by Deven Kane
He stood at the foot of the gurney, observing. Garr and Doc Simon flanked him on either side, trepidation etched on their faces.
Doc reached one hand toward her, looking stricken.
A second spike of pain lanced through her head, finding its epicenter behind her ruined scanning eye. The room spun out of control, and she lost her balance, collapsing backward on the gurney. She writhed in agony, unable to escape.
“What did you do to her?” Doc’s outcry was muffled, barely penetrating Megan’s thoughts, as if she were submerged in a viscous liquid.
A dark hole gaped below her, sucking her down. Megan’s strength failed, and the vortex claimed her.
Thirty-Six
THE ANONYMOUS PATIENT regained consciousness with great effort. A heavy lethargy held him—body and mind—in stasis, and he struggled to free himself.
The sun warmed his face, yet his body felt cold and stiff. The surface he lay on was hard and uneven. He twisted his body, seeking a more comfortable position.
His efforts were rewarded by an unexpected sensation of free-fall, shattered an instant later as he landed with all his weight on the unforgiving ground. The breath was driven from his lungs, and for a few precious seconds, his world shrank to a desperate craving for air.
The bruising impact helped to clear his mental fog. As his lungs mercifully filled with oxygen, he forced his eyes open. A wave of dizziness threatened to engulf him, but he fought it, levering himself into a sitting position. He appeared to have landed on a gritty sidewalk.
“Do you need help, sir?” A voice he didn’t recognize was speaking.
He looked up at a small cluster of young people standing over him. University students, he guessed. Two of the young men bent down and took him by the arms, lifting him gently onto a park bench.
I must’ve fallen off the bench. He peered at his surroundings, trying to pinpoint his location. What was I doing, sleeping on a park bench in the first place?
“I’m okay.” His voice sounded weak in his ears. “I guess I dozed off or something . . .”
One of the students chuckled as if they shared a private joke. “Yeah, I’ve fallen out of bed once or twice myself. Dorm parties are like that. You sure you’re okay?”
The patient arched his aching back. Why am I so stiff?
“Fine, I’m fine. Serves me right for taking a nap on a park bench, I guess.” He smiled with more cheerfulness than he felt. How did I get here?
The students returned his smile with good-natured grins.
“Good thing you woke up when you did.” A female student patted him on the shoulder, beaming an enthusiastic smile. “It’s just about to start.”
“Start?” He squinted up at her, the sunshine still too bright for his eyes. “What’s about to start?”
“The protest, of course,” she replied with a wide grin.
One of the young men who’d helped him chimed in. His voice was serious but his eyes were alight with indignation. “The Anodyne Initiative is a terrible idea. The Council should be putting security chips in savages, not Citizens.”
Protest. His sluggish mind absorbed the word. He’d heard something about a protest, not long ago. What was it?
He felt heat around his left eye, barely perceptible at first, but rising in intensity.
His mind flooded with images of an operating room, the gurney he’d been restrained on, and the grotesque creatures keeping a silent vigil at the foot of his bed.
And the Councilor, his features hidden behind a surgical mask. “Find a crowd. Push the button.”
“Sir? Is there something wrong with your eye?” The young woman sounded worried.
He ducked his head, putting a hand to his face, wincing as the burning sensation worsened. A reddish glow reflected from the palm of his hand. The fiery sting increased, and his face contorted from the pain.
He jumped to his feet with an inarticulate cry, scattering the group of helpful students. He whirled in a frantic circle, eyes wild and staring.
He was stranded in the middle of a crowd of protestors, counter-protestors, and casual passers-by. A curious throng was gathering to witness the spectacle of a protest.
And he realized, in equal parts fear and horror, what his role was to be.
He filled his lungs, raising his voice above the chattering students. “Get away from me.”
He flailed his arms, shoving through the crowd. “You’re all going to die. Let me through—I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
They resisted his frantic efforts, their instinctive reaction unthinking and increasingly hostile. He shouted louder, flailed harder, insistent and terror-stricken. He never saw the blow coming until a fist crashed against his jaw.
He stumbled to his knees, pitching headlong on the grass. The indignant voices around him jumbled over each other.
“What’s your problem, buddy?”
“I don’t know what happened. He just went crazy.”
“Look—what’s happening to his face?”
The burning sensation lanced into white-hot fury, and his eyesight failed. He whimpered in agony, unable to voice any further warnings. Get away from me, please.
A loud click sounded inside his skull, echoing throughout his nervous system, and he knew it was too late.
Thirty-Seven
“WHAT’S THIS?” TONY’S plaintive question broke into Connor’s train of thought. The chauffeur sounded more anxious than usual. He took his foot off the accelerator, straining to see whatever was happening a block ahead. Traffic around them slowed to a crawl.
Connor leaned forward, peering over Tony’s shoulder. A large crowd milled around in one of the many environmental parks dotting the Enclave’s business district.
“That’s a lot of people crammed into one park.” Connor turned to Darcy, uneasy. “Another anti-node protest, maybe?”
“It won’t last for long, if it is.” Darcy gestured at the park as they drew abreast. His voice was bitter. “See all the Peace Wardens? They’ll shut it down at the first sign of trouble, real or fabricated. The Givers won’t allow anything to interfere with their precious Initiative.”
Tony muttered something under his breath, glancing out his window at the growing crowd. A line of sweat beaded his forehead, and his hands clasped and unclasped the steering wheel in nervous spasms. Everything seemed to put him on edge these days.
Connor shifted in his seat as they passed the park. The green space, sandwiched between imposing business towers, was all but overrun with Citizens, many waving placards for and against the Initiative.
You’re wasting your time. He watched the fractious crowd with a sick feeling of futility. Haven’t you heard the latest propaganda? No node, no Citizenship.
He faced forward, ignoring the pointless gathering, now receding behind them as Tony navigated the clogged lanes of traffic. Connor gazed out his window, seeing but not registering the buildings they passed.
He toyed with the locket containing Megan’s picture again, slipping it back and forth on its silver chain, unaware of his habitual action.
“This isn’t a leisure outing, Tony.” Darcy consulted his wrist com, noting the time with an exasperated sigh. “The Council doesn’t call emergency sessions often, but when they do, they expect everyone to drop everything.”
“Something to do with the Initiative, you think?” Connor forgot for a moment that—in Darcy’s world—it was always better to wait until he was spoken to. “There’s never been protests like this, not since the Enclaves were built. I wonder if it’s rattling the collaborators’ nerves.”
Darcy sneered at the mention of the traitors. His reply was abruptly cut off. Tony slammed on the brakes without warning, bringing their truck to a skidding halt.
The sudden stop threw Connor against the back of the driver’s seat, and Darcy caught himself against the dashboard with an angry outburst.
“What are you doing?” Darcy lashed out, eyes blazing. Connor fell back into his seat, dazed. Tony’s eyes
were reflected in the rearview mirror, and Connor was taken aback by the look on his face.
Tony breathed in short, shallow gulps, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, white-knuckled and trembling. Sweat poured down his face, and his gaze was fixated on the mirror. Fear or horror had frozen him in place.
Darcy’s rage evaporated instantly. He spun in his seat to look behind them. Connor caught his breath when he saw the expression on his foster father’s face.
Darcy’s rattled. Connor twisted in his seat, his eyes drawn to the park, now several blocks behind them. A chaotic scene greeted him.
The traffic around them came to a haphazard standstill, horns blaring. Here and there, a vehicle skidded into the wrong lane. Tires squealed and metal crunched, testifying to multiple collisions on all sides.
Smoke billowed out of the park, spilling past the corner of one of the nearest towers. Fear-crazed Citizens poured out of the park, scattering in all directions. It was mass panic, mob mentality operating on survival instinct alone, a human stampede of fear.
But it was the Peace Wardens’ response which shook Connor to the core. They’re firing into the crowd. The Peace Wardens are shooting . . . everyone.
He fought his own battle with nausea, appalled at the cold efficiency of the slaughter. The majority of the Wardens were directing their weapons into the park, while a smaller contingent targeted anyone fleeing the scene.
They appeared unaffected by the carnage they created, firing at anything that moved. They’re coming straight at us.
Darcy spoke, lancing the paralysis inside their vehicle. “Get out. Stay low, and follow me.”
Tony’s grip on the steering wheel tightened even further, if that were possible. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the atrocity in the rearview mirror, immobilized by fear.
Darcy uttered a wordless exclamation, cuffing Tony hard on the shoulder. Darcy didn’t wait, opening his door and sliding to the pavement.
Tony’s eyes popped open, shaken out of his paralysis. He shut the vehicle off, and crawled awkwardly over the middle console to join Darcy.
Connor slid across the rear seat, easing his door open. He dropped to the pavement, mirroring Darcy’s crouching position. Curiosity ate at him, but he resisted the urge to poke his head up for a look.
“Did you see?” he asked Darcy in a harsh whisper, looking past the trembling Tony. Darcy nodded once, and then gestured with an imperious hand. Follow me.
Connor gave Tony another shove to get him moving, and the chauffeur crawled between the motionless vehicles, trailing Darcy. Wide-eyed Citizens sat frozen inside their vehicles, ignoring them as they crawled past. Connor was tempted to warn them, but realized he would only expose himself to the advancing Peace Wardens.
They think they’re safe if they stay inside. A part of his mind flinched, and he scrambled after Darcy, putting the fear-stricken Citizens out of his mind.
They wove their way to the curb, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the Wardens. They made it as far as a financial tower, taking refuge behind one of the ornate pillars framing the entrance.
The guttural hissing of the Wardens’ weapons was less frequent, but judging by the sound, not far behind.
They’re equipped with the best weapons the Givers could provide. Connor swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. As if shooting unarmed Citizens wasn’t easy enough.
Darcy lay on his belly, edging forward to peer around the base of the pillar. Connor went to one knee behind him, careful not to jostle his foster father. “What’s happening? Can you see anything?”
Darcy shifted his position, angling his neck for a better vantage point.
“They’ve stopped advancing,” he said in a monotone, not looking at Connor. “Take a look for yourself. Go around the other side of the pillar.”
Connor edged past the petrified Tony. His range of vision was not as panoramic as Darcy’s, but he spied three of the nearest Wardens.
They stood at attention, their weapons held ready, facing his direction. What are they looking for? Or who?
There was no obvious signal, yet the Wardens pivoted as one, in classic military precision, and retreated toward the park. Connor scrambled to his knees, peering over the gridlocked traffic for a clearer view.
The area bordering the park was still wreathed in smoke, teased back and forth by the wind. Connor sank down, leaning against the pillar. Darcy rose to his knees, a grim look on his face as he watched the departing phalanx of Wardens.
“I don’t understand.” Tony spoke for the first time since the attack began. He sat with his back against the pillar, his trembling hands draped across his knees. His voice was a monotone, and he stared vacantly. “The Peace Wardens . . . why shoot everyone?”
Darcy shot him a look, his expression unreadable, but directed his words at Connor. “Subway. There’s an entrance down the block to your left. We’ll never get our truck out of this traffic jam in time.”
His cryptic comment seemed to jar Tony out of his stupor. He looked at Darcy as if just waking from a deep sleep. “In time for what?”
You’re losing it, Tony. Connor felt no sympathy for him. “He means we have no time to waste.”
He glanced at Darcy, seething with fresh outrage against the Givers. “You saw it too, didn’t you?”
Darcy nodded, his pale eyes ablaze. “The Givers are getting desperate. Some of those Peace Wardens were Trackers.”
Thirty-Eight
TARA LINDHOLM GASPED when she opened her office door in the Video Surveillance Division. She stumbled back a step or two, raising a hand to cover her mouth as if disbelieving the evidence of her eyes.
She didn’t know we were coming, but still . . . Connor’s imagination could supply several dire scenarios to explain her reaction.
Darcy missed nothing. He saw the jittery reaction of his long-time ally. There was more to the story than a simple unannounced visit.
He crossed the threshold into her office, and Connor crowded in behind him, Tony trailing morosely in his wake. Darcy’s taciturn aura morphed smoothly into his best networking charm.
“Please accept my apologies for our unexpected visit.” He extended a hand, his most sincere smile lighting up his face. After a moment’s hesitation, Tara grasped his hand in trembling fingers. Connor wondered if she noticed, as he did, the unchanged ice in Darcy’s eyes. “There’s been a disturbing incident in the financial district this afternoon, and we’re in need of your services.”
Tara retreated further into her office, collapsing into her chair. She beckoned with a frantic hand, and Connor dragged Tony into the office, shutting the door behind them.
She’s already seen the slaughter at the protest. Connor watched as Tara raised a shaky hand to shield her eyes. She took several deep, slow breaths to calm herself, and then faced Darcy directly.
“I should’ve known. If anyone could survive, it’d be you.” The worry lines around her eyes gave her a bleak appearance. “Forgive me, Councilor, but this has been a difficult day. There was no way to know whether you died or not.”
Connor felt the tension in the room flare as she spoke. Darcy frowned. There was a missing piece—something they weren’t aware of.
Tony seemed to have shrunken into himself. The day’s events had reduced him to a passive spectator.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to. Killed how?” Darcy kept his voice modulated, calm and reassuring. “We were driving past the protest, on our way to the Council meeting, when something terrible happened at the anti-node protest. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Tara stared up at him for a long moment, her pale hands clasping spasmodically. She found some reservoir of strength, and straightened with renewed energy, rotating her chair to access the viewing screens.
Connor and Darcy, and even the subdued Tony, gathered around, looking over her shoulder at the various displays.
Tara pointed to a screen showcas
ing the carnage at the park. “You’re referring to this, I take it? The anti-node protest and the police action to contain the ‘rioters’?”
She shot a troubled glance over her shoulder. “At least, that’s how the Infomedia’s been spinning this footage ever since it happened.”
She didn’t wait for Darcy to acknowledge her guess before pointing to a second screen. “Have you heard about this?” Her three visitors crowded closer, peering with shock at the video clip set on a repeating loop.
Aerial footage revealed one of the skyscrapers near the center of the Enclave. An entire floor, just below the building’s apex, was engulfed in billowing black smoke. Tongues of red flame licked out of the burning structure at irregular intervals.
“The Council Chamber.” Tara’s voice gained strength with each word. “Just minutes after the ‘riot’ began, the entire floor blew out. Multiple explosions. The Council calls for an emergency session, and then this . . .”
Darcy studied the repeating video loop. Connor knew his foster father was turning over the evidence in his mind, alert for clues, inconsistencies.
“Where’s the footage from inside the Council Chamber?” Darcy straightened, seemingly energized by the new threat. “How many Councilors had arrived before the explosion? And which ones?”
Tara hung her head. “It gets worse, Councilor.”
She offered nothing beyond her cryptic statement as she switched views. The interior of the Chamber filled the screen, the ornate conference table devoid of occupants. Only the cleaning crew was present, tidying up before the meeting. As they watched, one of the cleaners rose in front of the camera, obscuring their view, and then the video went dark.
Sabotage. The single word echoed in Connor’s mind. The collaborators?
“That’s everything,” Tara said with resigned finality. “We have no idea how many Councilors arrived before the explosion. Whatever happened, it was planned well in advance. And the timing of the riot is suspicious, as well. Look here.”