Illegal King

by Mason Dakota

  “GRIFFON!” shouted Gabriel at my actions.

  “Relax, Gabriel,” I said, not turning to look as Erikson left the apartment.

  “You could have just infected him by doing that!” snapped Gabriel.

  The good and reasonable part of me had thought of that, but Erikson had a way of snuffing out that voice, allowing for a far more childish and wicked voice to rear its head. “I was purposely keeping my distance from him, Gabriel. And even if he did get infected, this will all be over soon enough and Erikson and I will have received the cure and be perfectly all right. I’m confident of that.” It was a lie I was telling myself. I hoped Gabriel at least found it convincing.

  “How are you so sure of that?” asked Gabriel. He wasn’t the least bit happy, and I could tell by his posture he was fighting the urge to strike me.

  “Because I am Griffon Nightlock, Outcast Emissary, Shaman and professionally handsome ass-kicker. Meanwhile you are Gabriel, director of Nebula, and this over here is Michael, the best hacker and tactician we’ve both ever seen. Stopping bad guys from doing bad things is what we do. Plus, the Emperor is on his way, and if anyone has the resources to create a cure, he does. My father has already tipped off his plan to me. All we have to do is inform the Emperor and the problem will solve itself.”

  Michael said, “There’s no guarantee though. You need to check yourself into a hospital.”

  I shook my head and said, “I’ve seen for myself the patients there. They can’t help me, and my father likely has the hospital staked out. I’m not walking into another of his disastrous traps. No, what I need is to find my father and get the cure from him. If he had enough to play his game then he must have a bigger supply somewhere else. Which is why I am here. Please tell me you’ve made progress in locating him.”

  The aggravation in my voice hung clearly in the air. Needless to say my already short patience had spiraled down the drain drastically since the night before. I think it was justified.

  Their guilty and frustrated blank stares affirmed exactly what I feared. They had gotten nowhere. I wanted to blame them—if they hadn’t spent so much time blaming each other and fighting then we would be closer to catching my father. I had enough common sense to know that it was useless to voice my frustration. It would only cause more delays and trouble. At the same time, after now knowing the kind of man my father was, I knew if he didn’t want to be found, we faced an immense challenge.

  “Do you at least have any inclination?” I asked.

  Gabriel shook his head. “No.

  “How did you make it out of the Stinks?” asked Michael.

  “Evelyn. She showed up and got Lorre and me out. We stayed at her motel room. I gave her the empty vial of the cure leftover after Lorre’s use. When I left, they were both still there asleep. I trust her to get the remnants into the right hands to create more of the cure,” I said.

  “God bless Evelyn. I love that woman,” said Michael with a sigh of relief.

  “Why didn’t you bring the cure here to us?” asked Gabriel.

  Because I’m still not sure if I fully trust everyone in this room.

  I smiled and said, “Because my father doesn’t know Evelyn and won’t suspect her or see her as a threat.” Gabriel nodded at my reasoning. I suspected he saw the underlining reason as well.

  I snatched another granola bar from Michael’s pantry, pocketed it, and said, “Now I won’t deny this chat has certainly been…something…but I must get to work. After all, today is the day the Emperor comes in for his Convention. If I’m not at the office it will raise suspicions, and I believe I am running classically late. I’ll warn the Emperor before my father gets too close to him.”

  Or I run out of time.

  I coughed into my elbow after such a thought. Specks of blood colored my shirtsleeve. Michael and Gabriel’s expressions darkened.

  “Please be careful,” whispered Gabriel like a loving father.

  I wiped my lips on my sleeve and said, “When am I ever careful?”

  Fifty-One

  I exited the apartment and walked onto a scene typically only read about in books. Most of the crowd stood speechless. The rest panicked, rushing in doors. Fearful mothers held their children close.

  Terrorizing screams emanated from citizens all around me. Outcasts showed expressions of terror and bewilderment while Nobles swelled with patriotic pride. I guess such emotions were expected with what was happening.

  Trouble loomed.

  For the first time in thirty years, since before the the Rythe coupe, Chicago witnessed a military occupation of the city. Armed soldiers, all of them Nobles dressed in blood red battle armor, marched down the street. They carried blaster rifles that could blow a hole in the side of a building. What really terrified me were the shifters they wore at their sides.

  Horrified, I watched a tank roll down the street and moved over every vacant or abandoned vehicle in its path. Metal screeched in complaint beneath the tanks crushing weight. It left behind pancake-shaped slabs of steel. Strange vehicles with plows followed the tank and pushed the crushed vehicles off the road so that a trail of equipment trucks and more soldiers could make their way through the wreckage.

  Terrifying, and yet an excitement hung in the air.

  A shadow crossed over the street. I turned my gaze skyward to see a dozen or so helicopters. Several landed on rooftops and dropped off more soldiers armed with long blaster rifles. The shadows expanded, encompassing entire city blocks. A massive shriek of wind sucked the air straight upward into the sky. Dust and dirt stirred the streets in a violent rage that stung the eyes.

  Darkness covered day like an eclipse blotting out the sun. I looked upward in disbelief at what appeared to be a giant metal whale swimming through the clouds. The aircraft shifted portions of its massive body like a fish, flames of fire beneath its steel wings kept the aircraft airborne. Blinking lights blanketed the aircraft like stars in a midnight sky. The ship roared like a lion with an endless reserve of air in its lungs. The roar was so loud it weighed me down as it passed overhead.

  This changes things.

  I expected a grand entrance from the Emperor. If you lead a pompous and narcissistic people you’re bound to be the worst kind. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected to see an airship hovering above downtown Chicago. I wanted to collapse and give up everything I hoped to achieve before such might.

  I’m just one guy!

  This was an Outcast’s worst nightmare. The segregation between Nobles and Outcasts was severe, and the line between the two grew broader with every new legislation. The more freedoms we lost as a people, the more Outcasts sold themselves into slavery to survive, the more violent outbreaks erupted. Tensions were growing. Outcasts were afraid, the slave population was growing, whispers of genocide were in the air and the Outcast Legion grew more popular every day.

  Now, with a spectacle like this, those fears would multiply.

  Here was an army of Nobles marching down the streets of Chicago, trained not to care for Outcasts but only to protect their Noble brothers and sisters. The Emperor made no pretenses about his true feelings for the Outcasts. He instigated the Illegal Genocide Law thirty years ago after he took the throne during a military coupe where he assassinated the previous Emperor.

  Adam Rythe was a dangerous man.

  Adam Rythe did not care for beings he saw beneath himself.

  And Adam Rythe, Emperor of the Noble Empire, wanted to meet with me.

  Why can’t things ever be easy?

  Fifty-Two

  I watched in disbelief as a projection screen appeared on the massive aircraft. The screen displayed a countdown clock set at ten.

  Suddenly, the national anthem blasted and drew the attention of every citizen in the streets, as if every eye were not already locked upwards. When the countdown struck one, the image suddenly switched and Emperor Adam Rythe’s face appeared. In fact, the entire ship looked like a giant floating head.

  Emperor Adam Ryt
he resembled a man ten to twenty years younger than his actual age, which was not surprising given he was Emperor over a world where youthfulness and image reflected power. Like every Noble, he was extremely handsome in comparison to Outcasts, but he was an exceptional Noble. His hair was glistening silver and expertly styled. A man high in his years, he didn’t look a day over fifty—sixty tops. He wore a crimson suit with gold buckles along the front. Black shoulder pads shaped like raven wings elevated his shoulders and the fringes of a silk black shirt protruded beneath the crimson layer. He opened his mouth and spoke with patient elegance and authority.

  “People of Chicago,” he began, “do not be alarmed. As your eyes can witness, Chicago is now under martial law. As long as you comply with the authorities who govern you, no harm will come upon you. Your city has suffered greatly and we have arrived today with great aid. I am not ignorant to what stirs in men’s hearts when they see such a display of power and force. You will be tempted to resist, to flee, to rebel and it will be futile. Be cautious and wise, for we come to restore your glory, and will not give tolerance to insubordination.”

  On cue a woman—an Outcast—screamed as a soldier shoved her to the side out of the road, careless to the fact that the woman held a baby in her arms. A man, possibly a disgruntled husband, shouted and tried to interfere. The soldier didn’t hesitate, he put two blaster bolts into the man’s gut and blew away the man’s leg and a chunk of his stomach with a flash of red light and a screech of blaster fire. The woman screamed and coddled the man but he was already dead. And the soldier just walked away as if nothing had happened.

  Outcasts are nothing to these men!

  “Resistance is futile, submission is survival,” said Emperor Adam Rythe.

  As quickly as the message came, it disappeared, and the sounds of marching soldiers replaced it. Every one was a trained killer carrying weaponry capable of crumbling each home he passed. Their faces were hidden by black visors, by which each one made notice of every citizen on the street. They missed nothing in their sights.

  We were all potential threats to these hardened soldiers.

  I glanced down a nearby alley to see a pair of teenagers wearing Sabol patches on their coats. Fools! They whispered in hushed tones, and when a small patrol of soldiers passed by the alley, the kids turned their backs and began walking away. One of the soldiers saw them, pressed a finger to the side of his helmet, and I heard him say, “We’ve got a small band of Sabols gathered here in Sector Three. Approaching now.”

  Then the soldier turned toward the three teenagers walking away and shouted, his voice amplified through his helmet, “You three in the alley. Stop where you are!”

  The boys took off running down the alleyway. The soldier pursued them on foot. Another squad cut them off on the opposite end. Trapped like mice, the boys spun around and drew pistols. They fired wildly down both ends of the alley. People screamed and fled. I only watched in horror.

  One of them managed to hit a soldier. The bullet struck the soldier’s battle armor in the chest and failed to pierce through the thick shield. It ricocheted off and hit the alley wall. The soldier never flinched. He raised his blaster rifle and fired off a string of red bolts straight at the three teenagers. The damage which those blaster bolts did to those Sabol teenagers is not worth describing.

  More screams and people fled away from the alley. I fell upon a trashcan, my soul broken and heavy, and puked up the granola bar I had eaten in Michael’s apartment.

  I had to get out of there! I wiped my lip and noticed blood mixed with the vomit. I rushed at a brisk pace toward the Mayor’s office, but three times I had to stop from loss of breath. I felt dizzy with flashes of intense flashes of pain. I was overcome with increasing fatigue and trouble focusing. It was awful.

  And at every stop I saw the image of what those blaster bolts did to those kids. It horrified me.

  It took a considerable time longer than normal to travel from Michael’s apartment to the Mayor’s office. I hobbled along avoiding the army of marching soldiers. The Emperor’s army headed straight for the Mayor’s office and beat me by a landslide. A barrier was erected at the front entrance with armed soldiers standing guard checking every citizen that tried to enter the building. A tank parked itself on the front steps with its main gun aimed at the crowd and the airship hovered over the office building casting a dark shadow over the courtyard.

  There was a long line made up of men and women in work attire leading straight into the building. The line inched forward as soldiers at the beginning of the line checked identification cards. I had left my identification either back at my apartment or back at the hideout. I didn’t want to return to the Stinks, or think about what horrors the Emperor’s men performed there at this moment, and I still feared a trap waiting back at my apartment. I needed to get into the Mayor’s office—I had to let someone there know what was happening to this city!

  “Hey! Outcast! Get a move on,” shouted a soldier with a blaster rifle. He tapped his finger next to the trigger as he raised the gun barrel to my chest. Standing there gawking at everything going on made me look like a threat. My outfit didn’t help. So I waved my hand, bowed my head and got in line to enter the building. Maybe I could still get in without my badge. They would have on file my photo as Outcast Emissary. Surely they knew Adam Rythe wished to speak to me.

  It wasn’t until I got halfway to the door I realized my mistake.

  I figured the line moved slowly because soldiers were checking for authentic badges. They were, but they were also checking for something else. As each person approached the door, one of the soldiers set a small hand held machine before him or her. It scanned their eyes and then their breath before a green light would appear and they were allowed through.

  They’re checking for the virus!

  I ducked my head and took a single step out of line. “Get back in line!” immediately shouted a soldier.

  I froze and stammered, “I seem to have—”

  “—Shut up and get back in line, Outcast,” interrupted the soldier. He encouraged his order by raising his blaster rifle. The image of the dead Sabol teenagers and the woman with the baby flashed through my mind. I knew these soldiers would shoot me if they sensed resistance. I had no choice but to submit and pray for a miracle.

  With each step closer to the end my heart pounded louder and louder. I had to get out of line somehow. I stumbled forward, my legs weakened by the thoughts of getting near the scanner, and I bumped into the lady in front of me. She spun around and cursed at me. I made an apologetic gesture and suddenly succumbed to a coughing fit…on her. I tried to cover my mouth and distance myself, but the people behind me pushed in further and I bumped into them.

  The woman threw out some unflattering comments before turning back around. I continued to cough. Soldiers pressing in closer to investigate. I tried to wave them off as I said, “Nothing to worry about! Just an Outcast suffering a cold. Nothing anyone here has to worry about.”

  Maybe the Noble comfort of immunity to sickness presented enough argument for them. One by one they settled back into position and I flashed each of them my best smile. I looked back to the line and was horrified to see that the rude woman was next and I would follow. She gave her name and showed her badge. A soldier behind a computer took the card and typed away on his computer. Another soldier approached her with the scanner. She stuck a clear tube in her mouth and breathed while a camera lens scanned her eye. I waited in anticipation for the green light which would clear her of any virus and allow her through.

  But the light didn’t turn green.

  It flashed red.

  I infected her!

  “She’s infected!” shouted a soldier. They grabbed her and forced her to the ground, slapping hand-cuffs on her wrists and frisking her for any weapons.

  “Wait! What are you talking about? I’m a Noble!” screamed the woman.

  The soldiers didn’t listen. She struggled against them and a soldier stomped o
n her thigh to keep her still while they finished their search. “I’m a Noble! You can’t treat me like this! You can’t treat me like an Outcast! You have to tell me what is going on!”

  “You’ve tested positive for a virus. You will be detained until further notice,” said a soldier as he pulled the woman up and dragged her away kicking and screaming.

  I did this to her and she might very well die in the next day or two. And not just her, but likely the people behind me, too. Their faces immediately stitched into my memory. I had done exactly what my father wanted. I had spread his virus.

  “You! Outcast! Step forward,” ordered a soldier. I turned my head back to the two soldiers, one with the computer and the other with the scanner.

  “My name is Griffon Nightlock. I’m the Outcast Emissary. I work here,” I said as I stepped forward.

  “Badge,” ordered the soldier behind the computer.

  “That’s where we have ourselves a little problem. I…seem to have…misplaced it.”

  “No badge. No entry,” said the soldier.

  “Yes, I figured as much, but, you see, it’s important that I go in there. My boss, your boss, wishes to see me—I mean the Emperor. He’s requested my presence. Surely there is something you can do to help me here. We can’t let either of them wait long. Maybe my picture is in that database of yours and you can verify I am who I say I am by that.”

  The soldier typed away on his computer and after a moment said, “His image does seem to match and there is a flag on his file verifying his claim.”

  The other soldier nodded, stepped forward with the scanner, and said, “Breath into tube and look into the lens here.”

  “That’s not really necessary, gentlemen. I am aware of what you are looking for and, rest assured, I am an Outcast and therefore immune.” It was a long shot but I was hoping it would work.

  Unfortunately, the soldier wasn’t playing along. “Everyone gets scanned. No exceptions.”