Three lotd-1

by Jay Posey

  They continued in silence of voice, escorted by the eerie echoes of their scraping progress down the “tunnel”. The air was coolly damp, reminiscent of the storm drain tunnels that Three had first led them to. Cass hoped Wren wasn’t too cold, but dared not ask for fear of the cacophony it would create.

  Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Three spoke.

  “This is it.”

  There were movements, and grindings, and a muffled curse, and then a thin ring of light, which grew, and grew into a tiny sun all of its own. And as Cass’s eyes adjusted, she saw the exit. Three pushed out first, then turned and pulled Wren out with him, and set him by his side. He pulled Cass’s pack out, and then held out his hand and steadied her as she slipped out of the pipe.

  Then the three stood together on a little shelf of soft gray dust, and the weight of the history of a world gone wrong settled on them with all the gravity and terrible awe of a cataclysm. There, before them, lay the Strand.

  Another meeting had been hastily arranged, shortly after the disappearance of the man some called Three, but that the Bonefolder insisted upon referring to as “Mr Walker”. No sign of the woman or child he had been travelling with either. It was in fact, a work of chance that this meeting had come together at all, that the man standing in front of the Bonefolder at this very moment had just happened to overhear a tale that led him to this place. A tale of a particular chemdrop gone awry. A tale of a woman, and perhaps a child. And it was in this meeting that this gentleman fully intended to have his way.

  The Bonefolder sat in her usual place, with her usual steaming cup of brown fluid. The bartender leaned against his bar nearby, carefully intent. Poised for action, it seemed. The big bodyguard behind the Bonefolder stood as one might expect a butler to do so. However, this particular big bodyguard had all the classic signs of a juicer, and it would be foolish to assume the vast graft-musculature on his frame was purely for show. Two lazy gun hands flanked the Bonefolder, trying to look important, but mostly revealing themselves to be poor maintainers of their weaponry and thus, likely, undisciplined in the practice of their craft.

  The final gun hand, however, strutted about as though he was the spokesman for the group, broadcasting his opinions on how business should be undertaken, particularly on account of what had befallen several of his associates in a previous matter.

  “Sent ’em tied up NAKED. My pardon, ma’am, but it’s true, that’s what they did, and it’s not right. It’s not right to shame good men for trying to uphold some sense of honor and justice in this world.

  “And then this fella here. Walking in like he’s some kind of prince with all his finery, and his entourage, thinking he’s going to presume upon our charity to see him through to his destination. Well it just makes me mad, ma’am, to see disrespectful youth speak to you in that manner.”

  The Bonefolder sipped her tea, as per usual. Up. Sip. Blink. Hold. Down. Adjust.

  “I’m sayin’ we’re done with these types. This isn’t a shuttle service we’re runnin’ here, this is a privately-owned transit system now, no matter what the old laws say. The Bonefolder saw to it that the line got back to running, and it’s hers to do with as she sees fit. And coming in here with that attitude and that smile, like you’re going to charm something from us? From her? Son, I tell you what I know, if you don’t start showing some respect in here, I’ll take you out in the street myself and let your friends learn a real good lesson in manners at your expense.”

  “Thank you, Domino, we do appreciate your passion and concern, if not your manner of speech.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just don’t like ’em, ma’am.”

  “Yes, thank you, child Domino,” she said with a gentleness that felt somehow firm as a slap. She adjusted herself upon her chair, and addressed the visitor. “We’re afraid this Mr Walker has caused some consternation amongst some of our associates. We cannot guarantee that Mr Walker and his friends will in fact go to Morningside. As long as you understand that our agreement is based solely upon transportation to the destination, with no guarantee whatsoever that Mr Walker will be found there, we believe we can afford you and your colleagues passage by way of our train. Under certain, highly profitable business arrangements.”

  “Certainly, of course,” Asher said, leaning forward to rest his hands on the back of the chair he’d been offered. He let his eyes casually sweep the upstairs balconies. No surprises there. Good. Had to be sure, since he was the only one they’d let inside. “I understand that you’d like to maximize your potential upside with this arrangement. I’m just not certain that the quoted price is optimal.”

  The loudmouth started up again. “Whatever price that gets you on our train is optimal, partner. Every time she goes out, that’s a risk on us. And I haven’t heard nothin’ yet out of your mouth that says what you can do for us.”

  Asher scanned the room with his easy smile. “You know, you’re right, sir. I’m sorry, I have been rude. My apologies.” He bowed just the right amount to seem gracious, and not at all condescending. “Please allow me to elaborate on exactly what is that I can do for you.”

  Asher smiled warmly. Waited. The Bonefolder smiled slightly. He watched her intently. Smile. Wait. She raised her tea cup. Took a sip. Her eyes closed.

  And Asher revealed himself, awesome and terrible. The bartender was first, as Asher stretched out across the electromagnetic mist and seized him through the cortex, driving a single command through his nervous system like an iron spike.

  Cease.

  Like a river suddenly dammed, the bartender’s brain simply stopped responding and left him a body with no mind.

  The Big One was the easiest. Asher hacked his adrenals, and dumped them all at once while activating the man’s chem stores. There was a dull thump inside the Big One as his heart exploded.

  The two gunmen at the table got a generic treatment, deserved for their laziness. Asher pierced their minds and locked their muscles into one-hundred percent contraction, simultaneously cutting off their breathing, their heartbeats, and any chance either of them had to scream.

  And finally, the mouthy gun hand. Asher penetrated the man’s mind and crackled its own signals across it, throwing the gun hand into a very specific seizure: one which would guarantee he would choke to death on his own tongue.

  The Bonefolder opened her eyes from her long blink. Set the cup on the table. Adjusted the handle. Oblivious that the men who were only now beginning to fall around her were already dead.

  Twenty-Two

  The Strand.

  Of course Cass had heard of it, seen scans of it, even projected to it once. But there at its very edge, confronted by the sheer, inexorable scale of it all… she found herself sitting without being able to recall ever having sat. She didn’t know how it had come to be known as the Strand, who had first named it so, but seeing it now in person made it seem there was no other name it could be called. It was as if some great ocean of destruction had rolled its unyielding tide through the city and then, upon its terrible recession, left behind only a shoreline of concrete sand and crushed humanity.

  Even Three stood silent, despite the urgent pace he’d set before. He stared out over the vast, broken plain with tears in his eyes. Wren moved to Three’s side, and the man placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Cass scanned the horizon, its gray, fractured features rounded by wind and rain and time. It seemed endless. And impossible to cross. She understood now why Three had taken the risk of Greenstone and the Bonefolder. Without the train, the chances of making it to Morningside seemed farther away than ever before.

  “We’ll never make it,” she heard herself say.

  “It’s not impossible,” Three answered. “Difficult, but not impossible. I’ve done it before.”

  She glanced up at him. He was still surveying the terrain, but his eyes were clear now. Purposeful. Already he was looking for solutions. And, she hoped, finding them.

  “Forty miles across, if you keep straight. Miss yo
ur mark, it can get a whole lot farther. I’ve heard of Runners who’ve made it through in under five hours. But I’ve heard of a lot more who don’t make it through at all.

  “Out there, there are no wayhouses. No maglevs. No functioning water systems. The Weir own the Strand, and there’s no place to hide.”

  “Which part of that was supposed to be the good news?”

  “Just want you to understand what we’re about to do. If there’s any good news, it’s that the Weir don’t much expect to find people in their stomping grounds. If we move quickly, keep quiet, and get lucky, we’ll make it.”

  “I’ve never known you to trust much to luck,” Cass said.

  He turned and went down on a knee, facing them both. “They track you by your signal. That’s what they see. In a way, it’s what they smell. Everywhere you go, you leave a trail they can follow. And will follow.”

  Looking at Three there, kneeling by the edge of the Strand, it suddenly clicked for Cass. She’d come to suspect it based on fragments she’d picked up: Wren’s comments about not being able to feel Three, about him not being real, the strange markings and scars on his back, the ease with which he seemed to be able to take life. Now she understood how he could walk the open, day or night.

  “But they can’t track you,” she said. “Because you’re disconnected.”

  It was punishment of the cruelest sort, usually reserved for repeat offenders or, as in Dagon’s case, those deemed too dangerous to remain part of society. They called it sanitizing. Though, these days, the State wasn’t necessarily the only one with the power to unplug someone. Not that there was much of a State left.

  His eyes met hers; held steadily. He didn’t seem surprised at all that she knew, or had figured it out. And she could see she was right. He shook his head slightly, but as was his way, he didn’t elaborate. “We’re losing daylight. We’re gonna push for an hour. Then we’re gonna find a place to hide.”

  She wondered again just how deep and dark this man’s past really was. And she couldn’t help but wonder now if all he’d done for them had really been for himself. Some kind of atonement for deeds he’d never mention, and she’d never imagine.

  “Running low profile, like you are, is gonna help us. But one active pulse, they’ll be on us. And we’ll never shake ’em. So both of you lock it down from here on out. Don’t try to gips a path, don’t pim anyone, don’t even check the time. We clear?”

  Wren nodded. Cass stood, and gathered herself.

  “We’re clear.”

  Three gained his feet and looked at her for a long moment in a way that made her suddenly self-conscious. He placed a hand on the top of Wren’s head, drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then turned and faced the Strand.

  “Stay close, stay quiet. And just maybe we’ll slip through.”

  The bottom of the sun was just hovering above the horizon when Three found a place for them to stop. It couldn’t have been more than an hour, but Cass was already exhausted. The dust of the Strand was like soft gray sand; fine, and shifting under foot. She couldn’t face the idea of another thirty-something miles of that kind of travel. Wren was riding on Three’s back, having been unable to keep the pace that Three demanded. But now Three let Wren slide down off his back, and waited for Cass to catch up the few steps.

  When she approached, he leaned close, spoke in low tones.

  “We’ll stop here for the night.”

  There were a few burned out and collapsed structures, none more than nine feet tall. One in particular, though, actually had two walls standing and a third fallen over the top that almost made something like a shelter.

  “You don’t want to push on a little further?” she asked. “See if there’s something a little more…” She trailed off, not being able to find the word.

  Three shook his head.

  “Better to dig in here. There may be something sturdier another mile in, but it won’t do us any good if we’re staring at it when they come.”

  Wordlessly, he went to work, and they spent the next twenty minutes tunneling a small nest for themselves back in the darkest corner of the shelter, and filling in holes where they could with debris. Cass suspected hiding would do little good out here. She eventually realized Three was going to so much trouble in an effort to give them an impression of safety, even if there was none to be had. By the time they’d finished working, they had a fully enclosed space with a narrow entrance. It would be a tight fit.

  Three threw their packs down first, and then had Wren climb into the urban nest on top of them. Once Wren was inside, Three crouched at the entrance and reached inside, rustling Wren’s hair.

  “You get some sleep, Mister Wren. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us tomorrow, OK?”

  “OK,” Wren said. He nestled down as best he could atop the packs and lay on his side; curled, still, eyes open.

  “Hey,” Three said. Wren looked at him, moving only his eyes. “You got your knife in there?”

  Wren didn’t nod or take his eyes off Three. He gently rocked back just enough to show his tiny fist beneath his body, already clutching the grip of the blade Three had made for him. Three nodded, and Wren rolled back into his previous position, and stared at the wall.

  “I’m gonna talk to your mama for a minute, alright?”

  Wren just nodded. He blinked once, long and slow. Three stood and tugged Cass away from the entrance.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  Cass shrugged. “Tired. But I’m fine.”

  “You good to boost if you have to?”

  She nodded. “I’m still running the first stack jCharles gave me. Still got a couple of shots left in it if I need them.”

  “You won’t need ’em,” he said, too quickly. “Just wanted to be sure you were set.” He looked at her for a long moment, as if he had more to say. But then, he just added, “Alright. Let’s get you in there.”

  He turned back towards the little shelter, but Cass stopped him with a question.

  “Three, what’d you do?” she asked. He stopped. Just stood there for a moment. Still, the way only he could be, like he’d just turned to stone. Or had always been. “To get disconnected, I mean.”

  He turned slowly, with a grim look. Wrestled. With the confession, she assumed.

  “Whatever it was, I can handle it. You can tell me.”

  “I know,” he said. He stared at the ground for a long breath, then inhaled sharply through his nose. Held. Then looked up, and answered.

  “To be disconnected, you gotta be connected in the first place.” That took Cass by surprise. There was no way Three was old enough to have been born before they’d gone genetic, before connection had become inherited, like brown eyes, or high cheekbones.

  “I… don’t understand.”

  “You’re not supposed to, Cass. No one’s supposed to.”

  “What, both your parents were sanitized or something?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, stepping closer. “I don’t know who my parents were.” He looked to the ground, then away to the horizon. Another step closer. “But I’m not what you think.”

  “Then tell me what you are, Three. Tell me who you are.”

  He turned his shoulder to her then, leaned against the broken wall, slid down it until he was seated. And suddenly he looked desperately weary. After long moments of silence, Cass sat down next to him.

  “Back… before,” he started. Then, he raised a hand and swept it over the Strand. “Before. I was born into a very particular family. Raised for a very particular reason.”

  She sat in silence, sensing that Three was fighting himself. Wanting to tell a story, his story, one that he’d kept secret for perhaps as long as he’d been alive.

  “I lied before,” he said. “When I told you I had a sister. There was a girl, but she wasn’t my sister. I loved her like one. At least, I loved her the way I’d guess you might love a sister. We grew up together, in the same House anyway.”

  He put a curi
ous emphasis on the way he said house, as if it meant more than the building in which he’d grown up.

  “We grew up together. We were the same. And they taught us, they trained us, to do certain things, to be certain things. When everyone in the world is connected… well, I guess there were uses for people like me. But then the world changed, Cass. And my House fell. And all those things we’d been trained to do didn’t matter anymore. Not in the same way. And they didn’t help me protect her. Not when I needed to most.”

  He went quiet after that, and still, and the sun continued to slip below the horizon. After a while, he broke the silence.

  “How long do you have?”

  Cass understood the question, wondered how long he’d been wanting to ask it.

  “A few months, I’d guess. Give or take.”

  “Nothing to do?”

  She shook her head. “It’s the quint. A body can only run so hot for so long.”

  “Not even genework? Nerve replacement?”

  “No. Believe me, I’ve looked. But no. When I went chemic, I knew what I was in for. But when you’re fifteen, living to thirty seems like forever.”

  “That how you got hooked up with RushRuin? Pulling speedruns and security?”

  Her turn now. It was only fair. She took a breath, and started in.

  “It wasn’t RushRuin when I got started. There was a man, and I was young and scared. He wasn’t nice, but he was strong. And he liked me, so I let him.”

  She hadn’t thought back to those early days in a long time. It seemed like someone else’s life.

  “Called himself Zenith,” she said, with a scoff. All these years, it still sounded ridiculous. “Thought he was the ‘true peak of man’. He put a crew together, and let me tag along as his showpiece, used me when it suited him. Wasn’t too happy when I turned up pregnant.”

  “And this is the guy you’re taking Wren to?” He sounded skeptical. Maybe a hint of shock, or anger.