Unity

by Jeremy Robinson

  I look for the Unity cruiser, expecting to see the massive vessel split in two and burning, hiding my real mother’s corpse somewhere in its bowels. But it’s not there. It’s either sunk completely, or it’s someplace else, but also probably sunk.

  “That’s what we saw,” Gizmo says, eyes on the crater. “That’s what crashed in the ocean. It was one of those.”

  I look at the giant pod again and realize he’s right. The size and shape match, and they both fell from the sky.

  “What are they?” Ghost asks.

  “I think the more relevant question,” Daniel says, “is what was inside them?”

  The view onscreen zooms in a little closer. The revealed interior looks almost meaty, like it’s still moist and oozing some kind of viscous gel. Padding for whatever was inside. A fleshy version of the rapid expanding foam.

  “There’s a trail,” Daniel says, and our view shifts to the right, following a path. Though the entire city has been knocked over, forming a kind of sun design around the crater, there is a long streak of compacted rubble where something heavy passed by.

  “What could have done that?” Gwen asks.

  “Nothing good,” Hutch says.

  The path leads north, moving its way through the endless city that is the coast of Southern California. There are no crashed pods here. No carriers or small craft. But the destruction seems nearly as complete. Entire neighborhoods still stand, but the path of destruction meanders a bit. Whatever moved through there lingered from time to time.

  And then, all at once, we see it.

  For a moment, I feel like we’re watching a cheesy, Japanese monster movie. What did Daniel call them? Daikaiju. But the thing on the screen is very real, and at the moment, it’s wreaking havoc on a city south of Los Angeles. It’s hard to describe what I’m seeing. The thing has four legs, I think. Or it could be walking on its hands and feet. Its dark gray body looks like it’s covered in organic plating, like a rhino’s dermal armor. From high above, it looks like it’s trudging along, but its limbs are moving over, and sometimes through, buildings in a blink. A long tail sweeps out behind it, scouring the landscape. And its head, like a turtle’s, topped with four red eyes, nudges its way through the buildings ahead.

  Like its foraging.

  But its size, speed and rugged appearance seem almost normal compared to its most disturbing feature. Red worm-like tendrils writhe from the thing’s face, sides and tail, where the armor has pulled apart. Like whips, they snap out and withdraw, again and again, like each strand has a mind of its own. For a moment, I try to imagine the complexity of a brain capable of controlling that many appendages at once. Then I realize what it’s doing and nearly fall to my knees.

  “Closer,” Hutch says. He suspects the same thing, but needs to see it. I don’t want to, but I have to see it for myself.

  The image drops down closer, revealing the rough texture of the monster’s skin and twitching muscles the size of jets along its arms and legs.

  The tendrils continue their barrage, burrowing into rubble, retrieving small things and then snapping back into what looks like an array of lesions before emerging again.

  “Closer,” Hutch says.

  My stomach clenches. The gunshot wound throbs, leaking warm fluid, but I barely notice.

  A tendril, close up and in clear view, pounds through the wall of a partially destroyed building. It emerges a moment later, its prize impaled on the end like a teriyaki stick. A human being. Dead or alive, I can’t tell, but a moment later, a horde of frenzied tentacles penetrate the building, claiming more victims.

  A small group of people burst from the side of the building and run in the opposite direction. I count seven. The giant turns toward them, watching, but it doesn’t pursue them. It could catch them in a single stride, but it just lets them go.

  And then it doesn’t.

  While most of the tendrils keep digging through the rubble, others jut out at the people fleeing, wriggling madly. Even though the wavering appendages fall far short of touching the group, all seven people hit the ground. Some fall flat on their faces. Others roll to a stop.

  They writhe in the street like ants under a magnifying glass, tortured by something unseen.

  The daikaiju takes its time, plucking them up from the pavement.

  The tendrils retract inside the monster, reemerging a moment later, seeking out more victims.

  “Is it eating them?” Gwen asks.

  I turn to Vegas, whose tough exterior has crumbled. He looks wounded. There are people in the world he cares about. He sees me watching and says, “Life is rare.”

  I nod. “It’s valuable.”

  “Even more so when food—” he points up, “—out there, is scarce.”

  This isn’t an invasion.

  It’s a buffet.

  A heavy footstep makes everyone jump. We’d all forgotten about the very immediate and less massive threat to our own lives. Quinlan has taken another step toward Vegas, but his red strip of an eye is still fixed on me.

  “Quin,” Vegas says. “We have an enemy. We can fight them together. Don’t you see? That’s what the Shugoten are for. That’s why we’re here.”

  I can’t see Quinlan’s face, but I swear he’s smiling inside that suit.

  “The world is burning,” Quinlan says, “And as far as I’m concerned, let it. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. And this is the best seat in the house. I think I’ll keep it.” He cocks back the blade, lets out a battle cry and leaps down at Vegas.

  33

  The ExoFrame blade slides through the air, on a collision course for Vegas’s head. As fast and as strong as he is, there is no avoiding it.

  But there is something faster than Vegas.

  A loud twang, like a loose guitar string plucked too hard, rumbles through the air. Through my body as a quiver. And then, through Quinlan’s body.

  Shards of metal explode out from the shoulder of the ExoFrame’s functional arm. The limb goes loose, the blade no longer pointed at Vegas.

  But the big machine isn’t out of commission yet. Nor is its operator.

  Vegas dives away as Quinlan lands on his feet, lets out a digital roar and kicks where Vegas had been standing just a second before. A computer terminal shatters from the kick’s explosive force, spewing plastic debris and sparks. Had the heavy foot, propelled by small repulse engines, struck Vegas, his fate would have mirrored the terminal’s.

  With a fresh roar of anger, and maybe pain, Quinlan rounds on us. I get the sense that he’s about to enter some kind of berserker rage, kicking everything and everyone he can reach.

  But this time, he’s stopped by a surprisingly loud and commanding voice from Operation’s entryway. “Hey!”

  Quinlan looks up at Doli. She’s standing at the top of the stairs, pointing a weapon I don’t recognize down at the mech suit. Her eyes aren’t lost anymore. They’re dangerous.

  And so is she.

  There is no victory speech or explanation.

  And there is no mercy.

  Doli pulls the trigger, unleashing another twang.

  I’m not sure what kind of projectile the rifle fires, but its effects on the ExoFrame, and the man housed inside it, are immediate and brutal.

  The small hole that punches through the armored chest explodes out the back as a metal-strewn mess.

  Quinlan staggers back, arms dangling, managing a single digital gasp.

  “Found it!” Daniel shouts, smashing his finger onto his keyboard’s ‘Enter’ key, executing a command.

  Quinlan moves to leap out of Doli’s aim, a last ditch effort to save his life, but the suit freezes up, locked up by Daniel’s override. And then he’s shot again. Twang! The projectile must strike something impenetrably solid this time, because it doesn’t punch through. It lifts the entire suit off its feet, toppling the now lifeless machine over.

  There’s a moment of absolute stillness in the wake of Quinlan’s demise. I can’t decide which is more shock
ing, that Quinlan is dead, that Doli killed him or that she used some kind of insane future tech weapon to do it.

  Gwen is the first to move, hurrying up to Doli, who is starting to look a little glassy-eyed again. “You’re okay,” she says, gently taking the strange weapon away. “You’re safe now. We all are, thanks to you.”

  Hutch joins Gwen, and they lead Doli toward the exit, Gwen speaking quiet platitudes the whole way. Hutch gives me a quick look before leaving, shifting his eyes from me to the satellite feed and back again. He looks worried. And while that makes sense—he should be worried—I can’t help but feel disappointed in him. He’s supposed to be my rock. My support. But if he’s faltering, what does that say for the rest of us?

  Nothing, I decide. Being a Support doesn’t mean you have to be a superhuman emotional powerhouse. At least not all the time. With Quinlan dead and the newly discovered invaders thousands of miles away, this is probably the ideal time to be vulnerable.

  A whir of robotic motors pulls my focus back to Quinlan.

  So much for being vulnerable.

  I start up the stairs, chasing after Hutch, intending to retrieve the weapon, but Vegas stops me with, “It’s okay.” I turn around to see Vegas crouching over the big robot body. The robot mask has lifted away from Quinlan’s face. Blood trails from the side of his mouth, but his eyes are looking up at Vegas.

  Still alive.

  He’s a tough one, I’ll give him that. Too bad he was also off his rocker.

  I step closer, listening to the conversation.

  “You’re all going to die.” Quinlan’s voice is strained. Wet.

  “Probably,” Vegas replies. “But that’s always been part of the deal for people like us.” He glances up at me. I’m part of the ‘us.’

  “Dying isn’t the problem,” Quinlan says, and I see for the first time that he’s not the least bit afraid, even while the life drains out of him. I can see his face turning pale.

  Ghost steps up beside me. Then Duff. One of them followed this man, the other was brave enough to resist him. But they stand with the somber faces of men losing a comrade. Long before this island, these men were brothers in arms. Maybe even friends. Berg stands beside me, arms crossed, looking indifferent.

  “Dying for them,” Quinlan says, and I think he’s talking about Unity, “that’s the problem. The men I killed. They died fighting for their lives.”

  Berg sighs and shakes his head. I think he’s just here to make sure Quinlan actually dies.

  “They died fighting you,” Vegas says.

  “On their terms,” Quinlan says. “For something they believed in. Not for Unity.”

  “Unity was never about serving the organization,” Vegas says. He looks up at me for the next part. “I’ve learned that now.” Back to Quinlan. “We fight for each other. We fight for the concept of unity. It’s the only thing that can stand in the face of that.” He points up at the large screen, still displaying the image of a giant monster, yanking people out from their hiding spots, pulling them inside its body.

  Quinlan laughs. Coughs up blood. “We never did believe them. Not really.” Shakes his head. “Aliens. Shit. Too bad they were twenty years off about D-day.”

  He coughs more blood. Too much blood.

  Vegas puts his hand on Quinlan’s forehead, deeply sad for the passing of his friend turned enemy.

  “Don’t look so pitiful, Vegas,” Quinlan says. “Hell has got to be better than this island. Just leave me in the grass with the others and I’ll—”

  Midsentence, his eyes go still.

  Vegas lowers his head. Ghost and Duff do the same.

  I can’t tell if he’s saying some kind of prayer or just reeling in his emotions, but when he looks up at Ghost, Hutch and Berg, his eyes exude a kind of fire. “We’re down to four. Are you with me?”

  Ghost replies without hesitation. “Los Perseverantes.”

  Duff shuffles on his feet, avoiding eye contact. “There are other Bases to choose fr—”

  “Chuck,” Vegas says, revealing Duff’s real name. “I won’t allow division. Never again.” I hear the not so subtle threat. Join up, or live on the island. Alone.

  Duff hears it, too. “Los Perseverantes.”

  “The Devil has gone home,” Berg says, eyes on the floor. “He nearly burned us all.” He nods at Vegas. “Los Perseverantes. At last. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Vegas says. “Just make it right.” He points at the three men. “You three are a unit now. Start living it.”

  After nodding in agreement, the three men move away, talking amongst themselves, leaving me and Vegas. “You don’t want them to—”

  “They’ll trust each other,” he says. “Work better together.”

  “And you?”

  “Gwen and Daniel,” he says. “If that’s okay with you.”

  If it’s okay with me? Why would the mighty Vegas need my approval?

  His answer to my confusion takes the last of my strength. “Points are leadership positions, and only one of us has earned the respect of everyone here. The only one who has shown she’ll do anything to keep her people alive. If we’re going to do something about that—” He hitches his thumb to the large screen behind him. “—we’re going to need leadership that no one questions.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I say. “I’m not a leader. Before we dropped onto this island, I had only one friend in the world.”

  “You don’t need friends to lead,” he says.

  I lean back against a terminal desktop, feeling lightheaded.

  “You just need to make the hard choices.” Vegas takes a dirty bandanna from his back pocket and lays it over Quinlan’s face. “With the right Support strengthening your heart, and the right Base guiding your mind, the pressure of leadership can never drown you. The fractures of war will never make you numb. Their fortitude becomes yours, and from what I’ve seen, you were born with an indomitable spirit.”

  He stands and looks at all the people in the room. “And that’s what they need.” He turns to the viewscreen. The carnage. “That’s what we all need. I let Quinlan run this island.”

  “You resisted him,” I argue.

  “I avoided him.”

  “He had an ExoFrame.”

  “I should have died fighting him.” He rubs his face, looking weary. “And I should have figured out how to get inside this place a long time ago. Your unit. Sig. Hutch. And you. You have the will to fight, but the brains to solve problems that violence can’t. That’s why Unity stopped recruiting soldiers. I will fight for you. I’ll die if I have to. But I can’t lead these people. I don’t have the heart for it. Or the mind.”

  He puts his hand on my uninjured arm, his touch focusing us on each other, like he’s just completed a circuit. “You’re in charge, Effie. You’re the boss.”

  And with that, I pass right the heck out from loss of blood.

  34

  Death greets us with a white tunnel of light and loved ones urging us on. That’s what they say on TV. Uncle Bob is there. Maybe a grandmother, twice removed. Somebody. The problem this presents for me is that I have no family to greet me. Sure, I have ancestors, but I don’t know them. If they’d come to greet me, I’d have run away. But still, there’s the light.

  The light is safe.

  The light is love.

  The light is home.

  It’s also painfully bright. And smells like a new shower curtain.

  “Effie?”

  “Sig?” I say. My voice sounds distant, like my own voice is on the other side of a wall. “Are you dead, too?”

  That Sig is here to greet me makes sense, but why is she dead? How did she beat me here?

  “Dead?” Sig says, sounding slightly amused. “You’re not dead, Eff.”

  “But the light.”

  I feel someone touch the side of my head. A gentle pull. The light fades to dark, and for a moment I think I’ve lost my chance at a better afterlife. The idea of spending eter
nity in a place that mirrors my childhood makes me sick to my stomach.

  Then the room comes into focus. I’m in a medical bay, looking at a line of empty beds, a bright white halo of light above each one. Killer on the eyes, but probably makes it easy for doctors to see wounded patients. Not that there are any doctors with me. Just Sig.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hey.” When my voice comes out all muffled again, I reach up to my face and feel a mask over my nose and mouth. I pull it away and the new shower curtain scent is replaced by the sterilized air of a doctor’s office.

  Sig is sitting beside the bed looking exhausted. Twigs and bits of leaves are still stuck in her long hair. Her eyes are ringed red. She’s been crying. Not that I can blame her. These last few days have been hellish. Though I think her tears have more to do with my condition than our recent experiences.

  “I’m okay,” I tell her, though I’m still taking stock of the various pains pulsing through my body.

  “You almost weren’t.” She leans forward. “You stopped breathing.”

  This is news to me. Maybe the white light really was more than just a white light?

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “You were talking to Vegas. And then you were on the floor.” Tears well. “You were dead.”

  I reach out a hand, and she takes it.

  “Vegas knew what to do.”

  “He gave me CPR?”

  She nods. “You’ll feel the broken ribs when the pain meds wear off.”

  I look down at my chest. I’m wrapped in something that looks like a tight black turtle shell. Someone, probably Hutch, has attached the Point badge from my go-pack to the front of the medical armor. My lower half is dressed in papery medical pants. My feet are bare.

  “It keeps your ribs from moving,” Sig explains. “So you can heal faster. Will help with the pain, too. Just don’t take a deep breath.”