[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall

by Nicholas Erik

  I still can’t stand up, but it doesn’t matter. Two SC Agents come in, their shiny boots taking shots at my ribs before they haul me up. One of them is Bogden.

  “Nice to see an old friend,” I say.

  He wrenches my arm almost out of its socket and says nothing as they haul me into the back of a bulletproof prisoner transport. They toss me inside like a worthless sack of rotten potatoes, and then drive me to the Hyperloop station.

  Either as a kindness or some sort of cruel extra knife turn, Old Silver Fox is playing on the screen in the corner of the van. There’s my picture, with an instruction to tune in for my public hanging.

  A minute later, something more surprising comes on. A picture of Carina—identifying her as Carina Alonso—pops up in the corner. Apparently, she was my main contact in the Lionhearted. And she is considered highly dangerous and a threat to the existence of the NAC itself.

  For a moment, it doesn’t register.

  Then, with a grim smile, it hits me—the reason they didn’t charge me with the technology count. The Circle really didn’t have the drive.

  Because Carina, pissed off and spurned, stole it from me before they could come in.

  I wonder how that throws a wrench in Olivia Redmond’s analysis. One of the factions already has a sliver of the power meant to balance the scales.

  That’s always been the problem with logic.

  It never accounts for human variables.

  12 The Otherlands

  The scenery blurs by and the landscape grows worse as the Hyperloop travels further from New Manhattan. Due, I suppose, to my impending death, I’m more reflective than usual. Rather than looking for a buck or a lay, I look for meaning in life. As, I suppose, most people my age do.

  A strange sense of vertigo washes over me as I stare at wispy trees and patches of scorched soil. It’s the realization that everything I’ve bought into is a lie—that our personal reality is a story we tell ourselves to escape the absolutely insane proposition of actually being alive.

  I’ve never been in a bad situation—and it’s only now that I realize that all the other scrapes and problems were pretend, make-believe, a giant con with myself as the mark.

  We all have different ways of lying to ourselves, avoiding the truth. The Lionhearted pray to an invisible god, the Circle to a more tangible one of power and control. A religion promising absolution through a tithe of steady materialism. But it’s all the same in the end. We sacrifice what is truly right in front of us, exchange our lives on faith for the promise of something better.

  Something not real.

  We trade our freedom to be shackled to false ideals like safety. I look at the blackness, the sickly sky. Safety is illusory. Things will turn on you in an instant. It happened in ’26, which got us to here. It happened to me yesterday, an ally transforming into an enemy.

  But no—shifting the blame elsewhere is a fool’s errand. The enemy is always us. Not the government. In a democracy, citizens get what they want. And what they wanted was antiseptic, white-washed, total control. What they really wanted was fascism. Safety from anything that was a challenge. Relieved of the burden of actual responsibility.

  That’s why I’m here, right—I built my own gallows by trying to save my own ass. At least I’m not unique in my folly. We’re all guilty of fighting against the system, but really, we build it. We are the system that crushes our dreams and sentences us to die.

  Funny how that works.

  “Real shithole out there,” I say, taking a break from my thoughts by nudging the nerdy guy next to me.

  He keeps staring out the window. “Nicer than where I grew up.”

  He’s got thick glasses, the type I haven’t seen since, well, about ever, and a razor thin frame that looks about near to blow away. I don’t mention it, but I can’t imagine how this kid possibly got sent away to die. Although the fact that he’s shackled into his seat—and I’m free to roam about the car—makes me curious.

  Not that I can worry too much about him. I mean, I got myself to look out for.

  “Where’d you live?”

  “It’s underwater. After the ice caps melted.”

  “Should’ve listened to all the treehuggers who wanted to save the polar bears, right,” I say, making small talk.

  He pushes the frames up his sharp nose with a stiff finger, chains rattling. “It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

  “You some sort of scientist?

  “Nothing like that,” he says, “don’t worry about it.”

  So I let him stare out the window for a while, lay off. My new buddy doesn’t seem upset about where we’re going, or nervous, which is odd, because even I feel this little buzz working its way from my knees, up through my torso. Which isn’t to say I’m older than this kid—just a little more jaded—but it feels like he doesn’t know what he’s in for.

  Then again, neither do I. There’s no precedent for this place, no expectations. In a way, we’re all blazing a new frontier.

  “This the execution train?” I say, trying to make a joke.

  “You’re correct,” he says, no emotion in his voice. “All of us are gonna die.”

  I look around the car. Counting to distract myself from the impending doom, I tally six other heads.

  “What’d they get you for?” An intercom chimes pleasantly, a robotic female voice announcing that we’ll arrive in the Otherlands in less than thirty minutes. It’s dark out, moonlight streaming in through the windows.

  At this point, I’m having a hard time keeping it together. Rapid heart, sweat running down into my eyes, runaway leg, grinding teeth. Even the inside of my mouth is bleeding, and I don’t remember biting my tongue.

  “You first,” he says, uninterested in the conversation.

  I realize then it was a stupid question, the kind you don’t ask. But he’s harmless, the type of kid I could crack in half—except now I’m not sure of anything, my confidence evaporating faster than steam.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope,” I say. “The man screwed me over.”

  “That’s not what they said on the television,” he says, expression not changing, cool as ice, not looking at me at all. “They said you murdered your own brother. That you’re one cold son of a bitch.”

  Wanting to think of something clever to say, but finding nothing, I don’t respond.

  “I’m not one to judge,” he says. “The NAC thinks my crimes are a lot worse than yours.” Rattle, rattle—he jerks the chains for effect. He still hasn’t looked at me once, not even a sideways glance. Just eyes glued to the window, clinging to the fuzzy scenery like it’s the last little burst of freedom and normalcy he’s ever going to experience.

  “If you don’t wanna tell me, suit yourself,” I say. “I didn’t see you on the television. Old Silver Fox didn’t say anything about you.”

  “That’s what you call him, huh,” the guy says with a smirk, “I call him Old Man Bullshit.”

  “Same thing, I guess.” Glancing down at the shackles, which are looped into the floor with thick chains and secured by two heavy padlocks, I say, “You don’t look like someone they’d send down here.”

  He gives a dry laugh. “Like a criminal, you mean.” He finally turns to look at me. No surprises when I see the other half of his face. He’s not missing an eye or part of his cheek. His pale skin and side parted dark hair make him seem academic, like a student from a university who got on the wrong train.

  Damn, I’m gonna miss students. The girls, always looking for a little danger. I qualified—back when there was a University of Seattle. Easy game, surpassing all the Circle losers, always looking to learn stupid tricks to impress a girl. I hope that at least some of those morons, when they graduated, were tapped to work in the Otherlands. Maybe then I have a chance in hell of escaping.

  There’s a long, awkward pause. I can feel his eyes still on me, like he’s contemplating saying something, but isn’t sure if the
conversation is worth continuing. Can’t blame him. He might not look like a tremendous asset where we’re going, but the first impression I’m making isn’t selling my skills well, either.

  “Here.” He rolls up his sleeve, showing me a small, square puncture in the crook of his elbow. They must’ve gotten him with one of those screenings for the Otherlands. Mandatory. The Circle wasn’t kidding about the rollout. “Thought I could beat the level 2 scan,” he says with a shrug, as if reading my thoughts.

  “You went in there with a fake HoloBand? Shit, here I thought you looked smart.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he says. “Maybe I figured they’d give me a pass. I haven’t done anything.” Somehow, I feel like that’s not the full story. But I let sleeping dogs lie.

  “A lot of chains for an innocent man.”

  “Not when you’re the son of Damien Ford,” he says, with a small wince. I don’t think it’s because his old man’s reputation got him in trouble—I think he’s more ashamed of the association for other reasons. Because he doesn’t agree with his old man’s methods.

  “Thought you wanted to know,” he says with an empty laugh after a long pause, “guess you didn’t.”

  “The Circle must really be pulling out all the stops, is all, for this grand opening. Me, you.” I glance at the other people in the half-empty car. “Makes you wonder who else they’re killing.”

  “Hope,” he says. “They’re killing hope.” Long pause. “So, if you didn’t do it, how’d they catch you?”

  “Got caught in the wrong con,” I say. I extend a hand. “Luke Stokes.”

  He looks down at it for a couple seconds. The intercom chimes again and a green light flashes overhead. Getting close, now. Soldiers’ boots begin to march down the hall, near our capsule. Finally, he clasps his small palm in mine and says, “Kid. Kid Vegas.” He holds it for a beat too long.

  I shake free from his grasp, and say, “You don’t go by Ford?”

  “Would’ve been dead ten years sooner if I did,” he says. “I chose my own path. But the old man chose mine for me, I guess, in the end.”

  “Not a believer?”

  “We all believe in something,” Kid says with what I think is a genuine grin, “just not the same things.”

  A whirring noise catches my attention, making me look away from Kid. My first inclination is an engine malfunction or mechanical failure—that the Hyperloop is literally going off the rails. Which wouldn’t be a bad fate, really, given the alternatives.

  But then I see the rotors of dozens of drone helicopters—a swarm of baseball-sized, lighting fast surgical strike weapons—blacken the windows, blot out the moonlight. Like we’re being blanketed by a plague of locusts.

  A nervous buzz erupts through the train car, mostly curiosity. The interior lights brighten inside, from the sudden dip in light.

  “Better duck,” Kid says in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “These yours?” The hum of rotors beats louder in my ears.

  “Nope,” he says, “but I know what they do.”

  I put my head down just as the glass shatters in a fiery orange glow. The Hyperloop shrieks from impact. If the hum of the swarm was loud before, now it’s all I can hear—it envelops me, is my very existence.

  That and the sound of the wind blistering by at hundreds of miles an hour. The train has slowed down from its normal speeds, which is the only reason we don’t get sucked out or our faces melted off.

  Our friendly robotic intercom announcer tells us that a terrorist attack has breached the train’s walls—but not to worry, as counter measures are being implemented.

  I bring my head up to examine the situation. Tendrils of smoke and pockets of flame dot the car. Two of the prisoners a few seats in front of us are slumped back, heads lolling out the window. The core of the drone swarm remains outside, keeping pace with the Hyperloop. A pocket of the pack begins to break off and head for the windows. I duck back down.

  “Shit,” I say, “they’re coming in.”

  “You’re pretty nervous for a man who can move around freely,” Kid says, looking at me without fear from behind those thick glasses. I would contemplate who the hell is this guy, but a fleet of small craft zooms over my head.

  There are more pressing problems. The train continues to slow down, the counter measures yet to be activated. Attacks from the swarm are now more infrequent, since they’ve already breached the interior. No need to destroy the train, apparently.

  Hopefully.

  Then what’s the point? Scare the hell out of a bunch of dead men? I wouldn’t put it past Chancellor Tanner to drum up a little more excitement and support for the upcoming executions with a daring staged escape.

  Glancing up, I see a single drone staring down at me. Its robotic glass eyes seem to bore down to my very soul. A green light flashes, and then the ship darts away.

  “What the hell is going on?” I say, screaming over the din.

  “Seems you have a friend,” Kid says, tapping the window. Outside is a regular-sized chopper keeping pace with the Hyperloop. It weaves, dodging a fusillade of bullets. Apparently the counter measures are online.

  Then the helicopter settles back in, parallel with our window.

  I hear a voice over a loudspeaker yell, “Luke Stokes.”

  There’s no way for me to answer and be heard. But I still pop up to see who’s calling my name. The helicopter windows are blackened, and everything’s moving too fast to see much at night. I dive back to the floor.

  “The hell are you doing?” Kid asks.

  “Lot of people want me dead lately,” I say.

  “If they wanted you dead, they would’ve shot you with one of those drones,” he says. “This rescue mission cost a hundred million credits, easy.”

  The loudspeaker voice yells again, “We are going to launch two belay lines over. Grab hold and we’ll pull you in.”

  “Glad I’m so popular,” I say.

  Kid nods upward, unable to make the push himself due to the shackles. When I rise, a drone veers off to the side, clipping my hair at high speed. I whirl around and watch it explode against the wall in a fiery mess.

  Maybe I am important.

  The Hyperloop rocks when a harpoon-like line launches from the helicopter. The line holds steady outside the window. I crawl over Kid. There’s a drone hovering nearby, creepily keeping watch over my progress. I look back at Kid, still on the floor, and don’t know what to say. Then I flop over the side of the broken window, wind streaming against my hair, and cling to the line for dear life.

  It retracts almost instantly, the braided wire burning the skin off my hands as I’m brought hurtling toward the speeding helicopter. I make the mistake of looking down, finding my feet dangling over endless moonlit wasteland more than fifty feet below. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, tugging me into the cockpit. Rolling onto the metal floor, I exhale a sigh of relief, and shake from the cold wind.

  From my vantage point, I see that the other line is still attached to the Hyperloop. A flurry of gunfire again aims for the helicopter, and the pilot deftly navigates the hail of bullets, escaping unscathed.

  “Good to see you, Luke,” a soldier dressed in heavy combat gear says. I notice the insignia of the Circle on his breast patch. When he reaches his hand down, I recoil, trying to run where there’s no place to hide. “Glad you’re alive.”

  I give him a twisted look, and he replies with a laugh. “We’re not Circle. Not really.”

  “What are we waiting for,” I yell over the beating rotors and rushing wind.

  “Someone else of interest.”

  There’s a tug on the other line, and the helicopter lilts slightly to the side. I see a battery of turrets open up along the Hyperloop’s side—the big guns—and hold my breath. Small air-to-air missiles rocket out in a massive plume of blue-gray smoke.

  The chopper dips in altitude sharply, sending my head crashing against the metal frame. Woozy, I can’t tell if the chopper rights itself
or if everything is going down. The world spinning, I hear a clang and what sounds like a thud.

  Then I’m staring Kid Vegas right in the face, the skin around his arms raw and burned, but otherwise alive.

  “I guess they wanted me too,” he says, giving no indication at all that he’s glad to have survived.

  And then the chopper rises high in the air, away from the Hyperloop, providing me a stay of execution.

  But everything has a price.

  And a life often bears the highest cost of repayment of all.

  13 Blackstone

  The duration of the ride is spent mostly in a blur. The clear moments are spent holding my knee, where blood has begun to seep through the bandage.

  About fifteen minutes later, the chopper lands without incident in a surprisingly grassy field—at least given the standards of the area. I wouldn’t have expected anything to grow in these parts at all. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time the Circle lied and made up a bogeyman.

  “Time to get out,” the soldier says, not unkindly, and helps me to the ground. Me and Kid sit side-by-side, waiting for further instructions. “Someone will be here to pick you up in five minutes.”

  He drops a long-scope rifle in between us, along with a box of shells. “If they don’t come waving a red and white flag, you start shooting.”

  “Who else would come?” I ask.

  “Tanner’s boys are tracking the chips in your head, kid,” he says, with a gruff that’s the way it is tone. “People want you dead.”

  I want to tell him to wait, for him not to leave us here in the middle of a ruined field, but the chopper’s rotors spin up and the bird’s in the air before I can mount much of a protest.

  Looking at Kid, then at our barren surroundings—feeble yellow strands of grass in a dirt lot that stretches on forever—I say, “Sorry I didn’t help back there.”

  “What could you have done, anyway?”

  “Good point.”

  I notice he’s missing the glasses, but that doesn’t seem to be bothering him. His side part is askew in the back, sticking straight up. He rubs his raw wrists, then does the same thing around his ankles, where the skin is pink, little flecks of blood oozing out.