Heart of Annihilation (15 page)

My will to fight flattened into a one-dimensional object of no substance. I didn’t respond.

“I’ll have Deputy Boderick bring another syringe.” Rannen nodded. “You can decide.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Thurmond said to me. “Rannen has a plan. We’re going to get you to a medic, and everything will be okay.” He released my hand and pushed back to his feet, gathering a few weapons from the crate before disappearing into the rain.

I dropped my eyes away from the intensity of Rannen’s look. My gaze landed on his thumb, which was hooking under a familiar-looking black strap strung across his shoulder. As if sensing my focus he pulled the M-16 off his shoulder, and held it by the muzzle.

“D’ya know how’ta use that?” I asked.

He grinned and shook his head. Water sprayed from his hair.

“Can . . . c-c-could I?”

He laid it across my lap. “Stay safe, Kris.”

Without another word he grabbed several weapons from the crate and followed Thurmond. I watched the rainy darkness, catching a glimpse of his silver hair over by building twelve as lightning flashed. Then nothing but rain.

I hitched myself straighter against the tower leg. I lifted the shoulder strap of the M-16 over my head and drew the butt of my rifle under my injured arm. I clicked off the safety and flicked the switch to a single-round shot as opposed to the semi-automatic function.

One shot. I had one shot. One shot. One shot.

I couldn’t think of anything else. What if I used it too early, or worse, too late? How do you decide that it’s
the
moment?

A banging noise drew my attention to the hand-scanning panel. Officiate Lafe was once more at work.

“All right, Shevla. You first.” She gestured to the huddled line of Rethans. An older female broke away. Officiate Lafe almost tripped over my knee. She gave me a scornful look before returning her attention to the portal. Shevla placed her hand on the panel, allowing the light to scan it. Then, without a backward glance, she walked into the blue screen of light. Her face and knee disappeared first, making her look like she’d been cut in half vertically. Then she was gone. The metallic world rippled through the blue of the portal, but no figure showed on the other side.

“Next!” The officiate hollered. Her fingers flew over the screen again. The next in line stepped up. I dropped my eyes. This was going to take forever.

The roar of motors could suddenly be heard over the zapping of the portal. For the first time the heroic rumblings of US military vehicles filled me with dread.

Here we go
, laughed the voice. Hollow, delighted
. Bring on the blood.

Caz
6 hours pre-RAGE

The dome of the Dimensional Congressional Council building, the very heart of Retha, rose above Caz. Its multi-metal stripes glistened in the overcast light. She didn’t marvel at the design as everyone did, not the shear enormity of the structure nor the massive amounts of foreign materials needed to complete it.

This was former Commandant Ben Attikin’s greatest accomplishment. His glory. It had even been named Attikin Dome in its day. Of course, that was before the laws of etiquette and serenity. Before he was exiled. Before it was turned into a simple government building for the self-important council. Now it was the centerpiece of the plaza, housing building upon building of offices, museums, assembly halls, and theaters. A veritable cathedral to all the refinement, culture, and etiquette Retha could afford.

Caz stared at the DCC building’s entry doors, sheathed in electrical webs designed to keep out the weather and little more. Her heart maintained a calm, steady beat; her breathing was a quiet rush in her ears. The history of the building, the magnificence, none of it mattered to her. What mattered was that this was the last place she had seen Vin alive.

Rethans flowed past her, going about their important business, placid smiles pasted on their stupid faces. What Caz wouldn’t give for them to drop their pathetic masks and show the emotions she knew were screaming to get out.

They wouldn’t. They’d been too controlled their whole lives. Brainwashed into believing that
etiquette
and
serenity
kept the world from falling apart. And yet even here in utopia, someone you loved could still betray you or die, and no amount of serenity could make it right again. She’d see if they could maintain their uniform composure when they were running for their lives.

Caz picked up the larger of the two almost identical bags resting near her feet and took a step toward the building. With a jolt she collided with a passerby. The older gentleman’s bag thunked to the ground and tipped, spilling the meager contents.

“Oh dear,” he said, offering a stiff smile. “My deepest apologies, madam.” He bent creakily over his cane in an attempt to reach his bag. “Rough day.”

“Am I having a rough day?” Caz looked at the time indicator imprinted on the inside of her wrist. She had four minutes.

“No.
I’m
having a rough day. The roughest. Do you call a marshal when you’re feeling rough? No, ma’am. They give you the shuffle off, tell you to meditate, talk to a friend, visit the market of tranquility.” He managed to snag the handle of his bag, but a half a dozen round packages of standard fare soy protein rolled away from him. “Don’t they know that all that doesn’t work when you get to be my age? You need a quick fix of serenity or you end up screaming into pillows, or kicking your pet, or scaring your wife until she starts to talk about getting you exiled.” He abandoned his escaped packages with a shuffling kick. He stared at her in what could have been construed as a glare, if his eyebrows hadn’t forgotten over the years to contract in anger. “They give you attention then, oh yes. Threaten you with RAGE, and I look at them and say, ‘fine by me.’ I could use a do over. And then I get a fine for back talk, a shove off, and a few minutes later find myself run over by a pretty lady who wants to tell me how she’s having a rough day. You don’t know what rough is, sweetcakes! No one does anymore.”

Caz grinned at the old anomaly of a Rethan. She retrieved his squishy spheres. The wrapping crinkled in her hands. She shoved them in his bag and then brushed past him. She was halfway across the plaza before she turned back. He was watching her.

“You might want to clear out, grandfather.” She adjusted her fingers on her larger, much more important bag. “Your day will only get rougher if you don’t.”

His lips puckered, but Caz turned away before he could say anything more. She was almost to the door of the DCC building when she heard his voice again, carrying over the chatter of the flowing crowds.

“You left your bag, sweetcakes!”

She grinned over her shoulder, touched her chin, waved it toward him in a gesture of thanks, and then pushed through the web covering the entrance.

Another glance at her wrist. She stepped through the lesser crowds of busy congressional workers and positioned herself behind one of the twelve stone columns adorning the dark vestibule. The stone was cold on her back. Stable, secure, protective. She would be safe here.

Exactly one minute and four seconds later an explosive boom heaved her from her feet. Electricity burst around her, leaping in jagged currents through the air. The power crackled out of the building, searching for the source in Caz’s abandoned bag. There would be casualties within the localized blast radius, but other than those few the greatest damage would be to the surrounding infrastructure. That device was a basic, miniaturized prototype of the one in the bag she cradled, and yet held none of the elegance and subtlety.

Screams echoed around her, and sirens from the outside. Caz crouched behind her column. As the hall emptied Caz closed her eyes, letting the horrified sounds of terror fill her. Outside the building any vestiges of Rethan serenity had been obliterated. With the loss of this control, perhaps anarchy would finally reign.

Caz heard a dragging sound coming from the front doors, heavy breathing, and then a thump from the other side of the column. She’d thought she was finally alone. Apparently not.

A deep red pool crept toward her from beyond the column. She watched in fascination as it spread. Caz touched the pool with two fingers. She tapped the blood with her thumb and rubbed it into her palms, where it etched deep crimson lines into the folds of her skin.

She hadn’t expected blood, at least not this close to her—not yet. Caz stayed where she was, listening as the breathing panted along. Then, with a gasp and a sigh, silence.

She rose to her feet, calmly rubbed her hands together to disperse the blood, and then wiped the remaining blood onto the legs of her pants. She looked at her wrist and picked up her bag.

It was time to meet the council.

A single gunshot shattered the air.

My eyes flew open, the natural instinct to duck forcing my shoulder to slide off the tower leg. My hands and rifle splashed in the mud.

The line of Rethans condensed into a roaring mob. Hands reached over me, trying to get to the hand-scanner first. Cold treads of white boots struck my arms, legs, and chest. I protected my head with one arm, unable to move or even cry out as my damaged body was knocked and pummeled. A rather vicious kick to my mouth, and I tasted grit and blood.

“Enough! That’s enough!” The officiate bellowed, a hammer of sound that demanded respect. “I said enough!”

The feeling of churned waters settled. Boots shifted from foot to foot. I peered past my arm. The officiate gave two Rethans a prompting shove and waved off the rest.

“Get back in line, or I’ll send you to help Marshal Rannen and Deputy Hoth!”

The Rethans submitted, although with a great deal of complaining. An especially baleful-looking fellow stepped backward, his chin thrust out. Not angry exactly—his face couldn’t seem to unflatten—but perhaps angry for a Rethan.

I pushed myself from the mud, drawing my rifle closer to my body. Warm, coppery blood filled my mouth. I spat. The officiate reached into an inside pocket of her uniform and drew out two large, identical syringes.

“You might want to use one of these right now.” She stretched out to hand them to me, not bothering to lean over far enough for me to reach. “We’re going to need another charge before too long.”

I struggled onto my knees, swiping my sleeve across my chin, and spat again before fumbling with cold, wet fingers for the syringes. The second they left her hand, the officiate turned away.

“Next!”

Several Rethans jostled, and one broke free. He put his hand on the panel before the others could untangle themselves. If my mental count was correct, this Rethan made only three that had gotten through so far. Three out of twenty.

I squeezed the syringes. Hateful darkness saturated my mind as thoroughly as the rain drenched the rest of me.

Forget about the drones,
snarled the voice
. Worry about yourself
.

I muttered under my breath, “Shut-up-stop-talking-to-yourself-I’ll-do-what-I-want,” and yanked off the cap of one syringe with my teeth. I let the other fall onto my lap. The enormous needle shook like a twig under gale force winds. Once—twice—three times I tried to jab it into my leg. I succeeded on the fourth. At once I felt the overwhelming rush of not only electricity and adrenaline, but also the ferocious anger stabbing into my brain.

Damn that Marshal Lafe. Curse her to hell.

“Marshal Lafe?” I whispered. “The officiate?”

Officiate. Marshal. Whatever she’s calling herself these days.

I had to stop talking to myself. Although it didn’t feel like a one-sided conversation.

The heavy
bam-bam-bam-bam
of an M-249 SAW silenced my thoughts. A hum and a strange zipping sound from the Rethan weapons responded. The M-16s were getting in on the action now. Quite a few by the sound. The bursts from the south of the camp were still far enough away that I knew they hadn’t taken the hill yet.

A grenade exploded somewhere not far from the southern buildings, spraying up a funnel of mud. The Rethans hit the ground, crying out in terror. The fear of leaving the line again and being sent to fight was apparently stronger than their fear of being shot here. Aside from the scattered piles of crates, not close enough to be useful, the entire line of Rethans was woefully exposed. The officiate sent another Rethan crawling through the portal.

The weapons fire was so close now that flashes of fire could be seen exploding from the rifles. A single bullet dinged into a stack of crates not far from us. I ducked. The face of the closest Rethan came into focus. He was an older male, with a lined face and wide, frightened eyes. His silver hair was plastered against his head. Mud spattered his face, but his lips were set in a curve that hinted at frequent laughter.

My mind flashed to the time my dad had gotten his leg stuck under his truck. A tire had blown when he’d been working somewhere out in the field. When he’d tried to repair it, the truck had tilted off the jack, trapping him under the axle. I’d panicked only after he’d missed dinner, and I hadn’t found him until he’d been stuck for several hours already. I remembered his eyes peering into my flashlight as it swept across his face. The fear had drained from his face, and his mouth had pulled into a pained grin. From fear to hope.

I blinked at the face of the frightened Rethan, his mouth a grimace of fear. A good ten or eleven Rethans still needed to make it through the portal. They wouldn’t all survive at this rate. To emphasize the point, the portal flickered and went out with a distinct hum.

Don’t bother
, said the voice.

With stumbling fingers I pulled the coin from my pocket, rubbing my thumb across the letters. Rannen said it was a catapult that would open a portal through to Retha. Would we all be sucked through? Would there be other Rethans who could help fight off the commander? Would Dad be there?

Will you cry like an infant if you see him?

I closed my eyes to block out the voice, and searched through my mind and body for the energy the coin needed. A certain type of voltage, Rannen said. A certain type. Different from what I had used on the portal. Different from anything I’d used before.

I felt it. Like an element hidden within the energy from the storm. As though we were finally speaking the same language, the coin between my fingers called to it and drew it from my body.

The coin flew from my hand with a deafening zap. I wrenched my eyes open as a jolt of electricity exploded from the coin and shot toward the sky. The electricity grew and expanded, almost directly in front of the other portal. The new portal solidified into a perfect circle, taller and wider than what was left of the scrapped-together version. But unlike the portal on the tower, there was nothing to see on the other side. Just blackness, like a void. No weapon-wielding Rethans. No Dad.

I collapsed onto my side, my body an exhausted, empty shell. A bitter taste filled my mouth.

Officiate Lafe appeared beside me. Her eyes and mouth were wide as she stared at the newest portal hovering before us. She recovered in an instant and gestured the last of the Rethans forward.

“Into the portal now, everyone!”

Rethans leapt through the circle of lightning one at a time and vanished on the other side. A tentative touch on my shoulder startled me. I knocked the hand away before looking up. The older Rethan who’d reminded me of my dad recoiled a step.

“Are you all right?” He held out a hand to me. “Can I?”

With hate exploding around us, the innocent helping hand seemed like a foreign object. He must have sensed my trepidation because his fingers curled over his palm.

“Th-thanks,” I said, lifting my muddy hand for help.

His hand felt brittle, the translucent skin papery thin. He helped me to my feet and assisted me the few yards to a safer spot behind a crate, not far from the tower. I collapsed and rolled onto my side.

Here, in a subconscious realm of thought, things were so simple. There was nothing I could do, so I would do nothing.

Get up!
the voice shrieked.
Don’t just lay there. Go through the portal before you get us killed!

My head ached so badly I almost moved to get away from it. Rain hammered my face, a not-so-gentle reminder that I was still alive, if only just.

“Miss?”

Only two Rethans remained. Officiate Lafe and the one kneeling in front of me, a syringe held between two fingers. The older Rethan patted my face. “Miss? Would you like help with this? I can if you want me to. I don’t think you’re going to last much longer if—”

I blinked at him, trying to speak.

“Please, I’ve got to go.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the portal where Officiate Lafe was beckoning to him, her expression incensed. “You did us a big favor here, and another personal favor for me years ago. I want to help you, if I can. A story to tell my grandbabies, how the DCC Slayer saved—”

An explosion rattled the crate at my back. The Rethan ducked, cowering next to my leg.

“Do you want the injection, miss?” He was breathless.

“Rose.” Such a small word and yet so important.

“What?”

“M-my name is Rose. Kris Rose.”

“Oh, okay. Um, Rose.” He nodded, seeming to understand.

I nodded back and closed my eyes.

There was a soft touch to my chest, a stab, and then agony burst through my heart. My limbs stiffened in a torturous spasm. Vivid splashes of colors, emotions, thoughts, memories—

Dad tossing me a dinner roll from across the table, two already on his plate . . . the chow line overrun by a group of overambitious lieutenants . . . Xander’s head thrown back, laughing at his nephew’s childish joke . . . irritation turning to worry that Dad wasn’t home yet from police work . . . annoyance that Drill Sergeant Williams wouldn’t let the smudge on my uniform go . . . the Rethan drones’ contented smiles, like a lifetime of brainwashing could actually have made them happy.

I gasped and pried my eyes open. Energy pulsed through my body in such strong increments that I couldn’t bear to sit still.

My eyes lingered on the portal for a second. The elderly Rethan was gone. Only Officiate Lafe was left. Why hadn’t she gone through yet? I pulled the rifle’s strap over my head so I could hold it better and dragged myself through the mud until I was beside her behind a barricade of crates. She didn’t even glance at me.

A grenade exploded inside the circle of buildings. We ducked toward one another. Mud burst outward. When it settled I rested the barrel of the rifle on the crate, sighting down the length with my finger on the trigger. My pulse pounded in my shoulder. I watched for movement.

A particularly brilliant flash of lightning illuminated a camo-clad figure racing past building twelve. I lined him in my sites before I recognized Thurmond. In one bound he disappeared behind a barricade of crates.

The firing stopped. An oppressive silence pressed on the camp. The pinging of the rain on the roofs of the buildings, the watery splashes in the puddles made the uncanny hush downright frightening.

Where were they?

A dark figure materialized next to Thurmond’s position. The white patch on the nose identified Luginbeel. A limping figure appeared a building over, had to be Sanderford.

The way Luginbeel strutted in, his rifle weaving back and forth for a target, was so primetime SWAT I would have shot him myself if I’d thought he was worth my round. But this was not
the
moment. Of that much I was sure. Luginbeel passed Thurmond’s location. Thurmond rose up from behind the crate, slashing out. His knife caught a flash of lightning and disappeared into Luginbeel’s shoulder. A boom of thunder muted the cry. Luginbeel disappeared into the muddied shadow of the building. Thurmond wrenched the rifle out of his grip, and it rose and fell twice against Luginbeel’s head.

The officiate shifted beside me.

“I need Deputies Boderick and Hoth, and Marshal Rannen.”

That’s why she was still here. I couldn’t help feeling grudging admiration toward her. We hunched low as bullets pinged off the barricade, some zipping through the openings between crates or spraying up small funnels of mud. Rifle fire answered from Thurmond’s location thanks to Luginbeel’s stolen rifle.

“Where are they?” The officiate hissed.

The militaristic bulk of two Humvees roared from between buildings. One slowed to a stop twenty feet from us. The headlights beamed blinding eyes on our location.

Thurmond sent bullets pelting into one side of the Humvee. The passenger door of the Hummer was thrown open. A red-haired figure rolled out and scrambled for cover behind the back tires. Justet lined up nicely in my sites, and I wished I could have stitched my initials in his scrawny rump. He seemed to decide Sanderford’s location was his best shot, and he high stepped away. Bullets from Thurmond’s rifle threw up mud at his heels.

“Attikin’s ass! I need those three now!” Officiate Lafe pushed me to the side and peeked between the crates.

“You should go, Officiate Lafe,” I said. She snapped me a look. I held her gaze. “I’ll hold this position until they get here.” I wished I had anywhere near the confidence in myself I was trying to express.

She turned away, glaring between the crates, and suddenly her mouth fell open in a formulaic, shocked expression. Slowly she stood, a hand going to her gaping mouth.

“What are you doing?” I tugged at her pant leg. “Get down!”

My brief glimpse between the crates showed a single figure standing within the circle of buildings. The commander’s tall, angular body and stern-cut hair was instantly recognizable.

From behind her, Justet’s white hand launched a grenade toward us. The spoon disconnected from the top and flipped away. The automatic count started in my head. The grenade arched.
One thousand.
I dropped the rifle.
Two thousand.
I grabbed both the officiate’s legs and yelled, “get down,” trying to pull her behind the crates
. Three thousand.
No time.
Four thousand.
I buried my face next to my arm, curling my legs up to protect my abdomen.

The grenade exploded on the other side of the crates. Thousands of bits of shrapnel tore into the crate, smashing it into me. I bounced once before coming to a stop, a crate resting on my back. Stinging, oozing warmth melted across my face. I touched a jagged gash on my hairline.

I threw the crate off my back. My vision fuzzed. It took a moment to locate Officiate Lafe. She had been blasted against the crooked leg of the tower but was, unbelievably, still standing. The light from the portal lit her hair from behind. Her arms still shielded her face, but the fabric was shredded away. Shards of metal glistened in an enormous amount of red, very human-looking blood. Blood also flowed from gaping wounds in her chest and mingled with the rain. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, finding it so peculiar that a Rethan could be just like a human inside.

Adrenaline in a tube was nothing like the natural adrenaline flowing through me now. I dashed water and blood from my eyes, rose onto my knees, and pulled up my rifle.

Thurmond fired over and over again from the eastern end of the camp. The rest of the commander’s crew ducked out of sight. I pushed painfully to my feet, using Thurmond’s cover fire to get me over to the officiate.