by Hanna, K. T.
Dom nods and moves to the side so Bastian can finish his pretense of bathing, deliberately looking away.
“I’ll figure out a way to get you out.”
Once fully dressed again, Bastian walks out to the living area. “I have nothing for my headache. I need something.”
The lieutenant watches him for a moment and nods almost imperceptibly. A few minutes later there’s a knock at the door which the lieutenant answers, perfectly timed so Dom can slip through the crack and be on his way.
It doesn’t take him long to get back to Sai, and the sun isn’t even a glimpse on the horizon. All he does is step inside, hug her, and pull back to look at her eyes. “I’m sorry, and you were right. Of everyone, I should have believed you.”
There’s a smile that plays around her lips, and she doesn’t try to wriggle out of his loose hold. Her skin is warm against the smooth coolness of his own, and her words push away at the encroaching darkness that’s been nibbling at his consciousness since Bastian berated him.
“Just you remember that.” Her tone is happy, and the hard lines around her eyes soften as she gives him a quick hug back and then picks her reader back up. “We should probably get to our next stop then.”
Dom couldn’t agree more. He switches Mele to drive mode and sets the course.
Bastian swallows the tablets with tepid water and stands watching where the door closed just out of the view of the lieutenant. Dom got through. That he got into the apartment in the first place is a miracle, but then Dom always was a devious little bugger.
The apartment feels lonely, even though Dom was only with him for ten minutes. Sai isn’t going to drop in and say hello or ask for a lesson. It’s strange that she was only there for a few months and that he got so used to her. Dom can’t come by just to chat or discuss the things he doesn’t understand.
Not to mention the fact it appears he’s missing out on some of his best friend’s growth. Dom isn’t the same anymore, but then again, neither is Bastian. He smiles and makes himself a cup of cocoa, not exactly in the mood to sleep anymore. Shine in the sweetener bowl was a brilliant idea, hiding in plain sight. He just has to make the last of his stash last until this is all over.
Apathy creeps in for a moment, and all Bastian wants to do is relax.
It sounds like the Exiled are getting ready to strike back and strike hard. As much as he said he didn’t want Dom here, as much as he told his friend off, even that tiny bit of outside contact buffers against the crap inside these walls.
Knowing the Exiled are close, haven’t been overrun, aren’t giving up is comforting. Bastian bows his head and a sudden bone-weariness seeps in. It’s only been a few days of saying yes to everything, of only offering up an opinion when it’s sought about the school students, of clenching his fists when Zach decides to be reckless about lives.
The only thing getting him through this is the thought that maybe, just maybe they’ll take them all with them in the end. Even if the Exiled fail, if they could just wipe out the GNW in the process, the people left behind might have a fighting chance.
When he starts to feel morbid, it’s time to throw in the towel. Taking his own advice has never been one of Bastian’s strengths, but tonight he manages it anyway.
The following morning sees a bright new day. At least the sun is beautiful outside, hidden behind protective windows and the shielding of the dome. “Not like it ever rains anymore,” Bastian chuckles as he pulls on his coat, feeling renewed and invigorated and completely ignoring the tilt of the lieutenant’s head in his direction.
The boardroom is empty when he arrives, which is good. He likes to arrive first. No matter how chained they have him to their sides, it still seems intimidating. It also makes sure he has at least one enjoyable moment every day—the chagrin on Zach’s face when he realizes he’s not the first one there. For some obscure reason, it’s something Zach prides himself on.
As if on cue, Zach heralds the entrance of the rest of them, with Deign bringing up the rear, her feet perfectly poised in impossibly high heels. Thought to be archaic by almost every other female Bastian has ever met, Deign lives to push the boundaries, and today Nimue accompanies her.
Bastian scrutinizes the girl in as subtle a way as possible. Her eyes appear a little sunken, and her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, giving her face a drawn appearance. She seems pale, and he tugs his gloves down, grateful for having chosen to wear them today, even if he knows she’ll only try something under duress.
Deign clears her throat and smoothes her expression, not a telltale twitch to give away anything about her real mood. “There’s good and bad news today. Good news first. I’ll give Owen the floor.”
Owen stands. In the last couple of months, he still hasn’t managed to fill out the jacket. The way he stands in front of the board is in direct juxtaposition to his confidence when he was alone with Bastian the other day. His owlish eyes still seem scared behind the thick lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, but the confidence he has when he speaks about his work makes him appear more like a sort of mad professor.
“For the last few days, I’ve been running several upgrades through the tune-up line.” He refers to his notes and frowns a bit as if only just remembering that he had indeed done what is written down.
“All of the original Damascus are receiving improvements as their patrols come in, but I can only manage two patrols a week.” He looks up from his notes with an apologetic frown in Deign and Zach’s general vicinity, but doesn’t wait to make eye contact. “So far we’re on our third patrol. This allows us to replace older material, since they’re verging on thirty-five years of age.”
Harlow clears her throat, the flickering in her eyes stilling for a moment while she speaks. “What do these upgrades entail?”
“Good question!” And the funny thing is that Owen sounds genuinely happy someone asked the question because it gives him a chance to explain what he’s doing. “You see—” He motions to Bastian’s pet lieutenant and indicates the plating where the neck meets the head. “—this is where a bunch of wires connect and filter down through the remaining metal and adrium components of the Damascus body. This plating isn’t refined as much as it should be. The rivets are too big, it should be soldered, and the way it was originally attached leaves them vulnerable where they should not be. The new process allows for this repair.”
He waves the lieutenant back to its place and continues eagerly. “I’ve also made sure their visual cortex is upgraded and not just through their connection, but in their actual visual base. Should give them about a forty-five percent improvement over the fifty percent improvement I’d already made.”
There’s nothing smug about Owen. He just truly loves and believes in his work that much. It makes Bastian wish he’d had time to win him over to their side, but the diamond-in-the-rough didn’t even surface until his predecessors were dead. He curses Dom for killing Davies and his henchman, even if it is slightly understandable.
“Also, I’ve surrounded the hip plating with a gel insert. It’s not a huge improvement in performance, but some of the compounds separating the hip from the adrium leg joint had worn out. It’s why some of our patrols were a bit squeaky.”
“These are all improvements to the current models, yes?” Markus looks over the information forwarded to all their readers with a frown. “These specifications are highly different than what you’ve just described. These…sound downright dangerous for us.”
Owen shakes his head, a momentary hard line setting his expression, but it’s gone when he speaks. “They’re not dangerous. Never dangerous. I wouldn’t put our people in danger.”
Bastian blinks. Owen’s tone is almost venomous, like there’s something much deeper driving him. He chalks it up for later thought.
“Those are the modifications for the new lines of Damascus we’re producing. We can regenerate one full patrol per week. That’s it.” Owen glances at Deign before continuing. “At the rate we’re losi
ng current patrols, I’d have to be producing four patrols per week to even attempt to compensate. Add to that the fact that I’d have to have more machines built to create them, and we’re at a month-long delay before I could produce more.”
Markus shrugs and puts the reader down. “Then why are we wasting resources on these?”
Owen blinks, the thick lenses making his eyes appear comical. “Wasting resources? I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
Harlow steps back in, her tone less patronizing than Markus’. “He means why are we creating new ones at all? Why not just repair what we have, given their history?”
Owen smiles. “Because the new ones are better, more superior. The whole concept behind designing something is to improve on it. And that’s just what we’re doing.”
Markus scowls. “Improving killing machines.”
There’s a silence in the room, accentuated only by the soft whir as the lieutenant in the room moves its head.
Owen persists. “These Damascus are created with visual cortexes enhanced more than double that of the refurbished Damascus model. Their joints are cushioned, their kernel is reinforced, not to mention steel plating surrounding vital areas. No danger of rust, and they’re practically impervious to the sun’s heat with the new metal.”
“Why can’t you do that for the current model?” Deign asks.
“It’s difficult to adapt metal already in key positions.” Owen adjusts his glasses, and not for the first time, Bastian wonders why the man wears them. “Not all parts of them are removable.”
Bastian bites the inside of his lip, but this time it’s to prevent laughing. There’s some strange part of him that doesn’t want to upset Owen. His intelligence sometimes borders on scary.
“There are many structural and minor improvements as well, but those are the main ones. They’ll be harder to defeat, more difficult to counter, and their scanning abilities are increased, too.” He looks around expectantly, his eyes shining with eagerness. “Questions?”
Bastian’s mind screams at him to ask why Owen is improving them. Does he not realize the GNW need to be stopped and not aided? But he clamps down on it and keeps his expression impassive. His core beckons to him. Doesn’t he want to let Sai know? Why not now? He fights the need to access it, to savor that sweet fullness of power, and attempts to concentrate on the rest of the meeting.
Deign smiles and stands up. “Thanks, Owen.”
She doesn’t seem to notice how his face falls as he sits back in his chair to be swallowed by his overcoat and blend into insignificance again. A shiver runs down Bastian’s spine at how Owen’s brand of invisibility eerily mimics the dominos.
“And now, the bad news.” All the pretentiousness vanishes from her voice. She’s talking to them as equals. It’s how Bastian knows something is seriously wrong. “Bastian, what could be causing the grid’s influence to wane?”
Bastian blinks up at her. “Excuse me?” Out of everything it could have been, he really didn’t think they’d be onto this so quickly.
“The psionic grid.” She clucks her tongue, eyes narrowing. “It seems to be losing effectiveness in some of the outlying PCs. How could it be failing?”
He blinks again and sits up straighter, desperately trying to figure out a way to head this off without letting it reflect in his words or his expression. “I don’t think I quite understand. It’s not possible for it to fail. The only way it’s ever less successful is if a dormant gene is encountered, and let’s face it—over the last several decades those are dwindling. If there’s a gene at all, we usually end up with a psionic.”
“Any thoughts?” She sighs and he can see from the way her eyes narrow that he needs to say something, because Deign’s patience is wearing thin and, if he’s not careful, she might start looking in the right places.
“It’s set up to focus in on any resistance, dormant or otherwise. As long as the grids are being directed by the people we chose together, there shouldn’t be a problem. Focusing that much power on difficult cases is the whole point.”
Deign grimaces. “I thought so. They swore they were doing their jobs, didn’t they, Nimue?”
Bastian studies Sai’s friend and finally sees what he didn’t when she first walked in—a welt to match his own down the side of Nimue’s face; the puffiness of her eyes, well-hidden by powder; and the tenderness with which she holds her side as she sits. Some Damascus lieutenant beat the crap out of her, too. It’s an effort not to cringe. He has to fight down a sudden rage because, hobbled by the chip and guard, it’s not going to benefit anyone. Nimue’s eyes flicker back and forth, making contact with nothing but the floor. The girl nods in response, bravely not showing how much pain she must be in. Her eyes only meet Bastian’s briefly, but he can tell, just from that glimpse, how much she wants to rebel, how much she is keeping under wraps. In an odd way, it lends him strength. If she maintains her loyalty to Sai, even with Deign breathing down her neck, Bastian can fight, too.
Deign’s breath has a faint peppermint heat to it as she leans in closer. “Any ideas?”
“Not off the top of my head. Have any of them had a change of drinking water chemicals or food sources? Do we have any new variations of shine hitting the streets?” He tries to figure out how to delay them finding out what it is that’s actually been done.
Deign smiles. “Not that I know of, but I’ll have it investigated.”
“How many areas are affected?”
“Four of the outlying PCs from the reports we’ve received. The timing is highly inconvenient.” And now her tone makes sense. She’s not concerned; she’s irritated at the disruption. “We’ve always taken care of them before. You’d think they’d be grateful.”
The general murmur of consent around the table disgusts Bastian—except for one. He notices, hiding in the folds of his lab coat, the slight revulsion on Owen’s face. Maybe Owen isn’t quite as blind as those glasses make him seem.
“Could you interview some of them for me, Bastian? You probe minds better than anyone I know.”
While it’s meant to be a compliment, it leaves a bad taste on Bastian’s tongue. She’s the one who can project and detect emotions. His type of probing isn’t gentle. It rips into the mind, sieves through the memories with ruthless efficiency. The things he’s done in the name of the GNW for the sake of keeping up appearances makes him sick to his stomach. But he smiles and pushes the thoughts away.
“Of course I can. But if they’re doing what they’re supposed to, then there’s something else wrong. We just have to figure out what.”
Deign nods and dismisses the room.
Bastian stands, preoccupied. He may owe it to the Exiled and himself to see them all freed, but he got these children and colleagues into this mess. If he lets them get beaten to a pulp while following instructions from Deign, then the blood on his hands is still red and sticky.
Bastian cringes as he walks into the room to “interview,” as Deign so delicately put it, the people who are failing her. He knows they’re not at fault, and now he has to prove it, without giving the Exiled’s plan away.
“Hey,” he greets them softly, making sure his expression doesn’t betray his true feelings of revulsion toward the way they’re treated. He positions himself so they might see the remnants of his own treatment at Damascus hands. A sliver of solidarity might make fear permeate the room less. While he hand-picked every person who helps gently direct the grid, their contact was brief and he only knows them well on paper.
They relax visibly. The lieutenant standing in the corner doesn’t help the tension in the room, though. Bastian kicks himself for having attempted to set off the device when he did. He’s made his moves now so much more difficult to execute. So much could have been prevented. He would have had so much more freedom and one less scar. He’s never been a vain man, but everyone has their pride.
“I need you all to explain to me how it feels when you direct the grid now.”
The five in
front of him just stare back. He knows their names, all of them. They range in age from Sai’s age with Nimue—though he wonders why Deign is using a tactile sensor for the grid—to Bastian’s age with Dirk. “I’m not here to punish you. I’m here to understand what it is that’s happening. I need you to let me in and to tell me how it is that what’s always been effective isn’t getting through anymore.”
Nimue clears her throat and glances at him. “Deign has had me checking them for honesty.”
It all becomes clear for a moment. In her wisdom, Deign is using Nimue as a traitor detector. He watches the girl for a moment. “What did you find?” He lowers his voice, keeps it soft and calm, and he thinks he spies a hint of a smile ghosting over her lips before she speaks.
“Nothing. They’ve been doing what they’ve always done.”
Carly, slightly older than Nimue, with a crazy-strong power of suggestion, speaks up. She could probably convince even Deign to side with the Exiled if she wasn’t so far under the older woman’s influence. “I don’t know.” She takes a breath to stop herself from tearing up and speaks in a shaky voice. “I do what I usually do—reach into the grid and lay a grounding of trust, the basis of belief and safety. Everyone affected feels these overwhelming emotions of calm. Yesterday and the day before, Bastian—nothing. There was nothing. My groundings were there, my preparations were perfect, but the furthest reaches didn’t seem affected. Anger and hurt pushed through instead, even after I ordered each PC to double-check. Nothing changed. It’s like they developed an immunity to it overnight.”
Which is pretty much how Ebony is supposed to work—to coat the mind in a shield so the suggestion will simply bounce off them. “And you’re sure about the grounding?”
Carly nods, and Dirk speaks in his slow and deliberate voice. “She’s right. I’ve seen her and watched her. After she thought she was sick because it wasn’t working, I observed her part of the grid. She usually covers more squares than others because of her strength. Even when we got her to concentrate on one, it didn’t work, Bastian. It’s the same for all of us. I have no answers, but we were hoping you might.”