by Julian North
“They’ve got some military razorFish in addition to the v-copters,” Alexander said. “Must be two dozen aircraft at least.”
“That’s just their air force,” Nythan commented. “It looks like the army has arrived as well.”
It was true. An endless parade of lights was streaming down Fifth Avenue: the military-style transports of the STF, interspersed with the hulking form of enforcement drones. Behind those were other vehicles I hadn’t seen deployed before, even in Bronx City. Those machines resembled giant, armored turtles—except they had missile batteries mounted on top.
Nythan shook his head. “As Daniela would say: deuces.”
A squadron of v-copters passed overhead. I squinted as the air swirled around us. “They’re headed downtown to the White House. Is this an invasion?”
“It would appear that Ms. Timber-Night isn’t impressed with the president’s opposition to her chipping legislation. Apparently, she agrees with Jalen’s assessment that one defeat can lead to another. I think it’s a coup. Or at least an attempt at one.”
“We’d better get out of here, out of Manhattan,” Nythan said.
“Go out onto the streets?” Alexander asked. “Director-General Van-Maker and the Authority may well resist this attack, although I’m not sure they can match the military hardware the STF is deploying. It’s going to be civil war in the streets. We can hunker down here until the fighting is over and communication is restored.”
I scoffed. “Alexander, you’re still thinking like a highborn. Virginia has thrown out the old rule book. You and Jalen openly opposed her. You think she doesn’t know you made an alliance to take Rose-Hart away from her? Or that Jalen didn’t give you the dirt necessary to win? This is a street fight. She couldn’t win one way, so she’ll try another. She’s coming for you.”
Alexander watched the line of vehicles pouring into Manhattan. The air hummed with flying vehicles. Somewhere deep inside, even Alexander must have been afraid as he watched the unimaginable unfold. “We can fly out on a v-copter.”
At that moment, a fireball appeared in the distance, south of us.
“It’s started,” Nythan said. “The White House is defending itself.”
There was another explosion, and a second STF v-copter was engulfed in flames. Distant booms reverberated through the city like a series of muffled earthquakes. The bottoms of the v-copters flashed as they opened fire on targets beneath them.
“Reinforcements will be coming in from both sides. You really think you can fly through that, Alexander?”
“Flying is the only way out of the city. You can be sure the other crossings will be sealed by one side or the other, assuming they aren’t fighting on the bridges or in tunnels already.”
“There might be another way,” Nythan replied. “Daniela is quite adept at check points. With two trillers we might be able to—”
“Too late.” I pointed at a trio of vehicles pulling onto Alexander’s street. “Those transports will be packed with troops. Too many—even for Alexander and me together.”
“Then let’s get moving,” Alexander said.
We ran to the v-copter. I assumed it was the same one we had flown in the night we had rescued Kortilla. I strapped myself in beside Alexander, who was hurriedly tapping controls. The engines began to hum.
“It’ll take several minutes for the engines and other systems to come completely online.”
“Skip the damn safety checks, Alexander,” Nythan called to him.
Glass shattered somewhere nearby. A shining light approached us from above, like a star coming down from the sky. Only it wasn’t a star.
“It’s a drone,” Alexander said, barely taking his eyes from the controls.
Nythan unstrapped himself and joined us in the cockpit. He squinted out the window. “It looks big. Not a surveyor.”
“Bluekent,” I said.
Nythan stared at me. “If you’re right, it’ll be armed. How fast can you make this thing go, Alexander?”
“Three hundred knots—about three hundred and fifty miles per hour—is her top cruising speed.”
Nythan frowned—he wasn’t impressed.
“We’re ready to go,” Alexander said, pulling back on the control stick beside him. The engines breathed power as we left the ground, heading straight upward. But the drone was faster—it was almost on top of us.
A metallic claxon sounded, followed by a synthetic voice. “V-copter Alpha Romeo Seven Four, you are ordered to return to your point of origin. If you do not comply within thirty seconds, or if you attempt to leave the area, you will be fired upon.”
We all stared at the sleek, boomerang-shaped object hovering outside our window. It was no more than a hundred yards away from us. There were four wicked-looking missiles tucked under its fuselage. I looked below. SPF soldiers had reached Alexander’s roof. They had red slashes on their chests and heavy force rifles in their hands.
“Forget it,” Nythan said. “Unless you’ve installed weapons on this thing since our last trip, we’ll never get away from that drone.”
Alexander looked over at me. There was no fear in his eyes, but he didn’t know what to do either. I stared out the window, at the machine threatening us. Inside the drone’s circuit-filled fuselage, a computerized clock was counting down seconds. I counted heartbeats as I gazed down at the men below, their guns pointed skyward. I knew what to do.
“Alexander, count to ten, then jam the engines. Everything you’ve got.”
“Are you loco, Daniela? You can’t outrun a missile!” Nythan’s eyes were wide.
Alexander just nodded and turned back to the control. At least he had faith in me. I hoped it wasn’t misplaced.
One… two… three…
I closed my eyes, summoning the power that lurked within me. I was ice. I was fury. I sought a mind among the soldiers below. They were distant, their thoughts whispers in the night when I needed screams. I pushed my will outward, feeling like an acrobat on the high wire. It was dangerous to extend my power this far. I searched for the easiest mind, the most open. It belonged to a man named Daze. Ten years of service. Eleven kills. He had a notch on the post of his bed for each one, and he wanted more. Even from several hundred yards away, his thirst for violence called to me. That was the bridge I needed. His emotion gave my own will something to grab hold of. I attacked his mind—hungry and angry.
Four… five… six…
He had virtually no defense—just a swirling wind protected his free will. It was easy, despite the physical distance between us. Daze wanted to be told what to do—so long as it involved violence. Veins of darkness spread through his mind like a spider’s web, filled with ugly desires and images of pain that I instantly wanted to forget. I gave him a reason to do what he wanted: pull triggers.
Seven… eight… nine…
“That is an enemy drone about to kill you,” I trilled.
Ten.
Daze spun his body in the direction of the bluekent, his force rifle ready. He didn’t hesitate—he enjoyed this part. My ears and Daze’s heard the same piercing sound as his weapon fired. Satisfaction surged through him as I broke the link.
“Punch it,” I said, but Alexander had already done it.
The v-copter’s engines gave a determined whine as Alexander banked the aircraft hard to the left, then put us into a climb that I knew wasn’t safe even before the automated warning system sounded in my ears. My body pressed hard against the seat as we climbed.
“What the hell’s going on up there?” Nythan cried.
Alexander eased the angle of our climb enough that I managed a peek downward. Dirty gray smoke was pouring from the listing drone beneath us.
“It’s on fire,” I said, satisfied.
“We’re out of its range now. I’m headed for forty thousand feet. Most of the action should be well below us. Hopefully, they’ll mistake us for a commercial flight. Or at least we won’t seem like a threat worth pursuing. Both sides will have their hand
s full with each other.” He looked over at me. “That was… impressive.”
“What was?”
“Trilling from so far away. How did you do that?”
I blinked. “I just did it.” It wasn’t difficult.
“I couldn’t have done that.” He looked back out the window. “You are powerful.”
Like Kristolan. He didn’t say it, but I knew that was what he was thinking.
I let his words, spoken and unspoken, roll around inside my head. It wasn’t a sentiment I was comfortable with. I wasn’t like her. I was still in control. I could handle this. At least long enough to save Mateo, Matias, and the others.
Nythan reappeared in the cockpit. “Well done. Anyone following us?”
“We’ve cleared Manhattan airspace.”
“Great,” Nythan said. “But if Virginia Timber-Night wins, she’ll come after you. There won’t be any place to hide.”
“I’m not scared of Virginia Timber-Night.”
“Of course not. I’m just saying… you may want to think about heading west to California. Retreat is not the same thing as cowardice.”
I thought Nythan was kidding, but Alexander whipped his head around. “I’m not running. This isn’t over.”
“No, it sure as hell isn’t,” I said. “How about we head to Atlanta?”
“You expect Rudolph Banks to help us?” Alexander asked, guessing my thoughts.
“Why not?” I said. “He’s all-in for President Hoven. He said so himself. And we can find out what he knows about Virginia’s activities off the coast.”
“Very sound plan—if he’s still alive,” Nythan replied. “After Jalen, I would expect Mr. Banks to be among Virginia’s first targets.”
Alexander was already adjusting course as he replied, “My guess is she has the loyalty of the SPF, maybe some elements of the Authority and military. But not completely. Her first priority has to be Hoven and securing the levers of government in Manhattan. Georgia is another world. Let’s hope her resources are not unlimited.”
“Atlanta then, huh?” Nythan placed a hand on my shoulder. “Daniela, you are going to love the South.”
Chapter 26
The v-copter flew low over vast estates. The moon’s light shone upon grand white houses with pillared entryways and elaborate verandas. High trees and ornate walls ringed the outskirts of each property.
“This is Atlanta?” I asked.
“Part of it,” Alexander told me. “This is Buckhead—call it the Manhattan of Atlanta, except it’s not an island, just a walled enclave. We’re almost there. Look ahead.”
I did. The v-copter’s lights helped illuminate a sprawling complex larger than any three of the other massive estates we’d flown over. The grounds were even larger than those of Alexander’s Hamptons home, with great fields of manicured grass, pools, and an array of smaller buildings of uncertain purpose. Rudolph Banks might be a nope, but he wasn’t a pauper.
A drawling male voice crackled over the radio. “Approaching aircraft, you are about to enter restricted airspace. Change your heading due west immediately.”
“We would like to request permission to land,” Alexander said.
“Landing rights are restricted. Identify yourself.”
“Best not to do that over an open channel. I’m transmitting transponder codes to you,” Alexander said.
There was silence on the end of the link—a conversation was probably taking place offline. The voice returned, sounding rather unfriendly. “Enter a circular holding pattern beyond the boundary of the estate. Do not attempt to land without clearance or you will be shot down.”
“So much for southern hospitality,” Nythan’s voice chimed in over the internal comm.
We made about five circuits before the drawling voice returned. “You may land. Please turn to heading one-three-zero. The landing pad will be illuminated momentarily. Do not deviate from that course.”
Alexander turned the aircraft toward the main house.
“Reduce altitude to five hundred feet, decrease speed to one hundred knots, immediately.”
“This is the way they did it a hundred years ago,” Nythan said into our ears. “Air traffic control guiding you in, manual flight control. Good thing aircraft are still required to have pilots and short range transmitters. Ghostrider, I think we can buzz the tower.”
“Not now, Nythan,” I snapped.
A pair of ugly red lights on the control panel flashed as we neared the landing pad.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Guidance locks. They have weapons pointed at us. Maybe anti-aircraft missiles. It’s prudent given the circumstances,” Alexander said, neither angry nor alarmed.
We set down on a flattop landing pad next to another, sleeker v-copter with a twisted fish emblazoned on the side. Alexander tapped the control panel, and the engine noise outside began to fade from a roar to a low whine.
“Well, they didn’t shoot us down, so we’re already doing better than I expected,” Nythan said from the cockpit door.
“I didn’t see any military aircraft on the radar on the way down here. Not many planes at all actually, although I suppose that could be due to the late hour. But I think Georgia isn’t their area of focus right now.”
“I was able to hack into some private data lines after we crossed the North Carolina border,” Nythan said. “The main data services are all disrupted. Even in Georgia, the net appears to be operating at about one percent efficiency. No voice or video is available—I’ve mostly been reading raw data code, which makes my head ache.”
“You’ve been unusually quiet back there,” I said. “That can’t be good.”
“It’s not easy piecing things together without a proper net connection. But, it appears there is still fighting in Manhattan. The STF issued a statement that they are dealing with an ‘unprecedented terrorist threat from California.’ The Authority called it an attempted coup that would be put down, but that was an hour ago. Nothing from the government since then. Chatter indicates there have been arrests of government supporters all around Manhattan.”
“What about Jalen?” I asked.
“No word.”
“Ominous,” Alexander said. “Perhaps Rudolph knows more.”
We climbed out of the v-copter into the warm night. Giant floodlights suspended on metal poles shined down from above us like a trio of nearby stars. The primary residence was situated on a small hill no more than fifty yards away from us. Two men dressed in dark business suits, but with short-barreled force rifles slung over their shoulders, waited for us on the tarmac.
“Welcome to Buckhead,” one said, his words sounding like his jaw was loose. “I’m James Polken. This is my associate, Mr. Hopper.”
“Where is Rudolph Banks?” Alexander asked.
The two men exchanged looks.
“Sorry, sir, but under the circumstances, there are some preliminary matters to attend to before we can discuss Mr. Banks.” Polken rubbed his rifle as he spoke.
The cold of my trilling power called to me, reminding me it was there. I answered, letting the chill flow into me. Alexander must have sensed it because he turned his head sharply toward me, his eyes intense enough to pierce the thin night between us. What are you doing? he asked without words.
“You need to verify who we are?” Alexander asked Banks’s men.
“A bit more than that, sir. If you want to see Mr. Banks, I’m afraid we’ll need identity verification and a full scan.”
“That’s fine,” Alexander said quickly. “We aren’t armed.”
“I appreciate that, sir. You should know that Mr. Banks isn’t here. For safety’s sake, we’ll have to blind fold y’all and transport you to him. Your visers will be confiscated—temporarily, of course. And the trip may not be quite as comfortable as you are used to. And there’ll be some risks gettin’ there.”
“What does that mean?” Nythan interjected.
Polken shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Can’t te
ll y’all that, I’m afraid, sir. You are free to leave, of course.”
Alexander and I shared a glance—a brief one. We hadn’t come to Atlanta to turn back now. There wasn’t any place else to go anyway.
“We understand,” Alexander said. “Do what you need to do.”
“I don’t like people messing with my viser,” Nythan protested.
“You can stay if you want, Nythan,” I said. “But we’re safer together.”
He got my meaning. We had two trillers. These guys weren’t highborn, and neither was Rudolph Banks. I liked our ace in the hole.
Our visers were scanned, then we were. Once Banks’s men were satisfied, they took the devices from our wrists and led us to a waiting sedan. Polken drove, Hopper rode beside him, while Alexander, Nythan, and I shared the rear seat. The car’s interior was frigid compared to the warm, humid night outside. We passed through a soaring durasteel security gate and onto an immaculate deserted road that wound through a valley of lush hedges that concealed the opulent buildings lurking behind them. After about fifteen minutes of silent driving, we came to another gatehouse complex with four lanes of traffic tunnels that appeared to allow passage beneath an enormous whitewashed wall that extended in both directions. Giant lights shone from a watchtower at least two hundred feet high. A pair of armored vehicles were parked against the massive barrier, and men in armored vests and peach-colored helmets stood beside the roadway.
“As y’all can see, we’re leaving Buckhead,” Polken said. “Beyond these walls is the real Atlanta—my Atlanta. This is your last chance to bail out.”
“I always wanted to see the underside of Big-A,” Nythan quipped.
“It would eat you alive, kid,” Polken assured him. “When you get out of the vehicle, you’ll smell real life, not sterilized floors. Be ready—we’re going into the tunnels.”
The Buckhead rent-a-cops scanned our vehicle plates, then waved us past into the darkness below the security barrier. The tunnel’s walls hummed on either side of the sedan as we descended. A thick metal portcullis that wouldn’t have been out of place on a medieval castle lifted as the car approached. We passed under, and it closed behind us. Hopper stood his force rifle upward with its nose facing the ceiling in plain sight of anyone looking through the windows. Which I assumed was the whole point.