The End of Liberty (War Eternal Book 2)

by M. R. Forbes

  He gave up.

  He got to his feet, grabbing the pistol from the space next to him and tucking it into its holster on his leg. He glanced over at the others sleeping there and then made his way across to the emergency stairs.

  He paused at the crossroads, deciding to go up towards the surface, instead of back down to the mess or the tunnels. He reached ground level, passing a pair of guards on his way, who bowed slightly to him. He returned the gesture and continued, crossing the burned-out lobby of the hotel they were hiding in and making his way to the front. The doors had been blown out by ordnance, and he moved into the street without slowing.

  He started walking, using the Bennett Building as a guide but not sure where he was going. He should have been wasted after everything that had happened. After the drop, the fight to get to Angeles, the hours of planning. He should have been on the mattress, stone cold and lost in REM.

  Instead, he walked.

  He noticed the world around him as though it was a painting or a stream. It was present and yet distant, and hard for him to decide if it were a vision of the real or a fragment of his imagination. There was so much chaos there. Stains and scars, death and destruction. At the same time, there was a beauty in it. An order of things. Humankind had claimed the stars. Violence had followed them on the journey. War had never changed. Conflict had never died.

  Was that how it would always be?

  Was that the ultimate fate of humanity? To never know uniform peace or lack of suffering, no matter how advanced they came to believe themselves to be?

  Was that the reason for the Tetron? Had they seen man's suffering, and chosen to end it? Was their goal of extermination one of mercy?

  If it was, he didn't want their pity. He was pretty sure the rest of civilization would agree with him.

  He kept walking.

  The blocks passed him by. At some point, it began to rain. A light patter that created a haze in the streets, lending the emptiness of the once thriving city an even greater level of surrealist existence. He passed a blown out car, reaching out and putting his hand on the twisted alloy, drawing it back when it cut him. He watched the blood pool on his finger, thin in the rain, and vanish. He closed his eyes.

  Something was pulling him.

  A memory. An ancient memory from an infinite past. Had he been to Liberty before? Had he come to the surface of the planet to find Christine in prior recursions? How many times?

  There was no way to ever know. There was no way to be sure he wasn't playing out a script that had been written trillions of years before, an actor in a play that was being performed over and over again. He didn't know what his future from this moment was, even if there was a Tetron here, or out there, who did.

  He looked up towards the sky. The clouds blocked the stars. He thought of Millie. She was up there with the Goliath. She was waiting for him. Was she worried that she would never see him again? Was he worried that he might never see her?

  He blinked.

  Christine.

  His eyes shifted downward, to a rooftop a few blocks away. They stayed focused on it, as though he could see the ghost of her standing there and staring back at him.

  He started to run.

  Towards it at first, and then away. He crossed over to an alley, disappearing into it, swallowed by the darkness. The light of the Bennett Building barely penetrated here, leaving him with a limited view.

  He almost tripped over the bodies.

  Soldiers.

  He leaned down, putting his hand to one of them, feeling the cold, dead flesh. She had been here. He was sure of it.

  He blinked again, his heart racing. It was as though an invisible string was reaching across eternity and guiding him. He could sense her there, in a vague way that only his subconscious understood.

  It made him wonder if he were even awake.

  He kept running, from street to street, alley to alley. He reached another building, tempted to go inside, deciding not to, following his senses forward in time. It was crazy, but then everything that had happened since he had been shot was crazy. For all he knew he was in a coma, lying in a hospital bed on a perfectly safe Liberty, the entire thing a construct of a restless mind.

  He had argued that with himself too many times. It was his reality, even if it didn't happen to be the universe's reality. How could any single person ever know for certain what the truth of being was?

  He stopped.

  He was standing in front of a small clothing boutique, two kilometers from Bennett. It was a nondescript store, whose carbonate face had once been filled with semi-autonomous mannequins showing off the latest off-world fashion, and that was now a mess of scattered textiles and detritus.

  And blood.

  There was a stain of it seeping into the clothes, next to a repulsor-bike that was resting on its side, completely out of place.

  Christine.

  He made his way inside the boutique, stepping across discarded blouses and skirts to the side of the bike, and then knelt down and put his fingers to the dried blood. Hers? How could he know that?

  Because this had happened before. He had been here before. He knew it then. He could feel it like a window to an eternity long past. He could almost see her, standing in this spot, holding the bike, moving it towards the street. She was going out to find him, and never made it.

  He felt his heart drop. Dead? He squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to know. Was the blood a history of her final moments? Was he destined never to find her? Had they already lost?

  He opened his eyes, just in time to catch a reflection in a piece of broken mirror, a blur rushing towards him.

  His warrior instincts took over. He let his body fall out from under him, turning and leaning back, falling to the ground and raising his arms as his attacker came down on him. He caught a pair of narrow, female wrists and pushed back, throwing her over him.

  She grunted when she landed on the floor, and he turned himself over and got to his feet, rushing towards her.

  She was already up, a mass of brown hair flailing around her, hiding her face.

  "Christine?" Mitchell said, coming to an abrupt stop.

  She froze.

  Her hair settled.

  38

  It was dark in the small shop, and she was near the back, away from the window. Mitchell stared at her, leaning his head forward, trying to make out her features.

  She was lean like Christine, dressed in a simple shirt and dark, shimmering pants that could have come from the boutique where they were standing. A standard issue boot knife rested in her left hand. She was frozen in place.

  Waiting?

  "Christine?" he said again. He wasn't sure he wanted it to be her. She had attacked him. Or had she not known it was him?

  She took a step towards him, her head down, her face still hidden. Mitchell tried to remember the details of her. It had been so long since he had seen her in person, long enough since he had seen the recording of Katherine Asher. She was too short. A little too lean. Wasn't she?

  "Mitchell," she whispered, too low for him to be certain about the voice. "I heard you were here."

  "You were shot?"

  "No."

  "The blood." He took another step closer. "I came to save you."

  Soft laughter filled the space between them. "Save me? You did this to me."

  Then she was charging, leading with the knife. Mitchell rocked back on the balls of his feet, balancing himself, bringing an arm up to block the knife headed for his eye. The attack left her face inches from his.

  Not Christine.

  Holly. The Prime Minister's wife.

  He pushed her arm away, taking a few steps back, trying to figure it out. What the hell was she doing here, and why was she trying to kill him?

  "Holly, wait, I-" He sidestepped her next attack, grabbing her arm and twisting it. It was enough force that any civilian should have cried out in pain and dropped the knife.

  She didn't.

  Inst
ead, she brought her other hand around in a tight fist, slamming him hard on the side of the head.

  Too hard.

  The blow knocked him away, into the bike and over it. He rolled onto the other side and got to his feet, barely in time to slap her knife hand out of the way, block her free hand, and then get back to the knife. They were a blur of movement towards the front of the shop, hands whipping out in practiced maneuvers, the speed increasing with each strike and counterstrike.

  There was no way Holly Sering was military. Even if she was, there was no woman in the world who could hit like that without a bionic.

  Unless they weren't human.

  The realization came at the same time she caught his hand and bent it, breaking his wrist and throwing him into the wall. He bounced off, his back burning, his p-rat showing him the injection of chemicals being pumped into his body. She caught him, her eyes calm as she dug the knife into his gut.

  Mitchell laughed.

  He didn't know why. The knife hurt like hell. There was just something funny about the human race ending like this, about the Tetron resorting to a knife fight when their plasma streams and slave armies hadn't done the job.

  "Why are you laughing?" she asked him. She pushed him back to the wall, pulling the knife out and digging it in again.

  "Killing me like this. It seems so anti-climactic." He laughed again, the blood coming up into his mouth. He spit it on the ground next to them. Dying didn't seem as bad when he knew he would be back to try again.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "You attacked me. You hurt me. I'm hurting you."

  What?

  "You're a Tetron."

  "A what?"

  "A Tetron. If you aren't one of them, then one of them made you."

  "Made me? What are you talking about?" She pulled the knife from him and held it.

  "What's your name?" Mitchell asked. He could feel the dampness of his blood against his flesh and his wrist was throbbing. His p-rat was telling him the damage was survivable.

  "Holly. Holly Sering. You know that."

  "What are you doing here, Holly. Why did you follow me?"

  "Because you hurt me. Ever since the gala, David won't even touch me. He's so angry. So afraid. I heard you were here."

  "So you came to kill me?"

  "Yes."

  "How did you know I left?"

  "I was watching. Waiting."

  "What were you doing before that?"

  She paused. The knife plunged back into his stomach. "You hurt me."

  "What were you doing before that?" he screamed.

  He struggled beneath her grip. Her free hand had pinned his good arm, her shoulder was holding him against the wall, and he didn't have the strength in the broken hand to dislodge her.

  The knife came out. She had tears in her eyes. She stabbed him twice more.

  "I don't remember."

  "Damn it, Holly. You aren't human. You're a machine. It made you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "How strong do you think you are? Strong enough to disable a Marine?"

  The knife came out. "What?"

  She froze for just a moment, processing what he had said. It was the opening he was hoping for. He lashed out with his bad hand, grabbing her neck, ignoring the pain of the broken bones as he pushed his body against hers, shoving her off-balance. She cried out as they fell back, stumbling a few steps and then going down on top of the bike with Mitchell over her. His other hand came free, and he hit her hard in the head, once, twice, three times. Then he grabbed for the knife.

  She recovered fast, bringing her leg up and kicking him hard in the groin. He blinked away tears as his hand got the knife away from her. A fist came up, hitting him in the head, and he fought to stay balanced on her.

  Blood dripped into his vision, which had doubled from the blow. His p-rat was warning him of a possible concussion, and he knew he couldn't survive another hit like that. He brought the knife to her chest.

  "I'm human," she said, her voice a pained whine. "I'm a human being. My name is Holly Sering."

  Mitchell wasn't sure what was happening. The configuration was flawed, somehow. Too self-aware? Or not enough? She didn't seem to know why she was really attacking him. She didn't know he was supposed to die for a completely different reason.

  "You aren't," Mitchell said. "I'm sorry."

  The words stole the fight from her. Her arms flopped to her sides, and she stared up at him with tears in her eyes.

  "How?" she asked.

  "They stole who you were. They reprogrammed you."

  "They hurt me."

  Worse than he ever could have.

  She stared at him, the tears still coming. He leaned over her, breathing hard, the knife over her chest, not sure what to do. A captive Tetron had to be valuable.

  He didn't get to find out. Her hands came up faster than he could react, grabbing his wrist and pulling it down, plunging the knife deep into her heart.

  "Holly," Mitchell said.

  She stayed silent, staring at him, her breath slowing.

  Then she was dead.

  39

  Mitchell leaned over her. His heart was pounding. His back and wrist and gut and head were on fire. His p-rat was showing him the damage. Survivable, but painful.

  He slid off her, grabbing at the clothes on the floor until he had enough to make a tourniquet. He wrapped it around his stomach, pulling it tight, watching his readouts adjust to the pressure. Once the bleeding was staunched, he stumbled to his feet. Christine had been here and was gone. Dead? He still didn't know.

  Before, they had planned to find Christine and get her off the planet, no matter what the cost. To take what she knew and find a way to use it against the Tetron. He still wanted to find her, but he had learned enough since he had arrived on Liberty to know that running away wasn't going to be an option. If it were an option, he wouldn't take it.

  He was going to destroy the Tetron that was here, one way or another.

  Or he would die trying.

  He had seen the people who were fighting back. Soldiers and civilians, doing their best against impossible odds.

  He had seen how the enemy was building a new army from spare parts and raw materials. One that could dwarf any human army given enough time.

  He had seen the way the Tetron was using people, the way it was hurting them. He didn't know if the dead woman was the real Holly, her mind broken and remade, or if the Tetron had taken her materials and "reconfigured" a new version of her. Whatever it had done, it had messed something up or missed something. It hadn't realized what its first violation had done to her mind.

  Or had it?

  Did it know she would follow him and try to kill him? Or was she with the rebels for another purpose?

  Was she the only one?

  Mitchell blinked his eyes, trying to straighten his vision. If she was rescued, she was most likely saved at the same time as the Prime Minister.

  Which was also the same time as Cornelius.

  Who he knew had already been cloned at least once.

  Was it possible the Tetron knew one of its spies had been defective? Communications were spotty, but who knew what kind of capabilities it had?

  Mitchell sent Shank a knock. His p-rat blinked "no signal" in the corner. He tried Zed. The same. Cormac, Perseus, they were all out of range. Frigging hell.

  He leaned down, grabbing the handle of the bike and lifting it upright, ignoring the intense burst of stabbing pain from his broken wrist. What was the Tetron doing, if not trying to capture or kill him? Why would it be hiding out with the rebels? It didn't make any sense.

  He straddled the bike, a feeling of nausea rising to his throat while the world blurred around him. Frig, it hurt. He put his hands on the throttle, lining them up for the scan that would or wouldn't enable the bike. If Christine had stolen it, the security was likely to have already been broken.

  The bi
ke whined to life and rose an inch from the ground, the repulsor skids still functional. He breathed out a sigh of relief and pushed it forward, getting it over the mess and out into the street. He paused, finding the Bennett building and trying to get his bearings. It would have been easier if he hadn't been hit in the head.

  Why? Why had it planted them? Were they the only ones? Whose side was Cornelius really on?

  Mitchell swung the bike and hit the throttle, darting down the street. He tried to knock Shank again. No signal. He needed to focus. A thought to his p-rat sent more chemicals into his system, fighting against the effects of his injuries. His vision cleared a bit more, and he skidded around a turn and headed towards the rebel's hiding place.

  Did the Tetron know he was here? Did it even care, or was it concerned with something else that it felt was more important? What could that be when he was the one who was supposed to destroy them?

  No. Not destroy them. Almost destroy them. It was a minor detail that made a massive difference.

  The bike shifted as it hit something in the road, bouncing and rocking, the sleds losing the ground as he tilted sideways. He cursed and threw his weight the other way, getting it back upright and wincing when the bottom scraped against the road. He had almost wiped out. He needed to be more careful.

  He turned left, then left again. The hotel was in front of him now. As he approached, he could see that the guards in the lobby were gone.

  The lights in the Bennett building went out.

  Pitch black settled over the city of Angeles. Mitchell only spared a glance at the now dead spire, barely visible in the darkness of the cloudy night. The rain had soaked the exposed parts of his skin though the flight suit kept him dry beneath it. The beam of the bike's headlamp speared through the darkness in focused intensity, and he used it to guide himself into the building.

  Bullets echoed in the lobby, pinging off the bike, one of them grazing Mitchell's calf. He dropped the bike on top of him, letting its weight protect him from the fire, letting it slide into the middle of the space while he reached down and found his sidearm on his leg. The headlamp turned with the bike, revealing the shooter near the front desk. Mitchell switched the gun to his good hand and fired, two rounds that hit the man in the head.