She bent over, picking up the remains of her personal console. It was cracked, plastic shroud flaking pieces to the deck as she turned it over. Someone had used the wrong tools, or no tools at all, to get at the innards. They’d pried out the data slivers, hacking at the secrets of El’s life.
The spark caught, and turned into fire. Those fuckers.
She glimpsed herself in the mirror on the wall. The surface was a simple screen, big enough to give her a window of anything she wanted. Sometimes she chose a beach. Other times, a rain-drenched forest. Right now, the screen was just a mirror, showing her … herself. Jaw clenched. Hair far too dirty and far too greasy to be something she was happy with. Smudges on her face, dirt and grime and the carbon of explosions. But it was her eyes that drew her attention. Her eyes were haunted, hunted, and angry all at once. They didn’t look like her eyes at all.
If that’s what it takes. She swiped the screen, looking for that rain-drenched forest, but the system was broken, like everything else in her cabin. So, she gave up, heading for the flight deck. They had work to do.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE CAR SCUDDED over the skyline, easy as you please. Harlow sat at the controls, not doing much of anything useful except pointing the car where they needed to go. That destination was still a mystery. Grace leaned forward. “Harlow?”
He jumped, like he’d been in a reverie. Or plain shock, which was more likely considering the last few hours. “Uh. Sorry. I was drifting.”
Nate snorted, but said nothing.
Grace nodded out the window. “Where are we going?”
“A warehouse,” said Harlow. He looked at Nate. “Sorry. Not a bar.”
“Wasn’t expecting a bar,” said Nate. “I expected a fight.”
“Then you’ll get what you’re expecting,” said Harlow. “You’ll get what you want.”
Grace was picking up tired/fear/hope all at once from Harlow. “What’s at the warehouse?”
“For a start,” said Harlow, “it’s not a warehouse.”
Nate gave him a look. “You said—”
“It only looks like a warehouse,” said Harlow. “It’s a front. A cover. A sham. What’s behind the sham is something we can only guess at.”
“What’s this ‘we,’ Harlow?” Nate held up his metal hand, gesturing out the window. “The Harlow I knew from the time before was after pretty boys and hard drugs and an easy life.” He paused. “It’s why it was so easy to swindle you out of the Tyche fair and square.”
“Swindle … fair and square?” said Harlow. He sighed, a big long breath, air going out of a balloon. “That’s the thing, Nate. Underneath the easy life, the pretty boys, the bars and the drugs and the fast cars? There’s a Republic. And do you know what’s under that?”
“I know,” said Grace.
“I know too,” said Nate, flexing his metal hand. “It’s why I flew far away.” Grace could feel his pain/loss/anger, but it was like a recording, faint, a memory of a memory. Something he’d grown used to, that fitted him like his metal hand or his jacket.
“Amedea said the espers were at the heart of the collapse,” said Grace.
“They were,” said Harlow. “She was. Or so she says. I was still with pretty boys that stage, Nate. Had my eye on you for a while.”
“I’m flattered,” said Nate. “But back to the Intelligencers.”
“That’s the uniform they wore,” said Harlow. “The Emperor made them for a better Empire. I guess he didn’t figure them for a bunch of traitors.”
“Why serve when you can rule?” said Grace. She looked down, thinking of her father, then back up. “When humans make gods, do they expect the gods to be slaves? They … we didn’t learn with AI. The Guild needed to save us then. Who’ll save us now? ‘Better men.’” She shook her head. “It’s what my father said.”
“Well,” said Harlow, the air car making a slow turn through the sky, “everything was going just fine for the ‘better men’ until Amedea found her conscience. I think she liked playing at a god. But … you know? The thought of spilling the Emperor’s blood was too much. I think even gods can have regrets.”
They were silent for a while, the air car humming around them, the city far enough below to be silent, a glow of lights and nothing else. Grace pushed hair back from her face. “They’re not gods, Harlow. I’m not a god.”
“You’re the best god of all,” said Harlow. “The rest of them, they know what we’re thinking. They gotta work at it. But they don’t know what we’re feeling. You? You know, and it comes easy to you. That’s why they want you, Grace.”
“Why?” Grace pulled back from Harlow, like he was a stove that might burn her. “I’m … so much less.”
“That’s your father talking,” said Harlow. “Amedea didn’t like him.”
“I didn’t like him,” said Grace, teeth gritted.
“Ask yourself,” said Harlow. “Is it better to be a ruler who knows thoughts and controls them? Or a ruler who feels the pain of their people?”
“You’re saying Grace is an … evolution?” said Nate.
“My father said I was a mistake,” said Grace. She knew he’d thought it, along with hated/mongrel. Like she was the worst error he’d ever made.
“Nah,” said Harlow. “I don’t know what she is. But she ain’t an evolution, and she ain’t a mistake. Something different. And we need something different. The Old Empire didn’t work out—”
“Hey,” said Nate. “It was fine.”
“Nate, I know you wore the Emperor’s Black, and I mean no disrespect. I dig a guy in uniform, but we didn’t get to vote. Didn’t matter that things worked out okay for a while. It mattered there wasn’t a choice.”
“Are you saying you believe in the Republic?” said Nate, stiffening, anger/betrayal/uncertainty coming off him.
Harlow laughed. “No, Nate.” He gestured at the console. “I’m in this fine air car, which we’ve stolen from the same Republic. I’m a wanted man in all the ways that end with death after interrogation. No, Nate, I’m not a believer. Not in this Republic. Because the Republic, Nate, is run by the Intelligencers.”
“They’re dead,” said Nate. “Hunted, gone.”
“Nah,” said Harlow. “The ones that are hunted are like Amedea. The ones that weren’t trying to kill your old boss. Or,” and he glanced at Grace, “those born after. Caught and converted? Fine. But the hunters are more numerous than the hunted. And now? They’ve got help.”
“What kind of help?” said Grace.
“You know,” said Harlow. “You’ve seen. The men in black.”
“The Ezeroc,” said Grace.
“We don’t have a name for ’em,” said Harlow. “Ezeroc fits fine. Amedea didn’t know what they were, just that there were more of them. More people with the gift than ever before. Said they sounded different.”
“Like a hiss in your mind,” said Grace.
“That’s not how she explained it,” said Harlow, “but you’re different to her.” He sighed again. “Maybe better. I don’t know. If she’s still alive, we can ask her.”
“If she’s still alive?” Nate was still angry/angry, but Grace was getting also confusion/uncertainty off him. He wore a brave face, but her captain felt the same as the rest of them under it all. He was just better at hiding it.
“Well, you’ll see,” said Harlow. He was pointing the car downward. “These are the coordinates, but…”
“‘But,’” said Nate, “is not a word that invites confidence.”
Grace had stopped paying attention to them. Something in the air touching her skin, getting under it. It wasn’t the air, because that hadn’t changed. Inside the car, things were as they were two seconds ago. But she felt … different. Like she was being watched. “Hey,” she said. “This isn’t right.”
Harlow looked back at her. “What? It’s the right place. Co-ordinates check out just fine.”
“I’m sure the co-ordinates are fine,” said Grace, “but what’s
here isn’t … right.” She paused, trying to … taste the air again. That feeling of a whisper on her skin, moth wings grazing a spider’s web. The feeling of being surveilled by something interested beyond measure.
Grace.
Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace!
“Turn the car!” she said. “Go! We’ve got to go!”
“What?” said Harlow, not understanding. “We’re here, Grace—”
“The Ezeroc!” she screamed. “They’re here!”
Nate didn’t ask stupid questions; he reached across to Harlow, grabbed a fistful of controls, and yanked. The air car choked on the descent, bucked and shimmied, then started a lumbering climb. Lumbering, because Harlow was still holding the sticks too, trying to get the machine to land. Harlow, now there was a man with confusion/betrayal/panic coming off him like heat off a radiator. He was trying to get to Amedea. His boss, or his friend, or whatever the hell she was to him. And to all the other friends they had in the Resistance, who were also here.
With the Ezeroc. Who put insects in your skull.
The note of the engines changed, became a whine, climbed to a scream as the machine started a lazy turn in the air, trying to go up and down at the same time. Grace was tossed around the seat in the back as the machine listed, Nate saying Harlow we’ve got to get out of here and Harlow saying Nate she’s down there I know it.
Grace! Grace! Grace!
The air car’s dash spat errors, a long scrolling chain of text no one was paying attention to. A second later, the errors cleared, the HUD blanking, highlighting something urgent, important. A thing everyone should pay attention to. It was a signal that the air car was targeted by ground weapons. The air car got hot, Grace picking up a sparking off the right side, right outside her window. The rear right drive made an unusual sound, like a grinder with a stone caught in it. That lasted less than a second, and what replaced it was worse: the drive was silent. Dead.
“Maser,” said Nate. “Harlow.”
“I know, I know,” said Harlow, flicking switches on the console. Trying to start a dead engine that had been burned out from the inside. “Tight beam, focused. They’ve cooked it. I’ll try, but—”
The front right drive started to grind, and then it made no more noise. The car tipped on a crazy angle, the right side pointing right to the ground, and it slid right out of the sky. Grace heard someone screaming, realized it was her, the ground racing towards them. She saw dark buildings, the corner of a warehouse, ceramicrete coming too close, too fast. She tried to get her feet down, for God’s sake down, under her for the fall, but the ground was coming too fast, it wouldn’t stop—
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SMOKE. FIRE. THE smell of burning electronics. An alarm, hazy and indistinct, because Nate was lying on his face, one of his ears covered, the other ringing like a church bell come Sunday morning. His body was above him, feet closer to the sky than his face. On a normal Sunday — church or otherwise — he’d prefer the order to be head-body-ground, not body-head-ground. The safety straps held him in place, a snare of webbing and metal that clutched him like a greedy merchant.
He opened his eyes. Harlow. The insides of an air car. Fire was above him, eating at the console. It’d make its way to Harlow’s legs before another five minutes passed.
Nate closed his eyes again. That was enough of a first look. It was terrifying, it was unreasonable, and he wasn’t ready for it. Lots of things happened in life he wasn’t ready for — like losing his arm and his leg and the Emperor’s Black he’d worn like it was a part of him — so fuck it, you know? He opened his eyes again. The fire seemed brighter, more eager, and Nate revised his assessment down to two minutes. Course, he might have slipped into blackness for three minutes there, which meant: let’s not close our eyes again.
Grace.
The thought startled him in the restraints, making him scrabble an arm around for purchase. He got it under him, pushed himself up a little, craning back to the rear of the air car. There she was, the shattered glass of the right windows a bed for her. Nate took a breath, and then another. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t moving at all. “Grace,” he croaked. “Grace!”
Nothing. Harlow groaned, but Grace remained still and silent. Through the smoke, Nate couldn’t tell if she was breathing or just plain dead.
She’s not dead. She can’t be dead. Nate clawed at the harness, his meat hand weak and useless, so he used his metal hand. The techs had said it wouldn’t fail, not in a million years, and they were wrong. It had failed plenty, possibly because it had illegal AI inside it, which never sat well with him, but the important part was it didn’t fail now. Simple movements: golden fingers found the clasps, hit the release, and viola. He fell, landing on Harlow — sorry, sorry — but Nate was free. His metal leg scuffed on the console, the fire hungry but denied any useful fuel. He used the metal leg as a support, pushing himself upright, trying not to stand on Harlow, trying not to breathe in smoke. Trying to get out.
Look up. The left side of the air car was above him. He saw the controls on the door, standard release catches about as much use as warm beer on a hot day. Red, Nate. Look for red. There: a circle of red, a handle in the middle. IN CASE OF EMERGENCY written on the outside. Meat hand still weak, he reached metal fingers up to the door, grabbed the release, and twisted. Nothing happened — of course, you’ve got to let it go, the good Engineers who designed this didn’t want it to pull your arm off. He released the handle, and the mechanism in the door clunked, whined, and a synthetic voice said, “Stand clear. Stand clear. Stand clear.”
There was a fizzing sound, like your ear right next to a soda, a bright flash, and a crump as explosive bolts fired, the door spiraling up and out of his view. Cool air came into the cabin, kissed the sweat on his face, and fed the fire beneath him. Out. You’ve got to get out.
“What you’ve got to do, Nathan Chevell, is get your team out.” Talking to yourself. Smooth, Nate, real smooth. He looked up at the open door, cool night above, freedom. No more flames. Fire had taken his arm, his leg, and his future. No. Get your team out. But he wasn’t strong enough, the meat parts too weak, and not enough of the metal.
Explosive. Bolts.
Nate looked down, the door under Harlow partially hidden by his friend’s body. He crouched, putting his metal leg next to the burning console, between Harlow and the fire. Nate felt down into the heat and dark with his metal fingers. He found the circle of life, the ring that would fire the door releases. Nate tried to give it a turn, but the mechanism inside the door — crumpled, damaged — seized. “Fuck!” He hunkered down, put his shoulder into it, the metal hand whining as it strained, Old Empire metal against Republic metal. The working arm against the broken door. Something inside his arm click-clicked as gears skipped, servos missed, and then with a scraping, tearing of metal, the emergency release of the door gave. A quick twist, and it was done.
That same synthetic voice spoke. “Stand clear. Stand clear. Stand clear.” The fizz wasn’t so pronounced this time — Nate had a split second to worry about whether he’d done the right thing, about whether it would harm Harlow being so close, about whether it would work at all — and then the bolts fired. The air car shuddered and rocked with it, Nate’s world listing. The vehicle was a ship caught in the stormy seas, the cabin up becoming left and down becoming right. The car slumped down on its rests, Harlow’s head lolling as he came back to consciousness. Nate scrambled over him, tore at the harness, and dragged Harlow free. Harlow’s pants were singed, embers shouldering — the flesh underneath would be blistered, raw, burned, but at least he was alive — so Nate patted them down, metal fingers against fire.
No more time. Nate shot to his feet, looking for Grace. The back window of the air car was smashed, and he could see black hair over the curve of her face. He ducked his head back inside the air car, coughing — fire and smoke, char and ash — as he grabbed her under the arms. Nate hauled her out, nothing gentle, everything urgent about the motion. Her feet c
aught on the sill of the door, a piece of twisted metal snaring on the leg of her ship suit — and he almost shouted in frustration. A tug, more of a pull of desperation, and the fabric tore, tumbling them both down to the ceramicrete. Nate tucked himself around her, landing hard. And there he lay, stunned for a moment, the fire of the car pushing back the darkness around them.
Get up. Nate maneuvered himself out from under Grace, laying her down on the ground with care. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, then — like he should have done in the first place — put his fingers on her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, strong, right under his touch. She’s alive.
His training, lost and useless for years, gave him a nudge. Getting survivors out was the first step. The next was making sure they stayed safe, and being right next to an air car on fire was far from safe. Nate hauled himself to his feet — you can rest when you’re dead — the metal of his leg protesting with more than its usual soft whine. It might have been cooked a little by the fire or damaged in the crash. That was Future Nate’s problem to deal with; the Nate of the present needed to get his friends away from a fire that didn’t care about who they were or the world they could save. The fire just was: hungry. Urgent.
Start with Grace. Metal against skin, the gold of his fingers around her arm. Where? Head up: check around. There. A collection of shipping containers, stacked two high. Big and strong. He dragged her away, the scrape of her body against the ceramicrete nothing against the beating of his heart in his ears. The rush of blood and fear pushing him forward. The blaze behind them, getting brighter. Stronger. The fire looking for fuel. He let Grace’s arm fall, shuffling back to Harlow. Harlow’s eyes were open, but unseeing, a glazed look. Harlow croaked, “Dad? You’re dead.”
Tyche's Deceit Page 17