by K. T. Hanna
“As long as they’re there, as long as they have the ability to free something like the Damascus, to sic them on us—as long as that possibility exists, none of us can ever stop looking over our shoulder, can we?”
Mathur nods.
“Well, then, guess there’s nothing to lose is there.” But one glance at the training room lets her know there’s no way she can phase in the tiny dojo space. “I’ll need the corridor. This is too confined.” There’s a nervous flutter in her stomach. She’s not sure if it’s excitement or if she wants to throw up. Perhaps hoping it’s the former will make it so.
The corridor is long and wraps around the outer layer of rooms. Sai cracks her neck and wonders just how much of her reserve energy she’s going to drain. She hops from foot to foot, allowing a little air between herself and the floor. Despite her misgivings from trying to run, her legs feel like they’re faster—like she could fly. It might not be the best idea to keep in her head while trying to phase.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s okay if you rest overnight,” Jeffries says, startling her a little. There’s a pinch in his brow.
“I’m fine,” she says, willing the words to be true.
Her doctor raises his eyebrow. “Well, if you insist. Ready?”
Sai nods, not wanting to break her concentration. She glances up, checking that the corridor is empty, and starts counting down from three in her head, just like she figured out with Bastian.
Three.
All clear up ahead. Doesn’t seem like anyone will get in the way.
Two.
The wall curves slightly to the right. She’ll need to adjust for that.
One.
Feet feel ready. Legs seem to be working.
“Go,” she whispers, jumping into the first step.
The bounce is higher than she’s used to, so she uses that first step to adjust to her new parameters. The second step is a good solid base, but as soon as she shifts herself into that instant of phase, Sai knows something is wrong. The momentum off that foot propels her forward faster than anticipated, and her balance is immediately precarious. With her speed as fast as it is, she panics, and her concentration drops, flinging her out of the phase so fast she crashes to the floor with a sickening pop as her shoulder takes the full impact from her adrium-weighted body. A scream tears from her throat as she rolls to a stop, and she clenches her teeth to make sure she doesn’t cry. It wouldn’t do to cry where everyone can see her.
Mathur and Jeffries rush over to her. The older man frowns. “I am sorry. I should not have pushed you.”
Sai would speak if she could, but her arm is on fire, as if it’s been wrenched completely out of its socket, which it probably has. She knows if she opens her eyes she’ll see the entire corridor spin. “It shouldn’t have been that fast.” Her voice shakes, and she distantly realizes her body is in shock.
“Sai...” Dom’s voice lulls her even though she’s not sure where he came from. He scoops her against him, just like he has before. She almost feels the heat of the glare he gives Mathur. “Sometimes you’re an idiot, old man. Has she even adjusted yet?”
The blur next to her shakes his head, and she feels a strange rumble run through Dom, like a growl. They’ll probably be talking about her later while she’s getting fixed up.
“It’s dislocated, isn’t it?” Her voice sounds sluggish, even to her, and she cringes at the sound of it.
“Don’t stir.” He almost sounds like the old Dom, the one who pulled the arrow out of her wound, helped her fake her own death, and made her laugh more than once. It’s a nice dream.
“Shh,” he admonishes. “Stop thinking so loudly.” His voice sounds stiff, as if her memories pain him, and so she shushes. This close to him, she knows he’s already hurting enough.
The bed isn’t as comfortable as Dom’s hold on her was, but it’s more solid, better for her shoulder and far, far easier to sink her head into.
That comfort is gone as Jeffries slams her shoulder back home. She feels it pop into place in a blaze of pain that shoots through her body.
“Damn it,” she hears him say. “Mathur, next time you think doing something is a good idea, just don’t. Heal her shoulder up. She’s too out of it to do it herself. No more phasing for a few days. Regulate her to normal training.”
Unable to focus any longer, Sai passes out.
Sai sits down gingerly in the instructor chair in one of the larger dojos. Supervising how to reinforce one’s fighting style with one’s gift isn’t something she likes to do or even feels she has a penchant for, but apparently others feel different.
Aishke and Iria sidle up to her, grins on their faces. Iria pokes her gently on the mostly healed arm. “Heard you made Mathur regret getting you to phase.”
Sai glances up at them and shrugs, still a little tired. “Not quite. I phased, realized something went wrong, panicked, fell out of it, and dislocated and broke my shoulder. Which is currently healing nicely and should be ‘right as rain’ in a few days.” She pauses for a moment, thinking about the odd phrase Mathur use as he finished aiding her healing. “How on earth is rain right?”
“What?” Iria laughs. “Sometimes you’re too random. Are you our instructor for the day? You know you’re our favorite. You haven’t taught for weeks. We’ve missed you.”
Sai holds up her good hand. “What do you think I’m sitting here for—enjoyment? I want to see what you’ve taught yourselves and see if there’s anything I might be able to do to help you along the way. You know, like, tips I can give if I can remember how to fight without partially killing myself.” She grins at them. “Now, shoo, go line up.”
The girls laugh and run over to the other six people who are filtering into the room. Sai remains seated and is about to speak when a movement catches her eye, but when she looks at the door, no one is there. Frowning, she shakes her head. Maybe she has a minor concussion, too?
“Anyway...” She turns her attention back to the small class. “Spar.”
Sai shuts herself into the mindset she remembers from the training facility: find the flaws in your classmates’ stances and abilities or be the one who gets the crap beaten out of you.
Dom closes the door behind him and waits for Mathur to finish dithering around. He crosses his arms and glares as the old man takes far longer than he should.
“I do not feel like a lecture from you. It is odd and I would prefer not to.” Mathur sits down and looks up at his creation rebelliously.
“I don’t care if you want it or not. What the hell were you thinking?” His tone is quiet, even if his words show anger. “Had you forgotten about your problems with your own leg? And it doesn’t even connect synaptically. She needs balance first.”
“She had balance. She was jogging.”
“If Jeffries’s notes are correct, she was barely doing more than a fast walk. Let her learn to run before she can fly. She needs to balance her top with her bottom where speed is concerned. Her legs will always outpace the rest of her. She needs to make sure they’re truly carrying her and not leaving some of her behind.
“I almost killed her, and you almost got her stuck phasing through a wall. I’ve seen it happen before—embedded in a wall with no way to phase out. Not anyone’s choice of death.”
“You are a little concerned?” Mathur teases, sipping his tea.
“Yes, I am, but I’m not sure about you.” Dom deliberately ignores Mathur’s true meaning. “Don’t gamble with her life.”
“I was gambling that she knew her abilities. You brought the news yourself, Dom. We do not have this sort of time. Can you not see that Sai is a vital part of this force? She will not kick-start herself.”
Mathur isn’t always jovial man he presents to everyone. He does so much for the greater good, no matter the cost, and Dom isn’t sure he likes it when his father gets all fervent.
“I understand she’s important. I also realize that if you push her to an extent where it endangers her, t
hen she will lose that vitality. Balance the two, Father. Just like she has to learn to balance what she’s becoming.” Dom looks down at his hands as a sudden wave of sadness—that same uselessness, that same rising need to make someone pay—trickles up his spine and spreads throughout his thoughts.
He takes a deep breath, revitalizing himself with the oxygen he technically doesn’t always need. It drowns out the tug at his consciousness, momentarily. “How are the grafts? Will they hold, or will she go into synaptic overload?” The words he speaks are soft. He’s almost afraid to say them out loud.
Mathur shrugs. “So far, so good. Her first attempt at phasing does not seem to have damaged the connections in anyway.”
Dom sighs with relief, the uneasiness abating somewhat. “Good.” He checks his time and shrugs. “I have to be off.”
“Dom.” Mathur stands to get his attention. “Are you going to talk her through these things?”
Dom shakes his head. “There’s no need. She understands what happened. I’ve expressed my apologies to her numerous times. I don’t believe there’s a way for a human to get over something like this. I’m not even sure I could.”
Mathur doesn’t seem content with his answer. The man’s brows pinch together in a way that make it seem like he has only one. “But she will need you to sit with her a while, to talk things over after she has had time to accept it. You realize this, do you not?”
“I’m not sure time will help anything. There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do.”
Mathur drops his hands to his sides, as his expression sags. “You can do so much more, Dom. You are so much more than you were ever intended to be.”
Dom shakes his head. “I am what I am, and what I did was screw up and lose one of the only people who has ever treated me like I was more. But...” He pauses to make sure he has the phrasing just right. “I’m not going to let her get hurt. As long as I can prevent it, she’ll be safe, and I mean that. Don’t let her get hurt, Mathur. There are some things I simply refuse to forgive.”
Mathur locks eyes with Dom. “Understood.”
“I really hope you do.”
Mathur looks away first. “Sai wants you to check with Bastian about the violent part of his gift and if he has any recommendations for Aishke.”
“Aishke is a harmer?” Dom raises an eyebrow, thoughts whirring through his mind. “Are we sure?”
“As much harmer as Sai is healer.”
“I will ask him,” is all Dom says, on his way out of the room.
He makes his way to the dock at the rear of the Mobile, hoping to find enough space to store Mele once he reclaims her. It’s not like anyone else can pilot her correctly, so it’s not really stealing. Her full range of capabilities require an adrium-infused humanoid sentience to interface with. Without Dom at the helm, she’s just an oddly constructed transport.
The apartment he commandeered on his last visit is still there, rats and all. Nothing feels like home, though, not that he thought it would. Dom decides to rest for a bit, to gather his thoughts. The people in the apartment next to him have their music playing loud, and the staccato beat suits his mood far more than the slightly melodic drawl in his ears. Both provide enough distraction from whatever it is that bangs against the thin concrete wall separating them. He doesn’t think the buildings were meant for privacy, just for mass production. Maybe this is what Sai grew up experiencing. If it is, it’s surprising there was any sanity left in her at all.
His already dark mood doesn’t get better when the couple stop their rocking and start their yelling. A child cries, an infant from the sound of it. Dom decides his apartment isn’t really his, anyway, and never coming back is the best option.
The night air is surprisingly chill. The more he utilizes the innate abilities of the adrium components in his body, the easier it becomes. Blending in and out is merely a thought now. There’s a sense of chagrin at the fact he’d somehow forgotten the extent of his true purpose for so long. That slow shadow of darkness suffuses his thoughts again, and this time he knows they’ve taken a darker turn. He leaves it be, to dwell and manifest. Last time gave him a thrill he wants to experience again. After all, now that he’s aware of how it’s coaxing him, how it’s eating at him, isn’t he one step ahead of the game?
There are no people out on the streets, no transports hovering on the perimeters. It’s like the whole city is on lockdown. Except it’s deceptive. He can hear the hushed voices behind closed doors if he listens close enough, and if he really tried, he could smell their fear. Not even the nets can completely overpower news of the impending release of the Damascus.
Arriving at the same grate he used last time, he times it well and lets it close with a softer clang. It’s the wrong time of day to test out his theory on Selwyn, but it’s a great time to scout and test some fail-safes to keep the parasite at bay. Regardless of the bloodthirstiness that makes his spine tingle, letting it control him cannot be an option. It’s too easy to slip into that cool and calculating thought process. It’s such an intertwined part of him as it whispers through his hearing centers that he’s not entirely sure it hasn’t always been building to this.
And what is this? He shakes his head as he navigates past some fallen rubble before heading up slightly crumbling stairs to get to the other end of the facility, the end where no one goes. Only the darkness for company—and the thoughts, the sibilant whisperings of his ever-present companion. If only the music would drown it out.
But it doesn’t, and the unspoken name lingers in his head, drenches in hues of death. Selwyn.
And as if focusing on it encouraged it, the sound echoes through his skull. Selwyn.
The calm grips him, like a padded vice around his temples. It lulls and reasons, and by the time Dom has to navigate through the upper reaches of Central, his visit has one purpose. Selwyn needs to die. Not just for revenge, not just because he mis-engineered all of Dom’s brethren, but because in the position the man is in now, he will invariably do more harm than good. In the end, stopping him sooner not only assuages the voice permeating his being, but it breaks the current cycle.
Selwyn.
Dom counts in his head and blends against the concrete walls, reflecting himself as a part of the marble floors as he navigates his way to Bastian’s rooms. At one point a security contingent pauses, looking around with brows scrunched. He sends out a tiny tendril of doubt about what they thought they’d heard to help move them on their way and makes a note to himself to shut down his internal psionics. For some, thoughts are like whispers on the wind.
Selwyn.
By the time Dom reaches the doors to Bastian’s rooms, he’s barely aware. The need to throttle Selwyn, to feed off the ebbing electricity as his life drains, is too strong. He needs that surge of power so badly it’s overwhelming. Clenching down on it, he asserts his own memories, his own intelligence, and the whisper fades to such an extent that it’s no longer a guiding beacon. For now.
He readies himself, cricking his neck from side to side before knocking. The door swings open and Dom slips inside, waiting for it to close silently.
“You’re in a fine mood, aren’t you?” Bastian greets him half-way across the room.
Dom blinks and melds back into himself. “I’m in a great mood.” The words are strained, and that metallic clang that always accompanies his more severe extremes leaks into the tone.
“Sure you are.” Bastian studies him, biting his lip before walking to his desk. “How is it you can hear my thoughts?”
Dom shrugs. “Not sure. I can hear most anyone, even Sai. I just have to single out and shut down the intrusion of other thoughts into my headspace. Takes a bit of effort, but it’s easy after that.” He glances around, ignoring the questions he can practically see all over Bastian’s face. “I’m staying in your guest room,” he says and heads to it.
The name is back, just shy of complete coherence.
Selwyn.
“Of course you are...” he hears Bas
tian mutter under his breath. Or maybe it was in his head? Dom’s is starting to pound.
Dom turns back and leans against the walkway arch. “What’s with all the security? And why do the streets remind me of a ghost town? It wasn’t Davis’s death, was it?”
“It’s not all about you, Dom.” Bastian’s half-smile takes part of the sting out. “Riots have started.”
“Riots?”
“You know the Exiled recorded that little raid they did underneath Central. Well, now they’ve televised it.” Bastian pauses and Dom nods so he knows to go ahead, but there’s something else in those piercing eyes that Dom can’t quite decipher. Maybe they’re duller than usual?
“Someone, perhaps Garr or Mary, put the entire thing on disc. It’s been distributed around that it wasn’t just a joint dream everyone had, that it’s what happened and GNW’s trying to make you forget it.”
“The grid can’t take care of that?” Dom’s careful not to drop his gaze from Bastian’s eyes. They’re bugging him, but he can’t quite place it.
Bastian shakes his head and looks away. “It’s not built for that. It can suggest a calm, almost apathetic ignorance or acceptance, but it can’t wipe a person’s memory. Not at a distance.”
Dom laughs. It’s a hollow sound. “Deign?”
“Not even Deign can do that en masse...” Bastian’s voice trails off, and he finally sits down.
“The uprising begins.” Dom has to clench down on the sudden feeling of bloodthirsty glee that bounds through his brain at the thought of how much carnage might be possible in an all-out war between the GNW and the Exiled. He blinks again, trying to clear his head. His grip is slipping. He shouldn’t have come.
Bastian pinches the bridge of his nose. Dom waits, with some difficulty, for him to speak.
“People are pissed off. I like it, but there’s too much going on already. Deign put the vote up for the Damascus two days ago—it’s in full swing. If these people aren’t careful, the Damascus will identify them with the Exiled, and they have nowhere to run.”