by Jason Luthor
Judge taught me that.
She reels back, her body staggering until she bounces off the wall, her feral form fading out as she reverts back into a human. With her legs going out, she gives one last lifeless punch that sails past me. I don’t hit her again. I just let her fall to the ground. She hits with the impact of a corpse, and she’s only barely able to turn onto her back to face me. For a second, she stares up at me, her hands squeezing at her forehead. I look back but, before I can say or do anything, I scream. My body tenses up and my hands go clutching at my stomach. The pain is so intense, so raw, that I almost fall myself. I drop to a knee and barely keep myself from collapsing completely, my hand bracing along the wall just to keep me upright.
Then it’s just the two of us, there on the ground, both in the sort of pain that you can only understand if you’ve been hit with superhuman force or blown out of the air by missiles. It’s not exactly a long list of people who know what that feels like.
“Why did you side with him?” I hear her ask me through the pain and fading vision. “Why would you join that monster?”
“He’s not . . .” I shake my head, the light fading from my eyes as I look back at her. “He missed you, Ishara. He talks about you all the time.”
She shakes her head, her fingers rubbing at her eyes. She’s crying. “It’s the same way he used to talk about our father. About how he wanted to become a better man and honor him.”
“He thought you were dead.”
“He did. Until he realized I wasn’t. That’s why you’re here. You’re his dog of war. The Dark Angel. You’re here to kill me. To get rid of his loose ends.”
“What? No, that’s . . . I don’t kill if I can help it. Yousef couldn’t order me to kill you if he wanted to. I’d never say yes. I don’t kill unless I absolutely have to.”
She looks up at the ceiling, past me, before her hand goes to her pocket. “I thought I was smart enough to catch him in his own trap. I was wrong. Here,” she says as she presses something into my hand. It’s a data chip. “I’ve been carrying this for weeks now. Just in case. For this day.”
“For what day?”
“You really can’t feel it?”
“Ishara . . . Feel what?”
She props herself up and leans forward. She barely looks like she can catch her breath. “The sickness. Something’s wrong. Something . . . something is happening.”
“What’s wrong?” Suddenly I’m pushing up to her. “Are you hurt? Did I hit you too hard? Shouldn’t . . . doesn’t the Creep heal you, too?”
“It does. It always has. But something . . .” Her hand goes to her mouth and she coughs. When she pulls her hand away, there’s blood in her palm. “Quickly. There’s not much time. After I’m gone, you must read the information on the chip.”
“After you’re gone? Ishara, talk to me. What’s happening?”
“My brother . . .” She shakes her head, and I can see beads of sweat starting to roll their way down the side of her face. “Why do you think I’ve hidden my identity for this long? Why do you think I’ve been hiding with the raiders? If my brother and I . . . If he loved me, truly, don’t you think I would have returned to him?”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t accidentally die on patrol that day. I wasn’t accidentally killed by the Creep.” She looks me directly in the eyes. “He killed me. By his own order.”
“What?”
“I’m only here because my bond with the Creep was stronger than he thought. It gave me new life. But now . . .” Her breathing’s getting heavier. “He’s finally finished what he started.”
“Ishara, I’ll . . . Whatever’s wrong, I’ll help you. I’m not an assassin. If I could have stopped all this without anyone having to fight, I would have. You’ve got to believe me. So, tell me, how can I help you?” She’s starting to shake, and I wrap my hand behind her back as she leans into me. Then I’m holding her as her trembling starts to get intense. “I swear, I didn’t know. I didn’t know! Tell me what to do, Ishara!”
“Don’t . . .” Her hand wraps around my neck and holds tight as she looks up at me. “I love them. My people. The Sha’b. Don’t let him get away with this. Don’t let him kill my people.”
“I promise. I promise. Just, let’s help you right now. Let’s get you somewhere and . . .”
“Please,” she whispers. “Let me see you. Let me die seeing someone and not . . . not some metal façade.”
I don’t think twice about it. My hand goes to my neck and my helmet evaporates into blue light, leaving me kneeling there with Ishara in my arms. “My name is Jackie. Jackie Coleman. I’m a survivor from one of the Towers.”
She smiles at me. “Amazing. Nobody else has ever . . .” There’s a second when she swallows hard. “And so young. Younger than me. Maybe you weren’t lying after all. Maybe it was just you . . . being young.”
“I wasn’t lying. I swear. I will get to the bottom of this. I will make sure nobody else has to die if they don’t have to.” I can feel my cheeks flushing as I look at her. “I will make sure your people live.”
But she doesn’t say anything else. I feel her fingers slip away from my neck as her hand falls to the ground, her body going limp in my arms. My heart is pounding in my chest as I hold her there for a few moments, my voice growling in the back of my throat as I try to wrap my head around what’s going on. I set Ishara aside as I push back onto my feet, my legs dragging me to the edge of the deck while I’m trying to clear my head. Outside, I can see swarms of Creepers in the air, the sides of the Dynamis still glowing with gunfire and the smoke pouring out of its side. Talons and Rocs are chasing each other across the skies, while below, I can see the horror of the Creep.
I can see the towers buckling as tendrils explode through them. I can see hundreds . . . no, thousands of Stilts falling out of windows in the surrounding buildings, throwing themselves to the ground in a living tidal wave, attacking the raiders and militia with the raw force of an undead living hell. A roaring to my left catches my attention, and I watch as the streets crack open, hundreds of small doglike Creepers, the Bulgas, pouring out from underground and swarming toward the living. Behind them, those vicious behemoths, the Basilisks, explode from out of the surrounding walls, their clawed limbs ripping into tanks and tearing people apart.
Then I look back at the body of Ishara and scream into my mic, “What the hell is happening, Yousef? What the hell did you do?” There’s no voice back. Nobody from Primary even bothers to respond. That’s when I feel it, the sickening feeling in my stomach and a pump of my heart that’s so strong, it feels like my chest is going to explode outward. My arms wrap around my abdomen as I feel a wave of pain streaming through me, my breath getting shorter as I struggle to even stand. The whole world starts to get dim, the edges of my vision going black. Every alert in my visor is flaring off, telling me something’s really, really wrong.
My vitals are dropping. My heart’s slowing. It’s all in front of me, in the visor, every warning sign possible telling me that I’m dying. The last thing I feel is my legs getting shaky, the world in front of me wobbling up and down as everything starts to go dark. Then, I tumble forward, falling out of control into the Deadlands. My body drifts toward an alley, and the last thing I see is the living city beneath me, alive with a flood of Creep streaming along the pavement and bursting from the windows. The city consumed. Then my vision fades. I can’t even brace for the impact. All I know is that the world goes dark.
Tommy’s Recording 33
President Branagh shoots a look up at General Yousef. “Yousef. Yousef!”
Yousef raises a finger, his hand tilting to the roof, as if he’s about to give a speech. For a second, he pauses, his fingers collapsing into a fist before he raises an open hand into the air. He starts to pace, moving slowly back and forth as he finds the words he’s looking for, every one of them sliding out of his mouth like a knife. “To the son of our oldest ally in the Deadlands, Ned
Whitney Lancaster, son of Ned Kellogg Lancaster. From your friends and allies in the city of Central Freedom . . .”
When Yousef starts talking, Branagh’s face goes pale, his hands suddenly gripping the edge of the table. “Yousef. Before you say anything else—”
“We both find ourselves allied with people by necessity and not out of a love for their cause. I understand that you have given up your home to house the Tank and the clans that have flocked to your lands along the Delaware River. I also know you have not committed your men to her cause. Likewise, while Central Freedom finds itself allied with Fort Silence, the vast majority of its people remain suspicious of Supreme General Yousef Suliman. Soon, we will find ourselves in a fight against one another. Either the Tank will emerge the winner, or it will be General Yousef. I’m not sure how bright the future would be under either one of them.”
The president puts a palm down on the table. “If you have something you want to say, then just get it over with. I’m man enough to admit that I’ve never completely trusted you.”
Tasha Bouley looks around, as confused as everyone else at the table. “Yousef, what the hell are you reciting? Is this another one of your damn plays?”
Yousef continues. “Should the Tank win this war, then I would ask for you to argue on the behalf of the many innocent people of Central. For the sake of innocent lives, let the Tank know that these people simply want to live peacefully. Remember the alliance that your father created with us, his commitment to peaceful coexistence between his people and yours. I can’t know your political position, but I know mine. If Yousef is the winner, I will argue for a peaceful resolution between your people and mine. I have it on the general’s word that he plans to withdraw from Central should the Tank be defeated. I commit to immediately ending all aggression against your people and immediately finding a way to allowing you to continue your way of life, with the commitment that we work together to peacefully live among each other, the way your father would have wanted.”
General McCullum looks at the president. “Branagh, is this you? Did you write all this?
The president shakes his head and just stares at Yousef. “Go ahead then. Finish the letter. Let’s get the performance over with.”
Yousef turns to the table and softly sets his hands down on the table. “Everything I’ve heard is that you’re a man of peace. So am I. However, sometimes tyrants seek to establish peace at the end of a gun. If the Tank should win, if it turned out she wasn’t the liberator she claimed to be, then I would commit my support to you, Ned Whitney Lancaster, on the condition that any violence be committed only in defense of the freedoms that I believe you and I both cherish.” He stops for as second, his fingers tightening on the table before he continues. “If General Yousef turned out to be the tyrant I believe he is, then I would also ask for your help in kind. Perhaps we have both been forced into alliances we do not entirely believe in. Let us renew the friendship that once existed between your father’s people and ours. If your alliances turn out to be tyrannies, then let us commit to overthrowing the tyrants leading them.” His voice is so venomous with these last words that I can feel them burning on my skin. “Your friend in Central, President Gabriel Branagh.”
For a long moment, nobody says anything. Everyone just stares, all eyes going to the president. It takes him a long time before he says anything. “So, Yousef. Was I wrong about you?”
The general doesn’t say anything back for a second. When he does, his voice is low and almost growling. “There was a time, not long ago, when I wondered what would happen, right now, at this exact moment. I thought about everything Jackie had told me, about what the right thing to do was. That I shouldn’t be as harsh as I am.” His closed fist taps softly at the table. “Then I remembered my dear sister, Ishara. I remembered the day she died in the Creep. I remembered my mother dying on that same day. What I realized was that they had died because my father had gone soft. He’d forgotten how dangerous the world actually is. That weakness is why my mother and sister died.” He takes in a soft breath. “I suppose, when your agent turned this letter over to me, it made me realize I’d almost made the same mistake. I’d almost become weak, like my father had, and let my emotions get the better of my judgement. It reminded me that to secure a future for humanity, we must be willing to make the hard choices. I know, now, that there was only one road that was ever in front of me.”
“You’re wrong, Yousef. If I’m wrong about you, then throw me in prison. That’s as far as this has to go.”
The general doesn’t bother looking back at him as he speaks out loud into the comms device around his hear, “The blue asset is finally in place? Then activate the Pocket Space bomb.” After a moment of turning off his comms, he looks back at the president. “It’s time, then.”
“Yousef, I was the only person who had anything to do with this!”
Yousef ignores him as he nods to the guards around the room, and it hits me for the first time that, on the sleeves of all that black armor I’d never seen before, all the guards are wearing Golden Jackal patches on their arms. There’s not one of them that isn’t. Before I can say a word, before anyone can, the guards raise their rifles. The first one to say anything, of course, is Tasha. She jumps out of her chair and screams at him. “General Yousef, what is the meaning of this?”
“It means I finally get to quiet your endless complaining,” he says as he pulls his sidearm. Before anyone has a chance to say anything, he squeezes the trigger, a bullet punching right between Tasha’s skull and sending her slumping to the floor. Time stops. I stop, my eyes going from the blood painting the back wall to her body lying there on the ground. Then Yousef nods to the guards, and the unmistakable sound of gunfire starts filling the room. The War Council goes down first. General McCullum is in the middle of grabbing for his gun when he takes a bullet right through the back, sending him collapsing to the floor. Around him, the rest of the generals are sent sprawling out as rapid gunfire tears into them.
Then it’s the members of the Advisory Council as they start to scream. Rosy Quintana starts to bolt for the door before a bullet passes through her leg, her body collapsing onto the ground. It’s not more than a second before a guard puts his boot into her back, places a rifle barrel to the back of her head, and fires. Some of the council fold onto the ground in a panic while others try to go rushing for the exit. It doesn’t matter. A spray of fire fills the room, and every member of the council ends up collapsing to the floor in piles, the floor suddenly painted red and littered with bodies. My heart is pounding as I step back, noticing that Dravic is just standing there, smiling. Besides him and Yousef, the only people still standing at the table are Branagh, me, and the doc. In all my years of fighting, I’ve never seen people just . . . put down, like their lives meant nothing. It isn’t a fight to survive that happens in those chambers. It’s a slaughter.
I look over at the president, my hand at my holster, but he just motions for me to stand down. When I look back at Yousef, the general’s just standing there, staring at me. It’s like anything human about him has just drained out of his face. “Obey your president,” he growls. “Unless you believe that you can run faster than a bullet?”
The president calls out to him. “Hey. You’re talking to me, Yousef. Don’t threaten him.”
“Fine,” he replies, his eyes moving past me. “Of course, you’re right, for once. This is between you and I.”
“I’m not stupid enough to think you’re keeping me alive for the long haul.”
“Correct. That’s twice in a row. Color me impressed.”
“Why’d you do it, Yousef?” His eyes go over to Dravic for a second. “Never mind. I think I can figure it out. You’ve just been biding your time until you could concentrate all the power between the two of you.”
“No. I haven’t lied to you. I considered your approach and saw where it leads. Death. Loss. This world is too harsh for delicate hands. That’s why it needs strong leaders, like Dravic. Your
entire city would have died off if not for men like him. You, Gabriel, would let in every mongrel raider across the Deadlands. In the name of peace and freedom, you would abandon everything that remains of a true civilization.”
Branagh looks away, shaking his head. “Mongrels? One of them was your sister. Your sister! And you looked me in the eyes and lied about it.”
“I did not lie about it!” He screams at him as he slams the table. “My sister died years ago. What was left of her was a deviant. A shell. No longer human. You saw it. She had to be taken care of before she became any stronger. Humans who do not become Stilts go on to have rather . . . impressive powers. Of course, you know that. You’ve been working with one of the infected for months now. A dead girl walking.”
“Jackie? The same person who put herself on the line for us time and time again?”
“A walking time bomb waiting to go off!” he shouts back. “How long do you think it would have been before she finally turned those powers against us? My very sister became the leader of a vicious military faction working against me. And you saw what the Creep did to her. Claws, teeth, and death. The same would have happened to Jackie. Maybe you don’t think so, and that was a risk you were willing to take. I wasn’t. I was tempted, but in the end, I remembered what happens to the infested. And I made the right choice, seeing what became of Ishara. That monster that remained. That’s why I used the good doctor’s very own virus to eliminate both of them, using Jackie as the carrier.”
That suddenly gets the doc to look his way. “I’m sorry. What did you mean by that?”
“I meant,” the general says as he looks over his shoulder, “That you’ve been working on that virus for the last few months and it worked just as it should have. It killed the infected.”