Stalking out of the smoke like an avatar of death himself, a drone emerged. Its camouflage was flickering in and out and made strange halos in the smoke as the clouds wafted around the drone’s frame.
As the Humvee engine roared, the drone leapt, a glowing jump-pack engaging, driving itself directly towards them. Mack screamed, pressing both bracelets at once, and winked out of sight in the front passenger seat.
As the drone landed on the hood, metal claws dug into the bonnet, giving it purchase. It’s evil red and green eyes focused on Sheila sitting in his lap and Snake almost wet himself. China shoved him to one side, kicking out with a leg, sending a concussive blast that blew the bulletproof glass out and into the face of the drone. It spent precious seconds trying to remove the glass from its vision as Sarge poured fire into it, trying to dislodge the drone.
There’s no more time. He started the harmonic sequence to transfer. The team was out of options. It was time to go to White River. Sarge picked that moment to lean out and fire off a round, striking the metal drone in the hand and blowing off some fingers.
With a single handhold for grip, the drone raised its damaged left arm directly at Snake, and fired.
Being inside a moving vehicle was not the place for China to use his repulsors. He’d gotten one kick off at the machine, but the concussion seemed to have affected their driver, who was barely conscious at the wheel, with a drone blocking his vision. The vehicle lurched urgently as it crossed rough ground, leaving the road. Things were happening too fast as he saw Snake start the transfer protocols. Thirty seconds.
Sarge leaned out the window, taking pot-shots at the machine, and he ached to help her, but right now, Snake was the one who needed protecting. As the drone raised an arm, China tried to pull the musician down and out of the way to protect him. At the sound of metal releasing, he saw he wasn’t going to be fast enough.
He was shocked when the vibrostars spanged off a barrier, watching as Snake flinched. One of the metallic projectiles ricocheted off the shield a short distance from his head. Mack. She must have gotten in the way. Thank goodness.
His feet were killing him. The repulsor plates weren’t designed for continual use, but for short, powerful bursts of speed and concussion effects. He could feel the uncomfortable warmth, even with the extra heat bleeding off thanks to the special boots.
He took only a second to assess the drone in front of him. It had targeted them deliberately, and its movement in leaping onto the moving car had been fluid, even graceful. This wasn’t a thinking weapon with legs; this drone had a driver.
With this realization, the glowing red and green eyes of the drone took on a sinister tone, real emotion behind the lenses rather than the passionless expression of a robot.
One eternal heartbeat of them eyeing one another passed as China tried to get Snake out of the firing line. The moment ended with a rush of action. As the drone moved to take another shot, he activated his right foot and opened the door of the vehicle.
With a firm grasp on the doorframe, China swung violently, completely out of the vehicle. One frictionless step and another blast and he rocketed towards the hood of the vehicle feet-first. He triggered both feet, blasting the drone at point blank range, and simultaneously forced himself back through the open windshield, landing in what felt like Mack’s lap.
The drone left long claw marks on the bonnet as the Humvee plowed over the top of it.
“We are bloody leaving! Hitch five seven three,” China heard Snake scream from the back, barely audible above the sound of the engine and the noise underneath the vehicle. China looked at Sheila. The swell of harmonic energy expanded, glowing, in the sonic well of the instrument. China had seconds to get as close as possible to the musician before the transfer bubble appeared.
He reached down his left arm and released the seat catch holding the seat upright. He could still feel Mack underneath him, desperately reaching for something, and felt her let go. Only then did he realize that the driver was unconscious and that she’d been holding the steering wheel. He reached for her, and he felt the bracelets’ shield fall. He gripped her tightly with one hand.
China held out an arm, and as if by psychic connection, he felt Sarge’s arm grasp his and pull him forcibly into the back seat, dragging Mack with him as he went.
Time slowed as China sang the first notes of the transit harmonic, lying next to Snake on the floor of the Humvee. Snake continued the riff, arm dropping to the strings while energy billowed out of the guitar’s acoustic well. The blue light oozed over them like an amoeba engulfing its prey. He found his wife’s eyes and smiled. His magnificent, beautiful wife gave him one in return, before the expression in them changed from relief to horror. Her rifle started swinging towards him, eyes focused over his right shoulder.
Metal hands like a pair of vices clamped onto China’s legs at the ankles. He felt himself dragged through the side window of the Humvee, without even a chance to grab for the doorframe, and he was torn from the transfer bubble before it could seal. He was lifted into the air in a most unnatural position, before landing hard and rolling. Time seemed to stop as he looked at the Humvee. In a flash of neon azure, his wife and other team members were gone.
The drone was positioned at the end of a skid mark on the dirt road, legs under it and one hand splayed out for balance. It stood and its eyes found him instantly. As it stepped forward, a tinny voice with the vague, asexual baritone of an almost-male machine issued forth. “Ah. Repulsors, I should have recognized the boots. Hello, Rebel.”
As the leg panel slid back to reveal a shinkari pistol, China rolled to his feet, snapping a swift kick in the drone’s direction. It was too fast and the blast screaming towards its head skimmed just over the shoulder instead as the drone fired.
Somehow he managed to avoid it, but it was too close, too fast for him. China’s feet were so hot he was surprised his boots weren’t melting. As the drone activated its jump pack and soared towards him, an ‘oh no …’ escaped his lips.
As the machine crashed into him, his stomach lurched. He was flung into the air with the robot gripping him tightly. They landed together on the hard ground, stones and grit tearing at his back. All the air in his lungs was driven from him. As he lay semi-conscious from the impact, he was struck across the face.
In his vision, little shinkari danced around his eyes, taunting him with death that never came. He managed to roll and claim a knee before the drone spun with a sweeping hook like a jack-hammer that put him on his face again. He could just make out the voice of his tormentor as it reported back to the ship.
“Three of them got away, Sire, but I’ve captured one. I’m heading back.”
Sire. Oh fuck. The shocking metal hand on the back of his skull made him go limp as the walls in his vision closed in and faded to black.
Prince Ahmed only glanced at Anna as she entered King Heinrich’s war room, but her broad, self-satisfied grin was impossible to miss. Not a quarter-hour ago, Thalia had interrupted their conference to relate news of Anna’s success to the king, and it galled him to think that he was being shown up by a lowly countess.
Heinrich continued talking, unfazed by her arrival. “… lost only a small portion of our reserves, despite the increase in attacks. We incurred zero casualties and lost no equipment this time due to the countess’s timely intervention. Prince Al Aziri. I understand from your father that you have experience in questioning prisoners. You will perform the interrogation, accompanied by Mister Delta. I’m giving you an honor, Prince Al Aziri. Be grateful for the opportunity to redeem yourself.” The king finished speaking to Ahmed and dismissed him with a wave. The king turned to Anna, then said over a shoulder at the prince, “Get me answers, prince. Use whatever methods you must. I won’t tolerate letting these rodents run about any longer.”
Bowing only as much as was necessary, Prince Ahmed managed to keep the hardened glare off his face as he caught sight of the smug countess again. Retreating from the king’s cham
bers, he snarled inwardly. Wretched little king’s whore. When I find out where they’ve run to I’ll cook them alive and serve them to King Heinrich myself.
Completely lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the light steps behind him until after he rejoined his own guards en route to the holding cells. “Ah. So there you are, Mister Delta. I was just about to send for you. Always creeping about, aren’t we? King Heinrich orders you to accompany me to see our new guest. Stay in the back. I’ll show you how to properly interrogate someone.”
“That is my preference, Prince Al Aziri. Of course you will take the lead in the interrogation. Please, pretend I’m not there,” Delta replied in his bullfrog voice.
Toadying bastard. Try as he might to read the strange man, he couldn’t. Delta’s billowing robes concealed half of the man’s body language and the mask obscured the entirety of his face. It was beyond infuriating.
Striding into the cell, Ahmed was pleased by the state of the prisoner. The Rebel appeared to be in good health aside from some battering around the head. Ahmed looked to the physician, who nodded approval at the Rebel, packing away a syringe with faint, purple traces of Sis-B. The Rebel blinked several times and started to wake under the influence of the restorative drug.
He was manacled onto an x-frame, arms and legs bound heavily with short chains at wrists and ankles, allowing easy access to him. A pair of repulsor boots lay haphazardly next to a drone in the corner of the stark room.
The Rebel was an extremely handsome man of Asian descent. Shoulder-length black hair framed large, expressive eyes and a generous mouth. Ah, how I love these people. They like things a bit rough. Or at least the girls do. Either way. The prince allowed himself a wide smile. I’m going to enjoy this.
The prince watched the prisoner’s violet eyes dart around the room with growing uncertainty and fear as he fully awoke. Ahmed spoke in a voice that was as oiled and cared for as his immaculate beard.
“Welcome, welcome. I am His Royal Highness Prince Ahmed Al Aziri, Thirty-Third Son of the Dragon. No need to bow. Our physician deemed you fit for a conversation with me. Now, I should point out that I am a prince of the realm and you, as a Rebel, have no rights. I’ve been authorized to do whatever necessary to gain the information we require, and I will punish disobedience and lying accordingly. But. I will reward your cooperation.”
Ahmed paced in front of the prisoner and glanced at Mister Delta. Mycroft’s ghostly lackey took a position in the back corner of the room. If it wasn’t for his white and gold robes emblazoned with the First of Five’s rising sun symbol, he would have faded completely into the shadowy corner.
The Rebel straightened in his bonds before raising his head proudly. “I know who you are. Your reputation among the citizens of Honeytown is legendary. I’ve heard how you like to brand those you deem worthy of your attention with your personal mark.”
The anxiety in the Rebel’s eyes melted away, replaced by a steely defiance. The sneer on his face spoke volumes. “I also heard that you cannot … perform, without inflicting pain.”
Making sure the pleased smile never left his face, Prince Ahmed stepped forward. “Well, then, perhaps we should start with helping my performance. Let’s begin by seeing what my canvas looks like.”
Orange flame blazed like a small cigarette lighter around his right index finger as he cut away the prisoner’s clothing. Just that brief touch of flame caused sweat to break out, and what little body hair the man had curled and ashed with a mild, acrid smell. The odor, more than familiar to the prince, made his pulse jump in anticipation. Ahmed grinned and stood back to admire his new, blank slate before motioning for his guard to set a chair nearby.
Not as young as I’d like, but not bad at all. Ahmed sat with slow deliberation, making a show of the affair.
“I’m to understand your feet have repulsor implants. Is the rest of you that tough?”
Gritting his teeth, the prisoner managed not to scream the first few times the flame came close as Ahmed whispered encouragements. He started searing his personal mark into the man’s flesh. Lazily transcribed in sultry circles of flame, he reached a dozen before stopping. Pain first, then questions, so he‘ll know I enjoy it and his only hope of relief is to answer.
A few of the brands, the first ones, were covered with the glossy pink sheen of regenerated skin. If he watched closely enough, he could see the epidermis knit back together, a gradual crawl of healing that subsumed his work.
The prince frowned and leaned back in his chair, waving a hand at the physician, who lifted a hand to his mouth to stop himself from gagging. “Doctor, this is unbecoming. I want him to see the scars he will bear when he becomes a Lifer. Only give him the regenerative if you deem him close to death.”
The physician nodded and licked his lips before quickly connecting a set of tubes to the arm harness that held the prisoner’s left arm. Blood drained down the tubes, running through a filtering and monitoring machine.
“Now. Where were we? Ah yes. Your scars. You’ll get to keep those as a reminder of our time together. I may even arrange that you become a Lifer in my father’s kingdom. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? But now it’s time for some answers. Where are your friends going? How many Rebels came here? What’s your purpose in this timeline? Oh, and who was it that got inside my head in Rio?”
He leaned in with a small gleam of pure sadistic enjoyment in his eyes that belied the veneer of Royal civility. With a faint movement in his peripheral vision, Mr. Delta mirrored Prince Ahmed’s motion, leaning forward intently. The prince allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction at the thought that his substantial talents were not lost upon the masked man.
The prisoner panted, sweat slicking his hair, as beads of moisture ran down his temples like rain. “Mĕi gèrén dōu yǒu shānghén. Wǒ huì gàosù wǒ de jiāo’ào, dāng nĭ sĭle.”
The prisoner spat, sending a globule of liquid defiance towards the prince that evaporated mid-air before reaching his smirking face.
How I love the defiance. “Oh no, that won’t do. Speak a civil language, not that gibberish. What did you say anyway?”
The drone in the corner spoke in Thalia’s voice. “He’s speaking Mandarin—a Chinese dialect. He said, ‘Everyone has scars. I’ll show mine with pride when you’re dead.’”
He turned back once more with a cruel light in his eyes. Stroking his beard with gentle fingers, he promised in sweet tones, “Well, I won’t pretend this will hurt me more than you. In fact, it would be hard for anyone or anything to hurt more than you’re going to over the next few minutes. Or hours. Or days. However long it takes is up to you, but please, don’t stop resisting on my account. Once you answer my very reasonable questions, the pain will stop. So. Where are they?”
The prince stretched out a hand with its tiny flame extending from his index finger and traced another sinuous brand on the prisoner’s inner thigh to the accompanying sound of sizzling flesh. Ahmed took his time with each intricate line of his sigil, ensuring that the burn was wide and deep enough to be excruciating, but not so large as to use up more canvas than was necessary.
“How many are there?”
Another brand formed, on the top of the man’s foot. The prince made sure to push hard into the spaces between the bones, singeing deep nerves with a practiced hand.
“What are you here for?”
Ahmed added one more in the small of the prisoner’s back, right on the spine. The prince found bone just below the skin. But rather than spend all his time there, he lazily stretched the brand across nearby muscle. His finger repeatedly dragged back and forth from soft to hard tissue, finding every nerve at the edge of the spine, and needling it with a lance of fiery pain.
“Who is the Gifted I encountered in Rio?”
An unmistakable smell, not unlike cooking pork, began to fill the room. To the prince, it was the smell of progress. A lesson taught in pain, written in agony, and tallied on flesh. This was what happened when you defied Royal
ty. It was a lesson he enjoyed teaching. Ahmed spent a good deal of time reiterating it in other places on the prisoner’s body, ensuring the man would remember it for as long as he lived.
Nearly two hours later, Ahmed started losing his patience. This man was far tougher than he appeared. He’d known men, strong and disciplined men, that had crumpled after a mere half an hour of this treatment.
The doctor had dosed the prisoner three times with Sis-B to prevent his slide into unconsciousness and to keep him from losing too many bodily fluids as the burns wept clear plasma. After the second administration, the doctor briefly disappeared from the cell and returned with the translucent pallor of someone who had emptied their stomach of all its contents. Despite their respective positions, Prince Ahmed suspected the medical technician was closer to confession than the captive.
Burns covered almost every inch of the prisoner’s skin, except his face. The prince was saving that for last. Soon, he’d have to remove the captive’s long hair to find fresh canvas for his art. The heat and stench was so thick and stifling that the air filters couldn’t keep up. Yet, the prisoner remained defiant and silent except for his screams.
With a heavy sigh, the prince shifted in his chair and leaned back to appraise the situation again. He stroked his beard as his gaze combed over the man in contemplation.
“I’m thirsty. I think I’ll take some refreshment.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at his guard. Within a minute, a chilled pitcher of ice water arrived on a tray along with two elegant, crystal-cut glasses. As the servant entered the room, moisture immediately frosted the glass pitcher as the hot and humid air condensed on the glass.
The servant blanched as she entered and held out the tray with a curtsy, her trembling making the glasses clink together.
Suffrage (World Key Chronicles Book 1) Page 26