right. I'm going to head out of here and hide out for the rest of the night," she let out a wide yawn, suddenly realizing how tired she felt, "and probably some of the morning," she added.
Rick replied, "Well, you've earned the rest," he signaled to one of his men, "let me send someone with to make sure you stay safe." The person stepped forward.
Kaylee held up a hand. "That won't be necessary, Rick."
He waved a finger at her. "No, no, no. I insist. It's still dangerous out there; we don't know how many stragglers are going to be around, not to mention the huge pile of soldiers we're going to try and finish off."
Kaylee grabbed his hand, "I'm telling you that it won't be necessary because I already have someone protecting me." Over her shoulder, she turned and said, "You can come out, Malcolm."
Gasps were heard from various soldiers who twitched nervously and gripped their weapons tightly as the large figure stepped out of the shadows. Kaylee could hear them whispering to each other, and she heard "look at his eyes!" more than once.
In the light once more, the swirling glow of Malcolm's eyes solidified to the dense, translucent, milky white. "This is Malcolm," Kaylee announced, "and he's helped me more than once. I'll be just fine with him."
Rick ran his fingers through his hair while he stared at the... whatever it was. "Wh-what... What are you?" He asked.
The eyes narrowed in what was a clear sign of irritation, and a chill passed up Rick's spine as he hoped that he hadn't made the big guy upset. The expression mellowed, and Malcolm spoke in his harsh, gravelly tones. "Donn't knnoww," eliciting a wince from every person there save Kaylee.
Rick looked back at Kaylee, "Are you sure about this?"
She nodded, seeming to be perfectly at ease, "Yes. Believe me, we can trust him." She turned and smiled at Malcolm.
Rick slowly shook his head, "All right, if you're sure about it. Here," he grabbed one soldier's small radio and handed it to her. "Hang on to this, and I'll give you the all-clear signal when everything's been taken care of."
"What are you going to do now?" Kaylee asked, stuffing the device into her pocket.
Rick grinned, "Counterattack. We're going to take care of every single son-of-a-bitch Citizen left down here."
It was Kaylee's turn to slowly shake her head. "All right, good luck, I guess. I'll see you soon. Be careful."
Rick nodded and patted her on the shoulder before she turned and left, Malcolm trailing just behind. He watched her until they turned a corner and moved out of sight. He let out a sigh and turned to his men, all of whom were now gathered behind him.
"All right guys," he started, "Let's go take care of those hedonistic pricks," eliciting shouts and yells of enthusiasm and affirmation from his men. They picked up all of their gear, shouldered packs, and started getting ready for the next phase of the battle.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Captain Redgick paced nervously around the command center, waiting to hear something, anything, regarding reinforcements or any sort of acknowledgement from the higher-ups in the Citizenship Inquisition and military. His apprehension went on a steady incline since the last communication with Alpha Base. He had held off on the full retreat, waiting for some sign or response from Alpha regarding the reinforcements.
Of course, he still had no inkling that his primary staging area had already been compromised; he was far too preoccupied with whether or not the people up-above would be willing to send reinforcements. He didn't care any longer if they were angry with him for his failure; he was only concerned about whether or not they would believe him, and further whether or not they would honor his request.
He hoped that they would let him know so that he could, at least, get himself and the rest of his people out safely. His worry increased to expect signs of an attack at any moment. Everyone in Gamma was on edge, unassisted by Redgick's constant nervous pacing and apprehensive attitude.
He had been walking outside, keeping watch and ordering his men to increase patrols every now and then. His paranoia grew, at that point, to start worrying about sharpshooters, so he had ducked back inside and avoided the windows.
The thought of demolitions and explosives then entered his mind, so he tore the commendation pins from his collar and shoved them in his pocket. He unzipped a portion of his jacket and mussed up his hair. Looking in the mirror, he noted with satisfaction that he looked like a common soldier. Mostly, he thought. He walked back outside and dispersed orders that no one was allowed to salute him. His soldiers nodded, and, in one case, one fellow was stupid enough to salute in response, which earned him a brief but intense tongue-lashing.
He leaned up against the brick wall opposite from the command center, staring in a northerly direction down the empty street. Exhaustion from being awake all day and most of the night crept through his body along with the strung-out feeling gained from adrenaline-high crash. His eyes slid closed and he took a few deep breaths, feeling himself relax ever so slightly. Maybe they won't-
"Enemy contact! We have enemy-" Redgick's eyes popped open as the radio crackled out the few words before cutting off into static. He ran back into his command center, heedless of any earlier concerns.
"Report!" He shouted.
"Southside patrol has spotted enemy movements, sir!"
Southside, he thought. Shouldn't they be attacking from the north? That's where-
His thought process was cut off by another squawk through the radio. "This is northern patrol reporting contact with the enemy! Shots fired, we are pulling back to base!"
Redgick cursed and slammed his hand on the table. He ran outside and bellowed, "We have enemy troop movement to the north and south, closing in! It is vital that this," he stabbed a gesture at the intersection just north of the base, "road remain clear and covered for the retreat." He could hear the light chatter of weapons fire not far distant. He gritted his teeth and gripped his own weapon. He ran back inside of command and barked, "Send one message to Alpha. Tell them we're pulling out." The tech nodded and did as he was told. To the rest, Redgick said, "Get as much of this packed up here as you can; we're getting out of here."
There was a deafening explosion just outside of the base. All of the remaining glass in the windows of the room shattered with the force and a light wave of heat washed over Redgick. He could hear a few screams of his men outside. Shouldering his weapon he dashed out into the street. A mass of yelling men seemed to be boiling out of buildings less than a block away, deadly weapon fire blazing towards the scattered group of soldiers.
Redgick hit the ground as the hail of ammunition swarmed overhead, several rounds impacting the sandbags he had just used as cover. He grabbed the machine gun from a man killed by the explosion and propped it up on the edge. He popped up and squeezed of a few bursts into the crowd of advancing soldiers; satisfaction filled him as he saw a few of them fall to his and his other men's fire. He screamed and fired more bursts into the oncoming soldiers with the heavy caliber weapon; several fell. A light spray of his own blood spattered his face as a bullet grazed the back of his hand on the weapon. He yelped in pain and dropped back, breathing hard. He looked up at one of his men, firing out of cover. Blood burst from the man's neck as he caught a round in the throat.
Redgick jumped to his feet and started running. He yelled at the top of his lungs, "Everyone pull back! Retreat! Head towards Alpha!" He ran in the center of ragged groups. This kept him, for the most part from direct harm as he ran, occasionally turning around to fire a few rounds backwards.
As he did this, he noticed the radio operators finally coming out of the abandoned base with packs and armfuls of equipment, running right into the advancing soldiers. Redgick gasped when one foe whipped out a long combat knife and drove it into an operator's chest. The mortally wounded man put on a surprised and terrified expression, dropping his armful of equipment and staring, open-mouthed, at the wound before crumpling to the ground. Redgick fired his weapon into the swarm of soldiers, but could hear screams of his remaining men as other enemy soldiers poured into to the remains of the base.
His group of soldiers, entirely scattered and nearly hopeless with individuals getting cut down intermittently, ran down the street towards the east in a rabble. Redgick fled with them, icy fear gripping his heart as he continually heard bullets whiz overhead or strike one of his men. He tried to get a rough estimation of how many men were with him, but there was too much panic and too little ability to concentrate. He continued running, hopelessness seeping into his weary, defeated body.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Stupid cowards. Decadent, arrogant fools! More, similar insults blazed through Captain Redgick's thoughts as they drew close, within several blocks, of Alpha base. His feelings of defeat and despair turned to anger; there hadn't been the slightest sign or hint of any manner of Citizen reinforcements, assistance of any kind, or even an acknowledgement of his plight. His strained mind naturally assumed they were too moronic or overconfident to bother sending assistance.
Several blocks earlier, it had looked as though their pursuers had fallen behind, so, reining his command of the exhausted troops, he called a brief halt. They, of course, kept careful watch behind them for any pursuit, but luckily it appeared as though the chase had ceased, at least for the time being. Redgick used the respite to calm the panic and get a rough count of his remaining soldiers.
He was once more dismayed to discover he had seventy-five men left. Out of the four hundred he had brought down, only seventy-five, not counting those in Alpha, were not missing, wounded, or dead. He held slim hope that a few stragglers would catch up, but his mind kept reaching back, freezing on the moment not long ago where the long knife slid into his technician's chest so easily. He didn't remember the man's name, but his face would be burned into his memory forever. It was the look of surprise, Redgick thought, that cold moment of stunned shock. He shuddered.
Considering that kind of treatment, Redgick had little optimism for other survivors making their way back. This battle was lost. Still, if they could get more troops and reinforce Alpha Base, they'd have a decent chance of hanging on to their presence in down below. From there, only time would be needed to exhaust the number of the armed terrorists, and all of the trouble would be finished.
Relief spread through Redgick's body as his group of survivors came to the corner of the Escape complex. They sidled along the large wall, still keeping any eye behind them. Redgick moved in front, and lead his group of men down the street.
The square was as it was when they arrived: empty and quiet. He was shocked to discover no sentries, no machine guns set up, no defenses of any kind. Unthinking, he stormed into the building, shouting, "There had better be a damn good explanation for..." he trailed off, seeing the room was entirely empty. He noted a few tables and radio equipment set up, somewhat similar to Gamma base, but no one was there.
Several of his people poured in the building behind him, also shocked to see the base devoid of any support troops. The wide freight elevator, which connected all the way to the surface, in the back behind the marble reception counters, lay open and empty. Seeing his exit was deeply satisfying for Redgick, but the feeling was marred by unease.
By this time all but a handful of his people were inside, and edginess crept into Redgick once more. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Did they have to retreat? Did they already pull out? He didn't know. His men, with general confusion, looked around the place for some indication to the whereabouts of the few dozen people that had set up Alpha Base. Apprehension continued to mount, and silence permeated the dark, shadowy room.
Then he saw it. Peering around, Redgick noticed a strange shape in the shadows attached to the wall, behind the counter to the left of the elevator and up about ten feet. It was short and rectangular, with rounded corners. To the casual viewer, it almost looked like a light fixture. Something about it nagged him, so he took a closer look. As he moved towards it, he frowned as he saw the same fixture on the other side, and squinting he could see a couple more on the left and right walls. Maybe it is a light fixture...he thought.
He crossed around behind the luxurious marble-topped reception desk, and shined his weak flashlight up at the shape. It had a few words that Redgick squinted to read. A tiny slit of light glinted next to the device. It looked like a wire. He felt suddenly lightheaded, an inkling regarding the object striking him. He passed his light on the device again, seeing the marred words on the drab green device he remembered now as, "Front Toward Enemy."
Panic shot instantly through every part of his body. He started running towards the exit screaming, "Mines! Mines! Everybody get out!"
It was the next afternoon. Almost every soldier involved in the combat had dispersed, once everything had finished, and found a place to sleep until late morning. A few had remained on watch, just to make sure that no stragglers made caused any trouble. As fortune would have it, they either eliminated every one of them, or the few remaining enemy soldiers had also decided to bunk down. Either way, it was a quiet night, and most of the men slept as though they hadn't for months. Rick snoozed with content, a grim smile on his face all night long.
They were now working on cleanup. After the detonation, it was easy enough to finish off the remaining, disoriented soldiers, not that there were many left that weren't inches from death already. No one really wanted to go inside of the mess left behind. Even a few of the seemingly unflappable Russian soldiers came running out of Purgatory pale or various shades of green, trying in vain to not vomit. It didn't surprise Rick; he felt a little ill when he first saw it.
The Claymore mines propelled seven hundred small, round steel balls each at a speed of near four thousand feet per second. Eight of these were daisy-chained together and placed on the walls of Purgatory. When they went off, they filled the chamber room with lethal shrapnel. No one inside the crisscrossing kill zone escaped without lethal wounds, and any severely maimed survivors "lucky" enough to avoid being completely shredded by the blast were put out of their considerable misery.
Rudimentary contact had been continued throughout this time with the authority up above to simulate that all was well, that the campaign was running smoothly. Rick didn't expect the ruse to last forever, but at least it would buy them some time.
Sergei and Isaac went with Victor, who they and most others still thought to be the infamous Elijah, on a search for the locations of the remaining people in Old Haven. They wanted to use the news of their alliance and military success to recruit everyone else to the cause. Victor had already mentioned the next goal of taking the fight to the surface, and both Sergei and Isaac agreed to it.
Everyone else, with the exception of the weary prisoners and a few people to supervise their campaign of misinformation, was stuck taking shifts in cleanup detail. There were numerous hundreds of bodies in various locations to deal with, as well as a horrid mess of gore in Purgatory. They took volunteers for that location because not everyone could stomach it. Although they tended to group together by faction, there was a shaky camaraderie already cultivating among the former enemies, and individuals scattered around to collect and bury the dead. Everyone who lived in down below understood the need to clean up in such a fashion. Otherwise, they'd invite more filth and decay and, with it, sickness and disease.
Rick was one of the few who stayed at Purgatory. When asked why he didn't just delegate it down, he replied, "I made the mess. I should help clean it up." Most people thought he was crazy.
The process, at least at Purgatory, was slow in going because of the presence of a great deal of blood and scattered bits of human tissue. They worked on cleaning everything as well as they could, but the floors, walls, and furniture would feature reddish-brown stains forever.
Some people went out to the open park area behind Purgatory to dig a large hole to put the bodies and parts in. It was long, bloody labor, but most of them didn't seem to mind. For once, the people in down below didn't feel hunted. Not by opposing factions, not by the Citizens. They knew it wouldn't last, so they enjoyed it while they could, even if the alternative was dealing with corpses.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Nothing! Nothing at all, Jeffrey thought, acidity and unrest boiling in his stomach. Apprehension exacerbated his already weak stomach, and he continued to pace around the barracks.
Fruitless hours of sweeping the now practically shining steps in front of the Institute had left him frustrated. He would have remained there entirely, except for one particular receptionist heading to begin work had given him a rather suspicious look. He felt it safer to refrain from using that spot again for a while.
The rumor mill was utterly devoid of any information about any sort of retaliatory strike, but Jeffrey knew it happened. He had seen the hundreds of soldiers blaze by the day before, disappearing into some passageway that went to the freight elevator. They went down, and, as far as he knew, they hadn't returned. God willing, he thought, they won't.
Other servants stared off into space, ignoring his jittery back and forth during the hours of the morning. Behaviors among his coworkers varied greatly; pacing was not terribly unusual. Neither was murmuring, rocking back and forth, or hours of blank staring.
Jeffrey remained worried. They can handle it, he thought for the hundredth time. They'll be okay...
\*\*\*\*\*\*
It was mid-afternoon and Gregory Michaels snorted and awoke with a start, still sitting in his plush leather chair. He had apparently fallen asleep without noticing. Comfortable though the chair was for sitting, his neck, slumped for several hours in an awkward position, felt like it was filled with broken glass as he tenderly moved it. He stretched out his limbs, wincing as his cramped, tense muscles complained while the blood slowly seeped into his limbs. He stood up and stretched further, a motion of agonizing ecstasy.
His head still swam within the fog of sleep, but it started to disperse as he shuffled around his office, working out the cramped muscles. The memory of the previous night and his solution to the riddle and subsequent rush to the office to see the next entry gradually plodded back through his mind. He remembered his angry outburst.
Which was, apparently, he thought, followed by passing out. Now awake, he felt a little more mellow about it. His frustration at the complex nature of the puzzles had waned somewhat, and the curiosity he felt overruled his irritation.
He laid his hand on the terminal screen intending to search, but his stomach rumbled audibly and produced a heavy hunger pang. He winced and thought, one thing at a time, I suppose. He walked out of the office towards the cafeteria to satisfy at least one of his biological needs.
By the time he returned to his office, a cup of steaming, black coffee in tow, it was nearly 3:00PM. He felt surprised that no one had come looking for him, but he supposed the lack of interrogation subjects meant the military campaign down below was still going on. He didn't mind; it gave him the opportunity to continue personal projects.
He set the styrofoam cup down on the desk and lifted the lid on the terminal. The computer, in sleep mode, blinked to life and a sluggish glow spread over the screen, which still showed the motionless image of Coleman's face.
He tapped a few keys on the keyboard and closed out the video file. This time, however, there was nothing else. No additional text file, no more hints. There was nothing. He closed out the window, seeing no further usefulness to it, and the same applied to the search window that contained it. However, when he closed everything, he noticed that, upon the empty desktop, sat a file that wasn't there before. It was an application, not a video.
He opened the application, and his brow furrowed as he saw some arcade video game come up on the screen. Even as a child he had always been too busy with his schooling to often engage in such a base practice, not that his parents would have allowed it in any case. A black screen came up with several boxy, pixilated figures. A series of what he would describe as quivering rows and columns of strange alien-esque creatures at the top of the screen moved back and forth, dropping small squiggly lines that he guessed were some kind of harmful projectile. A small rocket-shaped vessel at the bottom didn't move. When one of the projectile lines hit the vessel, it turned into an expanding graphic asterisk: some kind of crude explosion.
Michaels frowned. He liked playing silly games about as much as solving riddles, but at least the rules for this were well-established. He experimented around a little. He controlled the ship, which could move back and forth along the bottom, but not up or down. A few more button presses and he found that he could fire white blobs: his own projectiles. When they hit the enemy ships, they "exploded" in similar fashion.
The whole thing was very unimpressive and very old. Visually it looked little better than a toddler's finger painting. From what he had seen, interactive entertainment programs of today looked much better than that and seldom existed without educational or training uses. This thing could have been some relic from the past. He thought to himself, as he played, this must be another of Coleman's stupid hobbies.
As Michaels continued playing the game over the next half hour, running out of lives every few minutes and needing to restart the whole debacle, his frown deepened into a grimace. Eventually, a frustrated and angry scowl adorned his face. He was not very good at the game.
As per his usual reaction, he slammed the lid on the terminal and sat back in the chair. He fumed for a few minutes, grinding his teeth and watching bad graphical spaceships shooting back and forth every time he closed his eyes.
Michaels rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and reopened the terminal. Back and forth his little ship traveled. He fired haphazardly, his shots taking down several of the enemy ships. This continued for a while, and they destroyed his vessel a few times. He was down to his last life and there was one enemy left, which whizzed back and forth on the screen. He fired wildly as the ship got closer and closer. Finally, one lucky random shot of his obliterated the last of his foes.
Bright green text popped up with the word "Congratulations!" He smiled, surprised at the satisfaction he felt from the victory. The text faded out and dissolved into a central 'play' button set inside a circle. He moved the cursor over it and clicked.
The video file opened, the window was labeled, "mlc-nan2," and Michaels watched Coleman speak once more. He was surprised to see that, instead of the usual excitement and enthusiasm, Coleman looked exhausted and sullen, with hollow, sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes as though he was under a great deal of strain. He looked at the timestamp on the video. It came four days before his disappearance, and the man spoke with bitterness.
"Between the system malfunctions and Lange's constant messages, I've barely had time to pursue my project, let alone make entries about it." He frowned. "Lange has been more insistent of late, and I don't believe I will be able to keep him in the dark much longer. I don't want to reveal this magnificent finding to any of these hedonistic simpletons." He shook his head, "I believe it will merely be used as a means of gaining further superiority over other individuals," the man on the screen clenched his jaw and wore a sour expression, "just as everything else in our 'enlightened' society."
Coleman sighed wearily, "It's a shame that such a monumental discovery is marred like this and necessitates secrecy. The very implications of intelligent life should be astounding! Discovering the key to eliminating disease, injury, and death should usher humanity to true enlightenment and tolerance." Michaels' brow furrowed as Coleman continued speaking.
"I almost considered destroying the tissue sample," the man on screen shook his head, "I'm not sure that I could, even if I had wanted to. The technology is so resilient," Michaels could here the awe creeping into Coleman's voice, "I've attempted numerous experiments and observation on the microorganisms found within the sample, and I have confirmed that they are, in fact, what is keeping it both alive and slowly regenerating it. Nano-technology hundreds of years ahead of our own." He shook his head. "It is almost too difficult to believe, but test after test has proven it."
The excitement was once more mounting in Coleman, sweeping away the weariness. "I have no doubt that given sufficient time: years, decades, centuries even; the specimen would fully regenerate into a living being; the nanites keep working away, repairing and manufacturing the tissue, which has indeed gotten centimeters larger since I first opened the encasement." A thoughtful look crossed Coleman's eyes, "Of course I have no idea what such a creature would be or look like. It could be a domesticated pet for all know. I also am unaware if it could retain any memory of its experiences. The nanites in the sample are sophisticated beyond any of our measurability. It would seem they hold their hosts' entire genetic pattern within internal memory; is it such a stretch to think that they could store disposition, personality, and experiences as well?" There was a long pause as Coleman appeared to be in deep thought. "I'm considering another test. I want to try implanting some of the nanites into a tissue same, or even a cadaver. If they are as sophisticated as I expect, they'll be able to recognize organic life." Coleman rubbed his beard. "Perhaps they could benefit from utilizing existing tissue: revitalizing and manipulating it to recreate the original host." He gave a short laugh. "Concealment of a corpse like that would be an issue... It's not as though I can just experiment on a body up here without being observed or questioned." He seemed to consider it.
Another thoughtful look came upon his face. "Although... It could be possible to relinquish my experiment to a place free of Citizen influence." Coleman nodded to himself, "Yes... that could work... Monitoring such a trial would be near imposs-"
There came a knock at the door, this time not on the video but in reality. Michaels sighed, paused the video, and called out, "Yes?" with as much patience as he could muster.
"Ah! So there you are!" Dunlevy's muffled, cheery voice spilled in from the hallway. With his customary eye-rolling anytime the sociology head came near, Michaels depressed the switch that disengaged the lock on his office door.
With the usual heavyset exuberance, Dunlevy came bounding into the room. "Hello, hello! How are we doing today, my dear Gregory?" He plunked down in the seat opposite Michaels, eliciting a loud groan from the cushioned, wooden chair.
Michaels gave a dismissive wave, "Just fine, Arthur. I'm actually very bus-"
"Ah hah!" Dunlevy's eyes glinted with pleasure. "You finally called me Arthur! I just knew you'd learn, eventually!"
Michaels clenched his teeth in irritation, "Was there something you wanted?"
"Now, now, don't be that way. We've been looking for you all day!"
"Who is we?" Michaels inquired.
"Myself, Miss Laverock, and Citizen Myers wanted to consult with you."
Michaels raised an eyebrow. "Regarding what?"
Dunlevy hesitated, "Well, now that you're on the advisory council, you must understand that we, on the research and information dispersion, the ah, civilian branch as it is called, don't always exactly see eye to eye with the Inquisitors. Or even with the opinions of Citizen One. We have our concerns." Dunlevy paused. "About the contingency program. About its usage."
Michaels raised an eyebrow. "Why? It seems like a perfectly reasonable proposal to me. It would solve our problems in the most efficient way."
Dunlevy cocked his head, "Why do you say that, Gregory?"
Michaels shrugged, "Time and effort are a precious resource not to be squandered. In dealing with those remaining below, we waste a great deal of both. A purging plan would rid us of any more irritation they represent. We would no longer be able to recruit them for labor purposes, but I hardly see a problem with making Citizens labor more themselves or recruiting more of the lower rankings to do such work. Washing our hands of the issue would be the easiest way to accomplish it."
Dunlevy wore a grim expression, "And you have no qualms about implementing a plan to murder that many individuals?"
Michaels made a dismissive gesture. "Of course not. Why would I? You can barely even call it murder. It's not as though they're real people. They're practically..." He searched for something appropriate. "well, beasts. Would it not be best to put them down and end the human race of their impurity?"
This seemed to strike a nerve in Dunlevy, who said, teeth clenched, "You can't possibly mean that."
Michaels got incredulous, "Are you kidding? How could I not?" He let out a sardonic laugh. "Come on now, Dunlevy; cease this silly business. Are you trying to be funny? I really don't have time for your-"
Dunlevy sprang from his chair and gripped Michaels' collar with both hands, hauling him to his feet and dragging him over up against the wall. Michaels, with no fighting ability or inclination, cowered under the strength of the larger man.
Spittle flew from Dunlevy's mouth as he hissed, "I told you. To call me. Arthur." Michaels said nothing, eyes wide and frozen like a frightened animal.
Just as suddenly, Dunlevy released him. Not expecting it, his captive dropped to the ground as he paced away. Without turning around, he said, measurably more calm, "If we followed those idiotic ideals this society would crumble within the year."
Michaels, regaining his composure now that he was out of immediate danger, glared angrily as Dunlevy continued, "That kind of attitude causes nothing but social unrest and has never ended well. Impressions of superiority never end at one station. They continue on and on and on for no other reason than blind satisfaction. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
After clamoring to his feet, not taking his eyes off of Dunlevy, Michaels had the crazy idea of hurling himself at his foe's unprotected back. With this thought came a pang of fear that Dunlevy would whirl around and do something much worse than throw him against a wall, so he decided against it. He knew that he had no fighting ability to speak of anyway. He straightened his rumpled shirt, smoothed his disheveled hair, and stood up straighter.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Arthur." Michaels spat.
Dunlevy whirled around, scowling. Michaels cringed involuntarily at the aggressive motion, hating himself for being so easily frightened. Dunlevy did not charge forward again or do anything else physical. He said, stabbing his finger at Michaels' with each emphasized word, "What is wrong with me is that I put any measure of faith in the abilities of a sniveling little coward."
Dunlevy sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps I made a mistake in your nomination. I thought you would be smarter than this. More sympathetic. That you would be understanding. Coleman was wrong about you."
Michaels did a double take, "What are you talking about?"
Dunlevy looked up and smiled, "Never mind. It's not important." He gave Michaels an intense look. "Learn to be better. For your own sake." He leaned in closer, causing Michaels to draw back. "Not everything is as cut and dry as Citizen One or the Inquisitors would have you believe. They are not always right."
"What... why...?" Michaels was at a loss.
The rotund man suddenly perked up, "Well! I believe I've taken up enough of your time, my dear friend Gregory. Enjoy your afternoon!"
Michaels sputtered and tried to figure out what just happened, all manner of questions and threats on the edges of his lips, as Dunlevy bounded out of the room, leaving his usual air of joviality behind as though nothing else had happened.
Michaels stared at the empty door. He was trying to get angry about it, but the entire thing left him more confused than anything else. Social unrest? What is he talking about? How can he, a sociologist who has studied them so extensively, believe in any value to those people? He shook his head. It has to be some kind of joke.
Still, when he looked at his hand, he noticed that it was still trembling from the encounter. He tried to still it with his other hand, but he kept shaking just as much. The remainder of the video file far from his mind, he saw the empty styrofoam cup on his desk. Suddenly, the thought a refill and something to eat sounded like a good idea, as well as not being alone for a time. The encounter, strange and schizophrenic as it was, left him feeling uneasy. As he left the room, a few of Dunlevy's words echoed in his mind, Learn to be better.
"I am telling you: we should not be burying their dead. We should cut off their heads and put them up in the elevator! It would send a clear message to them that we are not to be trifled with!" Sergei continued arguing with Victor as they walked through the desolate, dimly lit streets.
"And I'm telling you: a message like that would terrify them." Victor replied.
"Exactly! Then-"
"Then what?" Victor said, a hint of exasperation cutting through his customary calm. "They'd be put on their guard and we'd never have a chance to use any element of surprise."
"Why would we need to surprise them? They are nothing but a pack of bloated cowards. They would fall like sheep."
Victor stopped walking and turned towards Sergei, who eyed at him defiantly. "The only reason we have seen such success down here is because they severely underestimated what we can do. For the last several years, I've been working very hard to cultivate that attitude, as well as build up our military capabilities."
Sergei replied, "Yes, there is no doubt that you have great strength..." He turned towards the side, looking at the empty space next to him. "Yes, yes Piotr, I know we have to respect what they've done." Isaac gave Victor a questioning look. Victor shrugged and shook his head. "But we can use their strength." Sergei turned back towards the other two. "We can show those bloated pigs who is to be feared."
Victor laid a hand on Sergei's shoulder, "We will show them. You do not have to worry about that. The solution may not be quite as," he cracked the slightest of smiles, "subtle as you might want, but I promise you: the time for direct fighting will come."
This drew a smirk out of Isaac. Sergei scoffed and quietly whispered to the invisible person next to him. The other man, walking with them, remained silent, not giving input in the conversation or wondering about Sergei's nonexistent friend.
Desmond was another small faction leader who was generally left to his own devices, even by Miguel. This was because he housed less than two dozen people capable of combat, and more than half of them were under the age of twenty.
Desmond and his wife, Olivia, started taking in orphaned and abandoned children roughly five or six years prior. They gathered them together in an abandoned multi-story school in the southern downtown region. The two had begged for food from every other faction leader, which worked in a small but survivable fashion. Even Miguel threw them a pittance once or twice. Fortunately, the Silver Fox had believed Desmond to be a pathetic bachelor, never being made aware of the woman.
Children left behind, a few abandoned in the years since the separation, some volunteers, and others who couldn't help themselves found a safe haven with the pair. They took care of near fifty children of various ages, and with assistance managed, using supplies abandoned in their school to get a very rudimentary system of education set up.
Victor went there first, not because of their potential contribution to a military effort, but because Desmond and his wife represented a very humanitarian position. Their presence in the union would further legitimize their bid for the surface.
Victor looked over at Desmond, once again not surprised that he was able to care for children. He was a little older, in his mid-forties. His long, gray hair was usually tied back, but his lightly lined face and soft, green eyes behind round spectacles radiated a sense of calm, comfort, and safety. He had said nothing during the argument, which was unsurprising. He had no knowledge regarding military tactics; he and his wife were schoolteachers before the separation.
Isaac stood next to him. Victor didn't know anything about him, but he must have held some kind of lieutenant position under Miguel. Much to his relief, the discovery of Miguel's dead body did not appear to upset Isaac at all. When he was contacted, he calmly turned and informed the other two that his authority was now formalized. He didn't seem joyous or thrilled about the responsibility, just accepting.
Sergei put on another defiant look, "I still think my way would be better."
Desmond piped up for the first time since the argument started, "If we did something like that, then we would turn exactly into the barbarians the Citizens believe we are."
Sergei looked surprised. He looked on the verge of speaking, then closed his mouth and frowned. Isaac cut in, "There's not a whole lot of time, right? We should keep going and leave ethics discussions for later."
Victor nodded, and the three started moving once more, their growing entourage of armed soldier escorts following quietly behind.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee had collapsed almost as soon she and Malcolm arrived in their destination; like everyone else, she was beyond exhausted after the long day and night. Malcolm had silently followed along behind her as she tried to decide where to go. Her first thought had been to head into the Citizen's Escape and find a nice huge bed to relax in, but she had been nervous about running into any military presence.
So she had asked Malcolm if he knew another easy way in. Without so much as a grunt of affirmation, he had taken the lead, and she followed close behind. Along the western side of the compound, he brought her to a break in the high wall. It wasn't as easy of a climb as the one out front, but it was far out of the way of any fighting or troop movements.
With his assistance, she safely scaled and descended down the wall. They moved through the Escape compound, arriving several minutes later at the living quarters. Not terribly long after, Kaylee shoved a large chair in front of the closed door, collapsed on the king-sized four-poster, and slept like the dead. Even the distant, yet still quite loud and concussive, explosion of the daisy-chained claymores failed to stir her from her deep slumber.
Malcolm, having sat on the floor quietly without complaint, jerked his head towards the sound of the blast and narrowed his eyes, but he did not move further. He didn't sleep. He didn't need to.
When Kaylee awoke, she felt a little unnerved that Malcolm was sitting cross-legged against the wall, staring at her. She self-consciously crossed her arms and scooted up against the headboard, eyeing him warily as he stared in silence. The events of the last couple of days rushed back through her, which served well to cut through some of the fogginess of sleep. She remembered that, despite how peculiar he was, he had helped her more than once. She owed him her life.
They stared at each other for several moments, not speaking. She figured it was unlikely that he would break the semi-awkward silence. That, and thousands of questions burned on the tip of her tongue.
Feeling lame, she started with one that sounded too obvious in her mind. "Okay... what exactly are you?"
Malcolm finally looked away, a very human gesture of discomfort. He gave a slight shrug and said, with decent clarity despite harsh tones, "Donn't knnow."
Kaylee frowned, "How can you not know?"
Malcolm turned and glared, narrowing the slanted white eyes, "Don't know!" he hissed, causing Kaylee to jump.
She held up her hands, "Okay, fine! Just relax. Jeez."
He kept his gaze turned away, and she watched him in silence for a while. He didn't look at her; he seemed lost in thought.
Finally she broke the silence again, "Do you know how old you are?"
"No."
"Do you remember where did you come from?"
He looked over at her again, not unkindly this time, "Hkere." His eyes narrowed, "...annd nott hkere."
Kaylee was confused, "What?"
Malcolm shook his head, "Donn't knoww. M-Mem..." His eyes scrunched together; it almost looked comical. "Mmemor..."
"Memory?" Kaylee asked, trying to be helpful.
His eyes widened in recognition and he nodded. "Mmemory is... is..." The confused look returned. He held both of his hands out in front of his body, whirling them around each other in a rapid motion.
"Your memories are scrambled?"
Malcolm nodded again. "Wwoke upp. Colld. Hkurt."
Kaylee asked, "Do you remember when?"
Malcolm looked up, thinking, "No."
Did he sleep last night? She wondered, noting him in the same cross-legged position he had taken several hours earlier. If he did, he has some hellish muscle cramps now. It made her wonder how keen his sense of time passage was. Several hours of me sleeping seems like nothing to me. Maybe it's the same for him when nothings happening.
A stray thought occurred. She tried to squelch it, ignoring the absurdity. Yet the memory of the now-silly stories from childhood and beyond kept pecking at her resistance. She hesitated, letting the strange and absurd question rest on the tip of her tongue. The inquiry was not to be denied, and she blurted, "Are you an alien?"
Malcolm cocked his head at her.
Having let loose the reins, she kept going, "Well, you're really strong and fast. You're bulletproof. You can't really talk, and you have blue skin." She turned her palms upwards in a 'well?' kind of gesture.
Malcolm gave another of his little shrugs, "Donn't knnoww. Do yyouu?"
She scooted to the edge of the bed and jumped lightly to her feet. She crouched down, leveling her face with his. "Will you show me?" she asked.
Malcolm twitched, and a low growl escaped his throat. She stood up and walked around to the other side of the bed. She turned back, folding her arms, "Well?"
He stood up, slowly. He looked at her, put one hand up and removed his hat. The wild, matted shock of white hair came free and tumbled out, framing his still-clothed face. Kaylee could see dark blue-gray skin on his forehead and temples. Her mouth involuntarily fell open as she saw his bulbous ocular bone structure.
Kaylee felt a shiver course through her body as he unwrapped the scarves around his face. She whispered, "Oh my God." The first thing she saw was the upturned, nearly flat state of his slitted nasal cavity, very skull-like. She saw his face taper down to the smallish jaw, which, although much better than before, was still hanging from an improper angle: not healthy-looking for any species.
Kaylee had an urge to move forward and run her hand across that skin. She imagined that it would feel like some combination of leather and velvet, but she was too nervous to move any closer. True to his nature, Malcolm said very little, and his slanted eyes glowed faintly in the darkness of the room.
"You really aren't human..." She whispered.
The eyes narrowed. Barely moving the still-injured jaw, he hissed, "Donn't thhinnk ssso ..."
There was a resounding crash on the floor above, and both Kaylee and Malcolm jerked their heads upward in response. Malcolm let out a low growl once more and hastily rewrapped his face. After tucking the bright white hair away underneath the hat, Malcolm once again looked like the strange figure Kaylee had seen in the alleyway only days before.
He yanked the chair blocking the door aside and made as if to investigate, but Kaylee moved forward and grabbed his shoulder. "Wait," she said. "It's probably just some junkie looking for some leftover pain meds or something. Don't worry about it."
Malcolm relaxed and stayed but positioned himself near the door. Kaylee said, "We should get out of here, I need to talk to Rick about some stuff." She pulled out the small radio he had given her the night before and pressed the switch.
"Rick? Rick, are you there?" She waited a moment, imagining Rick fumbling around, grabbing at his radio and complaining loudly.
Through the speaker, she heard, "...the goddamn thing. This is Rick," he was half-talking to someone else, "Hey! I'm gonna take five and answer this! Hello? Someone there?"
"So much for the all clear signal," she said, chiding.
"Kaylee! Hey, sorry about that. Been busy." She could hear him breathing hard on the other line.
"Yeah, fine. You still busy right now?" she asked.
"Just working on cleanup. It's a still a pretty big mess here. I'd recommend staying clear; it's not a pretty sight." He put a large emphasis on 'not.'
"You in Purgatory right now?"
"Yeah, but seriously, don't come here." He said adamantly.
She rolled her eyes, "Yeah, fine, but I do need to tell you something that I found out when I was with Miguel. Trust me; you're going to like it. How about you meet me in the little central park in five minutes?"
There was surprise in his voice. "Wait, you're already here?"
She laughed, "Yeah, you gotta try the beds in the living quarters sometime; they're great."
There was chuckle on the other end. "Is that an invitation?"
Kaylee gave a sly smile, "See you in five." She switched her radio off.
She noticed that she felt really quite hungry. Even though she'd practically gorged herself the night before during her dinner with Miguel, it had been near to twenty hours prior. She looked over at Malcolm, who hadn't moved from the door. She shook her head. She wasn't surprised that he didn't know how old he was or how long he'd been in down below. He seems to be able to sit quietly for hours without noticing it, she thought.
"You hungry?" she asked him.
He looked over at her, and tilted his head, as if in thought. "No," he finally said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Okay, whatever." She switched the radio back on. "Hey, Rick, bring me something to eat, I'm starved."
"Okay, Kaylee," she heard in response.
She walked over to the door. "All right, Malcolm, let's get going."
Silently, he followed her out of the room, eyes sweeping back and forth for any movement or threat. Seeing none, he relaxed slightly and continued behind her, still watching.
A few minutes later, Kaylee was walking across the small park. It remained dark, looking exactly the same as it had days earlier when she had retrieved the can of peaches. Hmmm... she thought to herself, what actually happened to those peaches? Before she could remember where they ended up, she saw a figure that she quickly identified as Rick. A distance behind him she could see the silhouettes of some men digging and others tossing things into the holes. Doesn't take much to figure out what they're doing, she thought with a shudder.
She and Malcolm walked right up to Rick. She scowled, not seeing him carrying anything. He rolled his eyes, grinned and pulled a small foil packet out of his pocket, passing it to her. Her eyes light up and she snatched it from him, tearing it open and scarfing down a handful of the trail mix.
"Sorry I didn't bring more, it's all I had with me." Rick said, raising an eyebrow at her devouring exuberance.
"That's okay," she said through a mouthful of food. She swallowed it. "It'll be fine for now." She continued eating noisily.
Rick eyed Malcolm, whose huge presence behind Kaylee made him a little nervous. His hunched silence and glowing gaze did very little to assuage this feeling. Rick gave him a curt nod, which was not returned.
"Well?" He finally said, as Kaylee tipped the bag upside down and dropped the last of the crumbs of the package into her mouth.
She looked over at him, chewing noisily. A piece of food ended up in her windpipe and she choked. She doubled over, coughing for a while and gasping for breath. When she looked up Rick was kneeling next to her, looking concerned.
"I'm fine," she said, red-faced and strained.
"Well," he said, standing up and shaking his head, "that's why you shouldn't eat so fast."
She straightened up, coughed once more, and took a deep breath. "Shut up." Rick smirked at the retort. She continued, "Anyway, I brought you here because I have very important information for you that I found out when I was captive, but if you'd rather just make jokes..."
Rick held up his hands in a surrendering gesture, "All right, all right. Go ahead."
"Okay, so Miguel, who was so unbelievably boring, took me around to show off a bunch of his accomplishments. One of these was in that bondage club, The Dungeon. In one of the cells he had a Citizen chained up."
Rick narrowed his eyes. "Really?"
Kaylee nodded, "Yeah, the guy had some weird idea about hunting people, so he decided to come down here to try it. Well, he ended up getting captured, and Miguel had him tortured." She thought about it. "He's probably still there, actually."
Rick twirled his hands in a 'go on' sort of gesture.
"Right, well, the guy had busted through a sealed off section of the layer between us and them. Here's the best part," she licked her lips, "it's still open."
Rick's mouth hung open, "Are you serious? Where is it?"
"Oh yeah. Mid-southern section, high-rise condos. Not exactly sure where, but it shouldn't be too hard to find."
Rick ran a hand through his hair, "Wow... this is... this great news! I gotta tell Victor about this. Why don't you and," he gestured at Malcolm who passively watched the exchange, "the big guy there head down that way and see if you can't find the opening? It's bound to be less dangerous than you're last job."
Kaylee thought about it. Finally, she nodded. "Sure, we can do that. Just let me get some stuff together and I'll head out."
"Good, I'll radio back to the Highland and let them know you're coming, head back that way first, and I'll make sure they get supplies ready for you." He put a hand on her shoulder. "You've really been valuable to us Kaylee, we're really grateful for all you've done."
Kaylee slipped out his grasp with a coy smile, "Yeah, I bet you are."
Rick looked confused and jerked his hand back, "Well, uh. I didn't mean it like that, uh... That is to say, that you've, uhm..." he trailed off. He squeezed his eyes shut with embarrassment and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Can you find your way back out? Uh, without going this way?" he waved his hand towards Purgatory.
Kaylee laughed at his discomfort, and walked away from him. "No problem. I'll be in touch!" She called out, over her shoulder.
Rick let out a sigh and watched her go, Malcolm trailing behind her. He shook his head and walked back over towards the building, passing the other men tossing bodies and pieces into the large grave. He winced, realizing that there was still a lot of mess to clean up. Why did I volunteer to do this again?
Chapter 27: All Good Things...
Rather than his usual passive nature, Gottfried wore a heavy scowl as he passed outside of the Institute compound. He walked across the synthetic breed of grass, very realistic with even a couple inches of dirt beneath it. The evening sun flickered with the sterilization field, bathing the park in a soft orange glow, which he didn't notice. It wasn't something he paid attention to, but, then again, he didn't often find himself going for an evening walk in the park.
The investigation of the initial insertion of soldiers sent to down below represented something like the fourth trip that the Gottfried had made to the Old Haven. He felt, an opinion shared by most of the Inquisitors, a distaste for traveling in that region, so he avoided it whenever possible.
Because of it, he also didn't often pass down the hard ceramic steps cut into the ground on either side of the Institute, a few hundred feet from it, facing away from the rest of the city. Through a double door and past a guard wielding an assault rifle, he walked down a couple of hallways with a couple of corners, arriving in a rectangular room directly beneath the Institute's main lobby.
Straight ahead of him, he saw the hallway that lead to the other bunker entrance in a very symmetrical fashion. On his left, in the room, was two quarter-circle desks in each corner at the far end. One man sat behind each desk. He gave them a nod, which they silently returned.
Between the two was a fairly large freight elevator, the very one that went directly down into the Citizen's Escape. This, however, was not the subject of his visit. Recent radio communications suggested that the elevator was malfunctioning anyway. Alpha claimed to be working on it, but it was taking time and their techs were having trouble with it. Gottfried cursed the gross incompetence of the military force for not having the foresight to bring someone who was familiar with the engineering of their primary exit point. However, at the moment, he was more concerned with the numerous other delays.
Opposite from the elevator, at the other end of the room, laid a set of double doors; he pushed them open and walked inside. A large room, used mostly for storage, had a few tables set up. On the tables lay various radio equipment and a bundle of wiring and cable that boosted their signal through the distance and layers of concrete. All of the gear put together allowed them to communicate with Alpha Base. A few soldiers meandered around the room, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups. The operator on duty sat with his feet propped up next to the equipment and the headset around his neck.
When Gottfried entered the room, all of them looked over at him and quickly composed themselves to appear as though they were doing some kind of work. He ignored their disheveled appearance and cut right to it, "When was the last communication from Alpha Base?"
The man sitting at the table, feet now planted firmly on the ground and headset in place, checked his watch and answered, "That would be about... forty-five minutes ago, Inquisitor."
"What was their status report?"
The soldier looked at a clipboard with something scrawled on it. "Uh, it looks like they sent a very brief report..." he flipped through a couple of pages, "Ah. They reported running into other faction soldiers a little under three hours ago at four o'clock this afternoon. The latest information is that they have tracked them back to their HQ and are in process of cleaning it out."
Gottfried glared, "Why haven't they transferred the prisoners to Alpha base?"
The man flipped through a few more pages of handwritten notes. "Uh... oh. Here it is. They've been locked down in the club waiting for clear streets. The assault on..." he paged through more sheets, "'Heavenly Bodies' took a longer than expected. They had just barely secured the prisoners they had when the run-in happened." He started punching buttons, and he held the microphone up to Gottfried. "You can talk to them, if you like; it's just about scheduled update time."
The Inquisitor grabbed the communicator and spoke, "Alpha base, respond."
"This is Alpha, go ahead." Gottfried didn't recognize the voice.
"This is Inquisitor Herman Gottfried. I am looking for a full update on the current situation."
"Yes, Inquisitor. Of course. I've just heard back from Gamma, they're wrapping up the secondary objective and bringing a few dozen prisoners to a holding area."
"The High Inquisitor is displeased with your lack of progress. What is taking so long down there?" Gottfried's voice betrayed his irritation.
The transmitted voice sounded nervous, "It's just a few delays. They dug in at the club and storming it took longer than expected; most of the night, really. Then there was the latest skirmish."
"Is there an end in sight?" Gottfried frowned.
"Well, if what they're telling me is right, they should be about wrapped up with the primary mission in several hours." There was a pause with muffled, indistinct speaking on the other end. "Let's see... prisoner transfer, breaking down and transporting equipment from Gamma... Yeah, we probably won't be ready to come out until morning."
Gottfried grinded his teeth, creating a wretched, low scraping noise that caused all of the soldiers in the room who were watching to cringe. "Morning?" Tension tugged at the edges of his long lost composure, "We were assured by Captain Redgick that the latest possible extraction time would be this morning at 10:00 o'clock. Where is he?"
The operator sounded nervous, and he stuttered, "W-well, I..." there was a faint crackle and a pause, "it's not my fault, sir. Redgick's wounded, and th-the lieutenant has taken over. He hasn't been in contact as often."
Gottfried closed his eyes and sighed, "Fine. Report in as often as possible, and tell Redgick that there will be severe consequences for his complacence."
He handed the receiver back to the radio operator who took it without a word. "I want updates every half hour. With something new. Encourage them to move more quickly if you have to."
The various operators in the room all nodded and mumbled a quick affirmation. Gottfried turned on his heel and walked out of the room. The double doors closed behind him. Before he walked out of the elevator room, he said to the two bored-looking men, "Keep an eye on the operators in that room and inform me if they continue their pattern of sloth and complacence."
The men also mumbled quick acknowledgements and Gottfried walked out of the room, down the hallway, and back into the sinking daylight.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Surprising himself, Gregory Michaels didn't go back to his office, even after he had grabbed another cup of coffee and a little bit of supper from the mess hall. Something about his experience with Dunlevy left him nervous and wanting to be in the company of other people.
No, he thought to himself, that's not all of it. There's something else. Indeed there was: he felt curious.
It was thus that he wandered through the various places in the Institute building, passing through the main lobby out of his own sector until he reached the Experimental Design wing. He waved his badge at the reception desk, and, with a puzzled look, the attendant buzzed him through. It was a bit strange for him to go that way; Michaels could count on one hand the number of times he'd visited that area.
He passed into another of those sterile white hallways, this one with a thick, dark blue line of tiles passing down the center, probably to differentiate from the other sections and remind people where they were. The Experimental Design wing was on the eastern arm of the civilian branch of the Institute. Doorways on either side led to large rooms and labs for research and testing, as well as a few offices. At the very end of the hall lay a set of doors leading into a fairly large open room for larger projects. Michaels passed through without so much as a glance from the guard.
Inside he saw rows and stacks of equipment and machinery. On his left, a metal-grating staircase led up to an overlooking office. On the floor, numerous small vehicles were crowded near a large sliding door, which led to the outside. Though he couldn't see it, Michaels also knew there was more fenced-in space outdoors for miscellaneous testing of certain implements.
Over on the right against the wall was a wide ceramic workbench. Upon it sat a wide cylindrical tube made of shining stainless steel, smooth and sleek. A small curved section had been removed, and Claudia Laverock, in her skirt, lab coat, and high heels, Michaels rolled his eyes at the impracticality, was hunched over the opening.
Michaels walked up to her and cleared his throat. Still hunched over, she turned her head and saw him, out of the corner of her eye. He heard a slight sigh escape from her, and she stood up and turned around. She folded her arms and leaned up against the bench, looking at him expectantly.
It was at this point that Michaels realized that he had thought of nothing to say when he arrived. He sat there considering in silence until Claudia raised an eyebrow and said, "Well?"
Michaels frowned and replied, "Well, what?"
Claudia put on an incredulous look, "Well, you interrupted my work. What are you doing here?"
Michaels closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. "To be honest..." he hesitated. "I'm not exactly sure."
She scowled at him, "Then go away, I'm working." She turned back towards the device.
The curiosity sparked, "Ah, yes." He walked forward and looked at the cylinder. It was about as long as his forearm and wide as the palm of his hand. Inside the open panel, he could see a few wires scattered about. Behind those were long vials filled with liquid solutions. As he stepped in to take a closer look, Claudia cut in front of him.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
He peered around her at the cylinder, "Is that it? Is that part of the contingency plan?"
She gritted her teeth and answered, "Yes it is."
Some of his conversation with Dunlevy echoed in his mind. He tried to be nonchalant, but the result came out more as fumbling awkwardness, "So, I uh, heard that it's getting close to completion."
She eyed him warily, "From whom?"
"Arthur."
Claudia glared at him. "Citizen Dunlevy doesn't have the slightest idea what this project entails, and it would be delightful if he didn't run around gossiping about it to the other people who don't have the slightest clue either." There was a clear hint of dismissal in her tone, but he ignored it. She turned around and pretended to keep working. Michaels watched her with an amused expression, noting her tense posture and sidelong glances to see if he'd left.
"Well?" He finally asked.
"Well, what?" She practically shouted, whirling around again.
"Is it almost finished?" Michaels felt a strange satisfaction at her exasperation.
Claudia and threw up her hands, "The latest prototype of the agent with its delivery device and payload is what you see here. There, are you happy?"
"What is it?" Michaels asked, tenacity burning through him.
She sighed, rubbing her eyes. "If I tell you, will you leave me alone?"
Michaels saw the irritation in her face and stance, and he thought, that's exactly how I feel when Dunlevy is around. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
"Of course, my apologies for disturbing you Citizen Laverock," he said with a slight bow. "I'm just curious; that's all."
Claudia rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "It's a biochemical agent that, when properly mixed, seeps out of the ends of the canister," she gestured at the cylinder, which Michaels finally noticed had slits at both flat sides. "The substance mimics a heavy fog that," she winced, "should stay at or close to ground level."
Michaels frowned, "Should?"
The woman's scowl returned, "The mixture has been tricky. Nailing down the density while maximizing potency hasn't been easy, but it's the only way to keep it from rising up into our own streets." She shook her head. "I can't be certain unless I run further tests on it and make modifications. However, Wresh is pushing for me to have the next functioning prototype," she swept a gesture at the cylinder, "by tomorrow."
"What if it isn't actually ready by then?" Michaels asked.
Claudia scoffed, "They don't care about that. Wresh just wants something he can use to kill a bunch of people quickly," her tension level continued rising as she spoke, "I can't even be sure that he's planning on using it in down below or somewhere else."
Michaels narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that?"
Claudia stiffened, as though realizing what she had said, "Look, forget I said anything about it, okay?"
Michaels shrugged, but decided not to force the issue. "What does the substance do?" He asked, changing the subject.
She swallowed hard and lost some of her color, "It's an agent that absorbs through the skin. Once inside the bloodstream it has a reaction that causes organic corrosion," she shuddered, "the vessels decay and leak until the person bleeds out internally."
"Is it painful?" He asked, eyes wide.
She nodded. "Extremely."
Something about the compound just seemed too terrible to exist, and it made Michaels feel almost sorry for the denizens it was intended for. Sympathy was an odd sensation for him that didn't seem to occur often. He took a short backwards step, away from the workbench. "How much exposure until it's fatal?"
"It depends. If it just absorbs into the extremities, then a few minutes of contact. If it's inhaled..." she shook her head. "There's no chance."
She continued, "Obviously, we haven't yet tested it on any human subjects, but animals haven't survived any more than about forty-five seconds. A full-sized human would probably last quite a bit longer."
"Antidote?"
She shook her head, "No. Unless there was a minimum of exposure and the subject was able to wash it off quickly. Even then their chances are slim."
Michaels took another step away from it, nervously, "Doesn't it worry you?"
Claudia hesitated and bit her lower lip, "Well... Yes, it does. I know that we aren't supposed to care about anyone from down below, but this compound scares me. Even when we use it on animals, I can barely stomach it. It's such a horrible way to die." She turned around and leaned on the workbench with both hands. "I'm just not cut out for this kind of research." He could see moisture forming in her eyes.
Michaels was taken aback by her sudden rush of emotion, "Uh... I meant... doesn't working with something so lethal," he jerked his head towards the canister, "right next to you, make you at all nervous?"
Leaning against the table, Claudia wilted. Michaels watched as she hung her head for a few seconds before standing up straight and turning around. She wore a smug expression, "I work with hazardous materials all of the time. I take proper precaution so, no. It doesn't bother me." Any trace of her sentimental flood had faded.
Michaels smirked, "You don't deal with warfare materials often, I take it."
This seemed to strike a nerve and she resumed her irritated scowl, "No, if it makes you happy, I don't often work with military-related projects." She raised her chin. "At least I didn't make my reputation from ruining people."
He shrugged. "They aren't people, Claudia; they're garbage. Not worth saving or dealing with." Even as he said the old line, something in it rang false. He tried to cast the thought aside, but it lingered in his mind.
Claudia sneered, "Said like a true Citizen underling. Tell me, have you ever had any sort of independent thought in your entire miserable life?"
Michaels opened his mouth with a barbed retort ready to spill out when a loud klaxon blared through the warehouse area.
Claudia threw her hands up in the air. "God dammit!" she yelled as dozens of people walked briskly towards the door. She started moving as well, giving a shove to the confused Michaels. He stumbled, then fell in line with the rest of the staff. Instead of heading out of the main exit, staff members walked towards openings on either side in, to Michaels's eye, no particular arrangement. He walked in front of Claudia, who was muttering random curses under her breath, toward the left door. He turned to ask her what was going on, but the brief distraction caused him to bump into the person in front of him.
A young woman, rather pretty, shot him a glare before walking into the wide, white room. Michaels mumbled an apology and followed her in. They walked into the room. On the right, there was a small viewing window with glass. Behind it stood a few people with bored or irritated looks on their faces.
People continued to file in until the room was on the uncomfortable side of crowded. Michaels had lost sight of Claudia in the close packing of bodies. He still didn't know what was going on. The lights darkened, the entrance slid shut, and the room filled with a kind of mist.
Irrationality and panic flared through Michaels' mind, having just considered a certain kind of excruciating and lethal substance for usage against a large group of people. Everyone else just stood calmly, wearing the same bored or annoyed expressions as the people behind the glass. His heart raced, and he tried to shove past people towards the exit, but they just gave him dirty looks and didn't move out of the way.
He clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and held his breath as the translucent fog filled the chamber. It felt cool on his skin, almost soothing, but he could imagine his blood vessels rupturing, his flesh sloughing off-
With an almost impossibly loud whoosh! air rushed past him from beneath, ruffling his clothes and scattering his thin hair. His eyes popped open and he saw the rest of the people, now looking more irritated while their own hair and clothing blew around. The fans disengaged, and a door at the opposite end of the chamber slid open.
The various scientists and other researchers walked out of the room. Michaels caught a glimpse of Claudia, marching along very much like everyone else as though this event was commonplace. Maybe it is, he thought, starting to relinquish his panic.
He pushed his way through the crowd of people, tapping Claudia on the shoulder when he reached her. She gave him a quick glance and frowned, still not looking pleased to see him in the least.
Michaels was about to ask about what just happened when Claudia cut in, "This is why I don't worry about it much. The decontamination procedure is thorough and efficient." She grabbed his arm and led him to the side, allowing other people to pass by. "It's, unfortunately, also overly sensitive."
Michaels nodded and rubbed his chin, "I see your point, I suppose."
"Good. Now leave me alone." She waved him away with a 'shooing' gesture.
He raised an eyebrow at her and walked away down the hallway. Before he went around the corner, he turned back towards her. She watched him expectantly. He opened his mouth to say something about how he wasn't an underling, or that he would show her and everyone else, but he couldn't find words that didn't seem hollow and empty.
Instead, he gave her a nod. He said, "See you later, Claudia," before turning and walking away.
Chapter 28: ...Come to an End
On the surface of Haven, at this time of day, Kaylee could have been watching the last rays of sun shimmering and fragmenting through the sterilization field into a trillion colors of beautiful warmth, all glittering into the deep blue twilight. Where she was walking, however, there was naught but the steady pale yellow drone of the few functioning street lamps with some eyes well-adjusted to perpetual dim.
She and Malcolm found themselves walking through what would have passed for the more wealthy area of Haven, near the southern slope of the valley. There weren't any massive homes with gigantic yards; space was too valuable to allow any of that. Most of the wealthier citizens were happy enough with the high-rise condominiums that dotted the region as well as the expensive, high-quality, or rare merchandise shopping.
Kaylee stopped and held up a hand. Stretched across the road was a bundle of heavily insulated cable. As she looked it over, she could see frayed patches. Not an electrician, she couldn't tell whether or not the wires were live or dead. Looking, around, she didn't see any light from street lamps, and she thought that live wires were supposed to dance and spark. She frowned, and decided not to risk it. Maybe this is why people don't live here, she thought, there's no electricity.
They doubled back and took a different street; this one was filled with various rubble, spilled over from a massive garbage pile. A dumping site, she thought. Maybe worth a look later.
She could see rusted bits of metal scattered around in the trash heap, good enough to warrant a thorough search for salvage. She blinked. That is, she thought, if we end up staying here much longer. The corners of her mouth turned in a slight smile at the prospect.
She pursed her lips as she looked around at the dozens of buildings around, all of them connecting to the surface and providing an equal opportunity for a random half-crazed Citizen to breach through the sealed off areas. From what Miguel had said, she knew that he had to have come through one of the condominiums. Unfortunately, it wasn't any more specific than that. She sighed, and the two entered the nearest one. Have to start the search somewhere, she thought.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Citizen soldier Lieutenant Bates still hadn't slept for what felt like days. He'd almost faded out just before the insane Russians came roaring into Gamma base and slaughtering anyone that moved. Ironic, because he'd likely have not awakened if he had fallen asleep with his concussion. Instead he was able to hide out, evading detection and execution. His head hurt, and his vision was constantly blurry.
With extreme care and caution, he managed to locate, via his radio, a few of the surviving soldiers. They were rattled, demoralized, and terrified. With a little time during the past day, he had managed to gather everyone together and get them a little calmed down.
Between the seven of them, including Bates himself, they had four weapons; three pistols with full clips, with no extras, and a submachine gun with only ten rounds. After taking a tally of their weapons, even he started to feel hopeless.
"There's something we gotta do. It's vital to our mission down here. Once we take care of that, we can get the hell out of here."
Bates had been lying, of course. He fully expected that he and his remaining comrades wouldn't ever see the light of day. However, he hoped that he could salvage something out of this doomed operation.
The pitiful band soft-stepped around all day long, avoiding detection by being excruciatingly careful. In the late evening, they had arrived near the main square. They hid several floors up, occasionally peeking out windows. It took little time for Bates to realize that the exit point in the Escape was hopeless. Men were milling around, coming in and out. Any who went inside came out covered in blood. They kept bringing in buckets of water and various cloths, rags, and other cleaning implements.
It was now late in the evening, and many of the workers had since stopped milling around. The morale of the soldiers with Bates was so abysmal at this point that they had entirely stopped asking fearful questions and making insubordinate remarks. They were all silent and stoic as though they were resigned to their fate. They probably are, Bates thought. At least we can go out with a bang.
Bates had watched for a very long time. Eventually, he noticed, at the other end of the square, a couple of soldiers standing guard outside what looked like a little empty grocery store. At some point, he saw someone he recognized step out of the guarded building. It took him a while, but he realized it was one of the radio operators from Alpha. Prisoners. His cloudy thoughts swirled the idea around, and it took him a long time to figure out why the Old Haven people had taken prisoners.
Then it dawned on him. That's why there were no reinforcements. That's why the retreating soldiers were cut down. That's why there's only seven of us left, Bates thought, shaking his head in dismay. The Inquisitors don't even know what happened yet.
Bates felt tired and completely strung out. It was late. His own watch had been broken in the explosion which had knocked him from his feet and given him a head injury, but one of the other soldiers was able to inform him of the time. It was nearly 11 o'clock in the evening.
Bates' tiny force moved into the alley. It appeared that most of the cleanup had ceased for the night, and everyone had bunked down for the night. Their task would take speed and precision.
Bates made a quick hand gesture and sprinted out of the alley, through the shadows on the sidewalk when the Old Havenite on the right of the door yawned and turned towards the inside. Bates drew his 9mm pistol, only containing twelve shots.
Hearing the loud footfalls the guard that Bates ran towards started to turn around. The other guard, on the left, peered into the darkness. He opened his mouth and shouted some kind of alert or halt, Bates couldn't tell which with the ringing in his head. The guard brought up his assault rifle.
Bates dropped to a knee and aimed his pistol. A resounding crack filled the air and the guard on the left's head snapped backwards, a 9mm round punching through it. The guard crumpled to the ground without so much as a scream. A few more shots rang out and bullets whizzed by Bates as his men opened fire. The other guard, still in process of turning around and silhouetted by the lights inside the store, twitched and spasmed as several rounds penetrated his body. Before the man hit the ground, Bates was up and running again.
"C'mon, hurry!" He shouted, figuring, from the noise and commotion, hell would rain on them very shortly. He ran directly into the store with his pistol in both hands. He nearly collided with another man on his way out. They each skidded to a stop and swiveled weapons. Bates blinked as the combined crack of two pistols firing simultaneously echoed in the small room. His round punched through the man's chest. His foe fell backwards, crashing against shelving units and crumpling.
At the same time excruciating pain shredded through Bates' midsection; he dropped to one knee, gasping. His opponent's bullet ripped into his stomach an inch to the left of his navel. A burning sensation filled his extremities as his ruptured organs leaked vital fluids, and a sticky warmth spread in his midsection. He coughed, tasting blood.
His head felt like it was filled with cotton. He heard weapons fire nearby, although it sounded indistinct. Fire filled his insides and reality pounded at him as he forced himself to rise to his feet. He staggered forward, around another shelf. A small table was set up with a radio on it. A man with his legs tied to a wooden chair sat in front of the equipment, looking intensely afraid.
When he saw Bates walking towards him, still in his Citizen's military uniform, his eyes widened in recognition mingled with relief. "Wha-sir?" The expression turned to frightened shock when he saw Bates clutching his stomach, blood pouring from the wound and dripping through his fingers onto the ground.
Bates spoke, his voice came out weak and horse, "Con...contact the surface. Tell... tell them..." He slumped against the wall and looked back towards the entrance. Two of his men were on the ground, bleeding. The others were crouched down behind cover and firing scavenged weapons out into the street.
He looked over at the radio operator, who was just staring with his mouth hanging open. Bates found his voice again, "Hurry. We don't have very long."
Searing pain ripped through his shoulder as a stray bullet flew past his soldiers and shattered his collarbone. The force of impact slammed him flat against the wall, and he slumped down to a seated position, his midsection screaming in agony at the bent posture. He looked over at the radio operator, who was frantically twisting dials and speaking into the receiver. The words were fuzzy, and Bates didn't know what he was saying. Blood spattered the ground several feet in front of him as another of his men fell, clutching a gaping wound in his throat.
Bates was vaguely aware that there was yelling and screaming, but everything swam into a gray haze. He saw another of his men stand up, firing a pistol with one arm extended and yelling. Stay in cover you moron, Bates tried to say, but speaking didn't seem to work.
His last soldier was quickly cut down as several other men rushed into the store. Bates tried to raise his weapon, but he discovered that his arm had no strength to it and barely any sensation. A man ran forward, just past him.
There was a loud bang and a flash in front of his eyes; a short, sharp cry resounded as the radio operator tumbled backward, still tied to the chair. Bates saw a bleeding hole in his chest along with fading awareness in the operator's eyes. A small brass shell casing, smoking from the heat of the gunpowder discharge tumbled into his lap. He stared at it, starting to fade out, then a shadow cast over him. He looked up, and a man was standing over him, holding a pistol. Bates mustered up a mocking smile. He coughed again, spitting up a bit of blood which landed on the man's shoes. The man raised the pistol, drew it back, and slammed the butt of it into the side of Bates' head. A brief red burst of static filled his vision, then blackness. Nothing.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Rick rubbed his face with one hand; it smeared a few flecks of blood along with the sweat and grime. He had awoken two minutes earlier to the sounds of gun fire. He had thrown off a dirty blanket and sprinted outside of one of the nearby empty buildings wearing an unzipped combat jacket over a dirty undershirt, clutching his sidearm.
Several other men had already come on the scene and were firing into the store. He saw the bodies of the fallen guards; both anger and relief coursed through him. What remained of his more-skilled soldiers had returned to the Highland, but he'd relieved them with a few of the older ones used to light duty. Not counted among the most skilled, but the dead men had still been good soldiers.
Rick had dropped the last man at the front, who foolishly stood up from cover, and burst into the store. Past a gravely wounded man was a radio operator sending some kind of distress call to the surface. He shot the operator, feeling a pang of regret for the cold-blooded execution, but it had been the fastest way to cease the transmission.
Now, after belting the wounded man who was smiling like an arrogant jackass, Rick felt a strong measure of dismay. The damage is already done, he thought. The radio on the table squawked as some person on the other end shouted for a response. Rick reached over and switched it off.
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. This could be bad, he thought.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee finally found the opening. The search had taken her a number of hours, as there were several buildings to search with possible hiding places in each. Not to mention climbing up and down dozens of stories to reach the top and come back down again. The opening she found was tiny; she wondered how anyone had fit through it. It was a small circular hole in the ceiling of the bathroom of one of the condominiums.
The Citizens had worked hard to reinforce the layer above to keep those below out, after numerous incidents. In most places, layers of steel, hard wood, or even city streets were more than enough to make the ceiling areas mostly impenetrable. but most of the work was needed in the obvious access points: elevators, staircases, and the like.
Kaylee had seen a few others that had layers of concrete poured directly into the stairwell. There wasn't any breaking through that, not without an immense amount of noise and concentrated effort. The broken seal she looked at now was a little older and less paranoid stricken, luckily for her. Hastily patched with only a few layers of wood and metal, easy enough for an adventurous Citizen to break through when he had a mind to do so. That plus cutting equipment and a free week, she thought.
She had become very pleased that she had the foresight to grab a flashlight; in most of the buildings it was pitch black without any light spilling in from the street. She guessed that Malcolm could see quite well in the dark, but she didn't know if he could still see in pitch black. She had taken her time and gone very carefully from room to room. As her beam swept across the bathroom ceiling, she had seen it.
The temptation was unbearable. She knew that there most likely wasn't any daylight left, but the thought of seeing stars, the moon, anything at all besides drab gray metal girders, support beams, and whatever else kept the sky from crashing down onto them, was agonizing. The rational part of her reasoned that she had no idea where to go, who else would be around, how they would react to her presence. She knew that she'd probably get caught within minutes.
Still. The sky...
She gave a heavy sigh and stared with longing at the small circular opening. She shook her head. It must have been a tight fit for them. Malcolm sat in the room with her, donning his customary silence.
What could it hurt...? She thought, taking a deep breath and making her decision. Whatever, it'll be important to scout this area. Feeling justified, she hopped up on top of the sink, set the flashlight between her teeth, and gripped the edges of the hole. She pulled herself upwards until her head poked through it. With the small beam of light she saw tiling and another sink next to her head; it was a bathroom very much like the one in which most of her still occupied, albeit cleaner. Her legs still dangling beneath, she reached up with one of her arms. She gripped the edge of the sink cabinet.
With a few moments of struggling, she managed to sneak her other arm up through the opening and pull herself to a sitting position on the floor of the bathroom. She reached for the light switch and flicked it, switching off her own. Her eyes stung from the bright intensity of the light, and she squeezed them shut until they adjusted.
Years of only scant, yellow lighting caused continued discomfort even after she opened her eyes. Under the piercing white bulb, her skin looked pale and sallow. She let out a small yelp as a gloved hand appeared in the hole, behind it a pair of slanted, glowing eyes. "Malcolm! Geez!" she hissed. Another hand appeared and he started to pull himself through.
Kaylee put up a hand, "No, wait. You stay down there; I'll be back in just a minute." Malcolm disappeared back down without comment. She looked more closely at the opening. The floor was several inches thick, layered with wood and metal. She slowly shook her head. Nigel must have been very tenacious. That and out of his mind.
She flipped the switch and the room went dark once more, her eyes already readjusting. Looking down, she could see Malcolm's eyes shining up at her through the opening. It didn't matter how benevolent he had proven to be; it still unnerved her. She shuddered.
She reached out and gripped the doorknob. It turned easily and the thin, wooden door pulled towards her. A dark room lay in front of her, filled with spilled light of silver and gold and mixed shadows from some outside source. She flicked on her flashlight once more and played the beam across the floor. Thick, off-white carpeting, with a startling level of cleanliness that Kaylee was unaccustomed to, covered the floor.
The layout of this place was the same as the one below, and the same as all the others. This didn't surprise her much, as she'd been searching for several hours through a number of nearly identical flats, including the same window scenery of decay and desolation.
Her mouth fell open when she saw the view out of the living room. Awestruck, she walked towards the bright, silver light shining through the window, scattering shadows from the blinds. She ignored the plush furniture, elegant and pristine. She passed right by the kitchen area without pausing to consider what manner of delicious food could be found within it. She walked directly over to the window and looked outside.
The magnificent sight of the waning half moon, high above greeted her, along with the milky blackness of the cloudless night sky. A smile rushed across her face, and moisture formed in her eyes as she marveled at the tiny pinpricks of light dotting the wide, limitless expanse. She stared, not ever wanting to look away, for a long time.
She gradually became aware that she hadn't any idea how long she had been staring at the night sky. It had an odd shimmer to it, which, to her mind, seemed not quite right. However, it had been so long since she'd viewed it, Kaylee couldn't be sure that her own memory could be entirely trusted.
Finally, she tore her glance away, down to the street level. There wasn't much to look at. Across the street was another building, not overly tall. It looked as though to be fashioned from a cloudy white material that she didn't recognize. Up and down the structure, through windows both curtained and otherwise she could see the occasional light shining through. Looking down the street she saw a lamp on the corner. The sidewalks were smooth and clean. The street was unbroken, clear of any detritus or debris.
A quick flash of bright light caused her to jump back from the window. With a quiet whoosh, a small, compact vehicle flashed by the window. She watched it, red tail-lights glowing behind. It was miniscule, barely wide enough to seat two people. It was also whisper quiet, only the sound of displaced air came with it.
Remembering that Malcolm was waiting for her to come back and unaware of how long she had been lingering, Kaylee reluctantly turned away from the window and walked back over to the bathroom. Still staring up through the hole, she shuddered again as she saw his glowing, slanted eyes.
Descending through the hole, she said a quick, "Let's go," to Malcolm who, as always, trailed along behind her as they descended the several stories.
They came out into the street once more, and Kaylee took her bearings. She memorized the street. Just in case she took a piece of brick and scraped a large 'X' into the wall next to the door.
She grabbed her small radio and contacted Rick. "I found it," she said, excitement evident.
Apparently, he didn't share the enthusiasm, "That's great," his lackluster voice came back, etched with fatigue, "you better get back over here. We're in trouble."
Kaylee was surprised, "What happened?"
"Just get back here." The other end went silent.
She stowed the small communicator in her side pocket and motioned to Malcolm. The two started moving north once more. She took one last look around, making absolutely certain that she knew exactly where to go. Almost involuntary, she took a look up towards the sky. A twinge of despair triggered in her chest as she saw not a brilliant night sky but a shadowy jumble of metal.
She took a deep breath, casting aside thoughts of the surface. I'll get back soon enough, she thought.
Gottfried found himself once again staring with his intense, hawk-like features at the same radio technician he saw before, still on duty. An audio recording played as the man sat with a grim seriousness about him.
"...all Citizenship presence in the down below area has been compromised. I repeat. All Citizenship presence in the down below area has been compromised," any composure the operator tried to maintain dissolved, and they could hear the sounds of gunfire in the recording, not far away from the man who spoke, "we were taken prisoner yesterday, forced to relay false information. Captain Redgick is dead. They knew we were coming, and they killed everyone. They're well-trained, organized. Th-there's nothing we could have done. I'm... oh God." A loud bang resounded on the recording followed by heavy clatter. The operator across from Gottfried winced.
"Alpha, Alpha base, respond!" could be heard, the other-end operator begging for a response. There was a click as the other end of the radio was switched off, then nothing.
"That's it," the operator said, looking pale and unsettled, "that came in an hour ago. I sent someone up right away and waited in case any more signals came through, but..." he shook his head, "nothing else since."
Gottfried furrowed his brow, but remained silent. He rubbed his chin, hunched over the table. The operator shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not sure what else to do or say. "Good work," the inquisitor finally said. "Continue your monitoring here for any further signals." He held out his hand. "Give me a copy of the recording." The operator punched a few buttons, set a small round disc into a device. After a moment, he handed the recording to the Inquisitor.
Gottfried whirled around and walked out of the room, already on his personal comm. He keyed in to High Inquisitor Wresh's quarters and heard a soft ringing.
"What?" the harsh, gravelly voice came through the earpiece.
"There's a problem. A council meeting needs to be called immediately." Gottfried said as he walked out of the bunker area.
"It can wait until morning." Wresh said in irritated tones.
Gottfried clenched his teeth, "It can't. All of the soldiers in down below are dead."
Wresh didn't speak for several moments, but Gottfried could hear his hissing breath on the other end. "Sir?"
"Call the meeting," was all that he said before hanging up.
Gottfried tucked his comm. back into his pocket and walked across the lawn. Ornate street lamps were intermittent, spreading soft, golden light throughout the small park area. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement. His head snapped in the direction, but there was nothing more, a few young trees, the servants' barracks off in the distance.
Preoccupation took the better of him, and he walked off towards the side entrance of the Institute. Once inside, through the lobby and down the hallway, he headed into the Inquisition building and to the elevator. At the desk, he directed the night-staff receptionist to rouse the advisory council and send them immediately to the council chamber.
The woman nodded and picked up her phone. Gottfried stepped into the elevator.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Every time thus far that Jeffrey tried to sleep, his wrenching stomach cramps prevented his slumber. The waves of pain came more frequently now, and he now wondered more often if he was dying. He held down no food or water, and every time he purged there was a little more blood mixed into the acidic content.
He spent the last couple of nights, instead of waking up every half hour and writhing around on his thin mattress, outside of the servants' quarters walking around. The cool, night air and brilliant sky calmed him somewhat, kept him relaxed through the clenching pain.
It was by chance that he happened to notice the familiar bolt upright posture of Inquisitor Gottfried coming out of the underground section not far removed from his living space. Instinct told him to stay hidden, and so he managed to avoid being spotted by dropping prone behind a small rise in the park.
He had heard snippets of one-side of the phone conversation when Gottfried came outside. The important thing that he caught was 'council meeting immediately,' and something about dead soldiers.
Considering that it was past midnight and the Citizenship followed a fairly reasonable schedule of events, Jeffrey guessed that a late night meeting was something very important, and he had a hunch regarding what it was about.
The only problem was figuring out how to spy on them. It seemed that servants seldom entered the chamber, and it was only by observation and assumption that Jeffrey thought that the meeting area was through the elevator in the Inquisition building, near the apex of the spire. From the sounds of things, Gottfried was calling the meeting. That meant people might be coming soon.
Ignoring the wave of nausea and willing it to pass without incident, he sprinted over to his housing unit to grab a few supplies.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"I can't believe this," Michaels complained noisily, "A council meeting at this hour? Absurd!"
"You've been a member of the advisory council for, what? Two days? And you're already complaining about meetings?" Claudia found herself once again walking with the newest member, continuing the bickering of earlier in the day.
"Don't try and tell me that this so-called meeting doesn't bother you." He said, wagging his finger at her as they walked.
She got the urge to grab his finger and twist. Instead, she retorted, "I understand how important the advisory council's job is. We control what happens in Haven, and such a task sometimes requires odd hours."
Michaels threw back his head and laughed, "Do you really think what we say matters? Even a little? If Citizen One isn't controlling everything, it's Wresh and the rest of the Inquisitors!"
Claudia stopped and glared at him, "That's not true."
Michaels raised his eyebrows, "Really, do you think so? Because, you know, I've only been in the council for two days," he said sarcastically, "I can't possibly have noticed how easily Wresh trampled over anything you, Myers, or Dunlevy said."
Claudia fumed, "Whatever." She turned and walked down the hallway towards the elevator.
The feeling of smug satisfaction warmed his temperament, and with a smirk he followed a short distance behind. He knew she'd be in a foul mood, and as much fun as it'd be to exacerbate it-
The thought ran incomplete as Michaels collided with one of the servants coming out of one of the side Inquisition office rooms carrying a small bucket of water and some rags.
The rags fell harmlessly to the ground. Unfortunately, the bucket overturned, spilling a large quantity of dingy, lukewarm water all over him.
His mood soured instantly as he was drenched to the skin. He looked down at his wet clothing, and turned a furious glare up towards his assailant. His anger mingled with surprise and confusion when he saw that he recognized him.
"You! Wh-what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
Jeffrey gazed at him with dull, lifeless eyes, "I was cleaning. I'm sorry I spilled. I will clean it up." He awkwardly bent over and grabbed the dirty rags from the ground and dabbed at the damp floor. He stood up and started dabbing at Michaels' soaked shirt with the wet rags, doing little good.
Michaels' eyes went wide and he pushed the servant away. "What the hell are you doing? Stop it! Just-"
He stopped as he heard the sound laughter from down the hallway. Claudia had turned around to see Michaels' plight. She shook her head back and forth, amused at his plight. Michaels grimaced and returned his glare to the servant, who stood staring off into nothing with his mouth hanging open.
Michaels let out a long sigh. Claudia was hiding her smile behind her hand, still shaking with laughter. "The council meeting won't wait, Citizen Michaels," she called sweetly down the hall to him.
Even said just to irritate him, he realized she was correct. "Look," he said to the servant, whose name he was too distracted to remember, "Bring me a towel and a dry shirt." He pointed down the hallway to the elevator. "Take that elevator up to the highest floor. I'll be in that room. Go."
The servant nodded and shuffled off down the way, heading over towards the living area. Michaels, still dripping, moved down towards Claudia, who waited in the elevator, smirking at him. After informing the receptionist to allow the servant to come up, he stepped inside, trying very hard to ignore Claudia, who continued to snickering at his expense.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Michaels sat in the chair to the left of the High Inquisitor Julian Wresh, who, if anything, looked more old and careworn than he did before. His deeply lined face seemed fixed in a permanent grimace. He didn't greet anyone or say anything at all, save for whispering with the other Inquisitors present. They were so wrapped up that they didn't even comment on Michaels' damp status, which Myers and Dunlevy chuckled at after Claudia related the story.
Michaels felt uncomfortable sitting next to Dunlevy, considering the events earlier in the day. If Dunlevy remembered or cared about the physical encounter, he gave no indication; he laughed and chattered with his usual exuberance. Michaels smiled and went along with it, awkward, uncomfortable, and still wet.
All were present and had been for a few minutes at the crescent-shaped table, but Citizen One had yet to "arrive." Every now and then, the other members would glance over at the podium, where the hologram typically appeared. This suggested to Michaels that it was taking longer than usual. He wondered where the servant was. It was chilly in the room, and he was starting to shiver.
The two cylinders slid out of the floor, and in moments with crisscrossing lights behind the podium, and soon enough the image of the young Franklin Lange appeared with an angry scowl.
A trickle of fear slipped down Michaels' spine at the look on the hologram's face. He shifted his glance back and forth, looking at the other council members. Every one of them looked nervous and uncomfortable.
Citizen One leveled his angry gaze on Inquisitor Gottfried. "You called this meeting. It had better be important."
Gottfried stood up and walked over to the center of the table. Michaels and Wresh leaned to the sides to let him through, and he inserted a small disc into a slot. Through speakers that Michaels couldn't see, they all listened with growing apprehension at the recording. Gottfried stood upright with his arms folded behind his back.
The strained, nervous voice of the radio operator came through. "This is Technical Sergeant Alan Kilvin from the remains of Alpha base, calling to Citizen Command. Alpha base was attacked, and we were taken prisoner yesterday, forced to relay false information. Captain Redgick is dead. They knew we were coming, and they killed everyone. They're well-trained, and there's nothing we could have done. I'm... oh God."
Everyone, including the hologram of Lange, jumped as the recording punctuated with the loud bang and the crash and tumble, followed by the frantic yell of the operator on the other end. The speakers fell silent, and no one spoke as it sunk in.
Lange broke the silence, "What guarantees do we have of the authenticity of the message?"
Everyone was slightly confused by the question's intent. Gottfried spoke up first, "There is no logical reason for our enemies to endeavor to deceive us in this fashion."
The hologram raised an eyebrow, "Really? Perhaps it's a feeble attempt to make us concerned, to fear their might, to attempt to gain negotiation leverage over us."
"That is a possibility," Gottfried replied, narrowing his eyes, "but our updates for last twenty-four hours have shown a lack of progress consistent with the spread of evasive and false information."
Lange looked unconvinced, "Perhaps. Your assumptions are that they pulled together a military strength capable of defeating our forces."
Citizen Myers spoke slowly, in his rumbling bass, "They already did it before, a few nights ago, didn't they?"
A deadly glare from Lange settled on the broadcasting head, who merely raised an eyebrow in return. "Am I wrong? This seems, to me, like the exact same situation, only this time we don't have any survivors left to tell the tale." Myers continued, gesturing at the recording disk still in the slot. "Only the last, desperate message of a dead man. Hell, we were probably lucky to get that much."
Claudia and Dunlevy both nodded their heads in agreement. Michaels frowned, and the Inquisitors all wore grim expressions.
Venom laced Lange's response, "You're telling me that four hundred of our soldiers, trained and experienced, couldn't defeat a loose rabble of that pathetic, half-starved human refuse?"
Myers shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Wresh cut in, "I, myself, despise admitting the possibility, but their high level of threat can no longer be discounted."
Claudia, with a sharp edge, responded, "Maybe if we tried something besides killing and enslaving them..."
Lange's face lit up, glaring at Claudia, "How dare you?!" He snarled. "We give them opportunity! The opportunity to be a part of this grand working. It is because they are so deviant and barbaric that we need to resort to such measures!" He slowly shook his head, fuming. "They casually cast aside our offerings; they deserve nothing better than death!"
"Citizen One is correct." Wresh spoke, calmly. "It doesn't matter if this message was deception; enough time has been wasted on them." Michaels heard his own words repeated through the High Inquisitor, but they somehow felt... less right.
Dunlevy frowned. "What is it you're suggesting?"
"It's time to cease consideration and employ the contingency plan. Immediately." Wresh replied. The four members from research and information paled at this, even Michaels, who keenly remembered the biochemical agent.
"It's not ready." Claudia said, shaking her head, "I can't guarantee that the substance will behave as intended. Our Citizens could be exposed."
A wicked grin split the High Inquisitor's face, "You could consider such a situation a necessary evil."
Dunlevy jumped from his seat, "Monstrous dog!" he roared. "This isn't some deviant rabble you're talking about. These are Citizens!"
Wresh did not react to the outburst; he merely smiled again, "Who could use a healthy dose of fear every now and then, do you not agree? All we need do is inform them," he motioned to Myers, "that it was a horrific attack by those from down below." He snapped his fingers. "Our tolerance of vermin has softened us too far, allowed us to become complacent and our Citizens with us." He passed his gaze across the room.
Michaels' imagination ran wild with the thoughts of gaseous fog spreading through the streets of Haven. Male, female, and children Citizens fleeing in terror, writhing in agony on the ground as their bodies disintegrated from within.
"Besides," Wresh continued, "it will present an excellent opportunity to implicate the more irritating individuals in our midst." Dunlevy's eyes widened.
Unbidden the image of the burned corpse of Marcus Coleman, jaw wrenched open for dental identification rose in Michaels' mind. In spite of wanting to argue against the High Inquisitor, Michaels believed that Wresh would not hesitate to eliminate anyone, especially not if he could find an easy way to justify it.
Myers, on the other hand, was having none of it. He joined Dunlevy in a standing position, and his deep voice contained hard edges of anger. "You want to use the death of Citizens as a way of eliminating your opposition."
Wresh shrugged, "Our opposition, my friend."
Claudia spat, "Don't try to pretend like this doesn't fuel your own ambition, you spineless worm!"
A flash of irritation came across the High Inquisitor's face, but melted away and, once more, the smile split his heavily lined face, "I assure you, my friends," the way he said the word 'friends' made Michaels cringe, "that my intentions are pure and motivated only by the duty I feel towards our great society."
Even the other Inquisitors were frowning at this, and Michaels understood just why Claudia was so upset by his earlier statement. It was true; Wresh practically was in charge of everything. Made most evident by the image of Citizen One, who nodded slowly.
"The High Inquisitor is correct. Although I do not wish to see my Citizens perish, allowing the vermin further time to exist is out of the question. It represents an unacceptable risk to our way of life." Lange said firmly.
Claudia burst out, "But the weapon isn't ready for use-"
Lange shot her a glare, making her fall silent, "Then you will work to make it ready. Use whatever staff you need to properly prepare it. It will be ready to deploy within three days. Do you understand me?"
She stammered, "But... we can't-"
He cut her off again, "Yes, you can. It will be ready by then." Claudia cringed. Even though they had done little but bicker, Michaels felt sorry for her.
"Y-yes. Of course." She sat down, folded her hands, and looked intently at the table, not meeting anyone else's eyes.
With a soft ding, the elevator doors slid open. Everyone except for Claudia, who stared pitifully at nothing, turned in their chairs to look.
The lone servant came plodding up the ramp, holding a clean, pressed shirt on a hanger and a white towel over his shoulder. Everyone looked surprised by his presence, and Lange narrowed his eyes, and veins stood out on his forehead and neck. "What is that doing in this chamber?!" He yelled.
Michaels jumped up and moved towards the newcomer. "Oh, don't worry, Citizen One, my apologies. This fellow spilled a quantity of water on me," he gestured at his still-damp shirt for emphasis. "Not wanting to be late for such an important meeting, I told him to bring me clean implements."
The hologram's face became a mask of livid rage. Michaels would have marveled at the technology to emulate the emotions if they hadn't been so strongly directed at him, "How dare you bring someone uninvited into this chamber? Especially this filth, this worthless piece of inferior garbage!" he screamed.
Michaels trembled at the outburst. He stammered, "W-, Well, I uh, that is to say, I'm, uh... I wasn't aware of any-"
Wresh waved his hand, "Leave him be, he didn't know."
In a flash, Lange was glaring at the High Inquisitor with the same intensity, "You do not tell me how to run my council or my city you presumptuous oaf!" He roared. "Keep your tongue silent lest I find reason to take it from you!"
Wresh was momentarily taken aback, but soon he resumed scowling, his own anger barely contained at the rebuke. Lange turned back towards Michaels, "As for you..." the hologram glared into space, clenching his teeth, "you are a new member of this council, granted. However, from this moment you will be expected to be entirely familiar with all of its specific rules, or you will find that more than just your position will be removed. Do you understand?"
Michaels nodded, still trembling slightly, "Yes, Citizen One."
Lange raised his chin, and the hologram appeared to be short of breath. A sudden weariness seemed to suffuse his posture and his expression. "I-" his voice wavered, "need to rest. This meeting is ended. Ensure you..." the eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds, as though in pain. Through gritted teeth he said, "Ensure you do everything as ordered. That is all." The image shimmered out and the cylinders slid back into the floor.
Everyone sat frowning, or looking confused. The High Inquisitor turned towards his subordinates whispered in harsh tones at them, eliciting grim looks and reluctant nods. The civilian branch of the council shuffled past Michaels, not meeting anyone's eyes or speaking before they entered the elevator.
Michaels nudged the servant, who gave him a hollow-eyed stare, completely oblivious that he was the subject of such disruption. He grabbed the shirt from him and hopped into the elevator, motioning for him to follow. Dunlevy, Myers, and Claudia all stood in quiet contemplation as the doors slid shut and the car began its descent. The servant rolled his head around, slack-jawed and looking at various things in the elevator car.
At the ground floor, the elevator opened and the occupants dispersed without a word. Claudia, Myers, and Dunlevy all kept their grim expressions, and even Michaels couldn't help but feel the surrounding gloom. Walking back to his quarters, yawning, he realized, at some point, that the servant was no longer with him. Something about his random appearances and disappearances nagged at Michaels. It just didn't seem right.
Yet there were more pressing concerns. Disruption and division in the council, he thought. Threats flying back and forth. Let's not forget the lack of reluctance to use a horrific bioagent on our own people. He shook his head, yawning again. With all of these troubled thoughts, he wondered if he'd be able to sleep. He tossed the clean shirt onto a chair in his living space, stripped off his damp clothing, and climbed back into bed. His concerns were for naught; he slept soundly within minutes.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Jeffrey's heart was racing as he easily slipped away from Citizen Michaels. The man wasn't paying the slightest attention to him, so turning down the hallway back towards the exit across the way from the servant's living space was simple enough. As soon as he was out of sight of anyone, he started running.
He couldn't believe the intense stroke of luck it was to actually get invited up to the council chamber room. At most, he had hoped to be able to shadow Michaels and catch fragments of any important conversation.
After reaching the council floor and mashing the 'door close' button, he was able to eavesdrop on almost the entire meeting. He soon wished that he hadn't been so successful, as the things he heard were terrifying.
He was pleased enough to hear about the success of the military campaign, even if the Citizens were now aware of it. The message, particularly the silencing end of it, assured that Elijah and everyone else already knew that their secret had been revealed. Jeffrey was confident that they would have been able to deal with it. However, the latter portion of the meeting scared him.
They had apparently developed some kind of weapon that they believed would eliminate every single individual in the down below area to the point that they were concerned that its devastation would reach the surface. Jeffrey had trembled when the High Inquisitor mentioned, in such an offhand manner, the utility of the event. The callous treatment of "inferior" human life was something that Jeffrey was used to, but he never expected it to extend to the members of the Citizenship as well.
He moved quickly across the grass, not outright running in case anyone could see him. A jolt of pain like a blunt object crushing his ribs tore through his midsection. He barely took another step before dropping to the ground and curling up. His muscles clenched in what felt like his entire body. Pain so intense, yet he couldn't even cry out. His heart pounded, sweat poured from his body, and in that instant, he believed he was going to die as everything went dark...
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Jeffrey awoke, with the moon still shining with silver light over his head. He was lying on the soft grass, and it took him a moment to realize that he had passed out. His limbs trembled from adrenaline and he shivered in the chill of the night air. A wave of nausea passed over him. He gagged and spat a small mouthful of half-congealed blood from his mouth. Internal bleeding, he thought, not a good sign.
Clamoring to his feet, he started moving again, thoughts already back on his objective. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the labs were too heavily guarded for him to try something like sabotaging the weapon. Not to mention that he had no idea where to search or what the device would look like. No, there was only one thing to do. And it's really, really stupid, he cringed.
He entered the dark servants' quarters where many of his fellow slaves were sleeping. A few beds were empty, with people gone to do various tasks. Jeffrey went to his bed and stripped the sheets from it.
As he worked, a few servants would come in, give him a passing glance, then go to sleep. He had taken a few sheets from their beds, but, if his fellow slaves noticed that they slept on a bare mattress, they gave no indication. Nor did they seem to notice when he shoved them aside to steal the bedding out from under them. As it was, most of the servants slept on top of their sheets fully clothed. Even some of the earlier trial versions subjected to the conditioning required direct instruction on personal maintenance, hygiene, and even when to eat, before the process was refined.
A sense of foreboding filled him, and some part of his mind kept telling him over and over that this was a terrible idea. He checked over each length and each knot, testing the strength of his makeshift rope. He rechecked it, then tested it again, slowly gaining the slightest measure of confidence in his plan.
Weary though he was, and with a wicked feeling of corrosive acidity burning in his stomach, in spite of his lack of any food, he understood that his task remained urgent. With a huge, and surprisingly heavy, coil of dozens of tied-together bed sheets looped over his shoulder, he set off out of the barracks. He couldn't find a reasonable way of concealing it but didn't worry as it was late enough to avoid being seen. Even with ominous things looming ahead, the thought of not having to return to enslavement brought a tiny smile to his face.
No one had instructed him to do otherwise, so the guards in front of the scene shop in the Highland returned to their posts and covered their shifts, watching over what they thought was an empty room. Even though Elijah had left already, they could still hear the occasional sound coming from within.
The guards continued showing up and changing shifts when appropriate; the current one had been on for near seven hours. It was dull, sitting in one spot for that long, but for older or less fit members of Elijah's enclave, it was an easy enough job that entailed the least amount of risk. One hour to go, and the guard on duty thumbed through another magazine.
He was startled when the sounds of metallic screeching issued from the door as the bolts slid free, and with a loud creak it swung open. Out of it walked a shabby-looking old man. He wore a patchy light brown coat and blue jeans. Wiry, silver hair adorned his head, along with a kindly smile.
"Hello." the man said.
The guard eyed him warily, gripping the butt of his sidearm. "Who are you?"
"Me?" The man shook his head, laughing, "Klaus is my name. I was Elijah's personal assistant."
The guard loosened his grasp on the weapon, but kept his hand on it. "Personal assistant? I've never heard of you before." He said, suspicious.
'Klaus' held up his hands, "I assure you, I'm no threat. I've been taking care of Elijah's needs now for years. He didn't go out, so neither did I. He contacted me today with some requests for personal effects." He took on a lower, more hushed tone, and looked back and forth down the hallway, "From what I hear, we might not have to live like this for very much longer."
The guard's eyes widened. "Really?" he whispered.
He nodded, "Oh yes, it sounds like things are moving along. I'll tell you what," he held up a finger, "I have to get going, but if I hear anything else about it," he winked at the man, "I'll let you know, okay?"
The guard nodded, an excited look in his eyes. Elijah gave him a pat on the shoulder before moving down the hallway. The guard sat down, so amazed by the thought of leaving the darkness and decay behind that he didn't even notice that the man had not appeared to have been carrying anything, personal effects or otherwise.
Elijah found pretending not to be himself irritating, but he did not know exactly how suspicious and paranoid the guard would be if he made the claim. Few people, save for well-trusted individuals, knew who he was for a very good reason; so that he wouldn't be targeted. Sure, while posing as him, Victor hadn't yet been threatened, but Elijah liked to eliminate potential risk to his person. Of course, this anonymity meant that, at some point, he would likely have to convince other people that he, and not Victor, was the real Elijah. It shouldn't be a problem because Victor won't dispute it, he thought, but he isn't here right now.
Elijah was tired of being holed up in that room in general, the last couple of days notwithstanding. However, since Victor's most recent update, Elijah decided it was time to emerge. The power to the room was also being finicky, and with most people out and about coordinating, no one was around for outside repairs. He could have fixed it had the source been inside, but he had already been contemplating leaving, so losing the surveillance and information sources gave him one more reason to do so.
He wasn't sure he needed it anymore. Things would have to be accelerated due to the fear of Citizen response, and hiding in a hole wouldn't change that. He wasn't sure how exactly they would react to their crushing defeat, but he assumed the response would be desperate, frantic, and probably brutal.
People are going to die, he thought to himself.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Jeffrey knew it was a bad idea. His head screamed this fact over and over again as he, with a white-knuckled grip, slowly descended his makeshift rope, with several stories yet to go before he was safely on the ground again.
The only place where he could freely access the down below area was in one of the many trash dump sites. Most garbage disposal had switched to incinerator units, but there were still a few things that required simple dumping. Inside assorted medium-sized shack buildings, a small depression was set into the ground. Garbage was placed into it, and the bottom would open up, casting the refuse into the huge, wide open landfill of down below.
By the time he had been confident enough in his plan to risk his life accomplishing it, the first edges of sunlight began to peek through the buildings. It cast a beautiful shimmer of soft orange light into the sky, but he, sadly, was unable to appreciate it this particular morning as he passed into the disposal structure.
The building was empty, but his servant codes allowed him easy access, Jeffrey had tied his makeshift rope to a heavy pipe. He tested it, the knot he tied, the strength of the pipe, and his own upper body endurance by swinging back and forth suspended beneath for several seconds. Nothing broke, shifted, or slipped free. He almost wished it had; it would have given him a good excuse not to try it.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, he pulled the release lever. With loud, hollow thud, the wide hinges snapped free and dropped the little bits of collected trash. He kicked free of the ledge and dangled out into yawning, open space.
The first couple of dozen feet weren't terrible. He wasn't an athlete, but, even with his poor condition, he had a decent level of fitness. Still, after what felt like an hour of descent, his arms burned from the exertion, and his insides felt like they were disintegrating.
Sweat poured down his body and dripped off into the seemingly endless chasm. Grimy brick surrounded him on either side, and after several minutes of climbing he made the mistake of looking down.
A terrified gasp caught in his throat and his limbs locked momentarily around the tied together bed sheets, which somehow seemed more thin and frail than before. A wave of terror coursed through his mind as his hands slipped free of the rope.
His awareness froze. He squeezed his eyes shut, awaiting the rush of air that would signify his gaining speed before plowing into the ground, skin and soft tissue bursting, bones grinding into powder-
When no impact occured, he slowly peeked out of squinting eyes. He felt a flood of relief when he saw that his hands were white-knuckled with an unflinching death grip on the rope, the 'fall' merely a terrified expression of his fear-stricken mind. He took several deep breaths and forced his panicked wits to relax.
He descended once more, slowly and methodical. Soon enough, a glow from the dingy street lamps below caressed the sides of the wall, but he still didn't look down. Nice and easy, he thought, hand over hand. That's it. His muscles groaned from the exertion, his eyes stung from the dripping sweat, but he continued out of sheer will.
I have to be close, he thought. He felt a muscle twinge in the small of his back. He barely had time to think, uh oh, before a wrenching pain ripped through his torso as his muscles violently cramped. His hands grasped frantically at the rope, but they slipped free. He tilted backwards, and this time it was real. He was falling. He opened his mouth and screamed.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
A faint smell of pine and a lightly dizzying aroma of cleaning product was evident in the air of Purgatory. Over the course of the previous day, and some of the night, it had gotten cleaned, scrubbed, and purified. Blood and human tissue scrubbed away and disinfected with salvaged cleaning supplies; still easy enough to find as they weren't often used or sought except for a dangerous inhalation high.
Much of the debris scattered about had been removed as well. A few additional flood lights had been set up, as those brought by the Citizen soldiers were all broken by the various explosions, to illuminate the room, which, in spite of all the care, still looked dingy and shabby like the lobby area of a seedy hotel. It didn't help that burn marks and shrapnel divots scored the floor and walls along with a few reddish-brown stains.
Victor had suggested using it as the place of meeting, as a symbol to everyone that Old Haven now belonged to those left behind, and the Citizens couldn't use their only entrance point. It made for a convincing statement of confidence and security, and, even though the other group and faction leaders remained reluctant to enter, they did so anyway without too much complaint.
They scrounged a few worn but comfortable office chairs and managed to find a couple of small folding tables in the Citizen's Escape compound, and placed them into the lobby area where dozens of men had been brutally killed just over a day earlier. The setup was by no means extravagant, but it became a convincing conference room.
The meeting gathered together in the early morning, not that there was any indication of it via sunlight. At the head of the table sat Victor, still calling himself Elijah. On either side of him sat Isaac and Sergei. Next to Sergei was placed Desmond; his wife, Olivia, was busy caring for the children. Next to Desmond was a man named Quinton. He was an elderly man, very evident by his gnarled hands and wrinkled skin. He was one of the community leaders that was paid little heed, as a large chunk of his people were over the age of fifty.
When the separation began, there was very little use for the elderly as a low class Citizen or even mindless servant. Sadly, many of the older individuals did not last long without food, care, and assistance when they needed it. Those that maintained enough self-sufficiency banded together, with Quinton as their duly elected leader.
Despite the hideous symbolism behind it, they took up residence in a small disused retirement community. They took on most anyone who wanted shelter, but, unless they were willing to pitch in and assist others who needed the help, they weren't allowed to stay long. In many cases, people who went there looking for a brief respite ended up joining the community. They did the best they could for their older and less capable comrades, but still many more died in the years. By and large, the community held the largest amount of noncombatant civilians, numbering in the hundreds.
Rick leaned against the wall several feet behind Victor, eyeing the elderly man. They were non-violent by their nature, but he knew they tried very hard to defend their home. Quinton looked thin and frail, but Rick had heard that the ex-military man was in excellent physical condition and could still manage hand-to-hand combat. After numerous incidents, a reputation formed that clearly stated that they were not by any means easy targets for individuals to steal from. Unfortunately, Miguel was not so easily turned aside. He demanded tribute in the form of food, supplies, and women. They did what they had to, and often Miguel still vandalized and killed for sport. When informed of the Silver Fox's demise, cold happiness gleamed in Quinton's hardened eyes.
The man across the table, sitting a chair away from Isaac, had a reputation quite opposite. Matthias was a small, bookish man with large glasses and a receding hairline, and his reputation of timidity was well-deserved. He was quite intelligent and distrusted for it; he seemed like he could have easily been a Citizen.
However, his major failing was that he felt intensely paranoid about a great number of things. He did not trust the Franklin Lange regime and wanted nothing to do with it. He was the reluctant leader of a random group of individuals who shared his conspiracy theory delusions. Their disposition, as well as a lack of combat abilities or weapons, meant that they preferred to stay hidden.
A task that they, surprisingly, had actually stayed very successful at. Rick still hardly believed how well that the dozens of individuals and a few families managed to remain undiscovered for such a long time, not that anyone cared enough to try finding them. Rick theorized that they had a couple of locations that changed via leapfrog every couple of months. That way there were never too many people moving all at once, and their hiding places shifted.
Still, Rick wondered how a pitiful little man like Matthias managed to stay alive so long. One of life's great mysteries, I suppose, he thought.
The meeting had started a while back, and they had gone through a series of dull introductions. Victor, Sergei, and Isaac all pitched in to tell the story of their new alliance and their military success. They skirted over gorier details of the ambush inside the room in which they sat, but the description was enough to make Matthias go pale and look sick. He glanced all around the room, frowning, as though he could see some bits that they had missed in the cleanup.
"Disgusting," he muttered, under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Necessary," Victor replied.
"I-I don't see why you called me here. I'm not a fighter and I don't have any interest in doing any fighting." Matthias did all of his speaking in a rapid babble, "It's not like there's anything we can do anyway. We just need to be safe and hidden and they won't find us. They can't find me because I'm too good at hiding."
Matthias tended to prattle on, and it had already worn at the patience of the other members. That and he had spoken statements regarding his interest in fighting versus hiding numerous times since the beginning of the meeting.
"We are not worried about your ability to fight," Sergei said, bringing up the point of discussion once again.
"Well, I know you told me that already, I'm not deaf or anything like that. Actually I have near-perfect hearing, and the rest of my senses are still sharp." Matthias paused, blinking behind his large glasses, "Well, except for my eyes of course, but it was only a few years ago that my vision started to go bad. You know how hard it is to find prescription glasses without any optometrists-"
"In any case," Victor said, interrupting him, "we are hoping that you will lend any support you can towards our goal." He took in a breath. "We hope to leave this place behind very soon. With a threatening enough military force, we can force negotiations, perhaps even break the Citizen regime." Victor nearly grimaced, tasting the half-truth.
However, his words still had the intended effect. Everyone including Matthias nodded, with expressions ranging from determination to near-bliss on their faces.
Victor allowed the statement to absorb then continued, "Unfortunately, even with our recent success, we've run into trouble." As he told the tale of the recent security breach by the small group of surviving enemy soldiers, the attitude turned grim.
"Well, what are we going to do?" Matthias asked. "How do you think they'll respond? Do you think they'll do something bad-"
"I don't know," Victor said firmly, cutting him off before he could start babbling again, "but it does mean that things will have to be accelerated."
"You don't know the half of it," a voice came from the entrance. Everyone looked over and saw the figures of two men standing in the doorway. Rick pushed away from the wall and peered. It was actually one man standing, half-carrying another man whose head hung and appeared to be unconscious.
Rick ran forward to assist, but he stopped dead. He and Victor exchanged glances, not noticed by anyone else who focused on the doorway.
Victor opened his mouth, prepared to concede leadership immediately, "Everyone, this is Eli-"
"Klaus," the figure of the real Elijah blurted, "is my name, and this man has grown quite heavy since he passed out."
With another confused glance towards Victor, Rick hurried over and assisted with the unconscious man. Together they half-dragged, half-carried him, "Watch his left leg," the real Elijah said, "it is broken quite badly."
As they carried him past the table where everyone stared at the progress, Rick hissed under his breath, "What the hell are you doing here, sir?"
Elijah just passed him a warm smile, "Sorry to interrupt the meeting," he said to everyone as they laid the man in the chair, "I am Elijah's," gesturing to Victor, "aide. I stumbled across this poor fellow who has some vital information."
Rick took another look at the passed out man. He looked ragged and bloody. Bruises adorned his face and hands. Bits of trash and filth clung to his clothing and hair, and a small amount of blood dribbled down his chin. His left ankle and leg were twisted and bent at terrible angles. His shirt was half-shredded, and Rick could see purplish bruising adorning the visible skin. Rick crouched down to get a closer look at his face. He let out a shocked gasp.
"Holy shit." he said, facing Victor, "It's Jeffrey!"
Rick turned back towards his fallen ally. He looked him over again, noting every scratch and bruise. He clenched his fists and his blood boiled. So this is how you treat the people you capture, he thought, his malice towards the Citizenship rising. Rick prodded the injuries.
He turned towards Elijah, "He's in really bad shape, where did you find him?"
Elijah addressed the entire room, "I discovered him crawling out of an alleyway, injured as he is now. It seems he was held captive above and escaped by climbing down one of the garbage disposal trapdoors on a rope, but not before learning something very important." He shook his head. "He nearly made it down but fell the last twenty feet."
"What did he find out?" Matthias inquired, "Are they going to attack again? Are they? Because if they are, I need to get out of here and go back to hiding..."
Elijah held up a silencing hand and Matthias trailed off, to everyone's surprise. "Let's try and wake him. When I found him, he babbled on about eavesdropping on a meeting last night. He apparently heard how they intend to respond to our current crisis."
Elijah turned and crouched next to Rick in front of the seated, battered Jeffrey. He gripped Jeffrey's chin and tilted his head back and forth, inspecting the injuries. He carefully felt up and down the broken leg. Rick checked the ribs and winced. A few of them were broken, and a deep purple bruise formed at the sight, suggesting internal bleeding. "Bring some water," Rick said to one of the standing guards, who hurried off.
As the two men worked on Jeffrey, Sergei turned to Victor, "Who is that man?"
Victor grimaced. "His name is Jeffrey. We sent him to be captured. He relayed false information to them that-"
"Jeff." Rick called, returning everyone's attention to the injured man. They shook him gently; he stirred, a wince of pain coming to his face and a bit of blood oozing out between his lips. Rick shook him a little harder. "Jeffrey, it's me; Rick." Jeffrey gasped and his eyes fluttered open.
The injured man's head lolled backward. He lazily turned his neck and looked at Rick. "Rick? Is that really you?"
Rick broke into a small grin. "Yeah. You look like hell."
Jeffrey smiled and his stomach heaved in a short laugh followed by a wince of pain and a cough that pulled up blood. He held a hand over his midsection and drew in short, ragged breaths. "I feel like hell," he whispered, wheezing. He gagged, gurgling. "I... I think my... ribs are broken."
"You made it back, though." Rick squeezed his shoulder. "You're one tough bastard."
Jeffrey smiled, revealing his red tinged teeth from fresh blood, "They didn't get me. I made it through their torture, and I found out..." he trailed off. His eyes went wide as he remembered. His hand shot out, and he grabbed Rick's collar with surprising strength. "You... you have to... have to get everyone out, as soon as possible!" He descended into a brutal bout of coughing. Small flecks of blood spurted out onto his and Rick's clothing as he hacked.
Anxiety swept through the meeting room as the faction leaders and other bystanding soldiers exchanged worried glances. Matthias opened his mouth but was silenced by a glare from Quinton as Jeffrey continued.
"They know about your ambush." He coughed hard again and closed his eyes, pain etched across his face. "They plan..." he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. "They plan to use some kind of poison."
The anxiety transformed into alarm and now the various people in the room looked as though they were mere moments away from panic. The soldier returned, carrying with him a bottle of dirty water. Rick held it up to Jeffrey's lips and he drank a few sips.
"You... have..." Jeffrey eyes were heavy lidded and he looked like he was going to black out again. Rick shook him, hard, and his eyes popped open. "You have... to get out. Oh god, it hurts..." his head rolled backward. Before Rick or Elijah could try and rouse him, Jeffrey's head snapped forward again, the color of his face ashen, "They've been working on it, b-but it's not ready yet. They're under p-pressure..." he gagged, turned his head, and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Th-they don't even care if it s-spreads to the surface and kills Citizens. They'll just say we d-did it and use it to..." his eyes looked glazed, "to..." he gave his head a little shake, "to tighten p... political grip."
Matthias gripped both arms of his chair and made as if to spring to his feet, but he settled nervously back into his seat when Quinton, Isaac, and Sergei all shot angry glares in his direction. Jeffrey started fading out again.
Elijah tilted Jeffrey's chin until their eyes met. "How long do we have?" he asked.
"Th... thr... three... d... days..." After the statement he slumped back into the chair and his eyes slid shut.
At that mention the room erupted in a frenzy of shouting and activity. Sergei and Isaac were both yelling about the need for an immediate pre-emptive strike to take the surface. Desmond, normally calm, was shouting about the need to get the children to safety and furiously gesturing at the other two.
"You do not understand, old fool! If we do not secure the surface, we cannot stop them from using this terrible weapon!" Sergei barked.
Rick tried to interject, "Hey, let's just relax for a sec, then-"
"We can't leave any people behind!" Desmond shouted, ignoring Rick. "What if we're too late and they use it? People will die!"
Isaac jumped in, "A military action can't be impeded by a flock of the elderly and children."
Desmond rolled his eyes, "And a military action will be worthless if the people you fight to protect end up dead!"
"Who ever said I was fighting to save your people?"
As they continued arguing, Matthias finally jumped to his feet, moving towards the exit, but Quinton had cut off his escape. In a harsh, wavery voice, he said, "Sit down; we're not done yet." Matthias hung his head and reluctantly trudged back to his seat.
The arguing continued, Victor ignored the discussion and stared at Elijah with hundreds of 'why' questions blazing in his serious eyes. Elijah curled the corner of his mouth in a slight smile and gave a tiny shrug as if to say, 'why not?'
"Quiet!" Quinton barked loudly. Surprisingly, everyone immediately fell silent and looked at him. He swept a glare around the table as he said, "None of this matters right now," he scowled, "we can't worry about who gets out first if we can't get out at all." He threw a gesture at the elevator. "It's not like they'll just let us come out of that."
Sergei furrowed his brow and the response he opened mouth for didn't arrive. He and Isaac both frowned in contemplation.
Victor, shaking his head at Elijah's strange behavior, said, "We have one possible exit point, and it doesn't involve the elevator," he finished quickly, before anyone could object. "However, it is on the southern side of the city in a residential sector." He shook his head. "Not a strategic position."
Sergei curled a fist in front of him, "Not if we take it hostage! We can use their people as leverage-"
Rick shook his head forcefully, "No. That won't work. If they don't care about poisoning their own people, they won't hesitate to cut through them to get to us."
Sergei threw up his hands, "Then what do we do? March for miles through the streets of Haven in broad daylight until they swarm and kill us all? Or maybe we should try hiding somewhere and hope they do not notice!"
Rick shot back, "Better to die doing something than by hoping the bastards negotiate!"
Victor stood up, looming over the table with his large figure, "The only thing that will ensure our safety is if the Citizen political system is thrown into turmoil." Expressions of confusion and disbelief crossed the faces of the various people, and they thought about it for a moment.
Isaac began, "How-"
"We take the Institute." Victor answered. "We cripple their base of operations and send the Citizens into a panic."
Rick stepped forward and nodded, "Their policing force isn't that large; they rely on keeping the populace happy and passive. They won't be able to handle a widespread panic."
Isaac rubbed his chin, "What about the military?"
Victor responded, "They don't keep large standing army; most of their forces are engaged in constant acquisitions and won't be able to respond very quickly. Even their reserve forces have been exhausted in the recent attacks down here."
"How many soldiers will be needed for the Institute?" Sergei had a thoughtful look.
Victor raised an eyebrow, "It's not heavily guarded, but there are usually a few dozen Inquisitors there at any given hour."
Sergei pounded his fist on the table, "Why don't we have groups spread out into the city and create panic? We set fires and create disturbances!" Sergei looked back and forth, appraising the reaction to his idea. "That will draw their forces away from the building, and create some Citizen riots for them to deal with."
Victor rubbed his chin. "Yes, that could work." He cast a gaze around the individuals at the table. "However, surprise and success for both our objectives and basic survival would be much simpler if we could discover another exit point, but we lack the time to search." Most of the faces at the table frowned, except for one. Victor locked his icy blue eyes into Matthias, who shifted uncomfortably and wiped sweat off his brow.
"Do any of you know of any more places?" He asked, staring directly at the awkward little man who clenched his jaw and squirmed in his seat. He kept throwing quick glances at Victor and looking away when he noticed the gaze unbroken.
By this time everyone else had followed Victor's lead, and glared at Matthias, who, unable to handle pressure, cracked. "All right! Fine!" he blurted. "I know of some places. I use them to have my people sneak up and get supplies, and we use some of the spaces to hide. I don't know how it will help you, and I'm really not sure if I want to tell you where it is. It's a really great place and I can't use it anymore if you all know about it, so I just don't know-"
Quinton barked, "Spit it out!"
Matthias gulped, "There's a loose plywood board in the stairwell of an office building, a mile southwest of the Escape. In a nearby room there are four outfits and some currency." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "There's..." he looked sad, "another spot too. Between the Escape and the art district in an apartment complex. There's a break in a garbage disposal shed, and we use servant clothing..." He finished, pouting.
Victor nodded thoughtfully, "Good," he looked over at the others, "I believe we can do little better than that."
Isaac, Sergei, and Desmond all nodded; Quinton cracked a tiny smile, and Matthias chuckled nervously and wiped sweat from his brow.
Victor stood, "Very well, then. Gather all available fighting men and meet here as soon as possible. They will enter at the two locations that you," he pointed at Matthias, who jumped at the sharp gesture, "will provide. Bring the rest, whoever you can find of civilians, to the south-side." He looked back and forth between Quinton and Desmond, who both agreed.
Victor spread his hands, "Good. Let's get going, then. The attack will begin tomorrow evening."
Muffled scraping of chairs on carpet could be heard as the various leaders moved from their seats. Matthias made a quick movement towards the door, until Rick jumped forward and grabbed his shoulder, "Not so fast, there. Why don't you go ahead and show me these exits," he said with grin.
Matthias gave a nervous chuckle that dissolved into a tiny groan and nodded rapidly, "Of course, of course. I wasn't trying to leave you behind. I wouldn't do anything like-"
"Fine, great." Rick cut in. "Let's go."
With a mournful look, the meek man mumbled an, "okay," and trudged down the street, Rick following close behind. Victor shook hands and bid farewell to the rest of the faction leaders. Isaac, Desmond, and Quinton all exited quickly, but Sergei jogged forward, speaking in hushed tones to an empty corner, most likely to his phantom man, before moving out of the building. Victor still wasn't sure who Piotr was, but he had more important things to worry about.
When everyone had left, he turned towards Elijah, who was crouching down next to Jeffrey. He used the water and a strip of cloth to wipe away some of the blood and grime on his face. Victor moved towards them and demanded, "What are you doing out here? We agreed it was safer to-"
"His lung is punctured," Elijah said, not turning around or acknowledging the question. "He's not going to survive." He turned his head towards Victor, soft, brown eyes full of sorrow.
Victor sighed, "He did his job. Better than anyone could have hoped."
Elijah gave a bitter laugh, "Well, as long as the job is done, it doesn't matter who suffers, right?" He ran a hand through his wiry, silver hair. "We're just like him. Nothing else matters except for what we care about, and to hell with anyone else."
"This is about him. About stopping what he's done to-"
"This is about revenge!" Elijah snapped. "Nothing else!"
Victor looked away, "Maybe." He turned back, changing the subject, "How is it that you didn't know about this poison strategy."
Elijah clenched his teeth, "A very good question. It was never mentioned before today, but there was no doubting the truth in Jeffrey's eyes. He heard it."
Victor raised an eyebrow, "Your informant?"
Elijah shook his head, "They must not have spoken about it much, or it wasn't a concern before now, otherwise he'd have told me." He let out a bitter laugh. "That, and the damnable power is fluctuating at the shop; he probably tried."
Victor grimaced, "At least we shouldn't have to deal with that for much longer."
"Yes, because being dead will be much better."
Victor glared, "We don't know what will happen."
Elijah shook his head, "What else could happen?" He spread out his hands. "Lange dies; someone else steps in, hunts down and executes anyone unable to prove their Citizenship."
Victor curled a fist, "It doesn't matter; staying here means certain death. At least this way, Lange finally gets what he deserves."
Elijah smirked, "And it matters not who suffers," he said, casting a sorrowful look over at Jeffrey. A shiver spiked through him as he noticed that the man's shallow breathing had stopped. He grabbed the man's shoulders and shook him, calling his name. When this elicited no response, he reached over and pressed two fingers on the side of his neck, checking for a pulse. Finding none, Elijah buried his face in his hands.
Citizen Gregory Michaels was surprised to remember that he had not yet finished watching the remainder of the video file from the day before. So much had happened; the physical encounter with Dunlevy, the incident in the research lab with Claudia, then the midnight emergency meeting.
Since he had still yet to discover what his new duties were along with his promotion, along with the complete cessation of prisoners to administer chemical interrogation to, he was one of the people temporarily reassigned to assist Claudia in the development of her biochemical agent.
They tried to keep the weapon secret, so most of the extra help worked on casings, delivery mechanisms, and electronic functions of the device rather than with the actual substance. Michaels, being privy to the knowledge, was able to work directly with Claudia on the formula and replication process.
"Why are you here? I don't need your help," she had said with an angry glare when he had arrived a couple hours before.
He had merely smiled and started looking over her notes and components. His experience in chemistry and biology allowed him to decipher what the various near-illegible scribblings meant. He chided her on her poor penmanship, to which she responded with a rude gesture.
Michaels found that he enjoyed the exchanges he had with Claudia. This has to be the same satisfaction Arthur gets out of bothering me, he had thought. In any case, Michaels believed that Claudia had nothing but disdain for him, and so he rewarded her by doing everything he could to be irritating.
"If you had altered this and this," he pointed to several places in her notes, "the substance would have been more easily soluble. How could you not see that?" Later on, he chided, "You do realize that the delivery system is too frail for real practicality."
In reality, he found the entire device both elegant and near-brilliant. It wasn't without its flaws, but it was as good as it could get on such a tight timetable. However, as he watched her continue to work, he could see the strain in her entire body. True to her word, she was not happy to be working on such a horrific weapon.
Of course, this didn't lead him to even consider letting up on her. He didn't actually do much to help her in the hours he spent assisting, and it was after his comment, "You know, higher pressurization would extend the dispersal range," that she finally snapped.
She whirled around and grabbed him by his collar, "I don't give the slightest amount of shit what you think about any of my work, so why don't you get the hell out of my office and find some other poor soul to torture you meek, whining little son of a-"
Michaels held up his hands and laughed, "All right, fine." His flippant response caused her eyes to widen with even more rage, "I'll get out of your hair. Try not to miss me too much."
With a loud noise of pure disgust she released him, whirled around, and hunched over her desk once more. He heard her muttering angrily as he left the room with a glow of satisfaction surrounding him.
It was then that he realized that he hadn't finished the video file. Since he had nothing else pressing, he decided to spend the time in his office.
Sometime later, he came through the door, holding a steaming, fresh styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand with instructions to the front desk secretary that, in spite of him being in his office, he wouldn't be taking any calls. Not that he received many to begin with, or that it ever seemed to do any good; he just didn't like to be bothered.
He planted the cup on the desk and lifted the lid of the inlaid terminal. Still on the display was the video file with Coleman's face awkwardly frozen in mid-word and halfway through blinking.
He stared at the grainy still image, amazed that he didn't quite feel the same level of disdain for him as before. The animosity still existed, but viewing the man didn't immediately make him scowl. The thought, however, did make him frown slightly, as he wondered if his well-justified attitude of superiority was softening. He still generally felt as though he were more intelligent and capable than the rest of his colleagues, but something was different. Less confidence, his mind informed him, too many things you aren't used to are happening. Genocide and politics? Michaels realized that people like Claudia, Myers, and Dunlevy at least had more experience than him.
He also found himself agreeing with them on more than just the genocide issue. It seemed that Lange was too old and detached to remain the ruler for much longer. There was no established succession or election process, so it was likely that Wresh, having considerable influence, would take over. Michaels shuddered at the thought. Even though it would fulfill the little man's desire, it would likely not result in much good for the Citizenship.
He cast the thoughts aside with a shake of his head. Not important right now, he thought. He reached to resume the recording, remembering with blunted enthusiasm the nature of the discovery and its restorative capabilities. He clicked play, and Coleman's image spoke once more.
"...but it really could work," Michaels remembered the talk about implanting the sample in the cadaver, wondering vaguely if he indeed managed to do it before he died.
Coleman sighed, "Well, anyway... This technology is far beyond the realm of technology or expertise that this planet has ever seen. I marvel at what it could mean for us as a people, but I shudder to think of how this government, under the short-sighted leadership of Lange would react to it." Coleman developed an irritated expression, "It's not as though we'll see any improvement." He said, mirroring Michaels' own recent thoughts on the subject. "Lange is already determined to try and make himself live forever. Considering how decrepit he is, at whatever his age is now..." He shook his head. "I shudder to consider if he was able to utilize something that would grant him immortality." He gave a bitter laugh. "Of course the High Inquisitor would be no better, if he ever fulfilled his obvious ambition. At least with Lange there is a measure of intelligence and rationality mixed in with his superiority complex and severe paranoia."
Coleman dropped his head into his hands, and during the silence Michaels wondered where the sample had gone. An icicle slid through his spine as he considered that it could have been incinerated when Coleman died. The discovery lost...he thought.
"Still," Coleman said, rubbing his beard, "I don't know if I can keep this to myself any longer, but I don't know in whom I can confide. Citizen Gregory Michaels has a sharp intellect, but he seems so indoctrinated into the culture of narrow-minded superiority." Michaels felt a pang of irritation at the insult, feeling slightly offended. "Myers is sharp, but self-serving, and the same goes for Citizen Laverock. Arthur perhaps?" He gave short laugh. "He is the closest thing I have to a friend here, but would he be capable of keeping quiet?"
Coleman shook his head again, "I don't know, but I'm going to have to do something about it soon. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up." With that, the weary-looking man reached over and the image froze, ending the recording.
Michaels let out a sigh and sank back into the chair, contemplating. There are far too many things occurring to keep track of, he thought. Genocide against the dwellers of down below? Alien technology of immortality? He again wondered where the sample had ended up; whether it was destroyed, or if Coleman had attempted his experiment. This collided with the thoughts of the horrific chemical agent, and Michaels wondered if the restorative technology could deal with such a biologically disruptive force.
Thoughts swirling, he closed out of the video file, and, with a start, he saw that the desktop had changed from a passive sky-blue color to a deep red with a bright white graphical skull imposed in the center. A shiver rolled up Michaels' spine at the grim image, and he wondered why it had changed. He moved the cursor around the screen, and suddenly the skull's mouth sprang open and round, bloodshot eyes formed in the dark sockets.
Through the speakers Michael could hear the sound of deep, throaty laughter and the screen went wild with flashing colors of dark red, orange, and yellow. Michaels stared at the display with growing apprehension as the words 'Destroy it!' flashed across the screen, superimposed over the image.
Then, all at once, the screen went completely black. He tried to move the cursor around, but only a dark displacement blur, like a finger tracing across the surface of water, appeared where the cursor should have been. Confused, he was reaching for the reset button when his desk let out a sharp blare.
He jumped, wondering why the intercom signal was so obnoxious. He pressed the button, "What?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," he recognized the voice of the receptionist, "but there is someone here to see you."
He touched the button again, "I don't want any visitors. Tell them I'm busy."
"I tried that, sir. Several times."
In the background, he heard a distinct female voice, Claudia, "I know he's in there. Tell him to get his ass out here. Now!"
"Just a moment, ma'am," he heard the receptionist say. Then, directed at him, she said, "She's very insistent, would it be possible for you to come out here?"
Chuckling to himself at the thought of Claudia coming to find him, he replied with, "Yes, of course, I'll be right there."
With a last glance at the screen, he saw that the video program was open with a new file loaded, and the desktop had returned to its normal color. He blinked, surprised by the change. Hesitantly, he reached over and closed the lid. Curious as he was, there would be time enough for it later.
He stepped out into the hallway, and moments later he walked up to an irate-looking Claudia, still arguing with the receptionist.
"Well, call him again! I don't have time to stand around waiting."
The woman at the desk's composure was clearly starting to wear, "He will be along." She smiled sweetly at Michaels as he came up, "Hello Citizen Michaels."
Claudia whirled around, "Took you long enough." she said angrily. "Hurry up and come with me."
Michaels raised an eyebrow and stood his ground, "Hello Claudia, nice to see you too." Her scowl deepened. "Where exactly are we going in such a hurry?"
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I need your..." she got a disgusted look, "help with something." She gritted her teeth. "If you're not too busy."
A feeling of glee flooded through him. "Of course. I'm never to busy to assist you, my dear."
Claudia rolled her eyes and started walking briskly down the hall. "Hurry up!" she called without turning around.
Laughing to himself, he set off down the hallway after her.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"Bullshit!" Kaylee shouted. "There is no goddamn way!"
Rick sighed. He knew this was going to be difficult. "C'mon, Kaylee, it'll be a lot better this way."
"Screw that!" she yelled. "I'm not doing it."
Rick rubbed his eyes, "Why not? It'll be safe, easy, and you'll get to hang out in that nice flat. What's the problem with that?"
"I'm not getting stuck babysitting kids and old folks. That's bullshit!"
Rick started getting irritated at her belligerence, "They aren't just kids and old people; there are plenty of noncombatant civilians there too."
"So you classify me as noncombatant and put me on a useless detail? After all I've done?"
"You're going to help save dozens of lives this way, how is that at all useless?" Rick asked, exasperated.
"Come on! They don't need me over there. Cut the masculine crap and let me go with the main force." Kaylee insisted.
Rick rolled his eyes. Her interpretation of his chauvinistic desire to protect women wasn't entirely correct. She'd just barely survived something terrible not days earlier, and he admitted to himself that he didn't want to put her in a situation like that again.
On the other hand, she was also too stubborn and inexperienced in actual combat to be very useful to his squad. She'd most likely be a detriment to their success. "Look, I still don't get why you're being so insistent."
Kaylee glared up at him, "I don't need you to try and protect me. I can take care of myself."
"Well then, why don't you use some of that considerable ability to try and take care of a few others," Rick snapped.
"Because I'd be more useful-"
"Enough!" He shouted. "Do you know how to use one of these?" He unslung his submachine gun and shoved it into her hands. She looked down at it for a second before holding it up to her shoulder, awkwardly. "Look at that! You can barely hold the damn thing! How do you think you'd fare in a real firefight?"
Rick winced as she threw the weapon on the ground with a loud clatter. "Screw you." She spat, whirling around and storming off, down the street. They had been standing next to the memorial fountain in front of Purgatory during the discussion.
"Kaylee! Just..." he sighed as she ignored him, "whatever." He muttered. She'll be back, he thought.
Fighting logistics was still a primary concern of his. The more he thought about it, the less terrible of an idea Kaylee coming with seemed, as there would be dozens more soldiers that he wouldn't be able to properly evaluate. She'd probably be more useful than a bunch of them. Fortunately, most of the fighting force would be managed by their own leaders, Sergei and Isaac, but there still had to be some coordination on a large scale.
Rick wasn't surprised when Victor told him that he'd been selected to handle the planning. At the same time, dealing with it was going to be a nightmare of trying to assess abilities, strengths, and weaknesses, as well as how obedient the various leaders and soldiers would be. That and I've got about half a day to do it.
He sighed again and rubbed his eyes. He looked up, jumping slightly when he noticed that Malcolm hadn't followed Kaylee. The big guy really creeped him out. He creeps everyone out, Rick thought. Even Victor, who could stand eye to eye with the brute and never really expressed much emotion, appeared at least slightly uncomfortable around the shrouded figure. Elijah, on the other hand, couldn't hide an obvious fascination, but Malcolm's narrow-eyed glare kept him from examining too closely.
"Wwhat iss pllace?" Rick's eyes popped open when Malcolm spoke to him.
Rick's ear tried to interpret the statement, but it was too sharp and hissing to really tell. Rick hadn't heard him say much of anything before this, but Kaylee swore that he spoke English.
"What?" Rick said, in reflex.
"Pplaacee."
'Place', a little voice in Rick's head piped up. He said 'place'. I guess Kaylee was right.
"Place?" he finally replied. "What place?
Malcolm nodded, "Wwhhat iissss pplaaace?"
Rick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to figure out what the bizarre creature was talking about, "I don't know what you mean. What place are you talking about?"
"Pllaace yyouu go."
"Place..." a thought sparked in Rick. "Do you mean the Institute?"
Recognition flared in Malcolm's eyes, "Yess. Whkhat iss pplaace?"
The tiny voice in his head giggled at the peculiarity of the whole conversation. "The Institute," Rick said slowly, not really knowing why he was still talking to Malcolm, "is their headquarters for everything. Their policing body resides there, all of their research," Malcolm cocked his head at the word 'research,' "is done there. Lange," Malcolm's eyes turned into an angry glare, "apparently lives there too." The tiny voice, done laughing, urged him to ask a question that he didn't want to. "Why do you want to know?" Rick asked, wincing at his own weakness.
Malcolm stared at him for several seconds, and Rick grew increasingly uneasy under the silent gaze. Finally, Malcolm hissed, "Rrememmber," then turned and walked off, in the direction that Kaylee went.
Rick was left standing by himself, wondering exactly what it was that he should be remembering. He rubbed his forehead, and the tiny voice in his head spoke to him once more. It's him, it said. He remembers. The thought confused Rick even more as he wondered why Malcolm would recall anything from the surface. Although he did seem to recognize 'the Institute' and Lange's name, he thought.
Someone in Purgatory shouted over to him, derailing his train of thought. He jogged over, his mind shifting gears back towards trying to plan out how this whole mess was going to work.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Michaels tapped his foot impatiently. He checked his watch and rolled his eyes. Claudia had dragged him from his office because, somehow, she needed his help. All she had done was bring him down to the large testing laboratory and leave him standing outside of her office.
Maybe that's why she left me out here, he thought. She knows how much I hate wasting time. He peered around the door, looking through the glass panels that served to allow her or whoever else to monitor the rest of the testing room.
Michaels was surprised at the change. Before, when he had been there, many of the other projects had still been scattered about with various techs and people in white coats milling around working on them. These included various prototypes of military hardware and vehicles, a few kinds of explosive devices; all sorts of projects.
Now, everyone was working on assembly of identical devices. Michaels recognized the curved, smooth metal riveted together to form a cylinder. From there, one of the slitted ends was welded in place, the opposite side awaiting the payload for each one. The device was identical to the prototype save for the size. Each unit was about as large as a refrigerator laid on its side. They all had rungs welded to the outer surface, which Michaels assumed were used to attach cables for lifting and lowering.
Other stations were producing smaller tubes of what Michaels guessed was a hard plastic substance, the chemical chambers. There were four thinner ones attached to a larger one in the center for each device, probably the mixing chamber. More workers yet hovered around small electronic assemblies, and other groups were working on putting the parts together. Thus far, none of them were finished enough to receive the deadly payload as of yet, but a couple of them were getting close.
As he peered around the corner, he'd occasionally see Claudia bent over something in sight of the window. Then she'd disappear again into an unseen corner. He sighed, irritation at being left standing around for the last half hour growing rapidly.
He sat down and leaned his head against the cold metal railing. He was considering trying to close his eyes and take a brief nap when he saw Citizen Dennis Myers, in his dark blue suit, moving up the stairs and across the second story towards the office where Michaels sat. Michaels stood up and smoothed out his own rumpled attire. Due to the late nights, busy schedule, and a great deal of things to think about, Michaels' personal care had suffered somewhat. His clothes were unkempt and slightly dirty, and a dusting of stubble stood out on his cheeks.
Myers, conversely, looked clean and immaculate as always. Michaels shook the soft, manicured, dark hand as Myers spoke in his rumbling bass, "Afternoon Citizen Michaels."
"Hello Citizen Myers, how are you?"
"Just fine. A little curious as to why Miss Claudia called me to come down here." He glanced at his watch. "I have a broadcast going out in forty-five minutes."
Michaels shrugged, "She personally dragged me out of my office begging for my help, then decided that she was going to work in there," he hooked a thumb towards the office, "without me."
"Curious." Myers said, clearly uninterested.
"Indeed," Michaels replied.
The two stood in an awkward silence for a few moments, as neither really knew anything about the other and they had no idea of any common ground or subjects they could comfortably discuss with one another.
Luckily, they were spared from extensive agony by the exuberant appearance of Dunlevy, who came bounding over with a loud, "Good afternoon, my friends!"
Both men responded with a, "Hello, Arthur." Myers said it with a relaxed tone, and Michaels mumbled the greeting.
"Standing about today are we?" Dunlevy said, eyes twinkling, "With so much work to be done. Absolutely appalling!" he finished, laughing at them.
"Very funny, Arthur," Myers said passively. He gestured towards Michaels, "We were just talking; do you happen to know why Claudia called us down here?"
"Haven't the foggiest!" Dunlevy said with a wide grin. "Always so exciting to come down here, see what gadgets and trinkets are being put together. Although," he added, smile fading as he looked down at the milling workers below, "it looks a bit more drab than usual."
Myers straightened his tie, "Redirected to work on the latest project, as you'd expect."
"Yes, I see that," Dunlevy said softly, distracted by the milling workers. "frightening device, don't you think?" He turned and cocked an eyebrow at the other two.
Michaels looked away, saying nothing. Myers gave a slow nod, "I can't say I'm fond of it..." leaving a hanging air to the statement.
Michaels frowned. "But?"
Myers gave a grim smile, "but nothing. I don't like it at all. It's barbaric by any standard."
Michaels shrugged and looked uncomfortable, "I suppose, but what if it's necessary, did you think of that?"
A look of irritation crossed Dunlevy's face and he opened his mouth. Myers held up a hand and shook his head, and Dunlevy remained silent. Myers leveled a gaze at Michaels and said, "Son, someday you might understand that barbarism isn't defined by what some old man in a tower afraid of his own death says."
Michaels scoffed, "Please. It's obvious that Lange barely runs things. He's too detached. It's all Wresh and his Inquisitors."
Myers leaned back and let out a laugh, "Well, you're half-right. Julian would love to see the city under his full control, but old Citizen One's not letting go that easy."
Michaels gave a confused glance towards Dunlevy, who nodded in affirmation, "Citizen One still has primary control over a lot of the infrastructure and power grid." He shrugged, "No one really knows what would happen if he decided to do something. At best, we'd have to reroute a lot of control center materials. At worst..." He left the statement hanging.
Before Michaels could respond with a shaky and less-than-confident rebuttal, the office door swung open. Michaels jumped back, narrowly avoiding being struck by it.
She looked carefully at each one, "Good, you're all here. Come inside." She stood to the side. Michaels gave her a thin smile as he walked by.
Several minutes later all three men were uneasily shaking their heads when Claudia finished talking. Michaels spoke up first, "I'm not sure how these things are supposed to work, but has anyone ever done anything like what you're suggesting?"
Myers folded his arms. "No. Everything Citizen One says has been obeyed as long as I've been around. Complaints or concerns are always addressed at council meetings..." he furrowed his brow, "and never brought up again."
Dunlevy nodded, "He's right, Claudia. No one's stood up to him in oh..." he thought about it, "fifty years?" He let out a humorless laugh. "At least none who have lived to tell about it."
Claudia removed her glasses and set them on the table, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I know that, but there's never been a real reason to before." All three men frowned and said nothing. "Come on! You know this is wrong!"
Myers unfolded his arms and turned his palms upward, "Of course we do," Michaels scowled at being spoken for, "but what good is it going to do?"
"Nothing!" Michaels cut in, "No good at all. We'd be idiots to try-"
"Shut up you cowardly piss!" Claudia snapped, surprising the room with her blunt language. "We can't use that thing!" She pointed at the small prototype canister sitting on her desk.
"Because it's not ready?" Michaels asked.
Claudia shot him a deadly glare, "No, you moron! It's ready. Of course the goddamn thing is ready! We can't use it because it's horrific!"
Dunlevy spoke up, in a somber tone, "We know that, but Gregory is right." He gave a sad smile. "Hell, he's living proof that none of us are irreplaceable." Michaels swallowed hard and paled slightly, remembering the grinning skull on Coleman's computer screen as Dunlevy continued, "Marcus was a very close friend of mine. Of all of ours." Myers merely raised an eyebrow. Michaels indicated no response.
"So that's it?" Claudia asked, exasperated. "We don't speak up because we're too afraid of what will happen?" She looked at each one of them. None of them met her eyes. "Screw that." She started walking out the door.
Myers stepped forward putting his hand on her shoulder, "Claudia..."
"No!" she shouted, and he stepped back. "To hell with keeping quiet and to hell with you! All of you!" She slammed the door shut on her way out.
The three men didn't meet each other's eyes. Myers and Dunlevy quietly left one by one without so much as a glance backward. Michaels stood leaning on the desk with his arms crossed. He wondered if Claudia would still be alive in the morning.
In spite of what Rick assumed was a glorious sunrise on the surface, the same pale gloom stretched over the underside of Haven the next morning. For a while, the lack of activity regulation by daylight had been disconcerting, and many of the people left behind had trouble adjusting.
Luckily for them, many old power stations were still functioning, and all that was necessary to keep illumination was to reset the timing on the lamps to run all of the time. Eventually, without the needed care and maintenance, they broke down. Panic gripped along with the darkness, and after weeks some individuals were able hook into the Citizenship power grid. It was, until recent days, the only time that various groups in the down below area had come together. They understood that survival without any light would have been impossible.
That had been years ago, and even though some repairs on the patchwork grid were needed and darkness was all over whether by burned out bulbs or severed lines, there was still light in some places.
Rick didn't really care about this. What he did care about as he stuck the dirty fork he always used into the unlabeled can of cold beans was the same thing he wished for every single morning and hadn't seen in years.
Coffee. Good strong coffee, maybe with cream and sugar to give it a little extra flavor. Not that he'd ever admit that part to anyone else. Every now and then when reporting to Victor in the morning, he could smell the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the slit on the door as they spoke. More than once, he had nearly started begging for a just a little.
He'd also have killed for some bacon and eggs. Or any sort of fresh, non-canned food. He wiped his fork on the sleeve of his jacket and dropped it back into his pack, tossing the empty can over his shoulder. It clattered on the ground, instantly becoming a part of the décor. With all of the random debris scattered around, Rick wasn't even sure he could have turned around and identified it without concentrated effort.
After his breakfast, he moved over into the Purgatory building, which was now being guarded round the clock. Elijah and Victor were already sitting at the conference table, looking through various sheets of paper with various scribblings. With a casual glance, Rick realized they were counting personnel.
"...accurate estimates of about two hundred with at least rudimentary combat training or decent experience and an additional four hundred battle capable."
Rick did a double take, "Really? That many? Where did they come from?"
Victor replied, "Many of them are associated with Miguel. They live in his district. He employed a great number of guards and scavengers with promise of protection. That and," he gestured to the paper, "the word of the success against the Citizens spread quickly. When they heard we planned to move out, a few hundred unaffiliated individuals came out of hiding in the last few days." He looked up. "Most everyone
Elijah frowned and motioned for Rick to take a seat, "But six hundred, more than two-thirds green. That's not very many. The Citizenship has more of just Inquisitors than that. That's not even counting the size of their military, which is..." he rubbed his chin, "much larger than that."
Rick held up a finger, "Yes, but how ready are they to mobilize their full military strength within their own city?"
Victor nodded, "They aren't; most of them are probably still deployed or trying to return, and their reserve forces won't be replenished yet." He rubbed his smooth face. "Let us also not forget that most of our forces have likely seen some manner of fighting in their years down here."
"Yeah, but there's a huge difference between 'can fire a gun' and 'can execute tactical maneuvers and take orders when bullets are flying." Rick responded.
Victor gave a slight smile, "Fortunately, causing a disruption shouldn't require a great deal of intricate tactics."
"Yeah, I guess so." Rick smirked. "In any case whatever we do will need to be done fast, before they can react. Well, and before they drop lethal poison down here and kill us all."
"Ideas?" Elijah said, looking at Rick.
"A few." Rick gave a thin smile. "What the hell are you doing out here anyway, 'Klaus?'"
Elijah cocked his head slightly and gave a little knowing smile, which faded when Desmond walked into the room. He slouched back into his chair and did his best to look unimportant and bored.
Rick rolled his eyes, but put a cordial smile on to greet Desmond.
"I can't stay long," Desmond said, wiping his spectacles on his shirt. "I left Olivia alone gathering supplies and coordinating the move." A smile of reminiscence spread across his face. "She wasn't too happy about that."
The other three, never having been married, exchanged glances and said nothing. Desmond, remembering the company he was in, straightened up and said, "Right, sorry. I came to give you this," he slid a piece of paper onto the table. "It has civilian estimates from both Quinton and us."
Victor scanned the information and nodded. "Good. Thank you."
Desmond didn't leave, he stood with a slight hunch and his hands in his pockets and a faraway stare, as though he were waiting for something or distracted. "Is there anything else?" Victor asked him.
Desmond snapped back into reality, "Oh! Ah, yes there is. We need a timetable, instructions, and the location."
Rick piped in, "Don't worry about instructions or timetable; we'll have a few of our people to coordinate that for you. And the location," he tore off a scrap of paper and scribbled on it, "is at this street. If you can," he handed the scrap to Desmond, "try and get moving as soon as possible. Are you familiar with where that is?"
Desmond rubbed the tip of his nose, "Yes, I believe so. South side?"
Rick nodded, "That's right."
Desmond clutched the paper in his fist; he gave a little salute with it, "Well, thank you. I suppose I probably won't be seeing you again."
Victor and Rick exchanged glances, "No, probably not for a while at least," Rick said.
"Well, then the best of luck to you," Desmond gave a little bow then walked out.
Once he was gone, Elijah sat up, "Well?"
Victor looked at the numbers again, "Manageable without too many of our people needed." He turned his eyes towards Elijah. "About one hundred and fifty elderly and children, most of them capable of movement or assisting each other, from how it sounds. An additional seventy-five unable or unwilling to fight. The rest have already been distributed among Sergei and Isaac's ranks."
Elijah nodded, "What about Matthias?"
Rick shook his head, "His people won't fight. He was pretty clear on that point."
Elijah scowled, "Lovely." He sifted through some of the sheets. "Which exit will we be taking?"
Rick and Victor exchanged a quick glance. "I will be taking care of the infiltration part." Rick said firmly. "You will be with Kaylee in the south with the civilians."
Elijah raised his chin and his eyes narrowed, "Is that so?" he said, sounding more like a statement than a question.
Rick met his intense gaze and nodded. "With respect, sir, you are not going to be able to keep up when we attempt to take the Institute. It will be highly dangerous and probably require intense fighting inside."
Elijah shot a glare at Victor, who didn't react, "You agreed to this?"
Victor gave a short nod and stared at a spot past Elijah, not meeting his eyes.
Elijah's hand shot out and he grabbed Rick's arm. "You listen to me," he said, gritting his teeth, "this whole thing would be nothing without me. I made this happen. You won't cut me out of it."
Elijah's eyes suddenly went wide and the hand gripping Rick's arm began to tremble violently, veins popping out on his neck. Rick did a double take at the sudden change, "Elijah? What's wrong?" he asked with growing concern.
Elijah released his grip and fell back into his chair, breathing in short gasps with sweat beading on his forehead. He clenched his eyes shut and his mouth hung open with an expression of pain and distress.
Rick was shoved roughly out of the way as Victor jumped over in front of Elijah. He produced a small syringe that, with a quick couple of taps, he inserted into Elijah's thigh and depressed the plunger.
Victor remained crouched in front of Elijah, watching him intently. After a moment, Elijah's ragged breath normalized and a measure of serenity settled into Elijah's face. He opened his eyes and put a hand on Victor's shoulder, "Thank you, old friend."
Victor tilted his head slightly downward, "Of course, but..." he let the phrase linger in the air.
Elijah chuckled, squeezing Victor's shoulder as both men rose to their feet, "I understand, you can't have some frail old man getting in the way."
Rick exclaimed, "What the hell was that all about?"
Elijah moved past Victor and placed his index finger on Rick's chest. "Don't worry about me. Secure the target site, and I will be along shortly after."
Rick opened his mouth to object, but Elijah cut him off, "Ah, ah! No. There's no discussion here. I have to be there. You'll have to tie me up or shoot me," he smiled that soft, kindly smile, "to stop me from going. I must to say hello to an old friend."
Rick sighed and rubbed his forehead, "All right, fine. If by some miracle we pull this off, we'll get you inside." He pointed a finger at him. "I warn you; no one's going to be around to help if you have one of those... whatever that was." He waved his hand dismissively.
Elijah's smile widened, "Excellent. Don't worry about me; I will be just fine."
Rick sighed once more, "Great. Hokay... Now where were we...?"
Victor produced another sheet and rattled off more numbers as Rick leaned forward in his chair, listening and kneading his forehead with his knuckles.
Taking it shouldn't be too tough, but there's no way we can hold it. We really are screwed, he thought.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Citizen Gregory Michaels spent most of his morning trying to discover the whereabouts and condition of Claudia Laverock, but no one had seen her for several hours. The first place he looked was in the large testing lab, used for parts assembly. Progress had continued unhindered all night and morning, and now several devices were ready to receive the substance, with dozens more on the way, but Claudia was nowhere to be seen.
He cursed himself for not stopping her, for thinking that she wasn't being serious. According to the attendant at the front desk of the Inquisition building, Claudia had taken the elevator to the top floor the night before, less than a half hour after she had stormed out of her office, leaving the other members of the civilian arm of the council behind.
No matter where he went, it seemed that no one had seen her since the day before. He even debased himself enough to find Dunlevy's office. The portly man invited him in with exuberance and offered him what turned out to be delicious coffee and pastries. Michaels managed to disengage after a few minutes of useless babble, but he emerged without any new information.
"Where does she live?" he inquired with the attendant of the main lobby of the Institute.
The man looked up. "Excuse me?"
Michaels realized he hadn't spoken to this particular individual about his search. "Pardon me. I seek the whereabouts of Citizen Claudia Laverock. She heads the-"
The attendant waved his hand, "I know who she is." He peered into a terminal screen and Michaels could hear the soft but rapid tapping of keys. "It looks like..." he squinted at the screen, "Citizen Laverock resigned, effective," a few more taps, "this morning. Her calls and responsibilities have been temporarily rerouted to..." more typing, and a startled look came across his face. "Oh! Well..." he pushed up his glasses. "It's been rerouted to you, Citizen Michaels, until-"
Michaels' eyes popped wide, "What, me? Why?"
The attendant shrugged, "It says you've been reassigned until project completion or a suitable permanent replacement is found." He eyed Michaels. "I'm surprised they didn't send you any notice."
They probably had, but Michaels hadn't gone to his office and had spent the entire morning trying to find Claudia. The attendant was looking at him expectantly, "Oh. Well, I, uh..." Michaels mumbled, "I've been," he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "very busy this morning."
The attendant eyed him and nodded slowly, "I see."
"Could you... could you tell me where Citizen Laverock resides?" Michaels asked.
"I'm... not really supposed to just give out that sort of information," the attendant said, with an uncomfortable look.
"Just tell me, I need to speak with her," Michaels tried to keep the urgency out of his voice.
After a bit more coaxing, the reluctant man punched up Claudia's address on the terminal and relayed the information to Michaels, who scribbled it down on a small scrap of paper. Michaels sped off without so much as a thanks out of the Institute's south end through the main entrance.
He emerged from the sterile white into the bright yellow glow of the midmorning sun. Squinting, he hailed a single-passenger transportation vehicle and passed the driver his Citizenship identification card, who inserted into a reader as Michaels rattled off the intended address.
Working directly for the Institute gave Michaels the privilege of having one of the highest available Citizenship rankings, along with the benefits that went along with it. He received housing, food, cleaning services. He could request and receive any furniture or appliances he wanted. Any other services outside of the Institute, such as transportation, dining, and anything else, were taken care of for him.
He knew there was some kind of limit, but he'd never come close, as his life laid in his work. Aside from sleeping and the occasional book, he spent little time in his apartment thus saw little purpose in decorating it. With that, as the driver took him through the narrow streets, he realized that he couldn't exactly remember the last time he left the Institute area.
"Here you are, sir. Enjoy your afternoon." The driver said in a monotone, uninterested voice. The more dull jobs, such as transportation, were generally given to lower-ranking Citizens; they were still quite well-compensated and enjoyed all manner of luxury as everyone else, but they usually didn't derive satisfaction from their occupations. Michaels ignored him and said nothing as he hopped out of the vehicle and hurried into the main entrance.
Claudia lived in a complex that featured huge, luxurious apartments, not under the direct supervision of the Institute. Private business owners were still Citizens and thus subject to direction by the Inquisition and Citizen One, but, provided they paid their dues and didn't cause trouble, there wasn't much need for oversight.
Michaels smiled as he recalled a situation where one of the apartment complex owners decided to try and edge out the competition by intimidation and even violence. The man disappeared sometime during the night and it was thought that he would never be seen again. Later, it was discovered that he had been severely punished by demotion, reassigned to work in the sewage treatment plant. To keep the building managed, the Inquisitors placed one of their own people in charge of the building until a suitable replacement was found.
The Citizenship did not suffer disturbance lightly. Michaels remembered the burnt beyond recognition body of Coleman lying on the table. He hadn't even done much to offend and he'd apparently been killed. As he walked towards the elevator, Michaels vaguely wondered why he felt such concern for Claudia. For some reason, he thought that he would miss her if she vanished or turned up dead.
At the front desk, a woman smiled at Michaels, "Can I help you?"
"Yes," Michaels said, "I'm looking for Citizen Claudia Laverock. Is she at home?"
"I believe so, but just a moment," the woman, a pretty brunette, picked up the phone. After a moment she said, "Hello, is this Miss Laverock?" A brief pause. "Good afternoon, this is the front desk calling, there is a man here who wishes to see you." The woman's eyes flicked up towards Michaels as she listened, "Hold one moment, I'll ask."
She politely asked, "What's your name and business here?"
Michaels replied, "Citizen Gregory Michaels. Citizen Laverock is a coworker of mine, and I wish to speak with her."
The woman relayed the information, eyes widening at what Michaels assumed was some kind of nasty response at his presence. A little flicker of cheer passed through him, knowing that she seemed fine and that he could still annoy her.
Then came a flicker of worry, and his smirk faded. Now that I know she's all right, what am I going to say? He winced at the realization that she would instantly know that he was concerned for her well-being enough to hunt down her address and travel across town to find out. I'll never live this one down, he thought unhappily.
"Sir? Sir!" The receptionist practically shouted, and Michaels snapped back into reality. She looked at him as though he was out of his mind. "Step into the elevator; it will take you to her floor."
Her floor! he thought. She has an entire floor? How much of her allowance is spent on that?
The woman must have read the incredulous look on his face, as she said, with a pompous air, "The accommodations of the Tretton Housing Company are the finest in all of Haven."
Michaels still wore an astonished expression as he walked into the elevator, and the receptionist bid him a good afternoon as the doors slid closed and the odd sinking sensation of lift passed through him. The car stopped at the 4th floor with a soft ding.
Nothing happened, and a puzzled look crossed Michaels face as he reached for the 'door open' button. Before he could hit it, the intercom crackled to life and he heard a sharp female voice, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Michaels jerked his hand back as though it were bitten, "Er, I... Um... Hello Claudia, how are you?"
"Cut the crap Michaels, why did you come here?" She asked with obvious irritation.
"I was wondering where you were this morning; you left so quickly yesterday and I-"
"All right, that's great," she said sarcastically, "now really tell me why you came all the way across town when there's so much important work to be done, and you're the one who's been assigned to fill in."
Michaels hung his head, "You heard about that."
Laughter rang in the elevator through the intercom, and Michaels briefly wondered if by remaining inside he was keeping others from using it as Claudia recovered, "Of course I heard about it. I recommended you to replace me. Told Citizen One you were loyal and had no sense of morality."
Michaels' eyes narrowed and ignored the jab, "You spoke to him?"
"Yes." She said, matter-of-factly, "Is that so strange?"
"Well, no, I suppose," Michaels said, unconvinced. "What did he say?"
He heard a sigh, "He acknowledged my objections and accepted my immediate resignation. He even said that he'd assist in finding me another place where my talents can be used for more altruistic goals." There was a pause as Claudia remembered who she was speaking to. "Why do you care anyway? I thought you'd be thrilled to take my job."
Michaels stuttered, "Well, I... I am, I suppose. It's just that, you know, I was... That is, I've heard of things that happened to, you know... people. People who have said things or done things that..." he trailed off, grasping for a better phrasing.
The intercom switched off into silence and through the doors he could hear the sound of wild laughter. With a sharp buzz, the doors slid open and he was greeted by a short hallway and the sight of Claudia doubled over laughing as she leaned up against the wall. Moisture formed in her eyes and her face turned a vibrant red as she looked up into his distressed and confused face and collapsed into another fit of hysteria.
Michaels stood just outside the elevator, which slid shut and traveled to another location with growing irritation at the ridicule at his expense as Claudia continually recovered, glanced up at him, and burst out giggling again.
"You... you..." she said, between gasps of air, "came all this way... because... you were worried about me?" She now stood upright looking disheveled with hair mussed and red-faced, almost as though she had been crying, but the wide grin on her face and the occasional convulsion of barely repressed snickering made her mood more than evident.
By this time Michaels was scowling, "Yes, I thought that your insubordinate behavior would have reflected poorly on your... personal condition." He finished awkwardly.
Claudia, still shaking with laughter, responded with, "How gallant of you. What did I ever do without Sir Gregory protecting me," her composure dissolved she broke into another fit of giggling.
Michaels angry glare deepened, "You know the stories! How could you be so foolish as to try and go against Citizen One's will?"
She waved a dismissive hand at him, "Because he's not going to just kill someone for objecting. He was very calm and reasonable about the whole thing."
"Really." Michaels asked, unconvinced
Claudia nodded, composure recovered, "He said that he appreciated all the work I'd done for him and the Citizenship and sent me on my way." There was a scuffling noise and she glanced around the corner and said, "Careful with that! It's very fragile!"
Confused, Michaels pushed past Claudia and finally noticed, directly in front of him, a huge bay window. Only four floors up and looking across the street at another identical building, the view wasn't anything too amazing, but it was still impressive nonetheless. He looked around, bewildered at the size of the place, realizing that the receptionist was right; these were the finest accommodations he'd ever seen.
"You like it?" Claudia said, smirking at him as he moved into the kitchen and ran his hand along the marble counter-top. "Cost me a great deal of my housing allowance, but I couldn't stand living on-site like that." Michaels bent down and felt the living room carpet floor. It was thick, deep purple in color, and incredibly soft. He heard the scuffling noise again and shot a glance over. In an open bedroom door, he saw another person putting items into a cardboard box sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I said be careful, dammit!" Claudia shouted, walking over to the room. "These things are fragile. Do not break them."
"Who's that?" Michaels inquired, following behind.
In the room was a blank-eyed female servant packing items into boxes. Michaels noticed that there were actually several boxes sealed and stacked next to the walk in closet, which, from his limited vision, looked empty. Claudia gingerly grabbed a small porcelain figurine from the servant, wrapped it in foam, and placed it carefully in the box. "You see?" she pointed at the figure. "This is what I asked for. Be careful with these and wrap them like that. Okay?"
The servant nodded, dumbly, and, under Claudia's careful watch, wrapped the next figurine in the correct fashion with proper care.
Claudia sighed and walked back out towards the living room, Michaels following behind. "They're useful to have around, but they forget specific instructions so quickly. And they're so clumsy!" she complained to no one in particular.
"Yeah, I suppose," Michaels muttered dismissively, "So you're moving out then? Why?"
She shot a glare at him as though she had forgotten he was still there, "Because... as a result of my resignation I receive a demotion in Citizenship ranking, and I can no longer afford to be here."
Michaels smirked, "Really?"
Claudia sighed, "Yes." She gazed about the luxurious home mournfully, "It's such a beautiful place, too."
"Well, you can always-"
Michaels' statement was interrupted by the shrill tone of the telephone in the hallway ringing. Claudia held up a hand to him, walked over, and picked it up. "Hello?"
Michaels could hear the indistinct high-pitched twitter of the voice on the other end. Claudia frowned, and she glanced up at him. "It's apparently for you."
Michaels raised an eyebrow and took the receiver from her, "Yes?" he asked.
"Sorry to bother you, Citizen Michaels, but someone is here for you." he recognized the voice of the pretty brunette receptionist.
"Who is it?" he demanded, donning his accustomed irritation when interrupted.
"An Inquisitor, by the name of," a brief pause, "Parker. He says he's here to escort you to the Institute."
Michaels sighed, "I'll be right down," he said before putting the receiver back into its cradle.
When he looked up, Claudia smirked at him with her arms folded, "Duty calls?" she said, mocking.
He gave a bitter laugh, "So it would seem." Without speaking he moved, sullen, towards the elevator and hit the call button. He stole a very quick glance at Claudia, whose posture softened and she absentmindedly chewed her lip with a pitying look on her face. The elevator opened and he stepped inside. Just before the doors slid shut a hand shot in and triggered the safety mechanism.
The doors reopened and she stood there with her head down and arms crossed once more. She then looked up at him with a look of mingled disquiet and annoyance. Michaels cocked his head at her and opened his mouth to ask what she was doing. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, causing his eyes to go wide and his mouth to drop open, wordlessly.
She stepped back, eyeing him with the same look. He developed his own mixed bag of incredulity, confusion, and surprise expressions as his mouth worked up and down while his brain desperately tried to find something to say.
She folded her arms again and sighed, "I appreciate your concern for me. Just..." she bit her lip again, "Be careful, okay? Lange's not the one you need to worry about."
Michaels, still wearing a dazed expression, mumbled, "Sure," as the doors slid closed and Claudia disappeared from sight.
With the lightness feeling associated with immobile descent, Michaels stood in the elevator as it passed to the ground floor. Just as it reached, his shocked expression softened, and a barely noticeable smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
The smile faded into irritation as he noted two men and one woman wearing the black clothing and sharp, piercing expressions of Inquisitors stood at attention outside.
The lead man stepped forward, "Inquisitor Parker, at your service. We were sent to retrieve you, Citizen Michaels."
Michaels scowled at the man. "Is that so?"
The Inquisitor ignored his irritation and the question, "If you'll come with me, you are needed in the Experimental Design testing lab."
Michaels sighed, "Fine." A few other people milling around the lobby area stood far clear of the white-coated man and his entourage of Inquisitors. The receptionist wore a wide, frightened expression. Whether it was fear of Michaels for requiring such a large escort or the presence of Inquisitors, he wasn't sure.
The thought made him wonder exactly why three of them were needed to bring him back, but he stroked his ego, telling himself that he was just that important. Inquisitor Parker opened the side door of one of two single passenger vehicles, much like the one he took to get there, but both in jet black with the Inquisitor symbol in soft white on the sides.
Without a word the Inquisitor took off, and in the ensuing short trip, Michaels mind hovered around Claudia and a certain little kiss, letting his irritation fade into a sense of satisfaction. The same hint of a smile formed on his face and lingered long after they arrived.
He didn't even notice that the other two Inquisitors had not escorted him inside, followed behind in their own vehicle, nor even left the apartment building.
The only thing Kaylee found more disconcerting than Malcolm's ominous and silent stare was its complete absence. For the last couple of days, he had been practically glued to her hip, following her around everywhere and watching every single move she made. Given any danger, he would react with immediate and instinctive action to protect her. Each time it happened she had to talk him down from hurting someone, like the soldier of a few days ago, but it had given her a glimmer of hope that she'd make it out of all of this alive with someone so powerful dedicated to keeping her safe.
Now, however, it didn't even seem like he was paying any attention. She'd move on to talk to someone else or figure out some other details, and it would take him between several seconds and a couple of minutes to notice and follow behind. Instead of watching her carefully, she noticed he spent a great deal of time staring off into the distance in a direction towards Purgatory, as though he had forgotten something important.
Unfortunately, she was too busy assisting with the coordination of the non-fighting refugees. She would have liked to talk to him, but there would have been an interruption every three seconds. She kept getting scattered communications from Rick, who sounded continually more tense each time he contacted.
"No goddammit, south! South!" he had yelled to someone else, accidentally holding down the transmit button while talking to her.
"What was that about?" she had asked through the radio.
A sigh crackled through the transmitter, "Some of Matthias' families thought our primary exit point was actually the elevator. Good God, do we really want to face a firing squad right away when we arrive? I was hoping that we'd at least get to see some grass and a little sunlight before we get executed, but no, of course that'd be too nice..." The tangent continued for a while longer. Rick tended to rant when he became upset.
If it wasn't Rick asking for numbers updates and whether or not they'd gotten people in line to be ready to start moving them, it was Desmond asking the same questions.
"I don't know, I'm not in charge," she told him for the fifth or so time as he scurried back and forth, checking on various people he knew and trying to discover exactly what was going on. It was mid-afternoon, and the group led by Olivia, according to Desmond's repeated statements, would be arriving soon. He seemed very restless, and considering the circumstances of a big situational change, it was understandable. It still got on Kaylee's nerves.
"Will you sit still?" She finally snapped at him.
Desmond stopped pacing, looked up at her, and gave a sheepish smile, "I'm sorry, Miss. We've never had to move all of the children before."
Desmond's lined face and gray hair was indication enough for Kaylee, but his entire body looked as though he were suffering through a deep-set weariness. Not quite like Quinton; even though the man was much older than Desmond, and although Kaylee only saw him for a moment, he moved with an upright stiffness, purpose, and energy that suggested a much younger man. Then again, Quinton hadn't been taking care of children at all hours for numerous years.
"They'd just be terrified of him anyway," she muttered to no one in particular.
"I beg your pardon?" Desmond asked her with an inquisitive look.
She shook her head. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."
Desmond checked his watch again, "Sure, okay." He leaned up against the wall again next to Kaylee and closed his eyes. Kaylee had her arms folded and looked back and forth. Various groups of individuals and small groups milled around, most of them asking questions every few minutes. Kaylee, for the most part, kept a stern glare on her face to discourage anyone from talking to her.
The few soldiers assigned to this escorting detail didn't look much happier than she did, but it still didn't stop a few of the less-timid people from asking the same questions over and over. Half of the questions included some bit of "What the heck is that thing?" referring to Malcolm. No one could really answer, and no one had been brave enough to ask him directly, not that he would have given much of a response.
Eventually, she got sick of it. In a loud voice she called out, "Okay, everyone: shut up! Just wait quietly and in a few hours we'll make more announcements, and then we'll start evacuating. So stop asking-"
"When are we going?" a voice called out.
Kaylee yelled, "Shut up! For God's sake stop asking! We'll tell you as soon as we hear something!"
Among the small crowds came a small din of what sounded like grumbling. Kaylee sighed and whispered to Desmond, "I'm going to go inside and check things out."
"What things?" Desmond whispered back.
"Their progress." She replied.
"What are you talking about?" He asked, confused.
"Wait, you don't know?" She asked, eyes widening.
"No," he said, with a bewildered look. "That's why I kept asking."
Kaylee slapped her head with the heel of her hand. "Oh good lord, sorry. I thought you were just being nervous and annoying. Here," she motioned to him, "follow me."
They were keeping plans quiet until they had enough soldiers present and systems worked out to clear everyone out efficiently. Rick expressed a concern that, given information about an exit and an impending horrific poison attack, the civilians and noncombatants would be driven into a panic. Even without consideration of the injuries dozens of people would receive trying to rush through the opening, running blindly into enemy territory could be brutal.
"It could easily get everyone there killed." He had said. "I want them to go unnoticed for as long as possible until we have the Citizen forces distracted. That means you don't move out of there unless there's a helluva lot of running, panicking, screaming Citizens. No questions and no arguments." He had said forcefully. "Tell the civilians whatever you have to or don't say anything at all, just keep them under control."
They were kept in the dark, for the time being; it was overall safer that way. As she led Desmond up several flights of stairs, she filled in some of his blanks for him.
"Yes," he said, irritated, "I already know about the hole and why we're keeping it quiet. I just don't know what's going on right now."
"Well, okay then, sorry about that. I'll show you what's happening."
Another guard called out with a harsh female voice, "Halt!" as Kaylee turned the corner into the hallway, a bright floodlight shining into her eyes and silhouetting the woman in an unmistakable hunched posture synonymous with weapon aiming. At her midsection she placed one open hand on the back of the other, thumbs extended towards her chin in a non-obvious, bird-symbol. Desmond didn't notice it, not that it would have mattered if he had.
The guard lowered the weapon and she called out, "Sorry ma'am. Go ahead."
The light cut out, temporarily wrecking the pair's ability to see until their eyes once again adjusted to the gloom of meager lighting. Some spilled out from within the living space, likely some emergency setup. Kaylee clicked off her own flashlight, no longer needing it.
Kaylee gave the guard an awkward smile as she passed by. It wasn't often that she associated with women in down below. Under the circumstances, there were fewer women than men, made so by a number of people very much like Miguel. In any case, she didn't really know how to relate to them, especially those made practically androgynous by combat training and fighting.
Once in the room Kaylee could see a few soldiers from various factions crammed into the bathroom looking up, wielding various tools and equipment.
Desmond immediately nodded, "I see, widening the hole."
Kaylee smiled at him, "That's right. It's still going to be several hours yet before we head up, so we might as well make it easier for when the time comes."
Desmond nodded again, "Wait until night to have a lesser chance at discovery."
"Exactly." She called out to the people working. "How's it going in there?"
A harsh, female voice with a slight Russian lilt called from inside the bathroom through the opening, "Who is that? Who is there?"
"It's Kaylee," she replied.
Without warning the three men, uncomfortably close, in the bathroom working scrambled to the side as someone dropped down on top of them. It was a thin, blond woman with grime and soot covering her face and arms. "You little lying bitch. I should gut you for what you did to us!" Tanya yelled at her.
Desmond's eyes went wide and he looked at Kaylee, who merely smirked at the other woman. "Well, I couldn't just tell you how to get in, could I?"
"We were taken prisoner!" Tanya yelled, brandishing her fist.
"If it weren't for me, you'd both have been shot dead!" Kaylee snapped back.
"Says you, we-"
"Would also have never found anything," Kaylee cut her off.
Desmond said nothing, only took a few steps away from Kaylee and looked back and forth between the two women glaring at each other. He briefly wondered if a fight was about to start.
Then all at once the tension in Tanya's body ceased, "Tch. Whatever," she said dismissively.
Slowly, Kaylee also relaxed. She kept on edge, remembering how quickly the other woman was able to spring an attack. The other men in the bathroom had returned to a semblance of work, glancing down occasionally to see if anything was happening. Tanya wiped sweat from her face.
"Fine. What do you want?" Tanya demanded.
"I'm checking your progress and showing him," she pointed at Desmond, who cringed slightly as Tanya shot him an intense gaze, "what's going on up here."
"Well, get out of here. We are very busy and interruptions are not making the work go any more quickly." Tanya said with a scowl.
"Tanya!" a hushed voice came from the bathroom, and Kaylee could see the head of Eugene poking downward through the widened opening. "Keep your voice down, I can hear you from the living room upstairs!"
"Don't you speak to me that way, Eugene!" Tanya shot back in a hiss. "I do not need to listen to the words of weak little cowards!"
"For the last time," Eugene whispered, face turning red from blood rush, "the two of us were selected. I did not volunteer-"
"You still didn't want to fight!" she replied.
"So what?"
"It means-"
Before Tanya could continue emasculating Eugene any further, Kaylee cut into the conversation. "Look!" she yelled, eliciting harsh shushing and glares from the arguing Russians. "Look," she said more quietly, "just tell me how long until everything is ready."
Eugene's head disappeared from sight, and a moment later he dropped down and shouldered his way through the other men, who Kaylee noticed were using screwdrivers to install strips of wood for hand and footholds. Tedious work, but quiet enough, Kaylee thought.
Eugene wiped his hands on his pants and offered his hand, "Hello, Kaylee. It is good to see you again," she opened her mouth to introduce her companion, but apparently they had already met, "and you, Desmond." They shook hands, and Desmond stepped back, still eyeing the hostile figure of Tanya.
"Hello Eugene, I hope Elijah wasn't too rough on you before." Kaylee said.
He waved his hand, shaking his head, "Of course not. It was well worth it." He gestured all around. "All of this; the unity we share."
Tanya looked at him, arms folded and scowling, but said nothing. Kaylee nodded, "I guess, but still..."
"Bah, I'm not that old. I can stand a little rough treatment." He said, puffing his chest out slightly.
Tanya made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, and his shoulders slumped. "Anyway..." Kaylee said, switching the subject, "progress?"
"Good." he said, "Excellent! We are clearing out spaces for people to be in the upstairs, and we're keeping as close an eye as we can on other possible places to put more people if it becomes necessary. We will be ready when the time comes."
"Good," Kaylee said, nodding, "make sure you try and give some of your men sleeping shifts," she told him, repeating instructions from Rick, "there's a good chance that this will be quite a long night."
Eugene nodded, "Yes, I will do that." He turned towards Tanya, who hadn't budged, "What is this?" he exclaimed as softly as he could. "Why are you not working?" Tanya's eyes widened with shock and fury seeped into her expression. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "No! Don't make excuses, get back up there!" He pointed to the hole.
Tanya made an angry, frustrated noise and whirled around, shoving through the other workers and jumping upwards. She grabbed the edges of the hole and pulled herself through.
Eugene turned back towards Kaylee, smiling, "I know I will pay for that, but sometimes it is too hard to resist." he whispered.
Kaylee stifled a laugh and shook Eugene's hand once more. She looked at Desmond and jerked her head towards the door. He followed behind, checking his watch.
"Olivia should be here soon," he said.
"Well," Kaylee replied, "we can go downstairs and see." As he followed her, she kept glancing backwards, expecting to see Malcolm trailing behind, but he hadn't even come along in the first place. She wondered why he had become so distant.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Thoughts and pictures swirled around in a muddled mess as Malcolm sat in the alleyway adjacent to the building Kaylee descended from. He kept seeing metal tables that he associated with shivering. He saw the face of a smiling, bearded man. Yet these images mingled with crystalline spires and brilliant lights of gold and red shining through, casting beautiful hues all along serene fields from multiple suns.
Then images would pass into that of just one sun, shimmering in a pale blue sky next to a white spire, towering over a double cross-shaped building.
In a brilliant flash his juxtaposed memories evaporated in a rush of fire and smoke. He watched; anguish tugging at his heart for reasons unknown, the golden fields burning and the ground crumbling beneath his feet. The spire of white and crystal crumbled to the ground, casting clouds of choking dust in every direction.
Every one of these cluttered memories ended the same way, in destruction. He couldn't figure any of it out, so they continued to roll over his mind. Every now and then an image of Kaylee would come across as a brief figure. Then, he would snap out of his reverie look around to see if she was still near, usually to find her some distance away. This time, he didn't see her at all.
He considered going to find her until he saw her come out of the one of the buildings, his thoughts already returning to confused images. The word 'Institute' played again in his ears, connected to the series of images. A smiling, bearded man, a yellow sun in a blue sky, and a white spire rising above. Yet he still didn't know what it meant.
Overhearing enough discussion led him to the conclusion that this 'Institute' would give him clarity of these jumbled thoughts, and that it was somewhere up above. As he considered it more and more, his resolve strengthened, and he decided that he needed to visit the place.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Michaels respect and regard for Claudia had done naught but increase as he spent the rest of the afternoon running the work in her department. As it stood, he had to coordinate the creation and assembly of all of the parts to the dispersal device. It wasn't overly difficult; the job entailed primarily overseeing the process that his predecessor had started. Most of what he did involved paying attention from time to time and answering questions when necessary.
Then again, this was mixed with the more secretive process of refining the formula and creating the agent intended for placement in the device. Following her work and completely alone, synthesized the materials and observed the delivery into the dispersal devices, holding his breath and sweating. Being so close to the devastating agent made him more than a little edgy.
Several hours passed in this process, and he had made the decision to allow the staff to leave for the night. They still had time to finish, and already a dozen of the cylinders lined the back of the large building, with many more close to finished. By his estimation, the dispersal of the agent would take several days to reach its maximum saturation. Even though he copied her structure precisely, he noticed that the agent's theorized density was higher than he expected. It's on purpose, he thought, she won't risk it rising to the surface. It lowered the estimated kill percentage, but Michaels believed it to be the intelligent decision. It will still do plenty, he thought.
He admired the elegant design of her system as much as she disgusted herself for creating it. The only real danger, in spite of her protests, was a misfiring of the mechanism before it could be delivered.
He was still nervous as he continued visualizing the horrific death that would await anyone exposed to it, but he tried to keep his apprehension, and trembling hands, to a minimum while he worked.
He left the laboratory with a feeling of satisfaction. During the time he worked, he occasionally thought about Claudia, wondering if he'd get to see her again, and further wondering why he kept thinking about her. Walking down the hallway he touched the spot on his cheek where she kissed him, and the same smile crossed his lips.
He reached the hallway near the main lobby area, hearing shouting.
"All right, now you listen! You have about ten seconds to open that goddamn door before I use your head to break it down. Do you understand me?!" The normally cheerful voice of Dunlevy filled the chamber with roaring fury, penetrating the door that Michaels approached.
He ran the last few steps and burst through the door, seeing the large sociology head leaning over the circular desk with anger and menace directed at a clearly frightened male receptionist.
"I'm sorry sir," the man said, shrinking in his chair, "I was given specific instructions not to allow anyone without proper authorization to enter." His eyes kept flitting back and forth between the angry man and the door that lead into the Natural Philosophy wing.
"I'm the senior member of the sociological department, and I'm on the goddamn advisory council!" Dunlevy bellowed, hands slamming on the marble top. "How's that for authorization?!"
The timid man shook his head back and forth, "No, no, I'm sorry, that's not good enough." He swallowed hard. "I've got very clear orders from the High Inquisitor himself-"
Dunlevy slammed his fists on the table, "That power-hungry little bastard has no authority over anything I do. Open the door!" he roared.
Michaels watched the exchange with mixed amusement and concern. Before Dunlevy could seize and throttle the poor man, he stepped forward, "Is there anything I can do to help you, Citizen Dunlevy?"
Dunlevy whirled around, not even noticing the lack of first-name, "Gregory, my friend! It's good to see you!" He returned his glare to the receptionist. "Tell this little prick to open the door."
Michaels flashed his ID to the nervous-looking man, "Do as he says."
"But, Citizen Michaels, I'm not supposed to-"
Michaels twisted his face into an angry scowl. "Don't try and tell me that I, the head of that very department," he pointed a finger towards the door in question, "am not authorized to enter it."
The man's chin quivered at the imposing angry figures of two men glaring at him menacingly. "But I can't-"
Michaels stood straight up and stared down at the man, "If you tell me once more that you can't, I will see that you end up shoveling shit for the rest of your natural life." He leaned forward. "I won't ask again. Open the door."
The man swallowed hard again, looking very much like he wanted to cry. Michaels heard a faint buzz coming from the door. He turned back towards the man and put on a sinister smile, "Thank you."
Michaels and Dunlevy moved together through the door, leaving the man behind without so much as a glance backward to see him collapse into his chair and try to start breathing again.
Michaels kept on Dunlevy heels; the rotund man moved with intensity and purpose. He'd half-expected Dunlevy to raise an eyebrow and crack some joke about the 'shoveling shit' he'd pulled out of nowhere for the desk worker, but the man was clearly focused on something else entirely.
"What's going on," Michaels finally asked.
Dunlevy stopped and spun around, "What? You don't know?"
"About what?" Michaels responded. "I've been stuck doing work all-"
"It's about Claudia, you didn't hear?"
Michaels frowned, "Yes... she resigned. Citizen One put me in charge of her project. I actually saw her earlier today; she told me the whole thing was very amiable."
Dunlevy shook his head forcefully, "You don't know."
"Know what?" Michaels asked, exasperated.
"Come with me."
Dunlevy took off down the hallway again with Michaels following, slightly more confused than before. The pair passed by Michaels office, and the strange desktop appearance on the terminal screen sparked in his mind. He remembered that at some point he needed to find out if there was another entry.
Michaels opened his mouth to ask where they were going, but the question died on his lips. They rounded the corner to see the far end of the hallway, the entrance to his laboratory, lined with Inquisitors. He stopped, wondering why they were there and what it had to do with Claudia. Light apprehension tugged at a corner of his mind.
Dunlevy didn't miss a beat as he moved down the hallway. Two of the Inquisitors on the end stepped away from the wall, blocking the large man's path. Michaels moved up behind as Dunlevy stepped right up to the pair and snarled, "Where is she?"
Neither man, nor any of the other Inquisitors in the hallway gave any notice to the question. The man on the right said, "You are not authorized to be here. Leave immediate-"
"Tell me where she is or shut your goddamn mouth."
The Inquisitor who spoke didn't react to the rebuke. He said again. "Leave immediately, this is a restricted area."
"Listen you little-"
Dunlevy's threat was cut off as the double doors to the laboratory swung open and a gurney wheeled out with a woman laying on it. Michaels took in a sharp breath and his midsection clenched as he noticed that the prone form was that of Claudia.
The woman didn't appear to be unconscious, but Michaels would rather it had been that way. Slack-jawed with a vacant stare, pale and breathing shallow, Michaels recognized the standard subject aftermath of his mind-softening conditioning.
'My God..." he whispered.
Dunlevy was less subtle, "Claudia!" The two Inquisitors stepped aside as the gurney wheeled up to them, and Myers shoved the white-coated man pushing it out of the way. He grabbed Claudia by the shoulders and lifted her.
Her head lolled backwards, as though she couldn't muster the strength to hold it up or didn't have wits enough to even try. A thin trail of drool seeped from the corner of her mouth.
Michaels gritted his teeth as Dunlevy shook the vacant woman, crying, "Claudia, wake up! Claudia!"
Two Inquisitors stepped forward and seized Dunlevy by the arms, pulling him away from the gurney. The woman stepped back forward and continued wheeling it out. Dunlevy struggled against the men, shouting, "Let me go! Claudia!"
Michaels watched with increasing sadness and loathing as the gurney turned the corner and the effectively dead woman he had seen only hours before moved out of sight. The two Inquisitors released their grip and Dunlevy jerked away, straightening his clothing.
The double doors swung open once more and all of the Inquisitors jumped to attention as the short, hunched, careworn form of Julian Wresh came into the hallway.
"Wresh!" Dunlevy bellowed, creating a deafening echo in the hallway, "You miniscule son of a bitch! What have you done-"
Wresh's deeply lined face stared up at Dunlevy's in a sneer. "It is an internal security matter that is none of your concern." He swept a glare at the rest of the Inquisitors standing at attention. "Who let these men in here?"
Dunlevy clenched his fists and snarled, "How could you do that to Claudia you sick bastard?"
Wresh spun towards Dunlevy again and stared at him with a nasty smirk on his face, "I dealt with an insubordinate subject in a way both humane and fitting. State secrets are not allowed to pass into the private sector, especially by one opposed to our way of existence."
Dunlevy seized the High Inquisitor's shirt collar and lifted him an inch off the ground, bringing their faces inches apart. The other Inquisitors all tensed and made as though to move on Dunlevy, stopped by a hand held up by Wresh.
"You sadistic, power-hungry..." Dunlevy hissed through clenched teeth, his face lit with livid anger as he rattled off dozens more insults. Michaels wondered how Wresh could keep so calm in the face of that intensity.
Wresh's smirk faded, "Unhand me or your fate will be significantly more unfortunate than that of former Citizen Laverock."
Michaels winced at this and pressed into the wall, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Dunlevy on the other hand tightened his grip and moved his face even closer. "You're going to pay for this." He released the High Inquisitor with a shove and stepped aside.
Wresh dusted off his shoulders and eyed Michaels as he stood quietly, as though waiting for some kind of statement from him as well. Michaels said nothing, not even meeting the High Inquisitor's eyes. Wresh, ignoring Dunlevy and his threats, smirked and made a quick hand motion; he and his entourage of Inquisitors marched away.
Once they were gone, Dunlevy pounded against the wall, "How could he... how could he do that?" He asked, anger mingling with sorrow. "I've known her for so many years..."
Michaels didn't say anything.
"Damn! This place is like a maze!" The booming voice of Dennis Myers came, along with the imposing figure, down the hallway. When he arrived, he noticed the somber attitude shared by the two other men. "What happened?"
Dunlevy, leaning up against the wall, his head against his arm, responded, "She's gone..."
Myers looked back and forth between the two, "Who's gone? What are you talking about?"
Michaels, still numb, responded. "Citizen Laverock."
Myers raised an eyebrow, "What about her?" He looked at Dunlevy. "I just got your message. Now tell me, what the hell happened?"
Dunlevy looked up, tears running down his round cheeks and soaking into his beard. "The High Inquisitor deemed Miss Laverock to be a threat to state security. He had her apprehended and brought here several hours ago for conditioning and..." He choked up. "re-education. She's gone."
Myers' eyes widened and shock spread across his face, "No, they, he... he wouldn't..."
Michaels said in the same passive voice, "He did."
Dunlevy stared off into space. "That's just how easy it is for us to be gotten rid of. Cast aside..."
Myers looked stricken. "No, that..." He raised his chin. "No. Th-this was her fault. She shouldn't have gone against them."
Dunlevy gave him a shocked look. "How can you say that? She was only doing what she felt was right!"
Myers glared and snapped, "And look where it got her! She made her choice and now she's paid for it!"
"You cannot possibly condone what they did to her!" Dunlevy roared. "They wiped her away as though she were nothing more than an annoying stain!"
Myers set his jaw, "We just have to remain loyal! They won't do anything to us if we do what we're told!" He shouted back.
"Filthy coward. You're no better than they are!" Dunlevy spat.
"No, I-I see things for the way they are. I'll... we'll be just fine if we keep quiet and don't question." Myers shook his head, a feeling of clarity settling over him. "Arthur... just, don't say anything else, or you'll be next." He gave a pleading look. "Don't keep going with this. They'll get someone to replace her, the down below will be dealt with, and... and everything will get back to normal." He finished with confidence.
Dunlevy glowered at him. "Stand by them and you'll burn with the rest."
Myers was taken aback, "Wh-what?"
Dunlevy had already turned and stalked off, leaving a wake of threats and unease behind him. Myers looked over at Michaels, who seemingly didn't pay attention to any of the conversation or to the other man in the hallway. He stared, blankly, off into space. Myers furrowed his brow, and slowly walked away.
Long after they were gone, Michaels stood pressed up against the wall of the hallway, mixed emotions spiraling through him. He stepped forward, the normally guarded door empty. He palmed the panel on the wall. The door clicked and whirred open.
His old lab remained very much the same as it was before, even still causing the slightest pang of irritation when he walked inside. Vials of various drugs lay scattered about the center rolling tray table, along with the sensory apparatus hung up on a hook.
Michaels frowned. Not that he was disappointed about it at all, but it still surprised him that he had been so quickly replaced, especially with the lack of incoming prisoners. Either that or Wresh has his own man administering this when I'm not around. He wondered how many people Wresh had gotten rid of in that fashion.
He felt another wave of sorrow wash over him as Claudia's vacant stare flashed through his memory. He viewed without regret or regard dozens of subjects, just like her, caring only for the waste of his time and talents. Yet his mind wouldn't let him forget the irritated scowl of the lively, intelligent woman replaced by the eternally empty gaze. There's nothing left, he thought. She might have her memories, but none of her spirit.
Emotion choked him, and he whispered, "How could they..."
Tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them away. He suddenly understood why Dunlevy became so livid, and he felt a hot flare of anger boil in his own blood. His mind saw Wresh's satisfied smirk at his success at mentally crippling what he called an 'insubordinate subject.'
He swiped his arm out at the rolling tray table. It flew sideways and clattered loudly on the floor. Glass vials flew in every direction and shattered on the floor, cascading glass and miscellaneous fluids all over the white tiles. He walked over and threw the doors open with a loud bang. He fumed, sadness and anger clouding his mind and causing him to fight back tears every few seconds.
He found himself, a few minutes later, sitting in his office in his leather chair in the dark. Unbidden, images of Claudia continued flitting by. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he made no effort to wipe them away.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"Everything's ready. Keep quiet and get things started."
Rick had made this last contact roughly half-an hour ago, and Kaylee, with clearance from the people up above, made the announcement.
"Listen up!" her voice pierced through the din of mingling civilians who fell silent, "It's time to start moving. Follow instructions and keep yourselves absolutely quiet. If we're found, we're dead." She let this sink in for a moment. "Let's not get found." She finished.
She wasn't too worried about the hiding portion. Most of these people, being noncombatants, had developed skills for keeping silent and out of sight. Even the youngest children had been taught very well when to make no noise. It often meant survival, and the adults made sure they knew it.
There were various soldiers positioned at certain points in the building to direct the flow of traffic. Once they started going up the hole, the progress would be slow, but Tanya and Eugene, as well as a couple more of Isaac's men, took care of herding them to proper places in the rooms. Kaylee cringed inwardly, wondering how crowded it would end up being.
Once the train of civilians started moving, she bid a quick "good luck" to Desmond and Olivia, who led their well-behaved line of children quietly, keeping a watchful eye on the group.
Naturally, Kaylee had no real intention of staying with the group of civilians. She kept her unvoiced opinion that it would was safer to be somewhere else. She caught a glimpse of Malcolm's eyes shining in the darkness. After a brief chill, he was always unnerving, she walked over to him.
"Hey, what's the deal with you?" she finally was able to ask.
He didn't answer, he appeared to be staring off in the distance or lost in thought. She put her hand on his shoulder-
In a blur, he twisted around and seized her wrist, yanking her off the ground and staring menacingly into her eyes. Just as suddenly, he jerked backwards in surprise and released her. Not expecting this movement any more than the initial snag, she didn't recover her footing and tumbled to the ground with a painful thud.
She scrambled to her feet and Malcolm was looking at her with an almost apologetic look in his eyes. This was of little consolation to her. "What the hell is wrong with you?" She shouted.
Downcast, he looked away and mumbled, "Ssorry. Sstarrtle."
Kaylee didn't drop it quite so easily, "Oh? I startled you?" she put on a mock-apologetic face, "I'm so terribly sorry that I disturbed your very important 'staring off into nowhere.' I'll think twice before doing that again."
Malcolm didn't respond to her tirade. If he didn't keep stealing the occasional glance at her, she might have thought he had returned to his 'lost in thought' state. He looked a bit pitiful, with a posture that appeared crestfallen. She, of course, had trouble maintaining her anger against that.
She gave an exasperated sigh, "Look... sorry, okay?" She stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on? Why are you so jumpy?"
Malcolm turned towards her, "I... rrememberr."
Kaylee cocked her head, "What do you mean, you remember?" Realization dawned in Kaylee as she remembered his earlier statements about his scrambled memories, "Oh! That's great! What do you...? I mean, what is it you're remembering?"
Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut in concentration and balled his fists at his forehead, "Donn't... ccann't..."
"What is it?" She asked.
Kaylee jumped back as he threw his hands upward in a violent motion. God he's twitchy, she thought. I guess I'd be too if I didn't know who I was. "Hey, just relax!" She stepped forward, reaching out to reassure him, and he jerked backwards away from her, "Malcolm!"
He shot a glare at her. His eyes blazed with such intensity that she took a step back, "That's not my name." he hissed.
Kaylee tossed her hands in the air, "Jesus! You're out of your goddamn mind, you know that?" She raised her chin, looking up at him defiantly.
The two remained locked, staring angrily at each other for a few moments until Malcolm, or whatever he wanted to be called, appeared to deflate. He turned away, sulking. "Ssorry," he mumbled again.
Kaylee rolled her eyes, not feeling quite as forgiving this time around. "Just tell me what you remember, and I'll..." she sighed.
He looked up again and put a hand on his face, clearly still frustrated, "Can't..."
Kaylee chewed on her lip, thinking. "Well, what was it that triggered this? You seemed just fine yesterday..."
Malcolm cocked his head, considering carefully, "Inss... Inssti..." he concentrated. "Innssstiit."
"The Institute?" Kaylee inquired.
Recognition lit in his eyes, and he nodded.
"Why do you remember the Institute?" Malcolm shrugged slightly and Kaylee furrowed her brow. She paced around for a few minutes, considering what to do. Malcolm watched her quietly as she did.
Eventually, she spun towards him, hair bobbing behind her and a wide grin on her face. "Well then. We'll just have to go there and figure things out."
Malcolm craned his head upward and looked back at Kaylee.
"How you ask?" Kaylee interpreted. "Leave that to me." She put both hands on his shoulders, and this time he made no effort to resist. "You've saved my life more than once. I owe you. We'll figure this out, okay?"
Malcolm's shining eyes stared out at her, and she could see flecks of his bright white hair spilling out of his wide-brimmed, tattered hat. She smiled at him, and when she did, she could have sworn that a return smile glittered in his eyes
Dark shapes spilled into the streets, only momentarily awed by the brilliant night sky they had not seen for twelve years. Through back alleyways devoid of traffic and clutter they sprinted, scattering as efficiently as possible with nonspecific locations in mind. The occasional vehicle sent them ducking into doorways and scrambling to find some kind of cover, but there were no large trash receptacles or piles of debris to hide behind. Only by the lax and carefree attitude of the Citizens did they remain undetected. That and a lack of evening traffic.
The streets were in pristine condition, made of what looked like some kind of translucent, synthetic material, scattering and reflecting the light thrown by the golden-colored streetlamps. Only a few vehicles traversed the roads, whether by lack of widespread ownership or some other reason, they didn't know. The soldiers marveled at the grass and moderate-sized trees, almost forgetting about the yawning empty space of filth and decay only a few meters beneath their feet as they ran through a small park.
They viewed everything with hints of awe, but they didn't linger, remembering a few of the words of their commander, who called himself by just 'Rick.'
"Now remember, when you get up there, you're going to see some things that you haven't in a long time. Take a quick look, and let it remind you of what you're fighting for. However, I swear to God, whether or not he exists, that if I catch anyone staring too long, they'll be seeing some real stars." A little chuckle, half out of nerves, had rippled through the ranks.
Everyone thought this mission was crazy, but when Rick told them about the Citizenship plan to try and kill everyone quietly without fuss by gassing them, they all agreed that doing some damage first would be preferable.
"I know this plan sounds half-baked," Rick had confided, "but it's our best shot, and if they're half as lazy about defense as they are about attacking, we just might make some noise."
He told them one last thing before releasing them to their tasks. "Do what you can, and find somewhere to hide. We can't stand up to their large body of troops. The best we can do is make a mess and hope they can't clean it up too quickly." They nodded, and set off.
Through the night they ran, cool air passing over them, bright lamplight showing only black shapes and dark shadows. A quick glance at the hour revealed that it was almost time to cut loose and bring hell to Haven.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
A bored technician by the name of Bernard stared lazily at the screens. Dozens of sensors and a quantity of cameras scattered about Haven created what was jokingly referred to as a 'grid of compliance.' The sensors detected heat signatures, and was used by the Inquisition for various things.
The main reason, as they claimed, was to clear people out so that night-staff servants could clean the streets of various sectors when necessary. It was found that people were generally uncomfortable being around when dozens of these half-mindless drones ambled through the streets picking up trash and scrubbing the sidewalks.
Of course, this meant that they had a means of detecting the presence of lingering folks with surveillance for confirmation. A dispatch of Inquisitors on patrol could then stop by and politely ask people to move along. This had been happening for a couple of years, so most Citizens grew accustomed to it and ended up indoors by a decent hour anyway. To accommodate and encourage this attitude, most housing complexes had their own social gathering places, bars, clubs, and other entertainment pavilions. Even the taxi services were required to discontinue in the evening, and driving late at night was discouraged.
The system also assisted to keep an eye on any potential criminal activity, which still occurred from time to time. It was tied into a network of Institute-provided security systems. They seemed pretty keen on eliminating any hint of any riff-raff as quickly as possible, and it made sense. Citizen Bernard could remember back when the separation started, and he wholeheartedly agreed that certain people didn't deserve rights.
It didn't bother Citizen Bernard that infrareds and cameras could see into every sector of the city, making it possible to monitor every aspect of the outdoor lives of the Citizens. It made decent sense to him, and he figured it wouldn't bother him if he remained a good and loyal Citizen. What he and most others hadn't heard was that there were plans brewing in the Inquisition office to outfit the interiors of certain buildings with similar extensive security measures, even though the crime rate had nearly dropped to nothing. The Inquisition even wanted to outfit every Citizen with a personal tracking device so that every one of them could be located at any necessary point. Registrations, tags, and dozens of other proposals about invading privacy in favor of security were among Inquisition discussion that Bernard, and everyone else not affiliated with the policing body, was entirely unaware of.
As time went on, there was less and less to worry about and report on from the security center. Certain systems became programmed and automated to detect the signs and patterns of a disturbance or to keep track of which sectors were scheduled for cleaning, and the presence of graveyard-shift technicians became less necessary.
Someone still had to be there to keep an eye on everything. Over the years, staffing had shrunk down to be one person during the night shift. Half of the workers slept through it, which seemed just fine, and Bernard himself was known to take a nap or two if the situation called for it.
When he heard the faint tone of disturbance warning he felt a flare of irritation, as the stupid machine probably malfunctioned in some fashion again and needed recalibration. Damn thing's too sensitive, he thought. He opened his eyes and glanced up at the screen. A long train of heat signatures had spilled out of a building in the west-central sector of the city, near to the business district.
For several seconds he stared at the rapid movement of the group, cutting down empty streets clearly trying to avoid contact with other people. He punched in some keys and a monitor popped up that displayed a surveillance shot. Running figures, wearing black.
He rifled through log sheets and stacks of other miscellaneous papers on the desk, trying to see if there was some memo from the Inquisition about something going on. He remembered a few nights prior when one of the other workers had called in about some big group moving near the Institute, which turned out to be a group of soldiers going on a planned raid.
Better safe than sorry, he thought, reaching for the phone. Just before he grabbed it, another warning chime sounded. Another location, still in the business district, a distance east of the previous one, displayed dozens of heat signatures spilling out into the streets.
A cold sweat broke over his body and he reached for the phone once more, a growing apprehension gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He picked up the receiver and jumped as a third sound came through. His jaw dropped as it returned to the first location, and another large group moved into the streets.
This can't be good, he thought, finally grasping the phone and punching in the numbers to contact the Inquisition dispatch office.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Rick didn't think he'd ever been this clean in his entire life. He felt supremely awkward, crammed into a procured gray business suit that felt surprisingly comfortable, considering it was stolen and not fitted for him. In reality, anyone with knowledge of fitting or fashion could see the loose spaces, the too-wide shoulders on the jacket, and the pant cuffs that dragged too low.
His hair and face were cleaned and scrubbed almost raw. He used almost an entire bar of soap, emerging from the room, looking awkward in the unfamiliar clothing, impeccable. Even his fingernails were clean.
Five minutes after the initial groups left, a pair of individuals, including Rick himself, came out of the exit points, disguised in respectable clothing. They each carried a sidearm, but his companion, one of his best soldiers, named Jonathon, carried a briefcase containing something with a little more punch.
Rick walked along, patting the slight bulge on his left side. His .45's presence reassured him much more than the disguise did. He felt like a shining neon light glared all around him, emblazoned with the word, 'spy.' In reality, he looked fairly normal and innocuous. His appearance was very average and nondescript so that, without actually calling attention to himself, he was unlikely to be remembered.
However, his disguise aside, he looked tense. He kept putting his hands in his pocket, taking them back out and wiping them on his pants legs, glancing around in all directions, looking for men clad in black sprinting in his direction to put an end to the entire thing. If anything, it was his suspicious demeanor and not his clothing that would call unwanted attention.
"I'm not cut out for this espionage crap," he muttered. The solider with him, Jonathon, chuckled. Rick marveled at how at ease the guy was, but didn't comment on it. Maybe he doesn't think we're as screwed as I do, he thought. How are we going to keep ourselves from getting executed once the Citizens sort it out?
Rick himself didn't believe it for a second, but both Victor and Elijah had insisted. They said it would work, provided enough chaos and rioting happened to destabilize the regime and its people. Rick still doubted it.
That was the main objective of the other groups, the bulk of the forces led by Sergei and Isaac. Their job was to create panic, drive Citizens into the streets, and anything else they could do to make a mess of the surface and its population. Sergei, especially, seemed a little too excited by this task, but he and his soldiers were adept at creating panic in their foes.
Rick's objective was the Institute, and, according to Elijah's information, the security there was restrictive of letting unauthorized people in but lax enough that so that proper application of force would be successful. This, of course, was provided that greater numbers of armed Inquisitors and any other soldiers or officers were off elsewhere responding to something else. This was yet another 'provided' that made Rick uncomfortable with the plan. Too many variables to account for, and too many things hinging on too many specific enemy troop reactions, he thought.
At least with the defense plan of recent days, there had been room for alteration and adaptation. Striking into unfamiliar territory with a limited number of troops. Attacking the actual objective with only a vague idea of how many enemy forces would be present, while the remaining group harasses the population to try and distract another unknown number of foes. Rick shook his head once more. I guess it's better than dying like rats in the gutter, he thought.
"Something wrong, boss?" Jonathon asked, hands in the deep pockets of his trench coat.
Rick gave a thin smile, "Nope. Everything's a-okay." He checked his watch. "Should be starting soon."
"Good," Jonathon glanced at his own timepiece, "I never liked wearing a suit."
From where they were, walking down the sidewalk, they could see the spire of the Institute rising above the buildings, easily the tallest structure in Haven. That and the rest of the Institute didn't comprise more than a few floors, so it especially towered above the immediate vicinity.
Finally, they passed out of the business sector and crossed a street. They sat down on a small bench, and, off to their right, they could see the target. The Institute building lay flanked by a large park. Grass, small trees, rows of shrubs and several flower beds could be seen in the vicinity.
The Institute was only a couple hundred yards away from where they sat, and looking it over, Rick let out a low whistle. Only a couple of guards with sidearms at the few entrances they could see. Good God, he thought, Elijah was right; they don't seem to be worried about security. One was at the end of the left wing of what he assumed was one of the civilian research sectors. Another in the front at the primary entrance that led into the main lobby. On each of the southern arms of the cross were bulky additions that were used for onsite housing with various unguarded entrances. The people guarding looked bored and non-threatening, easy to deal with. I suppose nothing ever happens here, he thought.
Past the first arm they could see extending into the park, Rick, squinting, could make out the northern section. He knew that the top half of this double-armed cross was purely for the Inquisition headquarters. He shook his head. Offices spread around the city and a central HQ meant lots of places for trained, armed people to swarm from.
"Not too worried about trespassers, are they?" His companion remarked, regarding at the lack of outside security.
Rick shook his head, "They've never had to really worry about it before."
He did wonder about a long, squarish building a few hundred feet in front of where he sat. It was nestled firmly into the park with no apparent sidewalks, clearly set apart from the Institute. It looked to him like a barracks. He frowned.
"I'm going to check that out," he whispered to Jonathon, who nodded in response.
Rick casually glanced in both directions. Seeing nothing to indicate any spectators, he sprang from the bench out of the useful range of the street lamp. He jogged, the grass soft and springy beneath his feet, and pressed up against the side of the building. It struck him as odd, but there were no windows. He sidled along the left, the direction away from the line of sight of the side entrance of the Institute. Along the back there was a plain door, again windowless.
As quietly as he could, he gradually twisted the knob and pulled the door, which gave the slightest of whines as it cracked open. He peered through the opening, a bit of illumination from an outdoor light spilling onto the tile floor in front of him.
A soft glow emanated through square windows set into double doors opposite him, allowing him to see the outlines of shelving units and objects. A supply closet? Up above, dangling from the ceiling, a bare bulb and short chain. Opening the door an inch wider and squinting, he could see towels, buckets, and bottles of what he guessed were cleaning products.
It clicked in his brain. This must be the Institution servants' quarters. That's why it's tucked back here, out of the way, with no windows. No servile rubbish to insult the eyes, he thought. Rick slid into the room, curiosity getting the better of him. Stepping softly, he moved across the small room and inched his way over to the dusty glass.
A couple of rows of bunk beds stretched out in the next room, and he could see the motionless shapes of sleeping figures sprawled out upon them. From what he could see, it looked like roughly half of the beds were empty. Rick assumed that night time was probably when a lot of the cleaning was done. At the far end of the barracks, he could see a pair of well-lit openings. One had a unisex bathroom symbol on it, and from a rough distance estimation based on his exterior observation, he guessed that the bathroom included showers but not very many.
He wondered what the other opening was for when a face appeared from the side opposite him. Startled, he jerked back, tripping and landing hard on his rear. He edged his way backwards, looking up at the window.
The face of a woman with short-cropped hair stared down at him. The sight was unnerving, however, as she appeared to be looking through him. Her eyes appeared unfocused, vacant, and she didn't move or speak. Slowly, he rose to his feet, her unblinking gaze following him.
He trembled from the surprise, but just observed the woman. Her skin was sallow and lifeless, hanging loose from her bones. Her hair was thin and stringy, and dark circles lay under her eyes. She looked to be either middle-aged or incredibly exhausted. From the lack of obvious age-blemishes, Rick guessed the latter.
"Good God..." he mumbled, unable to look away from the woman, "This is what they do to them..."
The woman spun around, and a shot of panic burned into Rick's midsection as he feared she would reveal his presence. He jumped forward and peered through the glass, watching her slow, shuffling gait. The woman turned once more and sat down on a bed. Rick breathed a sigh of relief, wondering what made him get so worked up. He shook his head and departed.
When he reached the bench, his companion was wide-eyed, looking rather concerned. At the same time, he tried to appear nonchalant, which made him look even more twitchy and suspicious. It was almost funny, but Rick didn't feel like laughing.
"What happened?" the Jonathon hissed. "You were gone so long, I thought..."
Rick waved him off, "It's not a problem, don't worry about it." The other man stared at him, expecting more. "Servants not soldiers." Even as he said the words, a slightly bitter sensation settled in his stomach. Maybe we should be worrying about it, the realization struck. That stuff is sick.
His partner relaxed noticeably, "Oh, okay. Good."
Rick cast aside the feelings of doubt and bitterness. Worry about it later. We'll see what can be done for them if we manage to not get slaughtered here, he thought. He glanced at his watch. Not too much longer.
Chapter 35: Making a Mess of Things
Citizen Bernard felt like he was having a heart attack, or a panic attack, or some kind of attack that involved a general, overwhelming sense of alarm. In reality, his heart was working just fine, cheerfully pumping away at what felt like a million miles per hour.
He had been trying to track the progress of, now, a dozen different groups of people that he had seen emerge, but at some point the thermal detection started to malfunction. At first, he rebooted the program, but the large blotches of rather hot activity remained. He checked the screens, the connections, everything he could think of.
Machine error was all that occurred to him. When he finally checked the camera feeds near those locations, his body slammed into a real panic. Fires. Lots of them. Those people are running rampant and setting fires, a tiny, fearful voice spoke in his mind. He checked the monitors again. Now there were hundreds of heat signatures spilling into the streets and he couldn't even tell which ones were the perpetrators and which ones were panicking Citizens or investigating Inquisitors.
"What the hell is going on there?!" a tiny voice screamed through the receiver. Bernard jumped at the loud volume, and remembered that he was on the line with Inquisitor Levine.
Hand shaking, he gingerly picked up the phone and spoke in a trembling voice. "Ah, sir?"
"What?"
"They, ah... They appear to be, ah... setting fires, sir..."
No response came, and Bernard jumped again as a loud, percussive noise clattered through the earpiece. Trembling violently, he waited, still holding the phone, in what almost appeared as a calm manner. Finally, with no further responses, he was satisfied that the Inquisitor had likely hurled the telephone and ran from the room, so he hung up.
Bernard tapped a few keys and zoomed the images out, looking over a map of upper-Haven that was showing more and more large blobs of infrared activity.
It's not my fault, he repeated in his head over and over.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Laughing maniacally, Sergei swept his assault rifle at an upward angle, shattering several windows and raining shards of glass down upon the street below. The brittle ceramic material split as rounds traced into the walls, causing spider-web cracks to spread from the impact of the fire.
"Piotr! Take that one over there!" He jerked his head at another building, and one of his other soldiers complied on behalf of the invisible man.
Reaching into his pocket, Sergei pulled out a tear gas canister, procured from the Citizen forces who attacked in down below. "Take it back!" he yelled, hurling the weapon through the window. It could have been his imagination, but he thought he heard terrified screams from within.
Surveying the scene, several of his men and women, in various states of calm, frenzy, and joy, completed similar vandalism. Molotov cocktails were dispersed liberally from the moment they began.
Thick, black smoke stung and brought tears to his eyes. He fired another spray of bullets into the building opposite. They were office buildings, and he was fairly confident that they were empty. Not that he would have wept for any collateral damage.
They were positioned several blocks south of their entrance point. When his watch signaled the top of the hour, eleven o'clock, he and everyone else spreading out through Haven were instructed to raise hell.
"Let's move! Get going!" He shouted through the percussive, intermittent gunfire roaring around him. "Come Piotr, this way." He yelled to his silent comrade.
He waved his arm in a chopping gesture, directing his people to start moving down the street. They slung their weapons and took off. He followed behind, bringing up the rear and occasionally firing his weapon.
Every three blocks they stopped for two minutes to set fires and scare the hell out of anyone they say. These people took off screaming in the opposite direction. Sergei smiled each time this happened, but restrained himself from executing them.
One Inquisition patrol vehicle pulled up, but before the person could even exit, every person in Sergei's small group directed a hail of gunfire towards him. The vehicle, not intended for that kind of punishment, was shredded and its occupant slaughtered within. Sergei pumped his fist in the air and gave a wild cheer, which was immediately answered with a roar from his soldiers, who then resumed their path of vandalism.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Unbeknownst to Sergei, Isaac was directed to the residential districts. Rick felt that he would express a more gentle touch with the Citizen population. They wanted riot, not a body count.
"Not that it really matters," Rick had told him, "They'd execute us without hesitation for less of a violation than this."
Existence, Isaac thought to himself, agreeing, seems enough reason for our destruction. In his hand he held a smooth, round stone. Aiming upward he hurled it. The rock shattered through a window of an apartment building. A moment later, he smiled as he saw a light come on in that room.
That's not going to do much, he thought. Need something bigger. There were flashing lights a distance down the street, so jerking his head in that direction, his small group moved with him. As they neared, he held up a hand. It looked like a bar or a night club on the corner of the building. He nudged a small, impish woman soldier of his, very light on her feet, and passed a molotov into her hand.
"Through the window," he whispered. She nodded, and sprinted down the street, lighting the grenade as she went.
With the sound of shattering glass and a slight whump! of fire, his soldier came running back. A moment later the sounds screaming could be heard just before dozens of people in various elegant and casual clothing spilled out with thick, dark smoke behind them.
With a hand motion Isaac directed his small team to duck into the alleyway. He peered around the side and saw the group of people standing in the street in awe of the blaze, simply watching various others limping out or dragging someone else, but there was only passive horror.
"This won't do," Isaac muttered. He turned to his people, "Let's get 'em moving."
Yelling at the top of his lungs, and thinking he must have been doing Sergei proud, Isaac sprinted out of the alleyway towards the frightened Citizens. Their mild shock morphed into genuine terror as bullets whined over their heads. Any feeling of safety they had from being away from the dangerous fire vanished, and they began screaming and running in all directions. They shoved and pushed each other out of the way and scattered with crazed men chasing just behind.
"More of those!" Isaac shouted from the middle of the intersection, pointing down the street in various directions. "More gathering places! Fill up the streets!"
His soldiers separated, groups going in other directions to scare up more civilians. In the distance, he could see the soft, orange glow of blazing fires and dark smoke wafting into the sky. He smiled. Things must be going pretty well for the others, he thought.
He felt a brief moment of alarm as he saw headlights coming towards him. He held up his hands and waved the small two-person vehicle down. It was jet black with the symbol of an eye on the side door. The tinted window slid down, and the driver barked at him. "What happened here?!"
"Nothing, nothing," Isaac leaned over the window and smiled, reaching behind to the large revolver tucked into the waistband behind. "Just a little accident at the bar."
The driver looked at him, confusion lighting his face, "Who are-?" Sensing danger the passenger grasped at his overcoat for his weapon.
Isaac didn't hesitate. Sliding the gun free, he fired at point blank, sending a .45 long caliber round through the passenger's cheek, splattering the interior with blood, bone and brain matter as the round punched an explosive exit wound out of the side of the his head.
The driver clapped one hand over his ear deafened by the roar of the huge weapon. He reached towards his hip, yelling, but Isaac turned the weapon and fired into the man's chest. The man made a horrific sucking noise as the bullet punched entirely through his body, taking with it bits of bone and internal organs. He looked up at Isaac with horror in his eyes and wetness spreading across his chest, then slumped.
Isaac stood up and threw open the cylinder, sending the spent smoking brass clattering to the ground. Calmly, he dug into his pocket and produced two more rounds, sliding them into the chambers and snapping the cylinder back into place. He looked at the gleaming pistol and nodded in satisfaction. No wonder Miguel liked this weapon, he thought. Elegant and deadly.
He glanced at his watch. It wouldn't be long before the Inquisition response would be heavier and less careless. Oh well, he thought, Rick should at least be getting inside by now.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
A slight wave of apprehension flared through Rick as, about ten minutes past when the raiding was supposed to start, a dozens of armed men wearing Inquisitor black had spilled out of the front entrance of the Institute. Have we already drummed up that much activity? He wondered.
His companion threw him a worried glance, but Rick gave a nonchalant shrug as if to say, 'oh well.' The other man frowned at this, then watched as the group ran towards the square, then out of sight.
A couple of minutes later, making sure that they were a good distance away, they moved. Rick stood up, stretched, put his hands into his pockets and strolled again towards the barracks. As soon as he was close he took a sharp left, away from the Institute. If his information from Elijah was correct, there was a staircase cut into the ground. Or, he mused, was it the ground that sprang up around the staircase?
Rick dropped down and frantically waved for his partner, only a few feet behind, to do the same. A guard stood at the doorway at the bottom of the staircase, and Rick had just caught a glimpse of the top of his head before he slid out of sight. He didn't think the man had noticed him, but he drew his pistol anyway, attaching the silencer produced from another pocket.
A few seconds passed with no activity, and Rick breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Crawling on the ground, he moved forward through the grass, circling around to position himself just over the lip with the bottom of the staircase and the guard several feet below.
Rick was glad it was dark outside. He felt exposed enough during the night crawling through the grass in a suit. In daylight, he would have been a great deal more edgy and uncomfortable. Perhaps, he thought, it's because I haven't seen daylight in years.
Without waiting to see if any hostiles noticed him, Rick gripped the edge of the lip and pulled himself over, flipping down and bringing his feet down directly on top of the man below. His kick connected with the back of the man's head, who stumbled and rebounded off the wall next to him. The man barely had time to give a startled cry or even turn around before Rick pushed the barrel into his back and fired. With a muffled hiss from the silenced weapon, the man's body convulsed once before he sank to his knees and collapsed. There was a slight ting as the brass casing tumbled on the ground.
A second later, as Jonathon came down the stairs, Rick was already dragging the body into the open doors. A short hallway, looking like an underground utility tunnel. Probably some kind of maintenance passage built when the traveling bridges first went up, he thought.
Leaving the body behind and closing the doors, the two men cautiously passed down the hallway, which cut towards the left. Just ahead of them was a well-lit opening. His sense of direction told him that he had to be close to being just under the main lobby area of the Institute, along with a few hundred feet above the main lobby area of the Escape.
Edging closer to the opening, he could see a wall on his right with a closed set of double doors. Across from him, he could see another long hallway. He heard indistinct male voices speaking, two of them. He judged them to be a good distance away.
He made a snap decision. Rather than risk being spotted to get a better look, he decided to use the element of surprise to get a quick attack in. He pantomimed kneeling to Jonathon, pointing at him and patting himself on the shoulder. The other soldier looked confused for a moment, but then realization dawned in his eyes, and he nodded.
In a fluid motion, he took a long step, down to one knee, into the room. He brought both hands up with his pistol and took aim. In the room, he spotted two men at opposite corners, sitting at rounded desks in each corner. Rick's companion stepped in behind him and aimed over his shoulder.
Rick shouted, "Left!" as he aimed at the left man and pulled his trigger several times, sending tiny hisses from the silenced weapon. At the range, it wasn't the most accurate, but he noted several wounds blossoming on the man, who twitched and jerked as the bullets ripped into his body.
The man at the right desk was unscathed, and it was at this point that he realized his cohort had taken his shout to mean to attack the left. The man was pulling up a weapon and Rick turned his aim in what felt like slow motion and fired.
The two shots Rick managed to squeeze off, without careful aiming, missed. They whizzed on either side of the man's head and buried into the wall behind him. The guard at the desk, now brandishing a submachine gun, pulled the trigger. He, too, failed to aim carefully, but his spread and rate of fire was significantly higher.
Rick launched himself towards the ground, feeling the sharp hiss of rounds whistling by his body. Behind him, as he collided with the hard tile flooring, he heard the sounds of the bullets pounding into solid walls. He barely had time to hope that his companion had ducked behind the corner when he heard the sound of splintering wood as a bullet chipped into the doorframe, followed by a yell of pain from his comrade.
Lying prone on the ground, unable to take the time to assess his companion's injury, Rick rolled further towards the middle of the room as the spray of submachine gun fire continued to cut the air above and slice divots into the tile flooring next to him. He passed out of direct line of sight of his assailant, and, lying on his stomach, snapped his pistol up and, with the same hiss of the silencer, sent several rounds into the desk, about where he thought the man's body would be.
Wood splintering, the rounds tore into the solid material. He kept firing until the slide on his weapon slammed open; he was out of ammunition. As this occurred, Rick felt considerable dismay to see his opponent rising over the desk, uninjured by penetrating rounds, bringing his weapon to bear.
Just as the man was drawing a bead on him, dark red holes appeared on his chest, and a small amount of blood spattered on Rick's face. He gave a cry of pain, twisted around, clenching his fist and squeezing the trigger as he did, sending an arc of collateral fire that scattered throughout the room. Bullets shattered a light fixture and rebounded off the walls and ceiling. Rick tucked his head behind his arms, feeling the light shower dust and fragments raining on his back.
When no misplaced or haphazard round struck him, Rick slowly uncovered his head and rolled over. His companion had still one arm extended, brandishing his pistol. The other arm clenched at his midsection. Rick clamored to his feet, a flare of concern noting dripping blood from Jonathon's stomach.
Rick leaned sideways over the desk, checking the body. He relaxed when he saw the glassy stare of the dead man clutching his submachine gun, "How bad?" he called, moving towards Jonathon.
The injured man held up his right hand, the one holding the weapon, waving him off. "It's nothing, just my hand." As Rick neared, he was relieved to see it actually was the hand bleeding, not his midsection. "Damn thing skipped right off the door jamb," Jonathon continued, pointing with his gun. Looking past, Rick saw a small divot cut into the door and splinters of wood jutting out.
Rick breathed a sigh of relief. "First aid?"
Jonathon nodded, wiping his forehead with the arm connected to his bloody hand. Rick winced, seeing the mash of ragged flesh on the outside of his hand between the pinky and wrist. "Small kit in the briefcase."
Rick pointed, "Wrap that up, I'll take a look over here."
He kicked open the double doors leading into the next room, and, after a quick sweep, he declared it empty. Scattered radio equipment lay on a table, but it appeared as though no one had been inside in a while. Probably, Rick mused, since the attack.
Satisfied that the area was at least moderately secured, Rick strolled over to the desk once more, running his fingers along the deep impacts that his weapon had made. He glanced along the back, shaking his head as he noticed no exit marks. His rounds hadn't penetrated the thick wood.
"Damn," he called out, "thought it would be thinner than that."
Jonathon, wrapping his hand in a roll of gauze, gave a laugh and shook his head, "You're lucky I was here to save your ass."
Peering down into the impact marks, imagining he could see the flattened slugs imbedded in the desk, he called without looking over, "I'm lucky you had the common sense to duck behind cover."
Jonathon finished wrapping his hand and stood up, sliding his weapon back into his pocket and snapping the briefcase shut. He appraised the wounded hand, "Not quite enough sense..." he muttered.
"Get over here," Rick ordered, ending the conversation, "let's figure out how to get this rig moving."
Jonathon walked over to the opposite desk and slid over the top. Rick was already seated at the chair looking through the desk drawers for some kind of switch or release that would control the elevator.
"Boss," Jonathon called out, pointing at something on the wall. Rick looked, viewing a slit set in a small panel. There was another on his side as well; this one had two buttons, one up and one down. "Card readers?" he asked.
Rick nodded, "Search them." He gestured to the bodies.
Crouching down, he rifled through the dead man's pockets. After a few moments, he produced a small, blank, white plastic card with a magnetic strip. He stood up, seeing Jonathon holding a similar object.
"At the same time?" Jonathon inquired, holding his card up.
"I would assume so," Rick responded. He checked his watch. "They should be ready by now."
At Rick's signal, both men slid the cards into their slots, noting with satisfaction the small green lights that appeared on the panel as well as one at the top of the elevator. Rick pressed the up arrow button. He smiled as he heard the soft sliding whir of the elevator cable passing through the pulley inside the shaft.
While the elevator ascended, Rick scooped up the submachine gun and ejected the magazine. He peered at what remained of the ammunition in it before frowning and casting the near-empty clip aside. He searched the pockets of the dead man again and found two spares. He stuck the clip in, checked the slide, switched the safety to 'off,' and set it down on the desk.
He also discovered a sidearm with one extra clip, which he also checked and placed on the desk, and smiled in satisfaction as, in spite of fumbling around with one and a half hands, Jonathon managed to do the same with the other body.
Unconcerned about the fresh blood splattered on the fabric, Rick sat down in the swivel chair and relaxed for just a moment as the elevator ascended. Jonathon moved over and set the briefcase in front of Rick and opened it. Inside was a small assault rifle. Rick gave a low whistle. Isn't that a nice little thing, he thought.
With a forlorn look, Jonathon said, "I can't use this. Take it."
Rick cocked his head as he gingerly picked up the weapon. It was in pristine condition, and he recognized the integrated scope and bullpup design to be a variation on the AUG assault rifle. Unlike a lot of the other salvaged weapons, it looked clean and polished. Instinctively, he checked the slide and the magazine. He turned it over in his hands. "She's beautiful..." He whispered.
Smiling, Rick said, "Thanks," before slipping on a thick belt with compartments. He unscrewed the silencer from his .45 and holstered the sidearm. In the other slots he placed his spare clips and adjusted his suit coat to poorly conceal the bulky adornment. Finally, he stood up and slung the assault rifle, curling a slight smirk at the mournful look on Jonathon's face.
The other man turned away and grasped a submachine gun. He aimed it around, stabilizing it in the crook of his arm; he was testing out the use of only one hand. After a moment of this, he shrugged and slung the weapon.
With a soft electronic ding, the wide elevator doors slid open. Out rushed a large number of men clad in dark colors wielding weapons of various sizes. They swiftly moved around the area, checking the exits and posting sentries. When enough "clear" statements were issued the remaining vigilant men guarding the inside of the elevator dispersed, leaving two men, Victor and Elijah, standing alone.
Rick stepped forward and gave the two men a nod.
Elijah put on a soft smile, "Well done, well done."
"Thanks," Rick said quickly, "now let's get going."
Elijah's smile widened, deepening the lines on his face. "After you."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Emerging once again on the surface with a small task force of soldiers, Rick felt much more comfortable, if still concerned about the liability of protecting Elijah from any danger. The fact that Victor came with was more relaxing, as the large man was Elijah's bodyguard for years and very capable in his own right.
They had spilled out of one side of the bunker and had made a beeline for the door at the front entrance towards the main lobby of the Institution building. The idle guard at the civilian wing side entrance was quickly dispatched with barely a sound, not that noise was of any concern. In the distance, the city took on an orange glow and the smell of smoke wafted on the breeze. The occasional chatter of weapons fire echoed.
Rick grabbed the door handle and cursed that it was locked. "We gotta blow this one." he hissed to his men, who passed the message back along the lines. He was reluctant to use their severely limited supply of explosives so soon, but they couldn't just stand outside waiting.
Instead of a team to set the charge, Elijah emerged from the column of soldiers, "What is the problem?" he asked.
Rick gave him an incredulous look, "The doors are locked. We need to breach."
Elijah glanced at his watch and gave a chuckle, "Nonsense." As Rick opened his mouth in a biting retort, Elijah reached out and turned the handle. The door clicked open and Rick's mouth remained silent but hanging open.
"You're welcome," Elijah said, eyes shining with a satisfied smile.
Rick stared at him, "How...?" he started. Then it clicked, and he cocked his head. "You've got someone inside."
Elijah touched a finger the tip of his finger to his lips, "Best keep moving. A little exposed out here, don't you think?"
Rick, simultaneously irritated and in awe of the old man's behavior, had to agree. With a sharp gesture he signaled for everyone to prepare themselves to rush in. He wondered how Elijah managed to find an insider, and who the hell it could be.
Gregory Michaels snorted and woke, slumped in the heavy leather chair. His eyes slid open to the darkness, the collar of his shirt still slightly damp from the spill of tears down his cheeks.
He sat up and immediately winced from the sharp pain in his neck from remaining positioned at an awkward angle for too long. He rubbed his eyes and took a glance at his watch. He sighed, reached over and flicked the light on his desk. He squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden bright light. After a moment, he peeked through to catch the time.
He winced again, this time from the realization that, instead of a brief nap, he had slept in the chair again for far too long and the hour was growing late. Then, the evening's prior events rushed back and hit him. A wave of sorrow struck him once again as the image of Claudia's vacant face passed through his thoughts.
With a heavy sigh, he slumped back into the chair to resume his brooding. After a few minutes of this, his eyelids started to droop once more. A stray thought skittered its way into his gloom, and it sparked a curiosity in him. As long as I'm here, I might as well check the entries. It'll keep my mind off of... He didn't let the thought finish.
He flipped up the lid of his computer terminal to see if there were any more video journal entries. There couldn't possibly be very many, considering that the previous one had come only shortly before the man had been killed.
Instead of the cloudy blackness or skull imagery, the desktop looked as it had before. There was, however, one video file sitting in the bottom left. Michaels frowned as he moved the cursor towards it. The file, labeled, 'mlc-worried' opened and a sliver of ice tumbled down his back when he saw the timestamp. Dated the very day that Coleman died.
Hand trembling, he guided the cursor and clicked the play button. The image of Coleman looked even worse than last time as though he hadn't slept since then. His voice lacked any enthusiasm or luster. He looked like a man resigned, at least subconsciously, to death.
"It has been a while since the last entry, but nothing of great consequence has occurred. It took me a great deal of time to get this blasted machine functioning properly again after the incident with the skull, and I still can't quite remove the programming; it seems irrevocably linked to the previous record." Coleman sighed on screen. "I almost believed at first that someone was playing a trick on me, but I saw the same message scrawled on the wall in my quarters." He reached under his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose and both eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Destroy it..."
"How can they know?" He finally asked the camera. "I still haven't told anyone about it." He shook his head, "I am afraid that something might happen; these threats weigh heavily on my mind." Coleman gave a bitter laugh. "I haven't slept in days. I lie awake at night, listening for the sounds of an intruder." He ran his fingers through his graying hair, obviously distracted and lost in thought.
Finally, he focused back upon the camera. "These entries were for myself, easier for me to conceal. Yet, as the time passes, I fear the worst. I don't know who you are, but if you're watching this, it means they must have killed me. I don't know who it was, but I assume their reason must be the sample and the miraculous organisms found within. Whether they want it for themselves or destroyed, I cannot say." He suddenly let out a laugh. "Listen to me... have I truly become so melodramatic?" His smile faded, weariness once again spreading across his face. "After the threat and the tampering with my documents, I have taken extra steps to encrypt and code these certain files, including this one. After it finishes, it will be the last of the series, available only after you find the rest. To you, dear viewer, I applaud your tenacity and intelligence." Michaels felt the slight beam of pride mixed with contempt. Of course I figured it out you old fool, he thought.
"The sample is safe now, and no one will be able to get to it..." Coleman trailed off at this point and his mouth hung open slightly and confusion filled his eyes. "Wha-what's going on here? What is this?"
Michaels didn't know what to make of the sudden stop, but before he could speculate too much more, a familiar voice played, in the recording, from the speakers on the desk.
"I'm sorry to contact you like this, old friend," the voice was full of sadness, and it seemed to have a profound effect on Coleman, whose face to grew whiter with growing apprehension, "but you have not listened to reason." Coleman's eyes widened further.
Who is that, Michaels wondered, feeling that the voice was far too obvious to not be recognized. He was still not quite being able to put his finger on it, distracted by the message and unnerved by Coleman's fearful and confused expression.
"You were warned." There was a sad chuckle, and suddenly Michaels knew. Dunlevy! Citizen Arthur Dunlevy's voice, completely devoid of its joviality and exuberance sounded low and flat, listless. He continued, "You should have destroyed it. Technology of that caliber does not belong in a world like ours," he said, with tension mounting. "Just think of what Lange would do if he ever found out! Or Julian! It is inconceivable that you, dear Marcus, could be so short-sighted in this matter."
Coleman downcast his eyes, and Michaels felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. There is nothing wrong with what he did, Michaels thought. The discovery alone far outweighs any risk.
Yet Coleman said nothing, looking ashamed. Michaels guessed that it was a recording and not a live feed, as it didn't sound like a direct conversation. Dunlevy plowed onward with his speaking, unheeding of Coleman's obvious discomfort.
"...for this reason that I decided action needed to be taken." Coleman's head snapped up and confusion sparked in his eyes. "I have placed," Dunlevy cleared his throat and Michaels could hear the sound of his girth shifting around in whatever chair he sat upon, "an incendiary device in your office." Coleman's eyes widened in fear and his body tensed, as if to spring.
"Don't move!" Dunlevy shouted, and Coleman froze in his seat. "The device has been activated and will detonate if you rise!" Another sad chuckle. "I suppose it's possible you already did and can't hear the rest of this message."
Fear and something terrible seeped into Coleman's face and body. Hopelessness, Michaels thought. Finally, he felt pity for the man, confined just before his moment of death to listen to the voice of his executor explaining why his death was just and necessary.
"I tried; I truly did. You have to understand me. I did not want to do this, but you left me no choice. Our world is not ready for immortality, especially when evil men are in control." Dunlevy said. "...I am sorry, old friend, but this is the only way. Goodbye."
Citizen Marcus Coleman's eyes widened once more and he took in a sharp breath before the screen filled with an orange fiery blossom. The fire blazed for a few seconds and Michaels could hear the sounds of high-pitched, agonized screaming as Coleman died, wreathed in flames. Michaels shivered, wincing at the horrific sights and sounds, which abruptly cut out as the screen went black and the file ended.
It took Michaels several minutes to reconcile what he just saw. It had seemed obvious before, with the explosion and the sketchy circumstances, that Coleman had been murdered. Everyone had just assumed that Lange or Wresh had something to do with it. Coleman had been a thorn in the side of both men for a while, so his death must not have bothered either of them enough to warrant any investigation; they each likely assumed the other was responsible.
But Dunlevy? Michaels thought. It almost seems impossible that that bumbling fool could be capable of anything like that. Michaels turned his thoughts back to days prior, when Dunlevy had hauled him from the very chair he sat in and slammed him against the wall. He absentmindedly touched his collar where he was grabbed.
In spite of the late hour, he felt a surge of energy. He jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth in the office, thinking about how best to deal with the situation. He knew that Dunlevy could no longer be trusted, but how could he be dealt with? Tell Lange or Wresh? Would they do anything about it? Gottfried, perhaps. He seems to retain a sense of duty and honor.
Michaels paced for a moment longer before relaxing into his chair once again. The revelation of Coleman's death awoke his mind and set his paranoia into overdrive. Will he try for me next? Michaels wondered. There isn't a reason for it, but now I, too, know about the project. If Arthur finds out that I know, what will he do?
The question remained present in his mind, but one realization struck Michaels as being the most reasonable answer: if he wanted to be truly safe and secure, he would have to eliminate the impending threat that Dunlevy represented. But how? he wondered. Sitting in the chair, with only the lamplight of the desk, he stared at shadows in the far corners of the room and nothing came to mind.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Kaylee had been uncertain to the means by which they would get to the Institute, but Malcolm's determination seemed to grow by the minute. He held his silence and moved swiftly, heedless of Kaylee's occasional statement or question.
The journey through the streets below Haven went easily enough; most everyone had been moved to one location or another for extraction to the surface, they encountered no one through their trek.
They reached the location which Kaylee identified as one of the entry spots for the soldiers to reach the surface within striking distance. Glancing at her watch as she and Malcolm ascended the stairway; she hoped that it wouldn't be too late for them to be in and around the city streets. From what she knew, hell was breaking loose up above, and it wouldn't do any good to get caught in the middle of it.
When she explained it repeatedly to Malcolm, he either didn't say anything or gave no more than an affirmation grunt. She was starting to get more and more irritated at his aloof behavior but didn't call him on it. He said he remembered something, and she admitted to herself that she was more than a little curious to find out about his origins.
"Good thing I followed Rick here," she muttered to no one in particular.
"Goood thhing." Malcolm hissed in agreement, surprising her with his response to her, especially in such a pointless, throwaway statement.
She was referring to the day he had snubbed and ordered her to accompany the civilian population. In her defiance, she decided to tail him and see where the other exit was, just in case. Neither he nor anyone else had seen her. She later decided to behave and not use it, but Malcolm's situation prompted her to action. She didn't want to look after the civilians anyway.
Kaylee didn't articulate any other random thoughts, and soon after they arrived in the exit, sliding through the side panel and crawling through a low ceiling. They ended up in a small storage room with a few garment racks. Clothes of various shapes and sizes hung on clothes hangers.
Ignoring the scattered items in the room, the pair passed up a staircase then through another hidden break. Sliding the wooden panel closed once more, they found themselves in a hallway. Not long after, they were in the doorway, looking out into the street.
"Oh God." Kaylee said, the smell of black smoke wafting about and the orange glow of flames not-too distant. She heard sounds of random gunfire and shouting closer than she would have preferred. She turned to Malcolm. "Okay, so. I have no idea where we are. Maybe we should go back." She grabbed the fabric of his overcoat
He looked at her. "No." He rasped. "Follow."
Kaylee bit her lip, looking back into the building behind her, and reluctantly followed behind Malcolm. He seemed to know where he was going; he led her along in silence, and her nervousness was only tempered by the comfort the night sky presented.
After a while, she could see the white building of the Institute, something she recognized from her childhood, before the sky was covered, looming ahead of them. With the sounds of combat behind and the uncertain ahead, she now wondered if disobeying and leaving her assignment had been the best idea after all.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Rick marveled at the efficiency of the weapon given to him by his soldier. I've got to get something like this, he thought. It had already proven itself perfectly scoped in and accurate. When the unlocked lobby doors were flung open, his people streamed in and split. They moved along the walls behind the columns surrounding the immediate area, which was empty save for a receptionist and a guard on duty at the doors on either side, with two at the back. At first, the receptionist at the desk froze, terrified.
When Rick had seen the man look to his bottom right, shifting his shoulder and reaching. The thought, he's going for an alarm, passed through his mind in the exact same moment as he shouldered the weapon and fired. The high-velocity round tore through the man's throat, pausing very briefly to punch through the vertebrae and spinal column before tearing out the back of his neck, still maintaining enough velocity to imbed in the wall behind him as the man died instantly and collapsed in his chair.
Satisfied that the weapon worked, the area was secure within moments. The guards were neutralized, without a fuss, by the twenty-five or so soldiers Rick had remaining of his expert forces; the rest having been killed or wounded in the other recent activity. As he moved towards the desk, Rick took a moment to marvel at the vaulted ceiling with the huge, crystal clear skylight allowing the shimmering, starry night sky to be seen along with a healthy supply of the waning half-moon's light. Turning back to his task, Rick shoved the dead receptionist, in his swivel chair, rolling out of the way before turning over with a thud and clatter on the floor. He examined the console in front of him, discovering the unlocking controls for each wing. He reached out to trigger the doors behind the desk to gain access to the Inquisition building when, off to his left, a different set sprang open.
Every man in the room snapped their weapons towards the unexpected entrance, and a large, rotund, bearded man whose expression could only be described as jovial bounded in the room.
Elijah yelled, "Hold your fire!" raising his hand before anyone could pull the trigger. "Arthur!" He cried out, flinging his arms wide and approaching the large man.
"Elliot, my dear friend! It's so good to finally meet!" The two men embraced and began speaking, leaving Rick simultaneously to assume that this rotund individual was the inside man and to wonder, who the hell is Elliot?
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Still not to any conclusive decisions, Michaels' train of thought was broken by a knock at the door. The knock continued, frantic in its insistence, and he called out, "Yes, who is it?"
The muffled response came, "Oh God, you are here! It's Myers, let me in!"
Puzzled, Michaels sprang from his seat, twisted the knob, and opened the door. Without hesitation, Myers rushed into the room, brushing past Michaels and looking nervous and frightened. He swept a hand backwards, "Close the door," he said quickly before doubling over and breathing hard.
Michaels released the knob with a slight shove and the door swung not quite closed. He didn't notice, as he was already moving towards Myers, "What's going on? What's wrong?"
Myers whirled around, still out of breath, "The Institute... I-I think all of Haven is under attack!"
Michaels reacted as though slapped, and he stuttered, "What?! H-how did? Who is it? What-"
Myers threw up both hands, "I don't know! I came over here to see you and Arthur; th-there are fires, and a lot of smoke. I thought I'd be safe here. I had just set foot in this wing when I heard a lot of noise from the lobby." He shook his head. "When I looked back dozens of men were spilling into the room. They shot everyone!"
Michaels felt a chill roll down his spine, almost disbelieving the tale but for the truth in the eyes of the frightened man. "Are they coming here? Are we safe?"
Myers shook his head, "I don't know; I think so. I think they're heading towards the Inquisition, but that's not even the worst part."
Michaels narrowed his eyes, "Then what?"
"I watched them through the window for a moment, an-and I saw something. It was Arthur." Myers lowered his voice, "I think that Arthur is a trait-"
A resounding crack filled the air in the room and Citizen Myers developed a very surprised expression, gasping. Both he and Michaels turned towards the door to see Arthur Dunlevy standing, holding a smoking pistol at his hip. Myers looked down, seeing a pool of red seeping from the wound in his chest, just above the tip of the v-made by his suit jacket.
Shock and adrenaline took hold quickly, as Myers let out a roar and charged towards the other man. Dunlevy, calmly extended his arm forward and fired again. The bullet passed through Myers face, cutting off the yell and spraying gore in a wide arc behind him. Michaels threw up his hands, feeling the splatter of his colleague's blood and tissue as Myers unceremoniously flopped to the ground.
Adrenaline slammed into Michaels' system, causing a white-hot blaze of panic. He trembled and held his hands up, fully expecting Dunlevy to shoot him next.
Instead, Dunlevy stepped forwards, "Are you all right, Gregory? He didn't try to hurt you?" He sounded almost concerned.
Still shaking, a part of Michaels mind, not flailing from the murder he just witnessed, became confused. His mouth worked up and down, trying to spit out the question. Arthur spoke first, grabbing him by the shoulders, "Gregory! Are you all right?" He shouted.
Michaels sputtered, "Y-yes." He sucked in a breath. "Yes, I'm... I'm fine!" He looked at Myers facedown on the ground, seeing the bloody mash of the exit wound on the back of his head, and the bile rose in Michaels' throat. He covered his mouth and turned away, taking several deep breaths to calm himself.
Without turning, Michaels tried to snap, but it came out tiny and weak, "Why did you kill him?"
Arthur put his arm around Michaels' shoulder and drew him in close. "The Institute is under attack. I have reason to believe that he is responsible for granting them entrance as well as tactical information." He walked over and looked out of the doorway down the hall. "It doesn't look like they're coming this way, thank God."
Michaels didn't believe for a second that Dunlevy was telling the truth. Myers was just about to implicate him for the responsibility of letting the enemy soldiers in. That, Michaels thought, and he was the one who had murdered Marcus Coleman.
Dunlevy turned around and waved Michaels over, "Come on, let's get out of here!"
Defiance sparked in Michaels, igniting into a roaring flame. He scowled, raised his chin and said, "I'm not going anywhere with you, filthy traitor."
Dunlevy reacted with a shocked look. He blinked a few times, then his expression melted into one of... sorrow? Disappointment? Michaels wasn't quite sure.
"Oh, my dear Gregory," Dunlevy began, "how can you say that about me?"
"Myers didn't have anything do to with the attack," Michaels spat, "it was you."
A sad smile crossed Dunlevy's lips, "Yes. You are correct." From his pocket, he once again produced the pistol that had caused the death of Dennis Myers. "I had hoped to avoid this until later on, but I'm afraid you must hear what I have to say and make your choice." He pointed the weapon at Michaels, stepped over, and closed the door, twisting the bolt with a click. "For your sake, I hope you choose what is right."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Sergei coughed, tasting his own blood on his lips. He sat in a dark alleyway, leaning up against the wall just under a fire escape. He looked down, wincing at the pain in his abdomen. Inquisitor squads had appeared out of nowhere and opened fire on Sergei and his men.
He bled freely from his shoulder where one round grazed the surface and tore away a chunk of his flesh. The other had buried into the lower left portion of his stomach. His extremities started to feel cold, and he wondered if he was going into shock.
Chaos reigned in the streets. Civilians scattered about, screaming and trying to keep away from the numerous fires and fighting going on all around. His own people seemed to be holding their own, trading casualties with the Inquisitors, but he knew the numbers couldn't match up and, eventually, he would run out of soldiers. He had ordered them to try and disengage; to try and find someplace to hide.
"We did well, did we not, Piotr?" He said to a man standing next to him.
"Yes you did, Sergei." The man murmured back. "You have done the family proud."
"The family..." Sergei muttered. "Ah... Piotr. I am sorry."
The phantom smiled. "It's okay, brother." He pointed. "Look out."
Sergei raised his sidearm and fired as a cautious Inquisitor ducked into the same alleyway to take cover. The bullet caught the woman, Sergei felt a slight twinge of regret when he saw the tied back long hair, in the shoulder, spinning her around. She hit the ground facing Sergei. Not yet finished, she raised her weapon at him. Without hesitation, he fired again, killing the Inquisitor.
Sergei sighed, wincing again at the pain in his midsection. The world began to blur around the edges. "I'm not done yet, Piotr. I can hold this position if nothing else."
His brother, long since gone, smiled again. "I know you can."
Rick vaguely wondered where the fat guy who had called Elijah 'Elliot' had gone off to, but his present concern laid more in the task before him. In front of him and his men was a fairly long hallway that opened up into the lobby area for the Inquisition wing, and it was perfect for an ambush. His people moved slowly, keeping eyes on the other end.
"Contact!" someone screamed. Rick's people opened fire, peppering the opposite side, bullets grazing off the walls, chipping and imbedding at the far end. Rick didn't see anything, but, in this long hallway, he really didn't want to get caught in the open without any cover.
"Suppression fire!" He bellowed. "Move, move!" He made sharp gestures, and running low, his group of men advanced. He shouldered his own weapon and, through the scope, sighted, looking for any signs of enemy contact at the end of the hallway.
He cursed under his breath as he viewed the barest amount of black fabric of an Inquisitors sleeve, the person's elbow unintentionally sticking ever so slightly. The rest of his people kept up a decent level of suppressing fire on the other end; anyone who dared reveal themselves wouldn't last long enough to get off more than a shot or two.
But a shot in these tight corridors is all it will take, Rick thought. Hard to miss. They're just waiting for us. Well, fine then.
Rick stopped his forward motion and carefully aimed at the left side. He squeezed the trigger, and the gun gave a satisfying bark. He didn't hear the impact, but a small blood splatter and an angry shriek of pain was all the confirmation he needed as the round chipped the corner and shattered the hinge joint of the person's elbow.
"Forward!" He yelled to everyone. "Watch the sides!" Just a little further, he thought.
One Inquisitor whirled around the corner, firing his weapon as he turned, without aiming. Bullets impacted harmlessly into the walls in a sweeping arc, and Rick put a round through the man's head before he could send any into the moving column. As the body fell, another person stepped out. This Inquisitor hit the ground hard after a suppression round fired by one of Rick's men tore through his shin, his unslung weapon sliding out of his reach. They continued advancing.
Around both sides two men reached around and fired blind. A few of Rick's advancing group in the hallway were cut down in the hail of random gunfire. Rick swore and aimed. His assault rifle barked, and the Inquisitor on the left dropped his weapon, shrieking, as the round punched through the back of his hand. Rick's soldiers kept up a stream of suppression, and their fire pocked and chipped at the both corners. The Inquisitor on the right pulled back around, fearful of incurring the same fate of his screaming colleague.
With still too long a distance to cover, Rick gripped the one of two grenades they carried. This is it, he thought, if I do this wrong, it'll kill us instead. "Hit the deck!" he shouted, and all of his remaining men dropped to the ground. He hurled the heavy fragmentation weapon down the hallway. He heard some indistinct shouting, along with what he thought was "take cover!" The grenade clattered and bounced, its path taking it just inside the lobby opening.
A deafening explosion echoed down the hallway, and he heard one of his people, on the ground in the front, screeching as the shrapnel tore into his flesh.
"Advance!" Rick yelled, and his people sprang up and sprinted down the hallway. A few precious seconds passed as they came closer and closer, and no Inquisitors were seen, shooting or otherwise.
With only twenty feet left to cover, two Inquisitors rolled around the two corners, firing their weapons. Rick dove to the ground, feeling the hiss of rounds just over his head. He cringed to hear bullets striking his men behind him.
Rick hit the ground hard, his vision exploding with stars and the wind rushing out of his lungs. Shit, he thought, gasping for breath and trying to will himself to move. He heard the rattle of return fire and saw from his hazy vision several crouching figures stepping over him.
He craned his neck upward, seeing his remaining men arriving at the end of the hallway. Jonathon had pulled a blood-spattered Inquisitor from around the corner and shoved him up against the wall. The other man's eyes were wild with fear; he gripped Jonathon's arm, desperately trying to push away the combat knife that inched closer to his throat as more of Rick's men ran past, firing their weapons on both sides.
Little by little, Rick's lungs started accepting air again, he clamored to his feet, wincing at the blunt pain radiating from his knee. He limped forward, vision still hazy. He stepped over a few bodies of his fallen men, not looking to see if they were alive or dead. He reached the corner.
The room was not overly large; two hallways on either side stretched out. Emblazoned behind the central desk just above the elevator was the word 'vigilance.' Twin pillars, symmetrical in the room, sported scorch marks and had likely kept the Inquisitors remaining from the blast alive. Blood and bits of flesh scattered around along with twisted, unrecognizable bodies. Rick swept his weapon back and forth; he fired, punching a burst of rounds into two Inquisitors attempting to limp down the right hallway.
To his left, an Inquisitor crouched on top of one of his people, both men unarmed, striking the now unconscious man across the face with his fists. Rick fired a round through the side of his head and the man convulsed and toppled off, hitting the tile ground.
The frenzy of activity lasted only a few moments longer. All of the Inquisitors, numbering more than twenty total, lay unconscious and dying or already dead from injuries. Jonathon, whose bandage was now dripping, stepped up next to Rick, arterial blood spattered across his face. He wiped his combat knife on his sleeve before sheathing it.
Looking backward, a dozen of his men were unmoving in the hallway behind. He cursed silently as Elijah and Victor picked their way down the hallway, given the all clear. The old man seemed excited about something, barely glancing at the numerous wounded and dead men. Sentries were posted at either hallway, watching for any stragglers.
Rick shook his head, sliding the lids of a dead man's glassy stare closed. From those left of his insurgent, well-trained group of twenty-five, twelve more were dead or dying along with another eight injured. Not including himself, only five unharmed soldiers remained.
"Was it worth it?" he muttered to himself.
Elijah, who was within earshot, stepped up to him and grasped his shoulder, "It will be." He turned away and looked over the shoulders of those working on the elevator.
Victor stepped up along side Rick and surveyed the carnage. In the usual calm voice, he said, "The way will be clear. Secure this position and wait for our return."
Rick shot him an incredulous look. "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed. "You're going alone? You think there won't be anything or anyone waiting up there?"
Victor didn't meet Rick's eyes. "There most certainly will be. It's not your concern."
"The hell it isn't-" Rick started.
Victor silenced him with a sharp gesture. "Stay here."
"Fine..." Rick shook his head in disbelief as the elevator doors slid open. He waved his men back, ignoring their confused looks as the smiling Elijah stepped in with Victor.
"They're going alone?" "What the hell is that about?" murmurs floated around the room.
Rick threw up his hands, "They can do whatever they want." He shrugged. "Keep watch on the sides. The rest of us; let's tend to our wounded."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"Why?" Michaels asked honestly, trying not to provoke the man with the gun.
Dunlevy's expression turned sour, "Why? Why? Why do you think, you impudent moron?" He threw his hands in a sweeping gesture. "Is this civilization? Is this life? Is all of this 'enlightenment' worth the price?"
Michaels narrowed his eyes. "What price?"
Dunlevy set his jaw, his round, bearded face intense with conviction, "The destruction of human dignity."
Michaels very nearly cut loose a laugh at the ridiculous statement, but he stifled it and covered by putting on an incredulous look. "What are you talking about?
Dunlevy seemed almost eager to jump on his soapbox, "Society, my dear Gregory! Look around!" He swept his arms around, as though the entire city could be seen from inside the small office. "Our system, our way of life, the isolationism that started everything is based upon the assumption that certain people are more valuable than others!"
"Well, yes, but-"
Dunlevy continued, heedless of the interruption. "But it's not true. You can't create some arbitrary means of expressing superiority; it is complete nonsense! Not that it matters, our methods are barely viable as they are."
Michaels narrowed his eyes, "What do you mean?"
Dunlevy leaned forward, "It's about wealth and power! They don't care about genetics or intellectual superiority. It's not advancing the path of human evolution. Hell, if Wresh gets control, it will only be about controlling every aspect of a person. Their every thought and action, accountable and predictable." He straightened up, smug look spreading on his face, "Even as it is now, the ranking system is based on extrinsic qualities and material possession." He pointed at Michaels. "Even intellect and trade-skills garner you, what? A tiny apartment you never see? Hours upon hours of work that you despise?"
Michaels scoffed, "Despise? My work contributes to the good of society."
Dunlevy extended out his arm holding the gun and took a step forward, threatening, "Your work ruins lives!" he snarled angrily. "Stripping people not only of their willpower, but their basic ability to reproduce? Turning them into mindless slaves? Taking away everything that makes them people?" Michaels took a step back, clenching his teeth. "Tell me, how is that good for anyone?"
Michaels opened his mouth, but Dunlevy didn't give him a chance to answer. "No!" He shouted. "Providing servants for slothful aristocrats does not count."
Michaels held his silence, scowling. Dunlevy's face reddened as he spoke. "Your torture of lives and human dignity is justification enough for your punishment." He shook his head. "I ought to kill you right now."
Dunlevy brought his other hand up, aiming the pistol at Michaels' head. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he paused, considering. Michaels only stared back, trying to still the trembling in his hands and the rapid beating of his heart. This is it, he thought. He's going to kill me.
Dunlevy didn't fire. The weapon pulled back to his hip, and he smiled. "But not just yet. Unlike the High Inquisitor and Citizen One, I see certain value on your talents."
Michaels raised an eyebrow, "Talents?"
"Oh yes, my dear Gregory. You are a brilliant man, and your work with the mental cleansing and conditioning methods, as horrific and barbaric though they are, is a clear reflection of that."
"So you're... not going to kill me?"
Dunlevy narrowed his eyes, "We'll see. What I need to know is if you believe there is a viable method to reverse the cleansing. To restore the lives you've ruined."
The analytical portion of Michaels' mind considered the possibility, almost momentarily forgetting about the gun trained on him. It wasn't something he had extensively thought about before. He rubbed his chin, "I... I'm not sure."
The rotund man downcast his eyes, "Then I'm afraid you're not of any further use. Goodbye." He raised the weapon once more.
"Wait!" Michaels threw up his hands. Dunlevy hesitated. "It... it might be possible."
Dunlevy cocked his head. "I'm listening." He didn't lower the weapon.
Michaels' statement had been a bluff. He hadn't the faintest clue whether or not he'd be able to reverse the slightest bit of the conditioning. However, he really didn't want to die. He stammered, "W-with a proper sensory stimulus," he was grasping at straws, "a-along with drug therapy... I-I... I could d-develop something that c-could work to reverse the process."
Dunlevy eyed him warily for a moment, then his face broke into a broad grin. "There, you see? I knew you could be counted upon!" He lowered the weapon once more. "He wanted to have you all eliminated, but I told him that you were too valuable an asset to waste."
"He? Who is he?" Michaels almost didn't want to know. Probably some figment of his demented imagination, he thought.
Dunlevy continued beaming, speaking with an almost reverent tone. "His name is Elliot, and he is going to reorganize this regime, restoring its humanity and purpose."
Michaels frowned, "This man, he's..." he hesitated, uncertain to how tactful he needed to be, "he's the one you... assisted, isn't he?" Michaels was unable to keep the disgust out of his voice. "He's from down below? One of... them?"
The other man scowled, and hissed, "Haven't you listened? There is no inferiority, no filth; we were all the same." Dunlevy clenched his fist. "Just as many criminal and working class ascended as were left behind. Who knows how many, brilliant and otherwise, declined out of fear of the regime or lack of opportunity? It doesn't mean they are any less of people! Don't you see? The only reason for separation was to have an excuse for perception of superiority!" Dunlevy was almost pleading for Michaels to believe him.
Michaels sighed, not convinced. "Fine, whatever, let's say that you're right. Then who is this Elliot and why is he so important?"
The near-reverence seeped back into Dunlevy's voice, making Michaels wonder even more about his sanity and stability. "Below, they called him Elijah. He engineered everything that's happened in the last few days, planning it for years. He unified the factions of down below, and now he's brought them, here, to the surface to end this society of intolerance."
"Okay, but, who is he?" Michaels grasped for a better question. "Where exactly did he come from?"
"Here," Dunlevy spread his hands out, "he was one of us."
Michaels raised an eyebrow, "He was a Citizen?"
"Oh yes, a very important one." Dunlevy spoke seriously. "He designed the technology responsible for dozens of things; the power grid, even the sterilization field."
"Then why have I never heard of him?" Michaels narrowed his eyes. "Why was he in down below?"
Dunlevy frowned, "He was exiled, and he never told me exactly why. Even any information about him in the archives was erased or never existed."
"And you just blindly followed him, believing everything he said?" Michaels didn't believe even Dunlevy would be that stupid. "He probably made it all up! How can someone have been so important yet completely unknown?"
The bearded man shook his head, "He knew so much. Our history, the council, details about our security, the sterilization field, everything." He shrugged. "When he first contacted me, I didn't believe him. I thought it was merely a ploy by Wresh to weed out any dissention." His eyes developed a far away look. "Yet with everything he said, the things he new... I started to believe."
As Dunlevy lost himself in the memories those interactions, describing them as though in a dream, Michaels considered the things Dunlevy had said about the man. Simply by accomplishing as much as he had in recent days, Michaels admitted to himself that this Elijah, if he or any one individual had truly orchestrated it, had proven himself quite capable. Michaels didn't, however, believe in any altruistic intentions, no matter what Dunlevy said. If this man is really as important as Dunlevy thinks, why has he come back and what does he want?
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Elijah stood in the rising elevator. He gazed out the window on the city descending beneath him, mixed emotions flooding through him. I've come this far, he thought. I can't lose resolve.
Victor, facing the doors, spoke, "Are you certain you want to do this?"
Elijah shot him a look, "Don't question me. Not now. After all of this work, you want to just give up?"
"No," Victor said with measured calm, "I simply want to make sure that you are certain."
"Of course I am!" Elijah snapped, soft brown eyes lighting up with irritation. "I've brought us this far, haven't I?"
Victor turned towards him, and Elijah felt a chill as the tall man's icy stare bored into him. Even with the intensity of the gaze, Victor kept his voice passive, "This is not something that should be taken lightly. You need to know that."
Elijah hung his head. "Yes, Victor. You're right." He raised it again, feeling a surge of determination. "But yes. I do understand, and I don't intend to hesitate."
Victor's gaze softened, and he turned away, with a look on his face of... Elijah couldn't quite catch it. Sadness? Before he could further contemplate, the elevator came to a stop with a slight shudder. After a soft ding, the doors slid open, and Elijah's eyes lit upon the council chamber he had not seen in years.
Forgetting about the conversation and with nervous energy coursing through his body, he stepped into the circular room. He took a deep breath, trying to ensure that he didn't get too excited. Stepping up the ramp, the soft lighting illuminating the room, he saw at the points of a crescent shaped table two cylinders rising out of the floor on either side of an ornate wooden podium.
Elijah cocked his head as he recognized the crisscrossing of lights and colors, resolving into the form of a young Franklin Lange, creator of Haven and the man who carried the title of Citizen One. Elijah smiled, drew in a shallow breath, and said, "Hello, Father."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Desmond and Olivia walked back and forth through their crowd of children, passing comfort around with the occasional hush to one making noise. The couple of rooms were packed almost shoulder to shoulder, barely enough for people to sit down.
Quinton stood at the window, wielding his customary scowl. He had been watching through spaces in the blinds ever since the group had come up, not saying anything.
Desmond walked over to him. "Do you see anything?"
"Nope." Quinton replied in his gravelly voice, not looking away from the window.
Desmond shoved his round glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose with his index finger. "You've been staring ever since we arrived. You've seen nothing at all?"
Quinton responded, still not looking at him, "We want 'nothing.' 'Nothing' is good. 'Nothing' means we're safe here." He finally spared a glance towards Desmond. "If I see 'something,' I'll let you know."
Desmond blinked. "Oh. I see." Quinton offered no further comment or conversation, so Desmond moved over towards Tanya and Eugene, who argued as loudly as anyone could while whispering.
"...should be paying back the Citizens for all they have done!" Tanya hissed.
Eugene sighed, "For the last time," he whispered, "our task is here. We don't leave unless everyone here leaves, and that only happens if we are discovered."
"Coward!" Tanya's eyes flashed with anger. "Just admit that you are too frightened to fight."
Eugene rolled his eyes, "Yes, fine. I'm frightened. Now shut up."
Tanya's eyes shot wide open and her hand curled into a fist. Eugene looked past her and said, finally noticing Desmond standing behind her. "Hello, Desmond. How are you?" he said.
Tanya whirled around, elbowing Eugene in the stomach; he grunted in pain. "What do you want?" she demanded.
Desmond blinked, "I was just seeing how everyone is doing."
"Fine," she said hotly, "I always enjoy sitting around while other people do my fighting for me."
The corners of Desmond's mouth twitched in a slight smile, "Well, I want you to know that everyone here really appreciates you and Eugene looking after us. I don't know what we'd do without you. Thank you."
Unaccustomed to gratitude or similar positive emotions, Tanya frowned at the statement. She opened her mouth to make some dismissive remark, but, before she could say anything, Eugene cut in.
"You are welcome, Desmond. Anything we can do to help." He said, massaging his stomach where she had elbowed him.
Desmond rubbed his chin, "How is everything looking?"
Tanya scowled, "What kind of question is that? How do you think it looks? We haven't gone anywhere or seen anything since we came up here?"
Eugene gave her a hard nudge, "What Tanya here means is that we cannot say much about the tactical situation outside," he said, glaring at the woman. "Sorry, my friend. We are in the dark as much as you are."
Tanya struck his chest with the back of her hand and hissed at him, "We wouldn't have to be if you weren't such a frightened child."
Eugene sighed, "Do we have to discuss this every five minutes?"
She ignored his question, "We should not have to be looking after these people! We should be out there, fighting and dying with our comrades!"
"Look, Tanya..." It was at this point that Desmond realized there would be nothing further to be gained from the conversation, so with a slight and unnoticed bow, he took his leave.
Olivia, tall and graceful with long off-white hair, leaned up against the wall with her eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. Desmond moved up next to her, leaning in close and kissing her on the forehead.
She opened her eyes, saw him, and smiled; he filled with warmth at the sight. "Everyone seems to be okay," she said. "Most of the children are sleeping." She gave a soft trickle of laughter, eliciting a smile from Desmond who knew the sound so well, "Most of the adults too."
Desmond nodded, "Not much is going on, but if I understand correctly," he added, looking over at Quinton, who hadn't moved from his post, "that is what we'd prefer right now."
Olivia took a look around the room, "It won't take long before people become impatient, you know. We can't stay here."
"Yes, you're right," he nodded again, "but we may need to for at least a couple of days, if it comes to that. We have enough supplies to last that long."
He stepped forward and hugged his wife, she folded into his embrace. "Don't worry," he whispered, "everything will be much better soon."
Kaylee trailed a few feet behind Malcolm. His haste made her very nervous. All of her experience in trying to keep silent and out of sight screamed for her to dive into the nearest alleyway and listen hard for any sounds of activity, moving more carefully. Only Malcolm continued without hesitation, and she didn't want to fall behind and lose him.
He didn't even pause once they had reached the Institute itself. Kaylee was expecting to see guards around, but this sector of the city seemed, at least for the time being, comparatively quiet. Still without pause, he passed into the lobby area.
It was empty, including the island-style reception desk in the center near the back. Kaylee wondered if Rick had already come through. She looked around.
Kaylee gasped as she passed close enough to see over the desk. A dead man laid, glassy eyes staring into nothingness. His hand limply lay at his throat, and through his loose, bloodstained fingers she could see ragged flesh. Beneath him a pool of sticky red blood spread out, already turning a dusky brown as it coagulated on the tile.
A wave of revulsion coursed through Kaylee's stomach, and a small amount of bile rose in her throat. Malcolm didn't seem to notice anything at all. He moved with the same measure of purpose to the right side of the chamber, seeming to know exactly where he was going. He paused, as he arrived, staring at the hallway of the propped open doorway, which in large letters had above it: Natural Philosophy. He rifled through his clothing, and produced a small, marred square of plastic. As Kaylee leaned in to get a closer look, Malcolm took off moving once again.
Kaylee was glad that he was remembering, but his aloof behavior made her feel nervous. I wish he'd slow down and tell me what the hell he's doing, Kaylee thought, but even if he doesn't, I guess I still owe it to him to help however I can.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
The hologram cracked the slightest of smiles, "Elliot. You're still alive."
Elijah cracked his own smile, "So are you."
"Disappointing." Lange replied.
"Not terribly. I've been relishing the chance to see you again." Elijah snapped his fingers. "Oh, you meant my survival was disappointing. I see how you could say that, considering it was you who ordered my execution."
Lange kept his expression even and ignored the question. "I take it that you've returned to exact some kind of revenge, Elliot." He cocked his head. "Or is it Elijah they call you now?" He chuckled. "Elliot Jacob... It's almost a clever combination, although 'Elijah' is a bit too prophetic for my tastes."
Elijah shrugged, "Since the name was the only thing you ever gave me, I thought it fitting to discard it once you betrayed me."
Lange's expression cracked, and he frowned. "I gave you more than any child has ever been given. I took you in after your mother died. I gave you a place at my right hand in the paradise I created. What more could you have wanted?"
"All you ever gave me was isolation." Elijah shot back. "Hiding me away to work on your projects. Using my expertise for your ends but keeping me locked up, chained to anonymity." He slowly shook his head. "No, no. The disgrace of an illegitimate son was too much for the mighty Citizen One to bear."
"You had your usefulness," Lange admitted, "it's a shame your constant, belligerent attitude got in the way."
Elijah frowned, "Someone had to be your conscience."
"No, you see, you were wrong then and you're wrong now!" Lange shouted angrily. "Trying to undermine my authority. Trying to pretend like your pitiful philosophy on humanity meant anything. You were out of control and needed to be stopped! I only did what a reasonable leader would do. "
Elijah smirked, "Reasonable leader... is that what you are?"
Lange bared his teeth, "Haven would be nothing without me; just another city, full of worthless refugees, spreading their disease and decay everywhere!"
Elijah shook his head, "Instead you have bloated aristocrats spewing decadence and perceived superiority everywhere."
"Those fit to rule and live well should be able to do so. Should be encouraged to do so." Lange said.
"So you make hundreds, thousands suffer so that those 'best fitting' can wallow in their own pleasures?" Elijah scowled.
Lange scoffed, "You haven't changed at all, Elliot. Even living among that disgusting filth hasn't changed your mind about them."
Elijah rolled his eyes, "It's funny how you call them filth when you treat your own Citizens little better."
Lange raised his chin, "I only ensure that the best of humanity is treated in the best possible fashion. Anyone with the title of Citizen is overjoyed to be a part of the finest. Even the lower rankings understand perfectly that some are still higher than others. It they cannot," Lange shrugged, "then they are re-educated until they can."
Elijah's eyes widened. "Is that what you call it? Your brainwashing is 're-education?" He shook his head. "You've changed, father. I remember when all Citizens were important to you. You devoted yourself to their happiness. I always thought it sick and twisted how everyone else fared, but now your own people, too? When did it change? Only the few matter, now? Or is it just you that really matters?"
"My city would be nothing without me. I am the head, the heart, and the soul of Haven. What would it be without me?" Lange said this with conviction.
Elijah continued to sadly shake his head. "So you now believe yourself to be their prophet, their God? You really have completely lost it, haven't you?"
Lange glared at his son, "Defiant cur. You never were useful enough to justify my limited patience. Just like your mother."
"My mother was an amazing person, and don't you dare speak of her, you bastard!" Elijah snapped.
Lange laughed, "How ironic. You: calling me a bastard." The hologram slowly shook its head. "You know she threatened to reveal you to the world? As though I or anyone else would have cared?"
Elijah clenched his fists, "Your 'perfect' reputation would have been shattered if anyone had known of your little habits?" He thrust an accusing finger at Lange. "How would it fare if they knew that you had my mother murdered in cold blood?!"
Lange raised an eyebrow, "Now how did you know...?" Victor stepped out of the elevator and up the ramp. "Ah, I see now. Both of my favorite little traitors have come to see me once more."
Lange sneered at Victor. "You know, I had you guard him to keep him in control, to watch him. Not become friends." He put on a disgusted face. "Of course... Instead of killing him, like I ordered, you spirited him away?" He shook his head. "Absolutely worthless. Tell me, again, why I ever trusted you to do anything correctly?"
Victor's face remained calm, his icy blue eyes boring into the hologram, "Franklin. It's good to see you again."
Lange smirked, "Yes, I suppose it would be." He looked back and forth between Victor and Elijah. "Ah, I can see it now." He chuckled. "You informed Elliot about what happened to poor mummy, and now you've come to teach me a lesson."
Victor opened his mouth to respond, but Elijah cut him off, "No. We've come here to kill you."
Lange raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" He spread his hands out. "I'm so sorry to disappoint you, especially after all the work it must have taken for you to come this far. I must say I'm impressed by your resilience, but all you have managed to do is finish what I started." The hologram shrugged. "This has been an amusing diversion, but I'm afraid my attention is required elsewhere. Goodbye, Elliot."
With a cascade of shimmering lights and colors, the image dispersed and the cylinders descended back into the floor. Elijah scowled and started moving around the table towards the heavy double doors at the other end of the chamber.
Four panels on both the floor and ceiling on either side of the door way popped open, heavy machine guns mounted on tripods swiveled towards Elijah. A mechanical voice said, "Warning. This is a restricted area. Do not attempt to move any closer."
Elijah chuckled, "Really, father... so very glib." He cleared his throat and said, in a loud voice, "Execute operation sigma one-nine."
The weapons appeared to hesitate, then their aims veered off. The defenses retracted and the panels settled back in place.
Elijah smiled, "All too easy." He motioned for Victor to come forward. "Let's get this door open. We don't want to keep the good Citizen waiting."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"All right," Gregory Michaels said, after Dunlevy had expressed the entire story of his back-and-forth communications with the man he called Elijah or Elliot, "I'm willing to admit the possibility of this man's authenticity as well as his ability to engineer this coup if everything you say can be believed-"
"It can," Dunlevy said firmly.
"Fine." Michaels said, irritated at the interruption, "But you still haven't told me who he is. Someone of his obvious importance would be known by people regardless of archival information."
Dunlevy shifted his eyes back and forth, clearly not wanting to reveal this portion. "Well, ah... This may be difficult to believe; it certainly was for me. He, ah, told me after we developed a bond of trust that he, ah..." Dunlevy furrowed his brow.
Michaels leaned forward, "What is it?" he demanded.
"He claimed to be the offspring of Citizen One." Dunlevy finished.
"Absurd." Michaels scoffed. "No one has heard of Lange leaving his tower in years, much less fathering some whelp."
Dunlevy shook his head, "Make no mistake, Elijah is older than I am. He told me that when he was an adult, his mother passed away, and he sought out his father. Lange took him in, in secret, and utilized his technical brilliance."
Michaels frowned, still not convinced. "Then what? A falling out? How did Elijah end up down below?"
Dunlevy shrugged, "He never told me."
Michaels threw up his hands, "Well, isn't that marvelous! A man that no one has ever heard of but apparently is a genius responsible for the wondrous technology we possess pulls together an army out of the rabble from down below and brings them to the surface. Then, with the help of a disgruntled hack, they all raid the Institute and teach the nasty old Citizen One a lesson about treating worthless people better." He smirked. "Oh, and the guy is the old man's son, somehow." He added.
Dunlevy wore an angry scowl, "It's all the truth." He growled, irritated more at Michaels' disbelief than at the insult of 'disgruntled hack.'
Michaels rolled his eyes, "Yes, I'm sure your absurd story is completely true." Sensing the other man's growing irritation and recalling that Dunlevy still had a firearm, he dialed down his sarcasm. "Look," he said, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture, "I'm sure it's at least possible."
"Yes, I suppose you would be." Dunlevy glared at him. "Although your flippant attitude makes me want to reconsider your usefulness."
Something about the threat struck a nerve in Michaels, and he realized that he truly would rather be a corpse than to live under the thumb of this rotund fool, "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said with venom, tone rising, "but if you think that your threats are going to stop me from pointing out how moronic and ridiculous the things you say are, you better kill me right now and spare the both of us!" He ended, shouting. A giddy exhilaration coursed through his veins, and he wondered how stupid he was being. You know, I don't really care, he realized.
Dunlevy gritted and bared his teeth, his hand clenched on the pistol he still brandished at his side, "Listen, you arrogant child. I promise that the time will come when you answer for your sins-"
"Oh really?" Michaels interjected, "Tell me; what were sins of Dennis Myers?" He thrust a hand at the corpse on the floor. "Hmm? You murdered him without hesitation!"
Dunlevy opened his mouth and stammered, flustered by the accusation, "He deserved, I mean... I did only what was necessary for my, I mean, our new cause." He seemed to gain confidence. "That man made his living on deceiving others with his propaganda, and he never would have followed our new regime!"
"Really? How can you be sure of that?"
"You heard what he said about Claudia! He said she deserved what was done-"
"Then what about Marcus?" Michaels accused. "I know that you killed him."
Dunlevy's eyes filled with sorrow, and he hung his head in shame. "I never wanted that to happen. He just wouldn't listen! What he was working on was dangerous! I tried to get him to stop, but he needed to..." he trailed off, and suspicion glinted in his eye. "How did you know-?"
"It doesn't matter how I found out!" Michaels yelled. "I know that it's true! You killed him, just like you murdered Myers and how many others? Who else, Arthur? Who?!" Michaels worked himself into a frenzy.
"I, ah, no one! I'd never-" Dunlevy backed away a step.
"What about Claudia?!" Michaels roared, cutting him off. "Would you have killed her too?! Maybe you're relieved that you didn't have to! That Wresh dealt with her intelligence and defiance for you!" The analytical part of Michaels' mind was mildly surprised at the intensity of his outburst. The rest of him didn't care.
Dunlevy looked horrified, "No! Of course not! Claudia was a very dear friend of mine." He sputtered. "If there had been anything I could have done to prevent her fate, I would have! And, and-I-I mean to see that Wresh pays for what he has done to everyone!"
Michaels glared, gritting his teeth, "And what about you, dear Arthur? What about the terrible things you've done? When will you have to pay for them?" As though to punctuate his indictment, the doorknob twitched. The analytical portion of Michaels' mind, passively observing, disregarded it as his imagination.
Except Dunlevy, still off guard, threw a glance at the door and stammered, "I've only done things to save the city; to bring equality to everyone who lives here!" He shook his head violently. "I never wanted to have to do any of this, but I had to because no one else would!"
Michaels threw back his head and laughed, "Oh, is that so? Poor, valiant Citizen Dunlevy all alone against a world gone mad?"
Veins throbbed on Dunlevy's forehead and neck, and his face bent in a furious expression. "I told you," he seethed, "to call me ARTHUR!" he bellowed. "And I've had enough! I will not have some seditious, insolent fool judging my actions when his own sins are far worse!" He slowly shook his head, never taking his eyes off of Michaels. "Your usefulness and intelligence clearly cannot offset your disobedience and arrogance. Goodbye, Citizen Michaels."
Dunlevy raised the gun once more and thumbed back the hammer. Michaels stared down the weapon defiantly. The analytical portion of his mind screamed at him to survive, banging around against the insides of his skull, but the rest of him set into a cool determination. Whatever, he thought. This world doesn't deserve me.
Dunlevy started to squeeze the trigger, and Michaels' eyes slid shut. The gun roared, louder than Michaels ever would have thought, and it was oddly accompanied by the sound of splintering wood and a heavy clatter. Michaels felt a rush of hot air sizzle by his left ear. He opened his eyes as he realized that Dunlevy had missed. The office door, free of hinges, propelled forward and smashed into the desk, breaking the wooden legs and toppling it backwards. The desk lamp snapped free and rolled, casting the only light in the room towards the corner.
Dunlevy whirled around, aiming at the door, clearly terrified, and squeezed the trigger several times at the opening, which, with only dim light in the room and outside, silhouetted in the shape of a large person. Dunlevy gave a slight cry of triumph as impacts resounded and the figure shuddered.
The man, if that was indeed what he was, did not topple to the ground. Dunlevy narrowed his eyes with apprehension tugging at his composure to notice that the figure didn't even seem to react other than to lightly stagger under the impacts. No cry of pain, no grasping at wounds. Nothing. Dunlevy's hands trembled, even as both clutched the weapon. A pair of slanted eyes shined out at the figure's head.
A cascade of ice-water slipped down the length of Michaels' spine as, in a growling hiss, the figure in the doorway whispered, "Arrrthurrrr." Michaels shivered, mind grasping for an explanation. A tiny, giddy thought reveled in that, whatever his own discomfort and fear, Dunlevy's had to be exponentially higher.
This became obvious as the trembling in his hands extended to be visible in Dunlevy's entire body. Quivering, he asked, "Wh-who are you?"
The large form in the doorway stepped into the room. From the dim light, Michaels saw the figure of a man, swathed head-to-toe in clothing, large tattered trench-coat covering most of his body. His face was hidden by a mass of tangled scarves, and atop his head was a battered, wide-brimmed hat. The figure was hulking and brutish, with a slight hunch to its posture. What the hell is that, he wondered. In its leather-gloved hands, it carried a small piece of what appeared to be plastic.
"Arrrthurrr," the figure hissed again, moving towards Dunlevy.
Dunlevy took a step backwards and jabbed his weapon forward, "Stay back!" he screamed. "Whoever you are, stay back!"
"Rrememmberrr, Arrthurr." The figure growled.
"Wh-what?" Dunlevy asked, eyes wide.
"REMEMBER!" The creature bellowed, leaping forward with speed that belied its size, dropping the small plastic square to the ground.
Dunlevy let out a high-pitched scream and pulled the trigger repeatedly. A resounding crack filled the room three times until the slide snapped open as the clip ran empty.
Two bullets pounded into the center mass of the figure. The third went higher, stripping off the battered hat. The creature's head snapped backward as the round skipped off its forehead, splitting open the scalp. Along with rivulets of blood dripping down into the scarves, a shock of bright, white, long hair tumbled down. Michaels' jaw dropped to see, between the white hair and dribbling blood, dusky blue skin and what was indeed slanted, glowing eyes. "My God," he whispered.
The blood drained from Dunlevy's face as the figure swiped his hand forward, knocking the gun into the wall and seizing him by the wrist. Dunlevy's shoulder wrenched with a revolting pop. The round man let out a scream of pain as the creature hauled him upward, lifting him off of his feet. Michaels watched, frozen in shock but glad no one seemed to be paying him any attention.
Dunlevy whimpered as a low growl escaped the throat of the creature, he stammered, "Who are y-you? Wh-what do you w-want?"
The grip on Dunlevy's wrist tightened, and Michaels cringed and gasped as he heard a grinding, crunching noise. Dunlevy let out a high-pitched wail as the bones in his wrist pulverized under the amazing strength of the creature, who hissed, "You... why...?"
Dunlevy didn't notice the question. Through cries of pain and sobbing, he said, "P-please! I-I, I haven't done anything!"
The figure's eyes went strikingly wide at this, and it roared, "YOU KILLED ME, ARTHUR!" With a surprising level of clarity.
What's this? Michaels wondered. Another crime to add to his list? Suddenly, the presence of the blue skin clicked something in his mind. "Oh my God," he whispered. "That's it..." Marcus must have implanted it on a cadaver before he was killed, he thought. My God, it really can revive the dead... Arthur continued babbling and denying knowing anything along with whimpering and gasping from the pain in his shoulder and wrist. Michaels thought, Absolutely amazing, ignoring, just for a moment, the violence occurring in his office.
"Where the hell you go? Malcolm?" A female voice snapped from the doorway. The lights in the room flicked on, and as Michaels turned to see the source, the woman let out a piercing scream.
In the doorway was a young woman, filthy-looking, underfed, and what Michaels would describe as ragged. He'd seen the look before on the prisoners sent to him for conditioning. This one was much different, however, in that she hadn't been interrogated and beaten to a pulp beforehand.
After the initial scream, the woman was still gawking at the dead man lying facedown on the floor. She shook violently and breathed in gasps as she, still in the room stepped away from the body until she met a wall. The creature, apparently named Malcolm, if he was who the woman was looking for, reacted to her arrival and scream by releasing Dunlevy, who dropped abruptly to the floor like a wet paper bag. He cradled his injured wrist with his other arm, sobbing.
Malcolm moved towards the woman, and for a moment Michaels was concerned that he planned to attack her in the same way, but he didn't seem to be threatening at all, "Jesus," she breathed out, "why are there so many dead people in this place?"
Michaels watched as the thing called Malcolm gazed down at the dead body for several moments, apparently lost in thought. He stooped over and gasped the dead man by the shoulders and lifted him up, with little apparent effort. The woman paled again and covered her mouth as the blood dribbled out of the hole in the man's head. Malcolm stared into the vacant eyes and slack mouth of former Citizen Myers for a few seconds. His slanted, glowing eyes, narrowed and stared.
"Myyerrss..." he hissed, and once again Michaels' eyes widened. At this point, he noticed that Dunlevy was on his feet, inching his way to the left side of the room to get closer to the door. When Michaels shot a glance at him, he panicked at being noticed. Dunlevy bolted, limply clutching his injured arm. He ran past Malcolm, who still held Myers body, jostling into dead man's back by mistake.
Malcolm noticed Dunlevy escaping out the door. His eyes went wide once more and he roared, "ARRTHURRR!" He cast aside the dead body, which impacted the wall with a sickening thud before crumpling in a heap on the ground. He sprang towards the open door and disappeared from sight.
"Malcolm, where the hell are you going now?" The woman yelled. "God dammit!" She cursed, moving towards the door to follow. She finally noticed Michaels standing in the room and watching with wide-eyes the whirlwind spectacle of the last few minutes. She frowned, "Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
Michaels didn't really know how to respond. He opened his mouth to say something but the woman cut him off, "Never mind, it doesn't really matter." She ducked around the doorway and disappeared from sight, leaving Michaels alone in the room with the dead body.
He stared vacantly, trying to make sense of the entire event, when something on the floor caught his eye. The small object that Malcolm was holding when he came in. Michaels eyed it, walked over, and picked it up off the ground. He sucked in a gasp with yet another, my God, passing through his thoughts when he read the nametag. He, too, sprinted out of the room, following the activity.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Sergei regained consciousness in a dark room. He stirred, and let out a grunt of pain from the wound in his midsection. A hand clamped down over his mouth and he glared upward and struggled. He relaxed slightly when he saw that it was Isaac crouched above him, with a finger pressed over his own lips. The hand came off of Sergei's mouth, and he whispered, "Where are we?"
In a low voice, Isaac responded, "Somewhere safe. I stumbled across you, unconscious, and brought you with." Sergei's hazy vision gradually adjusted to the objects in the room, and by the rows of shelves and books, he noted that they were in a library. A few other soldiers were in the room. Some lying down, some watching out windows. Sergei tried to sit up. He hissed breath through his clenched teeth at the pain and settled back down.
"Don't try to move." Isaac whispered.
Sergei didn't usually appreciate orders, but this seemed wise.
"You're one lucky son of a bitch," Isaac muttered. "The bullet seems to have missed your organs," he shook his head, "but you've lost a lot of blood, so take it easy."
"What has happened?" Sergei asked.
Isaac smiled, "Rick wanted chaos and that's what he's got. We've got fires scattered around the city and panicking Citizens flooding the streets. Riots have broken out, and I believe there's more than a few looters." The smile faded. "Organized Inquisition and what's left of their reserve military finally responded, so we all cleared out and hid. They've got their hands full trying to deal with the panic, so they haven't been able to try and root us out yet."
"Where are my other men?" The injured man asked.
Isaac shook his head. "Don't know; you were the only one we found." Sergei clenched his teeth. "Most of them probably hid like us." Isaac tried to be reassuring.
Sergei's eyes went wide and he bolted upright, gasping at the pain but not stopping. "Piotr, where is Piotr?!" He demanded. "Did you find him also? He was in the alley with me."
Isaac shook his head. "Don't take this the wrong way, but who the hell is this Piotr?"
Sergei looked confused. "You have met him, have you not? He is my brother. He is young and..." Sergei stopped speaking, watching Isaac's frowning expression. He settled back down. "foolish..." he muttered, moisture forming in his eyes.
Isaac didn't say anything, only looking at the wounded man with mild curiosity.
For several moments, Sergei remained quiet, in contemplation. Finally, he said. "I forget, sometimes." He sadly shook his head. "It is better than remembering what really happened." He looked up at Isaac. "Most times, I know he is not really there. I still see him, but I know that he is not real." He gave a chuckle, which morphed into a wheezing cough.
"What happened to him?"
Sergei swallowed hard, "He was killed. It was my fault."
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
Sergei turned his gaze back towards Isaac, "Does there need to be more than that?"
Isaac didn't answer. The two men held a long, uncomfortable silence. Sergei, surprisingly, broke it, "What are we supposed to do now?"
Isaac shrugged, "There's not much that we can do anymore. Our part in this is pretty much finished. Now we just have to hope that Rick didn't screw up his job, or none of this will have meant a thing."
Citizen Arthur Dunlevy ran as quickly as his legs would carry his girth. Tears streamed down his cheeks from the pain in his right arm and wrist. His shoulder was dislocated, wrenched out of the socket by the force of the creature's pull. He cradled his wrist and hand, which when unsupported sagged loosely without structural support of intact bones.
His intense fear made the haste of his retreat quite impressive; he had already burst into the stairwell when he heard the creature bellowing behind him.
What the hell was that thing? He wondered frantically as he ran. How did it know my name, and why is it trying to kill me? He shook his head, "Never did anything to deserve this," he babbled.
With his uninjured shoulder, he rammed the stairwell door; it flew open and he started down the last stretch towards the lobby area. He didn't really know where he planned on going. Getting away from the freakish monster is a good start, he thought.
His breath came out in ragged gasps; far too much activity for a middle-aged man in such poor physical condition, but he kept running. About twenty feet away from the lobby the stairwell door banged open again. A jolt of fright pumped through Dunlevy's body, and he picked up the pace.
He burst through the door into the now-empty lobby, looking around for somewhere to go. He heard movement behind him, and had enough time to think, it can't move that fast-
Something hit him, and the large man was knocked sprawling. He smashed into the desk, injured-arm first. Splinters of agony shredded through his injuries, and he cut loose a shriek as he fe;; to the ground. His vision swam in a haze of murky darkness, his mind desperately clawing away from unconsciousness. He saw a large shape moving towards him, cutting through his blurred vision was a pair of slanted, glowing eyes. Dunlevy squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered, again wondering what he did to deserve this.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Rick and his soldiers hadn't done much since Victor and Elijah disappeared into the elevator, and they were starting to get edgy. Rick himself thought that the pair's behavior was very strange, and the idea of continuing to hold an enemy position for no specific reason bothered him more and more.
Everyone perked up as a loud, high-pitched scream and a heavy thud echoed through the hallway, coming from the main lobby area down the long hallway they had labored so hard to get through.
He looked at Jonathon. "What the hell was that?" His cohort shrugged. To his sentries watching that direction, he shouted, "What do you see?"
One squinted through a rifle scope, and after a moment, he reported, "Nothing. Far doors are still slightly ajar, but I can't see much else. I don't think it's enemy troops, sir."
Rick furrowed his brow, "What about the scream?"
"Beats me, sir, but it definitely came from in there." The soldier shrugged.
Screw this, Rick thought. "All right, you three; let's check it out. Move!" Jonathon, Rick, and two others moved ahead, the remaining uninjured and the wounded staying to watch the elevator. They advanced low with their weapons shouldered.
Rick threw open the door and swung around into the room, "Good God..." he breathed, lowering his weapon. The weird thing that Kaylee spent so much time with, Malcolm, was standing next to the reception desk holding the fat guy informant up by his collar. Malcolm had lost his hat, somehow, and the long white hair lay tangled around his shoulders. The left side of his bluish-gray face was coated with sticky, red blood, but Rick couldn't see a head wound to go with it.
Malcolm's eyes were filled with anger and hate as they bored into Dunlevy, who looked more than a little worse for the wear. His soldiers faltered, but he and Jonathon flanked the desk, the other two circling around behind near the front.
From where he was, Rick could see that the stout man was bruised and battered. His suit was rumpled, dirty, and torn in several places. He bled from small scratches on his face and hands, and tears streamed down his cheeks. His right arm hung limply in an awkward position and was bent unnaturally at the wrist. Rick winced to realize that it was dislocated, broken, and God knows what else. Seeing Rick arrive, Dunlevy turned his head and weakly whimpered, "Help me... please..."
Malcolm was growling some kind of indistinct phrase. He was speaking but it was too harsh to figure out exactly what he was saying. Rick thought he caught the words, "killed him," but he wasn't sure.
"Malcolm!" Rick shouted, shouldering his rifle. "Put the guy down!"
Malcolm's angry glare swiveled towards Rick, and he shuddered under its threatening intensity. Shit, he thought, tightening his grip on the weapon. "Just take it easy," he said, in his best reassuring tone, "let him go, and we'll talk about this." He gave a couple of hand signals and his men moved slowly around the desk, flanking the bizarre creature.
"No!" Malcolm hissed. He threw Dunlevy down onto the marble desk top, who flopped limply and let out a cry of pain, but offered no resistance to his assailant. He lay helpless and coughing weakly.
All right, that's it, Rick thought. "Back away, Malcolm, or I'm going to fill you full of holes. I don't know why you've gone so batshit crazy, but I'm not going to let you kill him."
Malcolm didn't appear to listen; he stepped closer to Dunlevy, and placed one hand around the man's wide throat. "Dammit, Malcolm!" Rick yelled. "Back off! I'm not kidding here!"
The door behind Malcolm burst open, and Kaylee stumbled out, "Malcolm!" she yelled. "What are you doing?! Stop!"
Rick did a double take. "Kaylee? What the hell are you doing here?"
Malcolm spared a half-glance, but gave no response or acknowledgement of Kaylee's presence or Rick's shout. His grip tightened on Dunlevy's throat, and the round man gurgled and flailed as his lungs struggled to pull in air and his consciousness began to fade. His hand closed on the scarf covering Malcolm's face. He pulled, freeing one of the ends and loosening the garment.
Rick's attention returned, disregarding Kaylee's presence for the moment, "All right, that's it!" Rick shouted. "You were warned! Fi-"
Rick was interrupted when the door flew open once more, and Citizen Gregory Michaels spilled into the room, out of breath. He gave a bewildered glance around the room, looking at the few soldiers aiming at the figure.
Who the hell is this now? Rick wondered, tightening his grip on his weapon. All of his men still gripped their weapons, aiming at Malcolm who continued to squeeze the life out of the poor, weakly-struggling man.
"Marcus, stop!" Michaels yelled, and Malcolm flinched. Everyone could hear Dunlevy gasping for breath as Malcolm relaxed his grip. The soldiers aiming exchanged confused glances with each other. Malcolm hung his head and closed his eyes, as though ashamed.
Kaylee spun around, "Who the hell is Marcus?" Good question, Rick thought.
"I am." Malcolm hissed. He shook his head. "I... wasss."
"What?" Kaylee asked, puzzled. "Is that your real name?"
Malcolm, or Marcus, whoever he was, spoke again, "I... rrememmber." He looked around the room, slowly. "Mmy name... isss..."
"Citizen Marcus Coleman. My predecessor." Michaels interrupted, tossing the small square nametag forward. Marred and almost illegible, it bore the remnants of the name. He shook his head. "He's supposed to be dead."
"Wait," Kaylee said. "he's a Citizen?"
"Not anymore." Michaels said. "He was murdered three months ago. By him." He pointed at Dunlevy, who rolled off the table rubbing his neck.
Rick frowned gazing at the clearly not-dead, not-quite man, "Murdered? I hate to ask the obvious, but-"
Michaels shook his head, "Technology beyond our understanding, containing remarkable regenerative properties. Marcus' body was burned beyond recognition when he was killed. He must have been regenerated based upon set programming. Although," Michaels smirked, "I am curious to know how effective the brain tissue and memory regeneration fared. Marcus?"
Malcolm whirled around and his slanted eyes glowered at Michaels, causing a knot of fear to tighten in his stomach. Michaels swallowed hard, wondering why he was so interested in tempting fate this evening.
"I rremmember..." He turned towards Dunlevy, who gasped and tried to turn and run. Malcolm's arm shot out and grabbed him by the collar; he dragged the man back towards him. "Youu...killed him. You killed Marcuss..."
Michaels smirked again, "What do you know, Arthur, it turns out your sins have come to revisit you. And so soon."
Dunlevy put his hands together, pleading, "Marcus, please! I-I had no other choice. If Lange or Wresh had discovered what you were working on they would have taken it for themselves and killed you anyway!"
Malcolm lashed out his arm and struck Dunlevy, clipping him on the side of the head. Dunlevy dropped to the ground with a pathetic cry and threw up his arms to fend off further attacks. "Please, Marcus!" He screamed. "Have mercy!"
A guttural growl escaped from the strange creature, and he hissed. "Marrcuss iss dead..." He reached down towards Dunlevy.
The front lobby doors shattered inward, flinging shrapnel in a wide arc into the room. Michaels ran for cover behind a column, bumping into Kaylee and dragging them both to the ground behind it as debris pelted the room. Malcolm was propelled into the desk by the force of the blast. His midsection rammed into the hard marble top, and he crumpled to the ground next to Dunlevy, who screamed as shards of the metal door sliced into his body. People clad in black rushed in after the explosion, firing weapons.
One of Rick's men flanking Malcolm to the left nearest to the door fell immediately either from the concussion or shrapnel, propelled to the ground with fatal bleeding wounds. The other was cut down by the subsequent fire, no cover within reach. Rick himself dove behind the desk and covered his head, deafening sounds of gunfire roaring in the room. Jonathon, the only man he had left rolled behind the pillar off to Rick's left, looking at his boss to signal return fire. Rick held up a halting hand, mouthing 'wait.'
There's no point in trying, we'd just get killed, Rick thought. His mind raced, trying desperately to summon up some idea to get out of the mess. Next to him on the floor was still the body of the receptionist he'd killed earlier. The glassy stare continued to observe the ceiling, and his skin had turned an ashy tone.
"Cease fire!" he heard a yell, off to his right. "Please, don't shoot!"
Rick glanced over. Without poking his head out too far, he saw the Citizen cowering behind the pillar, shouting and waving his arm out. Kaylee was facedown in front of him, unmoving. He felt a shiver and a twinge of dread seeing her, but he didn't see any blood or injury. God, please be just faking, he hoped.
Gregory Michaels yelled again, "Please, don't shoot! I'm a Citizen!"
He heard a familiar, rough voice call out, "Is that you, Michaels?"
Michaels nodded frantically, not caring that they couldn't see it behind the pillar. "Yes, yes it is, please don't shoot!"
"Are there any of the insurgents left alive in here?"
Michaels looked directly down at Rick, who looked wide-eyed back up at him. He looked up at the pillar on the other side, which hid Jonathon. "No! They're all dead!" Michaels shouted, eliciting a confused look from Rick. Not entirely sure why himself, Michaels made a very slight hand gesture that suggested Rick remain where he was.
"Step out, slowly!" the voice barked.
Michaels, with his hands up in the air, stepped around the pillar. In a smoky haze from the breaching explosion, he could make out the forms of at least a dozen black-clad Inquisitors with their leader, Julian Wresh, at the front. Michaels stifled a small laugh at the thought that the High Inquisitor looked terribly short, but the image of Claudia's blank stare came back, and his amusement faded.
"Michaels, you're still alive." Wresh said, as though it was surprising.
"Yes, I am," Michaels responded irritably, "No thanks to your trigger happy lunacy." He stepped around the counter, seeing Dunlevy lying beneath Malcolm. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and his mouth hung open; he was dead, dozens of fragments from the door lacerating his flesh and internal organs. Michael's shook his head. "You killed Arthur, you maniac."
Wresh scowled, "Mind your tone. I'm very well aware of his traitorous actions, and either way his death is no great loss. Although, his murder of Marcus Coleman did come as a surprise." With the toe of his shoe he nudged the unmoving body of Malcolm. "Not as surprising as his return from the dead, I suppose." He looked up at Michaels. "Oh well, plenty of time to sort it out in autopsy, don't you agree?"
Michaels thoughts turned towards the regenerative properties of the sample and wondered if Malcolm was unconscious or simply faking, but he had no idea how quickly or slowly wounds would heal, or if they would cause any detriment to his prodigious strength and speed. He also wondered how much Wresh had heard prior to the breach regarding the technology.
Michaels decided to shy away from the subject, "He killed Myers as well; in my office."
A look crossed the High Inquisitor's face, something confusing. Satisfaction? Triumph? Whatever it was, it quickly was hidden behind a face filled with calm. "Then his death was well-justified. His treason against our city has been punished."
Michaels couldn't help but feel a loathing towards the diminutive man, "Yes, I suppose, but that doesn't change that your reckless action could have left me fatally wounded as well."
"It is regrettable. However," Wresh narrowed his eyes, "what you must understand is," he drew his weapon, holding it at his side. "because of Arthur Dunlevy's actions, all of the civilian council members are under suspicion."
Michaels scowled, "Well that doesn't really matter now, does it? I'm the," he paused, eyes widening, "only one left..." he finished, whispering.
Wresh smiled wickedly, and the lines deepened on his face. "Exactly."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
The door in the council chamber opened into a spiral staircase, old and partially rusted. The two men climbed up, then passed through an unlocked hatch into a nondescript circular room, directly above the council space. The walls were entirely blank, without any decoration or color. There were no windows, and the floor was a sterile, white tile. In the center was a chair, pivoting points at various places for raising and lowering head and legs. It made the room look almost like a dentists' office, save for a few differences.
In the curved ceiling of the room could be seen a large assembly of electronics and machinery in a steel frame sticking out of the ceiling. Elijah knew that this was only the very bottom of the device which filled at least the last twenty feet of the spire. The apparatus, at least the bottom end of it, was an unimpressive series of large squares with deep grooves in between with thick electrical cables running into the center of each section. The wiring snaked down the walls and disappeared into several points along the floor.
The sterilization field, the pinnacle of the Citizen regime's technological ingenuity, was projected from this device, coating the entire city in its protective shield. Elijah keenly remembered the years upon years that he labored over the madman's concept. Lange, then at least partially motile, insisted upon the feasibility not just to keep out microorganisms but for defensive purposes. The tower, and several other points in and around the city, projected a combination electromagnetic field.
Elijah allowed himself a brief moment of nostalgia as he recalled the beginnings of the project. When he began, theory into any practical use of technology such as that was still fairly minimal. Some suggested that it could indeed kill bacteria and other microorganisms, but vague ideas were quite far from utilization. Yet, after years of work, primarily inside this very room, the ideas took shape, and what resulted from the project was elegant and marvelous, providing the city with the fullest measure of the desired isolation. Contact in the field caused a release in the internal pressure of cell membranes, destroying any pathogens as well as just about anything else. In addition, the field could easily scramble any electronics, making bombardment or missile attacks imprecise if not completely useless.
Elijah cast his memories aside, as his focus was not on the accomplishments of the past but the room's sole occupant. Surrounding the chair in the center, suspended from the ceiling, was all manner of monitors and electronic devices. Bundles of cable spewed out in every direction, crawling along the floor and ceiling. Beneath and around the chair was machinery of a different sort. Clear tubes ran from large vessels to the chair, filled with various color and consistency liquids. A deep thrumming filled the air, coming from all of the machinery, which exuded enough heat to make the room uncomfortably warm.
Elijah smirked as all of these measures were wrapped around one weak, frail, and extremely elderly individual seated in his throne. "Hello, Father. Didn't expect to see me face to face?"
The man in the chair looked like a corpse. With only his face, neck, and hands exposed, his pale, heavily-wrinkled skin hung loose from his bones. The top of his mottled head contained only a few faint wisps of thin, near-translucent white hair. His hands were gnarled, and his knuckles protruded from the sallow, waxy skin. On his face was a breathing mask that was hooked into a respirator machine. There were a few other bonuses to the mask, as Elijah well knew; cameras, scanners, and microphones to pick up his speech when necessary.
A dark blue bodysuit that Elijah knew to be for thermal and fluid regulation covered the rest of his body. The countless number of tubes and wires connecting to the devices around the chair ran in and out of the suit and the ancient man's body, swirling with proper fluids and waste substances. It kept the old man alive for a span of time that no one could guess. If you could call that living, Elijah thought.
The only thing that did not appear to be far too old to function was the old man's eyes. From the second Elijah and Victor entered the room; Franklin Lange's deep blue eyes watched them, revealing a great deal of remaining awareness.
"Here I was hoping to hear you plead for your life," Elijah said, raising his weapon, "but I suppose you wouldn't remember how to breath without that mask, much less speak."
One of the gnarled hands twitched. Lange's withered arm rose, and he gripped the breathing mask. With a concentrated effort, he pulled the mask down, away from his face. He pulled in a few slow breaths on his own, but gave a dry, bone-rattling cough. He wiped his mouth with a trembling arm, and settled a glare on Elijah.
The voice that came from the decrepit man was grating and raspy, yet it remained clear and comprehensible, containing a strength that belied his extreme age, "So you've made it. You've arrived to do, what? Exact your vengeance?"
"Something like that," Elijah scowled, irritated at the old man's flippant attitude.
"Well, here I am," Lange released a rattling laugh, "what are you waiting for? Lost your nerve now?"
That's it, Elijah thought, clenching his teeth. "Very well, then. If you wish to speed along your journey to oblivion, who am I to argue." He aimed his pistol and stepped forward.
Victor, remaining silent and following along, suddenly felt nervous. Everything in the room and surrounding the seat appeared to be intended to keep the old man alive and connected to the world. Lange doesn't spare the slightest expense when it comes to his survival, so why is he so unconcerned about someone trying to kill him? Victor tensed.
As Elijah brought the weapon to bear, the old man's hand moved and touched something on the arm of the chair. Victor's eyes went wide as panels on each side of the wall slid open. He lunged forward, gripping Elijah by the shoulder and hurling him bodily to the floor. Elijah gave a startled cry and skidded back several feet.
The thrumming intensified and a pulse issued from the panels flanking Victor. The lighting in the room dimmed significantly and the other machinery chugged as something drew a massive amount of power. The air around Victor shimmered and the light warped.
Victor's entire body convulsed, muscles seizing, before he toppled to the ground. Elijah felt a twinge of shock roll through his body with a cold, icy grip settling in his chest as Victor's lifeless eyes stared out at him, a dribble of thick blood leaking out of his nose. Elijah's breathing and heart-rate skyrocketed, and a small jolt fired into his mind, which began to cloud over as the world blurred around the edges.
Elijah's eyes flashed to the chair's arm console where Lange's claw-like hand still clutched. Lange's weathered face drew back in an anxious look to see Elijah raise his sidearm and fire. Rounds punched through the fragile machinery in and around the chair. There was a splatter of blood as one bullet glanced off Lange's wrist. The ancient man let out a cry and jerked his hand back.
Elijah turned and fired into the each panel on the wall, damaging and disabling the projector devices. He pointed the gun back at Lange, who now, instead of looking confident and relaxed, appeared frightened. He squirmed in the chair and his eyes jerked back and forth as though trying to find a way out; he looked very much like a trapped animal.
Keeping one eye and the weapon trained on the old man, he knelt next to Victor. He touched the man's neck, looking for a pulse. The flesh felt thick and tense, as though it or the tissue beneath had solidified to the consistency of a boiled egg. Victor was quite dead. Elijah clenched his teeth, and his body trembled with a coldness seeping through his limbs and his weak heart flailing around.
"Very clever, Father. Projecting the energy from the sterilization field as a..." He closed his eyes, willing calm over his body, "final defense." His finger twitched on the trigger. "I admit that we didn't anticipate anything like it."
The heavily-wrinkled face twisted in a scowl, "You can't kill me, I am the soul of Haven!" he rasped, "The consequences would be dire. You would destroy everything."
Elijah spoke slowly, voice dripping with venom. "Do you understand what you've done, Father?" He hissed breath through his teeth. "You've now taken everything from me. Victor was the very last thing in this world that I cared about. The man who shielded me from your wrath and kept me alive long enough to see my mother avenged is dead." He gave a grim smile, feeling a slow searing agony flood into his chest. "You and I are all that remains."
Lange glared, still helpless in his chair, "That's not true. The Citizens, your people are still here. They will remain behind, and when I die they will be cast into oblivion with us. Would you sacrifice them and the lives of thousands for your petty vengeance?"
Elijah stood. He raised the weapon once more, stared into his father's eyes, and said. "Yes."
Chapter 40: All the King's Horses
Michaels felt his blood boil against the High Inquisitor, who donned a smug look as though he had already won. "You're using this." He shook his head, half in disbelief, "as a power play?"
Wresh's smug smile remained plastered on his face, "You make it sound so glib. Lange's time has ended; this pathetic little coup has its usefulness, to be sure."
Michaels shook his head, irritated, "You allowed criminals and vagrants to flood the streets of our city?"
Wresh gave an innocent look, "I may have suspected something was coming, but the coordination of this attack was far beyond even my wildest expectations," Wresh grinned wildly, making his weathered face appear ghoulish, "the sheer panic will keep my Inquisitors busy for quite some time. All the better, I suppose."
"Keep the masses afraid?" Michaels said, scowling.
Wresh shrugged. "They will see that Citizen One has become detached, unreliable." Wresh spread out his hands. "They will see that stronger leadership is necessary to our survival. More intense control lest things spiral away again."
As though to punctuate this suggestion, the lighting projecting from fixtures on the walls dimmed noticeably, and, although no one looked, the shimmer of the field seen through the skylight briefly fluctuated. Unbeknownst to any in the room, a bodyguard who had betrayed a dictator died without a whisper in that moment.
"Oh, let me guess," Michaels smirked, not bothering to acknowledge the power fluctuation, "that would be you."
"Who better?" Wresh shrugged again.
Michaels snapped his fingers, "Ah, of course, and now that the civilian members of the advisory council are all but eliminated, that makes it even easier for you, doesn't it?"
Wresh gave a nod, "Very perceptive." He cocked his head. "Although you say, 'all but eliminated' as though you assume that the last remaining member will survive this transition."
A cold chill swept through Michaels once again as the impending threat of death loomed over him. Bastard, he thought. He's not even pretending like I could be useful to him, like Arthur did. He gazed down again at the poor dead man's body. You may have done wrong, Arthur, but at least your heart was in the right place.
"So that's how it's going to be, is it?" Michaels sneered defiantly. "Anything will be done to ensure your success? Remove anything or anyone that might stand in your way?"
Wresh smiled once again. "Can you think of a better way?" He raised his weapon.
The power fluctuated again, only this time the lights failed entirely. The room was plunged into complete darkness. There was a moment of complete stunned silence, causing more than a couple of people in the room to irrationally wonder if they'd blacked out. A murmur passed through the room, and they realized that the power went out, yet the complete, pitch darkness was more than a little unnerving.
An electrical buzz resounded and the wall fixtures cast a dimmed, weaker light into the room. Everyone looked around with light apprehension at the odd occurrence.
One Inquisitor broke all protocol by staring up, through the skylight, and uttering, "Oh my God."
The gaze in the room, even those hiding behind the various objects, craned upward. Through the skylight they could see the dim orange glow of streetlamps flickering back to life. Beyond that, however there was nothing. No pinpricks of starlight. No moon to add brilliance to the inky blackness of the sky. It remained completely pitch-dark. Everyone stared silently, dread beginning to pool in their hearts.
Kaylee, uninjured and playing possum, almost felt as though she'd been punched. "No... not again." She whispered.
Malcolm bellowed and sprang from his prone position, shattering the silence. His scarf remained on the ground, revealing his disturbing alien visage. Before anyone could react, he threw his shoulder into the distracted High Inquisitor. Wresh was violently launched into a couple of his men, knocking several people sprawling to the ground.
The other men turned their horrified eyes away from the blank sky, clutching for their weapons. Malcolm leapt the distance and slammed his fist into the chest of one. There was a revolting sound as the man's sternum cracked under the force of the blow and caved in his chest. Blood spewed from the man's mouth as he was propelled backwards into other Inquisitors, tumbling several more to the ground.
By this time the men still standing recovered enough to turn and fire at him. Bullets pounded into Malcolm with the sound of shredding tissue, and the impact force brought him to his knees. He reached behind himself and grabbed the ankle of a fallen man. He yanked the man close enough to grip him by the fabric of his jacket, and, in spite of the person's terrified cries, pulled the man's body into the line of fire.
The Inquisitor jerked and convulsed as dozens of rounds ripped into his back. The weapons fire lulled for a moment, and Malcolm seized the opportunity to hurl dead body at his assailants. The corpse sailed through the air and collided with three others, bringing them all to the ground along with so many of their other comrades. One man tried to rise and bring his weapon to bear, but Malcolm viciously backhanded him. The man's head snapped to the side; an audible crack resounded and a soft throaty gurgling issued from the Inquisitor as his life vanished.
More Inquisitors attempted to rise and bring weapons to bear, but several of the men, upon seeing Malcolm's face, completely broke and fled, screaming. Malcolm's hair was wild and matted with dark red blood. There were several wounds and gashes on his face and head; one hole was punched into his skull, and pearly white bone could be seen along with fleshy brain matter and blood oozing out. He dripped blood from dozens of other wounds on his body, but nothing appeared to phase him or even halt his progress. His eyes blazed a fierce white as he continued raining hammer blows on individuals, knocking them out, shattering bones, or killing them outright.
Rick took the distracted opportunity to assist Malcolm; he inched up over the desk and fired several rounds from his assault rifle, evening the odds. Jonathon leaned out as well, firing his submachine gun perched on the arm of his injured hand.
Malcolm's path of destruction led him to the back corner of the room. Pinning a man against the wall, he pulled back his fist and struck him in the face, shattering the front of his skull and pushing the shards of bone into the delicate brain tissue. The man collapsed without another sound, and Malcolm slowly turned around.
Dozens of Inquisitors lay unconscious, dying, and dead. High Inquisitor Wresh was finally clamoring to his feet having crawled out from underneath fallen bodies. He looked over at the monstrous creature staring back at him, his eyes jerked over to Rick and Jonathon, who had weapons aimed. His head snapped back and forth, looking for some sign of life or activity out of any of his people.
His hand gripped his .45 at his side, and he shifted, twitching, seemingly contemplating trying to use it. Thinking better of it, he bolted out of the front opening into the night air. Not expecting this, Rick was taken off guard for just a moment. He shouldered his weapon to try for a non-lethal shot, but Malcolm burst into his line of sight. With his wide frame blocking the shot, hitting Wresh wouldn't have been possible.
Wresh barely made it three feet out of the building. Malcolm seized him from behind by the back of his collar, like a dog, and lifted him up, dragging him back into the room. Terror in his eyes, Wresh raised his weapon and pulled the trigger, but Malcolm's other hand seized his wrist. The weapon fired off-target, and the bullet grazed Malcolm's cheek, raising a gash with a spatter of blood. Still gripping Wresh's wrist, Malcolm twisted and wrenched. The bones snapped like kindling, and the gun clattered harmlessly to the ground as Wresh released a high-pitched howl.
Malcolm released his arm, which dropped limply to Wresh's side, and gripped the High Inquisitor's throat and squeezed. Wresh gurgled, his eyes bulged out, and he feebly used his uninjured arm to tug at the hand strangling him. "Marcus," he spat, choking, "please."
Malcolm drew the man closer, so that their faces were inches apart, and he hissed, "Marcuss is dead," as the High Inquisitors eyelids fluttered closed and consciousness slipped away. Malcolm glared at the man, shaking him a few times. When no further noises escaped, he cast Wresh aside, easily, as though he weighed nothing.
Wresh flew through the air and collided with the reception desk. His head rebounded off the hard marble edge with a sharp crack that raised a grimace from everyone still alive in the room. If life had remained with him after passing out from strangulation, it snuffed completely at the impact. The High Inquisitor collapsed on top of the dead sociologist, blood dribbling out of the wide gash on his head.
Rick stood up, lowering his weapon to his side, but keeping an eye on Malcolm. Michaels, during the firefight, had dropped to the ground and covered his head. He now was clamoring to his feet and passing a wide-eyed gaze around the room. Jonathon peeked out of the pillar he hid behind, and a silence hung thick in the air.
Kaylee had the idea first. Dread firmly settled in the pit of her stomach. She took off at a run past all of the bodies, past Malcolm, into the cool night air. A few people followed her example, and slowly, everyone's gaze returned towards the sky. As though trapped in the nightmare, it remained completely dark and featureless. There were no stars, no moon, nothing at all, as though a shroud had fallen over the city of Haven. The air still carried the smell of smoke, and, in both the distance and fairly close by, they could see groups of people in the streets. Lots of panicking, gawking, and running.
Once outside they could hear street-side announcement speakers blaring a recorded message. They couldn't identify the voice that produced it, but what was said made their insides clench.
"...regret to inform you, Citizens of the grand city of Haven, that, on this day, your beloved founder, Citizen One, has passed from this life. Franklin William Lange was the greatest man our world has ever known, giving many things to the people most worthy of his love. He gave us this majestic city. He gave us our enlightened society. He gave us purpose. He gave us life. It is such, that we mourn his passing as we would mourn our own. Our soul has been extinguished this day, and may the sun never shine again on his paradise without his love and guidance..." There was a pause, and the message started over, "The highest levels of Citizenship, the Inquisition, and the advisory council regret to inform you..."
Kaylee suddenly cut loose a scream, startling everyone nearby. They looked on, still in shock, as she carried on for a good ten seconds before falling to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. Rick rushed to her side.
"We were close," she sobbed, "we were so close... why do we have to start over again?"
"I know," he whispered, hugging her close, "I know." He passed his hopeless gaze over the night sky again. For once, he had no sarcasm, no bitter humor to express. Nothing but despair filled his thoughts.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Desmond, for some reason, was fascinated by the stillness of Quinton as he stood by the window. Which was why, a minute or two after the outside lights dimmed and flickered briefly, when Quinton moved suddenly, as though he had seen something important, Desmond noticed it.
He had quickly crossed through the room to the window and looked out. "What is it?" He asked. "What's wrong?"
Quinton didn't bother turning towards him; his head remained ducked down and his eyes gazed upward, "Look up." He growled. "The sky is gone."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
"Oh shit," summed up most of Isaac's reaction. Sergei, who had very nearly fallen asleep again, started awake and looked towards him.
"What is the matter?" Sergei inquired.
Isaac stared out the window, slowly shaking his head, "Someone must have screwed something up big time, because the night sky just vanished."
Sergei sat upright, causing a flare of pain to stab through his wound, "What?" he asked, wincing.
Isaac turned towards him, "You heard me. The stars, the moon; it's all gone."
With a light crackling, speakers and intercoms in the library came to life, playing a pre-recorded message. Everyone in the room remained quiet and wide-eyed at the content. "Son of a bitch," Isaac whispered as the message began to repeat itself.
Sergei wore a heavy scowl, his teeth clenched. "Looks like we are not quite finished with this after all, my friend."
"No, I guess not." Isaac gave a thin, humorless smile, more like a grimace. He felt his anger start to boil. He returned his gaze towards the outside, still shaking his head. This city is going to get torn to shreds, he thought.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Elijah was unsurprised that the lights did not return after he shot Lange, causing a slightly too quick, but not unsatisfying, death for the old man. He was also unsurprised when there was a hiss and a whir near the entrance, shortly followed by a popping of his ears as the chamber sealed airtight.
This is his tomb. He really never intended to leave, Elijah thought bitterly, smirking. He never intended to die either, did he now?
Elijah sighed loudly, unheard by anyone. If the place was indeed airtight, he probably did not have long before he ran out of anything to breathe. Not that it mattered, his left arm tingled with a ferocity and his heart, in spite of a lack of further activity, continued to pound away, irregular and radiating slivers of pain. His breathing was shallow, and a cold sweat coated his body.
He sat down, in the pitch black, on the tile next to the prone form of Victor, feeling around to find his friend. They would now share this small mausoleum with the tyrant of several generations. Elijah smiled. Lange would have been furious to know that his final resting place was soon to be sullied by the bodies of his bastard son and the traitor guard. This alone gave Elijah a measure of satisfaction.
"Anything to make the old man suffer, right?" He asked to no one, responding to himself with, "Anything..."
He let out another heavy sigh, thinking about all of the people who he had sacrificed so that he could come this far. "I'm sorry, everyone." He whispered.
His head felt light, dizzy. Stars and lights danced across his eyes, and he smiled, hallucinating. The night is so beautiful, he thought, as his consciousness faded away.

