by A. M. Pierre
Kaia let them shimmer in the sky for a moment before she turned to the astonished crowd. “I am a Survivor.” She smiled. “You can call me Shard.”
“Mark de Miron?”
The young man almost asked “who else would I be?” but simply nodded instead.
“She’s waiting for you. Follow me.”
Mark wasn’t his real name, of course, but it was as good as any. He had never been summoned to headquarters before, and he certainly had never been invited to meet the boss lady herself. He tried to focus on the décor—the art hanging on the walls or the arches crossing the sky-high ceiling—but his excitement over meeting her in person trumped all that by a mile.
The long elevator ride up was uncomfortably quiet, and he fought the urge to make small talk with the two burly men escorting him. The doors dinged, and he stepped out into a room sporadically lit with a few recessed lights but mostly submerged in shadow.
“Come in, please, Mr. Miron.” A woman’s voice. Authoritative. Firm.
He took a few steps into a small pool of light in the center of the room.
“That’s far enough.”
A light was shining right into his eyes, blinding him to anything else. He held a hand up to block it.
“Put your hand down.”
“Yes, ma’am. Before we start, I want to take this opportunity to thank you for posting my bail. I was quite surprised, since I didn’t know what else there was for me to do right now, but let me know and I’ll handle it, I promise. No matter what—”
“Stop talking, Mr. Miron.”
He smiled slightly. “Please, call me—”
“I know your real name. And I do not care. I’m afraid I’m rather disappointed in you, Mr. Miron.”
A tendril of fear curled through his stomach. “But I fulfilled your objectives. Those children did exactly what we wanted them to.”
“I am not referring to the results. I am referring to your methods.”
“I know they destroyed one of our buildings, and I’m sorry, but I felt the sacrifice was worth the benefits. If it was a bad judgment call on my part, I apologize.”
“Mr. Miron, if you would stop defending yourself for a moment, you might gain a better understanding of what exactly my accusations are. I am not referring to the destruction of a building. I am referring to the actions which resulted in the murder of Yamamoto Daisuke and the attempted murder of Connor Rhys and Kaia Davis.”
Sweat beaded up on his skin. “Yes, well, Mr. Yamamoto was clearly a security threat. And if I had successfully eliminated all three, it would have removed the threat as well as created an outside danger that, I believe, would have increased our control of the rest of them.”
“I do not care what you believe. I only care what you did. And I do not approve.”
A movement caught his eye. Several large humanoid shapes were lurking in the gloom around him. Surrounding him. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I only did what I thought was in The Company’s best interests.”
“No, you didn’t. You are aware of my policies. I do not condone needless killing, particularly not of valuable assets like Mr. Yamamoto. And I certainly do not condone killing that is nothing more than the act of a diseased mind. You enjoyed it, Mr. Miron. You didn’t arrange their deaths because you thought it the best solution to a problem. You looked for a problem that would give you an excuse to arrange their deaths.”
“Ma’am, I promise, I didn’t—”
“Remain silent, Mr. Miron. Your voice causes me pain. As I indicated before, I am not in the habit of discarding assets lightly, but—”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry! It was a mistake!”
“Guards, it appears he is incapable of following even the simplest instructions. Gag him and bind his hands. As I was saying before I was interrupted, I do not believe in discarding assets lightly. If this had been, as you say, a mistake, we would not be having this discussion. Mistakes are easily forgiven. However, your actions reflect a man whose moral proclivities are in direct conflict with this organization’s objectives. Even if we do not achieve our final goals, if we attempt to reach them through the sadistic and wanton destruction of life, all will have been for naught. My own hands are not clean, but I took no joy in those actions, which were tragically necessary to ensure a better future for all of us. Your actions, on the other hand, were those of a child killing ants with a magnifying glass and laughing as they burned. I will not have such a person in my organization, nor will I allow his sadism to run rampant on the world at large. Guards, I’m done with this . . . man. Please dispose of him properly.”
Strong arms pulled him backward, and there was nothing he could do, not even raise his voice in protest, as they hauled him away from the light into the empty elevator box behind him.
The largest of the guards smiled. “Going down?”
THE END
Thank you so much for coming on this ride with me! I’d love to hear what you thought of SHARD, so please take a moment to post a review at your online venue of choice.
If you’d like a sneak peek of my upcoming standalone novel, MY FUTURE LIES, just turn the page! (Coming July 2021)
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Books by A.M. Pierre
Shard (Book 1 of the Shard Trilogy)
Typhoon (Book 2 of the Shard Trilogy) Coming 2021
My Future Lies
If you’re reading this, you must already know some of my story. Which means you already know about Isabeau. Which also means you can guess that my first run-in with her wasn’t exactly “meet cute.” More like “meet truly bizarre.”
Up until that meeting, the day had been as boring as any other. The last bell of the school day rang, and I headed out across the parking lot thinking about my “amazing” evening plans. Namely, whether I should study for my chemistry test before, during, or after writing that 5-page paper about Macbeth and . . . there she was. Leaning against my junker of a car, and tapping her fingers on the hood. The sun painted the waves in her burnt red hair with streaks of gold.
I cleared my throat to get her attention. “C-Can I help you?” Lame, I admit, but I didn’t have a lot of experience talking to beautiful girls. Or any girls, really.
Her eyes locked onto mine with an electric jolt. They weren’t blue or green or brown or violet—they were all of those and more all at once, encircling her pupils with shimmering slivers of color. “What did they call you?” she asked.
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what did who call me?”
“Those tasked with raising you. Your parents.” There was the slightest of pauses between the last two words—barely a hair’s-breadth—but I noticed.
“Are you asking me what my name is? It’s Smith. Christopher Smith.” Yeah, it sounds cool when James Bond says it. I am not James Bond.
She gunned me down with those rainbow eyes. “You don’t look like a Christopher Smith.”
What a surprise. “Yeah, I get that a lot. My father’s family came from Ireland, but my mother’s Japanese. I know I take after her side more, but—”
She held up her hand for quiet. “I am well aware that the melting pot culture of twenty-first century America allowed for people of differing ethnic appearances to have names of seemingly divergent derivation. I was referring to the names themselves: Christopher, coming from the Greek name Christophoros, which combines Christos or Christ with phero, meaning to bear or carry. Thus, we arrive at the widely accepted meaning of ‘bearing Christ.’”
“How do you—?”
“Then you have Smith, deriving from the word smitan, meaning ‘to smite,’ implying it originally applied to a soldier and not an ironworker as commonly believed. In summary, you have been bestowed with two names: one denoting hard labor, the other
carrying an overture of violence. Neither of these attributes seems to suit you.”
What do you say to something like that? Yeah, like I’m sure your name is soooo much cooler? Or maybe I’m sorry, did you just insult me using Ancient Greek? I settled for the truly amazing comeback of: “So, what’s your name?”
“It doesn’t matter, since you won’t remember me, but I suppose I should give you something to call me in the meantime.” She scrunched up her nose in thought. I tried to ignore how cute it made her look. “You can call me Elizabeth. That’s a common name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure.” My brain caught up with her words. “Wait, why won’t you give me your real name? And why won’t I remember you?”
“Not important.” ‘Elizabeth’ walked around to the passenger side. “So, are you ready to go?”
“Go . . . where?” Honestly, my hand already had my keys out to unlock the doors, but at least some part of me still thought it was a good idea to question things.
She looked me up and down, but not like she was checking me out. The look was more . . . evaluating. Calculating. She tilted her head, and a smile teased at her lips. “What’s the matter? You already have a girlfriend?” She shifted on her feet, sliding her weight onto one leg and pushing out her hip. She leaned forward, crossed her arms, and rested them on the roof of the car. “I’m not asking you on a date. Well, not exactly.” The words came out slowly, deliberately, with a little hint of a rasp. “I have some things I need to do, and I need someone to drive me. If that someone’s cute, all the better.” She blinked slowly, showing off her crazy-long eyelashes. “You in?”
I gave her an appraising look of my own, opened my door, and dropped into the seat. I left the door on her side locked but rolled down the window so she could hear me. “Sorry,” I said as I cranked my engine, “I have a ton of homework.”
She straightened up, all hints of flirtation gone. Her expression almost looked . . . proud, somehow. “You surprise me, Christopher Smith. My research on this era indicated such a ploy would be highly effective. I am pleased to find you not wholly corrupted.”
Research on this era? “Seriously, what’s your deal?”
“My . . . deal?”
“Yes. Your deal. Are you LARPing or playing some bizarre practical joke or are you just, well, crazy?”
She looked off into the distance, staring intensely at something only she could see. She nodded slightly to herself as if she had come to a decision. “I am not insane. I am not playing any kind of game. I came to see who you are. What kind of person you had become. I’ve been watching you, Christopher Smith, for one simple reason: you are more important than you could possibly imagine, with a fate rooted far from this mundane existence. I don’t expect that to sound logical or even sane, but it’s the truth.” She turned the full weight of her multi-faceted gaze on me. “I swear it’s the truth, as sure as I breathe. You can drive away now, and you’ll never see me again. Or you can embrace your destiny and unlock this door.”
Crazy, right? I mean, she was gorgeous, but still—ambushing me, giving me a fake name, rambling about fate, and not to mention stalking me? Crazy. And what did I do?
I did what pretty much any guy my age would do.
I unlocked the door.
I can’t say our conversation in the car got off to a brilliant start. After a couple minutes of awkward silence, I decided to take the plunge. “So, your eyes.”
“Yes?”
I snuck a glance at her, but she was staring at the road ahead. “Gotta be contact lenses, right?”
“Yes.”
Okay, this might be an opening . . . “You going to a party later or something?”
“No.”
“What, you always wear funky contacts when you’re just walking around?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always answer questions with only one word?”
“No.”
I sighed. “So where are we going, anyway?”
“Here.”
I looked up. I had parked outside Fun Times, the local “family fun” place—you know, where they have go-karts and miniature golf and stuff. I blinked a couple times in disbelief. “But a second ago I was driving on the . . . how did we . . . did you . . . ?”
‘Elizabeth’ was already out of the car and marching toward the ticket booth. “Are you coming or not?” she called out over her shoulder.
“Yeah, just give me a sec.” I checked my wallet. I had filled up my tank that morning, so I was even more broke than usual. I looked in the glove box, the side pockets and every other nook or cranny where I might have forgotten a couple bucks. Nada. “You know, it’s kinda fun to sit and watch the go-karts from the sidelines. Some say it’s even more fun than driving them.”
She had already bought a handful of tickets by the time I caught up. “There’s no need to concern yourself with such trivial matters, Christopher Smith.”
I glanced down at the tickets. “Are you sure? I mean, I know this isn’t like a date or anything, but I still feel bad making you pay for me—”
She held up a wad of twenties easily an inch thick. “I came prepared.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied my wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression. “Is this more than an average teenager would carry on them?”
“I think you could safely say that, yeah.”
“Noted.” She shoved the mass of bills into her purse. “Forget you saw that, Christopher Smith. I have procured Putt-Putt tickets and wish to play a round with you. What do you say?”
* * *
I’d say it was the oddest game of Putt-Putt I’d ever played in my life. I mean, mini-golf’s not my favorite thing in the first place, but it becomes significantly less enjoyable when someone’s analyzing every putt and using the results to determine how smart you are. Even if that someone is a stunning, rainbow-eyed redhead.
“That last putt was ten degrees off from the optimal angle, Christopher Smith. Are you feeling all right?”
I filled in the last box on the scorecard—hole 18. Finally. “Well, that was amazingly fun and not at all horrible. You ready to move on?”
Hands on her hips, she surveyed the epic vastness that mere mortals call Fun Times Mini-Golf & More. “Video games might be an acceptable test of your hand-eye-coordination. What selection do they have?”
“And you’re wanting to test me . . . why?” Not like I expected her to give me a sane answer, but I had to try.
“All parameters must be evaluated and compared to the original baseline readings. Otherwise, how can a scientifically accurate assessment be obtained?”
“Of course. What was I thinking?” That you’re completely nuts? And that I’m even worse since I’m still hanging out with you?
“The video games, Christopher Smith—what titles do they have available here?”
I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d been here, let alone what video games I had seen in their decades-old arcade. “Street Kombat, maybe?”
“A fighting game, I presume.” She furrowed her eyebrows in thought, then shook her head. “Unacceptable. I would need to play as your opponent, and that wouldn’t be fair.”
“Why, ’cuz you’re so much better at fighting games?”
“No, at fighting.” She turned away while I decided whether or not to be offended. “I think go-karts would be an acceptable alternative. They also have the advantage of allowing for a display of tactics and strategic thinking. Are you ready?”
“. . . No.”
She turned back, and her eyes narrowed. “You’re refusing to join me?”
“Yes.” My stomach churned. Why am I nervous? What’s she gonna do, glare me to death? “I’m sorry, but I think I’m ready to go home now.”
She stared at me for five eternal seconds (Death glare! Death glare!). When she spoke, her voice was perfectly monotone. “Why are
you refusing to continue the evaluation?”
Because I just remembered I promised my mom I’d help her with dinner. Because my cat is ill and has a vet appointment I forgot about. Because there’s a monsoon warning out and this Putt-Putt could succumb to a flash flood any second. Pick an excuse, any excuse, but don’t blurt out the truth. “Because you’re freaking insane.” Good job there, brain. Well done.
She didn’t look offended. She didn’t even blink. She just considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I understand how you could have reached that conclusion. And yet, there’s a part of you that’s curious, isn’t there?” She took a step closer. I fought the urge to take a step back. “It’s the part that wonders, that pokes at you when things aren’t quite right. I know you, Christopher Smith. Better than you know yourself. There are things in your life that don’t make sense, oddities that don’t line up, and they plague your dreams with their nameless uncertainty.”
Her hand reached out, pure electricity as it swept across my arm and grabbed onto my shoulder. She arched up on tiptoe, closing the gap between us and leaning to one side, her lips practically brushing my ear. Her words came out in a husky whisper. “How many nights have you lain awake wondering—knowing—there was something wrong with your life? Something just out of reach, that—were you to know it—would destroy the very fabric of your world? A ridiculous notion in the light of day, true, but on those nights—oh, those nights—your world seems made of glass and vapor, and the merest breath could shatter it, showing it for the illusion you know it to be.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. How could she know that? How could anyone possibly know that? “How do you . . . What do you want from me?”
She pulled back to look at me, and I swear I felt myself falling into the swirling depths of her eyes. “I want you to race go-karts, Christopher Smith.”
* * *
I’ll admit, it was more fun than I thought it would be. Especially since she had the cash for us to ride in the big Indy-style karts—the ones where you have to sign a waiver promising your parents won’t sue them if you lose a limb or explode into a thousand pieces or something. I felt kinda bad using her money at first but she was relentless, and my guilt only lasted until I took the first corner. High speeds, deafening engines, and possible dismemberment? Awesome.