Morningside Fall

by Jay Posey

  But it wasn’t OK, Mama was on the floor not moving and Aron was putting the box back inside his coat, and he looked angry.

  “Don’t fight, don’t fight,” Connor said. “Your mom’s fine, she’s just going to sleep for a while, OK? She’s not hurt, OK?”

  Wren felt like he couldn’t breathe, and Mama was just laying there. And Aron was walking towards him now.

  “She ain’t hurt, kid,” Aron said. “But we got a trace on Able and Gamble and the whole team, so don’t you think about trying to call for help, or else we will hurt her, you understand?” Aron grabbed Wren’s face and looked him in the eye. “Do you understand?”

  Wren nodded, or at least did the best he could with Connor’s hand over his mouth.

  “Don’t scream or fuss, you hear? We’re not out to hurt anybody, but we will if we have to.”

  “I’m going to let you go, OK, Governor?” Connor said. “You won’t scream or try to run away, right?”

  Wren wasn’t sure if he was supposed to nod or shake his head since Connor had asked him two questions, but he decided it was safer to nod. Agreement always seemed safer. Connor took his hand off of Wren’s mouth, but didn’t let him go.

  “You said it yourself,” Connor said, so close Wren could feel his breath. “You said it yourself, you said you’d do whatever was necessary, right? Right? Well, here it is.”

  Aron said, “You’re gonna do just like we say, Wren. I know you don’t understand right now, but you will. You’ll see we’re doin’ the right thing.”

  “What’d you do to Mama?” Wren asked.

  “She’s just asleep,” Connor said.

  But Aron was pulling the box out of his coat again. He held it out for Wren to see. “It’s just a dislocator, see? No permanent damage.”

  Wren had seen those before. A lot of the guardsmen carried them to deal with troublemakers. From what he knew, the projectiles they fired just spammed the target’s datastream, overloaded it, made people shut down, and left nothing more than a deep bruise. But that was normal people. He had no idea what would they might do to someone like Mama.

  “We’re gonna take you somewhere now,” Aron said. “Don’t make trouble for us.”

  “I won’t,” Wren said.

  “Everything’s going to be fine, Wren,” Connor said.

  Wren wanted to ask why, if everything was going to be fine, they’d just shot his mama and were keeping such a tight grip on his arm, but he knew better. He’d been through something like this before, back when Asher had caught him and Three. And Able and Swoop had been training him for this sort of situation. Best to go along, until the opportunity presented itself. And it would.

  Aron moved to the door and cracked it open, checking outside before committing to opening it all the way. He nodded to Connor and motioned for them to follow. The hallway was deserted, and that was a bad sign. If there were any guardsmen left in the building, they would probably be on Connor and Aron’s side anyway.

  It didn’t take long for Wren to figure out where they were headed. They took him along halls that he hadn’t been through in a long, long time. To a room he hadn’t been in since… not since Three had died and his mama had come back. Aron led the way, and Connor half-dragged Wren along, apologizing the whole time, constantly telling Wren it was all for the best.

  “We just want you to try, OK?” Connor said. “We just want you to see what you can do. It really is for the best. We all just want what’s best for the city, OK?”

  They took him through what was once a kind of throne room. The room where Wren’s father had sat and held court and handed down his judgment. Already Wren could hear the faint hum. Wren wasn’t exactly sure why they were making him come to the room itself. And it occurred to him that for all their plans and schemes, they still didn’t even have a basic idea of how it really worked. Underdown’s machine might as well have been magic as far as they were concerned.

  Aron unlocked the door and stepped back. Connor pushed Wren inside. Even without the lights on yet, Wren could make out the shape of the thing. Underdown’s machine. The device Underdown had constructed to tap into the minds of the Weir, or whatever it was. The way he’d called them, and forced them away. The way he’d controlled them, as a means to control his people.

  Aron followed them in and activated the lights. The machine stood before them in the center of the room, emitting a hum that would’ve been soothing to anyone who didn’t know what it’d been made to do. It didn’t look like much. It was about Wren’s height, maybe just over four feet tall and about half again as wide. Mostly smooth with a couple of panels and a few lights that were all darkened. Only now did Wren understand that the machine had never been shut down. Maybe they didn’t even know how.

  “We just want you to try,” Connor repeated. He seemed more nervous now, even more than he had when they’d first come in Mama’s room.

  “Try what?” Wren asked. He was being honest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know what your dad could do with this,” Aron said. “We want you to do the same thing.”

  “I never even met my dad.”

  “Don’t talk back to me, boy,” Aron said sharply. “I helped make that wall. And I helped make your father. I’ll make you too, if it’s what it takes to keep this city alive. But don’t you think for one second I’ll hesitate to tear you down, either, if that’s what it takes.”

  Wren had never seen the machine before, let alone tried to interface with it. But Aron and Connor didn’t seem all that concerned with facts or excuses.

  And he understood that if they thought he was doing anything other than what they wanted, there was no telling what they might do to Mama. So, for his mother’s sake, Wren closed his eyes and put his hands on the machine, and tried to see what his father had seen. And he knew without a doubt: there was terror inside that box.

  NINE

  Painter lay awake on his bed, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to sleep. It was a constant battle, trying to maintain some semblance of a normal schedule during the day, knowing that his body was wired for the night. He’d adjusted to some degree, and somewhat better than others. But the early hours of night were always the toughest, trying to convince his body it was time to shut down, instead of wind up.

  Not that it was really his bed he was lying on. It was Finn’s. The man who had kindly given up his own room so Painter could stay among them at the governor’s compound.

  Why they’d given Painter a room on the same floor as the governor’s personal guard, he didn’t know. For protection, maybe. Though it’d be hard to guess whether they meant to protect him from others, or others from him.

  Painter still felt bad about how he’d reacted when he’d seen Snow’s body. Everyone had assured him there were no hard feelings, and that they all understood. But Painter couldn’t let himself believe there were truly no hard feelings. And he was certain they didn’t understand. But he’d taken care of her. She would be OK now. He’d done his part.

  Except for repaying those that had taken her from him. That work still remained. Painter didn’t blame Wren, or anyone in the compound. Someone had poisoned her mind. He knew that now. Poisoned Snow against him, and against everyone like him. Against Luck. And as much as her death had broken Painter, it had, in a way, also healed him. Her reaction to him, upon his return, it hadn’t really been her. It’d been what she’d been taught. What she’d been told by others. It wasn’t really her fault. He’d find out whose fault it was, and he would repay them in kind.

  It was while Painter was lying awake, thinking through all that had happened to him, and around him, that something sparked in his mind and interrupted the natural progression of his thoughts. Wren is in trouble. He had no idea how or why he knew. But there was no doubt that his little friend needed help, and soon.

  Painter sat up in bed. Was there any reason to think Wren was in danger? No. Surely not. He was with his mother, and she was more than capable of protecting him. And ev
en if not, there was his personal guard. Able, and the rest of them. Finn. Surely those would be far more able to take care of the Governor than Painter ever could. It was a silly thought. Painter lay back down and tried to think of other things. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t chase away the feeling that Wren needed him. Him. Painter. And so without understanding why, Painter got up and quickly put his clothes back on.

  He’d never been much of a fighter. He believed he had the heart for it, just not the training or skill. But believing it was different to knowing it.

  There was really only one way to know for sure. He crept to the door and opened it as quietly as he could.

  Wren was focused on the machine. It was complicated. Far more complicated than anything he’d ever imagined, let alone seen before. If his father had used this to control the Weir, it was far beyond Wren’s understanding. At first he’d just been searching for a way to connect, thinking that maybe if he showed he’d accessed the machine, it’d be easier to tell Aron and Connor that he’d really tried and couldn’t do it. But once Wren had gained access, he’d become intrigued by the system. Though it was far more layered, far more intricate, Wren had once glimpsed something like it in a moment of uncontrollable fear and rage. It reminded him of what he’d seen just before he’d… whatever it was he had done to his brother. When he’d sent him away.

  It was like that, multiplied by a thousand. Or ten thousand, maybe. Except less organized. Or maybe more so, but with a system too advanced and on a scale too massive for his comprehension. It was impossible to tell, because of the depth of it all. Wren felt himself drawn towards it. Sliding nearer. And for a moment, he thought he might be falling helplessly into it.

  But there was a shout from somewhere far away. Somewhere in another world. And then Wren realized it was in his world. His room. Everything came rushing back and he saw everything again as it was. Aron was there. And Connor. And someone else. A Weir. A Weir had come from the machine.

  No, not a Weir. Painter. It was Painter. Come to help him.

  Aron was fumbling for something inside his coat, and Wren tried to warn Painter, but it was too late. Painter didn’t need the warning. He leapt across the room, literally leapt, and struck Aron in a single motion. Aron’s head snapped back and his feet came up off the floor; he crashed head first against the wall behind him before collapsing down. He landed heavily, and his skull bounced when he hit. It made an awful sound.

  Connor was making some noise, yelling maybe, maybe calling for help, Wren couldn’t tell. Everything still seemed like a dream at that point. And Painter – Painter was there, and his right hand flashed out and caught Connor by the neck or by the shirt, Wren couldn’t see for sure. But his other hand, his other hand was a fist and it smashed into Connor’s face. And again. And again. And Connor’s knees buckled and he went to the floor, still screaming. Painter rode him down, and his fist kept smashing. Again, and again. Until there was a wet crunch with every impact, and someone was screaming: “Stop stop stop!” – and Wren realized it was him.

  Painter stopped, his hand raised for another strike and bloody, and it was like he was waking up from a deep sleep, from the way he looked at Wren. He was straddled on Connor’s chest. Connor was just laying there, still and silent, and his face was smashed in on one side and his eyes were open.

  “Painter,” Wren said.

  “Wren. Are you OK?”

  Wren swallowed and nodded, but he didn’t feel OK. Connor was staring at him, and Wren could tell even from where he stood that there was no life left in those eyes.

  Painter looked down at Connor and then stood up real fast, like he’d seen him for the first time. “What happened, Wren? What happened?”

  “They came and took me. They hurt my mom.”

  “Is he dead?” Painter asked, looking down at Connor, and then at his own hands. His left one was spattered all the way up his forearm.

  “I think so.”

  “What about the uh-uh-other one? Did I k-k-kill him too?”

  Wren looked over at Aron, crumpled in the corner. He was motionless, and Wren could see there was blood pooling under his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t mean to, Wren, I sss-sss I swear it. I thought they were hurting yuh-you.”

  “They might have. They wanted me to do something… something I don’t think I can.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I think we better go, Painter.”

  “I di-di-di… I di-didn’t mean to kill them, Wren.”

  “I know, Painter, I know. Come on.”

  Wren led the way out of the room, and back through the halls towards his mama’s room, his heart racing and his face cold with sweat. It all felt just like a nightmare, like waking up from a nightmare, except he knew he was awake and this was all happening, and all he wanted was to make sure Mama was OK. He could hear Painter right behind him, but Wren didn’t want to turn around and look – because he’d seen what had happened, and he knew if he looked at Painter now he was going to lose it – so he just kept looking straight ahead, getting back to Mama.

  They got back to her room without seeing a single person in the compound, and that seemed wrong. But so much seemed wrong now. Connor and Aron had betrayed them, and who knew who else on the Council had gone along with it. Had they really betrayed him? Connor was right, Wren had said he would do whatever was necessary, if the Council agreed. What if they’d all agreed, and this was what they’d agreed to? Now Connor was dead, and probably Aron too, and no matter what, there was no way to come back from that.

  Wren tried the door and found it was locked, but that was nothing to him, not anymore. He barely even had to think about it, and the lock flipped open, and he swung the door so hard it banged into the wall. Mama was still there on the floor, right where they’d left her.

  “Help me,” Wren said, moving to her side, but even he didn’t know what he meant. He just knelt next to her and touched her face. She was warm, but limp.

  “What do we do?” Painter asked, kneeling beside him.

  “I don’t know,” Wren said, “I don’t know.”

  Painter put his hand on her upper stomach and held it there for a moment.

  “Look,” he said. “Look, she’s buh-buh-buh breathing. I think she’s… OK.”

  “Can you pick her up? Get her on the bed?”

  Painter shrugged, but scooted around behind Cass and scooped his arms under her shoulders. He stood up, dragging her with him. Wren tried to help with her legs, but it seemed like Painter was doing all the work. They got her onto the bed, though once she was there, Wren didn’t really know why he’d thought that was something to do. She was still out cold. Only now there was blood smeared across her shirt.

  “Maybe you should go wash your hands,” Wren said. Painter looked at his hands, and then at Cass’s stained shirt, and then at his hands again. He nodded and went into the adjoining bathroom. Wren sat on the edge of the bed next to his mama and started stroking her forehead, her face, and her hands. Just hoping something would wake her. “Mama,” he said. “Mama, can you hear me, Mama?”

  But no matter what he did, she didn’t respond. And he was so scared. So scared that she wasn’t ever going to wake up, and that someone was going to come and take him away, and that this was the end of everything they’d tried to protect. And that thought, the thought that everything was coming undone, really and truly undone, that’s when Wren felt it rising in him. It wasn’t the first time. He just hadn’t known what was happening before. But he was beginning to recognize the feeling now, when it started. And with it, Wren knew somehow he’d be able to do things he couldn’t usually do.

  There was something inside him that felt like it popped, deep in his chest, down in his very middle, something so deep it almost seemed impossible that it could be inside Wren at all. And it hurt, and it scared him, but it also gave him strength. Wren stretched out a shaking hand, forcing himself to touch Cass’s forehead, and when he did, it seemed like he co
uld see how she worked. Like a big complicated lock that needed opening. And, after a moment, he unlocked her.

  Cass’s eyes floated open, scanned the room, lingered on Wren, unfocused and distant for a heartbeat, then two. Then they went wide and fierce, and she sprang up on a knee and drew Wren to her so fast it made his neck hurt.

  “It’s OK, Mama, it’s OK!” he said.

  “Where are they? Did they hurt you?” she asked.

  Wren wrestled his way free. “No, Mama, I’m OK. Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. Her tone was sharp and certain, but Wren knew that it was more reflex than truth. “What happened?”

  Now that she was back, now that he knew she was alright, he felt the surge of strength melt away, and he was just her son again and she was his mama, and only the fear remained.

  “Something bad.” Wren didn’t know how much to tell her or even where to begin, and the tears came. He hated them, he didn’t want to cry, but he couldn’t help it. They just dripped out of his eyes and he kept trying to wipe them away. There wasn’t time for crying.

  “They came in the room. Aron and Connor. And Aron hit me with something… dislocator maybe?”

  “I think so. He shot you. Four times.”

  Cass grunted as her hand went over her chest and stomach, probing the injuries. “No wonder everything hurts. Where are they now?”

  “I killed them,” Painter said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. His arms were wet past the elbows and the skin on both looked raw, like they’d been scalded. “It won’t cuh-cuh-cuh… come off.” There were still little splotches of blood on his forearm, shirt, fist, and sleeve.

  “What do you mean, Painter?” she asked slowly. “What did you do?”

  “They took me to the machine, Mama,” Wren said. “They wanted me to use it.”