Blaze of Glory

by C. J. Strange

  I really hate it when I’m right about the wrong things…

  “OP.” The familiarity of the low tenor is like a blade through my heart. Days ago, months, it was a voice that brought me warmth and joy, brooked nostalgia I wasn’t even aware I felt. Now, it just feels… dirty.

  “OP,” he repeats, his cockney drawl cut short by the bluntness of his tone. “I think it’s time we had a word.”

  My stomach goes full-pretzel. I’m sickened. This still isn’t proof, my brain tries to deny, though it’s well aware the proof has been stacking up all week.

  “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Why don’t you turn ‘round and we can chat. Man to—well, you.”

  My eyes sink to the smallest screen, currently showing Rhys’ position behind the Palace of Westminster. A second later, Duncan zips onto the screen. At least they’re together, ready to receive the Opus from Penny.

  Everyone else is in position. And I’m in mine.

  “Being a dick to me probably won’t make this any easier on you, Gav,” I tell him honestly, slowly spinning my chair to face the hatch. “It’s going to suck regardless.”

  “You say that like I ever gave a damn about any of you,” is the big, blond man’s response, and while he may be trying to sound like he means it, it’s obvious he doesn’t.

  “Lying won’t help, either.” My voice is barely loud enough to be audible, even as he closes the distance between us to less than ten feet.

  “That’s an interesting outfit,” is my next remark. Just as calm, just as collected, regardless of the way the low light of the bunker glints threatening off the octagonal badge at his breast pocket. “I’ve never seen you in that one before.”

  “I only get it out on real special occasions.”

  My stomach-pretzel tightens as he draws his hands up in front of him, and I realized he’s armed—with what structurally appears to be a cross between a police tonfa baton and a handgun. The entire front-end of the barrel ripples with azure energy.

  “Gav—” I swallow, and he takes the opportunity to cut me off.

  “I do the talking,” he demands. Something in his voice tells me even though the threat of the weapon he’s wielding is very real, this may not be something he does very often.

  Not wanting to exacerbate the situation, I nod. My hands remain at my sides, palms facing our former ally: a blatant sign of submission.

  Gav takes in his surroundings for a long, drawn-out moment. I wonder if he’s trying to wrack my nerves, or steady his own. The sheer sight of him—a contact, a comrade, and a friend—in a policeman’s uniform is so horribly, heinously wrong. The navy canvas with its signature checkerboard detailing doesn’t suit the sweet, simple man we’ve grown to know. Not at all.

  “You lot name all your bases, right?” he asks, finally dropping his blue eyes back to where I’m waiting in obedient silence.

  “Yes.”

  “I swear this one had a name, too.”

  “It did.” I don’t give any further information, which is what Gav clearly wanted, and he presses on.

  “What was it?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Gav jabs the menacing-looking weapon toward me. “Funny, ‘cause last I checked I’m the one holding the EMPR.”

  I can’t look at him. It hurts too much.

  “The Coffin,” I murmur reluctantly.

  “And why wouldn’t you wanna call it that?”

  My head raises with a touch of defiance. “Gav, dehumanizing us doesn’t make what you’re doing any less heinous. You know why we wouldn’t want to call it that anymore. You know what happened earlier this year.”

  For a beat, Gav’s face falls, fracturing the cruel facade I know for a fact he’s faking. Despite amassing piles of evidence that he was a double agent, or was at least planning to sell us out, none of us ever believed he was capable of any malice or meanness. I still don’t. Which is why the police uniform is so shocking to me, and why my mind is racing with possible reasons why he could be working with them.

  “I got questions,” he finally grunts through gritted teeth, motioning with the weapon—the EMPR, whatever it is. Whatever it does. “I know you’re the best one to answer ‘em.”

  “You mean I’m the easiest to threaten?” I ask, with no hint of insult.

  Gav scoffs. “Oi, whatever, mate. You said it. Look, I’m just doing my job here.”

  “So am I.”

  “Only difference is mine’s legal,” he retorts. He glares at me, and I try to ignore the scent of hot electricity as the weapon crackles too close to my face for comfort.

  Whatever it does, I’ll bet it hurts. A lot.

  “It’s over, OP,” Gav says, wearily. His voice is almost apologetic. “It’s gotta end here. The terrorism, the cyber-attacks, the crap—it’s all gotta stop.”

  “If you take me out,” I utter, with a calmness that terrifies even me, “that won’t stop them. PS, Dee, all of them. They’ll keep fighting—and, if anything, they’ll only fight harder.”

  My lack of visible fear seems to not only surprise Gav, but annoy him too. He has no idea about the bat-sized butterflies trying to burst out of my belly. In his desperation to retain the upper hand, he starts to claw for verbal purchase.

  “It’s over, OP!” he repeats, as if shouting it will make it more true. “PS is walking headfirst into a trap. Dee and the new guy will be in handcuffs before Mr. King even begins his keynote. And, as for the firestarter—”

  Gav’s lackadaisical tenor trails off as I slowly rotate one wrist to point at the item laying in plain view on the countertop. His eyes widen as they recognize the design of the lanyard, then the photograph imprinted on the pass itself.

  “That—that’s the press badge I got for you—”

  I can practically hear the cogs turning in his brain. For all his boldness, and all his resourcefulness, Gav never has been the brightest-firing synapse of the bunch.

  “It’s actually the press badge you got for my brigade mate,” I say, politely waiting for him to catch up. “But I had a hunch putting this on him would be like putting a giant target around his neck. So, I acquired a spare.”

  “A spare?”

  “It did take a lot of convincing, mind you,” I continue smoothly. “The rest of the brigade really weren’t able to believe you could be capable of operating as a double-agent. Especially Diesel. But I knew. That was why I baited you, by letting slip about all our contacts. You were too interested, and in all the wrong things. It was obvious. But they still couldn’t believe it.”

  Gav blinks at me, indignant. “What—why couldn’t they believe it?”

  “Well, because it’s you,” I say, carefully. I’m grateful he’s as simple beneath the mask as he’s been the entire time I’ve known him. “You’re Gav. You’re sweet, you’re kind, you’ve got a sister who—”

  “I don’t have a sister,” he interrupts.

  I was already prepared for that admission. “Even still,” I press, “they don’t see you like that. Even after Felix showed us the recruitment posters, they all struggled with it.” My voice lowers, just a fraction. “They don’t believe this is who you are, Gav—none of us do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” Gav’s brows furrow, deepening his determined frown. “This is who I am, son. It’s in my blood. I took an oath, and I’m proper proud to uphold it. No matter what.”

  “You’re the literal poster boy for New Sovereign Yard. That’s quite the accomplishment.”

  I stare at him, a genuine blend of both sad and sympathetic.

  “Is it a numbers thing?” I ask, and while I may be aiming to gently rile him, part of me is legitimately curious. “Were you desperate for the collar? Or is there some sort of promotion?”

  “Oi—!”

  Gav’s angry outcry is cut short by a beep from my laptop. We both glance sideways toward it.

  “What is that?” the informant-turned-copper demands.

  “A message.”

&n
bsp; “From?”

  I bite my lip. He can see the open window on the screen; with that weapon crackling in my face, I don’t dare lie. “Our leak. Irene.”

  “Read it,” he orders. “Out loud.”

  “Gav—”

  The EMPR thrusts within an inch of my nose. I whip back in my chair, sinking down into it with a tiny, little whimper of defeat. My cool is starting to crack.

  “Read it,” he demands, and I can’t help but notice his voice is shaking. “And then, you’re gonna start filling me in on not only this Irene person, but your girl in the States, too.

  “And,” he says, “if you tell me everything without fucking me about, I’ll put in a request that you get transferred to a regular prison. I’ll make sure you stay the hell away from Vaughtry House.”

  My blood ices at the mention of the purpose-built Anomaly prison.

  “I know you heard the rumors,” he says. And I may be crazy, but as he does, I swear I can see the way he’s physically squirming. As if every aspect of what’s happening is making him unbearably uncomfortable.

  “I ain’t gonna confirm what I don’t know, but I heard some too,” he forces out, brandishing the EMPR. “And trust me, son. Anything I do to you with this thing? It’s gonna pale in comparison to whatever they’d end up doing to you in there.”

  20 Alfie's Backstage Pass

  This. Party. SUCKS.

  With comms silent, I have to listen to the music they’re playing. If you can even call it ‘music’, which I don’t reckon can be said for anything with a government seal of media approval. Let’s face it, there’s probably no one in that entire department who’s even heard real fucking music, let alone actually held an instrument and played it.

  As kids, Penny and I often said we were ‘starting a band’, which pissed my parents off to no end. Especially when we’d nick my dad’s acoustic guitar and I’d shred it ’til the strings snapped. Neither one of us cared about being in pitch or key, or even playing a right note. It was pure, unbridled passion.

  That all changed after Penny and her dad fucked off, Mum remarried, and we moved inland. We never played another living room gig.

  I’m still kicking myself for being a cunt. What was I thinking, mouthing off at Penny like that over comms? Especially when we could’ve been making out backstage instead. From what I see between her and Duncan, danger gets her off, and what’s more dangerous than fucking in the middle of an undercover sting operation? Not bloody much, that’s what!

  Loitering off to the side of the stage, the weight of the WebbTech Phantasee v4 camera around my neck keeps me in the moment. My mind keeps trying to slip away from me. I’ve only done, what, two shots? All right, four. But I’m not counting the first two ‘cause they were warm-ups. Either way, it shouldn’t be more than I can handle without losing my head.

  Something about this place is messing me up, though.

  “Do you reckon they’ll take us to the real club soon?” a girl with raven hair slurs to her friend as they stagger past. “I’m seriously done with this place, it’s creepy! There’s two blokes sucking on this one girl’s arse cheeks in the ladies’ lavs—that was me hitting my limit!”

  I don’t really blame you there, love, I chuckle inwardly, closing my eyes. The one-ten tempo beat of the trashy electro pop-hop pulses at the base of my skull. I’ve never hated the Sovereignty more than at this moment, for what they’ve done to the British music industry.

  I feel sick. It ain’t drunkenness, though, and it ain’t the nerves. Even knowing an ally might be planning on selling us out, and there’s a chance I narrowly avoided being whisked away the second I got here by switching out press passes. A pit’s opening up in my gut, and I feel hungover before the party’s even started.

  Just having a rough night, I assure myself. It happens, we all have good days and bad days. Today’s… probably just a bad day.

  Whatever, I can work through it. I’ve suffered through worse.

  A pair of techs are suddenly next to me, bitching about some shit I couldn’t care less to listen to. Until I hear them mention Mason King, that is.

  “—not asking him about it, you ask!” one of them is snapping at the other, who throws his hands up, in the same manner Penny does when she’s about to give me a verbal tongue-lashing. My least favorite kind of tongue-lashing.

  “What, so he can go and call me a pillock again?”

  “What’s the matter, lads?” I chime in, over the thrum of what I’m officially dubbing Shitty FM. I’ve never been the sort of bloke to have an issue poking my nose into other people’s conversations. It’s actually a solid way to make new friends.

  They both turn and stare at me before the first fella answers. “Er, just looking at getting Mr. King’s input on photo and video. Someone said he didn’t want his speech recorded, someone else said photos were fine…”

  “Don’t you love working live events?” I say, smooth and charming as fucking ever despite a developing headache and deepening nausea. “Look, I was wondering the exact same thing, so why don’t I go and ask? Be honest with you, I was looking for an excuse to introduce myself.”

  The second bloke eyes me up like an arsehole. It takes a lot of mental discipline not to ask if he’s gay and searching, or something.

  “You’re with KING?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. The text on the pass tucked into my jeans is far enough from them that they can’t see the part that reads Freelance Journalist—via Alexa Exeter at the bottom. “And I know Mike, he’s a mate of mine. Got me this gig.”

  There’s no fucking Mike. And if there is, I don’t know him. But they don’t seem to know that.

  “All right, your funeral,” one of them says. “He’s backstage.”

  Penny was right, I think, as I duck behind the thick, purplish-blue curtains. If you act confident and pretend you’re supposed to be somewhere, you can get away with some serious sh—it.

  It’s dark backstage. I’m annoyed I can’t just spark a flame, but despite what the Wall-jumper says, I’m no ‘idjit’.

  Holding onto the camera to keep it from rattling about, I climb several stairs. I can hear voices; I recognize one of them from newscasts and other media since I was a little kid. Chantelle King, CEO of KING News in Britain, and practically the closest thing we have to empowered and respected royalty these days.

  Our legitimate monarch was laughed at from the day he was coronated.

  Chantelle, on the other hand? Regardless of bloodline, she’s a fucking queen. And I hate the bitch for it, with every fibre of my goddamn being.

  “The lifestyle, the experience? That was the goal,” she’s saying, as I creep closer. “All those influencers and celebrities we paid a couple thou to post an image with overtones of this could be you? They were the bait. A psychological lure to draw in folk from all over the country who wanted nothing more than to be them for a night. At any cost.”

  “Hook, line, sinker.” I don’t recognize the owner of the male voice, but it doesn’t take me long to figure it out. “I’m honestly rather proud of you.”

  “Consider it a homecoming party,” Chantelle replies curtly. I’m amused to hear she even sounds like a bitch talking to family. “How often do I get to see my baby brother these days?”

  Mason King chuckles. There’s only a single curtain between us, and I can see their silhouettes as they talk. “You know how busy I’ve been. The yanks are shockingly steadfast in their vision of democracy. You wouldn’t believe the number of political hoops we’ve had to dance with.”

  “Steadfast? The yanks, really?” Chantelle snickers. “Can’t you just wave a starry flag about and distract them all until Election Day is over?”

  “That’s at least part of it, yes,” says Mason. His voice is weird: a clipped, proper English accent with hard overtones of the same American twang I’ve heard in Oliver’s illegal movies.

  “Unfortunately, we have these annoying little pockets of resistance springing up everywhere like weeds,” he
’s grumbling. “Red state, blue state, it doesn’t matter. Better living through smarter thinking. We’re just at the point now of finding the correct brand of weedkiller, that’s all.”

  “One you can slip by the authorities?”

  “Or, one that works well with the authorities. Divisive tactics are the most dangerous and the most effective, sis. Father taught us that. Even the Disciples understood the need to drive division amongst the people to bring about real political change.”

  If it weren’t for my headache, I could probably listen to this crap without feeling an actual, physical compulsion to kill somebody.

  … what frightens me is, I’m not even joking.

  I’ve felt murderous in the past, in a—what’s the word?—metaphorical sense. I’ve said I’ve wanted to kill someone, even thought about it. But what I’m feeling right now? It’s not an urge, it’s a need.

  I… I need to kill somebody.

  That’s a scary thing to suddenly realize. But, the more they talk about their bullshit hateful agenda, the hotter the anger boils inside of me. It’s gone from simmering to bubbling over, and the pounding in my head and my gut isn’t helping me control it any.

  “Speaking of which,” Mason is saying, behind the thick curtain and the drum of my headache. “I wanted to congratulate you, my darling.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your grip on the situation here at home. It’s sheer iron. Not a word leaks beyond these borders that isn’t controlled by you personally. The trickles and treats you let slip by to keep the social justice warriors and United Nations at bay? Genius.”

  Mason leans into his sister to whisper, and I find myself pressing against the curtain to hear what he says.

  “None of the reality of this situation has reached the rest of the world,” he utters. “Which means I can spin this visit to my advantage. I can spin Britain to my advantage. And with that, we will win the Election. I am absolutely sure of it.”

  A flame sparks to life in my stomach, where the empty pit was hollowing out earlier. The bubbling, boiling rage is threatening to flood it, fill it, and explode.

  “How sure?” purrs Chantelle, in a seductive manner that makes me want to tear the curtain away and slap the smirk right off her face.