by T. C. Edge
“I guess Lady Orlando’s got no option but to let him in,” I grumble.
I have little time to further question it. Cromwell is the least of my worries right now.
Unfortunately, however, it seems he’s about to jump right to the top of that list.
Neither of us see the event coming. Nor do the protective unit of Stalkers assigned to guard their master. As we stand there, waiting for the cars to pass before we move on, I spot movement from an alley on the other side of the road, just a little too late.
It all happens so fast that no one seems capable of reacting in time.
Explosive shells pour out from the smog, hitting the armoured cars and stopping them in their tracks. The vehicles screech and roll up onto their wheels, threatening to topple onto their sides. One does, hitting the ground and grinding towards the nearest building. The other teeters for a second before planting all four wheels back down and trying to continue on.
It doesn’t get a chance. From the alley, a unit of enemy soldiers spread, well organised and moving like a highly trained military force. They move right for the two cars just as the doors open and the Stalkers spill out, slightly disorientated, two of them shot down before they can even attempt to defend themselves.
I watch from the sides, hidden in shadow with my brother, as the carnage plays out. He makes a move to step into the light and join in, reaching around his back and setting his pulse rifle to his hands.
I hold him back.
“Brie, what are you doing? We need to help!” his voice clatters.
I look out again as the soldiers of the Cure engage with the Stalkers. The latter are now outnumbered, at least two to one. And two aren’t engaging, because they have a very specific job to do – protect their master.
I see them down the street, pulling Director Cromwell from the overturned vehicle, hustling him towards the safety of a nearby building. Out on the streets, the ten or so enemy soldiers of the Cure press on, battling against the remaining four Stalkers. These particular Stalkers, I know, are highly proficient and assigned to Cromwell for that purpose. But the odds aren’t in their favour, and all are under severe threat.
Zander makes a move to join once more. Once more, I grip him tight.
He shakes me off and grits his teeth.
“What the hell are you playing at?!”
I dart my eyes down the street.
“Let him die,” I growl. “Cromwell…let him die. Let them all die, Zander.”
His eyebrows drop into a frown so deep and severe I think he might just strike me where I stand. I counter with my own glare of conviction.
“Let him die right here,” I say again. “Why should we save him?”
“Because if we don’t,” my brother reminds me, “all his Stalkers will stop fighting with us and start fighting against us! And all his Con-Cops too! You think we can let that happen right now?”
“And how do know that will happen? It could be lies. He can’t have his Stalkers kill us if he’s killed by the enemy…”
“We have no choice, Brie!” shouts Zander, cutting me off. He glares daggers at me. “Stay here if you want. I’m going.”
He shoves my hand off him and sets his eyes down the street. Another Stalker has hit the dirt. One of the Cure is dead too. The odds haven’t yet changed.
Until Zander steps in to join the fray.
24
For several long moments I don’t engage. I merely stand there, frozen in place, finding it so hard to contemplate risking my own life to save Cromwell’s.
As I see it, his little trick with the Stalkers and the Con-Cops might just be a veil. Maybe, if one of us were to kill him, then it would activate something in his men to attack us. But surely the same can’t be the case for the enemy? Surely, if he were to die at the hands of one of the Cure, his soldiers wouldn’t suddenly turn on us too?
He is, after all, committed to seeing the Savants, hiding over in Inner Haven, survive. How exactly would that cause be helped by his Stalkers and Con-Cops turning against us? Is he really so self-absorbed that he considers his own life above all others? That he’s willing to let the entire city burn if his life is lost?
Because that’s what will happen. If the Stalkers and Con-Cops suddenly swapped their allegiance, it would be game over for us all. The Cure would wipe us all out as we reignite our civil war, and the barbarian horde from the west would complete the job they came here to see through.
I have my doubts about whether that would happen, but like Zander said, right now we have no choice.
And while it sickens me to have to risk my life to save Cromwell’s, I’d happily do it again and again in order to save my brother’s. And right now, he needs me. Zander needs me.
So pulling the pulse rifle from my back, I look out at the battle and firm my jaw. It’s time for me to engage.
I rush from my cover, dashing straight over to Zander who takes position behind the husk of an old car. Ahead, near the burning cars of Cromwell’s convoy, the three remaining Stalkers do battle with what looks like eight enemy soldiers. And in the building nearby, Cromwell will be kept safe, covered by his two loyal guards.
My brother looks at me with a look that says, ‘so you decided to join,’ but spares no time to vocalise his thoughts. Instead, he stands from behind the vehicle and begins to spray his blue fire towards the enemy soldiers across the street. I do the same, and together we manage to take one of them out, his attention on the Stalkers and not us, his body quickly wreathed in cobalt flame and melting into the dirt.
Down the street, the three Stalkers seem to notice us. They glance with their dark eyes, and nod to show we’re in this together. It’s a slightly bizarre moment for me, even now after fighting alongside them for several days. I can only imagine how it must be for Zander.
The odds are now far better. Five of us against seven of them. With our pulse rifles set to their maximum potency, we fire once more into the smoke, destroying what cover the Cure are hiding behind. Our pulses of energy rip into old cars and the facades of buildings, tearing through brick and stone and metal alike.
It seems the enemy have little choice but to move. They zip away from our sight with tremendous speed, and I only just see them materialise again through the heavy smog. Two seem to come straight for my brother and me, whooshing forward and snatching knives from their belts, thinking their chances better in closer combat.
And down the street, the other soldiers do the same, pressing towards the three Stalkers, desperately trying to cut them down and fight their way towards Cromwell.
They must have come for him specifically. A special force, a powerful force, designed to sneak through our defences and hunt down the leader of the Savants. How they got word he was still here in Outer Haven, I cannot know. But really, it doesn’t matter. They’re here now, and Zander’s right. We need to stop them from killing him.
I gather my wits just before the two soldiers arrive. Their faces show scars as they come, eyes filled with a manic hatred. One is large, the size of Rhoth, a powerful foe with speed to defy his mass. He heads straight for me, the smaller of the two men seeking out my brother. I can do nothing but step back as this shadow looms, drawing a long knife from his belt, rugged and nasty looking.
I suck a breath into my lungs and set my focus. My muscles hum and burn, and all my powers combine as my life comes under such direct threat. I can feel the same in my brother, and sense him about to launch a pre-emptive strike as his own foe comes calling. And I can sense, too, his concern for me, his desire only to cut down his enemy and come to my aid.
I don’t want him to have to. I want to be able to stand against this man alone.
He’s close now, metres away. He snarls, eyes wide and mad with a controlled fury. His knife-wielding hand appears like lightning and begins its journey towards me, ready to slash right through the weak point in both my armour and body, my neck partially exposed.
I know just where he’s going to strike. I draw him
forward and let him begin the motion, let him think I’m out of my depth. I’m not. I know I’m not. I have reserves within me that flow free at times like this. My instinct to survive is a powerful force.
His knife begins to zero in on me, but I’m fast enough to see it coming. My Hawk eyes pick it out, and my Dasher powers explode, pressing me sideways as the strike comes. In the same motion, my own blade appears from its sheath, and in a moment of sudden calm, I stretch out and send it right into the depths of his body.
Cutting through his armour and abdomen, I feel the razor-sharp blade go deep. Before I pull it out, I give it a firm twist, opening the wound and drawing a heavy roar of agony from the man’s throat.
I pull away as he slices again, the adrenaline within him enough to counter the pain and keep him strong for a time. That time, I know, will soon run short. I only need to avoid his strikes until he starts to weaken.
So that’s what I do, ducking and diving and moving away as he bears down on me. He sets a trail of red blood as he goes, his side gushing crimson, his scarred face growing quickly pale.
I have no firm knowledge of anatomy yet. I’m not a warrior who can pinpoint an exact area on the human body, knowing that a bullet or blade there will always be fatal. I’m sure my brother is different. I’m sure he can direct his strikes with great precision, fully aware that a direct hit will call an end to that particular foe’s time on this earth.
No, that’s not me. Not yet. But the stab to this large man’s side seemed to be a good one. It looks as though I got lucky, cutting right into some vital organ, his body weakening fast and his attacks growing slow. By the time Zander has dealt with his own opponent, and comes rushing over to help me, he sees that I have already got the job done.
My man is alive, just. His swings are weak and he looks set to fall to his knees. I put him out of his misery with a gunshot to the head, drawing my pistol and sending a bullet to his brain, execution style.
And killing the man, I feel nothing.
Standing together, our two foes defeated, we now turn our eyes down the street. The Stalkers, numbering three, have seemingly faced down with the other five soldiers of the Cure. They clearly sent their greater force there, thinking them the harder task and, most likely, desperate to get through to Cromwell.
And as we look, I feel a slight lurch in my stomach as I see that two more Stalkers are now on the floor. And yet, three still remain fighting.
The realisation comes quick. The two Stalkers defending Cromwell have been forced to join the fight. Now, our grandfather stands alone, vulnerable. And Zander, as he always does, seems to realise just that as quickly as I do.
“Cromwell…” is all he says, before flowing forward towards the fight.
I go straight after him, and see that four of the Cure are still alive, fighting with the three Stalkers. And then I sense more. More of them coming. From the alley, another unit, sneaking through our defences and drawn here to the skirmish.
I grab Zander’s arm again and stop him. We turn to the alley and see shapes spreading from the gloom. In a moment of understanding, we look at each and know what needs to be done.
We have to retreat. We cannot hold back this tide.
Rushing towards the fight, we veer left and gallop straight into the building as the Stalkers continue to engage, providing the distraction we need. We move down a short, crumbling corridor, the building badly damaged, and begin to call out.
“Director Cromwell! Director Cromwell, where are you?”
We stop and listen, but it’s so hard to hear much above all the battle outside. We call once again, our voices echoing quietly down the silent, grubby corridors and into the apartments that once called home to the denizens of these streets.
Again, no reply comes. Zander points left down a passageway, and then rushes off to the right. He doesn’t need to tell me what we need to do.
I gallop away, feeling a slight sense of déjà vu as I go. Not so long ago, my brother and I were doing the same thing in the bowels of the REEF, searching out Adryan before he could be taken for extermination. Now, it isn’t for the man I so adore that we’re risking our lives, but the very man who put him there.
I call out again as I go, turning my eyes left and right to check the doors. Some are open, others are not. I kick through the latter and scan with my Hawk eyes, thankful that these apartments are small and basic and take little time to check.
I cover the ground quickly, before finally my grandfather comes into view. I don’t find him cowering in the corner of some room, praying for his Stalkers to return and take him to safety. In fact, I don’t find him at all.
He finds me.
25
Returning from one of the apartments, I turn my eyes down the corridor and see my grandfather standing there, his resplendent white suit now growing a shade darker, his hair similarly coloured and pale eyes showing no fear. He looks at me placidly, only a minor crinkle of concern shaping across his brows.
“Cromwell,” I stutter, quite surprised to see him before me. “We need to get you out…” I turn and call back down the corridor to my brother. “Zander, I’ve found him!”
I look back at my grandfather, who steps forward.
“Surprising to see you here, Brie,” he says rather calmly. “You two twins really do get around.”
“Yeah…sure,” I say, anxiously awaiting my brother. “We need to get out of here right away.”
“Yes, indeed we do. I fear the battle is going ill.”
I should damn well say.
I feel a whoosh of air behind me and turn to find Zander coming into view. He breathes a sigh of relief as he looks upon the Director.
“Director Cromwell, thank God. Come on, this way, follow me.”
We move straight back down to the central corridor, unable now to use our Dasher powers with the old man in tow. To the left, the battle continues outside the building, the Stalkers now sure to be quickly overwhelmed. Going that way would be folly. Cromwell would have no chance at all.
So we go right instead, pressing on towards the rear of the building. Reaching a dead end, Zander pumps up his pulse rifle and asks us to step to the side, before releasing a powerful energy blast that rips straight through the wall. The dust and soot spreads forth, and we press through the gap to find ourselves in an alleyway at the back of the building.
My brother stops for a moment, getting his exact bearings, listening closely to ensure we don’t step down the wrong path and into another trap.
“Where now?” I question harshly. “Our plan, Zander…now what?”
It seems to me we’ve been scuppered, forced to babysit the old man.
“We have to get him to Inner Haven immediately,” says my brother, confirming my fears. “This way.”
“Hang on,” I call. “What about the mission?!”
“Things have changed, Brie. We have a new priority.”
A new priority? The thought makes me sick to my bones.
With no time to argue, however, we begin darting eastwards, moving down the alley towards Inner Haven. It’s a fair way off, and with Cromwell along for the ride, the going is likely to be slow.
We reach the end and stop, checking left and right. The coast appears to be clear. We head straight for the next street, rushing quickly, Zander calling for us to look for spare vehicles as we go.
I stay back next to my grandfather as Zander leads us on. He moves briskly for an old man, his fairly tall frame covering the ground at a decent clip. Yet, his attire has us sticking out like a sore thumb, and even amid the smog, his white suit is easy to spot.
The voices come from the distance. It seems that we’re being tracked again, the Stalkers tasked with protecting Cromwell no longer able to hold back the storm. I imagine they must be dead, overwhelmed as the new soldiers joined in, working through the streets in their small units that seem capable of slipping through our security cordons.
It makes me wonder whether our defence is weakening clo
ser to the perimeter. Have our main blockades over in the west been breached? Are the enemy soldiers here set to have a free run towards Inner Haven now?
Time is running short, and we need to get on with our mission. Colonel Hatcher will no doubt be heading north through the tunnels now, set to hunt down the enemy beyond the wall and disable the men and machines that are their trump cards. If we don’t do the same, then it’ll be of no use. There’s something far more important than the safety of our grandfather at play here…
The shouting in the distance grows louder, and my brother and I turn to see shapes beginning to gather nearby. The hunt is very much on, and we’re sure to be quickly run down at this glacial speed.
We reach another street, and head for the shadow of a building, moving into the tenement block and out of sight as the enemy bear down on us. I look at my brother, fixing his gaze firmly.
“Zander, they’ll catch us in no time up here,” I whisper harshly. “We have to get to the underlands.”
“We need a car,” he counters. “I…I should go look. You stay here. Stay hidden, stay quiet.”
He begins to set off, but I hold him back.
“There’s no way I’m letting you go off alone. We’ll be surrounded in no time. You’ll return to find us both dead.”
The mention of my possible death is enough to get him nodding.
“OK. We go on. Follow me, quiet as possible. Director Cromwell, stay low.”
We move back out, creeping more slowly now. Through the mist, soldiers seem to be searching, sniffing us out, hunting us down. Only Zander’s supreme knowledge of the streets allows us to work through them, working out of the building and through the network of alleys that take us further east.
But it seems inevitable that they’ll track us. Our movements begin to grow stifled as we sense more soldiers nearby. We hear their voices, discussing our whereabouts. There are too many. They are too close. We’ll never get through alive.