Shattered Light

by Fredrick Niles

  Time was running out, however, and after the convoy had stopped and she found herself walking into the Light Wire facility that had been secretly constructed in her backyard, she was no closer to landing on an answer. So instead of dwelling on it, she put it out of her mind. She closed her eyes briefly and let the spirits of Desia and her ancestors guide her.

  When the time came she would make a decision.

  “What do you need?” Raquel asked in a panic. It had taken her a few precious moments to get over the shock of having someone’s head explode against the side of her face, but as soon as King started bellowing orders, she quickly dropped into emergency mode.

  “Raquel, I need your fingers. Byzzie, see if you can make some space.” King had climbed one-leg-after-the-other through his bound arms so he could hold his hands out in front and then immediately pressed his wrist against the fence post the same way Ritz had to melt the zip-ties. Everyone in the pen looked either shocked or scared, especially the man who had just witnessed both his wife and son get murdered in the last thirty seconds and was now kneeling on the ground, the expression on his face rapidly fluctuating between bewilderment and sheer devastation.

  At the sound of the gunfire, four more soldiers had come dashing down the line of electrified cells, rifles at the ready. After quickly taking in the situation, two of them had hoisted up the unconscious captain that Ritz had tried immolating with the fence. The other soldiers looked wearily around and began to follow the others. The one who had shot Ritz saw that King had freed himself, but didn’t seem to be too worried about it seeing as he was still locked up. Still, it was clear that he was making a mental note that there was a prisoner inside that was no longer secured and could possibly try fighting his way out when they finally decided to move them.

  “He’s in bad shape,” King said. “One of the rounds grazed his shoulder and another went wide, but he took one shot right in the chest.” King rolled Ritz onto his side and Raquel saw what he meant. On the right side of the captain’s chest was a puckered blood-soaked hole.

  While King worked on Ritz, Byzzie tried to clear some room. Some of the prisoners were able to back up a bit, but now that there were two whole bodies laying on the ground plus the man sobbing over his dead wife, there wasn’t a whole lot of space in what had already been pretty tight quarters. Then Cory, one of Byzzie’s brothers, had an idea.

  “Get on each other’s shoulders,” he said. He spoke directly to his siblings, and at first they were hesitant. Then, his hands still bound, he nodded at one of his little sisters and then nodded at an older brother that looked as if they could bear the weight of the child on their shoulders. It was touch and go for a few seconds as the two wobbled around trying to position themselves just right, but eventually, with the help of the others, the young girl Cory had pointed at had her tiny legs wrapped around her older brother’s neck.

  “Does anyone have a plastic bag or tape?” King yelled as the rest of the Jackson family tried the same maneuver.

  “I’ve always got tape,” said Byzzie. At first, she tried to reach down into the side pocket of her cargo pants but couldn’t quite reach with the zip-ties, so she eventually walked over to where King was kneeling and thrust her leg out at him. He quickly flipped up the velcro flap, reached inside, and pulled out a small roll of electrical tape.

  “This’ll work,” he said. “Raquel, I need you. Free your hands.”

  Raquel hesitated. She had seen what the fence could do to someone and it didn’t exactly look like something she wanted to experience.

  “Now,” King shouted, and before she could spend any more time thinking about it, she backed up to the fence and thrust the plastic ties against the electrified wire.

  The pain was nothing she could have prepared for. It felt like stinging hornets were racing through her entire body, paralyzing her muscles in the process. At first, the pain was so intense that she didn’t even succeed at melting the ties all the way and she had to try a second time. She got it on the next try though and then hustled over to King.

  “Hold this tight while I tape the ends,” King said. He had pulled a piece of waxy paper out of his pocket and was smoothing it over on Ritz’s wound.

  “Is that from your cheeseburger last night?”

  “It’s what I got, okay?” he said defensively. “Now hold it down.”

  Raquel did as she was asked and held the piece of paper over the wound. There was a lot of blood but she had seen worse, which she figured was a good sign. Ritz, however, looked far from good. Eyes closed and chest heaving, he kept taking spasmodic breaths and twisting his body, making it hard to keep the wax paper on.

  “His lung is collapsing,” King said. “Make sure that he stays on his side so the wound stays open.”

  While Raquel pressed the makeshift bandage to Ritz’s chest, King quickly wiped away the blood from the wound with a piece of his shirt and then began taping the sides of the paper until they were secure on all edges except for the upper left-hand corner.

  “Keep your hand there,” he instructed. “Don’t press too hard or the air stuck inside of his chest won’t get out, but make sure to press hard enough to where there isn’t any getting in either.”

  Raquel nodded as she switched hands, making sure she kept a firm amount of pressure on the wound. Ritz’s breathing slowly began to even out.

  He looked bad though. His face was pale and his skin was clammy. Despite the makeshift bandage King had made for him, it was clear that if he didn’t get a doctor soon, he would die. Raquel looked around from the inside of the cage but there was no one. Except for the other prisoners, they were on their own.

  Vanessa stood on the platform, unable to keep her jaw from dropping at the sight of the massive internal structure of the Light Wire. The procession of soldiers had first made their way through a tight hallway lined with tiny offices, but soon they had come to the interior of the facility, which was a wide-open room with a giant dome overhead made out of thick diamond-reinforced glass. In the center of the room was a thick silver spire roped with thick glowing cords of golden light. At the base of the spire was a giant computer panel with a huge manual throw switch bolted on.

  “Does that switch actually work?” Vanessa asked hesitantly as she walked down a small flight of steps to the base of the spire. There were two armed soldiers at her back, plus another ten or so spaced throughout the room. A camera crew was setting up on a small platform adjacent to the base, and Minster Clark was standing a foot away from the throw switch, looking the mechanism over.

  “Of course it doesn’t,” he answered. “No one has ever made history by punching in a short string of code on a computer screen though.”

  Vanessa thought that there probably had been some people who had gone down in history that way, but she couldn’t think of any off the top of her head and chose to remain silent. Instead, she looked around the room, trying to find a way out. She noticed a small exit near the south corner, but it was at best 50 feet away. And even if she made it, there was no telling how many people there were outside combing the streets and jungle.

  It all seemed so hopeless.

  “So how does this work?” she asked.

  “You’re going to come up here,” Clark said, stepping aside, “And be in-frame as I throw the switch. Meanwhile, Nathan over there-” he pointed at a slightly balding man who was sitting behind a computer console, a camera crew, and what looked like an inch of bulletproof glass, “-is going to type in the initiation code at the same time and actually get the thing going. There’s going to be a big whir of machinery. A lot of oooohs and aaaaaaahs. And then you’re going to give a speech on unity and cooperation. You’re going to endorse the PUC presence on Desia and denounce the violence caused by Kingsbane.”

  Vanessa nodded as she stepped up onto the platform where Clark was standing. Once she was standing next to him, he motioned her to spin around, and once she did, one of the soldiers who had been escorting her took an ancient-looking key from h
is pocket and unlocked her manacles. He then stepped back out of the shot.

  “Almost forgot about those,” she said morosely. “I guess that woulda ruined the take, huh?”

  “Listen to me,” Clark said. His voice was gentle but his hand drifted down to the holster on the right side of his hip. “There is no ‘second take.’ You have one shot at this. One shot for you, your daughter, and all of Desia. Do you understand?”

  Vanessa gave the smallest of nods.

  The whole thing was a gross violation of everything she believed in while also managing to be almost laughably theatrical. Then again, she thought as she looked around at the camera crew that was almost set up, it does make for good TV.

  “We’re ready when you are minister,” called a well-groomed anchorwoman in a red blazer. She was standing with a microphone in her hand and Vanessa absentmindedly wondered if she had come here aboard the PUC vessels or if she had been here the whole time, a hungry predator waiting to pounce on a juicy story.

  “Ok,” Clark said, giving a thumbs up. Then he turned to Vanessa and raised his eyebrows. “One shot,” he mouthed. Then he turned back around to face the cameras just as the cameraman counted down to one.

  The cameras began to roll. And by the time they had stopped, Vanessa was pinned to the ground with five rifle barrels shoved in her face.

  9

  A Song Over the Radio

  Lucas tried to imagine the Light Wire facility on Desia. The sharp scent of fresh construction. Sterile and shining. Ready to be used. Silver hardware eager for light.

  He probably figured it looked similar to the one he was in now. The cramped, utilitarian offices and hallways. The wide open room in the center. The massive spire looking like some great surgical needle ready to operate on the most vulnerable parts of the universe. Which was appropriate, Lucas thought to himself as he walked down the narrow hallway, because it was going to be used to excise the cancer of humanity from the face of existence.

  After watching his father fight for years to make some sort of progress within the bureaucracy of the PUC, Lucas had had every ounce of faith in humanity’s inherent goodness wiped away. His father had fought tooth and claw for a lasting peace in the galaxy and done so from one of the most powerful positions available. And what had that achieved? There were hate crimes in the Onyx System. There was hate speech coming from the Pillon System. And most of all, there was a bitter seed of hatred deep inside of his own heart. Lucas Clark lived in a state of privilege that afforded him a wide view of the universe, and all he could see was hatred permeating every inch of soil that mankind came in contact with.

  His father thought that he could resist it—thought he could overcome it by simply doing good and fighting the noble fight. But in doing so he had become a jaded and embittered old man. Hate was a symptom of society, not something else. In no living species inhabiting the countless number of known planets of the universe could you find something approximating hate. Therefore, it stood to reason that hate was artificial. It was societal. It was unnatural. And most of all, it was human.

  Everything Lucas had experienced and read about nature was serene and nurturing. It was about balance. It was the rightful order of being and mankind was nothing but a taint on its perfection. It was a disease in an otherwise healthy body.

  And today would mark the first step of that disease being removed.

  “Hey Lucas,” someone called out from one of the rooms he was passing by.

  Lucas stopped and stepped backward, poking his head around the corner and into the room. He was suddenly very conscious of the massive backpack hanging on his shoulders. Still though, he didn’t want to seem suspicious. He was blending in. Acting natural. After all, he worked here. Today was just another day on the job.

  He had made it through the metal detectors up front by sabotaging their sending and receiving software. He had talked his way past the guard, Jerry, by chatting with him about an upcoming dinner the man’s dreaded in-laws. No pat-down. No bag check.

  Not only was his jerry-rigged transponder in there, but there was the other thing. The final thing. His final hope and salvation.

  It should be any moment now. His father had left yesterday, and without saying as much, had in all likelihood been leaving for the invasion of Desia. That had to be it. No other way of explaining the man’s serious yet exuberant attitude.

  And if Lucas was wrong? Well then, no harm would be done. He still had his own plan. Was still operating on his own schedule. In reality, he could hijack the signal whenever he wanted.

  But he wanted to do it now. Just like his father, he was watching all of his plans come together, and while he could wait another day or two, it was physically painful to do so.

  “What’s up?” Lucas asked, trying to mask his impatience. The man who had spoken to him was named Dmitri, a rail-thin 20-something with dark curly hair and a pale complexion. He was eating out of a bowl of popcorn while the small television jabbered in the corner.

  “You see the news?” Dmitri asked. He gestured at the screen with a hand slick with salt and melted butter. “Someone tried to shoot your dad.”

  “What?” Lucas said, suddenly forgetting everything. “Who? When?”

  “Just now on TV. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”

  Lucas was surprised that Dmitri had seen it. The invasion of Desia must have gone exceedingly well if they were already broadcasting. Even if the footage aired live, it would have only aired live across the Pillon System. The very nature of the Light Wire meant that truly live television couldn’t be broadcast from system-to-system until the wire was operating.

  With the exception of direct contact with his father, a news report on the situation was Lucas’s queue to put the final step of his plan in motion. Sweat broke out on his forehead at the finality of it all. The speed at which it was happening. The backpack slung over his shoulder suddenly felt ten times heavier.

  “Yeah, it was pretty incredible,” Dmitri said. The break room was tight and grease-stained. The excited energy coming from the man almost seemed as if it was bouncing off of the cramped walls and out into the hallway. “They established a Light Wire on Desia. Your dad gave a short speech, then when he went to turn it on, some woman stopped him. She tried to grab his gun—almost had it too—but well, you know your dad. He certainly hasn’t lost a step over the years.”

  “Wait,” Lucas said, his head spinning. “Is he okay?” Then. “And the Light Wire is up? It’s running?”

  “Yup,” Dmitri nodded vigorously. “The cameras cut out pretty quickly, but it looked like he was fine. The reporters say there’s still a lot of fighting going on with the militia forces but with the facility already set up, the whole operation seemed to be pretty quick and successful.”

  Without saying another word, Lucas turned and began walking down the hall toward the spire. The last one was up. The time was now. He’d broadcast directly over the wire to his dad, and then he’d end this nightmare.

  He’d end it all.

  “You’re dead, you bitch,” Seamus Clark spat as he wound up and booted Vanessa Jackson in the ribs. The other soldiers who had initially brought her to the ground had stepped away but they still had their rifles up. “You’re dead. And your daughter’s dead. And everyone you’ve ever fucking met is dead.”

  He was furious. There was always the possibility that she would do something like this, but he thought he had had her figured out. She had been surrounded by armed soldiers. The Light Wire was being initiated whether she liked it or not. And he was holding her daughter’s future ransom. She should have listened—should have obeyed. After all, what had she gained?

  She had humiliated him on live TV and that was it. Granted, he was pissed, but at the end of the day he had still succeeded. Desia was his. The wire was up. Vanessa on the other hand? She’d be begging for death before the sun set.

  “What did you think you were going to do, huh?” He leaned down as she rolled over on the floor. She was holdi
ng her ribs and gasping for breath. “Were you going to shoot me on live TV? Is that it? Start a civil war where billions of people die? What? Tell me.”

  The woman on the ground tried to suck in a lungful of air. She was bleeding from multiple scrapes on her face and forehead and Clark gave her another one with the toe of his boot. Her head snapped back and he watched her eyes roll into the back of her head as her eyelids fluttered closed.

  He didn’t know if she was dead or dying or just unconscious. It was all the same to him. From this point on she was nothing but a container for him to pour out his temper.

  “It was rhetorical,” he said to himself, trying to vent his anger. He should have been happy—should have been ecstatic actually—but the damn woman had stolen the moment from him. He had succeeded, true, but he was too busy wrestling her to the ground to enjoy it. One of the few great moments in his life had passed by before he could acknowledge it.

  He turned around and began walking to the camera crew. He had to make sure they had no footage of the meltdown he had just had. If they had been broadcasting then they would continue broadcasting as he personally executed the entire crew on live television for all of Desia to see.

  “Hey,” he hollered at a stocky man who looked to be operating a large camera. “That thing on?”

  The man looked suddenly nervous and Clark began to pick up his pace. Before he could get there, however, one of the soldiers called to him.

  “Sir, we have an incoming transmission.”

  “What?” Clark stopped walking. “A transmission? From where?”

  “From Lydia.” The man tilted his head down, obviously listening to someone talking in his earpiece, “It’s your son.”

  “What?” Clark said again, louder this time. He had removed his own earpiece before the broadcast and now dug frantically in his pocket trying to find it. Finally getting ahold of the small tan device, he pushed it into his ear and reached up to turn the small microphone attached to his lapel back on.