Outside the office building, the walkways were near vacant—something of an oddity for that time of day. Rebecca felt a tingle of anticipation run through her body as she walked down a path that led to the platform. She was worried that Jonas left some MSF agents behind to keep an eye on her. Rebecca looked all around for anything suspicious but saw nothing. She rushed past several office buildings and the galleria outdoor food court. She crossed several pathways and continued speed walking until something caught her ear.
Off in the distance there was an unusual sound hissing its way near. It only took a second to understand what was making the noise. It was the distinctive whine of a hovercar. There was no mistaking it. Hovercars were extremely rare. Only Fourth Tiers and above were allowed access to them outside of the MSF.
The MSF, she thought with fear. Her mind began to scramble. Could they already know about the translation? She had no idea how. Had Jonas read my mind? Her instincts were telling her to flee, but there was no use. The sound was too close; there would be no escape. Rebecca then did the only thing she could think to do. She tossed the workbag off to the side and onto a small patch of grass and began walking away.
She started walking in the opposite direction of the car as it rounded the corner. Rebecca could feel the hovercar creeping up behind her as she kept a quick but steady pace. Then she heard something being called out, like her name. She tried to ignore it—passing it off as if she heard nothing.
"Becca!" the voice shouted even louder.
Rebecca stopped in her tracks and turned around. To her utter astonishment, the car wasn't an MSF car but a private one being driven by a childhood friend. "Roland?" she said with surprise.
"I thought that was you!" he shouted over the whine and then lowered the car onto the walkway. Pedestrians passing by had to clear the way for the landing—all of them seemed intrigued by the arrival.
Roland Weymouth was as baby-faced as they came. His cheeks bore huge dimples and his eyes always appeared to be smiling. Rebecca had first met him when they were both six years old. He was the kind of guy that could make a good laugh happen when the situation called for it, but that was all he was typically good for. Most of the time he was off being anything but responsible, as if responsibility was a disease that needed to be avoided, which Rebecca never understood.
"I just dropped off my boss, Mr. Thomas Heckert, the Director of Technology," Roland said.
"I know who Director Heckert is," Rebecca informed him. "You're his driver?"
"Since last fall," Roland said with a hint of pride.
Being a driver wasn't exactly the most prestigious position to hold, but it did have its perks—like getting to drive and maintain hovercars. Rebecca knew that Roland was a Seventh Tier worker; however she didn't know he was a driver.
"So what do you think of my baby?" Roland said with a crooked grin.
"Your baby? It's the Ministry's car, Roland, not yours."
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. When Mr. Heckert isn't using it, the car is all mine. I drive it, take care of it and it stays with me at my flat."
"Sounds like you don't need the results of your compatibility test; you and the car are a perfect match."
Roland scrunched up his face and then smiled. "Want a ride?"
Rebecca was afraid he would ask. It was no secret that Roland had hidden feelings toward her. Even though the Ministry had forbidden lusting after anyone you weren't a compatible match with, Roland still had a crush on Rebecca. "No thanks Roland," she said with a stern tone.
"What's wrong?" he said innocently. "I just want to give you a lift in my car—to wherever you're going."
"It's not your car and you know I can't."
"Why can't you?"
She had been over this with him several times. It was getting to the point of annoyance. "You and I aren't compatible, which means we can't hang out together. The Ministry forbids it."
Disappointment registered across his face.
Rebecca knew that Roland was never the one to follow rules. She also knew that someday it would catch up to him. "You need to be careful. That is Director Heckert's car. If you get caught—"
"Nothing is going to happen," he said. "I was only trying to be nice. I think it's dumb that we can't be friends anymore—ever since we both took that stupid test."
"Be quiet Roland," she hissed and looked around. "You shouldn't say such things."
Roland nodded and waved her off. "I know, I know."
"Did you know that I'm engaged? I can't be seen riding in a car with you. It would jeopardize both our lives. Ministry approved or not, it just wouldn't be proper. Good day Roland."
Roland looked as if he wanted to argue more but Rebecca turned and continued walking. She then heard the hiss of the car as he pulled back off and headed in the opposite direction. Rebecca continued for a few more steps before stopping to see if he was gone. When the coast was clear, she hurried back to where she had tossed the bag, terrified that someone picked it up. But when Rebecca arrived, it appeared to be exactly where she dropped it.
"Thank goodness," she said after confirming its contents and then quickly walked toward the platform.
*******
The capitol platform was nearly deserted, despite the Ministry giving midday breaks from work. Hardly anyone ever left their respective locations. Most tended to stay at their office courtyard or attend lunch at a nearby restaurant. Rebecca had plans to go to lunch with some of her subordinates, but of course canceled, citing that she needed to pay her mother a visit, which was true in its own right.
She checked the boards and saw that the railway she needed was set to leave in five minutes time. Rebecca climbed onboard the middle car, which was completely empty, and took a seat in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. She silently hoped that the car would remain empty so that she could pull up the translation and read it without fear of someone overlooking. People in The Collective were constantly peeping into other people's business. It was a problem that didn't have an easy solution. It was always best to keep all materials out of public sight and Rebecca had no intention of letting anyone peek at what she was reading.
Before the railway embarked, about a half dozen people came onboard, including an elderly woman, who sat down next to Rebecca and fell asleep; a middle-aged couple, who sat on the far side of the car; and a man with silver hair, who stood holding onto the support bar. No one seemed to notice Rebecca or what she was reading.
As she loaded the translation, the magnets on the railway reversed and the train began to glide into high speed. The metropolis gave way to farmland as they reached the cruising speed of a hundred and ten miles per hour. Rebecca took a deep breath and started to read where she had left off, completely unaware of the curious man standing at the far end of the railcar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rebecca read how William Coulee traveled to Time magazine headquarters, where he worked in what he referred to as the Time Warner Center. It was there that he discovered an award he won while covering the war in Iraq. He called it the National Magazine Award for Reporting. Apparently that moment was the first time he had actually seen it. Engraved into the golden plate on the award were his name, Derrick Dohlman's name, and the names of the series of articles he wrote. They were about the atrocities of the war, particularly focused on something known as GlobalLock Security Force. The articles took place in the year 2005 AD, and covered the revenge killings of Iraqi civilians by four security force agents.
Rebecca stopped reading and wondered what the "AD" part of "2005 AD" meant. It was obviously an acronym for something. She considered After Development, which would have been similar to After First Time. But that would have meant that the text was just over a thousand years old, which went against TRNSLTR's estimated date of 13 AFT. Rebecca knew there was no way the text could have been written in 2005 AFT, thus crushing her After Development theory. How bizarre, she thought and continued reading.
William explained how his articles
had helped bring about an investigation into GlobalLock's activities in Iraq and eventually led to the arrests of four men, Gregory Hansen, Jeffery Carter, Walter Hughes and Shaun Porski. William pointed out that he actually knew Gregory Hansen at one point:
*******
He was in charge of protecting someone very special to me in Iraq. For nearly three months I saw him on a daily basis. He was a brash man, the kind of guy who seemed more interested in proving how tough he was. We didn't talk much and I think he liked it that way. But with that said, it was still shocking to find out that one of the four guys was someone I knew.
*******
William continued explaining the aftermath of his articles and how they led to the men's trials and convictions. The punishment dealt to them, however, was incredibly light. He wrote that they were given only six months to a year in prison, which Rebecca couldn't fathom. Killing was extremely rare in the Collective, but if and when it did occur, the punishment was most certainly death for the assailant. Six months to a year, Rebecca thought, that's preposterous.
She continued with the translation and read about William's meeting with Derrick Dohlman. The two of them made small talk about current events and Dohlman told William that he had to replace a man working for him in a place called Gaza. Apparently there was a war happening there as well. William thought, with all of his war corresponding experience, that Dohlman wanted him to be the replacement:
*******
"Nope. Something else is planned for you my friend. I'm not sending you to Gaza; some other unlucky bastard will have to replace Nathaniel. You're getting assigned another story."
"Hang on," I said, surprised. "Why am I not going to Gaza? What are you assigning me?"
"Something special. I just got word from the big man that he wants you on another assignment. He wants you covering something . . . well, something more mysterious."
More mysterious? I thought. "Benjamin Vermil contacted you about me?"
*******
Rebecca's eyes stopped on that last line. Benjamin Vermil.
It was then that Rebecca felt her body jolt from the railway's sudden decrease in speed—slowing in dramatic fashion. Rebecca checked the time before sighing with frustration. Usually when the railway stopped suddenly it was because of a malfunction. Rebecca didn't have the patience or the time for malfunctions. She thought about what she just read and according to the chronicle Benjamin Vermil was a powerful man. Delusions of grandeur. A guest at Cognitive Services being anything other than the lowest of the low in social stature was laughable. But then it occurred to Rebecca that maybe the text was designed to be that way. Maybe it was written in order to make a statement about society's prejudice, or possibly to demonstrate how the world could have been different. There was a term for it. What do they call it?. . . Alternative history. Maybe Vermil wrote the chronicle and Jillian lied about where it came from. She pondered the possibility for a moment but realized it wasn't likely. How could he beat TRNSLTR? He couldn't have and she knew it. But the alternative history idea was still something worth considering.
Rebecca first learned of alternative history in the Academy many years ago. Supposedly the Heretique had designed a series of propaganda campaigns aimed at subjecting The Collective to false ideas of how the Ministry formed and the sinister plot it carried for total world domination. It was alleged that the Heretique were plotting on delivering these messages through the arts—literature, music and cinema. However, nothing supposedly made it out of the conceptual phase. According to Instructor Barnes at the Academy, the MSF foiled the plot before it had a chance to take flight. He said it was one of the first successful tests for the controversial Thought Police Division. Supposedly the Thought Police intercepted the ideas well in advance, allowing the MSF to strike before anything was released. Maybe this text is a second attempt at the campaign? Rebecca considered. The thought that she might be reading brain-washing propaganda made her shudder. Instructor Barnes had warned her class about the power of such propaganda. He told them: "Once they sink their hooks into you, there's no getting them out."
Rebecca knew she should probably delete the translation and destroy the original text, but then what? Destroying her copy wouldn't change the facts—and the facts were that Quality Control also had a copy. It doesn't matter if it's propaganda, she told herself, my name is in there and I have to find out why, so I can clear it.
Halfway down the railway an odd noise could be heard. Rebecca broke from her inner thought to look out the window. A few others leaned up against the glass and glanced down the length of the train. Rebecca, however, couldn't get a proper angle. The sound resembled squealing metal. "What is that?" she said to a man standing next to her.
He continued to look and then shook his head. "I have no idea."
"It's the MSF," said another, shorter man. "They're using their HOUNDS."
"Their HOUNDS?" Rebecca said with surprise. "Why are they using those?"
The shorter man went back to his seat and said: "Obviously they're looking for someone."
The blood curdling squeal was slowly making its way closer.
"Looking for someone?" Rebecca said but then realized what it meant. "You mean they're looking for a criminal?"
"Criminal, spy, enemy—any one of those would do, I'm sure." He then paused before speaking next: "Relax Ma'am, they won't hurt you." The man smiled and removed a small handkerchief to wipe his brow. "That is, of course, unless you're a criminal."
A criminal? Rebecca thought: I'm not a criminal. But then she looked down at her workbag and realized that she very well could be.
The squealing noise drew closer and for the second time that day, Rebecca considered running.
*******
HOUNDS, as everyone in The Collective knew them, were technically known as High Octave Unbearable Neurological Disorienting Sounds. They were organic mechanisms that resembled wild dogs with lean vengeful bodies and blood curdling cries. Rebecca learned in the Academy that the HOUND's cry was designed to severely affect the stressors of a person—especially one who is already stressed by a wrongful act he or she committed. Supposedly the brain fires excessive neurological stressors to the body when committing a wrongful act or lying. The HOUND's cry targets those stressors and accentuates them to the point of unbearable anxiety, leading the guilt-ridden person to believe they are going to die.
Rebecca didn't want to wait around to find out if it was true or not. She began hastily making her way toward the back of the train. The man next to her watched curiously as she slid open the car's back door and ran into the next. The squeals were becoming more like screams as they drew closer. Rebecca could already feel her heart beating rapidly. The lies she told to the Security Chief were surfacing. She pushed past several people standing in the aisle and made it to the next door. Rebecca wanted to stop running and turn herself in—she wanted to rid the guilt seeping into her heart. I have to get out of here, she reminded herself and pushed on. She ran into the next car with only a handful of people inside and quickly realized that it was the final car. Rebecca ran to the back of it, which had an emergency door that opened into nothing. Is this how it happened with Jillian, she wondered with horror.
The HOUND's scream grew closer—louder.
Rebecca scrambled for a solution, peering through the emergency door window for a way down. The problem was that they were nearly three hundred feet in the air. The track the railway glided on was supported on the side, so there was nothing to step on but two very narrow rail bars that purely served as under support. Maybe I can balance myself on them, but the thought was panicked lunacy. There was no place to go.
Outside the car, Rebecca saw an MSF hovercraft moving alongside the body of the railway—undoubtedly mirroring the path of the HOUND. It was getting closer—too close. The HOUND's cry, its scream, was piercing Rebecca's soul. She regretted having told lies, having betrayed the Ministry. Rebecca felt guilty for her mother's lies, for her mother's adulterous act. Rebecca
felt guilty for existing. I shouldn't have been born, she told herself.
The screams were unbearable now. The HOUND was right outside the door.
I can't take this much longer, Rebecca pleaded to herself. Her heart was like an out of control railway car blasting off its track. She clenched at her chest as she crumbled to the seat behind her. She didn't notice the car door hiss open and the fierce looking silver creature come creeping inside. Its mouth gaped open as it continued to howl and scream. It was nothing Rebecca had ever heard before. It was the most terrifying sound imaginable.
Please let it end, she told herself. Even her thoughts were becoming drowned out by the HOUND's cry. Give yourself up and the pain will end, a voice in her head said.
I . . . I . . . can't.
Rebecca's breathing was labored and she could feel her consciousness slip. She was falling into a black hole—a tunnel where nothing but the HOUND's howl could be heard.
Stop! she pleaded. I'll give in.
Rebecca tried to pull herself out of the darkness consuming her, but she couldn't. She kept falling further into the emptiness.
Then the HOUND's cry ceased.
Rebecca's heart continued to pound but she was able to regain some of her senses. She looked around the car and saw what few people stood inside with her were all watching someone else. A skinny, big-eared man with glasses was laying on the ground. A giant silver creature had its snout pointing directly at him—mouth gaped open but no sound coming from it. There was a loud beeping noise outside the railway. Rebecca saw the hovercraft docking onto the car. The floor-to-ceiling glass window slid up and created an opening for the hovercraft's passengers to board. Rebecca noticed that an MSF agent was kneeling next to the man, binding his wrists with laserlocks: the metal wrist guards that kept a person's hands secured behind their backs. They were called laserlocks because inside of them were beams of electricity that would expel if the lock was broken, ultimately severing the person's wrists.
The Sinner King: Book of Fire Page 7