by Joe Ducie
‘What’s that then?’ Irene asked.
‘I’ve keyed the drone to you, Drake. It’ll follow you. Can you …’ He hesitated. ‘Can you do something magical? Like, make one of those fire orbs that kept us alive in the forest?’
Drake shrugged, eyed the apartments and buildings further down and along the length of Central Park, and shrugged again. ‘Something small, eh?’
‘Sure, I just want to confirm the readings with the drone.’
Drake stood and stepped away from his friends. He rubbed his hands together, crystal against flesh, and took a deep breath. Blue sparks shivered down his arm, splitting around the marble of light in his wrist, and jumped from his fingertips in tiny arcs of lightning that blurred from bright blue to wicked red. He used his real hand to catch those arcs, creating a web of lightning strikes between his palms. The power coalesced into a sphere as the drone watched from above, taking it all in.
‘That’s good,’ Tristan said, watching his laptop screen. ‘If I’ve got this right, then you’re using about … two and a quarter units of energy to do that.’
‘Units of energy?’ Irene asked.
Tristan nodded. ‘I don’t have a name for whatever it really is,’ he said. ‘Crystal-X, Yūgen, whatever the light and power actually is. But I figured out the pattern, and can monitor Will’s power usage. Sort of. Kind of … maybe.’
Drake pushed a bit more power down his arm, barely scraping the surface of the impossible source in his body, and the sphere shone brighter, flared hotter. It was about the size of a tennis ball. ‘How about that?’
‘Yeah, good.’ Tristan bit his tongue and glared at the figures on his screen. ‘About five units, give or take a drop. Heh. This is so cool.’
Drake asked the question that had been on his mind for nearly two days. ‘So how many units did it take to pull that spider thing through the portal back at the train?’
Tristan nodded. ‘That’s where I was going with this, yeah. Wherever that portal led, it took you exactly two hundred and ten units to make it happen.’
Drake took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘It didn’t have anything to do with my energy colliding with Skeleton Man’s?’
‘I can’t say,’ Tristan said. ‘But the bolt you threw at him and the soldiers was sizzling at about a hundred energy units before it collided. When the two bolts hit the energy doubled, just over, and created that portal into crystal spider hell.’ He paused. ‘And the readings I got from that were … scary.’
‘I could do it again,’ Drake said. ‘Couldn’t I? If I concentrated, figured out how to hit that energy level, I could open a way through again.’
‘This crystal,’ Tristan said, and removed the spike of blue crystal, shining softly, from the backpack, ‘is only one piece of the puzzle. We need the other one, the red one Skeleton Man took, to test it properly. I’m fairly sure they’re keys.’ He met Drake’s eyes and gave him a significant look. ‘What you wrote on your phone, on the library steps … as far as I can tell you’re right about what it means.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Irene asked, as Tristan put the crystal back in the pack.
Drake let out a low whistle. ‘I’ve been scheming,’ he said. ‘About opening that portal again. About … escaping.’
Irene grimaced. ‘Why would you want to open that thing again? One monster wasn’t enough?’
‘What if it’s my talent?’ Drake said. ‘Noemi has her invisibility, you’ve got your healing, and so far all I’ve done is set things on fire. What if this … whatever we’re calling it, portal magic, is my best trick?’ What if I could figure out how to open one to London? A shiver of excitement rushed through him. Or what if it only opens on wherever that spider came from?
Drake let the sphere of energy dissipate.
Tristan stood and, steeling himself, met Drake’s gaze. His mouth formed a thin, grim line and he exhaled slowly. ‘You guys want something to eat? Because the Alliance are on their way to pick me up. I called them. Worked out a deal. I don’t want to be running the rest of my life – getting shot at and falling out of the sky.’
‘You what?’ Irene gasped. ‘Michael, was that a joke – ?’
‘What did you do?’ Drake asked slowly, as the drone still followed him in wide circles above his head.
Irene felt the world slip from under her feet, tilt forty-five degrees, and her heart leapt into her throat. A nervous rush made her feel sick. She picked up the backpack full of cash and the revolver, clutching the strap to her chest.
‘You know,’ Tristan said to Drake as he crossed his arms over his chest, ‘you’re clever in ways that surprise me all the time.’
‘Why did you do it?’ Drake asked, casting another look up at the drone. Irene looked up, as well. The blue sky was dazzling, the breeze cool against her suddenly hot skin. ‘Did you use that thing?’
‘I’ve run out of use for you, is about the long and the short of it. I’m smart, you know. Like, genius-level smart.’ Tristan shrugged a shoulder. ‘Smart enough to know how smart I am, yeah? But you are clever, Will. And there’s an important difference between smart and clever. Sometimes that difference puts you ahead. I hate that. But most of the time it makes you easy to, well, exploit.’
Irene watched Drake’s face turn dark, his eyes shining with hard anger. ‘What’s the difference then?’
‘Clever is often kind. Kind, kind, kind. Smart doesn’t have that ugly weakness.’ Tristan nodded. ‘That’s why smart is better.’
Drake took a deep breath and Irene could almost feel him trying to calm himself. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked again. ‘Why did you use that damn drone to let the Alliance find us? Find her?’
‘I saw you!’ Tristan glared behind his glasses, angry and flushed. He gestured to the drone, no doubt recording and transmitting their conversation back to the Alliance. ‘With the drone. I saw you and Irene, Will, at that service station! Didn’t take you long to tongue her, did it?’
‘You’re saying that like we should be ashamed or something.’ Drake clenched and unclenched his fists – and took a step back away from Tristan. ‘You betrayed us to the Alliance because me and Irene kissed?’
‘No. I betrayed you to the Alliance because hanging around with you is going to get us killed! I want you away from her! You’re the problem. You’re the … damn problem. I did the right thing. You’re not well, Will, and – shit, look at you! You’re not even human any more. You’re putting us all in danger.’
Drake blinked and shook his head. ‘You jealous asshole.’
Tristan smirked. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘I think it’s exactly like that.’
‘Michael,’ Irene said. Her thoughts raced, her mind a tangled mess of disbelief. ‘You can’t possibly think I would agree to this, that I’d want to go with you’
He gave her such a look of longing and pity that Irene almost slapped him. ‘It’s not like that,’ he muttered. ‘I hope you’ll understand soon. But no, I don’t expect you to come with me. I’m going, though. They’re sending someone to come and get me.’
Drake grimaced as blue light shivered down his arm, against his will.
‘You’re not going to hurt me, Will.’ Tristan sneered. ‘You’re not even close to mad, yet. For whatever reason – and you have so many not to be – you’re too clever. You’re too much of a good guy.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you? Got me figured out, do you?’
Tristan shrugged. ‘Difference between me and you, Will, is that I kind of belonged in prison. Maybe not the Rig, given what was happening there, but I definitely deserved to be locked up, according to the law – I killed twelve people.’
Twelve … Irene covered her mouth
‘You told me it was eight.’
‘Well, sure.’ He grinned and clapped his hands together. ‘That they know about.’
A shiver ran down Irene’s spine. One dark, lonely night on the Rig, Tristan had confided the truth of his crimes to
her in the old control room they had used as a secret meeting place after hours. He had hacked and severed the power supply to his home city, Perth, and one of the hospital’s emergency power systems had failed to come on. He’d been responsible for the deaths of those patients.
‘You also told me it was an accident,’ she said. ‘What you did to that hospital. What are you saying now?’
‘That I’m not clever. I’m smart. And that I’m not a good guy, Will. I’m selfish, often cruel, out for myself. You have to be, these days, to get ahead with the Alliance. Otherwise they’ll crush you. Lock you away and turn you into shark food. I can’t help it, you know? I played you to get me off the Rig, because you were my best shot, and when I saw that you were trying to take something I wanted, I told the Alliance where to come and find you to get you out of the way. To protect myself, more than anything, but also to get you away from Irene. They offered me a job, even, to work out those portal crystals.’ He laughed as if that were the best joke he’d ever heard. ‘It’s a bit of a relief, you know, being honest with you. I had to pretend to be your friend every day when we were stuck in that cell.’
‘You think we’re going to forgive you for this?’ Drake asked. ‘That we’ll understand?’
Tristan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose – an act that had seemed innocent before but now was full of derision. He sighed. ‘No, I guess not, but the Alliance can’t be beaten, so I’m going to cut my losses. I’m free, thanks to you, but you’re too dangerous to hang with. Things keep breaking around you.’ He looked to the drone and then to Irene. ‘And I’ll find another hot redhead with daddy issues.’
Tears pricked at Irene’s eyes and, from the look on Drake’s face, she worried he was only a step from throwing Tristan over the balcony and into Central Park. A flaming blue meteorite of a bastard, she thought.
Drake sighed and ran a hand back through his hair. ‘You saved my life on the Rig. You got the trackers off, stopped Alan Grey from gutting me like a fish … who the hell are you?’
‘Like I said, I needed you then. I don’t now. I don’t have to pretend to be your friend.’
A familiar sound, of rotating blades, echoed down the street and Drake snapped his head over to the edge of the terrace, away from Tristan. He stood just on the threshold of the balcony, in the doorway back into the apartment.
The chopper distinguished itself above the general noise of the city as it flew up from hiding in the canyon of the street below and buffeted the terrace with gusts of air. Skeleton Man stood in the hold of the chopper, wearing a wide grin and a harness. He jumped from the hold, attached to a thick black cord, and landed on the terrace. A faceless guard, masked and armed, leapt from the hold alongside him, attached to a similar rope.
In the space of about two desperate seconds, Skeleton Man wrapped his long, thin arms around Irene, who screamed and clutched the backpack to her chest. The cord of rope yanked him back up and off the balcony into the air. The cord spooled back into the hold, whipping Skeleton Man and Irene – who struggled in his grasp – towards the hovering chopper.
The masked guard grabbed Tristan, only a split second behind Skeleton Man, and reeled his rope back in. Both Tristan and Irene had been whisked towards the chopper.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Drake ran across the terrace and hurled himself over the glass barrier, high above the city, and out into the open air, his arms outstretched and reaching for Irene. His fingers brushed the heel of her sneaker as she was lifted out of reach, and snapped away into the hold of the chopper.
Drake’s momentum carried him forward, and he grabbed the landing strut of the chopper as it pulled away from the balcony. Unexpected fire burst from his crystal arm and melted the strut around his fingers, leaving him dangling by his good hand. Drake restrained the flames and pulled his elbows over the metal skids, clinging on as hard as he could, as the chopper flew away from the apartment and headed down Fifth Avenue, skirting the edge of Central Park.
‘Give her back!’ Drake roared. A wild fury forced his heart into his throat. This wasn’t the plan! He didn’t care that he was dangling a hundred metres above the city, that one slip would mean death. He wanted Irene back before Skeleton Man could hurt her.
The chopper flew downtown, moving swiftly through the city, over thick crowds of people and gridlocked traffic, alongside apartment buildings and the mighty skyscrapers. The nose of the chopper tilted up and above the tallest buildings on Manhattan Island as Drake tried to pull himself up over the skids and into the hold. He tried to swing his legs around the skid, but the force from the blades and the wind kept him dangling by his arms – barely.
Skeleton Man appeared on the edge of the hold and watched Drake struggle. He took a seat with an easy grin, riffling through the backpack Irene had been holding, and winked down at Drake with an eye of dull red coal. Loose banknotes, Canadian greens and reds, fluttered from the backpack and fell on the city below.
‘Drake!’ Skeleton Man said, and his voice seemed to reverberate through Drake’s head, above the sound of the rotors. ‘No one invited you to this party. Shit, son, you’re like a bad penny.’
He slammed his boot into Drake’s nose, and Drake felt something snap. Pain blossomed behind his eyes, but he held on as hot blood gushed down his face. Drops swept away in the wind, following the cash. Something in his voice …
Drake pulled his head back and caught sight of a mark on Skeleton Man’s pale, bony arm that sent his mind reeling. A faded and stretched tattoo of twin swords crossed over a wreath under a silver crown. C-F 13 was etched under the tattoo in blurred, burnt letters.
C-F … Crystal Force! The militarised special forces of the Alliance. C-F 13.
Oh, oh shit.
‘You’re dead!’ Drake gasped, and his grip on the power wavered. ‘You burned, Brand!’
Officer Marcus Brand, former prison guard on the Rig, frowned and drew Warden Storm’s heavy revolver from the bottom of the backpack. He stared at the weapon, a slack look on his face, as if he’d never seen a gun before. And then he pointed it between Drake’s eyes. ‘Let go,’ he said.
‘Give her back, Brand,’ Drake growled, his voice a dull roar above the wind and the rotors. Irene struggled behind Brand with another Alliance soldier, who was trying to restrain her in the hold. She met Drake’s eyes briefly and kept fighting.
Brand’s eyes flared red, twitched, and he tilted his head as if listening to something only he could hear. ‘Huh. Someone wants to talk to you, Drake. Best not to keep her waiting. Remember to be polite and give her my best.’ Brand licked his lips, shrugged and pulled the trigger.
A spinning marble of hot lead took Drake above his left eye. He felt a fierce burn shoot back across his ear, a bone-shattering cold. Someone screamed.
He fell.
Irene screamed as an arc of crimson droplets burst from Will’s forehead, and he fell away from the chopper. Tristan clutched his phone to his chest and stared, wide-eyed and shocked.
Irene’s heart leapt into her throat and a desperate shiver ran through her body as Will disappeared, like old leaves caught in the wind. She stopped struggling against the masked Alliance goon that held her arms behind her back. She stopped breathing.
He’s OK, he’s OK, he’s OK …
The Skeleton Man – Marcus Brand – had shot Drake in the head.
Brand stood and stared at her. His face, thin skin stretched over an elongated skull and yellow teeth, looked confused.
‘Thought he’d let go,’ the masked guard said. ‘Whitmore ain’t gonna like this.’
Brand grinned. A hideous, stretched travesty of a grin. ‘Oh, I think we’ll be OK.’
Irene found her voice and her fury. ‘You killed him!’
She tore her arms from the soldier’s hands and lunged at Brand, clawing at his throat, his eyes, his ruined face. As if swatting a fly, he slammed the butt of Storm’s revolver into her jaw. She spun back into the soldier’s grip and slumped into his arms, dazed.
Will Drake was dead.
Will Drake was pretty sure he’d died and gone to heaven.
He sat at his mother’s old, worn table in their home in London. An entire plate of buttery toast rested on the table, next to a pot of homemade blackberry jam, well within arm’s reach. For some reason, the whole set-up seemed impossible.
Drake helped himself to a piece of toast. He scraped some jam onto the bread with a knife held in his left hand. He stared at that hand, at his skin, and wondered why he expected to see dark glass.
A dull ache above his eye plagued him.
He worried, just for a moment, that someone had gone and shot him in the head. But that was absurd.
Drake’s toast tasted like coming home. The clock on the wall told him it was eight in the morning. He had to be at school in half an hour, but he had a nagging feeling that he’d missed a fair chunk of schooling in the last year and a half.
Cool London half-light streamed in through the small windows above the sink. The remnants of last night’s dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, rested on the rack next to the sink. Drake had been going to wash the plates, as Mum didn’t have the strength these days, but he’d played old-school video games with Gaz late last night. He hoped she hadn’t seen the mess.
Strewn on the kitchen counter were a pharmacy’s worth of medicine bottles – twenty-two in total, to be taken twice a day. The only medicine the Alliance healthcare system would give someone with a pre-existing condition.
Pills to let the sick die slowly in a hazy shroud of not-quite-felt suffering.
Anger swirled in Drake’s gut. If he could just get some of the good drugs, the Detrolazyne, his mother would have a chance. As it stood, he would be burying her in a few months, Nanna Vera’s arm around his shoulders. Illness left a taste lingering in the air that was most likely the source of his headache.