by Russ Linton
The convoy merges onto a strip of asphalt baked into the sandy landscape. Changes in elevation are only noted by the disjointed shift where the road shears and continues off toward nothing. Mountains edge one side, nothing more than craggy shards of rock, dark against the sand. There's no other traffic, but every few miles we whip past a shredded sheet of plastic or bottle tossed carelessly to the roadside.
These guys don't believe in A/C either. They're acclimated to the heat and the smell. Stuffed between two armed thugs, neither of which bathe, I'm positive I'm going to be sick.
Mom's ahead in Shortwave's car, a ride I wasn't offered. Dad, a different vehicle entirely. Cyrus keeps stealing glances from the passenger seat. I'm still waiting for the word. The signal. Where he steps up to Augment mode and gets us the hell out of here.
"Cyrus, be straight with me." Even crammed between two armed terrorists, I can't keep my mouth shut.
The goons are watching to see if he's going to give them permission to pistol whip me into silence. He doesn't. Instead, he lets me wait. The further we drive into this desolate place, the more I think an explanation will never come. But he surprises me.
"These hands can heal any wounds. Yet do you know how many restrictions there are on my movement? I'm a weapon, pure and simple. For half of the world, I'm a terrorist because of where my parents were from. The other half, well, these hands were forged by the great Satan. By capitalist dogs." His mouth forms a mirthless grin. "I'm tired. Tired of fighting that fight. I don't want to be forced to seek permission to help others anymore. Why should healing people be so difficult? Why do so many have to die?"
He doesn't say any more and the final word sinks in. Memories of the Black Beetle's broken body which I buried in a similar godforsaken waste come to mind. Then come those implanted memories of the same happening to Mom. Dad's instincts were right. They're going to kill us.
Burnt motor oil and body odor create a pool of fetid air. The drafty SUV and a constant pelting of dust and rocks drowns out all thought. Soon I'm riding blind, feeling my away down the road with pothole echolocation. Not the best place to sleep. It happens anyway.
SOMEBODY SWATS MY ARM, and I'm instantly awake. Cyrus is leaning in the open door, Kalashnikov one and two behind him. "Let's go."
I peer out the windshield first, hoping beyond hope to not see yet another desolate stretch of desert. I'm relieved to see buildings. Hangar, runway, planes—we're at an airstrip. I slip out of the backseat onto the tarmac. A few burned out military planes and a few more that might be in working order are stowed off to the side. A turboprop idles on the cleared-out strip. The rest of the convoy has dispersed toward the single hangar where a handful of armed desert-camoed men greet them.
Shortwave walks arm in arm with Mom toward the plane with Dad being escorted behind. Cyrus takes hold of me likewise and waves off the guards. They give a stiff salute, what sounds like a prayer, then they're off to join their friends.
"Where are we going?"
Cyrus doesn't answer and soon can't as we get closer to the whining engine. It's a single engine, old, nothing like Martin's plane but bigger than the ones I've been training to fly. That was one more new hobby Emily suggested I take up to lure me from the stacks at the library. The librarians would cage me in at night and not know. Prisoner to a hidden knowledge I'd never find.
Mom...Charlotte is waiting in the open door.
I always thought it was up to me to save her. This, incidentally, drove me to some batshit craziness. Well, that and the numbness of a brooding, hormonal kid doomed to an icy hell. When I promised her I would get her out of Charlotte's world, deep down I knew I was volunteering to do the impossible. That I'd accepted her as gone.
She reaches out, and I accept the help. With Cyrus right behind us, this little gesture might break whatever illusion she's managed to pull off, but I don't care. She guides me past a guard and into a seat across from Shortwave.
Our captor sits calmly, watching the entire interaction. He radiates a certain pride about this whole kidnapping thing. Dad's on a back bench handcuffed and flanked by two guys with guns. They're ready to off him on command. I'm not sure how necessary that level of violence is anymore. He's slumped forward and sweating in steady streams, but determined.
Mom follows my gaze and sits in the rearward facing seat beside me. A little too stiffly. Too unconcerned. She's favoring the aisle so she can see Dad. I take my place next to her and Cyrus heads to the rear, one row up from Dad's.
Once we're wheels up and the engine noise has cycled to a throaty purr, Shortwave speaks. "Charlotte tells me you have impressive technical skills." I acknowledge him with a brief nod. "This I know." He says "this" with a smug smile. "But you don't just know computers, you know the analog, eh? Interesting trick with your car radio."
I'm not sure where he's going with this. "Black Beetle offered me a job once. I didn't take that one either," I say.
Shortwave purses his lips and wags a finger in the air. "No, no. Nothing of the sort." He's put his hands on his hips and bends forward, nose to nose. "I have many men and women with your skills. They are of little use, unless they contribute freely and for the greater glory of all."
Bingo. There's his lunacy. He's got the calm, penetrating gaze of a cult leader.
"Cool, I already subscribe to the Watchtower. If we're of no use, you can drop us off at the nearest international airport. Keep the miles."
His smile returns, and he settles into the seat, unperturbed. Pushing back his sleeve, he reveals a stainless-steel watch. What he sees sparks a nod of recognition and he rises.
That's when I first notice the odd seat configuration. All the seats at the front line one side of the plane with the other side, empty. Shortwave retrieves a small rug from a bin and spreads it out. Eyes down, he begins to pray.
It's a well-practiced routine accompanied by a nasal verse. Hands up then crossed in front, the timeless call is equal parts mysterious and chilling. In the rush of wind and prop wash outside the cabin his chant becomes our only fixed point. Guards in the back follow suit. Seated, they simply bob their heads up in down to the rhythm Shortwave provides, bowing lower as he moves to his knees and presses his forehead toward the floor.
Dad's hands strain against his bonds. Chain drawn tight, white ridges form where the cuffs cut into his skin. The links tighten but don't flex in the least. I glare at him, shaking my head. He's probably been waiting for this very moment but the legendary strength continues to fail him. His arms slacken as the faithful swivel their heads right, then left, seeing right through the mighty Crimson Mask.
Those massive shoulders crumble. Could be the attempt to snap the steel chains or the blood trickling down his arm finally sucked the wind out of him. But it isn't just the physical beat down. There's a hollow gaze of defeat he's never once shown. Even when I watched him surrender to Beetle, he clung to a self-assured purpose.
Shortwave returns to his seat, and I pretend to ignore the back of the plane. Mom's hand had covered mine the whole time and I didn't have a clue. She must have witnessed the same flame being extinguished. Our host swivels to look.
"A rare specimen," Shortwave says.
It's enough to drive home the ever-worsening situation. Before he turns back, I slip my hand from under Mom's and place it in my lap. "Where are you taking us?"
He crosses his legs and considers a formation of clouds gliding past the window. "An international airport. That's what you requested, hmm?"
Sure. I could have asked for a first-class flight and a pillow, too, doesn't mean I expected to get them. He's utterly confident in his answer. I try Mom. She's still stealing not-so-secret glances at Dad. Her Oscar-winning career might be over.
"Charlotte and I," says Shortwave. "We had an interesting discussion, no?"
It takes a second or two for his words to override her worry, and she regards him coldly. "Yes. Very."
"I see no need to hold you."
"That's bad guy for 'I'm
going to drop you out the emergency exit', right?"
"Spencer," hisses Mom, way too motherly. Shortwave drums his fingers on the armrest and even Cyrus, seated a row back, strokes his coarse chin.
"There is no need for such drama," says Shortwave. "You no longer pose a problem and, in the end, you'll return to us."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.
"No matter where you are, you will be a part of us. If you are against us." he throws up his palms, "Well, the one will be insignificant to the many. Charlotte here. Even your father in his prime." Another nod toward Dad. "They never wielded the power of the Collective."
That's twice now he's used that word, though the first time, I didn't take it for a title. "You keep mentioning this 'Collective.' Care to explain?"
"In due time. I see you are not ready." He reclines in his seat and closes his eyes for a little in-flight nap.
I've got to give the guy props, he holds all the cards here. I get the feeling he's always like this regardless of the situation. A dude that will claim to have found some inner peace he'd love to share with you if only you'd go stir the Kool-Aid and add a little more sugar.
"You're going to let us go? Just like that?"
Shortwave nods, eyes still closed.
"What about Polybius."
"I need to finish speaking with him first."
"Are you in on this, Cyrus?" I half-stand to better see him and Mom rigidly swats my leg. "I thought Polybius was your friend."
"Unlike some, I believe Polybius will eventually listen to reason," Cyrus says, an accusing tone directed behind him.
"Sure, Dad's stubborn. I'm reasonable. Mostly," I say. "Try me."
"Rest," says Shortwave. He might actually be on the verge of that nap. "No more talk. They will all come to us. You. Your father. Everyone."
I think the dickhead just dozed off.
WE'RE HOODED UPON LANDING. My heart hammers, and I'm certain all that nonsense about an airport was a ploy to keep us calm while they line us up and shoot us under a tinny speaker ringing with those prayers. A short walk and we're shuffled into vehicles again. Driving. Another remote kill site in the desert. Of course, they already had us at one of those. A warehouse then. The floor covered in plastic and a hairy dude in a butcher's smock sharpening knives.
Car stops. Hustled out. My feet mush on soft asphalt and the space inside the hood grows damp. Different voices and different guys now. I can barely get my feet moving fast enough and I'm threatening to trip as they guide us blindly through the roar of engines and accompanying jet wash.
We're herded through a metal door and I jump when it slams shut behind us. Noise and heat muted, I want them back. Something concrete to cling to in this darkness. More shoving. Another door. My hood is yanked off and I'm momentarily blinded.
We're in a short hallway. A door closes behind us, no handle, just a card reader. Dad rushes for it but gets there too late. At the other end of the hall is another door with a glass window. I go check it out.
"Damn."
"What is it?" Mom asks.
Through the viewing window, people bustle past wheeling luggage and dragging kids. Plenty of the men wear long white tunics and matching head pieces secured by a braided cord while the women are often covered head to toe. We aren't alone though in our blue jeans, t-shirts, and Dad's army casual. Somewhere along the plane ride, Dad at least had a new, unbloodied shirt put on him which bulges at his shoulder over a fresh bandage.
I pop the door and step out into the current in awe with the family close behind. Typical of this kind of place, we're mostly ignored as the crowd races against an ever-ticking clock.
"An airport terminal," I say. "He dropped us at an airport terminal."
Just like he said.
Chapter 20
W...T...F. HOW?" ERIC stands frozen in the infirmary doorway. I'd already filled him in but this has to be witnessed before it can be accepted as reality.
Crimson Mask is in a hospital bed. He barely fits the railed bed frame, shoulders pressed against both sides. One of those shoulders is a mass of tightly wound gauze. With fresh bandages, the blood isn't visible anymore but I can still see it.
Charlotte, or Mom, sits at the bedside, her argument for him to go to a real hospital, shot down. Hound is a capable field medic, and he assured us the wound wasn't life threatening. Mostly soft tissue got in the way of a rifle round, but it probably damaged his shoulder enough to leave lasting effects without proper surgery. Augmented or not, Dad's too "tough" for surgery.
Danger takes it all in from deeper in the hallway. There's less shock and none of that perpetual tension. He's deep in thought, planning his next move, already beyond the craziness of the scene. Typical, brooding, he walks away without comment. I'll have to catch up to him in a bit. Right now, I've got to deal with Eric.
"Cyrus," I say.
"Oh, by the way," he says absently. "He's our BBG."
"No, there's somebody else."
What I say doesn't register. He carries on, obviously stuck on Cyrus. "How could Cyrus do that? It isn't in his power profile."
"True," I say. "Wrong energy type?"
"He's a full heal. That's all he does." He's drifted deeper into confusion while attempting to make sense of this seismic shift in the Augment playbook.
It's no less surreal for me. I worried on the daily if Dad was going to come home. Always I'd have those concerns rebuffed. Enough times and you start to accept you're a naive kid who doesn't understand. Those unfounded worries eventually graduate to a mechanical reaction. This situation has dispelled a carefully crafted ritual. Throw in the once-psychic terror who's physically replaced my mom and I'm in a full-on alternate reality.
"Well, maybe he does more than heal," I say. "And he's not the BBG."
Eric blindly gropes, finds my chest, and gives a few loose pats to let me down easy. "Sorry, all checks out. Kidnapping Polybius, jamming our signals, knowing how to defeat our defenses. It took a mole. Hell, he probably did something to her." His gaze shifts to Mom. There's a certain longing I can't quite read. "He's the common link."
"There was somebody else there," I insist.
"Yeah. Shortwave," he mumbles. "Shortwave's Sayrafi," he says as though he'd just read it on the back of a cereal box.
Eric has uncovered the biggest news in geekdom and blithely bitch slapped me with it. Obviously in my absence, quantum computing has been made consumer available and we're all living in an alternate reality on the level of the Matrix.
"I'll take the blue pill. Straight up OD."
"Why not the red?" Eric immediately catches on to the reference. He seems offended and his tether to the sideshow is finally cut. "Like that was the only thing that saved the movie. Cypher totally saying what everyone else was thinking—who would choose to live their life in a post-apocalyptic daycare where it’s naked you against nextgen Monsanto-baby farmers. It makes no—"
"Eric," I say. "Talk Sayrafi. Sergei. Shortwave. What do you know?" Short commands are needed. The ones you might give to an automated help line.
His face lights up. "Oh yeah! I totally figured out who he was while I was trying to find you guys. By the way, you could've given me an assist on your location."
"Seriously? I didn't have much to work with. A car radio, a bugged-out transmitter, and some copper wire."
"Useless against Shortwave."
"No shit, Sherlock. That's what I didn't know at first. What I want you to explain is exactly how you figured out his connection. That dude was giving the orders." Mom looks my way, and I realize I'm not hospital quiet which is somewhere a few decibels above library quiet and always variable depending on the prognosis. I drag Eric outside the infirmary.
"I should explain my genius," beams Eric. "No signals in and out, that's what got me thinking. I'd met Shortwave after Killcreek. You probably saw him too, but you were in such a rush to leave."
"Let's make your red pill a double dose of Ritalin."
"Fine. Shortwav
e had been scooped up at Killcreek with the rest of them. When he got here, I remember he spent a lot of time with Cyrus and volunteered to help in the infirmary, that's how I figured Cyrus planned all this. Of course, if you say Shortwave was giving the orders," he shrugs. "And I remembered traffic monitoring around the same time when we...err...I, not those other guys," he snorts derisively. "I spotted those global denial of service attacks. Seemed to be coming from everywhere. Charlotte's little baby steps..." He appears smitten with sheer geekified joy, until he notes my tapping foot.
"The point, man. Get there."
"That’s also when I found those weird internal traffic spikes I had you running the diagnostic for. The ones I wrote the algorithm to isolate. I could never trace the exact source, too dispersed, still can't. Anyway, signal cloaks had me thinking no traffic, which had me thinking radio interference on your operation, which had me thinking Libya, and then Islamic Terrorists, then funding in Afghanistan..." He waggles his eyebrows into my blank stare. "Don't you see?!"
I'm utterly lost. I get the individual parts, sure. But the picture he's painting lands squarely in the impressionistic hyper-paranoid period of his earlier body of work. I shake my head. "Shortwave?"
"Exactly!" he exclaims. "Of all people, I was stuck trying to explain this to Hound, and it was like every other day in the break room where I've got to expound on the wonders of microwave technology while he fucking boils his instant coffee on the stove. Fuck!" He fires the curse at the ceiling. "Follow me to the bridge for the deets."
He clips down the hall with long strides, rattling off more details, and doesn't appear to notice I'm not in tow. I poke my head into the infirmary. Dad's asleep. Mom's gripping his hand.
"How is he?" I say softly, at the proper volume.
"He's fine. He's going to be fine," she says, mostly to herself.
"When you get a chance, we need to talk. Join Eric and me in the command center? We'll both come right back here, promise."