by J. Stone
Hazel feigned ignorance. “I know how to pick a lock, what does that have to do with--”
“I’m not talking about the gimmicks, Ms. Weaver,” Alice replied. “The teleportation. The gift bestowed upon you by Fiona Newton.”
Hazel didn’t reply, instead her eyes seemed transfixed in horror on something behind the operative. Worried that someone might be approaching, Alice looked behind her. There was nothing.
Turning back to the magician, Alice demanded, “I know you can still teleport. Tell me about it.”
“That?” she asked, somewhat lowering the gun. “I lost the ability to do that when she died. Fiona was the one with power. Not me.” Her eyes traced back to whatever she had stared at behind Alice, but then attempted to shield her eyes from whatever she thought she saw.
The voice inside Alice bellowed in defiance at Hazel’s explanation, Liar!
“Perhaps,” Alice conceded. “But, I think it’s worth testing. I can understand why you would want to keep quiet about the power. Especially now that the empress is so adamantly opposed to biosynthesis.”
“I’m not lying,” Hazel said.
Now shouting in her head, the voice was nearly unbearable. LIAR!
“I place my faith in the science, not your words,” Alice replied.
The tendrils shot out at Hazel gripping her tightly, but not before the woman could pull the trigger. Her bullet lodged inside Alice’s chest, causing the operative to look down and grimace at the pouring blood. With Hazel firmly in her tentacles’ grip, Alice took the time to pull the bullet out with her fingers, tossing the bloody chunk of metal to the hay-strewn floor. Hazel, meanwhile, was forced to drop the gun, and she struggled to get free of Alice’s grasp.
“You only need teleport to save yourself,” Alice commented.
Hazel clutched at the tentacles, trying to pry them from her neck. They were too tight for her to reply, so Alice continued, “You can’t hide from god, Ms. Weaver. He knows what you are. All he asks is for your faith in his plan.”
Hazel finally attempted to teleport, but she seemed to have less control on it than she had when she was being controlled by Fiona. Alice was brought through the teleportation, and they both appeared several feet off the ground and at the very edge of the circus with no one else around. They quickly came crashing to the ground, causing Alice to slightly loosen her grip on Hazel.
“There. Was that so hard?” Alice asked.
“Why can’t… you just leave… me alone?” Hazel asked through sputtering coughs.
“My dear,” the operative began. “You are something new. You are special. We need to understand what you are and how you came into being.”
“What does that mean?” the escapologist asked.
Alice’s tendril still wrapped around Hazel’s neck tightened, once again restricting her breathing. “It means you will be brought back to the C.E.R., sedated, examined, injected, cut, sliced, tested, and finally killed. All for your empire. We thank you for your selfless sacrifice.”
Hazel’s eyes went dim as Alice choked the young magician out. Her body went limp, and the operative gently allowed her to fall to the floor. She had her target, now she just needed to deliver her to Crowley and his scientists at the Center for Empirical Research. God’s work had only just begun.
Chapter 13. Crowley’s Death
Ever since Empress Mary Elizabeth’s attack and infection at the hands of one of Fiona’s minions, Crowley had found his place within the Cultwick Empire quickly shrinking despite his best efforts to stymie the recession. He had not given up, but his methods had grown more desperate in the previous days. He knew what was coming, knew there was no way to stop it. His plans had to evolve beyond his typical resources.
Ever since his experience under Fiona’s control and subsequent release, the councilor had some stray thought scratching at the back of his head. He had witnessed something after being granted access to the interconnected minds of Cultwick. Though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, he knew that it involved Viola Arkmast. He knew it was something that he could use against her. Now it was just a matter of discovering it and learning how to wield it against her. Time was certainly not on his side though.
The council was meeting more often than they had in previous times due to the changes being forced upon them by the empress. Behind their closed doors, they had all agreed that Viola was a danger to their seats on the council, but Crowley had no idea what kind of things the other councilors might be attempting to do on their own. Self-preservation was one of the characteristics required of a good councilor after all.
If anyone was likely to be preparing to stab the others in the back, Crowley suspected Spencer Price the most. Unlike the others, Price was uniquely motivated by the political realm. Each of the other councilors had something else that had propelled them into the council. Sophia Rhinehart had her military background, Martin Lynch worked within the Church of Biosynthesis for many years, and Grace Murphy had been performing radical scientific research before Crowley brought her on board.
Their discussions ranged from what to do regarding the church now that Viola was distancing the empire from it, to how to deal with the shortage of experimentation subjects without the lottery program. There had been no easy answers, and the council had been in session for several hours.
Interrupting the council’s discussions, however, Viola entered their chambers along with one of her newly established royal guard. Crowley had heard almost nothing regarding these cloaked and concealed individuals, and that worried him. The man that accompanied the empress wore dyed black leathers all over his body and a tattered blue cloak behind his back. Over the leather, he wore bleached bone armor fashioned from a terrible beast Crowley was certain was not native to the Cultwick region. Adorning his head was the creature’s skull, with its two large horns reaching high above him. His eyes shone through the skulls’ own, and the beast’s bottom jaw draped below the man’s chin, forming a wicked smile. Tearing partially through the cloak on his back, there were large, sharp bones strapped to his shoulders. A rib cage guarded his own chest. Even his legs were hidden behind the bone armor. In his hand, he held a long red staff. At its very base was a glowing orb, constantly changing its color in a stormy haze. Along the other end was a blade jutting out from the wood of the staff. The metal of the blade was inscribed with searing red runes that the councilor didn’t recognize.
Whatever Viola’s reason for interrupting their meeting, Crowley was certain it would be bad news for them. He had avoided her as much as possible, since her mother had passed from the effects of the Carrier Plague. After Viola somehow managed to delve into his own mind using some unknown method, he’d preferred to keep his distance. If he was to take her down, he would have to do it from a good distance away.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Rhinehart asked. “This is a closed meeting, even to you, Empress Arkmast.”
“There is nothing off-limits to me, Sophia,” Viola shot back. “I will go where I please.”
“Well, then,” Crowley said. “You’re here. Why have you interrupted us?”
“It’s about your positions here on the council,” the empress explained. “They’re no longer necessary. As of today, you have all been replaced.”
“You can’t do this,” Price replied. “We’ve all--”
“What is it that makes you think I was done talking?” Viola angrily interrupted. “You represent everything my mother’s reign stood for, and that is why you must be replaced. No longer will you be allowed to use the empire’s citizens as your playthings.”
“And who do you plan to replace us with?” Crowley asked.
“I have someone in mind for each of your seats,” Viola responded. “Someone I’m sure you’ve heard of for yours, Desmond.”
At that cue, a man entered the room behind the young empress and her armed guard. Crowley had never seen the man before, and he wasn’t sure why Viola said that he knew him. The man had trimmed g
ray hair with a matching beard. Patches of the hair still managed to illicit the faintest red tinge of youth, but for the most part, it had aged beyond that color. Covering his eyes were a pair of small, circular spectacles, and Crowley found the grin on his face to be deeply disconcerting. He wore a pressed blue overcoat atop a clean, white shirt, and he had simple black pants and boots below that.
“This is Reginald Maynard,” Viola announced gesturing to the man, as he joined her at her side.
“That traitor?” Rhinehart asked, pointing a finger at the rebel leader.
“There were terms to the confederacy’s surrender,” the empress explained. “This was but one of those.”
The smile still glaring on his face, Maynard said, “Don’t you worry. The council will be in good hands.”
“We won’t stand for this,” Lynch said. “We’ll fight you for the right to rule. You’re young. Inexperienced. We have the church on our side. We will beat you.”
“Though I am loathe to admit it, you might actually be right,” the empress replied. “I don’t believe that firing you will be sufficient to silence you.”
“Are you actually threatening us?” Rhinehart asked.
“Absolutely not,” Viola answered. “I’m just agreeing with Martin’s summation. Of course… If anything were to happen to you in my presence or as the result of an order I gave, it could jeopardize my authority, which is simply unacceptable. So, my guard and I will leave you here, but Crowley, please know that you will be the last. You will watch, and there will be nothing for you to do about it.”
Viola, Maynard, and the empress’ royal guard all exited the room from the entrance they had come through. When the last had left, the doors closed, and a silence permeated the room. Each councilor was left wondering what Viola had meant by her last statement. Before long, however, that answer seemed to present itself. From seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared.
Crowley immediately recognized him as one of Councilor Rhinehart’s assassins from Ankalara, though he had no idea which one. He wore a metal mask encased over his head that was latched closed with a high-powered explosive device to keep him under control. Covering up most of the mask was a red trilby hat and the oversized collar of a matching red overcoat with gold buckles. The rest of his clothing was dark black, allowing him to look almost like he was floating in the shadowy room.
“Solak!” Rhinehart yelled. “What are you doing here? Where have you been?”
When the councilor acquired the guild of assassins during the war, she had cut out each of their tongues. Solak had no way to verbally answer her, but he found a way to reply. Unbuttoning and separating his coat, the assassin retrieved two shining, silver throwing daggers from within. With ease, Solak tossed them both in opposite directions to either side of him. They landed firmly in Lynch and Murphy’s necks. Both of the councilors grabbed their throats, as they fell to the floor, gurgling blood from their mouths.
Fumbling in her pocket, Rhinehart reached in and retrieved a small, rectangular device with a simple red button. Before she pressed the button, however, she looked up at Solak, who was holding a dangling strap, with a chunk of metal at its center. He had pulled out the explosive device that Rhinehart had strapped to the assassin. Crowley saw fear in his fellow councilor’s eyes for perhaps the first time. She regained her senses, however, and firmly pressed the button. Solak was too quick for her though. He tossed the choker at Councilor Price, and the shrapnel of the explosion perforated his body. Crowley and Rhinehart were all that remained.
Instead of attacking either of them, the assassin reached up to his hat, tossing it aside. Next, Solak removed the metallic mask that was supposed to have been locked around his neck. He dropped it, with a clang, to the shiny floor of the council chambers, revealing his tattoo-covered olive skin. He glared at Rhinehart with a rage and hate that Crowley almost found impressive, if he hadn’t also been exposed to it. Rhinehart had not yet lost her fight, though. She retrieved the pistol at her hip and fired several shots at the assassin.
True to his guild’s reputation, Solak moved impossibly quick, dodging each of the bullets. Before either of the councilors knew what had happened, he was around on the other side of the table, sword drawn and standing next to Rhinehart. She twisted to face her attacker, but he casually swiped his sword, cutting through her gun and causing her to drop the broken weapon. Solak then backed up and waited a moment. From his waist, he retrieved another sword and tossed it to the councilor. Rhinehart caught it in the air and wasted no time in assaulting Solak.
Locked in combat, the pair of them clashed swords back and forth across the room, while Crowley simply watched. He could tell that Solak was simply playing with Rhinehart. The winner had been decided long ago, and it was only a matter of time before he ended it. Rhinehart quickly tired herself out due to the assassin’s ability to seemingly vanish and reappear at will. Crowley knew the science behind it. The assassin wasn’t truly disappearing, but rather he could move at incredible speeds. Regardless, it was still an impressive feat. The empire’s scientists had studied the effects of the herbs the guild imbibed, but they had never been able to precisely duplicate the effects the assassin had. They had never revealed any details to their apparently ancient process either, and without their tongues, they had grown no more willing to divulge.
Crowley could only imagine that once Solak had finished with Rhinehart, the assassin would kill him as well. Surely, that was what Viola had meant. His mind raced, trying to find a means of escaping what he knew would be a foregone conclusion. If Rhinehart failed, he stood no chance.
Solak appeared to have grown bored playing keep away from Rhinehart’s blade. Dodging a thrust, he stepped to her side, dragging his sword against her leg. The cut hadn’t been deep enough to knock her down, but the assassin made sure she felt it. Rhinehart cried out in pain, and Solak curled the corner of his lips, smiling at her anguish. Full of anger, the councilor wildly swung again, and this time Solak sliced open her sword-wielding arm. He stepped back after the attack, as her blade fell to the floor.
Crowley grimaced. Any hope he had held onto was gone. Rhinehart kneeled and reached out to grab the sword from the ground with her other hand, but Solak reappeared behind her. He sliced open her other leg. The blade went deeper this time, and she was on her knees after an anguished groan. Falling forward, the blade was just in front of her hands. Her fingers crept forward for the hilt of the weapon, but by the time she grasped it, Solak’s foot was there. Pressing down with the toe of his boot, he crunched her fingers inches from the blade. Again, she cried out in pain, and again the assassin seemed pleased.
Without releasing pressure on her fingers, Solak bent down and picked up the second sword. After grabbing it and standing upright, the assassin stepped off her hand and backed up. Rhinehart retracted her hand, holding it to her chest and nursing her pain with her other hand. Using the flat of one of his blades, Solak raised Rhinehart’s chin for her, forcing the councilor to look up from the ground at him. Placing both swords crossed over one another and at either side of her neck, lightly piercing her skin, Solak looked down at his broken former master. She glared at him seemingly just as disdainful of him as he was of her. She then stole the satisfaction of her death from him by plunging forward into the crossed blades. Her neck sliced open and blood spurted out from the wound. The assassin just watched, as Rhinehart fell to the side, blood gurgling with bubbles from her neck and mouth. She didn’t die quickly, but after a time, she seemed to be gone.
With everyone else dead, Solak turned to face Crowley. Viola had ordered the assassin to leave him for last. There was no doubt that she truly had hated him, if she had wanted him see the end of his own council. There was nothing left to be done. Crowley had no way of standing toe to toe with the assassin. His fate was sealed. Stepping forward to his seat at the table, Crowley pulled out a drawer and retrieved a pistol.
“My death will be on my own terms,” he informed the assassin.
Holding the gun to his temple, the councilor pulled the trigger.
Chapter 14. Germ’s Guide
Time felt different in the Pocket. While it seemed like he had only just arrived there, it also felt like it took him days to walk from the pseudo mansion’s entryway, up the steps, and to the second floor. The invasive vines Germ found downstairs also grew here, covering the walls, ceiling, and floor in their green-leafed tendrils.
Unlike the hallway he was used to, this one was like something out of a funhouse. The walls just continued endlessly, twisting and contorting as they went. He was not eager to investigate just how far they managed to go or where they ended, and luckily, he didn’t have to. His room was just down the hall from the stairway, and, unnerved by the twisting pathway, Germ quickly moved to open the door.
Pushing forward into the room, the rat found a young, bald boy jumping up and down on the bed. Instantly, the rat recognized him as Simon, the child he had found in Councilor Crowley’s private wing of the Center for Empirical Research. Luckily, the boy helped him and Olivia find and retrieve the sample of the genotoxin to aid in Rowland’s attempt to find the cure. The boy looked exactly the same as he did the last time Germ had seen him. He was completely bald, including where his eyebrows should have been, and was wearing the same hospital type gown he had the last time they met. Continuing to jump, Simon smiled and waved at Germ.
“Hey!” he shouted happily.
“Hello,” the rat answered back, responding more out of reflex than any real thought. He was too confused by the boy’s presence to cobble anything more together.
“We haven’t met yet, but you know my sister,” Simon stated flatly, not bothering to stop his bouncing.
“But we have met, Simon,” Germ replied, confused. “In the C.E.R.”
“What?” Simon asked, perplexed. “No. Well, yes. Well, yes and no. I mean, you met me, but I haven’t met you. Not yet anyway.”