Motherland

by Russ Linton

  To narrow things down, Charlotte goes with us. Probably exactly what she planned all along. Christ.

  Me? I'm the tech expert who can start work with Cyrus the second we find him. So Dad claims. Another reason occurs to me—I've saved his ass once from Charlotte. Nobody else can say they've done that.

  We exit to the parking lot to prepare for liftoff. Everyone assembles behind the Mad Max Humvee where Dad unfolds and presses a map against the rear window. Eric, Hound, Danger, and Ember huddle with us as Aurora floats leisurely in the sky.

  The slight, sickly form beside Dad watches me instead of the briefing. Charlotte's apprehensive smile causes a visceral reaction and I harden my stance, pretending not to notice how she drops her eyes and uselessly tucks a strand of stringy hair behind one ear.

  What is she playing at here? Any minute she could jump into the Crimson Mask's head and make all of us crimson stains. Aurora could probably get away. I doubt Ember would leave—she doesn't seem the type to run. Dad's eaten straight plasma bursts though, and survived. I'm kind of surprised everyone isn't making sure Danger isn't in their immediate sightlines. Assuming his powers are functioning, he'll be the first to know.

  "Any word on Vulkan's friend?" Dad asks.

  "Way under the radar." Eric's excitement level ramps up. He hasn't collected them all. "No real public displays of her powers," he says eagerly. "I only found her through the records the Russian government shared with the Beetle. They ran all kinds of tests and concluded she was a dud."

  The Augments, with the exception of Charlotte who continues to pretend she isn't getting an eyeful of me, all exchange glances.

  "Ain't no duds," says Danger. "You either die or get your gift." He makes his feelings plain with the way he sneers at the word "gift."

  "'Specially in the U.S.S.R.," growls Hound. "They don't appreciate loose ends."

  "Well, she went dormant, or made them think she had," Eric adds. "And then she went off the grid completely."

  "Ideas?" Dad asks, sweeping the group. When nobody answers, he checks with me. I can only shrug. "If they show up again, make her a priority."

  "Gotcha' five by five," says Hound.

  Eric outlines a few more last-minute details with the team about our LZ, and I tune out the acronym parade.

  "I'll keep an eye out for anything news-related to Polybius," says Eric, "and monitor traffic for signs of his handiwork. They took him for code breaking, obvs, and the kind of stuff he cracks won't go unnoticed."

  "Cover your tracks," adds Dad. "This is a delicate situation and we don't need you setting off alarms."

  Or pissing off Xamse. Turns out the little-minion-that-could provides the tech, the medical supplies, contractors to fix the occasional acts of gods, and even Eric's supply of pizza pockets.

  None of these guys can hold down a real job and cover those massive expenses. Maybe Danger could be the world's twitchiest bodyguard. Hound could work airport security if people could get over the awkwardness of an old man sniffing their crotch. Ember? A fry cook? Hell, without Xamse they'd have to find their own way and stop playing world police.

  I had life goals once. Tech days left behind in a crater somewhere in Wyoming, I wanted to be the one to coax Mom's ghost from Charlotte's psychic prison until I figured out how impossible that would be. People don't come back from being dead. There's a couple grave sites over in the trees for proof.

  Charlotte's noticed I'm watching her again. What is your plan? I hurl the demand into that space inside my skull where she prefers to nest. When are you going to fuck us over? A wall of muscle cuts off the view as Dad shifts, wrapping up his tactical briefing.

  "Hound, the base is in your hands until I get back. You know what to do."

  "We'll keep her safe." Hound's eyes linger on me and Charlotte then steps away. "Give 'em some room."

  Me, Dad, and Charlotte form an awkward triangle, and Aurora drifts into the center. We're all in typical street clothes and Charlotte pulls a scarf gingerly over her scarred scalp, tugging it in a tight oval around her face. She's given up trying to get through my withering glare.

  "You'll need to hold hands," says Aurora, her light playing on us. We move closer and ring her translucent form. Charlotte's eyes flick upward as our fingers touch. I resist the urge to pull away from her cold, clammy skin. She doesn't notice because she's gazing up at Dad, not me, with a fragile smile. Aurora hesitates, soaking in the moment. "Okay, now. Take hold."

  Awkward, uncomfortable shifting ensues as we try to figure out what that means with everyone's hands locked together. Dad's the first to let go of my hand and reach out. I follow suit.

  "What was the holding hands thing for?" I ask.

  Aurora shrugs.

  Soupy green light overflows the parking lot. Straight through Aurora's body I see Charlotte close her eyes and Dad grip her hand tighter. The world spins, only different than last time. I seem to be the only one not on an axis.

  WE'RE ON A STRETCH of empty beach, a tall bluff on one side, the Mediterranean on the other. Aurora's power rolls outward across the incoming waves in a ghostly wake. My first jump with her, I'd landed in broad daylight in a forest. At night, against the unending expanse of water, the aftereffects of the teleportation can be clearly seen roiling through the atmosphere, their dance reflected in the sea.

  "We came from?" I point up.

  Aurora cranes her neck. "Trippy, isn't it? I lived there for a time."

  "Head back and let them know we landed safely." Dad's already giving commands. "I'll radio in once we reach Alpha." She salutes and is gone, leaving another wash of color to trace the horizon. Our plainclothes general crouches like he's behind home plate and speaks directly to the two of us, using his hands for emphasis. It's odd seeing him do this in street clothes, but I notice the tights peeking out from under his shirt. "Remember the plan. You're my kids. You don't speak to anyone unless I ask you to. This goes especially for you, Spencer."

  "Not because you have a big mouth, honey," says Charlotte.

  With the familiar scent and sounds of ocean water, I can't help but think of the last time I saw Mom. Falling into the back and forth with her and Dad would be easy. Instead, I fight the urge to shout. She shrinks from my willful silence and Dad puts his hand on the back of her neck.

  Nope. Not playing house. I examine the bluff where a distant fuzz of city lights is the only thing visible following Aurora's show.

  "I say ‘especially’ for you, Spencer,” explains Dad. "Because you're a man. If anyone approaches you two and I'm not around, they'll talk to you first. Say nothing." He breaks out the neatly folded map and a red-lensed flashlight from his cargo pants. "We're here, headed here. It'll be a short flight, but I'm trying to keep Aurora's exposure limited since we don't know who or what shut her down. If anything happens..."

  "Return to the beach for ‘evac.’ Yeah, I was at the same meeting."

  "Good."

  He scoops us up, a giant cradling his toys, and we're rising fast, fast enough to be an unrecognizable blur in the starry sky. Charlotte grabs my hand, and I yank it away. She must have her eyes closed as tight as mine, but I don't check. Soon, we've found a cruising speed and I risk a peek.

  I've flown this free twice. Once as Dad and I fled from the remains of our house. The next was in a suit of battle armor. Watching the network of city streets twist into ever denser knots and seeing the veins of street lamps dwindle into capillaries and then bleed out completely into an empty void, I'm struck by exactly how crazy our current mission is. Could Charlotte really have dreamed it up and planted it in Dad's head? Maybe she's moved on to more subtle manipulation. Her puppets in the past struggled too much. Caused too many problems.

  Once we're over the target, we descend just as quickly, trying to minimize the chance of being spotted. We touch down on the outskirts of an airport. The tranquil, faraway city is quickly transformed into a world of dust and hollow metal shells.

  The airport is a dead zone. At the outskirts,
roads are dirt and little separates them from the terrain but dry, sparse clumps of grass. We pass charred remains of fuselages, jet engines. No daily flights coming or going here. A revolution replaced the local dictator, and people fought without Augments. Bullets, blood, bombs.

  Deeper in, past the high fences and the nerve-shattering bark of dogs, and we begin to see pavement. Charlotte and I both follow close behind Dad, hugging buildings and pools of shadow, waiting for lone cars to pass before we dart across roads. Soon, it becomes impossible to escape notice. Even late at night, cars zoom through narrow streets. They look the same—white, dented, compact, every single one sporting some badge of ingenuity to keep hoods closed, dangling lights in place, doors shut.

  Building facades are riddled with bullet holes. Not just a few. All of them.

  We're supposed to keep a low profile, and that's getting harder and harder. We navigate around checkpoints manned by guys in street clothes carrying rifles. Technical trucks, the beds often not matching the cab, are mounted with homemade rocket launchers and mortars. Having Dad in the lead, out of his crimson and black, I don't feel safe. The big mouth Charlotte joked about earlier is clamped shut.

  We walk for what feels like hours and get closer to the city center. Perhaps the most disturbing thing, all the signs here sport straight up gibberish to an English Primary Language person such as myself. Lost, I couldn't even begin to decipher where to go. "Airport." "Beach." Could be any of these.

  Our route narrows into an alley and bearded faces watch us from upper story windows, the interior lights uneven and dirty. Trash lines the buildings deep enough the stink produces an undertow. Dad reaches into his collar to draw out the Augment dog tags he always wears.

  "Wait here," he says.

  Maybe it's too dark to see my stunned expression. Whether he does or not, he disappears deeper into the alley anyway.

  "Don't worry. He'll be right back."

  It's impossible to decide which is worse: being left in a stinking, rat-infested alley in the middle of a revolution where the dust has yet to settle or being alone in the dark with that.

  "Sorry for what I said at the beach. It just made me remember when we I last saw you and..."

  "Stop talking."

  "Spencer Ronald Harrington! How—"

  My open palm connects with her cheek. No thought, just a reaction. For a split second beneath the shadows we register the same sense of utter shock, but anger quickly erases mine. "You are not my mother. You're a murderer. A freak."

  Her cheeks quiver as she struggles to reply. The head scarf has been tossed aside. Wordlessly, she arranges it along her scalp and faces the blank space left by Dad.

  Her expected psychotic break never happens. Grim watchers keep their vigil from the upper floors. Guards, their hidden fingers resting on triggers.

  You deserved that, I think, as hard as loud, as vicious as the space between my ears can handle. But she's given up. Doesn't flinch.

  Fragile, delicate, she's not the Charlotte who made up a fantasy world which followed her own misguided rules. She isn't the spider-faced demon lurking in the tree house. She doesn't even show the hunger that led her to try and burrow her way into our family. Having accomplished at least part of her former goal, there isn't any sign of gloating.

  She takes a few ragged breaths and shivers. I resist the temptation to comfort her. How much of what I'm feeling is real?

  Dad emerges from the shadows. A solid metal door clanks somewhere behind him. He's in a hurry and buried deep in his operational mindset.

  "Let's move out." He's passed up Charlotte and is at the end of the alley, checking the corners before he notices I'm the only one following. He swivels, sweeping the upper floors and keeping watch on the street. An interrogating eye finds me, and I shake my head. "What's wrong?" he asks her.

  "Nothing," she says. "Let's go."

  It's pretty clear Dad doesn't buy it but he's already hustling us into the frantic streets.

  An accident in the constant chaos of moving violations would be easy to dismiss. All it would take is a compromised driver. Or a guy with an AK at one of the many checkpoints could take a shot as we passed. Infinite ways she could exact revenge. She never does.

  Chapter 14

  SOMEHOW, WE MAKE IT back to the abandoned airport in one piece. Darkness was our friend, keeping my lily-white skin and the missing facial hair, worn by everybody else, less noticeable. From a distance, the lame "you're my kids" ploy probably worked nicely. Of course, even in Augment-casual, Dad's steroidal frame doesn't scream approachable.

  "This is where things get dangerous," Dad explains with a straight face. We're in a huddle behind the burned out remains of a passenger jet.

  We've already dodged enough gun-wielding militias I feel that big mouth of mine is allowed some exercise. "First off, what was up with the alley we went to?"

  "Need to know only, Spence."

  "I know I have a need, so out with it."

  "Old friends to check for any intel on Cyrus. There's been no word from Eric on a more specific location." He taps an ear where his commlink to Whispering Pines is hidden.

  Not a complete answer but it'll do. "And whatever they gave you is more dangerous than what we just did?"

  "Afraid so."

  Charlotte isn't part of the conversation. Her silence is becoming more unnerving than her attempts to play house. Even without mind control she's got Dad convinced. All she'd need to do is tell him I bitch slapped her and he might end the family name here in this airport bone yard, mind control or no.

  Dad produces the map again and points at a name which looks like a smiley emoji followed by squiggles. "Sirte. There's a hospital on the south side of the town. Cyrus is there."

  "Radio Eric, tell him about this hospital. Aurora pops in, grabs Cyrus. Done. We can chat him up all day on U.S. soil."

  He's shaking his head before I finish. "First, that's a functioning hospital. No telling how many patients depend on reliable power." Right, and as Eric's already pointed out, she's not electronics friendly. "Second, Sirte is under control of a politically motivated rebel faction."

  "Every other city block has its own faction here," I say. "Why does that matter?"

  "Our light show over the ocean can be explained away but we have to keep it to a minimum. People will speculate, but as long as we keep a low profile, nobody will know we were really here. If Aurora blinks into a war zone, it'll be obvious. An incursion by Aurora or the Crimson Mask, both former U.S. assets, could be seen as us trying to tip the balance of a regional conflict."

  "And Xamse drops you completely, hmm?" Fuck, that guy has Dad by his titanium balls. "You guys ever consider a GoFundMe?" He's confused and Charlotte doesn't flinch. I miss Eric's goofiness all of a sudden. He's maybe the only real family I have left. "What do we do?"

  "You guys don't do anything. Flight time shouldn't be more than ten minutes. I'll find a safe place here for you to hide and go in alone."

  Alone time with Charlotte is not an awkward moment I want to repeat. I thought hitting her would have made me feel better. Instead, I feel like a dick. The fangs have yet to come out and every hour they stay retracted, I'm losing the bitter, soul-crushing agony which had already faded over the past year. A fragile little girl only a couple of years younger than me, and I cold clocked her in an alley. I don't want to think about this anymore. Without so much as a mental whisper, she's going to win this standoff.

  "What the hell, Dad? I understood when this was a simple information gathering trip and you wanted to force fake Mom here on me. Bonding over cloak and dagger bullshit or whatever. But now you're talking about infiltrating some terrorist hideout by yourself. Well, you dragged me along, I'm going the full distance." Dad doesn't immediately reject the possibility. "Cover me up on a gurney and I'll play sick or some bullshit. That way as soon as we find Cyrus, we're all ready to go."

  "Son, this particular group has been labeled a terrorist organization."

  He lets t
hat sink in. It isn't long before I connect the dots. "Wait, why is Cyrus hanging out with terrorists?"

  "I don't know. Neither did my sources. It's why you can't go in."

  "Sean." Charlotte finally speaks just above a whisper. "I don't want us to be separated."

  I should instinctively say no to any idea she has. Any idea. Doing otherwise puts me on the shortlist for the Darwin Award. But Dad won't let this go. Calling in Aurora means mission over since we'd be drawing too much attention. Or he'd see us off and go in by himself, planning on flying home. But somebody out there has his team's number. I'm angry, sure, but after Crimea, how can going it alone be a good idea?

  I have plenty of personal experience with similar impulses.

  Right when I think he's going to argue with her, he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. "We'll see. Let's check out the situation first."

  We're off the ground and watching the city draw tightly into a hazy scale model. Frantic whining of tinny engines and bleating car horns lose out to the rush of wind. Soon we're skirting the coast and civilization fades completely. The air is clean up here and damp, not the dusty inferno beneath.

  Flashes dot the horizon, large and small. Most sputter and disappear but some linger in slower dying columns of smoke. He wasn't kidding. There's an active war zone ahead. Terrorists fighting insurgents fighting governments, stuff I've only ever seen on television and mostly managed to escape during my tour at Killcreek. Part of my brief stint there included a suit of battle armor to even the playing field. This time won't be nearly as fun.

  WE PASS OVER A BATTLE on the way to Emoji Squiggle. Two roads merge into the coastal highway and holy hell is breaking loose at the junction. Mortars arc skyward and burst into fiery clouds, illuminating the desert. People scurry between those flashes. Pickup trucks stutter their way across the darkness, leaping into view with every rocket igniting from their beds. Small arms fire crackles like flashbulbs, and the air is thick with the pungent smell of gunpowder.