Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy

by Jennings Wright

  Almost asleep in the chair, Neahle felt a quilt being placed gently over her and her hair being smoothed back from her face. A gentle kiss was placed on her head; she didn’t know if it was from Hannah or Gilles. As she drifted off, she focused her thoughts on Gilles and what it would have been like to meet him in her world. She did not think about the dead First.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At midnight, Vasco and Monkey stood and brushed the dirt and leaves off their pants. They’d shared a dry, tasteless dinner of homemade granola bars and water, which hadn’t been particularly impressive. Since then, Marty had alternated between needing to use the bathroom and wanting to fall asleep. He finally asked where he could do the former and was shown a bush.

  The three walked, skirting the riverbank, for a quarter mile, then slipped into the darkness between two small industrial buildings that had long been abandoned. Marty could barely see Monkey, whom he was supposed to be following, and missed it when the Mayan slipped through a doorway. Jogging past, he stopped suddenly when someone grabbed the back of his shirt.

  “What?” Marty started to yell, then found a hand over his mouth. He started to panic before realizing it was Vasco.

  “Stay with us!” he hissed in Marty’s ear. Vasco led him through the dark door into an even darker space beyond.

  “Where are we?” Marty asked.

  “We keep some bikes here. Painted the windows black. Can you ride?” Monkey clicked on a tiny pen light and pointed it at an old dirt bike propped up on its stand.

  Marty shook his head.

  “Behind me then,” Monkey said, walking to a slightly larger road bike. He climbed on, kicked the start, and motioned for Marty to join him. When Marty was securely behind, one hand gripping the small bar at the back of the seat and the other arm around Monkey’s waist, Monkey clicked off the penlight. Vasco’s bike purred to life. The motorcycles didn’t have large engines and weren’t loud, but in the small space and the silence of the deserted city the sound made Marty jump.

  Monkey turned his head and looked over his shoulder. “Hold on. When I stop, get off. If I run, you run. Don’t speak. If you lose me, follow the river south, back here.” He raised his eyebrows to make sure Marty understood, then nodded and turned around. The bikers went through the narrow doorway and turned left, back towards the street.

  Marty had only ridden on a motorcycle once in his life, when his Uncle Mike, Clay’s dad, had taken him down Front Street in Beaufort. He had been ten, and Clay’s helmet had been so big that it kept sliding down over his eyes. He hadn’t understood that he needed to lean with the bike and had felt like he was constantly about to fall off. When his uncle deposited him back in the driveway, Marty had decided he would be happy never to ride another motorcycle for the rest of his days.

  This ride made that one look like the Dumbo ride at Disney. Vasco and Monkey flew down the Quai de la Megisserie, keeping the Seine on their left. Neither turned on their lights and no one wore a helmet. The one time Marty dared to look at the speedometer, it read one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. He didn’t look again.

  There were no longer any traffic rules, or, if there were the men ignored them. No stopping for stop signs, stop lights, or crosswalks. They barely slowed for curves and turns. Marty put his head down and closed his eyes, trying to hold on and lean when he was supposed to. And he prayed. Hard and out loud.

  After fifteen minutes, they stopped and Marty heard Monkey say “Off!” He jumped off, looking around for Vasco. They were under a canopy of trees in a park next to an old bridge. Across the river, Marty could see the outline of buildings but no lights. Looking west, though, Marty could see a vague haze of buildings and street lights.

  “What’s that?” he whispered, pointing.

  “La Defense,” Monkey answered. “Home of the Firsts. Come on.”

  Leaving the bikes behind a row of overgrown decorative shrubs, Vasco led them through the park to the edge of the bridge. He crouched down and Monkey followed suit. Marty knelt on one knee beside them.

  “This is the most dangerous part. You’ve got to stay low, below the level of the rail. We’ve got to stay on the shadowed side. When we get across, turn right and stop behind the bus shelter. If something happens on the bridge, dive off. The current will take you downstream. Stay underwater as much as you can, come up quick for breaths, then dive deep. There’s a dock a half a mile down. Swim to that, stay in the water, and wait. Got it?” Vasco looked at him intently.

  “Dive off?” Marty asked. He looked at the bridge. It wasn’t terribly high, but still, it was probably at least a twenty or thirty foot drop, and the night was dark. There were immense stone columns holding up the bridge, which, if you dove off the wrong side, would crush you as the current hurled you forward.

  “Dive off,” Vasco confirmed.

  “Sure, no problem.” Marty wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it, so he just prayed he wouldn’t have to.

  The moon was only a crescent, and there were clouds in the sky, so visibility was at a minimum. The bridge was dim; it was only by the slightest degree that the far side was more shadowed than the near. Vasco went first, then Marty, then Monkey, and Marty knew that he had to follow Vasco in speed and posture exactly, or Monkey would be on him. His quads burned like the time his gym teacher had introduced them to plyometrics. Boy, would Mr. Jenkins like to know about this workout, Marty thought grimly.

  Fast and low, the men ran the quarter mile across and turned right. When Vasco straightened up and ran flat out, Marty followed suit. He could hear Monkey’s footsteps behind him. Coming to a stop behind a stone shelter, Vasco bent at the waist and took deep gulps of air. Marty sat down and leaned back against the wall.

  “Okay, that was fun. Not,” he said. “There’s not even anybody here.”

  “Not tonight,” Monkey agreed. He took a bottle of water from his back pack and took a swig. “There have been.”

  “Firsts?” Marty asked.

  “Street people,” Vasco said. “Most of the real crazies have been killed by the Firsts—the ones who were truly insane or addicts who couldn’t understand that they needed to stay hidden. But there are gangs out here. They’re only out for themselves. They find or make drugs and alcohol and they prey on the weak. Sometimes they kill Firsts, but sometimes they kill our people, or rebels, or some of the people who are somewhere in between.”

  “In between what?” Marty asked.

  Vasco sat down next to him. “Not everyone is a warrior, Marty. And not everyone is a criminal. Most of the people who found a way to escape the Firsts fled the city. They scrape out an existence in hovels in the mountains or forests. But sometimes they need things and they come to the city to scavenge: clothes, medicines, even weapons. These people, they just want to be left alone by everyone. We talk to them if we can, try to make them understand the need to bring down the Firsts, but few will listen. They’re free to choose that, even if I disagree.”

  “If I could choose, I’d probably go live in Jordan and take up fishing,” Marty said, feeling the pulse in his neck with his fingers. “This is pretty insane.”

  Vasco smiled. “Yep, it is. Pretty insane. But we can beat them or we wouldn’t have been brought here. And if we win, then there are a whole lot of people who will be free again. That’s what you have to keep in mind.” He stood, pulling Marty to his feet.

  “We’re almost there now. You may not like all the running around and hiding, but I guarantee you’ll like this next part.” Nodding at Monkey, he took off again, jogging into the myriad old buildings on the island.

  The computer station was housed in a huge bank vault. Cable had been run all over the floor, coming from holes that had been drilled through the ceiling outside the metal structure. Two men in their twenties and a teenage girl looked up when they walked in. All smiled hello but went right back to
the screens in front of them. Marty stopped at the door, dumbstruck.

  Four large conference tables had been set up in the vault, making a square. On top of the tables were at least twenty computers of various kinds. Laptops sat side by side with personal towers, but three commercial servers were set in the middle of the large square. Everything was lit up, and the only sound was the tapping of keyboards.

  “There’s power!” Marty said, stating the obvious.

  “Yep. It took us two years, but we’ve run cable from La Defense’s grid. Landon brought over this genius kid Boz about six years ago. His dad was some kind of electrical engineer guru and he knows all about power, internet, all kinds of stuff. We’ve started tapping the grids in all the major cities we can access and are slowly setting up computer centers. We’ve only got four right now, but Boz has plans for at least a dozen.” Vasco went over to the techs and looked over their shoulders.

  “That’s freaking amazing,” Marty breathed, walking over to the table. There were Macs and HPs and Dells and some that looked hand made. Most of the monitors were at least seventeen inches, with a few massive thirty inch screens taking up space. The screensavers spelled out “Save the Planet” across multiple screens.

  “Cute…” he muttered.

  “So Marty,” Vasco finally said. “Can you do something with this?”

  Looking up from the top-of-the-line MacBook Pro he’d been fooling with, Marty grinned. “Oh, yeah…”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clay lost himself in the work for two hours and found that he was more relaxed and clear headed than he’d been since they’d followed those stupid ducks into the pipe. He gave the MGC a thorough servicing and cleaned years of brake dust, oil spillage, and rust off the carriage. Samson laughed when he saw it.

  “You gettin’ her ready for a show?”

  “Nah, just enjoying working with my hands again. I like mechanical stuff. It’s like puzzles, keeps your brain working all the time. And this bike is sweet, man!” He rubbed a hand lovingly over the small leather seat.

  “Sweet but loud,” Samson said. “You done?”

  “Yeah. Got anything else?”

  Shaking his head, Samson threw him a rag. “There’s a bunk room in the back. We’re supposed to stay here until Vasco comes back; we’ll eat, hit the rack, and start looking at the records tomorrow. The rebels are supposed to write down mileage in a log for each bike, so we know when to service them. That’s hit and miss. On the ones that don’t have good records, we’ll just do a quick look-see. That should keep us busy awhile.”

  Clay looked around the warehouse at the dozens of motorcycles parked in rows. “How many are there?”

  “We got about a hundred, but they’re not all here now. We stash them in strategic places around the city, some for our use, some for the rebels. Plus another dozen are out of service because we haven’t found replacement parts yet. The tunnels help a lot there, but it takes time and usually I have to go, or another of the outsiders who’s at least a little familiar with bikes. We try to keep a good supply on the shelves, but some of these are old or pretty rare, so we do what we can.”

  “And every city is like this one, with a Depot?” Clay asked.

  “Sure. In some places the rebels have some pretty mean mechanics, some of the older guys who were around before the war. And they’re taking apprentices on, teaching them. I can’t be everywhere at once!”

  Clay followed the big man into the bunk room and was glad to see a small battery-powered burner, a pot, plates and a small row of basic spices.

  “Ready for some dinner?” Samson asked, opening his backpack.

  “Starved,” Clay said.

  “Won’t be fancy.” He pulled out a plastic container, pulled off the top, and dumped the contents into the pot. Looking over his shoulder, Clay saw it was beans.

  “Just gotta heat it up. Will makes this up for me most days, unless there’s some fresh meat. This here’s got venison in it, some of those greens, even a little potato and carrot. Sticks to your ribs.” He stirred it as he turned on the burner.

  Clay sat down on the mattress nearby. “So… You ever kill anyone here?”

  Samson glanced over at him, then turned back to the pot. “Couple of Firsts. One gang banger.” He was silent.

  When it was obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate, Clay asked, “What happened?”

  “Gang banger followed me here one time. I was by myself, doing an emergency tire repair for Rebel Four. They were mid-op and needed to make sure they could get away from a lab they were sabotaging. Anyway, I thought I was being pretty stealth, but, well, I’m kinda big, and I guess I wasn’t being the most quiet. It’s a little nerve wracking out there alone, you know? So I get in here and see the bike, go over to the shelf for the plug kit, and next thing I know, this guy jumps me. He’s got a freakin’ big hunting knife and he’s trying to slit my throat, but he’s not too big and I think he was hopped up on something.” He stirred the pot, then looked over at Clay. “I managed to get the knife, and I stuck him with it. I didn’t aim or nothin’, I just got it, turned it, and pushed. Turned out to be beginner’s luck, because it went right up into his heart and he died instantly. There wasn’t even that much blood because his heart stopped beating.” He shook his head. “I don’t even like killing Firsts, to tell you the truth, but at least they’re not human. And they sure don’t care about us. This guy, he was probably just a junkie. They make meth in some of the houses, especially down on the south side. Maybe he was a rebel once, before it got too much for him, I don’t know. Landon said it couldn’t be helped, and he was right—if I hadn’t killed him, he woulda killed me for sure. And we’d have lost all the bikes and parts, too, mostly likely. But still, I don’t want to make it a habit.”

  He pulled over two bowls and portioned out the beans equally between them. Sticking in a spoon, he handed one to Clay and took a seat on a wooden chair. They both dug in, hungry after almost a full day not eating. When they were done, Clay took the bowls and set them down on the small table used as a counter.

  “I’ll get some water and we can wash those up later,” Samson said.

  “What about the Firsts?” Clay asked.

  “Firsts?” Samson said. “We’re good here, leastwise we ain’t ever had Firsts nosing around before.”

  “No, the ones you killed…” Clay said.

  Samson stared at him a long while. “I was on mission in Osaka. Not doing mechanic stuff, we were trying to take out a new breeding facility on the outskirts of the city. This was last year. Not sure if we had bad intel or what. We were working with some local rebel groups. When you get so many people involved, things can go sideways. So there were eight of us and three local cells, close to forty people altogether. The facility was in a converted hospital. Vasco and Abacus had drawn up a plan to get some of us inside, some of us planting explosives outside… I was supposed to go in and set charges in the mechanical room in the basement, take out the a/c, the generator, all that.” He sighed. “I got the charges set and left the room. The door went into the employee locker room. I walked past all those lockers and turned the corner, and there were two Firsts just standing there pointing their guns at me.”

  “Firsts, they don’t really do the whole, ‘talk first, shoot later’ thing. They know if you’re not one of them, you’re either supposed to be dead or implanted. There’s no negotiating or stalling or anything like that. It’s not like the movies. I got into a football stance and tackled them.” He laughed. “They didn’t expect that, at least. And those guys, they’re not that big or strong. Exercise isn’t on their to-do list. Both of them went down, I got the gun from one and shot them.”

  “Just like that?” Clay asked.

  “Just like that. Until you meet one, it’s hard to explain. None of us really understands how they passed for human all th
ose years. They got dead eyes, you know? Like the captain says in Jaws, ‘the thing about a shark... he’s got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll’s eyes. When he comes at ya, he doesn’t seem to be living…’ Well, Firsts are like that. They come at you, and you realize they don’t have souls. There’s a body and a brain, but there’s no heart, no love, no compassion. Just pure thought. It feels like you shot a doll. Or maybe a shark. Certainly not a person.”

  Clay was silent as he stretched out on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about what Samson had said. Samson extinguished the lantern and moved to a mattress and stretched out, pulling a light blanket up to his chin, leaving his feet exposed.

  “You asleep?” Clay asked him after a half hour.

  Samson stirred and groaned. “I was. What’s up?”

  “How does the prison work? The moving around, I mean. Are there people on the ground who work there, bring supplies, stuff like that?”

  “We don’t really know much about how it works. We do know that there are twenty-six locations where they send it. For at least twenty years the prison has gone to those same twenty-six places. We’ve crunched it in the computer, we’ve written it out on paper, we’ve talked about it six ways from Sunday, but there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to it. And we know that, in each of those twenty-six locations, they have enough advance notice that they can get provisions in. They find out maybe a week or two ahead. Not enough time for us to get anything in place.”

  Clay was thinking. “And they don’t think it’s randomly generated by a computer?”