Allie's War Season One

by JC Andrijeski

  Terian should have brought more than one body.

  As he thought it, a shadow fell over him, blocking the white, pock-marked ceiling.

  “Sir?” a voice said. “It is too soon. You must rest.”

  Fatigue encumbered him, a stress borne of birthing, of straining back to life...even as drugs aided his return to a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  DOES HE REMEMBER? a familiar voice said over him.

  Terian cannot open his eyes.

  He floats over himself, watching as they speak within his mind like it were a conference room on one of Galaith’s many private planes. Terian hovers there, listens.

  He remembers his death, she comments.

  It was Dehgoies, was it not?

  Her thoughts turn affirmative. The images we’ve pulled indicate that is probable. Would you like to see?

  The other’s light indicates yes.

  She plays the memories, as one plays a film excerpt, or a video from television.

  Ah. The voice sighs as its owner watches, but the emotion behind it feels complex, a flavor of pride mixed with regret. His words remain all business. Are you checking for anomalies each time our Terian returns to a new body? Each and every time, Xarethe...no exceptions?

  Yes, she says, her voice stiffly certain. He is not resurrected without a thorough examination, father Galaith. There are no anomalies. No irregularities of any kind.

  There is another silence while he thinks about her words.

  She breaks it, her voice cautious that time.

  Sir, if you don’t mind my asking. Dehgoies. Is it strictly necessary that he—

  I do mind, Xarethe, Galaith’s voice holds the faintest of warnings. Ensure that our friend Terian remains stable, happy and free of any disturbing thoughts with which any good and loyal friend of mine should not be burdened. And ask him to contact me as soon as he is able...

  Of course, she sends.

  ...As she speaks, the voices begin to fade from Terian’s hearing, drifting from his consciousness like a boat blown further and further away by a cool breeze.

  THE NEXT TIME he woke, the old doctor was there in person, bent over the main monitor.

  How long have I been out? he sent to her.

  She made a few final adjustments before she glanced down at him, smiling. “Approximately thirty-two hours in total, brother.”

  Terian blinked, tried to move his jaw. It remained sore.

  Tracking has continued? he sent.

  “Of course.”

  How many?

  “Three squads. And we have utilized the human media.”

  Where is he now? he sent. Dehgoies.

  “We are still compiling the last set of memories,” Xarethe said, rather than answering him. When she looked over next, she smiled. “Your diligence is noteworthy, brother. But your recent imprints of his light will have to be collated before we will have a realtime track. Until then, the usual channels are being utilized.”

  So you haven’t found him. Terian stared at the ceiling. Did anyone recover the body? ...My body, he clarified.

  “Of course. The team is already working on it, brother. Estimate 141 days minimum to clone and reconstruct.” The old doctor sat in a chair beside the bed, looking oddly anachronistic as she squinted at readouts over cat-shaped bifocals. “Full re-load in 167 days.” She smiled at him again, taking the glasses off her veined nose, exposing pressure marks from the frames. “You won’t be disappointed, Terry.”

  Is this one a temp? Terian sent. I don’t remember it.

  “A temp,” the woman said. “Yes.” She smiled at him in a grandmotherly way. “Would you like the same personality structure as the body he killed? It is no trouble at all. I have the base characteristics loaded now.”

  What’s available?

  “This is a seer’s body, so you have access to that biology and the requisite skills—”

  Intelligence? Problem-solving? Can I boost them at all?

  The doctor made a low clucking sound, a modulation of the sharper, more aggressive clicking common among seers.

  “There are limits, Terry. You are fairly well dispersed right now.”

  I can’t lose any of the others?

  The old woman chuckled, even as she gave him a sharper look. “All are on assignment, Mein Herr. If you remember, you are using a significant amount of your problem-solving skills with body number nine already.”

  Terian frowned inside his mind, staring up at the ceiling.

  He could see no solution, and it bothered him.

  The doctor offered, “I can add creativity. A slight warning...it would be associated with a form of sociopathy that can be a bit unstable.”

  Terian didn’t hesitate. Do it, he sent. If he could have moved his lips to smile, he would have. And if he kills me again, I’ll blame you this time, Xarethe.

  She smiled, but when she turned that time, her eyes were hard as glass.

  “Whatever story keeps you hard at work, my fragmented little friend.” Rising to her feet, she adjusted her glasses back on her nose, peering again at the machine. “I may have some words for you, at that, if you ruin another of my bodies so quickly.”

  She glanced down over the bifocals, giving him a harder stare.

  “I will deny I said this,” she said. “But do us all a favor, Terry. Kill that son of a bitch already. I am tired of this cat and mouse game with him.”

  Terian’s lips twitched in humor.

  I don’t think that would go over well with the big boss. His face creased painfully with another attempt at a smile. I would have liked to see you in your prime, Xarethe...

  The old seer looked at him, and for an instant, her eyes flashed a hard white, her lids falling to half-mast, until they appeared almost reptilian.

  No, she told him. ...You wouldn’t.

  7

  ESCAPE

  I STARED OUT the dirty window of the bottle-green Plymouth, watching trees and rocky coastline slide by, now broken by low-hanging clouds and fog. We were still on Highway 1, nearing where it merged with 101, not far from the Oregon border.

  I hadn’t been on this stretch of road since I was a kid.

  What took minutes on Highway 5, or even 101 North from San Francisco to Eureka, took hours along Highway 1, making the twisting two-lane road hugging the jagged coastline feel endless. But Revik wanted us off the main highway, at least until we crossed state lines.

  Even within seaside towns, he took side streets, avoiding the main “strips,” if they could be called that in towns that maybe had four bars, a salt-eaten motel, a greasy spoon, a church, a head shop and one drive-through coffee stand.

  Somewhere near Fort Bragg, he uncuffed me from the door.

  I suppose I should’ve been grateful for that, but as my hands and ankles remained bound, my gratitude was limited. I watched the sun slink into the Pacific as pelicans skimmed by, beating long wingspans.

  I felt him looking at me.

  When he didn’t stop after a few minutes, I exhaled sharply, facing him.

  “What?”

  He turned the worn, leather-wrapped wheel of the Plymouth, sliding onto the main street of another seaside village whose name I didn’t know. We passed a few bars and an auto shop. His pale eyes shone in the neon signs as night approached.

  “We are low on gas. Can I trust you?”

  “Dehgo...whatever your name is...”

  “Revik.”

  “Right. Are you going to tell me? What that guy meant about me ending the world?”

  He exhaled. “Terian was trying to unbalance you. But it is true that they...” He amended, “...We believe you to be someone important.”

  “Important how?”

  “Allie, can I trust you, if I—”

  “Revik, important how?”

  Clicking to himself, he pulled into a nearby Arco station.

  Stopping in front of a pump, he turned off the ignition. When an attendant walked right up to the window, I realized with some surprise t
hat we must be in Oregon already. Revik rolled down the window, which stuck a few times. He gave me a last warning glance.

  “Hey! Cool car, man! What can she do on the freeway...?”

  The boy’s words trailed, just before his eyes filmed over.

  Revik sat up to tug the money clip from his back pocket, handing through a few bills of paper currency to the kid attendant. I noticed the attendant’s eyes didn’t look at me as he took the folded paper. They also didn’t glance at the rust-colored stains on Revik’s shirt, or the slash of the same on his pale neck.

  “Revik...”

  Frowning, he glanced at me, then at the rearview mirror.

  I watched as he licked his fingers, rubbing at the dark stain on his neck. Then he leaned over my lap and pulled open the glove box. Taking out an oil rag, he poured some water in it from a plastic bottle and rubbed it over his neck, erasing the mark completely.

  “Where did you get this car anyway?” I said. “Speaking of cool cars.”

  “I stole it.”

  I felt my jaw tighten a little, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting for an answer. Looking back at the minimart attached to the gas station, I only nodded.

  “Revik, I’m hungry. I’m thirsty, too.”

  Instead of answering, he handed me the half-full water bottle.

  I tilted it over my mouth, drinking.

  His tone remained neutral. “Like I told you...historical periods have beginnings, middles and ends,” he said. “At the end, the dominant species has an opportunity to evolve...in several possible directions. We seers call these opportunities Displacements.”

  In the mirrors, he watched the boy hook the pump to the tank. His fingers gripped the wheel when he looked back at me, his skin a greenish-white in the florescent light.

  “In some human mythology, this is called ‘Apocalypse,’” he added, his pale irises reflecting that same green light. “Do you know this word?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. I might have heard it on one or two heavy metal albums.” I watched the blond kid in the dingy overalls enter the convenience store. He walked to one of the coolers in the back, pulled out a large bottle of water.

  “...So you understand,” Revik said. “This will, of necessity, affect all of the species, not just humans. The elders have seen signs of the human Displacement approaching. Some of these signs relate to developments in the natural world. Others have to do with—”

  “Okay,” I said, still watching the boy. “...So you’re paranoid. What does any of that have to do with me?” I watched the blond kid pull two plastic-sealed sandwiches out of a cooler, two apples, a bag of chips...

  “Burrito,” I blurted. “Get me a frozen burrito...he can throw it in the microwave, right?”

  A hint of revulsion grew visible in the set of Revik’s mouth, but when I looked back at the store, the blond kid was stuffing a plastic-covered burrito into a industrial microwave and twisting the grease-covered dial.

  When I glanced over, Revik was watching me again, his eyes narrow.

  He said, “The Bridge ushers in the Displacement. They are the catalyst. They are also what we call an intermediary being...one of the first. Historically, they gather three friends—”

  “Let me guess...the four of us, we all ride horses, right?” I propped my cuffed hands on the armrest. “I do read, you know.”

  I leaned my head on the glass of the passenger side window. Glancing in the side mirror, I winced. I looked like I’d escaped from a mental hospital, then got beaten up and thrown in a dumpster. When I looked over, I saw him watching me again, his expression wary.

  “Trust me to attract crazies even among the seers,” I said. “...Jon will love this.”

  Looking away finally, Revik rolled down his window, accepting the receipt from the blond in the dirty coveralls. The blue and white patch on his breast labeled him “Jerry.” Jerry handed a paper bag through the window that Revik immediately placed on my lap, where its warmth soaked through my waitressing uniform skirt.

  “The Bridge is the catalyst,” Revik repeated, like I hadn’t spoken. “They have their place, and their purpose...just like any of the intermediary beings.” He turned the key in the ignition, and the GTX’s engine rumbled back to life. “You need to understand your importance. Not in terms of ego, but of role. It is a responsibility, Allie.”

  I looked up from the bag. “So, just to be clear. You're saying I am going to end the world...at least as we know it. And that this is a job that I should take seriously...and do really, really well.” Shaking my head a little, I smirked at him. “Did I get that right...Revik?”

  I watched him think. “Yes,” he said. “That is right. Simplistic, but ultimately correct.” Before I could speak, or even laugh, I saw his eyes click back into focus. “You will meet Vash. Then you will understand.”

  “Did you just read my mind?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that absolutely fucking necessary?” I said.

  He thought about this also, glancing at me.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I STAND ON a high building above a smoky city.

  An angular, steel and glass structure shaped like a square reaches up on two legs from the edges of the skyline in front of me, barely visible through a veil of smog and smoke drifting near the ground in the pre-dawn light. Beyond that oddly-shaped building, more skyscrapers reach up like jagged teeth, stretching in rows as far as I can see. A low building made of watery glass, bulging shades of blue-green and blue-white, like giant raindrops, crouches incongruously in all of that smoke, an artificial world that looks better suited to the bottom of the ocean.

  Already, lights are coming on, even though the sun isn’t yet above the horizon.

  People emerge from tall buildings and single-dwelling homes with briefcases and backpacks. Some of them jump on bicycles or mopeds, or patiently wait for buses and trains, drinking hot drinks and reading feed marquees. The whisper of car horns grows audible as others crawl along a jam-packed freeway, fighting to get downtown.

  I recognize this skyline, but I’ve never been here.

  I’ve seen it on the feeds.

  Even as I search for landmarks, sound erupts over the horizon, followed by a silence so profound the city’s heart stops beating.

  Trails of smoke follow bullet-like shapes over a curve of amber sky.

  Then...the wailing sirens start up for real.

  White streaks of light multiply to the increasing pitch of air raid horns.

  I watch, my breath caught, as people stand like penguins staring at the sun. The first missile hits, creates a shock wave of smoke, then a rapidly blooming mushroom cloud that looms over every building. The sky goes from amber to pink to red even as, in the distance, another missile kicks up an even larger cloud of dust, forming a second, blood-red pillar of smoke.

  Another hits, then another.

  One crashes through a leg of the upright square, another flattens the watery glass structure and I hear the scream of metal as it rips through steel, just before—

  I JERKED AWAKE.

  My face hurt from being ground into a wrinkle in the cloth seat. Drool connected my lips to the cushion until I raised my cuffed hands, wiping my mouth clumsily with my fingers.

  Gazing through a dirty window at the pre-dawn light, I felt my heart clench.

  But this was no smoke-drenched city of auto-rickshaws, bicycles and millions of Chinese. All I saw was pale blue sky above a low horizon of two-story Craftsman homes. Our car was the only one I could see in an empty parking lot before it transitioned back to the main road. I glimpsed ocean through the trunks of trees on the other side of that same road, broken by more houses on a street that sloped downwards, probably leading eventually to the beach itself. A seagull sat on a dimming orange parking lot light, stabbing at something with its beak that it held between its toes.

  Next to me, he shifted position, drawing my eyes.

  His long body stretched across
the driver’s seat, his head and neck cramped in the crack by the driver’s side door. Despite the awkward angle of his body, he was asleep.

  His face, even his hands lay open as he breathed.

  I watched him sleep, and that inexplicable nausea I’d felt around him in the park returned. It rose and crested...then started to recede when I felt a returning pull from him, like a slow tugging below the navel that brought heat, along with another wave of that discomfort. I clutched my belly in reflex, then pressed my hand to the middle of my chest, rubbing the spot there, even as he shifted his weight uncomfortably, lowering a hand to rest on his thigh.

  When that feeling didn’t lessen, a soft sound left his throat.

  I waited to see if he would wake. When he didn’t, I let out my held breath.

  Quietly, I bent forward, testing the binders on my ankles.

  The hard plastic had already cut into my skin. I tugged on the ring anyway, feeling the connecting points for how to unlock the plastic knot. I fumbled with the end, realized a key fit in there, a small one.

  I opened the glove box, moving papers and the oil rag as quietly as I could, looking for something sharp, but all I found was a broken pen that leaked ink, a used up book of matches and a condom so old the wrapper had cracked in the heat of the engine. I felt around under the seat, looking for anything that might saw through the thick plastic.

  “Does it hurt?”

  I jerked back, slamming my head into the open glove box lid. When I glanced up, rubbing my head, his pale eyes shone orange in the streetlights.

  “Do you sleep?” I said.

  He didn’t answer, but leaned forward, reaching into his back pocket.

  My eyes followed his hands as he pulled out a rectangular piece of featureless, black metal. He unfolded the blade housed inside and before I could fully absorb the reality of the knife, he bent to my ankles. Without warning the hint of nausea leapt.

  Holding the plastic off my skin, he cut through it with a single tug.

  I was still reacting to the relief of that pressure being gone when he pulled off the hard coil, letting it drop to the floor of the car. Once he had, he traced the red line on my ankle with his finger. When he did, the nausea surged, catching me off-guard.