by T. C. Edge
The lines of brilliant radiance, jagged and violent, took hold of the man in black. The silver and blue sped about his body, so stark against his lightless armour. Sparks and flashes of electricity engulfed him in their net, closing in, squeezing tight, suffocating the man in a burning embrace.
Chloe unleashed it all. She let every single ounce of energy she had flee her, speeding through her hands, her fingers, holding this man, this creature, at bay. She could hear muted sounds behind her, Nadia calling her name. Her voice was dulled and indistinct. The world began to blur and fade, black ink closing in at the edges of her vision.
It wouldn’t be enough, Chloe knew. This thing could not be defeated by her. All she wanted was to hold him off, grip him tight in her lightning web, delay him enough so her friends could get free…
Her eyes began to fall shut, hands slowly falling. The man ahead of her was on his knees now, hands held to his head, body rigid. She could hear something coming from him, from inside his mask.
Was that…was that a scream?
The thought gave her hope. She dug deep, hauling a final load from the bottom of the well, going beyond what she’d ever endured before. She saw the man rip his mask from his head, pulling away his helmet. That face of his - exactly the same as Cal’s - was contorted in a twisted agony, mouth wide, a bellow of pain filling the air.
And then, suddenly, Chloe saw his eyes pop, turning dull, his skull seeming to bulge. It swelled, before blasting open, spraying blood and brains out into the air.
His body went rigid, then slumped, collapsing to the earth, claret oozing into the dirt around him.
It was the final thing Chloe saw before the darkness closed in.
120
Ragan stepped through the ragged group of Panthers and Spectres, pacing right into the cockpit of the jet. Several were injured, one seriously. It seemed from an early count that roughly half of the soldiers brought on the mission had died.
They would be hailed as heroes, every last one of them. They’d faced down an onslaught and refused to crumble. They’d died holding that stairwell, those wide corridors, to buy time for others to flee, and others to act. The dead would be celebrated. The living would be cheered. Soldiers who’d been fighting against one another had come together, laying down their lives for men supposed to be their enemies. They were heroes, one and all.
There was no rest, however, to be had quite yet. Ragan noticed Captain Maddox in the cockpit, speaking with the pilots. He rushed in to join them, clasping arms with Maddox as he came.
“Thank you,” Ragan said, firming his eyes, nodding his deeply stubbled chin. “You could have left without me.”
“I couldn’t,” Maddox returned, gripping Ragan’s forearm tight. “I saw you out there, I saw how you were. Whatever you did before, you didn’t deserve to die out on that godforsaken deck.” He drew a breath, eyes turning distant, almost haunted. “And I saw those men, what they could do. Maybe you had it right all along…”
He pulled himself together, eyes blinking. He looked a little pale, flecks of blood dusting his face, deeply scarred chin seeming even wider and more pronounced than ever.
Ragan nodded his thanks once more.
“So, you don’t want to see me dead anymore?” he asked, quite serious.
Maddox flattened out his stare. He managed a small smile.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Hunt,” he said.
Ragan smiled, turning to the pilots.
“Any movement from the facility before it went down?” he asked.
The pilots had been briefed prior to the mission to keep an eye on the water; as Martha had explained, and the old schematics demonstrated, there were underwater shoots halfway down the facility, allowing for jets to enter and exit from a hanger beneath the waves. Ragan had wanted to make absolutely sure that no jets escaped, instructing the pilots to shoot down anyone emerging from the water.
The co-pilot turned to him, shaking his head.
“Nothing, sir. No movement. The only people who escaped that place alive are the people on our jets.”
Ragan felt a flush of relief. He glanced back into the main cabin, at the desolate band of Panthers and Spectres there. And Mikel, standing at the rear alone.
Mikel, who saved me…
Ragan took a gulp of air, turning back to the co-pilot.
“How many soldiers on the other jet?”
“Not entirely sure, sir. Counts haven’t been concluded. About a dozen I think.”
Ragan nodded, performing a quick count of his own. There were about the same here, perhaps a couple fewer. Less than half of the men had survived. He paid them a sombre thought, looking down in respect of the fallen.
“Residents?” he asked.
“A hundred or so,” said the co-pilot. “Again, pending final counts.”
A hundred. Good enough. There were thought to be several hundred people at the facility, including soldiers, staff, and families. All soldiers would be dead. That was acceptable in war. Many staff members will also have perished in the depths, the President, Pamela Chase, included. If anyone was to die there, that woman deserved it…
But the families had been saved. Mostly. Ragan could live with that.
“Major Mitcham died,” Maddox said, voice hollow. “He was a good man, a good leader.” He dipped his head in respect, and Ragan did the same. A silent prayer to their fallen Panther brother, and the others they’d lost.
“Have you contacted the staging camp in Cincinnati?” Ragan asked.
“Just about to do so, sir,” said the pilot.
Ragan nodded.
“Get on it. We’ll have to figure out what to do with these residents. Have our leaders there ready for when we touch down.”
He stepped away, breath still panting, entire body tingling from the battle. It was a sensation that got his blood pumping, nanites flaring. It was often at the end of a battle that he felt at his strongest, his most invulnerable. Especially ones this short.
But that…that had been close. So close.
He stepped back down the passage and into the cabin. The eyes that found him - of both Panthers and Spectres - regarded him differently now. They’d changed. They understood.
Ragan lifted his hand to his ear, activating his earpiece. He waited for the line to connect. It took a few moments before it did.
Martha Mitchell’s voice came down the line.
“Ragan!” Martha said immediately, jumping to her feet. “You made it!”
Sarah, who’d been cuddled next to her, drew back in surprise at the sudden movement.
“Sorry, darling,” Martha whispered, before taking a pace away into the buzzing crowd.
The jet was teeming, filled to overflowing with the residents of the facility. Martha noted that children made up a large part of their number, many with their mothers, some with their fathers. Not too many had both parents with them, one or the other caught in the blast.
The destruction of the facility had just about been visible from the jet, a heavy black column of smoke marking where it met its end. Martha had watched with others through the windows, a quiet falling, as the home - the prison - they’d been kept in flooded and burned.
Tears had began to flow soon after. Cries of anguish filled the plane. These people had been saved, but their husbands, wives, partners, friends and colleagues had not. They would live, but never be the same.
It was the price they’d have to pay. A price forced on them by Pamela Chase.
Martha had been the last onto the jet, the last non-combatant to step aboard. She felt that it was the least she could do, after all she’d done, though part of her felt it too generous. I should have been down there too when it blew, that part said, listening to the wails and cries of pain. I don’t deserve to be here…
The crowd had gone a little quieter now, though the place remained loud, filled with sobbing and soothing words, mutters of confusion, words of blame. Martha stepped further through them, finger pressed to her ear, s
eeking the quiet of the cockpit where the bustling masses weren’t permitted to be.
“Hold on a second, Ragan,” she called as she went. “It’s loud here. Just let me get somewhere quieter.”
She pressed through, moving down the passage, a guard nodding her through. She ventured into the quiet of the cockpit and drew a breath.
“OK, I can talk,” she said. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you, Martha,” came Ragan’s voice. He sounded strained, voice tense. “You got out. I’m glad.”
Glad. Yes, that’s the best she could hope for, really.
“And you, Ragan,” she asked, voice tentative. “What about your men?”
She heard him draw a breath, and hesitate.
“We’ve suffered losses,” he said. “I wanted to inform you that President Chase is dead.”
Martha froze at the words. They had a dull impact on her. Her old friend, dead. The woman who’d brought Sarah back from the brink, dead. But…
…The woman who’d caused all this mess, who’d sought to bring chaos to the continent, dead.
Yes, it was a good thing.
“Thank you for telling me,” is all she ended up saying. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. No one escaped but those we saved.” He went silent a moment, then spoke again, voice softer. “You’ve redeemed yourself, Martha. We both have.”
Those words had an unexpected impact on her. She felt a sudden weakness envelop her, the threat of tears beginning to build.
“I…I’m so sorry for everything I did,” she said suddenly, sinking into the corner of the cockpit. The co-pilot looked back, frowning. She ducked away from his gaze. “I’ve done wicked things, Ragan,” she went on. “I should have died down there today.”
“Martha,” whispered Ragan, voice sympathetic. “You acted to save your daughter, that is all. I know you never wanted any of this. And you put both her and yourself at risk by what you did today. You shouldn’t question that. I’ll see that everyone knows the full truth of your actions.”
“Thank you, Ragan,” she whispered, welling up.
“I fear we’ll both have more answers to give before this is done,” Ragan went on, sounding thoughtful. “I’m not sure where it leaves any of us, really. LA and New York have suffered terribly. Project Dawn is destroyed. The MSA have lost its leaders. Only the Southern Republic remains unscathed, as far as I know. There’s change in the air. Forced by terrible events, yes, but still change. That can only be a good thing.”
Martha liked those words, as she liked Ragan. He was so wise, to pure in his convictions. She felt shamed just speaking with him, after all she’d done, and all he’d done to combat it, to sweep up the terrible mess she’d made.
And what now? Surely she wouldn’t be allowed to get away with this, even after helping today? Would she be taken into custody, forced to serve her remaining years in a cell? Maybe that’s what she deserved…
But Sarah would live on, and live happy. That’s all that mattered to her. That’s all she cared about.
“I agree,” Martha said eventually. “Maybe something positive can come from the ashes of this.”
“That’s what I hope too.”
Martha smiled, and the line clicked off.
Ragan drew the earpiece of his ear and placed it into his pocket. He turned around his fellow soldiers, moving towards the few that were injured, gathered to one side. Two had flesh wounds that didn’t seem serious. Another had a broken leg. A fourth looked to have been caught in an explosion, one side of his body badly burned.
A Spectre, acting medic, looked up to him.
“He’s stable, sir,” he said. “I’ve given him a nanite-booster. Should get him out of the woods.”
Ragan nodded. Sir, the man had called him. A Spectre, a special forces soldier of the NDSA’s greatest enemy, had called him, an ex-Panther, an ex-CID agent from New York, sir.
Change is in the air, he’d said to Martha. That right there was proof of it.
And the burned man he was treating…was a Panther.
Ragan stood and turned to the rear of the jet. Mikel prowled there, skulking in the shadows, as if keen to stay as far away from the others as possible. Ragan regarded him a moment, this man who’d hounded him for so long, who’d acted so brutally down in the facility, frenzied in his savage attacks.
And yet, he’d saved him too. He’d dragged Ragan to the jet when he might well have been killed. He’d thrown him on board, even blocking the enemy fire with his armoured frame as he went.
Why?
Ragan moved towards him, seeking an answer. He wanted to know. He needed to know. Would it be enough to change his mind on the man, enough to divert his desire to kill him?
No. One good deed didn’t wipe out a lifetime of cruelty. It wouldn’t bring back all the innocent people he’d murdered. It wouldn’t remove the scarring from Tanner’s face, or exempt him from the dreadful crimes he’d committed. Yes, much of what Mikel did was out of his control, and much of it was just a part of war.
But the man went too far, much too far. He needed to be put down for everyone’s sake.
Ragan reached him, eyes quizzical. Mikel casually turned his gaze over.
“Why did you save me out there?” Ragan asked abruptly.
Mikel smiled, and shrugged.
“I’m not having you die from some random bullet, Hunt,” he said. “If anyone’s killing you, it’s me.”
“So that’s why,” said Ragan, nodding to himself, feeling almost happy at the explanation. It made things a little easier.
“Yeah, that’s why,” Mikel said, smile fading a little.
He looked away, placing some doubt in Ragan’s mind.
“So, you do still want to kill me then?” he asked. “I thought the synthetics were you new…purpose.”
“Of course, yes.” His eyes lit again, then mellowed. “But…after.”
He grinned, sending a chill through Ragan’s blood. Then he turned the grin into something more genuine, more…friendly, almost.
“Or…perhaps not,” he said. “I told you before, I’ve lost interest in you and your little band. No challenge, you see.”
“And if you do hunt down the others like you?”
Mikel’s eyes burned with a sudden, sapphire flame.
“They’re not like me,” he growled. “No one is like me.”
Ragan slid back half a step.
“You…know what I meant.”
Mikel drew a breath, his eyes cooling.
“Yes, of course. I’ll destroy them all, Ragan. I’ve told you this already.”
“But…after? What challenge will remain then?”
Mikel considered it a moment, eyes drifting off.
“There’s always another challenge,” he said, cryptic cast to his expression. “But don’t worry…it won’t be you.”
He eyed him then with something that, for some reason, made Ragan believe him. A rare, unexpected sincerity, something behind the playful malice, the trickery in his eyes. Something back behind the veil.
Some…truth.
“OK,” said Ragan. “Then thank you for saving me back there, Mikel.”
Mikel nodded, and from the front of the jet, Captain Maddox’s voice rang out.
“Ragan, you’d best come hear this,” he called.
Ragan’s pulse quickened at the inflection of his words, and he sprang away and rushed to the cockpit. He found Maddox and the co-pilot in conversation.
“What is it?” Ragan asked, drawing their eyes.
“There’s been a spate of attacks,” Maddox said. “Over in New York and LA.”
Ragan nodded hurriedly.
“Yes, as Martha said there would be,” he said. He studied Maddox carefully. “There was a third?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Where, Maddox?” asked Ragan, growing nervous.
“Cincinnati. The NDSA base there and…”
Ragan’s eyes flared.
“Chloe,”
he whispered. “Is she OK. Is everyone…”
Maddox nodded, and set a hand to Ragan’s arm to calm him.
“Chloe’s…alive,” he said. “Details are thin, but it seems…” He trailed off, frowning, as if disbelieving his own words.
“What, Maddox? Spit it out!” Ragan’s voice rushed.
Maddox centred his gaze on Ragan.
“It seems that she killed a synthetic,” he said.
121
Chloe’s eyes cracked open, an ache running through every inch of her.
She gazed around, looking upon familiar surroundings. She was in the falcon, lying atop the briefing table. As with Tanner, it had been reconfigured for use as a medical bed.
She wearily lifted herself up into a sitting position, and turned her eyes down towards the cockpit.
“Guys…” she croaked.
The place was empty, the falcon not moving. A flood of memories broke through the dam, quickly filling her mind. Jason shot dead. The synthetic chasing them. Her lightning powers holding him back.
His head…exploding?
Was that right? Did that really happen?
“Guys,” she called out again. “Anyone…”
She heard a light buzzing to her other side, and turned to find Remus sleepily forming into a bird. He flapped his wings wearily, and - with some difficultly - floated up onto her shoulder, before settling down to sleep once more.
“Where are we, buddy,” Chloe whispered. “We’re not still…”
No, they couldn’t be in Cincinnati, surely.
She dropped to the floor, legs barely able to carry her, and moved up toward the cockpit. Looking through the windshield, she found a large, empty area of land around ahead, rolling hills and vibrant plains, much like where they’d been previously before relocating to Cincinnati the night before.
She leaned forward and looked to her side. Another jet sat there. And another. And another. There were half a dozen of them.
A whizzing sounded behind her, and she turned around, stepping cautiously towards the passage back into the cabin. She spied through to find the door opening, and Nadia strolling on board, Tanner right behind her. They took one look at the rear of the plane and began calling out in a sudden, and surely unwarranted, panic.