by A K Blake
The Cleric was tired of waiting. “As there is nothing further to be done, we will leave you to grieve in your own way.”
He opened the panel to Kaius’ rooms, Citra following at his heels like a guard dog. Kaius wondered if they had really called her back from the compound just to keep him in line. They must be running scared.
“Whether or not you trust me when I say this, know that even in this capacity I do try to minimize gratuitous suffering. Do not forget that this is only a hastening of the inevitable, of that too quick human death that would have come soon enough. Without our help, without her own invaluable work, all of her kind would be doomed to their short walks on this earth. While it may be too late for her, there will be more like her, so many more. And because of what we have done here, there will come a time when their lovers will have a choice, will never have to worry about seeing them go too soon. Hers is a noble sacrifice. Honor it.”
With that, he was gone, the door sliding shut silently behind him. Hers is a noble sacrifice. Futile rage coursed through Kaius, energy seeking an outlet. He wanted to follow the Cleric, snap his neck, pummel his cold hard body. Yet even if such a thing were possible, he knew it wouldn’t help. It was not Ascara he hated, the loathing turning his stomach, the fury congealing like bile in his throat. It was himself.
***
The first night back at work was chaos. If Luca had thought the jubilee preparations disordered, arrangements for these unexpected funeral games verged on anarchy. Animals trainers and costume designers rushed about, trailing their exotic pets and flashy garb. Writers mumbled ideas to themselves aloud (while Luca’s father liked to believe the petty squabbles and grudge matches between professional gladiators were real, Luca had known long before starting work at the arena that they were heavily scripted). Lighting and camera directors passed by, even Mr. Nodatu himself for a quick moment, and of course the newest batch of shocksword fodder: prisoners.
This batch seemed different from the usual gray-clad, worn down convicts, fresher, more alert. Luca had heard rumors that, in order to maintain an authoritative presence in uncertain times, the police had increased arrests, sending humans to jail for the slightest of infractions. Perhaps they felt the need to flex their power in times when the recognized sovereign was dead and the new one not yet sworn in, a new one that many in law enforcement saw as soft.
In any case, more perceptive prisoners did not bode well for Luca. He still dreaded the occasional accidental eye contact, felt a thrill of terror each time one of the convicts tried to make conversation. And those were the normal, beaten down prisoners, the ones who had been behind bars long enough to expect only silence and callousness from the system. Just the thought of all the landmines he was about to have to dodge made him want to turn around and go home. If it weren’t for the lure of the exposed deadwire terminal, ready and waiting only meters away, he might have.
There was one prisoner who seemed to be getting particular care from the guards as they brought her in, two vampires with kinetic handguns flanking her on either side, marching her toward a solitary cell at the far end from the rest. Built in a hurry and on the cheap, the newer cells didn’t even have bars, built instead as a monolithics cube of cement-reinforced plaster, with only a small window at eye level and a slot for the feeding tray. They were hopeless places for a person to atrophy, alone and unseen. Looking at this woman, however, Luca had a sense that she might be the kind to survive it.
She was tall, built like a whippy sapling, all corded muscles and lean planes. On some it might have been mannish, but he found it sensual in a sinewy sort of way. Her skin was dark, a play on colors of brown and wine, like cherry wood, except for two white scars that traced like lightning across her neck. It must have been a savage vampire bite. Luca had only seen marks like that in holovids. Her hair was riotous and defiant, jutting upward from her brow like a crown. It swayed as if in an invisible wind as she moved, black tendrils floating freely, tugged along now and then by the movement of her head.
But more than her hair or her height, it was the look in her eyes, a determined sort of fury, that made him think she might just make it out of there alive.
Just as quickly as the thought crossed his mind, it was gone. He was on to other things, running through a to do list in his head.
***
In fact, Luca did not think of the woman again until several hours later, as he was bringing around the midnight meal cart. He pushed it mindlessly, thinking about other things, worrying about his father and things with Mykal. As he slid her lunch tray through the slot, his eyes roamed across the paper plaque on the outside of her cell. Not processing what he had read until he was several steps down the line, he was forced to backtrack and read it again.
Criminal possession (illegal weapon), 3rd degree unauthorized access to computer network (govt.), homicide (premeditated; vampiric)
He wasn’t familiar with the degrees of hacking in criminal charges, but third sounded high, and it certainly took skills and a generous helping of either bravery or stupidity to hack a government firewall. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen quite such an ambitious rap sheet, and he found himself rereading it, mumbling along under his breath.
“possession...third degree...vampiric?”
“Can you leave? I’d like to eat my lunch now.”
Luca jumped, stammering. “I’m...sorry to bother you, I just…”
How to explain just what he was doing? Admiring? Spying? Scheming? The prisoner waited, eyebrows raised in a gesture that struck him as funny in such a situation, as if he were intruding on her, as if she were the one who had better things to do. He cleared his throat.
“I was just looking at your rap sheet. It’s quite...impressive.”
“Why, are you a connoisseur of pulsor knives? Or just a big fan of illegal weapons in general?”
“That’s not exactly what I meant. I was actually talking about the computer stuff. But did you really,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “kill a vampire?”
Her head jerked back almost imperceptibly. When she spoke again, her tone was cold. “That’s not something I like to discuss with strangers.”
“Well, from the look of your sentence, you don’t have much time left to discuss it.”
It was out of his mouth before he could think, blunt and unconventional. He’d noticed these kinds of unintentional musings had become increasingly common for him since all the smoking. She stiffened again. This was not going well.
“I like my chances against the other humans. All I have to do is push them off the side of raft.”
“Oh, actually, you’re not…” Luca scanned her sheet once again. “Has no one told you?”
“Told me what?”
“You’re not a participant in the cyan games.”
“Is it one on one combat then?”
“Yes, but it’s an aechillian match.” Seeing her blank look, he elaborated. “It’s the one with shields and shockswords, but...you won’t be fighting another human. Your opponent will be a vampire.”
Her nostrils flared sharply as her hand grasped the edge of the tiny windowsill. “That can’t be right. There’s supposed to be a chance of survival. They can’t - is that even legal?”
Luca grimaced. “I don’t know. They’re pretty smart about that kind of around here, though. Lots of Munificents poking around and stuff. I am sorry, but that’s what it says.”
It was, he had to admit, unusual. He had never heard of a human against vampire single combat match, even for serious crimes like this. While the arena was a dangerous gamble, it was meant to be a trial by fire, enough to scare those who made it out into living a straight and productive life. For it to work, this meant that some of the participants were supposed to live.
But not this girl. She was done for. She might have managed to kill a vampire on the outside, but there would be no surprise attacks or modified weapons in the arena.
“Of course.” She laughed, a dry, almost hysterical sound. �
�Even in this, they manage to ruin me.”
He had no idea who she was referencing, but there was a deep bitterness in her voice, something there that made him think she knew exactly who had put her in this a position. Perhaps he was not the only human caught in a web of forces outside his control. Something in him mourned for her, or maybe for himself. Then the prisoner to her right banged on the bars of his cell, and the moment was broken.
“Hey lover boy! I can see that you’re real busy over there, but are you coming with my food sometime tonight or what?”
Yes, these new prisoners were certainly more lively. Fixing the woman with a look that he hoped conveyed a sense of solidarity rather than pity, he slid her food through the door, moving on to the next cell. Yet she was still there, lingering in his mind this time, part of a plan that he was hatching, an idea that filled him with a terrifying feeling of hope.
***
The tooth-rattling scrap of metal against metal woke her several hours later, the boy coming back with her dinner. Iona had been napping, all sense of time lost in a place where the lights were never off. Though her injuries were mending, her body knitting itself back together, it took an immense amount of energy, and she found herself constantly nodding off. Or perhaps it was the boredom. Or the depression, looming like a spectre as the last of the pain medication left her body. She had a feeling once the drugs were gone she would find that the pain was not only physical. At least the food was better here than in prison, though she suspected it was so that the humans would put up a fight. So they would put on a good show.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, little more than a concrete slab with a blanket on top, she was able to use the corner closest to the door as a chair, just reaching the food tray without having to stand. It was greens and chicken today, with some kind of vitamin mush and a cup of vis, though underlying the familiar bitter smell was another more chemical one. It was probably an extra stimulant, maybe a steroid of some kind. Well, she would take all the boosts she could get. Reaching for it in a lingering haze from waking, she knocked the cup over, tipping some of the contents onto her shirt. A stain began to blossom across the sleeve of her drab uniform, and she reached for a napkin to soak it up. Later, she thought what luck such clumsiness had been in that moment. If not for that spill, she might never have found the note.
It had been cleverly hidden, perhaps a bit too cleverly, the white of the paper concealed beneath a plastic wrapped napkin. The writing was scratchy and heavily slanted.
I know you don’t know me, but I need help, and I think you do too. I’m looking for a hacker. I don’t want to hurt anyone. It’s hard to explain. I can’t get you out of here, but if you help me, I can get money, a lot of it. I can give it to your family or to you if you survive. Write back with your answer as soon as you can.
Iona propped the paper up against the vis cup still unfolded, reading over it several times as she methodically chewed her meal. There was no question who it was from: the blond boy from before, the one who had been looking at her rap sheet. She wondered what he would need hacked, and why he would come to a criminal if he wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
However, she didn’t pursue this line of thought very far, because in the end she didn’t care. Money held no interest for her. Thanks to the Progressives, she had racked up what seemed to her a sizeable and now utterly worthless fortune. She had no family to speak of. But it was boring in here, a boredom in suspense of a horrible fate that felt as if it might kill her before the actual event. Here was a curious proposition, something to take her mind off things, keep her busy. She probably would have agreed for the distraction alone.
There was, however, something else that she wanted, a far more important task he was going to do for her. It was a hunch, borne on suspicion of the Progressives, of their white witch doctor and their slippery physician, met with a feeling in her gut when the pretty news anchor had read the Queen’s symptoms before her death: “hemoptysis, or coughing until the point of blood.” Her dreams had brought her a sign, her blood eating at Her Majesty like acid.
Taking the small pencil that had been smuggled in, cut down to fit in the tray pocket, she scrawled a response. Folding up the paper, she put it back beneath the napkin and waited for the boy’s return.
He took his time, longer than she liked, her foot tapping in staccato against the hard floor, her body on edge from anticipation and vis. It was the most awake she’d felt in many nights. There was pain there as well, but it was worth the clarity. When he finally came, he acted as if he did not see her standing there, though he lingered near the door. He murmured quietly, not looking at her as he spoke.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“It’s what I want.”
“What type are you? If it’s anything special, he’s likely to notice. It’s not like they give the prisoners the good stuff.”
“You don’t need you to give him that much, just put a little in with the commodus.”
He paused, looking at her directly, his brow furrowed.
“What exactly are you trying to do here?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
He looked grim, his face pale under the harsh lights, a scattering of freckles like flecks of blood illuminated. He looked so young to be involved in all this. Then again, she supposed she was as well, despite the bone weariness that she felt.
Finally he said slowly, “No.”
“Smart. Just trust that if it works, you’ll be saving a life.”
She did not mention what he already knew: hers was at the cost of another. A one-on-one match in the arena was a zero sum game either way, so why not tip the uneven scales back in her favor? They were the same kind, after all, even if there was nothing else they had in common.
“Alright. I’ll figure something out. Until tomorrow night then.”
“Until then.”
Watching him walk away, she felt relief flood her. She hadn’t realized until then just how much she’d been hanging on his answer. She had expected surprise, more resistance. But if he thought it strange she wanted to feed her opponent her own blood, he kept it to himself. Then again, she supposed he was in an even more precarious position than she was, having so much more to lose out there in the outside world. He needed her. It was good to know.
Now she had only to wait, and to pray that her hunch was right, that the Progressives had not only made her into a giver, they had made her into a weapon. They had given her as poison, living biological warfare to kill a Queen. Well, they were not in control of her anymore. And, as the Cleric would say, not all things have only one life.
Chapter 22
The logistics for getting Iona the deadwire code went better than Luca had hoped. The sphere was too large to fit through the tray slot or window, and there were too many characters for Luca to write them all down. However, following his instructions, she spilled her lunch inside the cell. This forced Phek to come unlock the door, so that Luca could clean the inside and surreptitiously deposit a bag containing the sphere, the digital camera, and a notepad and pencil in the area behind the far corner of her bed. She was restrained while he was there, but still within muttering distance. There was a security camera in the main area of the pit, but luckily not in each individual cell. Too expensive for Mr. Nodatu, no doubt.
“I wrote down the unlocking movements and the passcode information as best I could explain it on the front page. It makes this really bright light, so make sure you cover it with a blanket whenever it’s open. The camera has pictures of what I need you to translate. You can just write it all down in here, and I’ll get it from you with the food trays.”
“Get...what? What exactly am I hacking?”
“It’s a translator of sorts for deadwire code, because you’re, um...you’re hacking a GroundCom terminal.”
She looked at him for a moment, practically sweating through the collar of his shirt as he stood there with a mop in one hand, awkwardly letting her know that she was
about to be the first person in the history of Laemia outside the GroundCom Guild with access to deadwire.
“You’re joking. How would you possibly have that kind of information?”
“I used to work for a guild member when I was younger...actually the one who leaked those symbols a few years back.”
He looked defiant and a bit crazed, as if prepared for her disbelief. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or burst out crying. The incredible irony, that she would be given such power from the inside of a cell.
“Well that is...interesting.”
“Yeah, well, obviously don’t let anyone find out.”
“Don’t worry. If I manage to get out of here, the last thing I want is anyone knowing I committed treason on my way to winning my freedom.”
“Yeah, good point.” He finished mopping and backed away quickly. “I’ll be back to check on you every meal. I—"
“You having any trouble in here?”
They both tensed at the sound of another voice, friendly, but for how long? Iona had trouble seeing from where she was cuffed, but there was no mistaking the white guard uniform.
“Oh, no, she’s, I was just…”
Luca was doing his best to give them away. Iona fought the urge to react as the guard stepped forward into the cell. He appeared nice enough, wide eyes, reddish hair. Then he ducked his head, a movement that sent off alarm bells. Was he looking for the bag? No, he was simply bending forward conspiratorially.
“Don’t worry. I know how these kinds of attachments can grow. You’re stuck down here with no one else to talk to, people getting all emotional with the matches coming up. My lips are sealed. Better get out of here soon before someone else notices, though.”