by T. K. Toppin
“What did you say his name was?”
“Terrance Everest. Why? Is that the name Max is using now?”
“No. But…” Lorcan brushed a gloved hand roughly over his mouth, blinking rapidly. He swallowed hard. “It’s just that, well, Terrance was my mother’s real last name. She used that—shortened it—called herself Terry. Terry Wellesley sounded much better than Wendy Terrance. And Everest was Carmen’s name.” He looked at me, pained. “No, I can’t believe that. It’s just a coincidence, nothing more. Just drop this idea that Max is involved.”
“Yes, it is.” I felt drained. I wanted to…touch him, but resisted. “Like you say, a coincidence. Too much of one, don’t you think?”
“Josie?” A deathly calm voice from behind me.
I flinched and spun around to meet John’s wary eyes. He’d just emerged from a thick cluster of leaves, and had a hand hidden among the folds of his long jacket. His other arm was extended before him, bent, with fingers loosely curled as if waiting for the slightest indication that he should draw out another weapon, which I knew he kept in a holster by his chest.
“John!” I sighed a breath of relief, and would’ve rushed to him had he not looked so murderous. I turned around again to Lorcan. He regarded John warily, and backed away a fraction and raised his hands to indicate he meant no harm.
“I was going to escort her back to the elevators, that’s all.” Lorcan measured his words. “Then she goes and tells me this incredible bit of fiction. You are aware she thinks my son is behind all this. Ah, yes, you do.” His face drained. “I’ll just go, then. You’re here now.” He backed farther into the shadows.
“Wait.” John took a step forward, grabbed me firmly by an arm and rudely pushed me to one side, out of the way.
“No, I have to go.” Lorcan turned, then stopped. “Water,” he said as if remembering something, cocking his head to the water fountain. “Turn on the sprinklers. It reacts with the material. I only found out a moment ago.” He touched his silvery-gray suit, then disappeared into the shadows.
John made to follow, stopped, then cut me the most evil look he’d ever given me. I swallowed and looked down.
“Sorry,” I said.
I got a hand wrapped around my neck for the second time in a matter of minutes. This time, though, it was from the back. He pulled me close to him, his mouth pressed to my ear. I expected a barrage of death threats and bodily harm. What I got instead was a grating sigh of relief and an audible swallow.
“You will be the death of me, you know that,” he whispered hoarsely. “I heard what you told him. I thought he was going to kill you. Did he hurt you?”
I pulled away, confused. “You were here all this time? How did you get here so fast?”
He smiled weakly. “I put the call on hold. You didn’t think I’d sign off and break contact before I found you, you silly girl?” He tugged me around the fountain. “Come, let’s get you out of here. With me,” he added quickly as I resisted. “I won’t send you back down there. I see it’s pointless to do so.”
A wide grin spread across my face as we rounded the fountain, hand in hand. Sticking close to the walls, we slipped through another archway that took us along a cobbled path. More people, sporadically now, ran by carrying personal belongings, heading toward the elevators. We reached the end of the walkway and turned right, into a quiet and dimly-lit alleyway. I held John’s hand tight and followed as we briskly took many twists and turns, up and down short flights of steps, under low arches and over elevated inclines. We took narrow passages between buildings that required us to edge sideways to get through, and through dark doorways smelling of mold to more anemic passages. He knew exactly where he was going, not stopping once to consult any landmark or sign.
At last we came out through a low wooden door. It opened out onto a small, garden-like enclosure connecting to a wide gazebo of sorts. We were outside the ministerial cabinet offices, a massive super-structure that backed into the side of the mountain. The slate gray building was surrounded by lush gardens, and boasted a huge portico-like main entrance with a wide length of dark marble steps. In the middle of the cobbled plaza before it, a large water fountain spouted lavishly.
We jogged down a pathway, up some broad steps, and down a marbled walkway. Three wide doors greeted us. We took the leftmost, and entered a reception hall, where an automated guard stood sentry; it blinked green, and sliding doors to its right opened up. We entered the elevator, which took us sideways and up, straight into a command post.
In the center of the room, people were hunched over a massive desk scattered with paper, personal units, mugs, holographic projections. Some appeared to be arguing. Others moved around the room, carrying personal units and other objects, jostling to get from one spot to the next. Large screens were mounted along the walls, presenting us with images of more chaos, people, and places—all flitting, merging, and scrolling together. The room looked like the bullpen in a media house in the middle of a crisis. We walked to the end of the room, passing many who nodded and acknowledged us, and came to another room, smaller, and thankfully much quieter. Simon was there, standing before a cluster of individuals who were solemnly consulting a screen.
Simon’s head turned at our approach, and he gave me a bemused look. Excusing himself, he beckoned us to a quiet corner. “Glad to see you’re in one piece.” He directed this at me.
“Good to see you, too,” I replied with a smirk.
“Why do you like to give old John so much grief, eh?” Simon poured coffee into a mug, gave it to me, and got another for John.
It was almost two in the morning, and it felt like I’d been up for days. I drank it gratefully, and waited for the caffeine to take hold. John briefed Simon about my encounter with Lorcan, and the helpful information regarding the suits. Before ten minutes had passed, every water sprinkler in the Citadel was activated—save the rooms we were in. Simon chuckled, stating it had two purposes: it would flush out The Path, as well as put out any potential fires, considering the rate at which explosives were being used.
The sprinklers were left on for exactly seven minutes, and sure enough, clusters of humans popped up on the surveillance monitors everywhere. There were hundreds of them. The sight of them weakened my knees, and John swore, much to my amusement.
The majority were congregated in the basement levels of a cinema complex. They scattered like fleas. Others were spotted in the sub-levels; these were quickly neutralized, but not before they blew up one of the main elevators and some of the Secondary Sub-Level escape pods. People died. Lots of people.
We even found three in our midst. A young clerk, having discovered what we’d done, was caught transmitting an urgent message to warn his fellow Path members. Simon’s Elites, with the help of a dour-faced junior minister, tackled the young man before he detonated a small explosive.
The other two were the Minister of Taxes and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, who, on seeing the young clerk’s capture, tried to flee. Two of Simon’s men, and John, intervened before the ministers were able to draw weapons. I heard them screeching about the power of the new government and the end of totalitarian rule. John gave the foreign affairs minister a bloody nose to silence him. Meanwhile Simon glowered threateningly at everyone and bellowed at the top of his voice, daring out any other traitors. I thought he would have a stroke.
Chapter 50
For the next two hours, the Citadel’s military forces were engaged in a brutal battle to regain control. Even with heavy casualties, the majority of the civilian population in the Citadel was safely evacuated to the extraction points, where fleets of air shuttles transported them to safety. Military troops from neighboring countries assisted with both land and air engagements, meeting the hordes of invading troops that flanked the Citadel from all sides.
It was all-out war.
I heard the dull explosions and gunfire in the distance, drawing closer each time. And as with every good attack to overthrow a government, the Uni
ted Federation Council of The Path had taken over the media center, blaring their anti-Lancaster message across all media platforms. Attempts to take back the news center failed.
Simon didn’t seem too concerned. He said that at least no one else could get in. The perimeter and border towns were being maintained, and the entrance points were secure. He seemed confident that, in time, The Path’s numbers would dwindle enough for the Citadel troops to regain an advantage. In the meantime, people still died, and the prime concern was for their safety.
Several sections of the Citadel were under attack and being destroyed. The North sector suffered heavy damage to the weather facilities. The temperature controls and weather screens were knocked out, allowing swirls of snow and wind into the Citadel. In the western and southern sectors, where people normally congregated, major attacks were localized in the community courtyards and nearby areas. Entire sections of buildings were blown to bits, while fires gutted structures close by.
And from everywhere came the sounds of war.
By early dawn, they broke through to the cabinet offices. A massive explosion rocked the building, taking out the lower-level public entrances and parts of the visitors’ lounges. It was like someone had yanked my legs from beneath me. I gasped out curses and held onto a chair-back to steady myself. I vaguely heard Simon yelling to John, “Tunnels!”
John grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, literally, and tugged me out through a side door. We emerged in a quiet corridor, where he pointed at a large door across from us.
“Take that door,” he said quickly. “Go straight to the other side of the Assembly Hall. Under Grandfather’s painting is a panel. Touch the side—in the middle, at the right. It’ll open. Go through and keep going. Don’t stop! Do you hear me?”
I nodded and grabbed his arm. “What about you?”
“I’ll be along. Go!” He’d already turned to join the others.
“Don’t you dare leave me alone out there!” I screeched back. “You better be along—quickly!”
“I will, I promise. Now will you just, for once, do as you’re told? Please!” John looked as if he were ready to cry, and gripped my arms. “Please.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat, but nodded. “Okay.” I pushed away with effort. “Okay,” and blindly fumbled for the doors.
“And you’d better be waiting for me,” John called out hoarsely.
I gave him a brave smile. “Don’t take too long, or I might do something stupid, like come back for your sorry ass.” Then I pushed through the doors.
The Assembly Hall was massive. It reminded me of the United Nations convention hall—but bigger, maybe. I couldn’t tell, since its sheer size made me dizzy. Aside from the wet and squishy thick carpets, it was quiet as a tomb. Above and below me, rows and rows of tiered seating wrapped around the entire room in a wide circle. Dotted around the sides, on the same level I’d entered, were doors and exits, annex rooms, booths, and signs to indicate lavatories, dining facilities, and media rooms. The higher seats towered over me, and beyond that, a domed ceiling of glass and metal. Dull gray light filtered through, suggesting full daylight was not far off.
Below, in the middle of the room, was a large open area with desks and tables, chairs and other odds and ends. A lone podium stood sentry on a platform, surrounded by neatly folded flags, banners, and other bits of miscellanea.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and get a proper sense of direction and dimension. I may as well have been a dust mote.
“Go straight to the other side of the Assembly Hall…” John had said.
Directly opposite were two huge portraits the size of billboards. The older must be the grandfather, I reasoned, squinting in the semi-darkness. Dane Lancaster’s dark glowering features, so like John’s, hung on the left, and Baird Lancaster, with a milder scowl, on the right.
But I saw no panel. A wide, curved table with chairs stood before the smooth wall that was directly beneath the portraits.
“Where the fuck is this panel?” I muttered. These days, “panel” could mean anything.
I descended the steps as quickly as I could. From behind came dull thuds, and pops of gunfire and explosives. I hesitated a moment and looked back, then continued on, pushing away a wave of anxiety and fear.
“He’ll be fine,” I told myself. However, the sound of my own voice did little to calm me.
Every bone in my body told me to go forward, yet my heart remained reluctant. I wanted to stay behind, do something to help. More dull crashes and pops, much closer now, but the door behind me remained closed.
“John will come.” I made a fist to bolster myself.
About five steps from the bottom, I caught a smudge of movement above me, to the left. Had a door opened? John? I crouched behind a row of seats and held my breath. Apart from the noises outside, there was nothing but silence. Was it just my imagination? Letting out a shaky breath, I pressed on, but took out the pulse gun for good measure. I held it low, close to my side, and pointed slightly outward, as Trudi had instructed. With the heel of the gun, I gently tapped my right pocket to make sure the krima was still there. The Snare Gun 3 was securely wedged in an ankle holster Aline had given me. Just the mere weight of the weapons about my person was comforting.
At the last step, I paused and took note of my surroundings, seeking out places to hide. The podium and platform were to my left; a good sprint would cover that in five seconds. Beside it, a table and some chairs; the table looked solid, and its legs were fat enough to hide behind. Tipping it over on its side might be better, but I imagined it must weigh a ton. To my right was another table, smaller and lighter, with a clutter of objects on top, then farther along, more chairs. The path directly before me was free, clear, and unprotected, and at least thirty to forty feet, maybe more. It meant I had to walk fast. Faster than light travel sounded better.
The back of my neck prickled with nerves, and a bad feeling slathered over me. I strained my ears, trying to filter out the noises from outside the Hall. Nothing. Taking a breath, I took the last step down and tentatively moved forward, keeping my eyes on the wide, curved table. My destination.
To reach the table, I had to go up another flight of steps. Cursing, I realized I could’ve circled around the hall instead of cutting across, and remained mostly hidden. But that would’ve taken too long. Quickening my steps, and feeling very exposed, I continued. Nearly there. Another ten steps should do it.
Something zinged and crackled past my right arm, pinged off a chair-back, and clattered to the floor. On instinct, I ducked left, bent my body forward and spread my left arm for balance like an overly-showy bow. Through the opening under my arm, I saw a human form running toward me. No, flying. My body-shield crackled; whatever was fired must’ve been deflected.
I came out of my forward bend in one fluid movement, right hand leading the way in an arc back up. I twisted my body right—pulse gun primed and ready. I fired.
Having never used a pulse gun before, the recoil jolted through my arm and jerked it up. Gasping in surprise, I staggered backward. The gun dropped out of my numb hand with a dull thud. My arm felt like I’d been using a power drill all day. The shot went wild and my masked assailant, dressed in a dull gray leotard-like outfit, froze momentarily before dropping to a low crouch. As quickly as he’d dropped down, he leapt straight at me.
With no time to retrieve the gun, I met my attacker head-on. At the last possible moment, when contact was imminent, I dropped to a crouch and immediately sprang up with all the strength my legs would give me—shoulders bunched and squared, chin tucked to my chest—and rammed the man in his mid-section. Shooting my arms out and upward, I mustered all the force I could and flung him over my head. It was something close to a football tackle, I hoped. Having never done it before, his momentum pulled me backward and I collapsed right along with him.
He was winded, but not down. We scrambled on the floor in a jumble of limbs, wrestling and twisting, lashing out and grabbing. I ki
cked at his inner thigh; he grunted and fell onto his side. I kicked again and caught him in the shoulder, then pounced up and straddled him, using both hands to dig my thumbs into the soft spot over his collarbone. I heaved him up by the neck and thudded him to the floor. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed my hair, jerking my head back. Sharp pain made me yelp, and one hand flew up in an attempt to pry his out of my hair; my other hand blindly lashed out—it hit something with a thud; I heard a grunt. Twisting my head, regardless of the pain, I sank my teeth into the man’s arm. He growled in fury, but his hold slackened a little, enough for me to rip his hand away by the thumb—I twisted it, heard him cry out. He struck out with his free hand, catching me full in the face. I reeled back, toppled off, and rolled over my shoulders.
My world went topsy-turvy for a moment, my face ringing with pain. I groped frantically for my krima while on my back, dodging his punches and grabs. I finally gripped it firmly and felt better immediately. He grabbed my left foot, but I kicked out wildly. I curled into a ball and pushed over backward, rolled onto my hands and knees, and faced my attacker in a half-crouch, hugging the krima close to my chest. My other hand, out for balance, cheekily flipped him the bird.
The man was also on all fours, and with a shove, he went up like an arrow. Soaring up straight, he twisted in mid-air, intent on doling out a death kick to my head. I engaged the krima. The amber light shot out of both sides with a hiss. I ducked low, feeling the whoosh of air over my head as his foot swiped past. I sprang up swiftly and swung my krima up and out. It clipped the man on his right side. I heard the lethal laser sizzle through his clothes, and the stench of burning flesh filled my nostrils. He cried out in agony and staggered backward, curling to protect his wound. His masked head snapped in my direction in surprise. Not even stopping for a breath, I followed through on my momentum, spinning in a tight circle; I rose to my full height, raised my arm, and drove the krima’s laser straight into the side of his neck. It bore a hole clean through to the other side. The side of my hand sank into warm flesh; the heat of singed blood scorched me.