by Dan Krokos
He notices me studying him. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes unfocus when he listens to a voice I can’t hear. “Affirmative,” he says. Then, to me, “Head to the infirmary, the one on level ninety. They want to take a download from you to see the attackers.”
I don’t think so. That would end things really fast. “I didn’t see them at all. They jumped me and I couldn’t see well after they broke my nose.” My nose is swollen enough to look broken, complete with dried blood.
“Then how did you know they were Peters?”
“I just knew.”
He sighs. “Please go. Don’t make this difficult for me.”
At least I’m going inside the Tower. I start to walk down the path, metal ringing softly under my feet. I feel the Noah’s eyes on my spine. Behind the Rose Tower, a sleek helicopter rises above the building and banks away from me.
The walkway peels off from the golden building and becomes a long open bridge to the Rose Tower. My pulse rises the closer I get.
The circumference of the Rose Tower has to be longer than a half mile; this close, it fills my vision, too big to see all at once. The rose-colored metal is dull, not brilliant like the towers surrounding me. I approach the wall and look over my shoulder—the Noah is still watching me from the other end of the bridge.
“Open it!” he calls.
There’s nothing to open, so I do what Olivia did. I put my hand on the wall and think Open in my mind, in case I’m supposed to, and the wall parts beneath my hand. When I look back, the Noah is gone. I step through into a small room with an elevator door and nothing else. It’s as though the room just appeared for me exactly where I needed it.
The door opens into a cylinder-shaped car. I step inside, and a smooth male voice says, “Level.”
“Ninety,” I reply.
My feet glue to the floor with two metallic thrums, which I appreciate, because one second later the car slips into free fall.
The infirmary is a large room two levels tall. It feels sterile and cold and uncomfortable, unnecessarily big. Beds line the walls, a few of them occupied with people I recognize but don’t know. Two Olives, a Miranda, four Rhyses, six Peters, one Noah. People like my friends, but probably totally unlike them at the same time. Most of them are in slender arm or leg casts that give off a pale glow, with wires trailing to what look like white plastic server towers. The towers project holographic images above each Rose, displaying vitals that are perfectly visible no matter where I stand.
A completely hairless man in a white lab coat approaches. He’s smiling at me warmly.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
He holds his arm up, presenting the back of his hand to me. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. When he gets close enough, I lightly touch the back of my hand to his, which he accepts.
“You’ve had a battle,” he says, leaning in and squinting. “Do you know who I am?”
I hesitate, which he probably mistakes for brain damage.
“I’m Dr. Delaney. You’re M-two-four-oh-seven?”
“I am.”
“Very good. The two thousands are a fine group. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Three Peters jumped me,” I say automatically.
He makes a noise of disapproval in his throat. “That rivalry needs to stop.” He takes my hand and leads me to an open bed, where I sit down and almost collapse. The bed is so soft it nearly swallows me.
“Now, I’d like to take a memory download from you for the next few days, just to see how things are tracking.”
My throat tightens. A download for the next few days sounds okay, but if he sees my memories leading up to this, even looks at them, my trip here will be over.
“I’ll take a full imprint too, if that’s all right.” He’s pressing buttons on the face of the white server tower next to my bed, but sees my face fall. “Don’t worry, I won’t look at them. Just a precaution. It’s good to have clean backups if damage is present.”
“Okay,” I say. Because how else can I respond? Even if I want to scream, NO, YOU CAN’T HAVE MY IDENTITY! the other Roses in the beds don’t seem to notice me, or care. If I had to fight Delaney on the full download, would they all attack?
Delaney shines a light into my eyes. “Now that is a broken nose,” he says.
Eyeless are killing people right now, I have no idea how I’m going to find the Torch and get home, and Dr. Delaney is treating me with kindness. I need hard and cold and evil right now if I’m going to stay sharp.
“Relax. This won’t hurt.” He shows me a strip of metal with a thick wire trailing from it. “Have you ever used this before?”
“No.” I remind myself he’s not here to hurt me, but to help. “What is it?”
“It’s better to show you,” he says, lifting the strip to my nose and pressing it to the skin. Something clicks in my nose—I guess it really was broken. The dried blood in my sinuses evaporates, and I can breathe again. The bruises and scrapes all over my body dwindle to nothing, leaving me in a warm glow. In a few seconds, I feel like a million bucks. Bone-tired, but without pain.
The strip of metal has turned rust-orange. “There, see? Not bad.” I still feel blood and sweat dried on my skin and hair, but that’s nothing a shower can’t fix. “You’ll find new armor in the showers. Toss that one.”
“Okay.” I slip off the bed, happy to be free. And actually grateful for his help.
“Wait one.” He comes over with a small disk the size of a quarter, stamped with the letter M. He turns me around by the shoulders, pulls aside my hair, and sticks the disk against the base of my skull before I realize what it’s for. The disk feels cool for a second, then melts to warmth, spreading into my brain. “Return that next week and we’ll have a look. You don’t have to take your shots while it’s on. However, if you feel ill tonight, come back and see me. If you still have memory problems, come back and see me. Got it?”
“Thanks, doctor.” So the disk will store my memories. All I have to do is not give it back and our secrets will stay safe.
“My pleasure, dear.” He turns away and moves to a different bed. I’m free.
The realization that I have no idea where to go settles on me like a lead dress. I walk to the elevator, feeling a little dizzy with the task before me. Finding the director is one thing; getting the Torch away from her—and surviving—is another. For all I know, she sleeps with it.
The elevator doors open, and a Rhys stands there. A Rhys with battered armor and a familiar smile. His eyes hold recognition.
I keep staring at him. It can’t be.…
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s me. Why has everyone been asking for my number? Like I’d want any of these assholes to call me.”
Despite the ongoing apocalypse, I almost burst into laughter. I manage to contain myself and step into the elevator. Dr. Delaney gives me a friendly wave from the bed of an Olivia. The doors shut, and we throw our arms around each other and hug so tight, the wounds Delaney healed begin to tingle.
“A complete dick move, Miranda.”
I pull back to look into his face. He’s trying to be stern, but I can tell he’s happy to see me. Under all that is a heavy dread, mostly around his eyes.
“How did you get here?”
“You know how long it’s been since I’ve done an endurance sprint? A long time.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“Level,” the elevator says.
“Auditorium,” Rhys replies.
The elevator ascends at a normal speed this time. I’m still holding his arms, like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I let go.
“Is he safe?” I say.
“I don’t know, to both.” He bites his lower lip. “We made it to the Verge and jumped through the Black, and…I ended up here. There’s a portal just outside. The pill you swallowed showed up on this.” He lifts the little tracking device and wiggles it.
Rhys doesn’t know.
; “What is it?” he says. “Thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“The Torch is broken. It broke when I killed Nina. The eyeless are free in our world.”
He frowns. “I see.”
“So we need to find the director, like now. Maybe together we can overpower her and take her Torch.”
“We’re heading in the right direction,” he says, eyes on the rising numbers. “I passed a few Roses talking about the auditorium. Something is going down. The director will be there. But it sounds like a lot of people will be there—you think a smash-and-grab is the right play?”
Before I can answer, the doors open, and I see exactly why we’re going to lose this war.
The auditorium is larger than anything in my universe. It takes up the entire circumference of the building and looks at least a quarter mile across. Three football fields, closer to four. The rows of seats are hundreds of concentric circles that slope down to the very center, like an ancient Greek theater. In the center a raised dais holds five chairs that resemble thrones more than anything. The whole cylinder-shaped room has to be ten stories tall, bigger than the biggest indoor stadium in my world.
And the auditorium is full.
Nearly every seat is occupied by a Rose in black scaled armor. Some of them are armored in gold scales, or silver. A few are the dusky red of old blood or fresh roses. They must be ranks. The majority are black, though, like us. We wear the armor of the lowest rank, I guess.
There have to be thousands of them, all seated in groups of five. Each team has a version of our Alpha team, all with individual lives and wants and needs and thoughts.
Rhys is silent beside me. When I finally glance at him, he closes his hanging jaw; there’s nothing to say.
In unison, everyone stands. A great cheer rises up, deafening, and some of the Roses stomp their armored feet. I feel the vibration in the scales of my suit, in my bones. I scan the crowd for the impetus—a row of five figures walks down one of the aisles to the dais, just close enough for me to tell who they are. They wave at the crowd. All five are dressed in gold scales, with flowing red capes. It’s another Alpha team, but they aren’t clones—it’s the Originals. Olivia is among them, walking in back with the Original Noah. Seeing her gives me a spark of hope that doesn’t last; she may claim to be helping me, but it doesn’t feel like it from all the way over here. And there’s not much more she can do for me.
I find the director leading the way, side by side with the Original Rhys.
Most importantly, the director isn’t carrying the Torch. I almost smile, but instead sigh with partial relief. We should go looking for it, but there’s no way I can leave, not yet. Rhys was right—something is going down.
“She doesn’t have it,” I tell Rhys.
“I can see that. Let’s wait a minute, yeah?”
They climb stairs behind the dais, move to their thrones, and wave to the Roses, who scream and cheer at them, whistling and clapping.
There are a few empty seats in the back row near us. I pull Rhys out of the shadows near the elevator, and we slip into the row. I’m behind an auburn-haired girl—me. Rhys stands behind a version of himself. Farther down the row is another team, but the Peter on the end doesn’t spare us a glance. We’re without a full team, but at least we’re less obvious as part of the group.
“Thank you,” the director says, her voice amplified to the entire room. Under the lights, her hair appears blond, not auburn. Not how I remember it from Mrs. North’s memory.
Eventually the Roses quiet and begin to sit down. The Originals take their seats together. The distance is too great to make out details, but they look just like us. Young, even though they’re impossibly old. Swap their golden armor with black and it would be impossible to tell they’re the ruling body of this world. That comforts me. It makes them like us. And if we can die, so can they.
“Thank you,” the director says again, stopping all chatter at once. Her voice booms through the auditorium, even though she keeps it soft. There is no echo, just this voice in my ears.
“You know why you are here,” she says. An auditorium-wide cheer explodes, and the director has to raise her hands for silence. “You know why you are here, and I thank you, your Mothers and Fathers thank you, for your patience.”
The entire curving wall of the auditorium is black.
Suddenly it changes to red.
Rhys slips his fingers around my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back.
Slowly, the red fades into a video of flames, and it’s not a wall now, but a screen. A massive wraparound screen, all 360 degrees, that shows cities burning, volcanoes exploding, massive waves hundreds of feet tall crashing onto land. I see versions of New York and Los Angeles. I see cities I don’t recognize, gleaming towers taller than anything I’ve seen yet. Entire cities made of glass, sparkling in the sun. Cities in hollowed-out mountains, entire villages cut into the sides of rocks. The camera pans and swoops, showing a hundred alien places. Worlds that have their own histories and people.
The director says, “For one thousand years, the eyeless have been our protectors. We’ve guided them through countless realms. Realms that would do True Earth harm. They have been tireless and efficient. But they will work alone no more.”
She waits. Nervous chatter ripples across the auditorium. One thousand years, she said.… It can’t be. The Roses are practically buzzing in their seats. “For as many years, the Roses have guarded this world from those who would destroy it from within. You have been as tireless as the eyeless. As time went on, and our enemies died, your function as protectors of this realm from internal threats became more ceremonial. In short, there are no more enemies to fight. Not here at home.”
The Original Peter cuts in, voice booming. “That’s what happens when the Roses are given a task. May I remind our lovely director that the Prime rebellion was crushed in four days.”
That gets laughter from some, hoots and cheering from many. A few nearby Peters slap one another on the chest, charged up from the praise of their Original. The dread in my stomach spreads. Our enemy is ancient and has succeeded against greater worlds. It was easier to know that when the visual proof wasn’t on a ten-story-tall screen.
“Yes,” the director says, smiling, “thank you for that, Peter. Let us never forget where we came from. Remember we were once like the enemy we now fight. Before us, there was chaos.”
Meanwhile, the images continue. They show the eyeless swarming into the cities of different worlds.
Rhys hasn’t let go of my hand. He gives it a squeeze and whispers in my ear, “I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s find the Torch.”
I look at the dais again. The Originals are weaponless, save for their bodies. I try to imagine them being alive for over a thousand years, and my brain can’t process it.
“We should check her office now,” he says, squeezing harder.
I feel rooted in place. Seeing all of this—us—rejoicing in the destruction of so many lives. Of so many worlds. For what?
For what?
Rhys almost stands up, but I clench my fingers around his hand. “Wait.” I don’t know why I want to see this. I think I have to. Maybe once the dread evaporates, it will leave strength behind.
The director continues. “Not all of you can join us in the fight against this new world. Some will need to remain here to guard the realm, at least for now, until we can rotate teams. So we will ask for volunteers to stay behind. You’ve all worked very hard for this day, and those who offer will be rewarded. We don’t want to have to choose.” She looks left and right at the others seated on the dais. I wish I were closer. I wish I could see their faces, the expressions they make. “We haven’t settled on a reward yet, but I promise it will be worth it.”
“Do you know where the director’s office is?” Rhys’s voice sounds different. He wants to leave, and badly.
I don’t look at him, not wanting to see my fear reflected in his eyes. “No. Wait. Just wait.”
T
he formality seems to have drained from the place. It’s like the pep rally at school, when the teachers would speak to the students and the students were restless in their seats, ready to move. But it’s not a joyous occasion. They aren’t really pumping themselves up to take on a rival team, though it seems that way. No, the smiles and subtle laughter and back-patting are because they’re about to end an entire world.
“I’ll go without you. I’ll probably get lost,” Rhys says.
“No you won’t.” I wouldn’t let him go without me.
“I’m getting up right now.”
“Just wait, please.” I should’ve left when Rhys wanted to; something is coming that I don’t want to see, I know it. Yet I can’t move.
The director isn’t finished. Her voice booms, “Now look upon your enemy!”
My heart stops as Rhys finally stands up and pulls me out of my seat. I follow him, eyes up on the big screen, as Rhys palm-strikes the elevator button. The doors open and he yanks me inside and pins my arms to the back of the elevator. “Stay put,” he says.
Before the doors shut, I catch a glimpse of my world over his shoulder.
The Rose on-screen appears several stories tall. The White House behind him is taller. I know it’s him. No doubt in my mind. And it shatters any strength I had left.
Peter is on one knee, covered in blood, surrounded by three eyeless. His sword is blood-soaked and unsteady. They circle him like wolves, claws clicking on concrete.
The elevator doors shut.
Ipound on the button to open the door, but we’re already rising. So I kick the door, screaming, and Rhys wraps his arms around me in a bear hug until I stop struggling. He squeezes tight, and I have no breath to scream or room to inhale. Then he lets go and I slump against the door, struggling to breathe. The metal is cold against my forehead.
“Level,” the elevator says.
“Did I squeeze too hard?” Rhys asks me.