Night Legions

by Jeremy Flagg

  Ariel ignored the comment. The older woman’s feet hovered off the ground, inches above the pavement. Twenty-Seven realized something had her agitated. Most people had a nervous tick, perhaps a curl of their lip or averting their gaze. Whenever the mentalist let her emotions get the best of her, she hovered.

  “What is it?” Twenty-Seven whispered.

  Then her own feet left the ground. Flying didn’t have the wonderful freeing quality she thought it would. As her body became weightless and she was propelled forward, with no way to stop the Ariel’s abilities. Only feet behind Ariel, both soared along the seawall until they reached a shattered window.

  The pier extended into the lake, and stretching the length and nearly the width of it was a building once filled with shops and eateries. Below the arcade balcony where they landed after entering through the window, gunfire sounded in the area fenced off for the day vendors. Ariel flew downward toward the bend leading to an ice-cream shop. Flashing metal descended from the balcony, a synthetic landing on Ariel and sending her to the ground.

  Twenty-Seven braced for impact as Ariel’s abilities let go. Her body rolled along the ground, smashing against the doors to a souvenir shop. Jumping to her feet, she dared to glance up. A dozen synthetics crept along the balcony. Ariel’s worry suddenly made sense.

  A synthetic dropped from the ceiling, landing a couple feet away. Since Chicago became a sanctuary city, refusing to bow to the president in the east and the military in the west, it had become self-governed. Without the military to defend the Chicago, it had been left to the city’s militias to stop bands of synthetics. Thankfully the escalating problems in the east prevented more than a few handfuls from sneaking into their borders for reconnaissance.

  The machine lunged, its mechanical limbs ready to crush her skull. The sensation of her artificial limb locking fingers with the machine seemed distant. Her hydraulics resembled the arms of the synthetic. While her fingers might be strong, her body couldn’t compete as it whipped her to the side, sending her crashing into a stack of rotted drywall.

  The rest of the machines dropped from the second floor, surrounding Ariel on all sides. They exploited one of her few weaknesses. With too many moving adversaries on each side, the mentalist’s resorted to wild whipping about, hurling furniture at the machines to keep them at bay.

  With speed Twenty-Seven didn’t remember synthetics possessing, another sped toward her. Metal clasped around her throat, lifting her off the ground. Whoever watched her final moments through the black cameras that served as its eyes, she hoped it wasn’t Dav5d, the man who helped rescue her a year ago.

  Dark spots filled her vision. Her bionic hand grappled with the synthetic’s arm, trying to pull the metal fingers away from her throat. She imagined the fight going differently if she were prepared and still had a gun, or any weapon other than her bare hands.

  The metal along the side of the machine’s face tore away. Its hand loosened and she braced her feet against its chest, shoving hard. Landing on her back, she rolled and came to her feet with a sway as she sucked in air.

  Sparks erupted. The synthetic’s arm tore away and came down like a club, smashing its skull. The motion repeated over and over again until the machine collapsed to the ground.

  “I had it under control, Jasmine.” Twenty-Seven tried to muster a smile.

  The woman didn’t answer as she pulled a shotgun off her back and handed it to Twenty-Seven. “We’ve got visitors.”

  Jasmine pointed to the doors, where three Chicago Officers held guns, trying to ward off two synthetics. Jasmine ran in their direction, picking up speed. With her shoulder down, she barreled into the two machines, sending them to the tumbling.

  Twenty-Seven pumped the gun, loading the chamber. As Ariel hurled a synthetic across the room toward her, Twenty-Seven took aim, shooting the machine and rendering its left leg useless. It stumbled to one knee and the cannon on its shoulder flipped to attention, the red dot already aglow.

  “I don’t think so.” Another shot removed the laser. The next left the machine with no head, an unmoving husk.

  “I think it’s safe to say you’ll be needing a new base of operations,” shouted one of the officers.

  The machines surrounding Ariel lay in scraps. Two near Jasmine lay headless. Twenty-Seven constantly had to remind herself she was a liability when fighting alongside these two titans. Despite her lack of powers, she generally managed to hold her own, but in comparison, she would always just be human.

  “Your police missed a few,” Twenty-Seven said.

  “You think so many might have come here because the president figured out you’ve been smuggling Children out of the country?”

  Twenty-Seven recognized the fear on the faces of Chief Cooper’s subordinates. Unlike him, they were terrified of what transpired or what might transpire with them. She, Jasmine, and Ariel had developed a reputation since they arrived in the windy city.

  “Chief Cooper, just checking up on us or do you have a job?” Twenty-Seven approached the men, slinging the shotgun over her shoulder.

  “You haven’t heard?”

  In the three months since the President of the United States had been killed, tensions reached a breaking point. The majority of the country saw the Children of Nostradamus the instigators in this war. Only in New York City, where the newest tyrant rose to power, did the people ignore Children and rally against the human menace.

  Since Troy was slaughtered by machines, Twenty-Seven vowed to get revenge. Allying herself with a powerful mentalist and one of the most fearsome Children only made that dream more likely.

  “Heard what?” she asked.

  Chief Cooper commanded one of the largest forces in the United States, and after discovering his niece was a Child, he functioned as a vigilante. Twenty-Seven held nothing but respect for the man. In a world filled with darkness, where tyrants and war reigned, a single man trying to do right gave her a bit of hope.

  “This.” The clear plastic device in his hand projected a screen. The live feed from a local station showed a man standing at a podium. His suit and the pin on his jacket instantly marked him as a politician. She leaned in, examining the pin—two vertical red stripes and a red leaf.

  “The Canadians?” she asked.

  “Listen.” His voice changed, turning grim.

  The politician announced, “This is unprecedented. For the last forty years, Canada has been a self-sufficient nation, priding itself in technological innovation and advancements in modern medicine far beyond the rest of the world. Protesting how the United States has culled first mentalists, then the Children of Nostradamus, Canada has openly welcomed enhanced humans.”

  The screen switched to a woman behind a news desk. Her eyes remained wide, almost as if she couldn’t believe the news she reported. A deep breath in and she read from the teleprompter. “BBC Canada is reporting the first mentalist in history has announced his bid for Prime Minister of Canada.”

  “Oh shit,” Jasmine mumbled.

  “What does it mean for us?” asked Twenty-Seven.

  As if the reporter heard the question, she continued, “The United States has responded, announcing they will shut down the border and assume martial law in all sanctuary cities. Amidst an escalating civil war—”

  The chief’s couldn’t hide the deep worry lines along his forehead. “You need to run.”

  * * * * *

  The clear plastic over the window whipped back and forth in the wind, spraying tiny droplets of water. The former occupants had deserted the property before the renovations finished, abandoning the soon-to-be three-season porch without insulation in that window. Behind Dwayne, a rolling door closed off the entrance into the dining room, leaving him outside with his thoughts.

  He sat on a damp cushion from the loveseat, water wicking through his sweatpants. Folding his legs in, he straightened his back. The moment he corrected his posture, the knots in his shoulders reminded him of the stress riddling his body. With th
e constant dodge and run, it had been weeks since he paused long enough to go through the meditation routine Vanessa taught him shortly after they first met.

  With palms facing one another, he took a moment to acknowledge the single hair growing from the back of one hand. Examining the blond strand, he tried to recall the last time he found a hair daring to ascend higher than his belly button. They would burn away as the electricity rose to the surface of his skin.

  Thus began the seductive dance, his powers attempting to lull him into a false sense of security. He had the urge to unleash them, drown himself in the awesomeness of his gifts. The part of his brain connected to pleasure screamed, begging for release. He fought off the image of the lightning pouring out of his skin, crashing into walls, blowing apart wood and scorching the ground. In the back of his mind, a voice urged him to let go.

  His skin grew warm, basking in the radiation from the electrons attempting to escape. Vanessa had taught him to master his abilities, resisting the euphoric sensation. The mistress of restraint preached he that always be in control of his powers and not fall victim to their grandeur. They spent hours like this, meditating, allowing him to fix the broken parts of his psyche. Their time together had tempered his desire to destroy and decimate after Michael's death. He hoped her teachings could once again provide guidance.

  The smell of burned ozone dimmed his other senses. The scent of burning air surrounded him, hugging like a warm blanket. Pushing at the thoughts attempting to creep into his mind, he breathed deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth. As his chest inflated and his shoulders straightened, he visualized Vanessa.

  He imagined his mentor in an endless white room, the dark green of her skin standing out like a blemish on the infinite canvas. The wings stretched outward from her back. Despite her gargoyle features and serpentine eyes, her face maintained a compassionate expression. Dwayne thought of her as a lioness, protective and calm, but underneath the layers of tranquility, she’d pounce and devour the people who crossed her.

  She taught him to temper his lightning the same way she tempered her emotions.

  Vanessa had given him back his sister and for that, he could never repay her. He did, however, give her his trust. With her telepathy, she was able to share images, experiences, just as easily as she pulled them from his mind. What started as unnerving quickly became a comfort, the knowledge somebody viewed the world through your eyes. It helped that Vanessa was one of the least judgmental people he’d ever encountered. She knew his heart, at times, better than he did.

  Vanessa, can you hear me?

  It reminded him of his youth, asking a higher power for recognition. After years of sending energy into the void, his faith had vanished. Reaching out for Vanessa, unsure if she was alive to receive his thoughts. Dwayne might not have faith in a God, but he had faith in the strength she exuded over the years. If she was alive, she’d be listening.

  I don’t know if you’re hearing any of this. We are coming. You need to hang on.

  Gretchen’s graffiti of the hawk flashed behind his closed eyes.

  It wasn’t an answer. Vanessa didn’t reach out and speak to him. The Angel of the Outlands, as she'd been known for years, had a way of rallying her troops in unusual ways. Dwayne opened his eyes, the image of the hawk imprinted in his mind, a reminder of the Nighthawks left standing, the family he adopted. Dwayne turned to the door, listening to the voices speaking about their favorite birthday present. The outlaws in the other room, they were his family now.

  Thanks, Vanessa.

  Dwayne rocked to his heels and started for the door leading into the rest of the house. The sense of warmth radiating from his skin had less to do with the electricity needing release and more to do with the confirmation he was exactly where he was meant to be. His family needed him.

  “Hold on. We’re coming for you,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  2033

  Freedom.

  The word held more weight than Vanessa would ever give it credit. Her hands ached, gashes in her palms from where she fought her way through security. Her left arm, barely functioning, extended from the socket, lay at her side as rain pelted her fern-green skin. Even the dark clouds circling overhead, delivering a torrential downpour, had a rightness to them. She closed her eyes and let the falling water wash away the grit covering her skin.

  It had taken nearly an hour to reach the top of the building, almost thirty stories tall. The half-finished top floor, left in disrepair, stood as a testament to the state of the world. All around her, chaos. New York. Once a city of hope and dreams, now it lay as the epicenter of dissent among the people. Even hundreds of feet above the humans, their anger and fear fought to reach the back of her mind.

  Before her lay the ruins of the meat packing district, once the home to early risers. With hours of night remaining, the streets would fill with fishermen and delivery trucks. Chefs used to scour the district for the best seafood for their restaurants. Now, warehouses sat empty, and the air reeked of a chemically tainted river. Her toes gripped the edge of the roof, the next step leading to a four-hundred-foot descent. The stormy winds caressed her scalp and the few hairs that had grown.

  Twenty feet of deep green leathery skin stretched wide as Vanessa spread her wings. Gusts caught the membrane. It was hard for her to imagine how, once upon a time, she had been terrified of her appearance. It was enough of a struggle being a telepath, but when the Nostradamus Effect struck, her life had started a downward spiral. Now, she embraced the differences thrust upon her by a freak cosmic accident. If she was to kneel, she would almost resemble a gothic gargoyle, perched on the eves of a great cathedral. But she no longer knelt, no longer sat idle—no, she had to find her flock.

  She dove.

  She drew back her wings, speeding her descent. The first time she had lunged from a window, testing her newfound body, it had been to save her life. Her wings had never been strong enough to lift her from the ground. But when she could glide, for short periods of time, she understood what it meant to be among the gods. Separated from the world below, in the space just below the heavens, she reveled in the hubris of Icarus.

  Even with the second lens covering her eyes, the rushing wind forced them closed. The shift in temperature told her she was close, nearing impact with the pavement lining the streets. At the eighth floor, her wings reached outward, catching a gust of air, changing her momentum from downward to onward. The currents of the storm pushed at her body, and she rose and fell with them.

  The buildings passed underneath her as she followed the streets. Empty cars lined the roads, abandoned by drivers in search of refuge. The warehouse had been the perfect hiding place, nearly invisible to the radar of the government. The Hudson rarely had boats, people leery of the chemicals being deposited by the upriver corporations. The water toxicity mirrored the rest of New York’s environment, dangerous, even lethal. Synthetics opted to avoid the district, deeming it low risk without people inside it.

  She focused on a warehouse a few streets away from the water. Inside, there had once been a collective of artists, people seeking to better the world through their creative gifts. While Conthan had been born decades prior, the man he would become was forged within those steel walls. Through their influence, the gritty artists he called friends prepared him. When the Nostradamus Effect took hold, giving him godlike abilities, it was his conviction born in that warehouse that pushed him to make the world a better place. Now she hoped she could track him down once more.

  With a flap of her wings, her momentum vanished, and she dropped to her feet just outside the warehouse door. She tried to quiet her mind, removing her fears. She listened. Off in the distance, the whispers of humans going about their lives acted like white noise. Nowhere inside could she hear the thoughts of her teammates. She held her breath, hoping they had somehow left a clue to where they hid.

  Inside, the massive space appeared deserted, possibly for months. Dust settled on the fu
rniture circling the makeshift fire pit. She walked on the balls of her feet, keeping as quiet as possible as she moved through the space. She inspected the small studios and found they were as empty as the rest of the warehouse.

  “Where are you?” she whispered.

  She walked across the structure to the corrugated steel walls where Gretchen had painted her final piece in the space. The circular tribal hawk must have been twenty feet across, a mixture of rolled on and sprayed paint. As she approached the wall she saw, scribbled in white, a word resting in the middle of the hawk.

  “Wake?”

  The word hadn’t been there before the synthetics attacked the warehouse. She let out a gasp. “I almost forgot.” She turned around to see the metal body of a cybernetic robot, the body crippled by Dwayne’s lightning. This synthetic differed from all the others they destroyed. She crept to the twisted heap of metal and for a moment, her heart sped up in worry about what she might find.

  “This isn’t right.”

  Vanessa closed her eyes tight and called upon her telepathic abilities. She envisioned a cyclone speeding around her, pushing at the world with devastating speed. The imaginary winds whipped at her wings. Nothing about the room changed, but in her own mind, the sound of a storm grew louder with cracking lightning and debris rocketing about the warehouse. Beneath the surface, inside the durable body created by the Nostradamus Effect, a storm brewed until she couldn’t contain it any longer.

  She let herself lose control.

  Vanessa fell to her knees, her lungs heaving from exertion. She remembered. Dav5d, dear sweet Dav5d, was being used as a living computer for the synthetic hive. She had lost the man, unable to save the one person she ever truly loved. Now, his very existence was as a slave to a corporation driven to destroy her people. Genesis Division threatened them all.