Conthan chuckled at the obvious. “You already told him no, didn’t you?”
“Of course I said no,” she grumbled. “I told him about all this integrity bullshit and what I wanted to say is ‘No, he’s the biggest bonehead I know. Of course he won’t take your money.’”
“What’s with the crowd outside?”
She stood on her toes to see out the massive windows that lined the front of the gallery. “I hired the police force. I figured that your work might bring out some of the crazies. I also had a suspicion that the haters were gonna hate. You can tell by the guest list that the people inside here are a bit more”—she paused—“endeared to your cause.”
“I don’t have a cause.”
“Whether you know it or not, tonight you are the poster child for the Children of Nostradamus.”
Shit, he thought.
“Did you notice the two Corps soldiers outside?”
“What the fuck,” she said, seeing the two out-of-place officers. Things rarely bothered Gretchen. This was orchestrated by her, but the sight of the officers thoroughly irritated her.
“Not your idea, I take it?”
“I need to introduce the two of you to the crowd and then I’ll go outside and take care of the Corps.”
Conthan laughed out loud as she walked away. He had no doubt in his mind that she, a tiny woman, was more than daring enough to go wrangle cybernetic humans. The Corps should be fearful of that girl when she goes on the warpath, he thought.
“Excuse me, everyone,” came a booming voice over the speakers in the room.
He turned to see Gretchen standing on the stage with a microphone in her hand. “I’m glad everybody could make it this evening. Gallery Systems Incorporated is more than delighted to present two new up-and-coming artists. The first is a recent college graduate, Conthan…” She paused, looking at the card. “I don’t even know his last name.”
The crowd laughed in response.
“His work embodies the soul of the Children of Nostradamus, explored through the admiration for one individual. His precision with the pencil or the brush shows not only mastery of the medium, but allows him to be captivated by his muse, a young woman challenged by her mutation. He explores his affection for the subject and allows the viewer to feel the longing experienced by both the subject and the artist.”
Conthan grumbled. He hated being analyzed. Most often critics would give some crap description of his work. He had already insulted one of the most renowned bullshitters of his generation. However, Gretchen was right about it all. He missed Sarah. Looking at his pictures over and over, he couldn’t help but see beauty in her less-than-traditional features. His heart ached, and he wanted nothing more than to see his friend. Soon, he thought, soon he would see her.
“Our second artist is a veteran who has been painting for nearly four decades and recently has been keeping my doors open.” Laughter. “Jed Zappens’s more abstract approach to the subject of super humans explores a darker side of the culture. Having been classified a Class III himself, he has witnessed firsthand the dangers of not only his species, but the pain inflicted on them in the name of preservation.”
“Holy shit,” Conthan said out loud. “Now the guards make a lot more sense.”
He worked his way toward the stage and finally caught Gretchen’s eye. She looked down, and with the microphone still in hand, announced him. “Meet Conthan, ladies and gentlemen…and Jed Zappens.”
The man next to Conthan raised his hand to the clapping crowd. Conthan could see the stereotypical artist. His black pants, black turtleneck and slicked-back hair made him not only a stereotype, but truly a douchebag.
“Nice to meet you,” said Jed. “I really admire your work.”
“Thanks,” Conthan said, shaking the man’s hand. “Yours isn’t half bad either.”
Conthan smiled, not at Jed but at the fact he had managed to say two sentences and not insult the guy for being pretentious and a prick. He chalked it up to growing older and maturing, something he’d most likely regret any moment.
“So,” Conthan said, “you’re a super human?”
“Not one to beat around the bush, are you?”
“I prefer my bushes not beaten.”
“I am,” he said. “Discovered it at fourteen.”
Conthan attempted to do the math but lost track. “So what’s your power?”
“Sizing me up?”
“I figure next we can whip them out on the table and have Gretchen measure.”
Gretchen jumped in the middle. “Will you behave? I love you, really I do, but stop being a jerk.”
“He’s just curious,” said the elder artist. “I’m a vocal mimic.”
“A what?”
“My voice,” he clarified. “I can quite literally do impressions of every person I’ve ever heard speak.”
“Wow,” Conthan said, “not exactly a pyro or that really strong guy.”
“Could be worse,” admitted the man. “I once met a kid whose mutation made him green.”
“Really?”
“Yup, so at least I know I’m not at the bottom of the totem pole.”
“Can you do it now?”
He held up a finger, gesturing for them to wait a moment. He began to roll down the collar of his shirt and revealed a thin black band on his neck. “I was collared when I left the program.”
“Collared?”
“Being a Class III doesn’t win me any points with the military. My abilities have been neutered and I have no way to use them.”
“What if you take it off?”
Gretchen sighed. “Tact is not your strong suit. I’m going outside to make sure the Corps don’t shoot anybody.”
Jed tensed up at the name of the police force outside. He quickly relaxed his body, but it was obvious he was not thrilled at their presence. Conthan saw him out of the corner of his eye giving him an awkward glance. Conthan finally shrugged. “Not a fan?”
Jed put his hand to the collar. “I have an explosive device grafted into my neck,” he said firmly. “Would you be a fan if you were a walking time bomb?”
“Noted,” Conthan said.
The crowd froze as a pane of glass shattered in the front of the gallery. Conthan instinctively ducked and looked to his partner. “This isn’t going to end well.”
Jed shook his head. “It’s a hotspot in here right now. If the Corps soldiers get involved, there is going to be a massacre.”
“A hotspot?”
Jed rolled his eyes. “Do you think I’m the only powered guy here? Everybody in this room could be undocumented. The Corps is here to sniff all of you out. If they catch you, it’s off to the facility.”
“Dammit, Gretch,” Conthan muttered. He looked to the man next to him and realized how dire it could be. “There’s a back door. You can get out.”
“What?”
“The humans are fine, let’s get you out of here. At least this way you’re less likely to pop your top.”
“You’re insufferable,” Jed said.
“I’ve been told.”
They watched as one of the Corps soldiers took a punch to the face. The man’s head hardly moved from the impact. His hand shot out and grabbed his assailant. His grip tightened on the protester’s neck and the man spasmed as electricity began to surge through the soldier’s hand. “Your peaceful protest is now in violation of the law.”
Conthan could see the crowd beginning to push away from the gallery lobby, lining the walls and sheltering themselves from the gaze of the Corps soldier. The cyborg’s vision landed on Conthan and his companion and the officer froze. “Class III detected.”
“Shit.”
Conthan pushed Jed into the crowd thick of the crowd. They began to work through the wall of bodies. “What if you waited?” Conthan asked. “Not like you did anything wrong.”
“I was born wrong,” Jed shouted back. “I’ll be seen as part of a non-peaceful protest and in violation of the law.”
“Children of Nostradamus don’t pay fines with money.”
“Shit.”
They reached the door into the back alley and Conthan flung it open. He stuck his head out. “All clear.” They jumped narrow road behind the gallery and slammed the door behind them. He looked down the way to the street with cars passing by. They started walking at a brisk pace, nearing their freedom.
Both men froze as a figure landed in front of them, falling into a crouch. The shadow looked up and they recognized the glow from the eyes. “Shit.”
“Jed Zappens, you have been found in breach of your release agreement.”
Conthan put his hand up, trying to block the Child. “He had nothing to do with this. He’s an innocent bystander. We’re leaving peacefully.”
The figure raised his hand and Conthan could see he had a gun. “Whoa, calm down, he said. “We had nothing to do with what is going on back there.”
“Stand down, human,” the figure’s voice said.
Conthan realized he was standing in front of his fellow artist. It had been unintentional, but he couldn’t let something like a rowdy crowd cost a man his life. He put up both of his hands. “Let us go.”
“Any further discussion will be seen as an act of aggression. Jed Zappens will be terminated.”
“No.”
Conthan felt his arm being pulled just as he saw the red light begin to protrude from the end of the gun. Jed yanked him backward, stepping between him and their assailant. In that moment he felt panic, anger and the disgust at what was happening. The entire alley lit up red as the light pierced Jed.
Time began to slow down and a surge of pain emigrated from the pit of his stomach. It crawled at a pace that felt surreal. He watched the light emerge from Jed’s back. With only inches between him and sudden death, the pain in Conthan’s chest built as if it would rip through him. Conthan’s vision blurred and he could see a single dark spot form in front of him. The laser hit the dark spot and vanished into nothingness.
He fell to his knees as time sped back up. He reached for his chest and realized that he was still whole.
“Class I identified,” said the Corps soldier. “Immediate termination.”
Conthan looked up, confused, and realized that the gun was pointing directly at his face. He watched as the soldier pulled the trigger and the pain surged through his brain.
“Not today.” It was his voice, but he wasn’t speaking.
He realized he wasn’t in control of his actions as he held up his hand and pushed the pain through his body to his palms. The black spot returned and he watched as the laser emerged from the gun and vanished into another dark hole. He could see a similar spot appear just to the side of the soldier. The laser projected outward from the darkness, searing through the soldier’s head.
Conthan felt the pain release his body. He fell to the ground. He lay next to a gasping Jed Zappens. Conthan turned his head to see the man. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Jed sucked in a ragged breath and blinked several times, tears beginning to stream down his face. He reached into his breast pocket and dragged out an old folded envelope. “For you,” he said through clenched teeth.
Conthan’s voice had left him. He wanted to scream for a medic but he couldn’t find air enough to fill his lungs. He started to reach for the envelope but hesitated before snatching it from the dead man’s hands. He crushed it in his grasp as he watched the light vanish from the artist’s eyes.
“Run,” said a voice.
Conthan rolled his head to see that there was nobody left standing in the alley. He sucked in air and tried to sit upright. “Hello?”
“Run!”
He didn’t dare question the voice. In front of him was a dead Corps soldier and a dead artist. He moved through the alley and finally out into the street. His feet picked up speed, his stumbling turning to a fast run. There was no stopping him as fear set in.
He had killed a Corps soldier. He was now marked for death. As he ran, he could hear the echo of the soldier’s words. “Class I,” he had said. Conthan couldn’t shake the feeling that life as he knew it was over.
***
“That’s our cue,” said a portly man. He stopped leaning against the wall and started turning up the cuffs on his dress shirt. He reached up and loosened the tie tightly wrapped around his neck.
“And here I was beginning to think you looked handsome,” said a young female holding a flute of white wine.
“Alyssa,” he said, “you flatterer.”
“I take back all the comments about you needing sit-ups,” she said, giving his belly a rub.
He chuckled. The room was descending into chaos as patrons tried to push their way past one another. Outside, the fight between the anti-powers coalition and the Children sympathizers became physical. Cops in riot gear were beginning to step over the broken glass and come into the gallery itself. As law enforcement blocked the exits, the crowd of fringe artists screamed, trying to get away from the confrontation.
“What’s the plan, Dwayne?”
The man tossed the tie onto the floor, stepping into the crowd. He turned to the exit Conthan charged toward. He watched the two artists escape through the door. He rubbed his thumb across the tips of his fingers. As he sped up the motion, small sparks began to form.
“We keep them away from those doors.”
She nodded. Without missing a beat she tapped the flute against the wall, the glass shattering to the ground, leaving the sharp stem. She walked closer to the policeman reaching for his weapon. A protester charged the policeman, using the wood of his sign as a spear.
Dwayne began shaking his fists, the small sparks now leaping off his hands. He paused as Alyssa stepped between the officer and the protestor. She dropped quickly to one knee, jamming the flute stem into an officer’s leg. She used his momentum to flip him over her head and into another officer. The second cop grabbed for his weapon and looked down when he couldn’t find the grip.
Alyssa dropped out the magazine and removed the barrel of the gun. She used the butt of the gun and slammed it into the man’s helmet. He reached up to grab her hand but found she moved faster than expected. The young girl, barely old enough to be drinking, dropped to the floor, sweeping her leg outward, hooking it on his feet and sending him to the ground. As she spun around, she swung her hand downward, smacking him in the windpipe.
Dwayne smiled at the elegance with which she moved. She pulled the officer’s baton from his utility belt and stood up, meeting his eyes. “Are you going to start pulling your weight?”
He pointed behind her. She turned as protestors lunged at her. She spun the baton around, cracking the jaw of one man. He fell backward as she punched with the heel of her hand into the woman’s chest. The woman collapsed to the ground, hissing at the pain radiating through her body.
Dwayne stepped beside his comrade. He gave a slight shrug. “You seem to have things under control.”
“No thanks to you,” she said.
He threw out his hand, knocking her to the side as a man behind her raised a gun level with her head. Dwayne grabbed the firearm by the muzzle. Sparks jumped from his hand, passing through the gun, leaping across the skin of the man. Dwayne watched the familiar spasm as the electricity wrangled his heart, throwing it out of rhythm and sending him into cardiac arrest.
Alyssa hit the ground in a roll and bounced back to her feet. The hair on her neck stood on end as the air began to smell like burning hairspray. A soldier with a gun strapped across his chest stepped inside the broken window. The people were fleeing the scene, screaming as they recognized the black and red patch on the man’s sleeves.
“Corps,” she whispered.
“Not Genesis Division,” Dwayne shouted back to her.
Dwayne knocked the spasming man to the side just in time for the soldier to replace him. Dwayne held up his hands, sparks arcing between his fingers. The soldier reached out, th
e pain of the lightning burning his skin.
“You’ve—” Dwayne said as the man’s grip tightened. The mechanics in the soldier’s arm began to take over, “—got me now.”
A flash of light illuminated the room as a bolt of lightning jumped from Dwayne’s chest into the cyborg. The soldier’s weapon fell and the skin on his exposed chest melted away, along with the flesh of his arms.
The soldier picked up Dwayne and threw him back along the floor as if he weighed nothing. Dwayne watched the man wince, the pain starting to register. Even with neural inhibitors working in the soldier’s head, he was beginning to feel a stinging sensation along the charred skin. The soldier turned his attention to Dwayne’s companion.
Alyssa closed the distance between them and swung the club at the man’s head. The wood splintered as it connected with his jaw. Dwayne could hear her gasp. The amount of metal he must have inside to resist the blow was alarming. He had seen the cyborgs before, men in the military trading their flesh for synthetic parts, but this was even more than usual. He assumed the man was a casualty replacement, a wounded veteran turned into a robot to keep the military’s investment from dying.
The man reached out for her, his reflexes faster than the police officer’s. She knocked the hand to the side and shoved the splintered club into its upper arm. The man didn’t scream. She’d be pissed, she didn’t like when they refused scream. With the speed of his movements, Dwayne had to assume there wasn’t much human left.
She was fast. She was skilled. She wasn’t Dwayne. As the man grabbed her by the throat, she felt his strength threatening to crush her windpipe. She pulled the club from his forearm and drove it into his eye socket.
She braced her feet against the man’s chest and pushed off, launching herself backward along the floor. The soldier reached up to pull the spike from his eye as he started to wail. Alyssa averted her eyes from the screaming man falling to his knees. She stood up while Dwayne clambered next to her. The soldier stopped moving on the ground. Alyssa eyed Dwayne’s charred shirt and pink skin peeking through.
“We good?”
He looked back to the door, still firmly shut. “That should have given him plenty of time to get out of here.”
Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) Page 6