Eclipse the Flame

by Ingrid Seymour

  Loneliness engulfs me. My short happy past can’t fight this horrible present.

  The future doesn’t look much better.

  Chapter 32

  I’m sitting up in bed, rubbing my eyes as I listen to the strangest Eklyptor I have ever met. Again. Like every morning for the past week since I got here.

  Ten minutes ago I was lying down, staring at the ceiling after another awful night of restless tossing and turning, when Onyx, whom I met on my second day here, walked up to the foot of my bed and started chattering.

  Now, she’s lying by my feet, reclined on one elbow, complaining about the fact that all her mutating efforts are spent on growing long hair and boobs. I stare in disbelief, unable to utter a single word. The last six days have been immensely informative, and I’ve gone from knowing nothing about Onyx, to knowing way too much.

  I get out of bed and, nodding vaguely as Onyx talks away, turn off the buzzing in my head. It’s a relief to be able to control that infernal noise, especially since I’m stuck here, and I don’t think I could survive this place otherwise. After I managed to tune Elliot out that first time, I practiced the skill until it became as easy as flipping off a switch. Now, if I could only figure out how to stop them from sensing me. That could be really useful.

  Sitting on the chair in front of my small desk, I wake the computer up, pull up “Space Invaders” and begin defending the Earth from alien enemies. On the next bed, Lyra grunts in irritation.

  Onyx ignores her and continues her rant. “It just isn’t fair,” she whines, a phrase that seems to come out of her mouth at least once an hour.

  My fingers flicker over the directional arrows of my keyboard as I absently play the old, arcade-style video game. It’s been seven days since the attack on IgNiTe’s headquarters, since this bizarre stay under Elliot’s roof began. No one has come for me, as I’d imagined they would. Not Elliot. Not Tusks. Not even Lyra who seems too busy to bother with a feeble-minded Eklyptor, though she still keeps a tight eye on me.

  It seems that, after I gave Elliot all the information I had and helped bring James’s operation to a catastrophic stop, I’ve become not only useless but also invisible. As long as I don’t try to leave the building that is, because all exits are well-guarded and only authorized personnel leave the premises. I tried. I didn’t get very far, even the elevators and emergency stairways are sealed off to anyone without a security card. Not being sensed would really come in handy to sneak around this place, but nothing I try makes the buzz-o-meter shut off both ways. Luckily, he’s also forgotten about turning me into a pincushion, interesting specimen or not.

  But being forgotten has suited me just fine. Because during this time, I haven’t been idle and I’ve learned all manner of things about Eklyptors and the Whitehouse faction.

  For instance, Onyx confirmed my suspicion that the faction has been operating from this location since way before The Takeover. She’s also talked to me about the situation beyond these walls: the ongoing fight between humans and Eklyptors. IgNiTe is fighting, standing their ground, even defeating Whitehouse’s man-hunting teams at times and sending the few survivors back with their tails between their legs. It’s damn good to hear.

  She also enlightened me about the fact that agents possess gender identities. They either perceive themselves as male or female. In her case, she was “unjustly deposited in a horrendous male body,” her words, so all her efforts are spent solely in changing her appearance and anatomy to that of a woman. It’ll take her years to be anatomically correct, but she’s determined.

  “I’m tired of shaving,” she says, running a hand over thick stubble. She normally has a discernible five o’clock shadow, even before noon.

  “Why not morph into a female of a species with less differences between genders?” I ask.

  “Sorry, but I’m not into that animalistic stuff—no offense to anyone, especially Lyra, she’s lovely—but I want to be a woman, smooth and curvaceous and glamorous.” She flicks her nonexistent long hair over one shoulder.

  The rumor is that Onyx is crazy. As crazy as me, according to conversations I’ve overheard in the mess hall and in the showers. That’s why I’ve befriended her and make her feel welcome whenever she wants to talk. It helps divert everyone’s attention away from me. No one wants to mess with the crazies. Being her friend has made me even more invisible and gives me plenty of opportunities to watch and listen, without raising suspicion.

  Onyx is nice, for an Eklyptor, anyhow. Nicer than the whole bunch put together. Plus she’s civilized, which is probably why the rest of these savages don’t like her. They tolerate her, though. She runs the kitchen and mess hall and does such a great job with the meals that no one dares upset her for fear of the food quality going down.

  It turns out, the man whose body Onyx occupies was a young chef at a five-star hotel. So with his knowledge, she keeps the kitchen working like a well-oiled machine and serves meals that make everyone happy. According to Onyx, her host was a fiend, one of those tyrant chefs who oppress their underlings and make their jobs a living hell. Judging by the permanent sneer on Onyx’s face—one she’s working very hard to erase—I can very well imagine the type of person he was. It doesn’t justify the fact that he was supplanted by a parasitic infection, but it’s somehow easier to swallow since the supplanter seems a harmless individual.

  “You’re so lucky,” Onyx says, continuing her rant. “I’m so jealous of your curves.”

  “Be patient, Onyx. Patient, patient,” I say without taking my eyes off the computer screen.

  “Easy for you to say.” She lets out a huge sigh. “Don’t you get tired of playing that game?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, nope, nope.”

  This game is my cover. When people are around, I play and play and play. It makes it look like it’s the only thing I do, like it’s just another crazy thing about me. And the more obsessive I appear about the little aliens on the screen, the less anyone pays attention to what I’m doing.

  There are thirty females in this barracks, most are tall, muscular, and mean-looking. I guess they weren’t handpicked for their delicate manners. For the most part, they look human, recently infected, but there are a few veterans, judging by the level of their deformities. There’s a tall Amazon creature with small, curling horns on the side of her head; a woman as wide as a barrel, with bony protuberances sticking out of her spine and poking through holes in her shirt; another one with a long, barbed tail; several with mismatched eyes or pointed teeth.

  A vet’s dream.

  So, when any of them are close, I have to be careful while at the computer. The rest of the time, the pretense ends and I have no time for games. I work tirelessly, then, hoping no one figures out what I’m up to. It’s been hard and nerve-racking, hiding my progress, sometimes running my programs in the background while I play this stupid game—just like I’m doing at the moment. Still, I’ve accomplished a lot in these past few days.

  The fact that I—Marci Guerrero, better known as Warrior in hacker circles—am allowed to have access to a computer is surprising. Or I should say: perfectly ironic. If Elliot only knew about my abilities, there’d be no way he’d let me near a keyboard, no matter how well I’ve played my part in deceiving him. I’m just fortunate Azrael never had a chance to mention anything about my expertise. I flinch at the thought, setting my mind in alert once more. I’m now more vigilant than ever. Paranoid, really. I’m determined this hideous, disgusting thing that lives inside of me will never come out into the world again.

  I make pow, pow sounds as I shoot at little pixelated figures. I tap the space key repeatedly, sending neon-colored death rays all over the screen. I’ve actually gotten pretty good at this. Beats watching hideous creatures that run around the barracks in all degrees of undress after they wake up and hurry to the showers. I only wish more of them were going for Onyx’s glamorous looks, but I’ve seen some weird stuff. Gratefully, the majority of them are on this side of human.

>   Onyx stretches out luxuriously. She’s wearing a miniskirt that shows three quarters of her long, muscular legs. She says she has a time shaving their coarse black hair and complains about nicks and cuts every morning.

  “I can’t wait until we get those human rebels under control.” She sighs.

  I’d like to curse at her so, to disguise my anger, I stare at the fingernails Doctor Sting tore out. New ones are growing already. After a moment, I say, “You know you start every other sentence with ‘I can’t wait until …’? Do you? Do you? Huh?”

  “Do you know you repeat yourself a lot?” She squints her smoky eyes at me.

  Every day her make-up skills seem to get better, all thanks to her avid perusal of YouTube videos. In spite of the chaos everywhere, the digital world keeps on ticking. It seems The Takeover motto—which I’ve heard several times since I arrived—has paid off for them.

  “The world as is. No less. And eventually more.”

  Once it’s all said and done, they don’t want a world in shambles. No, what they want is the world we humans built with all its modern comforts and technology. They just don’t want us in it. That’s why they meticulously took over everyone who knew anything about anything, even though it took them decades. Engineers, pilots, chemists, doctors, farmers, people who could keep things going. Of course, they also took over politicians, CEOs, generals, journalists, and other pretty useless individuals.

  I guess it also helps they’re not in any hurry to change our class system with its endless social injustices. If anything, they’re all for it and then some. Survival of the fittest is quite literal with them and their buzzing chain of command;, their swarm mentality as straight forward as the social arrangement inside a beehive. So the world goes on almost flawlessly—which for a hacker like me is a plus.

  An apocalypse without computers would really have cramped my style.

  “Die, die, die!” I exclaim, practically pressing my face to the computer monitor.

  “I mean, I’m not complaining,” Onyx says, her voice as whiny as any complainer I’ve ever heard. “I don’t mind taking care of Whitehouse’s personal army, but how much longer will this last? A month? A year? What do you think?”

  “Not that long,” I say. “Kill them all. Kill them all.” If she knew who I’m killing, she wouldn’t be smiling so big. Not in the least.

  A small light blinks at the bottom of my screen. My heart does a flip. My program is finished. I itch to find out if it worked. I throw a nasty glance in Onyx’s direction, wishing she’d leave.

  “Has Lyra found something for you to do yet?” She holds a hand up and examines her black tipped fingernails.

  “Nope. Nope. Been too busy to bother with me.”

  Not to mention that, when Lyra or anyone of rank is around, I act as crazy as a bat and try to make myself scarce. Out of sight, out of mind. So far it’s worked. They all have bigger fish to skewer. In their minds, my usefulness has expired.

  Oh, are they in for a surprise.

  “You could help in the kitchen,” she suggests.

  “Want me to lick all the spoons? I will. Like lollipops.” I make licking motions at an imaginary spoon.

  “Gross!” Onyx exclaims.

  It’s laughable the stuff she worries about when they have slobbering freaks like Tusks leaving trails of drool everywhere they go. Though all the members of her kitchen staff can keep their saliva throughput to a normal level; I’ll give her that.

  I hum something tuneless, hoping she’ll get bored and leave but, apparently, she’s on a roll.

  “I can’t wait until we get rid of all those Igniters. At least, we got rid of President Helms pretty quickly, that should make things move faster, don’t you think?”

  “Fast isn’t fast enough,” I mumble.

  “Being in this body is all wrong, but at least I’m glad I didn’t get stuck in one of those Fenders.” She shivers. “You poor thing. I can’t even imagine what you must have gone through stuck for so many years.”

  Fenders is what Eklyptors are calling Symbiots. Thanks to me and my weakness, they all know about the rare humans who are able to fend off their agents. Thanks to me, Symbiots are being hunted. Yet another shining item I can add to my list of accomplishments. Maybe, in the annals of history, I’ll go down like the person who singlehandedly caused humanity’s extinction, more despised than Judas Iscariot—if there are any humans left to despise me, that is.

  President Helms fought the shadows. It was through his State of the Union address that James finally got my attention when he was trying to recruit me. It feels like another lifetime. I wonder what has become of him. I don’t like any of my guesses.

  I shake my head, trying to dispel the rising guilt.

  “You okay, Azrael?” Onyx asks.

  “Just fine. Fine, fine.”

  She seems content with my answer. “I guess I should go.” She sighs. “Got to work on the menus for next week.” She gets up from the bed and jiggles, pulling her skirt down.

  “I want a flan, make me a flan,” I demand.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Eggs have been scarce. Do you have any idea how limited your recipe choices are without eggs? It’s ridiculous. I don’t know what they think I am. A magician?” She leaves mumbling to herself and waving her hands in the air.

  If eggs are the only food items that are scarce, The Takeover was way too effective. Food comes in every day without fail. Eklyptors have good control of the entire supply chain from the ground up: farming, packaging, distribution. They calculated their population’s needs to perfection and ensured they had their people in all the key places. That they miscalculated on eggs, lettuce, and Twinkies is a minor mistake. In the end, it’s all the leftover humans who will starve to death.

  I watch Onyx out of the corner of my eye. When she exits the barracks only three Eklyptors remain, all on beds closer to the door. Steadying my hand, I press ALT-TAB and switch screens.

  I grin.

  Chapter 33

  It took a week to build a safe haven inside of Elliot’s network, but I’ve done it.

  And not just that. I’ve found Aydan and he’s fine.

  My code is disguised, hidden and camouflaged, using all the tricks of the trade I know to make my hack undetectable. Maybe Elliot and his clan destroyed James’s servers and any means of communicating with IgNiTe that way, but the night Aydan came for me at the motel, he gave me another option: the computer in his car. He was using a hotspot and—even though he’s also used all the tricks of the trade to protect himself—I’ve found him. I truly have.

  My heart beats hard and fast. My hands shake, knowing that everything hinges on this moment. Will Aydan talk to me? Or will he want to strangle me like James did? A million explanations pile up inside my mind, all ways to justify to the crew what I did. They’re all excuses. Garbage.

  I stare at the screen for a moment. I know as soon as Aydan realizes I’ve tracked him down, he will disconnect. He won’t take any chances but neither will I. I’ve prepared a file. It’s small, just a simple text message that will take a split second to transmit. Even if he disconnects right away, he will get it and, hopefully, what I have written there will be enough to plant doubt in that thick brain of his. It’s a slim chance, but it’s all I’ve got.

  I pull up the small subroutine I wrote last night. It will connect to Aydan’s computer and immediately transmit my text file.

  Holding my breath, I lift a finger over the keyboard, then hit enter and say a prayer. My cursor blinks next to the word “CONNECTED” followed by an IP address.

  I’m petrified in the space between agonizing hope and fatal resignation. Three seconds pass. The connection is still active. Maybe he’s hesitating, torn with doubt. Another second. I straighten, staring at the blinking cursor as if it were a life raft.

  DISCONNECTED.

  I let out a pent-up breath. I slump on the chair, losing the strength I’d gained during that short instant. Fist clenched, I try to hang on to
what little hope is left. I knew this would happen. It’s exactly what I would have done in his place. That’s why I sent the file.

  Just take a deep breath and wait.

  He’s probably reading what I wrote right now, weighing all the options, trying to decide whether or not to believe me. At this instant, these are the words staring at him:

  Aydan:

  I know what you must be thinking as you read this message. I’ve put myself in your shoes and there’s only one logical conclusion you can reach. I’ve given you and the others all the evidence you need to think me lost to the agent, and I was. I lost the battle and, now, Oso is dead because of me. Because I wasn’t strong enough to stay in control.

  So, no. You shouldn’t trust me. Not even for a minute, because I’m weak and I couldn’t stop the agent when it mattered most. It took over me. They tortured me and I couldn’t hold it back. I tried to save Oso, but I was too late. His blood was on my hands when I came to. His blood will always be on my hands.

  Tell everyone I’m sorry.

  Tell everyone I want to make it all right. I want to help, if they’ll let me.

  I managed to convince Elliot I’m still an Eklyptor. I’m on the inside, on his network. I’ve found all kinds of valuable information that should help us fight him.

  Please, I’m willing to do anything to prove myself. Please, let me fight.

  Let me take revenge.

  Marci.

  An hour passes with me staring numbly at the computer. The letters on the screen have stopped making sense. I only know they spell “the end”.

  I think of all the ways I could have died in the last two weeks, both at the hands of my enemies and friends. What good did it do for me to survive? At night, I curl up in my bed and cry silent tears. I lost Xave. I lost my brother, my only friends, my only parent.

  I miss Dad more than ever—his firm, reassuring love. He made me feel safe even from the shadows and the terror they viciously unleashed into my five-year-old mind. When they attacked me, he always held me tight, stroked my hair and trained me to breathe and think of other things. He stayed with me until the shock passed, then reassured me he would figure out what was wrong with me. He was a doctor. He could have done it. I never doubted him, not even for a moment. He’d just started looking into it, running tests and asking questions to his colleagues, then he died.