by Dan O'Brien
He writhed for a moment, his body kicking like an animal struck by traffic. “Why are you doing this?” stammered the first guard, holding a hand to his chest as he wheezed on his knees.
Armon fixed his tie with ease.
Looking down at the guard, he tilted his head and looked up at the OrionCorps building. “Unfortunately, it seems as if your system has failed. The entirety of what you know perhaps brought down by a single man’s mistake. The misfortunate for you and your friend here can be laid at his feet,” he began and then gesturing to the building. “As well as anyone else who is between me and my prey. That mistake is in this building.”
The guard looked past Armon to his fallen brethren.
“Who would order this?”
Armon was growing impatient, or as impatient as a man such as him was capable. He knelt, looking beyond the kneeling guard to see if anyone had witnessed the exchange.
No one had.
“God as far as you would know, my young friend. I fear that much of what you know is myth. If it would ease your passing, I would tell you that your patriarch has summoned your deaths.”
The guard swallowed, the blue of his visor flickering from the sweat that poured from his forehead and scalp. “But who?”
Armon grabbed the man’s throat in a jutting motion, his strong thumb and forefingers twisting and stealing the man’s life as quickly as it had been given. Armon looked at the bodies and shook his head. A frail species, he reminded himself, frail indeed.
*
The interior of the OrionCorps building was as barren as many buildings throughout Orion. Armon watched as he passed uniformed officers, noting the seriousness of their gazes, the strict manner with which they carried themselves. He was a supporter of proper posture, but these men and women seemed to miss the grace and see only the necessity of it.
He had disposed of the bodies, hiding them amongst the manicured shrubbery outside of the building. Armon would not be in the building long. It was not a hundred floors tall like the Cerulean Dreams building. The epicenter of justice in Orion was little more than a fifth of its size.
The squat enclosure reeked of sweat, as if the entirety of its staff had not showered in some time. It could have gone unnoticed to anyone save Armon, for such things were impossible for him not to notice. His senses were more acute than the citizens of Orion.
He rounded the far end of the 8th floor, watching the signs for the appropriate juncture. Passing a vibrant woman at a desk, he felt compelled to stop. Her green eyes watched him cautiously. Lips pursed, she clicked her stylus against the desk. “May I help you?”
Armon smiled. The contrast of his dark skin and perfect teeth drew her attention. “My dear, there are many things you could help me with. However, I am looking for a person of interest, a scientist who was picked up in the Messiah District.”
She smiled. Her vision was only half covered.
“Identification please.”
Armon smiled once more, procuring from his jacket his credentials. The Agency had seen fit to provide him with the necessary identification in situations such as this. “Of course, my dear.”
She reached out and touched it with her stylus, immediately downloading the information. Her eyes and skin could not hide her surprise. “A member of the 1st Congress, my goodness. I am sorry, sir,” she replied, her voice unsteady.
Armon smiled.
He liked the sound of the 1st Congress and her reaction to it. The Agency had created the 1st Congress, of course. There was something sultry about her features: deep eyes. Her hair was straight, pulled back into an immaculate bun.
“What do you possibly have to be sorry for?”
She smiled nervously. “Of course,” she replied. Returning her gaze to her desk, she continued. “What was the name of the person you were looking for, sir?”
“Dr. Methias,” he replied.
She leaned forward.
The swell of her bust rose and fell.
Her breath was rapid.
He could have smelled her from a mile away. Her nervousness and lust were overwhelming. No such interactions were possible for Armon. It was not allowed by the Agency, more than mere disapproval.
“He is on the next floor, sir. Briefing Room Nine, you cannot miss it.”
“Thank you so much….”
“Courtney.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Courtney, for your help,” he finished and departed, not bothering to look back.
*
Briefing Room Nine would indeed have been difficult to miss. As he exited the stairwell, there it stood. A bronze number and bold writing above the door spelled out its place. He opened the door and entered. Inside there was a single desk and another door. This one was smaller and darker, and no doubt led into the interrogation chambers. A plainclothes OrionCorps detective looked at him with a steely gaze.
“Who are you?”
Armon smiled pleasantly. “I have come to interrogate Dr. Methias at the behest of his employer, Cerulean Dreams.”
The detective looked at him suspiciously. “I have a man in there with him right now. I think we have it handled.”
Armon nodded, unbuttoning his jacket.
“I understand that, of course. However, Dr. Aaron Roth asked me as a personal favor to come down here and speak with Dr. Methias. I fear it would be terrible to have to tell Mr. Roth that I was unable to carry out his request.”
The detective rolled his eyes and rose from his sitting position. “What division are you with? Cleaning Crews?”
Armon could not help but smirk once more.
He enjoyed every level of his job.
His access allowed him unrestricted knowledge of Orion; it was intoxicating at times. “I am a special liaison to Mr. Roth, from the 1st Congress.”
The man’s eyes bugged. “1st Congress?”
Armon removed his credentials again.
“Dr. Methias is an important man.”
The man scanned the identification and shook his head. “Please, by all means, don’t allow us regular blues to do our jobs. You must have a background in science and bullshit because what this guy is telling us is a little of both.”
Armon raised an eyebrow.
“Been telling stories, has he?”
The detective opened the door to the interrogation room. He looked back over his shoulder to Armon. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
They entered and Armon looked at the aging figure of Methias. His thin glasses hung comically from his face, more so than they should have since they were fitted for his face. His frame was thin, as could be seen through his heavily veined hands and forearms.
“You would be surprised what I believe,” spoke Armon, shutting the door. Armon leaned closer to the detective. “I am afraid I did not catch your name.”
“Reilly,” he replied and then pointing at the lanky officer who loomed over Methias, “Detective Carlyle, this is….” Reilly scratched his head as if he had forgotten the name.
“You can call me Armon,” he replied with a curt bow.
“What’s he doing here?” barked Carlyle, his balding scalp was cut short, the pulsing blue beacon of his visor clearly visible. Dressed in a similar black and tan suit as Reilly, his brown eyes were packed in red circles.
His fingers shook slightly.
“1st Congress liaison to Cerulean Dreams,” replied Reilly, his hands on his hips. He watched the old man go cold, his lips tight. He motioned to Armon for Methias. “You know this guy?”
Methias was still wearing his white frock coat and equally white shirt underneath. He looked as if he had been pulled from a bad science-fiction movie. “No.”
Reilly could see the fear in the man’s eyes.
“You sure?”
Methias nodded slowly, meeting the gaze of Armon.
Armon wrung his hands together with a sigh.
“Very well then. If I may be presumptuous, Detective Carlyle, could you please inform me of what Dr. Methias has
already told you?”
Carlyle looked at Reilly, who nodded.
“Dr. Methias here says that he runs a secret laboratory in the Messiah District for Cerulean Dreams codenamed the Lurking. He told me that he no longer feels safe doing his research and that Cerulean Dreams, at the urging of Dr. Roth, has gone too far. He wouldn’t elaborate much more than that.”
Armon nodded, his lips turning in satisfaction.
Motioning to Reilly, he spoke. “You had said that I needed special training in science and––what was it, detective?”
“Bullshit,” answered Reilly, pulling on his tie.
“Yes, that was how you phrased it. Would you care to indulge me and tell me what you felt required such a special mention?”
Reilly shifted uncomfortably, the room feeling suddenly humid. He looked at the room’s tinted window. “He said that we weren’t meant to be awake. That is why we are instructed to sleep. That we are being monitored by something he refers to as the Tower. He said that this tower was constructed by what controls Cerulean Dreams hundreds of miles into the desert.”
Armon smiled.
“He said that, did he?”
Reilly nodded grimly. “We checked where his laboratory is supposed to be and we sure as shit didn’t find any science equipment.”
Armon laced his hands behind his back.
“What did you find?”
Carlyle slammed his fist on the table in front of the seated Methias. “This is complete bullshit, Reilly. This guy doesn’t know anything. I don’t care where he comes from or who sent him. How the hell can he help us with this?”
Armon’s smiled dampened, though not completely. “I think that you will find that I will be of extraordinary help to you and your partner.”
Carlyle huffed impatiently and pushed himself from the table. “Please continue, Detective Reilly,” spoke Armon.
Reilly looked at Carlyle and sighed. “Like I was saying, we didn’t find any science equipment of any kind. We found bodies. Dead bodies. All young women. Droves of them,” he replied, turning away disgustedly.
“They were insufficient specimens,” blurted Methias.
Carlyle loomed over Methias.
“Quiet,” he ordered darkly.
Methias shrunk back and pointed a finger at Armon. “His people did this. They cleared out that building, wiped it clean so that you wouldn’t find anything except what they wanted you to.”
Armon seemed pleased with that response.
“What people would that be?”
Methias shook his head.
“Roth. Cerulean Dreams.”
Reilly paced toward the old man. “Why would Cerulean Dreams kill young women and dump them in a building in the Messiah to set you up?”
“No one killed them. They just didn’t survive the process,” he replied with a shrug, and then a dismissive wave as if there was no way that he could explain.
Carlyle snapped his fingers as if he had remembered something. “He also said that the Agency was after him. I told him there was no such thing. He insisted they live beyond the desert.”
Armon’s smile dissipated.
His eyes took on a silvery glint as if liquid had passed through his irises. “Now that was a very silly thing to say, Methias. You know that you are never to mention the Agency. Not even if you were on the brink of death. My silly doctor, think of what you have done to these poor men.”
Reilly gurgled before he felt it.
He looked down at Armon’s outstretched arm, and then as he pulled it away. A slender, needle-like blade soaked in blood disappeared up Armon’s designer sleeve. The detective held his hand over the wound. His mouth opened and shut as he searched for the words.
“What….”
Methias pushed himself from his seat, his shackled hands pointing at Armon. “He is one of them,” he whispered.
Carlyle watched as Reilly fell into a sitting position. Coughing, blood erupted from his lips in a little crimson river. “Why did you do that? What did you do to Reilly? I thought you were here to help.”
Armon stepped forward.
His smile had been replaced with a frown, a sad turn of his mocha lips. “I am, Detective Carlyle. I am here to help you all,” he spoke soothingly.
“Shoot him, damn you. Shoot him,” screamed Methias as he plastered himself in the corner, his finger shaking as he pointed at Armon. The aged scientist was reduced to a quivering version of himself. “He is one of them,” he repeated.
Carlyle drew his weapon. A round discharged, but the burst was too late as Armon had already bridged the distance between the two men. He was a blur, his face in one place and then another as if he had teleported. He grasped Carlyle by the throat and though they were the same height, Armon lifted him from the ground. The other man’s legs kicked defiantly as he clung to life under the iron grip of Armon. Struggling to make words, he managed only a sad gurgle and expulsion of air. Armon looked at the huddled figure of Methias, shaking his head.
He then turned his attention to Carlyle.
There was pity in the assassin’s eyes.
“I am sorry that he said that, Detective. It was not my intention to kill both of you. I was prepared, but I had not intended to do so. Unfortunately, this man was incapable of holding his tongue, something that all of you were made to pay for,” consoled Armon with a cold smile.
Carlyle struggled, beating a free hand against Armon’s forearm, but it was useless. Armon shook his head, closing his eyes as he twisted his hand and with it the neck of the tall detective. His body was a heap on the floor. Slouching, his broken neck set his head in an awkward position upon his crumpled frame.
Armon loomed over Methias.
“Poor children,” he whispered, glancing at what was once Carlyle. He knelt closer to Methias, bringing their faces close to one another. Armon’s breath was sweet, like cherry mints.
Methias reeked of sweat.
“You are a monster,” stated Methias, his voice shaking.
Armon shook his head. “You killed these men.”
Methias backed away farther.
His hands searched the ground to find a grip, his nails cracking as he scraped the smooth floor. “I didn’t kill anyone. Not those girls and certainly not these men,” he spoke, and then hid his face in his arms.
Armon smiled, the even line of his teeth startling. “I am afraid there was no one else. You see there was you, a suspected killer, and these two brave detectives who defended themselves to the end.”
The assassin rose and pulled free a cylindrical metal rod. Silver in color, it was a smooth shaft without markings. Twisting the end, he held it in his hand. It whirred and then heated. He passed it in front of his face as the cylinder reddened.
“They managed to wound the suspect, a wound that eventually led to his demise.” Armon drove the shaft through Methias’ chest, melting flesh around the rod until he reached the other side. Methias screamed. His voice breaking as the rod reached its end. Armon pulled it free in one smooth motion and held it as the blood boiled and evaporated.
“They managed to shoot the suspect through the lungs, but he retained enough strength to kill Detective Carlyle by breaking his neck. His lungs soon filled with blood, drowning Dr. Methias, butcher of children.”
Methias opened his mouth, blood pouring from his lower lip as he tried to speak. “Save your strength, my good doctor. I have one more gift for you.” He replaced the clean cylinder into his coat once more and produced a syringe, the amber liquid reflecting in the morning light. “They will obviously never believe that a frail old man was capable of breaking a much younger man’s neck. That is unless….”
He jabbed the syringe into the doctor’s arm and depressed the plunger, emptying the liquid into this veins. “The doctor’s body contained adrenaline-enhancing substances that would corroborate his unbelievable strength.”
Methias coughed hard, blood in his hand. “I….”
Armon rose, his characteristic smile
gone.
“You are nothing, doctor. You understood what was at stake and you sabotaged us. For this, you must perish. In the next life, I hope that you find your way to loyalty.”
The doctor reached out with a wobbling, weak hand. Armon looked at it sadly and then grimaced as the man began to convulse. His body twitching and jumping as death found its hold.
Armon tilted his head.
He heard commotion in the distance. They would be here soon. He would not allow more death. Looking out the bay window, he smiled. He backed up slowly, stepping around the detective and then jumped through the window, back first. Freefalling, his laughter rolled as he disappeared into the light of the day.
X
M
arlowe watched the sky. Bright red clouds had found their way to the western horizon. There in the west was his destiny. Beyond the wall and into the desert, he sought something that he could not explain.
He looked down at his forearm. The rune had begun to spread. Dark circles were connected by lines of script. Black sections had begun to appear that looked like markers on a map.
Dana remained away from the window. She had begun to watch Marlowe carefully. Pharaoh sat abreast his computer, his shoulders slumped and his hands resting on his keyboard. “I still think this is a terrible idea, Marlowe,” spoke Pharaoh, his back to his friend.
Marlowe had lived in the city his entire life. Not once had he stepped outside the gate. No one had as far as he knew. But something was there now that had not been before, clarity in the distance that he had never noticed.
There had to be something else out there.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not it is a good idea, only that it must be done. They are hunting us, Dana and I, and I don’t know why. They control us in our dreams, I can see that now. Keep us where they want us,” replied Marlowe, not turning from the window.