Ashes of the Fall (28 page)

After I learn that
pretty much everything spewed by Kid and Blackstone was bullshit—how they “traced” Matt’s movements, what their true goals with HIVE were—I’m left next to a motorcycle with a set of keys. Slick hands me back the .38, along with a box of hollow points.

“Found it next to your body in the street.”

I nod. People have been real studious about getting my belongings back to me. I trust that’s not the norm anywhere in this new world.

“You got anything I can use to dig out this HoloBand?” I tap the back of my neck. “I’m on the grid.” Slick removed the nastier version—this should be a walk in the park.

Instead, he shakes his head. “I could. But I won’t.”

“Come on, I got a target painted on my damn—”

“You pull that thing out, Kid disappears,” Slick says. “And the drives are gone forever. You never find what your brother was working on. I told you what was in that damn journal. It’s the key to this whole HIVE business.”

“But you also read in the journal—”

“Every choice comes with risks,” Slick says. “It’s time to make your decision and reap the consequences.”

Like I haven’t been harvesting mountains of shit for the past six months.

“If Kid’s been tracking me, he knows I came here.”

“You’re the best liar I know, Luke. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The words sound sour and caustic to my ears. Not even a backhanded compliment. Just a referendum on how both of us have chosen to live.

Before Slick leaves, I ask him if he thinks either Carina or Evelyn are still alive. His reaction—or lack thereof—is not promising. As Slick walks wordlessly away, I play with the keys to the bike. It’s a big fella, loud engine. Reinforced plating around the gas tank and wheel wells, for traversing combat zones.

I’m not told to bring it, or myself, back in one piece.

I’ll get an escort through the southern part of the city, up to the fringe of the Black Hole. The plaza is essentially neutral ground right now, I’m told, in large part because neither side wants to fight and watch out for falling girders at the same time.

How long that’ll last, who knows. It’s the core of what remains of Atlanta—really, the core of the Otherlands. It is where the fight will be won and lost. No one can resist laying stake to it for long.

It occurs to me that the real reason Slick is pissed is not disappointment, but because I’ve proven to be such an irritant in his plans. When I was younger, I would cause trouble, but it was always in the service of trying to execute his plans. Now that I have my own, I’m more of a liability than I’m worth.

Whatever. I can’t do anything about that. I climb on to the bike, nudge the kickstand with my foot and rev the engine.

Then I ride, back towards the Black Hole.

Slick will just have to trust that, this time, his and my interests are aligned.

And it means there’s no way Blackstone and Kid—or Tanner, the dark horse in this shit show of race—gets their grubby paws on HIVE.

Slick wasn’t kidding about the AoF’s push. The entire southern part of the city is staked out by his rebels. They’re in windows, behind cars, flitting in and out of storefronts. Like a colony of insects, all moving towards one common goal: destroy Blackstone’s presence and conquer the Otherlands.

From there, who knows? Maybe Slick has the entire NAC in his sights. Never struck me as that ambitious—more of a mom and pop kind of guy—but people, as I’ve discovered over the past few months, change rapidly with the circumstances.

When I round a corner, I find that a few rebels have seen fit to block the street with a barricade of wrecks. I cut the engine to the bike, give the dented chrome chassis a pat, and leave it behind. I’m sure someone will get it back to its rightful owner.

This is, after all, Slick’s territory.

I start to walk towards the cars. In the windows and on the ground, I can feel people’s eyes on me. I’m not sure how Slick got the message out, but it’s pretty damn clear that I’m untouchable. I would say the notoriety makes me feel good, but it’s not a plus when all I really want to do is disappear—I’m not cut out for hero status.

That’s not in the cards right now, though. I walk around the cars, hands in my pockets, deep in thought. Up the street, maybe three blocks, I see the flash of an exploding Molotov. Pockets of gunfire. My heart picks up a little, but I’m becoming acclimated to the constant unrest. What was once alarming is now simply normal.

I still keep my hand near my .38, though. That seems like a prudent policy.

There’s a light buzzing at the base of my neck as I walk. I recognize it as the HoloBand—one of those automated messages that can’t be overridden. I wonder what Chancellor Tanner has to say about the current calamity.

Much to my surprise, however, I hear Nathaniel Blackstone’s wise tone, infused with gravitas, rather than Tanner’s gravelly scratch. I don’t stop, but I’m tempted to sit and ponder just how the hell Blackstone managed to get in. Then again, the more I learn about Blackstone—everyone, really—the less I really am surprised when another layer reveals itself.

“My fellow citizens of the Circle,” he begins, indicating that this isn’t just a broadcast to the Otherlands, but to
everyone
in the NAC within HoloBand radio range, “this is Nathaniel Blackstone. Some of you may know me as Director of the Otherlands. To others, my name may be a mystery to you, as Inner Circle members are known to keep hidden. Rest assured, after today, you will all know me well.”

There’s a certain campfire feel to the broadcast that I have to respect—like he’s leaning into your ear, telling you a story as a confidant after a few beers. It’s a brilliant contrast to Tanner’s gruff disciplinarian routine.

“My loyalties to this great state were never in question—I want you to know that what I have to say is only out of necessity. I can keep quiet no longer about the failings of Chancellor Tanner. As an Inner Circle member, it is my duty to protect you, the people, from gross negligence.”

Of course it is. And win a couple votes in the process. I cut down a side street to avoid the small skirmish ahead. Molotovs aren’t really my bag. The trash strewn asphalt here is abandoned—no one fighting for this patch of land.

I check behind me for Slick’s escort. They seem to have gotten distracted by some other mess. I’m alone.

“Chancellor Tanner brought our nation stability in a time of tremendous crisis. For that, we should all be grateful.” Deep breath, like the truth is difficult to tell everyone. The only thing difficult, I think, is him having to wait another few seconds before dropping the bomb. But even I’m not ready for what he says next. “But Chancellor Tanner has been technically deceased for the past six months.”

When I emerge from the street, I glance both ways. Lots of AoF activity—commanders barking orders, runners shuttling supplies back and forth—but no direct conflict. In the mess of half-finished skyscrapers and ruined storefronts, I try to get my bearings.

But the revelation has rocked me to the core: Tanner is dead—and yet, he is alive. My thoughts flick back to our conversations about HIVE, how it would save people.

How did it save him?

“As all of us are keenly aware, our mortality is what makes us keenly human,” Blackstone says, with the appropriate reverence, “what you may not be aware of, is that Chancellor Tanner—and a fine young man named Matthew Stokes—cracked the code to this age-old human puzzle. Even in the face of death, Tanner has found a way to live on. But he has taken that ability and hidden it from all of you. What should have been a gift to mankind was, instead, something he hoarded as millions struggled and died. The HIVE project was meant for all—that was Matthew Stokes’ vision. He died trying to see it through.”

I’m not sure about that. Then again, my brother’s exact motives have always been fuzzy.

“I have found a way to share this gift with you. Join my cause, and you will be free from the tyranny of the ash, of poverty—of the pains of your current existence. I will open up the gates to beautiful immortality—free of charge. But there are those who are trying to stop it, and will fight us along the way. Rise up with me, and take back what Tanner has hidden! Join a new Circle, and create a better NAC.”

Almost sounds like
a vote for me
campaign. But the voting will be done in bullets and blood, not via ballots. I scan the environment to see if anyone has had a change of heart due to Blackstone’s stirring revelations. A couple men have a blank, questioning look on their face—it is, after all, an enticing deal, living forever—but most of them are still hard at work. If anything, their belief that Blackstone is not to be trusted has strengthened.

The human mind is capable of incredible self-deception, even in the face of conflicting information. Whatever Slick has promised them, it’s not as good a deal as what Blackstone’s offering everyone else.

Only one problem: Blackstone doesn’t have HIVE yet. He has a drive, he has the coordinates, but he doesn’t have
me
, with Matt’s HoloBand. The key to it all.

I’m not far from the fringe of the Black Hole, now, the plaza where this will all end. I can see the remnants of the collapsed buildings, pushing against each other like fallen, life-sized toys. Debris still trickles down from the massive tower hanging almost horizontally over the center square.

Here, the sounds of warfare are more pronounced. Even though no one is willing to cross the plaza, plenty of warning shots and explosions still ring out. Once the dam breaks, it’ll be a bloodbath.

What will inspire people more? Slick’s promises—of a Circle-free state, I presume, and gritty evolutionary survival—or Blackstone’s taste of immortality? Neither is telling the truth. The AoF resemble the Circle in more ways than I’d like. And as for whatever Blackstone said about HIVE, I have my doubts about it being a bite of the golden apple.

I wonder what the Rems and the Lionhearted are up to, in all this. Plotting their own little coups, for when the two main prizefighters are bloodied and reeling on the ropes?

A sharp whistle cuts through my thoughts, and I look up.

It’s Kid Vegas, slick side part gleaming, moonlight and distant fires giving his pale skin a demonic glow. I don’t even think about it. He’s already drawn down on me, pistol in hand. I reach for my .38 and almost have it cleared from my waistband when a warning shot hits the ground about an inch from the toe of my boot.

I hold my hands up, wincing from my injured shoulder, and he nods from the second-story window.

“Thought you could slip me, eh Stokes?”

“You’re the one who ran from me,” I say.

“Technicalities.” His smile glows. I hate him. But there’s not enough hate to go around and do it properly, with the number of people yanking my chain. So it’s more of a lukewarm dislike, when I really get down to it. “I saw you had a little rendezvous with our old pal President Knute.”

“I got shot twice and stabbed, in case you give a shit.” From his unchanging expression—surprise, surprise—he doesn’t. “He patched me up in exchange for a little talk.”

“And you decided to throw in with him.”

“I think you should know by now that I’m not throwing in with anyone, despite what outside appearances suggest.”

“You are damn good, Stokes,” Kid says. “I’ll give you that. But you know what screws you over, what’s been the ball and chain this whole time?”