Eclipse the Flame

by Ingrid Seymour

  I point down the hall, the way I came. “Room 614,” I say. It’s a small office with a computer which should at least have solitaire on it.

  “Show me.” Lyra pushes me in that direction.

  “Why are—?”

  “Silence. Show me!”

  “Sheesh, okay.”

  When I reach the office’s closed door, I turn the knob, not knowing whether it will be locked or not. When it opens, I walk in the room and head confidently toward the desk. Lyra flicks the light on. I cover my eyes and groan.

  “Were you in here with the light off?” she asks.

  “Yeah, it’s 2 A.M.” I yawn and fire off the computer. When the screen lights up, I sit and blink at the monitor. I type “solitaire” in the search box. Two games show up, plain Solitaire and Spider Solitaire. “Which one do you like?” I ask, opening the second one without waiting for a response.

  I begin clicking and stacking cards on top of each other, acting as if Lyra has gone up in smoke. When she puts both furry hands on the desk and leans into me, I act startled and reluctantly look at her. I wait as she ponders what to say and seems to measure her words very carefully.

  “Whatever you are doing, you will get caught sooner or later.” Her nose twitches. She’s mad which makes her accent more pronounced and causes later to come out as latair.

  There are little dots on her cheeks, close to her mouth. I stare at them intently, pretending her words mean nothing to me, even as the echoes in my head ring loudly of the truth. She almost caught me tonight. I got lucky. I can’t risk leaving the building again—not until I find something that can help IgNiTe fight Elliot and his faction.

  I lift a finger toward her cheek. “Are those whiskers?” I ask, looking as fascinated as a child poking an ant pile.

  She slaps my hand away. “You better watch your back,” she says, then leaves the room without a backward glance.

  I mechanically play solitaire for twenty minutes, her warning writhing in my mind like an angry snake. I need to get this done, before Lyra’s whiskers get too long and she sticks them too far into my milk bowl.

  Chapter 42

  To my dismay, the next day I find myself under Lyra’s supervision.

  “Your vacation is over, petit fille,” she yells, yanking the cover off me.

  I look up, my head pounding from lack of sleep. It’s only 5:30 A.M., but she’s fully dressed and acting like a drill sergeant—nothing like the gentle kitten she appears to be.

  Moaning, I roll over and refuse to get up. But she isn’t taking no for an answer and gets me out of bed by putting a boot on my back and pushing me off.

  I land on the other side with a thud. “Hey, what’s the matter with you?”

  “You need to start earning your keep. Get up unless you want to deal with someone higher up than me.”

  I jump to my feet and give her a nasty glare. Mumbling foul curses, I get ready and follow her out the barracks. Everyone is up already. I guess I was lucky to be left to my own devices for a short while. Getting roped into their schemes was only a matter of time.

  After a quick breakfast of eggs for me and ten links of sausage for Lyra, she drags me to the service level and into a large room full of crates. Several people mill about moving boxes.

  “Unload those,” she orders, pointing at three large, wooden crates. “Crowbars are over there. Contents go against that wall.”

  She moves on to bark orders at some of the others. I look around trying to figure a way out of this, but several Eklyptors are watching me closely and Lyra throws mean glances in my direction every few seconds.

  Resigned, I get a crowbar and set to work on one of the crates. I wedge the metal tip under the wooden lid and put my weight on it. The top pops with a crack and a crunch. I peer inside. The crate is full of army green metal boxes. I pull one out. It’s much heavier than I expected. Yellow letters on the side spell the contents: 1000 CRTG 9MM.

  Fury clenches my stomach. My jaw grinds. This is the level of control they have over our armed forces. I turn and look at all the unopened crates behind me. There are hundreds of them—more than enough for an army.

  A wolfish man reaches inside a crate and pulls out a machine gun. Grinning from ear to ear, he admires the weapon, petting its side. As I seethe, imagining the muzzle inside his mouth, I sense Lyra watching me from the side. It takes all I’ve got to mold my expression of disgust to one of yearning. I stare at the machine gun longingly, full of envy. Flicking my gaze down to the box of ammunition in my hands, I try to convey a feeling of “and this is all I get?”

  Acid fills my throat, burning like hot coals. I feel vile, unsure whether all these traitorous performances will pay off. Who knew I had such thespian talents? I guess only time will tell if they’re worth a Tony.

  I begin lining the ammo boxes against the wall, while vomit keeps crawling up my esophagus. After only ten of them, I can’t take it anymore. I won’t sit here organizing the bullets they will use to exterminate us. I pull another box from the crate. The last one I intend to handle. I undo the latch on the side and take a bullet out. I stick it in my pocket and imagine I’ve saved one life.

  As I ponder what to do, three marching figures enter the room. A wet, hissing voice resounds through the storage area, issuing orders. I recognize it immediately. My mouth curls. If I vomit, I’ll be sure to aim for Tusks’s boots.

  I turn, the open box of ammo in my hands. One thousand cartridges, one thousand lives.

  More innocent blood.

  Spilled.

  With my help.

  My hands go limp as self-hate renders me useless. The box crashes to the floor with a loud clank, followed by the scattering of bullets as they skitter away like metallic bugs.

  Heads snap in my direction. I stare at the mess with a crazed smile on my face. “Pretty,” I mumble.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Tusks stomps in my direction, boots kicking bullets left and right.

  I don’t respond, just continue to gaze at the mess, mesmerized.

  “Hey! I asked you a question.” He takes me by the arm and shakes me. “What the hell are you doing here?” Saliva flies from his mouth and barely misses me.

  His tusks look bigger than the last time I saw him. I lean back, afraid he’ll poke my eye out. Still, I don’t respond, wanting only to spit on his grotesque face.

  “Look at the mess you made, you little shit.” He squeezes my arm so hard I feel my pulse beating in my bicep.

  “I brought her to help,” Lyra says from the back.

  Tusks doesn’t take his eyes off me to acknowledge her. “I don’t want you here. Get down and pick those up, then get the hell out of my face.” He pushes me down, trying to force me to my knees.

  I resist him and manage to stay on my feet.

  “Get down, I said!” he rumbles deep in his chest, a beast that somehow has gained the ability to speak. He slaps his massive hands on my shoulders and pushes me down until my legs give way and I fall.

  Pain shoots up my knees all the way to my groin. I clamp my lips together to stifle a cry.

  Tusks watches me, expectant. I clench my fists, refusing to follow his command.

  “Pick. Them. Up!” he repeats.

  “No,” I say, a resolute word, spoken with all the weight of hours, days, weeks of anger and impotence.

  “What?”

  “I said no,” I repeat. “You pick them up, fork face!”

  A few onlookers snicker. Tusks’s face goes red. Spit flies out of his horrid mouth as he bellows. “I’ll teach you to obey me, you worthless rat.”

  Fast for such a large creature, he pulls one foot back and unleashes a vicious kick to my side. The steel toe of his military boot drives into my ribs, making pain blossom like a giant flower. I fall to my side, limp, and barely manage to cover my face as he unleashes kick after kick and paints my world with bright red pain. As I curl into a ball, he batters my shins and forearms until he decides stomping me like a cockroach is a bette
r option.

  The heel of his boots digs into my kidney. I bend backward in pain, the protection of my hands involuntarily falling away from my face. I reel from the pain on my back, then wince as I realize my mistake.

  A hammer-like blow lands on my temple. The room spins. Scattered bullets shine in my vision, slowly going black. Muffled jeers from the onlookers ring in my ears.

  “Take this piece of garbage out of here,” Tusks orders.

  Someone grabs my arms and hauls me to my feet. The world feels like a spinning top even as they dump me on my bed.

  Chapter 43

  Onyx presses a bag of frozen peas to my head. “He’s a beast. I can’t wait until somebody hangs his ass from those hideous tusks.” She flutters around my bed, fussing with my covers. She wears a tight-fitting mini dress. Well-toned arms poke through the spaghetti straps. Her shoulders are wider than her hips, but her upper lip seems to show less of her usual five o’clock shadow. Her morphing efforts seem to be paying off. Nothing but mosquito bites in the boob department, though. She’s worse than me.

  My head pounds with every one of her flustered words.

  Lyra glares at me from her bed. “A little extreme, no? Taking a beating to get out of work.”

  I would say something, but since it’d be a waste of time and it’d make my head pound harder, I keep my mouth shut.

  “If it’s work she needs, why send her with Rooter?” Onyx asks. “She could help me in the kitchen with something.”

  Rooter? I guess that’s Tusks’s name.

  “Rooter root Rooter. Rooting for truffles. Oink, oink,” I say, even as my head pounds like a giant’s heart.

  Onyx laughs and even Lyra can’t hide the crooked smile that comes to her lips.

  “You have a death wish, Azrael. Do not think I’ll forget.” Lyra points at one of her eyes, then at me. When I give her a blank face, she stands and leaves the barracks, looking disgusted.

  “What is her problem?” Onyx asks, without really expecting an answer. “Are you comfortable?” She accommodates my pillow for the third time.

  “Yes, thank you.” It feels strange to be grateful to this Eklyptor, but I am. She must be an aberration. Maybe that’s how it works with them. They’re naturally evil, and when “something goes wrong” they turn decent.

  She sits by the side of the bed with a sigh. “I don’t understand why everyone has to act like a savage. At the least, they should reserve the violence for the humans.”

  My hand turns into a fist under the covers. There goes whatever gratefulness I was feeling toward her.

  “I’m glad Elliot isn’t like that,” she adds, pulling an emery board from her back pocket and getting to work on her fingernails.

  “What is he like? I mean, I’ve only seen him a few times.” I try to sound like it’s all the same to me if she tells me or not, but I’m very curious.

  “Oh, he’s an English gentleman. I wish I’d gotten a host like that—a woman, mind you. A Hollywood star or a princess would have been wonderful. Think of that. Anyway, Elliot Whitehouse was a young aristocrat. His parents were extremely rich. He was attending Eton when he was infected. Talk about a powerful Eklyptor from the beginning. He kept the name. He was already somebody, so why mess with success.”

  She holds her hand against the overhead light, checks her progress, then attacks her thumbnail with the file. “He went on to Cambridge from there, recruited a select few and started making friends in very high circles.”

  Making friends? Nice euphemism for injecting parasites up people’s spines.

  “He knew what he wanted from the beginning and accomplished it in a very classy way, don’t you think?” Onyx turns away from her nails and looks at me.

  I feel like puking all over the sheets but, instead, I say, “Classy? Pfft. I’m all for handing my enemies their ass.”

  She scoffs and stands. “Of course. That’s why you’re in bed with a bag of peas on your head. Well, gotta go. I’ll bring you something to eat later, just take it easy.” She smiles, winks, and then leaves. I wish I could lie here to nurse my pounding head, but there’s no time for that. Not with Lyra breathing down my neck. Not when getting even is all that matters.

  I hobble to my small desk, angle the computer monitor toward the wall and get to work. I pick up where I left off, poking and prodding around that too-secure file server. Whoever set up the stupid thing knew a thing or two. They have actually configured security, for one—it’s ludicrous how many servers out there use stupid passwords like “password123” for their admin accounts—and the firewall is tight, rejecting everything I’ve thrown at it so far. My fingers itch as one attempt after another fails to crack the damn thing open.

  Something desperate builds inside of me and I feel like a water balloon, filling and filling and filling until my outer walls are thin and ready to tear open. I have to find something. I have to make a difference and prove to IgNiTe that I’m still Marci. Because if I don’t … if I don’t …

  I shudder just to think of the possibilities, of dying in this place—or worse, of living in it surrounded by monsters, questioning my own humanity day in and day out until it doesn’t seem worth it anymore and I decide that holding on is just denial, like a frog stuck in a snake’s throat, still dreaming of hopping out.

  My hands move from the keyboard to my forehead, trying to squeeze out my headache. As another idea occurs to me, I type a few commands to try yet another technique. I bite my knuckles as my options run out. What if I can’t break in? What if I fail and lose what little is left?

  I wait.

  After several long minutes, my program comes back.

  No luck.

  My eyes sting. Failing hurts. I fight the urge to fling the monitor across the room, to trash the entire place.

  Something flashes on my screen. I look up and my heart skips a beat.

  $DR. V> Still you?

  Something warm spreads slowly from the center of my chest to the rest of my body, a feeling of familiarity, of home. I smile, even if this longing feels like a knife to my throat.

  $Warrior> “Dr. V”? Really? What happened to Specter?

  I choose banter over the need to ask for help, for acceptance.

  $DR. V> I’ve been awarded a PhD

  $Warrior> By whom?

  $DR. V> Myself

  $Warrior> In that case, I’m an astronaut and I’m out of here on the next space shuttle. Can’t be any worse out there.

  $DR. V> I figured why not? M.I.T. isn’t a viable career plan anymore. I have double dibs anyhow

  $Warrior> How so?

  $DR. V> Anyone with superpowers is entitled to use “Doctor” in their superhero name

  $Warrior> You’re a TOTAL geek, Dr. Varone

  $DR. V> Oh no. That’s not it. But you may call me Dr. Volt, if you dislike the abbreviation

  $Warrior> scratch “TOTAL” … insert “ABSOLUTE”

  I’m smiling, a wide grin that I wouldn’t have thought possible anymore. It’s weird how many things it used to take to make me feel content and how, now, all it takes is a little attention from someone who understands exactly what I’m going through.

  $DR. V> Hanging in there? Got to that server yet?

  $Warrior> No

  $DR. V> Can I help?

  $Warrior> I don’t think so. It’s tight. I’ve tried everything

  $Dr. V> That sucks!

  He doesn’t ask me what I’ve tried, showing professional respect for the first time since we met. No taunts. No insults to my intelligence. I feel grateful for this implicit trust, especially since it has arrived when I need it most.

  $Dr. V> Wait a sec

  Throwing glances over my shoulder, I tap the edge of my keyboard and wait. I take a deep breath and wince as my ribs smart. I run my finger over a tender spot on my side, willing it to heal even faster than normal.

  After a moment, Aydan begins to type again.

  $Dr. V> The building schematics show the network configuration. You can track
the server and hit it directly, if it’s safe

  You stupid Marci. How did you forget about the schematics?

  I thought that finding the physical location of the server would be a waste of time in such a large building, but with access to the damn schematics it’s a different story.

  $Warrior> I’m an idiot. I forgot about the schematics

  $Dr. V> What is the name of the server?

  $Warrior> SEA-SF1006

  $Dr. V> Okay, if this is accurate, that particular server should be on the 10th floor, room 1006. Could you get to it?

  Shit! Not Elliot’s office.

  Chapter 44

  I’m crawling through the ducts again, trying not to sneeze. The tenth floor is always guarded and not by the same over-confident jerks they keep elsewhere. Elliot’s personal guards know what they’re doing. I’ve already climbed up the shaft to his floor and, now, I’m trying to move away from the elevator area as quickly as I can. I don’t know if the twin dwarfs are still guarding the floor, but I’m not taking any chances at being heard or sensed.

  The ducts grow narrow, and I’m forced to slither like a snake. When I reach the vent in Elliot’s office, I rest for a moment, eyes closed, breaths slow and deep. I listen and wait. Nothing. Good.

  I get to work on the vent’s screws with a pair of pliers. Through the slats, the room beyond is dark, empty, just as I expected. I don’t know Elliot’s schedule, but I figured he wouldn’t be here at dinner time. Besides, with Lyra watching my every move at bedtime, I didn’t want to risk coming here in the middle of the night. She’s at the mess hall right now and should be there for at least thirty minutes. She thinks I’m in bed still recovering from Tusks’s beating, so I need to hurry.

  The screws are tricky. I have to get them out backwards, so it’s lucky I can see their pointy ends. I work methodically, paying attention to every turn of my wrist. I can’t rush this. My every move has to be planned, purposeful. Any small mistake could get me killed.

  The first screw falls with a small clink on the other side. I curse inwardly. I pushed the screw too far out. In a place where there are beasts with enhanced senses, even the tiniest sound can give me away. I sniff myself for the fifth time, worried about someone catching my scent. In spite of the sweat caused by the exertion, I still smell fine, at least to my perfectly human nose. Hopefully, there aren’t any bloodhounds around.