She was shocked to see Quentin Link in the third cell. The young man who’d occasionally played on her mind since she’d met him also looked like he’d been through hell, but having 40-odd years on Crimson, he was at least wearing it a little better.
The final guest was, of course, the great Cosmic Jones, their visitor from beyond the stars, the face of a thousand lunch boxes and assorted toys. He was also the single most wanted man in the country… well, alien to be exact.
“Admiring the view?”
She turned, shocked by the sudden woman’s voice, and found herself staring at Cynthia Arrow.
“You have done your job well, my dear,” Cynthia continued. “You have proven yourself to be a most valuable ally; my daughter certainly speaks very highly of you.”
“Your daughter? I don’t believe that I’ve had the pleasure,” Summer replied, forcing a veil of professional friendliness onto her features while her mind was spinning.
“I believe that you work for her?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If I have to repeat everything I say, my dear, then this is going to take quite some time.” Cynthia smiled coldly with a headmistress’ snotty tone. “You work for my daughter. She is your employer.”
“Mrs Fontaine!” Summer exclaimed. “Wait a minute…, that’s your daughter?”
“Indeed. Now flatter me and tell me I don’t look old enough.” Cynthia chuckled.
“So…, I’ve been working for you? Is that what you’re saying?” Summer asked, trying to wrap her head around what that might mean.
“Does it matter?”
Summer remembered Mrs Fontaine asking a similar question, and now she was starting to wonder if maybe it did actually matter. This whole time she had thought herself a crusader for the truth, someone to expose the lies and corruption of a past government conspiracy. But had she just been working for the other side?
“I can see that you are a little confused,” Cynthia said kindly.
“To put it mildly,” Summer had to admit.
“I do understand, child, honestly I do, but you have been doing sterling work here. God’s work.”
“God’s work?”
The word God quickly set alarms bells ringing in Summer’s head. The story she had been fed, and the one that she’d been told to feed the public, had been that Cynthia Arrow had been the victim of a shady prime minister. Rosemary Williams had created an enemy to fight, one that would bind the country together with a common cause in order for her to hang onto power. But just how reliable was that side of the story if it apparently had been coming from Cynthia Arrow herself?
“I need to sit down,” Summer said as she slumped into an office chair.
“You were sent from the heavens to shine a light in the darkness, child,” Cynthia said warmly. “You are the voice of the voiceless, the voice of the light, the voice of the truth, the voice of God. It is through you that we have brought the people back to his path, my child, the righteous path; you were chosen by his hand and set to do his work.”
“I was lied to.”
“No, child, you were simply shown the truth.”
“Mrs Fontaine never told me that she was your daughter. She never told me that our mission was to exonerate her mother’s name.”
“Does that alter the truth?”
“No, but it does show a bias when it comes to journalistic ethics.”
“Journalistic ethics?” Cynthia chuckled. “Is that really how you see yourself?”
“Of course,” Summer bristled.
“You are but a face, child. Yours is the face that I need to put on God’s message, on my message. You are a palatable face for the people, a vessel for what needs to be told from the mountain top.”
“I never agreed to that,” Summer said, shaking her head. “I should have been told what this was.”
“But did you ask?”
Of course she hadn’t. She hadn’t cared at first because she was the star and that was her ambition; she hadn’t cared later because her boss watched her kill a man then cover it up for her. The rabbit hole had opened up, and she’d jumped straight in headfirst without thinking. All she’d wanted had been offered, and she’d taken it with both hands, but look where that had gotten her.
“So what about everything that I’ve been saying? Was any of that true? Government conspiracies? Did Rosemary Williams falsify evidence about you? Did she really create SOUL? Was any of that real?”
“She… perhaps exaggerated,” Cynthia replied thoughtfully.
“And what about them?” Summer asked, pointing towards the monitors on the desk, her head threatening to spin out of control. “The evidence that I’ve been showing… Shit, was any of that real? What about the Queen’s Guard? I’ve spent hour upon hour painting them as the villains here! Are they?”
“Oh yes,” Cynthia said with a smile that Summer did not like the look of one little bit.
“What have they done?”
“They are the instruments of evil, child, the very worst kind. They are blasphemers and whores, suckling at the teat of the devil himself.”
“You mean him? You mean Cosmic Jones?”
“He walks amongst us and his black heart corrupts with absolution.”
“Okay…,” Summer said slowly as she started to wonder just how crazy this woman might be.
“‘For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds,’” Cynthia quoted as her voice rose in pitch and intensity.
“So why am I here?” she asked, desperately trying to keep her voice neutral and the fear away as she found herself performing – performing, quite possibly, for her life.
“You are here to show the people the truth, my child. You are our face, our voice, and you shall show them all God’s plan, live and in colour as they say.”
Summer nodded along enthusiastically and fought hard not to panic. She’d been brought here for a reason, a batshit crazy reason, but for now they needed her, and she had a feeling that as usual they would underestimate her too; she just had to play along and wait for her moment, and perhaps do a little praying of her own.
Her own position was one of great peril and she probably only had herself to blame for that. For perhaps the first time in her life, she felt a strange sense in the pit of her stomach. This must be what people meant when they talked about guilt; it wasn’t a pleasant feeling and she didn’t like it at all.
She had no doubt that Cynthia Arrow and her cause needed Summer Sloan right now, but how could she rely on a crazy woman? Crazy people were, well they were crazy. At some point she would fall foul of the woman, she had little doubt about that, and when that day came, then she would be on the end of what she’d been dishing out.
While there may well be an argument to say that she’d deserve it, she wasn’t about to go willingly to her own judgement and subsequent punishment… not this woman.
As Cynthia continued to preach loudly as she strode about the office, lost in her own voice, Summer found herself staring at the monitors on the desk.
The four faces on the screens – ones that she had disgraced, ruined, corrupted and helped turn into criminals, four faces that would almost certainly want her dead – right now might just be the only thing to save her.
chapter 40
RATS IN A MAZE
Jamie-Lyn looked around the cell and found herself wondering if her life had always been destined to end this way.
She’d really been little more than a kid when she’d happened to stumble across the greatest story in human history. An alien crash-landing on Earth, a helpful visitor from beyond the stars coming to their aid with superpowers no less.
CJ had allowed a nation to live out a vicarious life of comic book derring-do from the comfort of their armchairs. Real-life h
eroes brought to life, under carefully manipulated press coverage of course, but there they had been: supermen and women standing for the people, good guys fighting bad ones.
She knew that during difficult times the public could not possibly be expected to fully understand the nuances of war and would have to be shielded from the darker side.
But Cynthia Arrow and her terrorist organisation had been the bad guys; they had been murderers led by a madwoman. While the narrative might have required a tweak here and there, she had never been in any doubt as to whether or not she was on the right side.
Yet here she sat now in a cell at the mercy of a terrorist who had somehow managed not only to wipe her own slate clean but had also magically transformed herself into the victim. It been more than 20 years since the war had ended at Havencrest, and unbelievably, the public of today seemed to have no appetite for the truth of back then. Now, everyone was a cynic. No one had any trust in the official version of events and the politicians were running scared and covering their own asses. Maybe the people deserved Cynthia Arrow and whatever the woman had in store for them.
While she wasn’t tied to anything, it didn’t much matter. She was a journalist and as far as they were concerned offered little in the way of a threat. Maybe they were right, or maybe not.
They had already lost Marshall, a good man who’d only ever wanted to serve his country and do the right thing.
They had lost Bull, a quiet shy man who would have given his life for any of them without thinking twice.
Doc was gone too, a fiercely intelligent woman who in her death had allowed the rest of them to live.
Jesus was gone now as well, a man who’d only ever wanted to measure up to his father, a man who’d taken a rare stab at happiness and paid for it with his life.
Crimson looked half dead as his healing factor appeared to be failing, while CJ looked broken, unable to cope with losing his powers and the trust of the people; it was the latter she felt that had hurt him deeper.
And that left her, Jamie-Lyn Anderson, a woman who had walked away from the Queen’s Guard over two decades ago because she’d finally wanted to tell the truth and was tired of having her words adjusted by a government spin machine.
She shared CJ’s view of the public, about how quickly they had forgotten, about how quickly they had turned their backs on their heroes. But where CJ felt saddened, she felt pissed.
Crossing over to the sturdy door, she peered out of the small opening in the top. There was a combat-clad man standing guard outside with his back to the door. Straining slightly, she just about managed a glance in both directions and couldn’t see anyone else on the landing.
“Hello?” she called out weakly. “Is anyone there? Please I… I need to talk to someone.”
The man didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn around to acknowledge her.
“Please,” she pressed again. “I shouldn’t be in here, not without my medication.”
This time as she looked, she saw the guard move ever so slightly as though her words landed.
“I’m diabetic,” she continued. “Type 1. I have an injector pen in my bag, the one that the other men wouldn’t let me bring when they took us,” she lied. “I don’t feel so hot; it’s been too long since my last injection. Do you hear me?”
“Lady, shut the hell up,” the guard finally responded. It was a start.
“Look, I know that your boss isn’t going to want me slipping into a coma and dying in here. If she wanted me dead, then I’d already be dead. Think about that. She put you outside to make sure that nothing happens; I’m guessing that means me not dying.”
“Lady, do yourself a favour and shut the hell up.”
“Are you really that stupid? Because trust me, I know that bitch, and if I die in here, then you’re going to end up buried in a hole next to me!”
“Do I look like a moron”? the guard asked as he finally turned and faced the door.
He was a young man, somewhere in his early twenties with a fresh open face and a dotting of teen acne that had never entirely cleared; she could work with this.
“Look, kid,” she started, and was happy to see him flinch at that word. The guy now stank of insecurity.
“Maybe someone needs to tell you how to do your job,” she continued. “Because letting me die is going to end badly for you, kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” he growled back, or at least tried to, but his voice went higher when he got angry.
“Alright, calm down, kid,” she said, pushing his button again.
“I am calm,” he snapped, a little too quickly and unconvincingly.
“Well you need to get me some insulin and you need to go get it now.”
He took a couple of steps to the door and his hand even reached out, albeit waveringly, before he snapped it back to his side again.
“You don’t tell me what to do!” he yelled.
“Well…, maybe someone should, kid, because from here, you don’t look like you know what the hell you’re doing.” She laughed.
“I do too! I know that you’re faking being ill.”
“Maybe, but you were going to open the door, weren’t you? You thought about it. I saw it on your face, kid.”
“No I wasn’t,” he pouted.
“Look who they put you in charge of, kid! You didn’t get a bad guy, you got me.” She laughed mockingly. “That’s how little they think of you. ‘Yeah, send the spotty kid down! Give him the shit detail.’”
“You shut the hell up before…”
“Yeah, before what, kid? What the hell are you going to do? What’s Spotty McGee gonna do?”
She took a step back from the door and picked up the stool as he rushed towards it with keys jangling in his hands as he muttered expletives under his breath.
He unlocked the door and flung it open with a semiautomatic pistol now in his hand. In his anger, he rushed in without thinking, expecting her to be standing in front of him which of course she wasn’t.
She brought the stool down as hard as she could muster, swinging from the hip, gripping the stool by the metal legs and putting every ounce of raw anger into the blow.
The makeshift weapon hit the young guard on the side of the head, and he dropped to the ground like a stone and didn’t move.
She tried to feel a stab of sympathy and got pretty close, but in truth, too many friends had died lately and she was just all out.
Leaning down, she picked up the man’s keys and pistol before stepping over him and out into the hallway, her luck holding as no one else came rushing towards them drawn by the noise.
She made her way down the corridor, stopping to check in through the various doors but she couldn’t find an occupied one.
There was a metal stairway at the end of the hallway that led down into darkness, but it also led up into the light of the day.
She had two choices. She could head up and out and potentially to freedom. She knew that she was the smallest fish caught in Cynthia Arrow’s net and they might not scramble much in the way of forces to find her, at least not yet. After all, she couldn’t exactly call the authorities when she was the wanted criminal.
The second choice was to head down into the darkness to find the others where they would be undoubtedly guarded by stiffer opposition than the kid who’d been assigned to her.
With a deep breath, she started down.
----------
The woman known as Mrs Fontaine to some, as Number One to a select few others, but to herself as Savannah Greene, stood in her mother’s office playing her role as the dutiful daughter. Despite her mother’s suspicions over her motives, she was determined to put on a united show, hence the arrangement for Summer Sloan and a camera crew to be present for whatever craziness her mother had planned.
She would be a dutiful daughter right up until it was time to not be, right up until the time arrived for her to step out of the shadows and assume her rightful place on top of the mountain that her mother had built.
“I take it everything is ready?” Cynthia asked.
“Of course, Mother. Shipshape and all that,” she replied with a smile.
Summer Sloan was still in the room but sitting at a desk apart and wisely keeping quiet.
Her mother stared hard and Savannah simply smiled back. She knew that Cynthia was trying to read her but struggling to do so. Good; that would buy her a little space to operate in.
“I hope that you are making our guests comfortable?” she asked with the same inscrutable smile.
“They are in place and ready to face their judgement, as are we all,” Cynthia added pointedly. “What are you doing, child?” she suddenly asked.
Savannah felt her mother’s gaze burning into her and she scolded herself for her own arrogance. She had temporarily forgotten just who she was dealing with here.
“I am here to serve your will, Mother,” she answered carefully.
“Are you, child? Are you really?”
“Of course. Have I ever disappointed you? Have I ever failed any task set for me? Have I ever not delivered what you have asked of me?”
“No,” Cynthia replied thoughtfully as she continued to study her daughter. “You have been my right hand, but you have changed.”
“I have grown, Mother. After all, how could I not at your side? You have shown me the world from an early age. Is it not every parent’s wish to see their child surpass their achievements?”
“I seek to change the world, child, and to leave it for you. That has always been my wish, my gift from God, a small token of his greatness and mercy. But this… this new you: I do not care for it.”
“I cannot help the path that he has set me upon, Mother, but it is not my place to question it either, any more than it was ever yours. You are his emissary, and one day, I shall take your place… that is the natural order; that is his design and our duty.”
Cynthia watched her still intently and Savannah dared not blink or falter in her return gaze.
Eventually, Cynthia seemed to relax and Savannah mentally took an internal deep breath of relief and forced herself to slow down.
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