Faded Flare

by L. B. Carter

  The kid swore, the word comical in his barely-adult voice.

  “Wha—?”

  Before she could sit up properly, the kid had floored it, sending her careening sideways toward the driver in a tangle of seat belt and limbs and unkempt hair, still locked up as she was. As predicted, the strap halted and refused to budge, almost strangling her where she hung in the gap between their two seats.

  Had the police come back around and they were actually rescuing her?

  The number of jolts from each direction, that sent her trapped body swinging a little closer to Stew and then back toward her own seat where her butt still rested, indicated that there were some obstacles in the way of Stew’s escape route. The associated shattering and smashing noises said he was glancing off people’s cars, pushing their way through the traffic.

  “Can you…?” Henley pushed out through restrained lungs, the strap tight around her chest and the upper part of it crossing her throat.

  Stew huffed an irritated breath at the distraction but pushed her back into her seat with one hand while weaving madly with the other.

  She fell against the door as he veered. “Thank you,” Henley said and immediately felt ridiculous. He was her kidnapper; Sirena’s wanna-be kidnapper.

  She craned around in the seat, trying to see out the rear-window, but nothing stood out to her. Had they lost the cop car?

  Another, louder, more proximal screech of tires sent Henley jerking backward, the seatbelt catching her in a cocoon, and her head snapping backward with a painful whip.

  “What?” Speaking in tandem, Henley had the same question though hers was more confused. Stew’s dripped incredulity and annoyance.

  Wriggling back to face front, she spied what had stopped them.

  A large, black car was parked perpendicular to their lane, barricading them from exiting the bridge. Henley had been asleep—or drugged as it were—longer than she realized. A lanky platinum blond woman stood in front of the SUV, several meters directly ahead of their hood, feet braced shoulder-width apart and hands on her hips, staring right at them.

  “Jen—?” Excitement replaced the fear. The crew had caught up to save Henley. Well, with Reed’s jeep, she suspected that wasn’t hard. Wait, had they picked up Bus and Nor and Sirena, too? She hoped for Sirena’s sake they hadn’t. Henley looked around for the others.

  The other lane was snaking slowly through the gap left in front of the SUV’s hood with the approval of a group of people in suits, who were stopping and inspecting each one it seemed, though they abandoned that to turn and stare at Stew’s sudden and dramatic arrival.

  “Professor Tate,” Stew spat and slammed his hands down on the wheel in rage as Henley suddenly felt a lot colder than the air seeping into the car.

  Henley turned back, noticing that behind the strong stance of the woman who had passed along her resemblance to her daughter, the road wound away into a forest, trees with chestnut bark laced delicately over thick trunks wider than seemed possible, thrusting up into the sky.

  Henley had made it home. So close and yet so far. Buster was supposed to bring her here and to her family, not Jen’s. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  ^^^

  Henley had barely a chance to admire the beauty of the scenery before the BTI suits headed toward their SUV, and Stew tried to reverse, immediately smashing into the unlucky traffic jam behind.

  He swore again then flung open his door and grabbed for her handcuffs, attempting to drag Henley with him as he dropped down onto the ground.

  The seat belt tightened like a noose again, bulging her eyes. The kid gave an aggravated half-moan, half-growl and stepped back up onto the edge of the car to lean across the driver seat and untangle her, clicking the seatbelt free.

  Unfortunately, in his haste, he forgot that with her hands were linked around it. The attempt to liberate her actually just pulled her body from him when the released seatbelt simply slid past her face as it returned to its resting place against the door frame, pressing up the middle of her chest.

  He climbed into the SUV but not before one of the BTI squad had made it to her passenger door.

  Thus, Henley became the rope in a game of tug of war—except in this case, the rope was also knotted, latched to itself as it were, so the strain was just on her elbows.

  Thankfully, the competition was unbalanced and the game short, Henley being wrenched from the car and Stew’s slippery grip, as she ended up back against the man’s chest next to the bridge’s railing, still lassoed to the car. For a moment, the position was again reminiscent of when Buster had been her seat belt; this man was equally huge and silent, his massive hands enveloping her upper arm and—

  The other came around, loosely sliding over her windpipe. Henley’s blood rushed to her bare feet.

  “Unlock her, or else.”

  Henley glanced over at the woman, whose cold, unfeeling tone was nothing like Jen’s passionate one and almost an octave higher, making the threat a little less impactful. Henley wasn’t sure the threat was all that wise in the first place; Stew didn’t care for Henley’s life any more than BTI did. The two were after the same goal: they needed Henley to lead them to Sirena.

  “You won’t kill me,” Stew said, uncertainly.

  Ah, another BTI-er had Stew in the same hold as Henley on the other side of the car, except some kind of taser was held to his chest instead of a hand to the throat. She could see him nervously swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing from over the car seats, the interior alarm softly dinging a reminder that both doors were still open while the keys remained in the ignition.

  Henley agreed with his statement; the taser wouldn’t kill him. With how high his chin was being held in defiance, it was likely he hadn’t recognized that the weapon wasn’t a gun.

  So BTI wasn’t quite so amoral. The guy behind her could easily asphyxiate her until she passed out rather than fully murdering her or do nothing but hint at choking.

  The woman decided to play to Stew’s mistake. “Won’t I?”

  “Professor Hutchinson will be—”

  “Professor Hutchinson was the one who told me where you’d gone.”

  Stew’s mouth opened and closed, aghast. “He wouldn’t betray me. I’m his—”

  “Protégé? He says that to every prospective student, enticing them to do some project for his bidding. They’re usually duds.”

  “Sirena isn’t—”

  “Sirena is mine. The only reason BTI thinks your idol is worth keeping is because of his work with me. I convince them. But she was my idea. My baby. I raised her.”

  “Until you lost her. I found her!” He was too far away to really confirm, but Henley was sure Stew was sweating profusely now, his voice full of a heady mix of desperation and zeal.

  The woman shifted to cross her arms. “And who’s lost her now, hmm?”

  Stew had no reply.

  “I believe it’s both of you,” Henley couldn’t help correcting the implication, gaining everyone’s attention.

  The hand at her throat tightened reflexively—not enough to prevent her from breathing or speaking.

  “Yes, well, I have you to thank for that, don’t I? But here we are—you are found at least, which means my baby will soon be found and returned to me.”

  “What makes you think I’m willing to do that?”

  The woman walked closer, ignoring the honking and yelling at their traffic hold-up.

  Cars were still being inspected by a few of the remaining BTI—what, staff? Students? Security guards? It was hard to tell. Either way, they were doing Professor Tate’s bidding, unconcerned about the boy and girl in their her clutches.

  In fact, the passing cars were also quick to turn away. Likely they simply wanted to be free from the bridge though they caved to their rubber-necking urges to glance over, which doubly spurred them on to leave fast and avoid becoming involved in the mess. It didn’t disturb Henley; she expected no less. It didn’t change her ultimate fate anyway.
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  The woman blinked in confusion, her lashes catching on her thick bangs. “I’ll have to talk to your mentor about his standards, too—it appears you aren’t intelligent enough to be in the university if you haven’t yet noticed your ultimatum.”

  Henley was insulted. Her mentor had been very proud of her, enjoying spurring her on with harder and tougher challenges when she returned victorious with the solution to his previous task to his surprise. “And you are? Jen took Sirena out from under you, too.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “With help if we’re arguing capabilities here.”

  “Well, if you’re implicating low intelligence on her part, I can see where she gets it from. What kind of ultimatum is death versus death?”

  “What?” Professor Tate’s brows snapped low enough to dip below her bangs. “I’m offering you lenience.”

  Henley wasn’t deceived. She knew the truth. “So, I’ll reveal Sirena’s location to you, and you’ll simply let me go?” Henley shook her head, the man’s palm sliding over the skin of her neck, justifying her words.

  “Of course not. You’ll be returned to BTI where they shall decide disciplinary action for your theft and break-out. But recall that I have sway. I can improve or worsen your sentence.”

  Even if she lessened the sentence for escaping, which Henley doubted would do much given the severity of her crimes, she knew what they would do with her at the end. “Termination,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll be terminated either way.” She was never going to get to her sister. It was over.

  Jen’s mom shrugged, looking across the water as if Henley’s life—and her sister’s life by extension—was inconsequential. Well, she was BTI faculty. “They might kick you out. But not if you tell me where Sirena is.” Her eyes bore into Henley’s as she came closer, enticing and encouraging the words from her hostage.

  Henley scoffed. “You think I’ll believe they would simply eject me from the university? I know what you really do there. I know how you get rid of those you don’t want leaving and entering the world with the knowledge of BTI’s secrets. There are some smart enough,” Henley emphasized, “to know that the contract you get us students—your minions without benefits—to sign means the literal form of termination—to the signer. Death,” she spat, her desolation and anger both so intense that tears blurred her vision at the same time she actually flung spittle on the face opposite her.

  Stew sucked in a noisy inhalation.

  Professor Tate used a corner of her shirt to wipe the offending liquid from her cheek. “That’s why you ran? You think—”

  “I know.”

  “You’re an idiot if you believe—”

  “Not me, B—”

  Like he was summoned, Buster’s voice slithered from behind Henley. “Let her go.”

  A trembling smile graced Henley’s lips as she stared down Professor Tate in the hands of an unrelenting BTI… guard or something. Hope slithered into Henley’s heart again at his arrival, offering another option besides death.

  “I’m tempted to, honestly.” Professor Tate didn’t seem the least disturbed by the appearance of more BTI rebels. “She’s no use to me if she’s so idiotic as to believe—”

  “Not me, him. He figured out your careful wording,” Henley announced with satisfaction. And he was here to prevent it from happening—again.

  Professor Tate’s eyes drifted past Henley, likely resting on the unstoppable force that was the Bus. “I recognize you. You? You’re the idiot who cannot tell the definition of a word based on sentence syntax, taking a quite literal meaning from something where there is none? I must admit, I’m surprised. I’d heard talk of you from other faculty. Such a shame.”

  There was no response. Henley blinked the tears from her vision, waiting for Bus to make his move. He could take Professor Tate easily with his bulk. Henley hoped Sirena, who boxed, and Nor, who did some kind of training and had obvious muscles, were backing him up.

  “Ah, I see.” A grin slowly spread on Professor Tate’s face as she looked back at Henley then past her, then back again. “You lied to her. To get her to leave BTI. But why, I wonder?”

  What? He’d lied…? The reality jolted through Henley sharper than she’d been tossed around in the car collisions. He had lied. Buster had lied. The contract wasn’t referring to death; it was as it seemed.

  …Was she an idiot? Unless Professor Tate was attempting reverse psychology. She had to be intelligent, no matter what Henley had said before, to be a professor at BTI, to have built Sirena. Unless that was Professor Hutchins. Was she using reverse psychology on Stew too?

  Henley felt lost, swimming in a sea of the unknown. What was real? She didn’t like this feeling of being so baffled. It was a far worse hole her mind was in than the usual small opening left by curiosity.

  “Bus?” Her voice was weak, withering, helpless. The sound of it in her ears worsened the slimy feeling inside her.

  “Yes.”

  Yes, to what?

  “Yes, I lied to her. I need her. Let her go, and I’ll trade you for Sirena.”

  ∆∆∆

  Henley sagged, almost choking herself in her holder’s grip as everything looped around and uncomfortable hot waves flushed through her, radiating off her skin. The man adjusted his hold, hitching her up by her upper arms to keep her on her limp, unsupportive feet.

  It couldn’t be true. Technically, it could. It was logistically, rationally plausible. But for the first time in her life, Henley wanted to ignore fact, disavow evidence, upend probability. It was also arguably implausible.

  He’d said he’d needed her. Had he said he needed Sirena? But… he’d plotted the escape with Jen… to get Sirena to safety. Right? Why would he just hand Sirena over?

  It didn’t matter. He had lied. He was just using Henley.

  Professor Tate was laughing, Henley heard vaguely through her haze. “Now, you—you aren’t an idiot. It’s a shame you didn’t apply to be in my lab. As such, I’ll assume you’re smart enough to know that I can’t do that.”

  “You don’t want her.” Unfathomably, he was still arguing on Henley’s behalf for her freedom. Why had he brought her?

  “No, that’s true. However, I cannot permit her to leave. She was right about that much; you two didn’t leave BTI benignly. You must face the repercussions of breaking the NDA and leaving without permission.”

  Buster must have done something aggressive because Professor Tate took a quick step forward. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t make me downgrade my opinion of your intelligence by doing anything rash. And don’t insult mine by presuming I didn’t come with back up.” She lifted her wrist and tapped a few times on her watch with the pad of a finger—a watch similar to the one Bus wore.

  Oh, God. Everything Henley knew was jumbled up in a tangle of wires, her brain essentially short-circuited and fried.

  Unfortunately, she was still aware enough to hear the tell-tale sound of drones closing in. The buzz that used to give her pride, proof that her device was working, now instilled a coating of lead in her stomach that pulled it down. They came from behind—the same direction as Buster—flying overhead with increasing volume that elevated her despair as if her adrenaline were also experiencing a Doppler effect, ramping from faded to flaring.

  They took their place behind Professor Tate, hovering perfectly in place, menacingly. The arrival of the tech was another layer on Henley’s re-found horror—an added assurance of the loss of her chance at freedom.

  Or was it? These were Henley’s babies where Sirena was Professor Tate’s. Henley had spent a significant amount of the past four years and eleven months tinkering with them, building them, improving them, giving them capabilities far beyond any human’s. The tech was beneficial to Professor Tate. But her other baby was also an advantage Henley had at hand. Literally.

  She swung her still cuffed hands up, connecting with the man behind her with a nearly-iron fist, a grunt forced from him like Buster’s at the post office. In that moment of lax muscle t
ension, Henley slipped to the floor and ran.

  The seatbelt pulled her up short, and she was wrenched around.

  She watched as Buster vaulted over the car hood and snagged a knife from the guard who’d held her, swiping it through the belt. Her gaze met his dark impenetrable one, and she swung back around and ran.

  Henely pulled up slightly as she neared the professor who merely raised a brow and crossed her arms.

  An engine that sounded several times as powerful as the drones sounded overhead, drawing closer. Henley didn’t cave to the curiosity demanding she look at their new arrival, but Professor Tate, being a scientist, couldn’t help herself. As she tipped her chin up, eyes slipping off her captive, Henley zipped past, darting quickly around the professor before she could react.

  Henley jumped up onto the bridge railing to pass the SUV, teetering for a moment and using elbows wide like a tight-rope walker, hands still locked, then dropped down and sprinted again.

  The new visitor must be one of BTI’s helicopters, late to the scene, because the drones ignored it to make chase as she expected. Henley beelined for the trees, zig-zagging and circumventing the massive trunks, the rough forest debris slicing the soles of her feet. She stepped on a particularly sharp stick and her leg buckled. She limped behind a robust redwood.

  The drones, of course, were smarter than to zoom past—she had designed them to be both precise and accurate. They pulled around, forming a semi-circle, another layer forming behind that one, and a third just above the second, all twenty of them sightlessly watching her in several ways at once with their myriad of sensors as they slowly encroached, enveloping her in an unwanted hug from an insistent relative.

  However, she knew their weaknesses. And she had eliminated her own weakness, turning it into a weapon, just like them.

  She waited until the first row inched within proximity, the nearest one lowering to eye-level to perform the programmed retina and infrared scans to confirm her identity as the correct target.