The sensation only lasts a second. Then I’m back in control. Guess Matt hadn’t worked out all the bugs in this version yet. A swirl of hot smoke rises with me, like the exhaust from a particularly nasty dragon who I’ve angered by entering his lair.
I stare at the coordinates, wishing I had Jana’s eidetic memory. The old building begins to shake, reminding that I don’t have time for wishes. I need a plan. But nothing comes—my months out in the wastes have dulled those skills.
The wall warps and buckles before my eyes. For a moment I think it’s a glitch—some sort of hallucinatory side effect of HIVE. But then I watch as a massive hole opens in the floor ahead, a diamond drillbit punching through the faded carpeting.
Blackstone must’ve brought the big guns out against Marshwood tonight. Why he had to do it during the half hour I spent here escapes me. I do take solace in the fact that my death will be quick. Just like Marshwood’s.
The drillbit recedes, leaving a gaping chasm in the hallway. At the far end, I can see the marble landing, the beginning of the stairs. The only way down that I know.
A minor chirp sounds in my ear and a string of diagnostic numbers flashes across my vision, then fades. They’re the same ones as before. I guess I won’t have to do anything with the coordinates besides follow them.
On the floors below, I hear the drillbit revving up again.
I take a deep breath, stare at the newly formed abyss, and leap over it, eating shit on the other side. Another missile flies through the hole and hits the ceiling, showering me with white plaster and probably a bunch of asbestos. My chest tightens a little when I breathe.
I drag myself toward the landing, but immediately duck back into the half-destroyed hall.
An army of drones patrols the lobby. They’ve ripped off the entire façade of the building, affording me a decent view of the skyscraper lined street. A scout drone, about the size of a fist, is headed up the stairs. Frantic, I check my surroundings. The nearest door sits next to a thirty-foot hole.
I press myself against the wall and close my eyes, trying to make myself small. I hear buzzing and open one eye. The drone stares directly at me. I wince, expecting a burst of gunfire to scrub me out of existence. But that doesn’t happen.
Instead, it drops a tube of burn medication and a printed note. Then it zips off, and I hear the entire robot army mobilize. Three minutes later, aside from the groan of sagging concrete and the crackle of flames, I’m left in complete silence.
Feeling courageous, I step out onto the soot-stained marble landing and look at the lobby.
I reach down to pick the salve up, applying it to my elbows. The explosion from the office just barely singed me, but it’s a nice gesture. Then I take a look at the note.
Meet me at my residence. We have a lot to talk about.
Blackstone
I walk down the stairs, rubbing my head, trying to figure out what to do next. Outside the ruined building, floating down through the wreckage on a parachute, is a gleaming dirt bike. No note, but the gist of the message is pretty clear.
I kick it into gear and ride off.
30 No Place for a Hero
I keep to the back streets, avoiding any confrontations with the denizens of the Otherlands. Even in the shadows, I hear my name shouted—torchlit mobs prowling through storefronts and skyscrapers in search of their reward. I wonder how they’re going to split the million credit bounty when they hit the jackpot. Last man standing is my best guess.
With my jacket collar around my ears and my face streaked in soot, it’s easy to blend in. The dirt bike draws a little attention, but I’m moving quick enough over the broken concrete that it doesn’t matter.
Within half an hour, I’m in front of Nathaniel Blackstone’s gated residence. Tall, wrought iron bars surround the property. Inside is a colonial-style mansion, two stories with a sprawling multi-acre footprint. The grass is even green on the lawn.
“Not bad for being punished,” I say, killing the engine as I approach. A motion sensing light flickers on, forcing me to squint. The sounds of the city have disappeared. For the past half mile, the streets have been abandoned, the skyscraper jungle thinning. There’s nothing within Blackstone’s gates for at least five hundred yards besides a winding driveway.
I figure everyone learned to keep out of here the same way they did the Black Hole. Drones.
A voice crackles over the intercom. “State your business.”
“You know who I am.”
“Sir, if you don’t—”
“If you were gonna shoot me, I’d be dead already. Tell the director I’m here.”
There’s a long pause, the butler or head of security clearly flustered by my lack of respect.
“Sir, I’m going to need to scan you to confirm—”
“If you don’t cut the shit, I’m walking outta here,” I say. “I’ll go straight to the pitchfork mob.”
Another voice comes in over the speaker. It’s Blackstone’s. “Forgive my head of security, he’s a little bit cautious. There have been threats.”
“How terrible for you.”
“Come in,” he says. “I’ll meet you on the steps.”
“Not good enough to come inside?”
“I’ll explain on the steps,” he says. The gate rattles as it opens. I walk the bike up the driveway. Inside the property’s limits, the asphalt is smooth and new. Maybe this was what the city was like before everything fell apart. Probably not, though—there have always been haves and have nots.
I nudge the kickstand with my foot and prop the bike up next to a heavily armored auto-cruiser. Then I walk up the steps, toward the massive double doors. They shimmer in the soft light as one side opens and Nathaniel Blackstone slips out.
“Come,” he says in a whisper, pointing to the center of the grass. “Over here.”
“If it’s all the same to you—”
“Tanner,” he says when he gets closer, whispering the name in my ear. “He’s listening.”
I nod, understanding the situation now. We walk in silence to the center of the lawn, about thirty yards from the house.
Blackstone strokes his long gray beard, his radiant blue eyes staring off beyond the gates. I don’t say anything—he asked me here, so I’ll just wait for him to make the first move. I’m still unsure about whether or not I can trust him. Actually, that’s not true. I know I can’t trust him.
The only question, then, is whether he can deliver what’s necessary.
“You saw the broadcast,” he finally says, “on the way to your meeting with Mr. Marshwood?”
“Tanner’s tightening things up,” I say with a small nod. I don’t mention that a heads-up on my most-wanted status would have been appreciated. My mouth’s gotten me into the middle of this tangle, farther than it should have.
“Tanner has grown suspicious of my activities.”
“Took him long enough,” I say. “I was suspicious of you from the start.”
“I don’t blame you for running in the Lost Plains,” Blackstone says a mirthless laugh. “Hell, I expected it.”
“Terms are terms,” I say. I arch my back slightly, and the still-healing knife wound stings slightly.
“That’s good you don’t hold grudges,” Blackstone says, agreeing with my assessment. “It wasn’t personal. Your presence is integral to our success.”
“I think you can find other errand boys,” I say. “You finally demolished Marshwood’s residence.”
His face darkens and he looks at the ground. “Not something I take pride in.”
“You need a replacement for all the star pupils you lost? A new protégé?”
Blackstone cracks a smile, the skin crinkling around his eyes. “Forgive me for being blunt, Mr. Stokes, but your skills are not in the same hemisphere as the children I found for the program.”
This is one thing, at least, I can believe.
“I’m sure you have your doubts about me,” Blackstone says. “Andrew was always…fort
hright with his opinions.”
“You could say that,” I say, remembering Hector, the shark named after his father for some unknown past slight.
“But you understand, the way things are going, that this only ends one way.” Blackstone takes a deep breath and sighs. “Factional war.”
Tanner, by buckling down in the Eastern Stronghold and leaving the rest of the NAC to the whims of fate, has essentially guaranteed such a scenario. I suppose he hopes that the remaining three factions will be so fractured that they won’t be able to mount a coordinated attack powerful enough to punch through the Circle’s front lines.
“Your brother always wanted to help people,” Blackstone says. “Improve their lives.”
“I’m not sure HIVE is the way to do that.” I still don’t know the full story, but the more I learn, the more I get the feeling that it needs to be kept under wraps.
“Peace is better than war, no matter what the cost,” Blackstone says. I wait for him to mention a line about freedom and the price of security. But it doesn’t come—it’s only inferred. Peace seems like an illusion. Even if I throw in behind Blackstone, Chancellor Tanner is holed up in the middle of New Manhattan in his ivory tower. There will still be war, just with two sides instead of five.
Then I remember that Olivia Redmond is still in the city—along with any other members of the Gifted Minds Program still loyal to Blackstone.
“So do the terms still stand?” I ask. A drone flits over the fence, patrolling the sky for threats. “I give you HIVE, you save the world from crumbling?”
“Yes,” Blackstone says. “The Western Stronghold, the Lost Plains, the Otherlands, they cannot simply be allowed to wither and die, their people persecuted for trying to survive. The NAC must include all of them, not just a pocket of influence sucking up all the resources for its own uses.”
“And what do you need from me?”
“HIVE is, and always has been the key,” Blackstone says. “I presume Mr. Marshwood explained some of the details to you?”
“In so many words, yeah,” I say, recalling the stunning demo.
“Then you understand that it will provide respite for many who otherwise would not receive help,” Blackstone says. There’s a long lull where I don’t say anything in response, because I’m not really buying his response. “If you help us disseminate it to the people, you’ll be known as a hero.”
“I don’t think I can be a hero,” I say. Both for personal and practical reasons.
“Yes, I suppose that ship has sailed,” Blackstone says. “But you are the only one who can trace your brother’s breadcrumbs.”
“You seem to be doing all right on your own,” I say. “Finding out about Matt’s trip to the Rems. Marshwood.”
Blackstone raises his eyebrow. Not sure what to make of it, but he changes the subject. “It would have made for a nice story.”
“What would have?”
“You, a hero. A brother’s love, triumphing over time and space and insurmountable odds over injustice. A man willing to accept great sacrifice.”
The words register in the back of my brain. They’re from Matt’s letter. I guess Blackstone read it before handing it over. I weigh my next words carefully before speaking. Once I throw in with Blackstone, there will be no return. But there are also no viable alternatives. Marshwood’s warnings were sobering, and perhaps Blackstone’s methods of advancement are suspect.
That would be an understatement—the Gifted Minds Program was terrible.
But, whether I like it or not, the NAC is entering into a tailspin, and Tanner’s at the center of it. A full-scale war won’t benefit anyone. Not many can live like the Rems, riding bikes and rusted out cars across the scorched plains. I don’t know what happened to them, but something in their constitution allows them to find a semblance of happiness in that nomadic, empty existence.
For most, however, that would be a fate worse than death. And if the sides dig in, we’re going to end up with a nation that looks like the scorched wreckage of the Black Hole. Compromise is never easy, but the rest of Atlanta is a paradise in comparison to the devastation wreaked on that section of the city.
And that was a quarrel between only two men. If HIVE will allow a bloodless coup, a transition to a government that’s slightly willing to accept the factions—and Blackstone has worked with this new AoF outfit in the past—then that’s a better alternative. I also already know that Blackstone has the firepower to go to war.
It feels a little bit like a shotgun wedding, but sometimes you only have one play.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” he says, clearly growing impatient, “but I need to know whether you’ll deliver.”
“One thing,” I say.
“What is it?”
“Are you sorry?”
“Excuse me,” he says, turning to face me with those brilliant blue eyes. “For what?”
“For taking children from their parents,” I say. “Brothers from siblings, friends from their communities.”
His mouth opens slightly, stunned at my forwardness. Then he says, “It depends on the day.”
That’s not the answer I’m looking for. “So you’re not sorry.”
“At the top, one must often make compromises to integrity and rules for the sake of actual progress,” Blackstone says. His blue eyes shine fiercely. “To save lives, sometimes a little of our humanity must die.”
“How much?”
“Less than what Tanner is offering.”
I wait a beat and then say, “Okay,” and reach out my hand. It’s not about the deal you want. Sometimes it’s about the only deal you can get.
Blackstone grips my palm, and then he says, “I have some things that will help you,” before disappearing back into his residence.
I grip the throttle of the bike and ride through the open gate without waving goodbye. I can feel Blackstone’s blue eyes bearing down on my back. He’s probably wondering the same thing I am: will he deliver on his promises? Can I trust this man?
The second is easy to answer for us both—trust is impossible among those willing to compromise their morals. But I fully intend on delivering, as I see no viable alternatives. Tanner will run the world into the ground—and no system is worse than what we have now.
I’ll just have to live with the consequences. The duffel bag Blackstone retrieved from his mansion dangles across the handlebar, bouncing off the dirt bike’s headlight as I hang a right. Inside is the well-padded 2.5” solid state drive—the one that began this HIVE mess.
The Antidote.
Blackstone swore that Carina Alonso gave it up willingly—that the Lionhearted support his vision for a newer, more unified and accepting NAC. It’s apparent that, despite the original terms, he required no assistance from me in tracking her down.
Which leads me to wonder why, exactly, I’m vital now. Surely there are engineers better equipped to assemble HIVE than I. But no, it’s going to be me traveling to the coordinates from the demo. Me and a friend. Blackstone punched in Matt’s coordinates, and they’re right in the middle of it all.
The Black Hole.
After I told him about the coordinates and he ran them, he insisted that I meet with someone—an old ally of his, the staunchest of supporters. Two being stronger than one.
The sounds of the pitchfork mobs start to trickle down the main streets. Sticking to the alleys has served me well thus far, but I can’t hide forever. Hopefully this old ally can help with my notoriety problem.
I cut the bike’s engine in front of an abandoned liquor store. Then I chain it to a pole and walk slowly toward the corner. Still weaponless, I feel exposed on foot. The duffel bag’s handles are gripped tightly in my hand. I unzip the bag and push the hard drive aside to take out a plastic envelope. It’s filled with paper cash.
Not just any paper cash.
Matt’s paper cash.
I guess Blackstone figured that retrieving some of my brother’s stuff would have sentimental value.
Because also in the bag is Matt’s HoloBand, in a clear plastic protective shell. He said he got all this stuff back at the same time he got the suicide note. Held the rest of it back in case I needed an extra push.
After all, this is what I have left of my brother: A HoloBand, a two-page suicide note and some ratty bills. He also gave me back the credit slips from my strongbox and the .38 with the hollow points. It’s a nice enough gesture, I guess.
The street perpendicular to mine is bathed in pulsing neon from a club. Blackstone insisted I meet his contact here, for safety reasons. I guess he didn’t entirely trust that I wasn’t backstabbing him. I shove my hands in my pockets, keep my head low, and walk around the corner.
The Red Bee casts a yellow and crimson light across the street. It’s a nice club, by the standards of the Otherlands—expensive, upscale. Which means that people are looking to party, rather than to snitch or score a quick bounty. Milling outside are partygoers bobbing and nodding their heads to an invisible beat. I clutch the handles of the bag, put my head down, and start walking.
A couple of them turn to look at me as I pass.
“Hey, you’re that guy,” one of the women says, her eyes glassed over. “You should be careful, man.”
I press onward, through the black double doors. The pulsating bass hits me in the entry-room. A tired man with piercings lining his face gives me the once-over.
“Press your neck up against the wall to pay,” he says. “Two hundred credits.”
I glance at the wall, where a hood-like object a little lower than head-height sits. Even if I wasn’t wanted, a scan would be impossible—my HoloBand’s been removed. Instead of walking over, I tap on the glass.
“Hey man, don’t do that.” His dull eyes stare back at me. “I’ll call security.”
“I got something better than that,” I say. “But I can’t scan.”
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