by C. R. Asay
“Nothing.” Wichman shook his head.
“Does it have anything to do with my Dad going missing?”
Wichman went still and silent.
“Come on, Sarge! He’s my dad!” I pleaded.
“Rose.”
“Please, just tell me something. Anything!”
Wichman rubbed his eyes. “Rose, all I can say is that, yes, your father worked for the DLA years ago. He was a good friend of mine, actually. His disappearance shook our whole agency to the core, so believe me when I say we have our best people on it. But now isn’t the time to be worrying about him. This is about you and the commander, and the sooner we understand more about the both of you, the sooner we can move past it to other important things. Like finding your father.”
A million questions piled up in my mind. Dad in the DLA? The confirmation hollowed out my stomach. Did that mean he knew who I was? Was I the reason he was gone? Gone to Retha, if I believed the officiate. I rested my face in my hands and, with superhuman effort, mentally pushed the questions aside. For the first time since Dad went missing, I looked beyond my loss and saw something more important. Something bigger and badder that definitely required my immediate attention. I ran my hand across my forehead and looked up at Wichman.
“She knows me,” I said with a nod. “The commander. She called me Caz. Said something about Retha losing its last chance to find the device, whatever that means.” The memory surfaced unexpectedly, and I shivered at the successive image of the gunshot to the officiate’s head.
“What?” Wichman’s eyebrows shot up. “What else did she say?”
“I don’t remember.” I shrugged. “I was half dead at the time.”
“Hmmm.” He scratched his whiskery chin and looked out the side door. “Someone who not only knew you but knew about the device. That narrows things down considerably.”
His voice trailed off, his thoughts somewhere else.
“So who is she?”
“No idea. We’d have to do some digging.”
We were going nowhere fast. “Listen, Sarge, the commander obviously has some diabolical plan in the works, and she needs Rannen to accomplish it.” Wichman turned his head, his eyes slowly following until they locked on mine. I continued, “You’re in her inner circle. What is it?”
“I don’t know.” He averted his eyes. He was still hiding something.
I slapped my hand on the table. The lights flickered with a loud hum. My head pounded. The other patrons of the café looked around, but as the lights returned to normal and the humming quieted, the clicking of forks against plates and the soft buzzing of conversation continued.
“Don’t you think enough damage has been done?” I hissed across the table. Wichman flinched.
“If I tell you, she’ll know it was me—mission over, Rannen dead. And you and me as well.”
“So you do know where Rannen is.”
He shrugged and rested his back against the seat. My fingers tingled.
“What does she want with him? If you know you’ve got to tell me. Please!” I hated that this tight-lipped song and dance routine had forced me to resort to pleading. My head hurt.
Sergeant Wichman looked over his shoulder and then flattened his mustache with his hand. He cleared his throat, hesitated, and then pulled a napkin from the napkin holder. He tugged a pen out of his back pocket, drew a simple image on it, and pushed it across the table to me.
A half circle and dot where the center should be stared back at me in an amateur etch. My pendant—the key.
I touched the shrapnel wound on my head and ran my hand down to my chin before touching my nose with my finger. The commander had drawn the same design on my face with my own blood.
What in Gauss’s law is he doing with that information! Caz said. I rubbed at the ache above my ear.
“What is that?” I hissed.
“That is the Rethan symbol for a device created by a very capable Rethan over twenty years ago. Up until a few months back I was under the impression it was only a myth, a tale told to keep the lower dimensions in line. It’s called the Heart of Annihilation. Supposedly it has the capability to destroy an entire dimension.” He crumpled the napkin and pushed it deep into my glass of orange juice before shaking off his fingers.
I traced the brand on my hand. The last symbol was the same half circle and dot. The ache in my head intensified. My eyes watered. I squeezed my head with both hands, clenching my eyes to shut out the pain.
Look. Look! You simplistic child! Caz’s voice became louder. Louder. Her shout rang in my ears. My head split in agony. Look!
CHAPTER 26
Caz
10 days pre-RAGE
The envirophylum near Vislane Academy was one of the largest in the world. It spanned twelve grids and was home to plants and creatures from all thirteen dimensions. It held over four thousand different varieties of plants and trees, thirty-six mammal families, two hundred forty-eight species of birds and reptiles, and three million insects.
As beautiful, time-honored things praising a simpler time and the still-simplistic lower dimensions, the envirophylums were spread across the globe. They were as precious and protected as they came. Committees and funding and round the clock care were provided to keep all the living entities within, well, living.
Caz stood outside Vislane Academy. She hugged her bag to her chest. The last light of the sun brightened the clouds, casting the high swaying trees of the Vislane envirophylum into sharp relief. The school sat less than a quarter of a grid away from the dark, creeping vines that continually threatened to touch the school.
Caz looked carefully to the left and the right, then searched the darkness of the trees for a phylum patrol. No movement. She’d stood here for the past hour and had yet to see anything other than plant and animal life, and not even much of that.
Caz checked both ways once more and stepped across the vines. Caz and Vin had made this their special place while growing up. They’d skirt the patrols to get to the tiny cave they’d found on one of their first explorations. Then they would squish in side by side to discuss the latest gossip at the academy, or talk around whatever was happening at home while watching the insects or the occasional animal.
It was years since they’d come here together. Caz was sure Vin had forgotten about it, and she’d missed her chance to ask him.
The cave was nowhere near the center of the phylum. Caz would have to hike all night if she wanted to get to the center, and she simply didn’t have the patience for that. She was amazed that she remembered how to get there. Vines covered most of the entrance, but enough light seeped across the weathered scrapings—V & C—carved deep into the rock.
Caz yanked open the bag. She looked cautiously around and then settled to her work.
The eight-millimeter Heart of Annihilation prototype fit into her palm, no bigger than a pebble. It gave off a faint yellow glow, warming her fingers. She rotated it in her hand, examining every millimeter for flaws she knew weren’t there, before finding the keyhole. She drew the chain from around her neck and rubbed her thumb across the half-circle—all that remained of Vin’s promise ring.
Her first creation in her parent’s lab was the key that would one day belong to the Heart of Annihilation. Everything that came after that was secondary and made to fit the key. It slid comfortably into the slot. Caz rotated it twelve times, then pulled it out.
Someday there would be higher security measures for the actual device, but for today this was enough. She gave it a gentle roll across the grass, putting the prototype at the mouth of the cave. Caz touched her fingers to her lips and then pressed her hand toward the device in a final farewell—to her past, to her present, and to Vin.
And so the countdown began.
She didn’t hurry from the phylum. No need. She’d given herself enough time. She even slowed, perhaps hoping in the darkest part of herself that she might be caught in the deadly wave.
She made it out of the phylum with no
trouble, passed the academy, and kept going. It wasn’t until she was almost a grid away that she paused. A quick glance around showed her the reddish door leading to a narrow set of stairs inside an abandoned high-rise apartment building.
Caz climbed up the stairs. She was completely devoid of electricity, a necessary precaution for what was about to happen. She didn’t think she was in danger, but she didn’t want any accidents.
The roof of the building was higher than anything else close. Vislane Academy was the next tallest with its gaudy spires. The only thing higher were the trees from Vislane envirophylum, reaching for the stars against the indigo sky. Caz glanced at her wrist to check the time, pulled a command screen from her bag, and settled in to watch.
Golden light bloomed from deep in the phylum. It was a bit bigger than Caz calculated, but not by much. The light reached serpentine fingers through the woods, expanding in a perfect circle.
It was the moment Caz had worked toward all her life. The fingers of light glowed brighter with their progression and seemed to be retracting at the same time, or rather drawing all the energy they touched back to the device itself. The glowing light expanded not only outward but upward as well, climbing the towering trees and bleeding them of their life force. Vislane Academy was now in its graceful claws, and still it expanded. Outward and upward.
A breeze plucked at Caz’s hair. She brushed it away impatiently, and then watched the same breeze touched the closest tree and blew it away in a gray cloud. And the next, and the next, until the sky was thick with ash.
Exactly two minutes and thirty-six seconds later the light suddenly sucked inward on itself and vanished.
CHAPTER 27
Rose
You’re going to need to get to that first. Get it first. Get it!
I pressed my face into my hands. The pressure in my head intensified and then retreated into nothing. The image vanished.
“Rose, what happened?”
I rested my forehead on the table, my stomach churning. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Rose?”
I allowed myself a moment between two worlds before forcing myself back into the real one. When I was sure I wouldn’t be adding my stomach’s contents to my cold eggs, I lifted my head. Wichman’s face swam into focus.
“What’s going on with you? What happened? Did you remember something?” Wichman battered me with questions.
“Rannen mentioned something about several of the dimensions being destroyed.” I flicked my finger at the cup of juice, where tendrils of ink spread from the napkin. “Is that the device that would do that?”
“Tell me what you remembered.” Wichman’s expression was hungry.
“Just answer the question, Sarge.”
“Theoretically, yes. That device could destroy an entire dimension.” He huffed the assent.
“How does it work?”
“You would know better than I would.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because, you created it.”
Not you, exactly. Caz corrected with a little laugh.
I didn’t bother to question the accuracy of his statement.
“And I, uh . . . I suppose you need a key to operate it?”
“Two pieces of a key combine together to make one, but yes.” Sergeant Wichman narrowed his eyes. “Do you know where the key is, Rose?”
A complicated trilling from my purse made me jump. I reached for my phone as a clatter of dishes and a scream from Linda shattered the midmorning calm. A popping sound extinguished all the lights.
The commander filled the closest doorway. She wore all black. Her hair was streaked with silver, and the backlight cast her face into shadow. Lieutenant Justet slunk through the other door followed by Sergeant Sanderford and four others I didn’t know, all wearing civilian clothing.
I leapt from the booth while yanking the revolver from my purse and pointed it at the commander’s face.
“Thank you, Jim,” she said.
My eyes flitted over to Sergeant Wichman. He stood near the booth, exuding the coldness I associated with him when he was in the presence of the commander. The question was, was he acting his part as an undercover agent or was he selling me out?
My distraction cost me. The commander was within reaching distance before I could bring my eyes back to her. Her foot smashed the gun out of my hand, and then she slammed her fist into my barely-healed shoulder. I fell against the edge of the table with a cry of pain, clutching my shoulder. Warm blood soaked my shirt and seeped between my fingers. Linda screamed again.
“Shut her up!” The commander jabbed a long finger toward the poor waitress.
Lieutenant Justet shoved Linda into a booth and placed the muzzle of his gun on her forehead. Her fist jammed into her open mouth, but no further sound came out. The other patrons cowered in their seats. I hoped none of them would try to be a hero and get themselves killed.
“Well, well, well, Caz.” The commander smiled, her tone conversational. She wasn’t even breathing hard. “I never would have thought Jim Wichman could have such a good read on you.”
“Yeah, he’s a brilliant piece of garbage.”
She leaned in close, whispering in my ear. “When he told me he’d left you alive, I nearly baked his insides with fifty thousand volts and ate his entrails for dessert.” She withdrew, speaking in normal tones again. “He said you would be able to lead us to someone who could help us. Rannen has proven . . . rather disappointing.”
“What’d you do with him? Where is he?”
“He’s alive, but that’s not what you need to be concerned about. What I need from you right now, Caz,” she grabbed my shoulder, digging her thumb into the wound, “is to tell me where I can find your brother.”
I gasped, trying to pull away. Wichman moved in on one side and Sanderford appeared on the other. They each took one of my arms, locking me into a tight box.
“Who?” I gritted my teeth against the pain.
“Don’t play with me. You contacted him. There’s no way you’re here talking to me without a financial backer with a personal interest. So stop playing the amnesic inmate and tell me—”
A wail of police sirens erased the rest of her words. The volume increased in the seconds it took us to register them, until it was clear they were only a few streets away. The commander jerked her head at one of her men, and he left.
Pressure in my head constricted my flow of rational thought, and to my surprise laughter bubbled from my throat.
What’s pathetic now? Pathetic. Pathetic.. Caz started up a mantra, and suddenly the words were no longer trapped within my head.
“You’re pathetic,” I snarled.
The commander’s eyes popped. “What did you say?”
She gouged her thumb deeper into my bloodied shoulder. I choked back a gasp, feeling the stitches split and the bandage work into my flesh. I shoved at her. She didn’t let go.
The muscles in my chest and arms contracted, and with an unexpected surge of fury I released all my pent up voltage through the gaping skin in my shoulder.
Light exploded around us. My back cracked against the table edge in a stripe of pain. The commander’s hand ripped away. She stumbled, trying to keep her balance, and then smashed with a crashing rattle into the booth opposite. Acrid smoke stung my throat. Sanderford and Wichman fell away from me, coughing into their hands.
I waved away the smoke. An offhand glance at my shoulder showed a bloody, melted mess and a small flame, which I calmly batted out.
“Rethan power,” I said. “Sometimes a life sentence has its perks.”
The commander cradled her arm to her body. A jagged black and red burn circled her smoking hand. I expected her to be angry. Murderous, even. But her face only showed subconscious pain—and humor. Her mouth opened, making a tight O shape which she held for a moment before being able to get anything out. It was one word, “Wichman.”
The cool, heavy metal of a gun ground into my temple.
�
��Try any more of your electric hocus-pocus, Rose, and I’ll blow your brains all over this diner.” Sergeant Wichman sounded angry.
I could do angry. It had been near the surface for days. Whisper behind my back and I’d want to start a fight. Look at me wrong and I’d clench my fists and force myself not to throw a punch. And heaven forbid anyone actually picked a real fight. Justet had learned the hard way.
Adrenaline and rage coursed through my body, heightening my senses, tightening my muscles, and loosening my tongue.
Words unleashed in an animalistic snarl. “Will that be before or after the cops have arrested your traitorous ass?”
I knocked the pistol away from my head and slammed my elbow into Wichman’s jaw. I dropped into a crouch, putting me level with Sanderford’s bad knee, and I swept both his feet out from under him. I landed on my butt and slid across the slick floor, scrabbling under the bench of a nearby booth for the weapon. I found the textured grip of the .357 and rolled onto my back, aiming.
Wichman stood above me, rubbing his jaw, his 9mm on me. The commander was behind him, her burned hand protected next to her body. Sanderford got to his feet, his pistol pointed at my chest. He was going to fire it unless someone stopped him. My finger tensed on the trigger.
A chatter of voices and movement near the café door penetrated my little bubble. I couldn’t bring myself to remove my gaze from Sanderford. The commander turned her head. Then, as if in agreement, Sanderford and I both turned to look.
“Turn on those cameras and make it look good, Jonas.”
Xavier Coy, dressed in an immaculate, flashy red shirt and black leather pants, stormed through the door. He was buried in an army of crew, cameras, props, and lights. Flashing red and blue lights raced into the street. The piercing sirens wailed into silence. Screeching tires, slamming doors, and shouted orders turned everything to chaos.
“And—CUT!” a beefy man shouted. He leaned against the doorframe, his chubby face glistening sweat, his voice shaking.