Requiem (41 page)

'And, for us,
the story is optimistic. That Icarus will burn and fall,' said
Sear.

Mercer was
nodding now as well.

'So, Little
John is off the table?' asked Belameir.

'Little John
was never on the table to begin with,' came Athene's voice.
'Perhaps we should start calling
you
Little John from now
on. I'm sure it's appropriate in more ways than one.'

'I still
think-'

'We're calling
it Icarus from now on,' said Athene, 'not Little John. Therin
agrees and I'm sure Tialus and the Doctor will agree as well.'

Belameir looked
down at Seline who was grinning sarcastically back at him.

'You look like
the Cheshire bloody Cat,' he said to her.

'And by the
way,' said Athene, 'your next training session is in ten minutes,
Little John. I suggest you prepare yourself.'

The smile
dissolved from his face. 'But aren't we concentrating on Litt- on
Icarus right now?'

'All the more
reason for you to continue with your training. We need to at least
have you half way prepared for Icarus when we catch up to it. Which
might be soon if our observations are right.'

Belameir sighed
and threw his head back but didn't try to argue.

'I'll take that
as a 'yes, ma'am,'' said Athene. 'At the Armoury in ten minutes.
For every second that you're late you'll do another ten pull ups.'
There was a faint click from the comm as Athene shut it off.

'But I want to
come with you,' Donny pleaded.

The Warlord had
almost had enough of the boy's complaints. For the last two days
he'd continued to bring up the subject of the Warlord's leaving.
The Warlord had explained, peacefully and amiably at first, that
there were people he needed to talk to and lessons he needed to
teach and that he couldn't do that from Earth.

'But why does
that mean you have to leave me here?'

'Because
there's not enough room aboard the ship, because you don't have the
necessary experience, because you're just too young...' (But most
of all) 'because it's too dangerous.'

'I know how to
fight. I killed that man.'

'That man was
dead when you found him, Donny.'

'No he
wasn't!'

'I'm not going
to argue with you any more,' said the Warlord, looking up, through
the large hangar door that served as the casino's main entrance.
Number Seventeen and Jemma were waiting on the other side. The
Warlord could see how eager they were to depart but no one was more
willing than he. It'd been years since he'd left the surface of
Earth, not since he was a boy, not since he was only a few years
older than what Donny was now.

'Why can't you
just let me come with you?! I'll stay in the ship the whole time. I
promise.'

The Warlord
thought about saying 'because I don't even know if I'll be coming
back' but knew this would only incite the boy further.

'I've given you
all the reasons why you must stay and I suggest you cease your
arguing before I lose my temper.'

'Fuck you and
your temper!'

That was the
first time he'd ever heard Donny swear. It didn't suit his mouth,
just like he knew killing wouldn't suit his hands. The Warlord
thought about raising his hand and slapping the boy across the face
but there was going to be plenty of room for pain and for killing
in the coming days and weeks so perhaps it was best to simply let
it be.

Donny was about
to raise his voice again, to screech another curse at him but the
Warlord took a step towards him, pulled him close and held his face
to his bare stomach. The boy uttered a muffled curse. He fought
back against the Warlord's grip but with little effort. Shortly
after his shoulders and, in fact, his whole body shuddered. Donny
had started to cry. He clenched his hands into fists and started to
hammer against the Warlord's stomach.

When Donny made
to pull away, the Warlord brought the bottom edge of his hand down
on the back of the boy's neck. Donny's body fell limp. The Warlord
wrapped his arm around the boy and held him for a quiet few seconds
before putting his other arm behind his legs and lifting him from
the floor. He carried Donny to the corner of the casino and lay him
on the tattered foam mattress that was covered in loose sheets,
blankets, and a pillow stained with what was either drool or tears.
Next to the mattress was the casino's remaining functional slot
machine. There was no money left inside but sometimes Donny liked
to pull the lever and line up the pictures of the cherries or the
animals and hear the machine's chiming celebration.

He knew Donny
would forgive him. Donny would always come back to him. Donny would
follow him to the end not only because he had nowhere else to go
but because the boy loved him.

The Warlord
wondered for only a second if he could love him back, if, maybe he
already
did
love him but before he could venture any further
into the thought, that familiar stinging sensation arose in his
head, like a piece of barbed wire spinning inside his brain.

There was too
much at stake to let love get in the way, to let it complicate
things. The boy was a reminder and nothing more. Let everything
else be buried in the pain.

But despite
that pain, he knelt down next to Donny. Tentatively, the Warlord
raised his hand to his chin and squeezed his fingers beneath the
bottom lip of the mask. Slowly, he removed the mask. For the first
time he looked down at Donny, not through the eyes of the Warlord,
but through eyes of the unnamed person beneath the mask. Who this
person was he didn't rightly know; he only knew that he couldn't
take this pain much longer. He leaned in and kissed the unconscious
boy on the forehead then rose to his feet and pulled the mask back
over his head. He didn't look back down at the boy, he only turned
and walked away, out the hangar door which clanged shut behind
him.

Both Jemma and
Seventeen knew better than to comment on what had been taking the
Warlord so long to get ready. They waited for him to join them and
began walking towards the old airport hangars to the south. Their
supplies had already been placed on the stolen ship they were to
take so they travelled lightly.

Jemma wondered
why the Warlord had chosen to store the serum on the ship. She
wondered what the Warlord might intend to do with it but then
realised that he may not have any plans for it, that he was
probably only taking it with them because he didn't want to leave
it down here where he couldn't keep an eye on it.

They walked
past the expired fountain that once decorated the casino's front
courtyard and out onto the road that would lead them past the
airport. Jemma wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of
her hand then held her hand to her lips and sucked the sweat into
her mouth. She ran her fingers over the bristles of her shaved head
and looked up to the pale envelope of the sky. She could feel
Seventeen watching her but when she turned to look, Seventeen was
looking straight forward.

The Warlord had
spoken briefly of Seventeen's previous training; of the soldier's
blood that ran through her veins but of little else.

Jemma thought
Seventeen didn't look like an exec or a consumer. No. That she was
sure of. Seventeen had been beautiful once but there was no way
anyone from the Corporate Zones would let their face go through its
natural ageing process. Not even a trace of the temporary make-up
let alone the permanent lipstick or blush or eye liner that the
corporates had tattooed into their skin. Besides, she'd seen her
hands, calloused and worn from a lifetime of the Insolvency. She
had no questions about that aspect of her character. But just
because she wasn't lying about that didn't mean she wasn't lying
about other things.

The Warlord had
been watching Jemma. The way she constantly cast her eyes to
Seventeen. The way she held her breath in the few moments that
Seventeen might speak in order to catch every single syllable and
inflection that might hint of a betrayal.

It was good to
have Jemma cautious, jealous even, if it meant she kept those
careful eyes on anything that might give reason for distrust.
Later, he would ask Jemma what she thought of Seventeen but, for
now, there was nothing to indicate that she might be hiding
something. Indeed, she'd been one of the most promising candidates
that he'd seen through the initiation process. From the moment he
led her, with Donny in tow, north of the centre of the city for her
test, he could feel the strength and purpose within her.

The Warlord had
led her and Donny to one of the suburbs, to a gutted, decaying
apartment about two hours walk north of the casino. They climbed
the sunken stairs to the second story and followed the moaning
sounds into the bedroom.

The smell
within the tiny bedroom was putrid, enough to thin paint or strip
skin from bones. The filter on the Warlord's mask managed to keep
out most of the smell. Meanwhile, Donny had raised a hand to cover
his nose and, even in this light, the Warlord could see that his
face whitened severely. Seventeen had turned her nose up but other
than that the smell didn't appear to bother her much.

The Warlord
told Donny to step out of the room. Donny didn't argue.

There was a
tiny slit in the wall opposite the door where the last of the sun's
light came through. There was a heavily soiled mattress in the
corner of the room. Surrounding it were possibly hundreds of empty,
discarded needles. A man was lying on his back in the centre of the
mattress. His entire body was riddled with sores and blotches. His
ribs were clearly visible beneath his skin which looked like no
more than a thin, almost transparent film that had been draped over
his skeleton.

The moaning
sound came again and the man's large, swollen eyes fell upon the
intruders. His teeth, at least what remained of them, were grinding
against one another.

There was
another quiet hush from next to the man. From a woman huddled in
the corner with thin, skeletal arms wrapped around her knees. She
was shivering violently with a single bloodied finger raised and
pressed to her lips. She was hissing beneath her breath,
'Shhhhh.'

The Warlord
turned to Seventeen. 'His name is Michael. Her name is Isabel. I
learned of their existence only recently. Two long time junkie's
that have lost the source of their habit. They sit in this attic
apartment rotting away.' He paused and looked at the snivelling
woman then back to Seventeen. 'Do you understand what you must
do?'

Seventeen was
still looking at the woman, at Isabel.

'Who told
you?!' Isabel screamed and then fell back into the corner,
muttering to herself with that single finger raised to her
lips.

The Warlord
ignored her. 'Do you understand what you must do?' he repeated to
Seventeen.

She looked at
him for a moment. Stern eyes. The wrinkles had returned. She was
eighty once again.

'I must kill
them,' she said.

Isabel
continued to mutter. Michael made a shallow, gurgling noise. The
Warlord reached into the gun holster at his waist and pulled out
the pistol. He handed it to Seventeen.

Isabel's
muttering grew louder and more frantic as Seventeen moved closer to
the mattress. Seventeen raised the gun to the head of Isabel.
Isabel's eyes widened. She turned to the corner and started clawing
at it, wailing incomprehensibly to herself. She slid down on her
side next to Michael and for the first time revealed her swollen
stomach. Her arms reached for Michael as if to embrace him and
Seventeen could clearly see her breasts, which, for a woman so
utterly emaciated, were relatively large and full.

If these
observations held any significance to Seventeen then she didn't
show it. Seventeen's voice was hard but not without mercy and not
without love. Indeed, her words sounded, to the Warlord, like love
itself.

'Do not fight
it,' Seventeen said. 'Go now, to a rest far better than any you
have ever known.'

The naked woman
screamed but nothing came out. The bullet had already left the gun
and passed through her skull. She slumped back down into the
corner, her blood had sprayed against the wall and upon the skin of
the man she had once loved.

Michael's mouth
hung open as if the hinge of his jaw had chattered itself loose.
Through a monumental effort he lifted his arm from the bed and
reached out to Seventeen. The desperation in his eyes could have
meant anything. That he was clenching a fist around her throat,
that he could see his god standing at his side reaching down to
him, or simply that he thought this gun directed at him was another
needle and he was showing this woman where to put it.

The moaning cry
rose from his lips again, this time loud and constant, it would not
cease.

'Go in peace,'
muttered Seventeen.

The bullet
passed through his skull just above the eyes. His hand dropped and
his head fell back on the sodden mattress.

Seventeen
directed the gun at Isabel's stomach. 'May you forgive those who
tried to force this world upon you.'

She fired a
single shot into Isabel's stomach. She stood still for a long time
before she handed the pistol back to the Warlord. She stepped out
the door back into the room they hand entered. The Warlord came out
after her. Donny was looking down at the floor with his hands over
his ears.

'What happens
to the bodies?' Seventeen asked.

There was a
quiet reverence in the Warlord's voice that even managed to come
through the distortions from his mask. 'The people here will take
them to the city limits. They will add them to the ring that now
circles this city.'

Seventeen
nodded as if this was all that needed to be said.