by E A Carter
'Don't look at me.' He slides his fingers from my jaw, slow, grazing my neck. It's not seductive, but I taste arousal, hot and sharp. I close my eyes and will whatever is happening to me to stop. He's a machine. Ryan is gone.
Silence rams itself between us. I wait. Miro chirps in her sleep, soft, plaintive, dreaming of hunger in a world of plenty.
'You don't have to do it,' he says. 'I—'
I hold still. He exhales, tight.
'I can't be a part of this. They can wipe my memory. If I have to lose you to protect you, I will.' His hand leaves my shoulder, sweeps a path against my hair, his touch wrong, all wrong, yet his words . . .
Fatigue slams into me. I lean back into his heat. He catches me, his arms encircling me, gentle, cautious. He feels nothing like I remember. He's bigger, harder, stronger. And yet, the way he holds me is the same.
'I need to sleep,' I whisper. I feel the nod of his head. Then I am lifted, carried to the bed. I don't open my eyes. Ryan.
He lays me down. I feel his gaze on me. The sweep of the material of his fatigues fills the quiet as he walks around the bed. I think he is leaving, and yearn for his return, though I don't know why. It's not him. It's someone else.
The door doesn't open. I wait, my heart tight. His weight comes down on the bed beside me. His arms capture me, and again I am against him, sheltered, safe, warm. Loved. I think of him, and let him kiss my brow as I fall asleep and dream of the one who died in the fires of Lubochnia, my name lost on the last breath of his lips.
I drift, helpless, unable to control the passage of my dreams, rancid with accusation for the multitude of hurricanes I called down onto innocents—of half-starved men, women and children swept away by seething tidal surges—their lives flotsam in the filthy waters of a ruined, polluted planet. Sickened, I observe the magnitude of my unwitting crimes, done so long ago. Years ago. Lost, unloved and abandoned cats and dogs shiver in the graffitied ruins of buildings, their eyes rolling with fear, their little bodies unable to withstand the violence of what I have unleashed.
The images slow. My perspective narrows to an alley. Within the grimy walls of its rain-battered corridor, a grey kitten clings to a shattered piece of concrete. Bedraggled, and emaciated, its eyes are wide with terror. Though its existence is miserable, its struggle is visceral, its desire to live, to go on, even here. Even in this savaged, dying world. It trembles. A brutal gust of wind shears through the space. A shorn piece of a corrugated steel hurtles towards it. The invisible walls surrounding me melt away. Rain slams into me, icy blades which plaster my hair against my face. The air hauls at my lungs, yanks it from my throat. Pressure roars against my chest. I push my way through the wall of wind and rain towards the kitten, towards the massive piece of metal tumbling towards us. Its edges grin at me, screaming death. I see the kitten. She sees me. Her mouth opens. A cry I cannot hear, but I understand. I feel her terror, uniting us as one. I reach her, catch her up against the shelter of my breast just as the metal shears into my back, tears apart my flesh and bone. Pain, hot and tight compresses me. I fall to my knees. The metal pulls itself free and tumbles down the alley, hot with my blood. I look down. She's alive. I realize she is Miro. I shelter her with my dying body. Against my heart, I feel her purr.
An eternity of dark passes, laced with unspeakable pain, not of my body but of my soul. I dine on guilt, on my longing to suffer, to pay for what I have done to thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of lives. Light seeps through. I open my eyes. I am still in the alley. Miro sits beside me, no longer a kitten, but herself, thin and wan. I look myself over. I am whole again.
I pull myself to my feet. The storm is long gone. Miro does not move. I bend down to pick her up, but she hunches down, refuses my gentle tug. She lifts her eyes to mine, within each of her dilated pupils, numbers: in one 01.13 in the other, 2087. They burn into my brain. A vision. I blink. They vanish. My heart clenches. Jan 13, 2087. Three months time. Wracked with dread, I turn away from Miro and look between the buildings at the sky. It blurs with the rapid passage of night and day, the clouds tumble by, tormented, caught in their death throes. The moon waxes and wanes. It comes to a stop, abrupt. It is morning. The sky is pale with dawn.
I hear it before I see it. A thundering powerful enough to make the ground tremble. And then, heat. Fierce heat. An inferno. I pick Miro up. Another blast of heat hits us. She opens her mouth, a plaintive cry subsumed by the roar of the skies. In the cradle of my arms she turns to ash. I scream, but no sound comes. Across my torso and arms, the smear of her existence fades. Miro. No. It is unbearable. And then it comes. A wall of pure fire, white-hot, aflame with liquid heat, hotter than a thousand suns. I rise up, up, away from it, as high as the heavens and see. I see it all. The world is consumed by fire. Cleansed by it. It is the end of all things.
I sit up, panting. Darkness surrounds me as black as a pit. A series of quiet clicks. A sound I recognise as the air circulation system kicking in. A soft rush of air drifts over me, fresher than anything I have known in years. I drink it in, press my hands against my heart, seeking to ease its thunder.
Movement beside me. A groan. The rasp of a hand against the stubble of an unshaven jaw. My breathing is ragged. I try to slow it down, but it is too late. I can tell he's awake. He sits up. The heat of him finds me. I wait, but he doesn't touch me.
'Bad dream?' His voice is rough, like sandpaper, and thick with sleep.
I nod, even though I know he can't see me. I lean forward to pat the foot of the bed, desperate to find Miro, to feel the rise and fall of her chest. My fingers graze her back. She chirps, soft, at my touch. My throat closes over. Three months. Three more times the moon will wax and wane for all those still alive on Earth, and then nothing. Everything will be ash. I am numb with the enormity of it. I bite my lip to feel pain, to feel something.
I can feel the weight of Ryan's gaze on me, even through the veil of darkness. I wonder if his vision is enhanced to see in the dark. I hope not. He touches my shoulder, his fingertips gentle against the curve of my neck, his accuracy disconcerting. So, he can see in the dark. A sweep of desire runs through me, unexpected and forbidden. I swallow my revulsion, my shame. Yet, underneath what he has become, something intangible remains. Because even though his body is gone, the man I loved is still alive, trapped in metal and encased in brutality.
'You want some water?' he asks. A pause. 'Or tea? I can make tea.' He shifts to the edge of the bed, the thick hush of his fatigues against the sheets loud in the somnolent quiet. He waits.
I ask him for tea, because I know it will take more time. I want to be alone. He leaves without turning any lights on, his steps certain, like a cat. The door opens, and a slice of light slides into the room, widens and shrinks again. The door closes, a gentle click. I curl up around Miro and stroke her, savoring the feel of her, the soft rise and fall of each of her breaths. My fingers drift to the curve of her jaw, memorising the slope of her nose, the slant of her brow. She doesn't move and it unnerves me. I kiss her nose, willing her to stir, to wake so I can pick her up and hold her. She remains locked in her dreams. Miro. Until Ryan came along, Miro was my whole family, my reason for existence, my reason to go on. And now—
My throat closes over. Tears find me. I close my eyes and fight to hold them back. The tightness in my throat escalates. The image of Miro turning to ash in my arms, her little cry unheard savages me. A sob escapes, it's a shuddering, broken thing, born of defeat, sorrow, regret. My tears melt from their prison, salt Miro's fur. I wipe them away, tender. I can't bear it. Three months.
The door opens and closes again. For a beat I am afraid Ryan will turn the light on. He doesn't. Gratitude floods me. He stops in front of where I am huddled against Miro. The scent of strawberries reaches me.
His weight comes down onto the foot of the bed. I can see nothing at all, but I can feel him there, a mountain sheltering my valley of sorrow.
'I heard you cry,' he murmurs. His voice is still rough with sleep. I wonder if this a fault in his pr
ogramming or if they left something human to him, either out of kindness, or cruelty. I suspect it is cruelty. He waits. Uncertainty seeps from him.
I don't reply. I leave him out there, alone, to finish what he has begun. My fingers return to stroking Miro's nose. She trills in her sleep and snuggles deeper into the blanket. Contentment surrounds her. Guilt destroys me. I ease away from her, plagued by dark thoughts.
It would have been better for us to die in London, I would have believed I would have found Ryan on the other side. I would have felt hope even when faced with none. But even this has been taken from me. He's a machine, both dead and alive. I wonder what happens when he shuts down, does his consciousness flee, freed from its chains, or die with him, locked forever in the maze of his circuitry?
His hand touches mine. Dissonance shatters me. His hand is wrong, but his touch is his own—reverent, tender. He turns my hand around and places the handle of the tea cup against my fingers. They curl around it automatically. Warmth seeps from its ceramic walls. I wrap my other hand around it and let its presence comfort me. I inhale. It is beautiful. Perfect. Like the meadow they had where I grew up filled with flowers, bees, and butterflies. Only this is better. Because he made it. I sip. Swallow. Somehow, I feel less shit.
I take my time drinking the tea. He waits. Every now and again I hear him running his hands against his thighs, the material rasping against his rough hands. His insecurity impales me. I relent.
'I had a vision.'
He catches his breath. Silence cocoons us. I feel like I cannot say it, but I must. I reach out to him, blind, and find his arm. His biceps are enormous. He hauls me towards him. With my free hand I find his jaw and turn his head to the side. I place my lips against his ear. I don't want them to hear. This is only for him. For us.
'In three months,' I whisper, 'everything will be destroyed.'
'How,' he asks, so low I wonder if I have imagined it.
I shrug, knowing he can see me, despite the tomb of the night. 'Everything will burn,' I breathe. 'Everything.'
He falls completely still. The air circulation system clicks on again. Cool air slides between us.
He turns and his arms find me. I let him hold me. I want him to kiss me. I don't want him to kiss me.
He kisses me.
I let him.
TEN | RYAN MADDOX
* * *
A sharp knock at the door wakes me. I recognise its triple staccato. Akron. Cassandra continues to sleep, senseless, in my arms. I ease myself away from her. She shifts onto her back with a quiet sigh, lost in Henrik's pyjamas. Her frailty deceives. Buried within, a power beyond comprehension—the power to create life—making her both the greatest threat to the UFF and the greatest ally to humanity.
Another terse rap shatters the quiet. I haul myself from the bed and head to the door, irritable from a fruitless night spent trying find a way to protect her from what is to come.
I open the door and step out into the corridor. Akron gives me a look laden with disapproval.
Out of habit, I salute him. 'Sir.'
Akron narrows his eyes and walks away, contempt bleeding from him. I follow, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I'm still not used to who I am. I look even shittier than usual. My skin is a sickly grey, and there are black shadows under my eyes. I bite back a scoff. I didn't think it could get any worse, but I was wrong. I look like hell.
Akron comes to a stop in front of the dining table, his back turned to me, his hands clasped behind his back. I wait. Uneasiness saws at me. In this place I have learned when someone comes to see you it's never a good thing. Whatever is coming, I'm not going to like it.
'You know they see everything, right?' he asks, taut, as if he is embarrassed, like a father having to tell his kid the first time about intercourse. He keeps his back to me, though his grip on his hands tighten a fraction. The faint outline of his expression is reflected against the window screen. I see him in the dark waters of the sea, lit by the pale gleam of the Milky Way. Disgust seeps from him, as though he cannot wait to get away from me. I sense what I am to him. An abomination. Him—the one who loves to ride droids.
'You did everything except fuck her,' he says. 'Everyone saw it, the control room tech, the guards. I saw it. de Pommier saw it. After.'
I can't help it. I laugh, though not from amusement, but bitterness.
'What did you expect would happen?' I ask. 'We were lovers before all this shit happened. You might have taken away my body, but you left me my soul.'
Akron turns. 'I expected her to be revolted by you. We all did. Especially de Pommier. She doesn't like being wrong.'
I fold my arms over my chest, unrepentant. It might not have been like before since I had been deprived of the necessary means, but we had been close. I had loved every second of it. I catch him eyeing me, sizing me up, as if trying to see me with Blue's eyes.
He turns away, expressionless. I realise he's jealous, though it makes no sense. He exhales, his gaze moving over the ebb and flow of the sea's wash against the shore, bathed in the wan light of a new day a hundred years dead.
I need coffee. Akron still has his back to me. 'I am going to assume you didn't come here just to discuss my night time activities.' I pull a couple of mugs out of the cupboard and set them on the counter with dull clinks. 'Coffee?'
A resentful silence washes out of him. I proceed to prepare one coffee. Fuck him.
'You are to be upgraded,' he says as I reach for the tin of coffee.
I turn, the coffee forgotten. He eyes me as he leans against the dining table. His hands come to rest against the edges. I notice his knuckles are white.
'We know,' he says. 'Everything.'
I keep my mouth shut and my expression blank. He could be bluffing, but from the defeat skirting his features, I sense he is not. Of course they would know, the surveillance equipment in there would be military grade. They could hear a mouse fart.
'Which means the plans have been substantially changed,' he continues and offers me a view of his profile, tension etching its valleys. I get the feeling he is not part of what is to come, just the messenger. He turns back to me and gives me a loaded look. 'Escalation.'
'And?'
'And Vallis is going to be worked hard,' he continues. He pushes away from the table, tosses a glance down the corridor to where Blue is still sleeping. 'de Pommier figures if Vallis is happy at night, then . . .' He trails off, leaves the rest for me to figure out. He shrugs, like he wants nothing to do with it.
I want to feel something, anything, anger, relief, vindication, but all I feel is empty. They want me to fuck her, to keep her happy, so she can serve their purposes. The whole thing sickens me.
'I don't want the upgrade,' I say and turn back to the get the coffee. 'Anyway, when I look like this, what difference will it make?'
'You're going to look like you again,' Akron says, low. 'It will be just like before . . . only better.'
I come to a halt. The marble counter top glares back at me in the reflected lights from under the cupboards. For the first time, I notice the faint lacing of grey in the midst of the marble's purity. They remind me of curls of smoke. 'How?'
Silence hauls itself between us. I can feel his gaze on me, boring into me, rank with resentment. I turn.
'That's above my pay grade,' Akron looks away, not meeting my eyes. I don't believe him, but I don't bother to challenge him. He would lie anyway.
'When?' I ask.
Akron jerks his head towards the double doors. 'They are waiting for you.'
I walk to the door and open it. Outside, two Elites wait, their hands clasped behind their backs. My escort. I turn back to Akron. He hasn't moved. Misery shrouds him. He meets my eyes at last. 'Go on Maddox,' he says. 'You know you want to.'
I walk out. He's right, I want to. More than anything. But not like this, and not for them, for me, or even for humanity's second chance. I'm doing it for her. Only for her.
I wake in a hospital gurn
ey. This time no bright lights sear my vision. Instead, soft illumination slides up the plain white walls from a thin luminescent strip embedded along the edge of the grey slate floor. Apart from the gurney, no other furnishings grace the space. The door facing me is closed. To the right of the frame, a panel with several blue lights blink in sequence. I lift my hand, cautious, expecting restraints. Nothing.
Disbelief, then relief slams through me. It is my hand. My own hand. I lift my other hand and clench both into fists, the movement familiar, invigorating. For a beat, euphoria rules me, then like the wash of a polluted tide, nausea swarms over me and steals my joy. I spot a stainless steel container beside the gurney. A vile, blue-black liquid splatters the pristine container, slides down against its sides in ugly rivulets. Sickened by the sight of it, I heave and empty myself, gagging against its bitter, metallic taste.
The door slides open. de Pommier's avatar walks in. I ease myself back onto the gurney, trembling, my guts strafed by agony. The acrid stink of my vomit fills the room, soaks my mouth. I want water. There is nothing.
'The worst is over,' de Pommier says. She stands just inside the door, her eyes move over me, critical, searching for flaws. A look of satisfaction touches the curve of her lips. 'Welcome back, Capitaine Ryan Maddox. For the next three months, you will remain with Vallis and be to her what you were before . . . and you will give her hope—the hope you and she will be together, forever, on Mars.' She cocks her head at me. I stifle a fresh wave of nausea. 'Of course, you won't. But when she realises that, it will be too late and she and the other evacuees will be on their way to Mars while the rest of us burn.'
She turns to leave, but I sense it's staged. She stops, her back to me. 'If you fail,' she continues, 'your memories of her, and your feelings will be disconnected.' I sense her cold smile, her relentless ambition all the way through the escalating burn of the poison within me. 'Your love for her, it is nothing more than an embedding of the memories of your amygdala into your neural net. It is easily taken from you. She won't know the difference, but for you, it will be death. She will fuck a machine programmed to act like you and think it loves her. Tragic, no? Perhaps I will watch.'