Ashes of the Fall (11 page)

“Glad I’m so popular,” I say.

Kid nods upwards, unable to make the push himself due to the shackles. When I rise, a drone veers off to the side, clipping my hair at high speed. I whirl around and watch it explode against the wall in a fiery mess.

Maybe I am important.

The Hyperloop rocks when a harpoon-like line launches from the helicopter. The line holds steady outside the window. I crawl over Kid. There’s a drone hovering nearby, creepily keeping watch over my progress. I look back at Kid, still on the floor, and don’t know what to say. Then I flop over the side of the broken window, wind streaming against my hair, and cling to the line for dear life.

It retracts almost instantly, the braided wire burning the skin off my hands as I’m brought hurtling towards the speeding helicopter. I make the mistake of looking down, finding my feet dangling over endless moonlit wasteland more than fifty feet below. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, tugging me into the cockpit. Rolling on to the metal floor, I exhale in a sigh of relief, and shake from the cold wind.

From my vantage point, I see that the other line is still attached to the Hyperloop. A flurry of gunfire again aims for the helicopter, and the pilot deftly navigates the hail of bullets, escaping unscathed.

“Good to see you, Luke,” a soldier dressed in heavy combat gear says. I notice the insignia of the Circle on his breast patch. When he reaches his hand down, I recoil, trying to run where there’s no place to hide. “Glad you’re alive.”

I give him a twisted look, and he replies with a laugh. “We’re not Circle. Not really.”

“What are we waiting for,” I yell over the beating rotors and rushing wind.

“Someone else of interest.”

There’s a tug on the other line, and the helicopter lilts slightly to the side. I see a battery of turrets open up along the Hyperloop’s side—the big guns—and hold my breath. Small air-to-air missiles rocket out in a massive plume of blue-gray smoke.

The chopper dips in altitude sharply, sending my head crashing against the metal frame. Woozy, I can’t tell if the chopper rights itself or if everything is going down. The world spinning, I hear a clang and what sounds like a thud.

Then I’m staring Kid Vegas right in the face, the skin around his arms raw and burned, but otherwise alive.

“I guess they wanted me too,” he says, giving no indication at all that he’s glad to have survived.

And then the chopper rises high in the air, away from the Hyperloop, providing me a stay of execution.

But everything has a price.

And a life often bears the highest cost of repayment of all.

The duration of the
ride is spent mostly in a blur. The clear moments are spent holding my knee, where blood has begun to seep through the bandage.

About fifteen minutes later, the chopper lands without incident in a surprisingly grassy field—at least given the standards of the area. I wouldn’t have expected anything to grow in these parts at all. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time the Circle lied and made up a bogeyman.

“Time to get out,” the soldier says, not unkindly, and helps me to the ground. Me and Kid sit side-by-side, waiting for further instructions. “Someone will be here to pick you up in five minutes.”

He drops a long-scope rifle in between us, along with a box of shells. “If they don’t come waving a red and white flag, you start shooting.”

“Who else would come?” I ask.

“Tanner’s boys are tracking the chips in your head, kid,” he says, with a gruff
that’s the way it is
tone. “People want you
dead
.”

I want to tell him to wait, for him not to leave us here in the middle of a ruined field, but the chopper’s rotors spin up and the bird’s in the air before I can mount much of a protest.

Looking at Kid, then at our barren surroundings—feeble yellow strands of grass in a dirt lot that stretches on forever—I say, “Sorry I didn’t help back there.”

“What could you have done, anyway?”

“Good point.”

I notice he’s missing the glasses, but that doesn’t seem to be bothering him. His side part is askew in the back, sticking straight up. He rubs his raw wrists, then does the same thing around his ankles, where the skin is pink, little flecks of blood oozing out.

“How’d they get you free?”

“Little bastards burned right through the metal.” I’m assuming he meant our saving swarm of drones. At least this escape wasn’t Chancellor Tanner, posing a last-minute bit of theater. That Hyperloop got lit up completely—and that’s gonna delay shuttling criminals away from New Manhattan. But the fact that we were saved by soldiers bearing the Circle’s insignia gives me pause.

A car zig-zags over the barren terrain in the distance, clouds of dust trailing its wheels. I can hear the engine, powerful and guttural, screaming our way as the mean glare of the headlights bears down on us.

I fumble for the rifle.

“Let me,” Kid says, expertly loading bullets into the chamber with practiced ease. He rests his chin against his knuckles, adjusting the scope. “I’ll put one right in the driver’s head.”

I watch as his finger edges closer to the trigger, begins to press down. Then it releases, and I look up. A red-white tattered flag—a shirt, actually—waves about twenty yards away as the car’s brakes squeal. I cough as a plume of dust and rocks showers over our position.

“You’re Luke Stokes?” another soldier says, a big guy, stepping out from the passenger seat. It’s not really a question.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Roman.” He gets out, his head covered by a helmet. “Who’s this?”

“Son of Damien Ford.”

Roman stops walking for a moment and whistles. “Well ain’t that something.”

“You gonna help us? I got a bum leg.”

“Yeah, well, time’s a wasting and no seconds left over for how your panties fit,” he says. With lumbering steps, he comes over and grabs my shoulder, dragging me upright. I grit as the pain courses through my leg.

“Hope Little Ford can walk on his own. Ain’t got time to babysit two of you.”

Kid wordlessly rises and follows behind.

I’m shoved into a hovercruiser before I can protest the rough treatment. Kid slides in behind me, and then the guard gets in and we’re speeding away. I notice that the guard in front is actually
driving
. Why, I have no idea.

“So, where are we going?” I say, trying to be as chatty as possible. Our two escorts are having none of it, and pay me no heed. The tinted divider shoots up, and I soon find—after cursing and making obscene gestures—that it’s soundproof.

Which leaves me almost completely in the dark, since the windows are tinted, too. The air even feels thick, heavier on the lungs than usual. It’s coming in filtered through the car’s system, so I can’t really say I’m looking forward to the general atmosphere in the Otherlands.

“The fuck did your dad do to this place,” I say, my head beginning to hurt.

“There’s a reason no one lives down here. Not by choice, at least.”

“What do you think these guys want?”

“You got a lot of questions.”

“I would prefer not to die,” I say, trying to consider what that entails.

For one thing, it means getting the hell away from whatever
this
is. Whoever wants to use me in their game this time will find an unwilling player. Yes, I will smile and say
of course, sir
, but then, the instant I get a chance, I’m taking my pack and hitting the road.

It occurs to me that I don’t even have a pack. I’ve got nothing besides a bum leg and a target painted on my back from this damn HoloBand branding me as a criminal threat. The divider comes down, and Roman throws a manila envelope back our way.

“You read the terms,” he says.

“You’re kidding,” I say. “How you gonna enforce a contract out here?”

“Not by law,” Roman says with an amused grin, “but you break ‘em, we’ll hunt your ass down and it won’t be pretty.” Way he says it, I know he’s not bluffing. That when terms have been breached before, he’s taken great pleasure in delivering the repercussions.

“And you,” he says, directing this bit towards Kid, “we’ll decide what you’re worth when we see Blackstone.” Kid stares back at him, right in the eyes, like he’s got a death wish.

Roman blinks first.

There’s only one piece of paper in the envelope. Four sentences, actually.

Terms:

We fix your leg and remove your HoloBand. This means we save your life. In return, you help us make Blackstone the next Chancellor. To do that, we need you to collect the full HIVE source.

It lacks a certain poeticism, although it does score points for brevity and clarity. A pen hits me hard in the chest.

“Sign it,” Roman says.

I do so begrudgingly, but without protest. The rest of the ride continues in tense silence.

When the vehicle finally stops, I’m dragged out by my neck and tossed on a concrete floor. Dim artificial lights flicker down from the ceiling. An imperial-looking man with a wizened white beard that touches his chest waves off his goons. Roman whispers something in this man’s ear, and he nods sagely, answering in low tones.

Then Roman gets back in, and the car speeds off with Kid Vegas, leaving me alone with who may very well be the first documented wizard in human history.

I brush myself off, but don’t stand up. It would hurt too much. We’re in an actual city—or the remnants of one—in what looks like an old warehouse. Yellowed newspaper covers the walls, although some light manages to seep in, giving the concrete floors a sickly appearance.

“Your ride was comfortable, I trust?” For some reason he’s treating me with respect, which goes contrary to everything I understand about Circle officials—which he must be, given his refined appearance and how submissive Roman acted around him. “Forgive me, but I have little time. The scrambling on my own HoloBand will only work so long before my fellow Circle members become suspicious.”

I try to sit up a little straighter. “I have no complaints.”

“This, as you may have guessed, Mr. Stokes, is the Otherlands.” He touches the tip of his beard and looks at me with piercing blue eyes. The first thought that enters my mind was that he probably did pretty well with the ladies when he was younger. Maybe he still could.

“Here in the flesh,” I say. “And you are?”

“Nathaniel Blackstone.”

“Your reputation does not precede you,” I say, still pissed about the forced terms. But it’s also true—I’ve never heard of him. Inner Circle? Unlikely—no one would sign up to govern this cesspool if they had other options.

He laughs. “No, I am not a famous figure. Seems Olivia wasn’t wrong about you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re working with that bitch,” I say. I eye him suspiciously as he reaches into his pocket. Blackstone brings out two folded pieces of folded legal paper.

“I believe this belongs to you.” He hands me Matt’s note. I take it with a raised eyebrow, but I can’t lie and say I don’t appreciate the gesture. It’s the only thing I really have left of him, so I slide it in my own pocket and nod my thanks.

“The story of Olivia and I goes back to when she was a girl,” Blackstone says. “I found her down here, amidst the wreckage.”

“Touching tale.”

“Yes, well, I’ve spent long enough in this wasteland,” Blackstone says. “Much longer than any member of the Inner Circle could be expected. And my reward?”

I guess he is a member of the Inner Circle. Apparently even they have a B team.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Director of the Otherlands,” he says. “A lifelong appointment to this very area.” Blackstone laughs, but he’s not bitter. More…no, he wants out for another reason. “And so, when Ms. Redmond called earlier today with a plan, I listened. She needed a way to transport you rapidly out of New Manhattan. With transcontinental travel suspended except for security activities, this was the only way to bring you closer to the factions which you must unite.”

“Great plan,” I massage my wounded leg for emphasis.

He nods his head up and down, as if he commiserates with my plight.

“You stood no chance of altering the status quo given the new variables at play out West,” Blackstone says. “And, had you succeeded by some wild stroke of luck, the ensuing power vacuum would have plunged our nation into sheer anarchy.”

“Then you all could have pissed off and let me be.”

“You would have had a very short life,” Blackstone says. “Nasty and brutish, discovered within the week, if not sooner.”

“Save me the philosophy,” I say. “I can make my own choices.”

“Then make this choice: we need a leader to rise from the ranks within. The very existence of our species is vulnerable. The ash clouds will choke away much of our food. A new government will be too much to bear. If we curry favor from within the Circle, and revamp it from within—”

I snort. “You can’t seriously believe this garbage.” From where I’m sitting, it sounds like he wants to be the Circle’s next de facto king.

“When was the last time a man of my stature was honest with you,” Blackstone says. “After all, why do you think you’re still alive? That no Circle agents have come to track your HoloBand’s signal? I need you, and that requires trust. Your brother, before he died, split up the source code to HIVE. That is the key to everything.”

“Hadn’t thought about it all.”

“Perhaps you should.” Since Blackstone runs these parts, I suppose he controlled the response to my ballsy escape. Sent only guys that were loyal. So maybe I should take his offer and terms at face value. But then, I thought I could trust Olivia, and all that got me was a bullet in the leg. I also answered Matt’s letter—and, until thirty minutes ago, I was going to be publicly hanged for my troubles.

So maybe my impressions aren’t reliable.

“You don’t want factional civil war, do you? Because that’s where this is headed without your assistance.”

“I think you seriously misjudge my giving a shit,” I say.

“I think you care more than you claim.” Blackstone offers me his hand and I decline. “Ah yes, your leg. We’ll fix that.”

“So if I get you more information on HIVE, track it down, push you to the top, then what?”

“A bit more will be required of you,” Blackstone says. “But it will result in a better world.”

“For you.” And I see the terms are changing already. I wonder if it’s now my contractual obligation for me to hunt him down, put a bullet in his skull.

“For
all
,” Blackstone says with quiet emphasis.

“I’m hearing a lot of talk and not seeing too many cattle.”

“Yes, in your position I would be quite reticent to ally with me,” Blackstone says. “Come.” Waving his hand, he walks across the cracked concrete, towards what used to be the warehouse manager’s office. Cursing him silently under my breath, I crawl along the floor.