by John Dixon
“Each year, the ancient Incas selected a child to symbolize the sun god,” the bearded man said—a strange statement that brought Carl around. He replayed the man’s words in his mind, just to be certain he’d heard them correctly, and realized yes, he had. Each year, the ancient Incas selected a child to symbolize the sun god. Huh?
The man gestured. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thanks,” Carl said, “but we’ll be out of your hair as soon as she—”
“I insist,” the man said.
Carl sat. Come on, Octavia. Let’s get out of here.
“Being chosen as the symbolic sun god was a tremendous honor. Parents groomed their children and displayed them before the emperor, who chose only one—the perfect child.” With the other guests gone, the man seemed far away in his throne at the end of the table, and Carl was even more aware of their surroundings, the bright green grass and gurgling fountains and guards almost but not quite hidden here and there among the trees and topiaries.
“Imagine,” the man said, and snapped his fingers. “Peasant to godling in an instant.”
Carl raised his brows, trying for wow.
“From abject suffering to absolute splendor,” the man said. “Worshippers paraded the child from village to village, holding decadent feasts in its honor.”
Carl nodded, pretending interest, and glanced again across the meadow. Nothing.
The man regarded him, looking amused, then sipped his wine. “Finally, when the feasts ended, the parade wound up the mountain, where priests sacrificed the beautiful child.”
“That’s awful,” Carl said.
The man shrugged. “Is it? Would you prefer thirty years of misery and squalor, or ten years of grooming ending with feasts and crowds of adoring worshippers?”
“Look, I don’t want to hold you up,” Carl said, and hooked a thumb toward the archway. “I’ll go wait for her over there, and you can go do your ritual or whatever.”
“Oh no,” the man said, waving dismissively. “Do you really think me so poor a host?” He gave a short whistle, and a patch of darkness detached itself from a nearby tree—one of the muscular Krebs hawks, Carl realized—swooped down and landed on the table, where it tilted its head and stared at up the bearded man with bright yellow eyes.
“Amazing creatures,” the man said, and signaled a servant. “Observant and highly trainable.” He reached out and stroked the bird’s head.
The bird’s beak vibrated rapidly, producing a chittering sound.
“That’s neat,” Carl said, just to say something, and turned toward the arch again. His stomach churned. Come on, Octavia.
A servant brought the man a silver plate topped in strips of red meat oozing blood.
“Tell me, Carl,” the man said. “Are you trainable?”
“You know my name, then,” Carl said, not bothering to feign surprise.
“Of course,” the man said. He pinched a strip of meat between thumb and forefinger and dangled it before the bird. The Krebs hawk gently pulled the bloody offering into its beak. “I research all guests. Can’t be too careful these days. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Carl nodded, trying to seem relaxed. He didn’t like the bird’s yellow eyes, the blood on its beak, or the way it bobbed its head back and forth, choking the meat down whole.
“Carl Freeman,” the man said, “age seventeen, orphaned son of a fallen Philadelphia police officer, sentenced several months ago to Phoenix Island on repeated charges of assault. Now . . . tell me about the chip.”
The request sucker punched Carl, but his mind fired quickly—no sense playing dumb; this wasn’t some wild guess, after all; Stark must have told him—so he rolled with it, saying matter-of-factly, “What about it?”
The man offered a smile nearly as bright as his golden mask. “I know you were holding back in the ring. How fast are you really? How strong?”
“Pretty fast,” he said, deciding to admit the same basics he’d given Stark, figuring the guy already knew anyway. “I’m faster than I am strong, but I can hit pretty hard. Speed is power.”
“Indubitably,” the man said, and fed the bird another strip of raw meat. “What a shame it is we weren’t able to see a full display of your powers. Stark’s golden boy . . .”
Carl just looked at him.
“You’re not entirely dissimilar to him,” the man said.
“To Stark?” Carl said. Whatever this guy knew about him, he was way off on that one.
“Warrior poets, brains and brawn. Stark and Freeman.” The man chuckled. “Stark and Freeman . . . sounds like a moving company, doesn’t it?”
Carl forced a smile. “I guess.”
“When Stark came to me, he had one foot on this side of the Styx and the other in Charon’s raft to Hades.” The man paused, seeming to expect questions. When Carl asked none, he continued. “In Afghanistan, the shot callers dropped Stark and his men into a region they’d all but resigned to the Taliban. Stark saw the situation there for what it was and understood that his two directives—the rules of engagement and his mission to stabilize the region—were in direct opposition. He reacted logically, ignoring the rules and prioritizing the mission . . . with fantastic success.
“Enemy activity in the region dropped to near nonexistence. The rear echelon brass celebrated Stark as a hero. He was incredibly charismatic, and they used him to stir morale across the theater and to win favor with politicians at home. Then reports of atrocities surfaced. Torture. Villages burned. Mass graves filled with noncombatants. Heads displayed on spikes as warnings. He was winning the war—but at what cost?”
Carl shifted in his seat. It was all too easy to picture Stark doing these things.
“Suddenly, Stark presented a problem,” the man said. “Their golden boy had been up to some very dark business in the hinterlands. Not exactly winning the hearts and minds. They couldn’t allow him to continue—the scandal, if they were discovered!—and yet they also couldn’t afford to publicly acknowledge his war crimes. To troops in the region, he was more than a hero. He was a legend. If the brass persecuted Stark, they would spark an unwinnable PR war on two fronts: outraged media around the world and outraged troops in the field. In the end, unwilling to ignore or condemn, they made a decision so coldly pragmatic that even Stark might condone its savage utility. They directed his convoy straight into an enemy ambush.”
“That’s horrible,” Carl said.
“Indeed,” the man said, feeding the bird another strip of meat. “After the IED overturned his Humvee and the Taliban hammered it with RPGs and AK-47s, American artillery obliterated everything. The Taliban and the Americans. Later, investigations were launched, apologies were tendered, and a few low-level heads rolled. The brass had solved their problem. Or so they assumed. . . .
“But Stark not only survived, he understood. Even as the American bombs were crashing down, he told his soldiers what was happening. That’s why, after the column had been reduced to smoking ruins, Stark’s two surviving troopers—both of them grievously wounded yet fueled by fanaticism—did not wait for American support to arrive. They understood that if their warrior king ended up in an army hospital, the brass would never allow him to survive surgery. So they hauled him across the desert on foot—one of the men hobbling on a broken leg—and brought him to a village, where a pair of private contractors, German brothers who specialized in delivering armored vehicles across Afghanistan, delivered him to frankly the only place on earth capable of saving him, a medical facility within a laboratory compound owned and operated by yours truly.”
“You saved his life,” Carl said.
“More than that,” the man said. “I rebuilt him. I personally oversaw each step and used every resource at my disposal. Over time, he healed. Then became more. And as I guided his rehabilitation and facilitated his education, he became more than a patient to me. He became a son.”
Carl sipped his water. The story went a long way in explaining Stark—and dovetailed into Octavia’s cl
aims about the Few and the bearded man.
“As I said, I see similarities between the two of you,” the man said, “but watching you in the ring, I recognized differences, as well. You’re merciless enough when you decide to destroy an opponent, but unlike Stark, you harbor a curious restraint.”
Nodding toward his bandaged arm, Carl said, “Well, I broke my arm.”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “You let him break your arm. This hesitation of yours is a mystery to me. Strange, almost charming . . . like a gap between the front teeth of a beautiful girl.”
Carl shrugged. “I guess I don’t like wrecking people if I don’t have to.”
“Stark would have decimated his opponents, though, don’t you agree?”
“Yeah, I guess probably he would.”
The man tossed a piece of meat into the air, and the bird snatched with a sharp clack. “And tonight, at dinner, would Stark have challenged the other champions?”
“I don’t know,” Carl said. “I mean, if he had a broken arm? I don’t know.”
The man touched one bloody finger to the tip of his tongue. “Yes, you do know. He would have challenged them both, and he never would have declined a direct challenge . . . but you did.”
“You want to fight that kid?” Carl said.
The man looked at him for a second, saying nothing, then pushed the meat plate forward. The bird plunged its beak into the red mess. “In my pantheon,” the man said—and the word pantheon jabbed Carl like a thumbtack—“I am Zeus. Stark is my son . . . Ares, god of war. Brash, fearless, savage, an unprecedented wonder of destruction. I know that you are a like a son to him, and he describes you as a young Apollo—the sun god, bright and bold and handsome, but with a terrible temper, the oracular god of Delphi, god of prophecy and truth.” He held up one finger. “But, of course, Stark’s missing the point. Apollo wasn’t the son of Ares. The god of war had two sons, both by his sister-wife, Discord: Phobos and Deimos. Which are you, Fear or Terror?”
“Neither,” Carl said, not liking the guy’s tone, which had gone from jovial to accusatory. “Look, I appreciate you sitting with me, but I’m going to go check on Margarita.”
“Margarita,” the man said in a disgusted voice. He slammed a fist on the table, toppling goblets. The bird squawked and flapped away. “You’re no Apollo—and certainly no god of truth. You’re Hermes. Not just messenger to the gods, but conveyor of souls to the underworld. Patron of thieves and liars. Tell me, O trickster god, who is she, and what are you doing here?”
“What are trying to say?” Carl said, buying time now, urging Octavia to hurry up. Things were falling apart. . . .
“Do you really think I rose to power through stupidity? I know all about your chip and the one in Decker.” The man smiled, seeming to savor Carl’s surprise. “You recognized him during dinner, didn’t you? Delicious, watching that unfold. I know everything. Stark’s promise of promotion, your midnight meetings with the girl—oh, you didn’t know I was watching, eh? What did the two of you discuss?”
Carl shrugged, his mind racing. His own temper was rising—this guy, who had caused everything, Phoenix Island, the death of Ross, everything, coming at him now—but he had to keep it in check, had to play stupid long enough to get Octavia and get out of here. No sense denying the meeting. The Few must have cameras down there. “I told her she was pretty.”
“Lies!” the man bellowed, and struck the table again. He hunched forward, making the light glint off his golden mask, and pointed at Carl. “There is no record of you and Margarita sharing a placement . . . and yet as soon as you arrived here, the two of you arranged your midnight rendezvous.”
Carl faked a smile. “Guess she thought I was pretty, too.”
“This wasn’t some clumsy make-out session. The two of you talked—argued, by the looks of it—and then surveyed my boats. Strange first date, wouldn’t you agree?”
“So she showed me the boats. Big deal. They’re weird.”
“Weird,” the man said, drawing it out. “Not so weird, I assure you, as feeling your little friend trying to peek behind my mask tonight.”
Carl shifted in his chair. He’d felt her mapping him? “What do you mean?”
“No more games,” the man said. “Out with it. Stark reported no successful chipping of a female, yet she’s clearly a gamma. Stark’s up to something—some power play at last—and you’re obviously one more acolyte in his cult of personality. Who is the girl?”
“I told you—”
“Your spotter?”
“What?”
“Spotter—the sniper’s eyes . . . that’s the correct term, isn’t it? She verifies the target, and the assassin strikes. Is that what you’ve become, Carl Freeman? An assassin? Did you come here to kill me?”
Carl scrunched up his face. “No . . . this is crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, I’m done listening. Thanks for dinner.” He stood.
“Sit down,” the man said.
Carl just stood there, glaring back at him. “You want to know about Margarita, ask her. You got a problem with Stark, talk to him. I came here to fight. That’s it. And yeah, the promotion. You wanted a show, and I gave it to you.”
“Not yet, you haven’t,” the man said, and snapped his fingers overhead.
Burly servers in red togas stepped from behind trees and fountains and statues. Now, instead of bearing trays or ladles, they carried short batons of coiled steel.
Turning to the bearded man, Carl pretended confusion. “Take it easy. I’ll talk. I just don’t know what to tell—”
“Too late,” the man said. “What I want from the girl, I’ll take, and I’ll have Stark groveling at my feet before you can say Et tu, Brute? As to you, perhaps now we’ll see how well you can really fight.”
That’s it, Carl thought. I’m out of here. But as he twisted, he saw red togas stepping through doors, from behind hedges, and at least a dozen double-timing it out of the distant archway. No way out—and no way to fight all of them. That left only one option.
He swept a fork into his fist. “Call them off, or I’ll drive this straight through your heart.”
“Fascinating,” the man said. He stood, a smile coming onto his face. “The wolf at bay.”
Carl started around the table, thinking, Get to him now, before it’s too late. Get the fork under his jaw. Take him hostage and get out of here.
The man raised his arm, and a dark cloud rushed from his sleeve straight at Carl’s face.
Carl closed his eyes and raised his hands, but the cloud engulfed him. Electricity flooded through him with the force of a dozen Tasers, and his skin burned as if he’d been dipped in acid. A gagging stench like road-killed skunk filled his nose and mouth, choking him. He fell to the ground, screaming and convulsing. Retching, unable to control his muscles, he tumbled into a confusion of panic. He had to get away from the electricity and the burning and that awful stench, but he couldn’t move. . . .
By the time the pain, spasms, and nausea abated, guards had shackled and surrounded him. He sagged, muscles spent and twitching, between two red togas. His burning eyes streamed tears, and his nose streamed mucous.
“Hose him off, dress him in fighting trunks, and throw him in a cell,” the bearded man said, sounding almost bored. “We’ll give him a little time to recover, and then we’ll announce the exciting news: he has accepted the challenge of Fighter 47.”
THIRTY-FIVE
OCTAVIA DIDN’T BOTHER trying to replace the louvered vent grate. Sooner or later—and the answer was sooner, she believed—they were going to quit pounding on the bathroom door and either find a key or shoot off the lock. Right now, speed mattered more than stealth.
Fear sharpened her senses. This was not the tentative and cluttering fear of worry; this was real fear, survival fear, and she moved through the dark ductwork as surely as she might navigate a well-lit corridor.
Reaching the vertical duct, she slid deftly into its shaft, pressed
her feet and back into its walls, and shimmy-walked down to the next floor.
She swung into the horizontal shaft that flanked the main hall but paused before crawling toward her apartment. She couldn’t afford to burn five minutes traveling to an empty room.
Julio was in the room—she felt him there as soon as she pushed in that direction—but he wasn’t alone.
Oh no.
Others—three, four . . . six . . . eight—were also there. Three surrounded him. The others were scattered through the apartment, moving things, searching.
The sketches . . .
She hustled along the ductwork in the direction of the apartment. By the time she rounded the corner into the hall, she no longer needed to map the unfolding situation. She could hear it.
The door banged open, and someone—Julio, she thought—shouted. She heard grunting and thumping—a scuffle. Reaching the grate overlooking the hall, she hissed with fear. A team of red togas was carrying an unconscious Julio toward the elevator. At the rear of the pack, the gigantic Russian with the red triangle tattoo lumbered after them, her sketches gripped in one cannonball fist.
Her emotions spun over a pit of terror, but she called upon courage and logic. She could do nothing for Julio now. The sketches were lost. All she could do was run. She had to get out of the Cauldron and off the mountain range, where she could signal SI3.
She needed her parka and boots, some water, and a flashlight. There wasn’t time for much else, and she already had the knife, which she unstrapped from her leg. She popped the vent free, dropped to the hallway floor, hurried to her room, started to reach for the ID pad, and—almost as an afterthought—used her mind to scan beyond the door.
Her heart jumped.
Someone was inside her apartment, just beyond the door, waiting . . . for her, no doubt. And not just someone, she realized, but two someones.
Cursing herself for not thinking to count the people in the hall—so stupid!—she gathered up the long fabric of her dress and sprinted back to the ductwork. She tucked the knife into her teeth like a pirate, jumped, grabbed the ductwork opening, and kicked her way up the wall and into the shaft.