Requiem (55 page)

The Warlord
wondered if Seventeen and the girl might have been caught by
Neocorp's response team... but no, of course not. Daniels had
altered the distress signal. NeoCorp probably would have figured it
out by now but they would be too late. Too late to catch
them
maybe, but not him. God, he wished for them to be
caught. It didn't matter now what use the girl might have been, all
he wanted was for both of them to be caught and to be run through
every measure of pain and degradation that NeoCorp or anyone could
bring against them. He just wanted to see them suffer for no other
reason than for what they'd done to him. Because what they did,
what Seventeen did, was more than a simple betrayal, more than
another failure. It was deeply personal.

He'd made the
mistake of trusting Seventeen just like he'd trusted Habel but as
much as the anger and hate burned inside, the lie she'd spun and
her commitment to that lie was undeniably impressive. She
surrendered her own morality, as misguided as it was, in order to
track down the girl. She deserved his respect at least... no.
NO!

He imagined
Seventeen lying sprawled on the ground and him straddled over her.
Her tanned olive skin with its deceptive wrinkles, like a crumpled
piece of parchment. Her dark hazel eyes wide and wet with tears.
He'd hold the knife up so she could see it, see its jagged lips and
all its little imperfections so she would find it easier to imagine
when it began its work. First he would drive the tip of it into the
centre of her left eye. He would do it as slowly as possible and
just deep enough so that it popped and spilled its colours down her
face, over that impermanent skin of hers. The blood would be her
tears.

There was a
voice in his head, faint and desperate, pulling him back. The voice
was small but he let it speak. It told him he didn't have much
time, that, while he was lying in plain sight, fantasising about
torture, NeoCorp's backup was on its way.

The voice,
small as it was, was right. He had to do something. He had two
options. He could either draw the edge of his makeshift blade
across his throat to ensure that NeoCorp would not do to him what
they did to the girl or he could use the tip of the blade to remove
the bullet in his stomach.

He held the
blade up to his throat. Its edge was digging into his palm and the
inside of his fingers but it didn't matter any more did it? The
small voice was whispering in his ear.

Look what
you've become. Failure has turned you into the very thing you
despise. You want torture, you want revenge, you want to bathe in
the blood of the innocent, you've lost your way. The only
redemption you can find is on the edge of this blade.

'No. No I can
still do something. I can still make a difference. I can...' His
voice echoed in the hangar, reverberating from every surface, cold
and metallic, alien to his own ears.

You have
become what McCullum warned you against. You would kill for
pleasure. You have failed your kind. Now draw that blade across
your throat as your final act of mercy to the world. Rid them all
of what you have become.

'NO. I CAN
STILL SAVE THEM!'

Then show
me.

With
considerable pain, the Warlord reached down to the hem of his pants
and tore a piece of fabric off. He wrapped the rag around the
handle end of the blade and leaned back against the foot of the
ship. His eyes had adjusted well to the darkness now. He looked
down to his stomach where blood was still leaking out. He lifted
his blade to the hole. He turned the blade and pushed it in. He
could feel his teeth clenched and grinding, even through the pain
of the knife in his stomach. The tip struck something hard. The
bullet wasn't as deep as he thought. He dug the blade in further to
get under the bullet then started half pulling, half levering the
bullet out. The bullet slipped off the point of the blade so he had
to reinsert it and lever it out again. Finally, he managed to gouge
the bullet free. It fell on the hangar floor with a sharp
tink
. He looked at the knife once then threw it away.

He clasped his
hand once again over the wound. He leaned over to his left and
pushed himself off the floor with his free arm. He stumbled to his
feet and started towards the stairs. He was disoriented from the
blood loss and the wavering shadows frightened him. He started
climbing the stairs, running his free hand along the wall to
stabilise himself. He reached the top and followed the flickering
lights guiding him to the armoury.

As he turned
into the armoury door the station rumbled beneath him. He turned
towards the hangar. The vibration was from the docking platform,
retracting into the station. NeoCorp's reinforcements. The Warlord
stumbled through the doorway into the armoury. He looked around
wildly for the med-kit and saw it on the wall to his left. He
walked, almost falling towards it.

He opened the
locker and fumbled clumsily for the first aid kit inside. He
grabbed at it but dropped it on the floor. He fell to his knees and
unlatched the box. He took one of the clear canisters of saline,
broke the top off with his thumb and squirted it into the hole in
his side. He pulled out one of the small closure pads; a square
shaped pad of woven fibres with a line of tiny metal hooks on
opposite sides of the square. He held the pad hard against his
skin, over the gouged out bullet hole. From the pad's underside, a
small colony of stem cells were injected into the wound then the
hooks on the edge of the pad dug into his skin just beyond the
edges of the bullet hole and the pad contracted, the hooks pulling
the wound closed.

He fell back
against the wall breathing heavily, sweating from every pore and
shivering from the pain. But that vibration couldn't be ignored. He
forced himself to his feet and to the closest locker. He pulled the
locker open and took one of the loaded pistols.

Voices were
coming from down the hall. There was a thin blue scanning light
from one of the drones that they must have dispatched. The Warlord
raised his gun to the empty doorway and just as he did the drone
whipped around the corner. The Warlord fired. The first shot
glanced the edge of the drone, spinning it in mid air. He fired
again, the bullet carved through its centre. It flew back against
the far wall of the hallway and fell to the ground.

There were
voices. Another drone. The Warlord fired. Its top half shattered
and it went spinning to the floor, whirring and screeching. The
Warlord squinted his eyes, focusing.

Another drone
shot past the open door. As it flew past it fired a small canister
straight at the Warlord's feet. He kicked it but it ricocheted off
the med-kit he'd left splayed on the ground. A white mist spewed
out of it, filling the room with a cloud so thick he couldn't see
his hand before his face.

It was leaking
through his mask's broken respirator. Tears started bleeding from
his eyes, stinging them like tiny needles. His light-headedness
threatened to tear his head from his shoulders. He fell to his
knees then forward onto his palms. He vomited inside his mask and
dropped onto his side. He managed to pry the mask from his face so
that he wouldn't suffocate. His strength was almost gone. He could
hear himself coughing and sputtering.

He could hear
their voices. They were everywhere at once. Someone was
laughing.

'He's just a
kid,' said one of the voices, high and shrill and mocking. 'The
Downfall Warlord is just a goddamn kid.'

'And you think
that's an excuse not to put the fucking cuffs on him?' came a
woman's voice.

'He looks
pretty well done f-'

Blinded and
almost unconscious from the fumes, the Warlord still sensed the man
leaning in close to him. With one hand he snatched blindly upward.
He grabbed the man's throat and dug his nails in. The Warlord could
feel the air stalling in his throat. A hand clutched at his arm and
a foot came down on his stomach but still he held on. The Warlord
started to pull. Dig and pull. Dig and pull. There was laughter
from somewhere behind him. It was even louder than the man's
choking. Then the laughter stopped.

'You're an
idiot, you know that?' said the woman.

There was a
viscous pain in the side of the Warlord's head and then
nothing.

There was a
voice burrowing into his head. He opened his eyes, gasping for
air.

'Donny!' he
cried.

Knuckles and an
open hand struck the side of the face. He couldn't breathe. His
mask was gone. The air was cold, he couldn't stop shivering. The
pain in chest pulsed violently, digging its nails into his lungs
and pulling ice down his throat.

He was
standing, his back against a wall. He tried to move but metal
braces held his wrists, ankles and stomach firmly in place. The
room was dark, covered in a hideous shade of green. Save the black
of the interrogator's suit there was no other colour in the room.
There was a table against one of the walls.

A hand grabbed
his chin. Fingers worked along to the back of his jaw line and
pressed into where it joined to his skull. He couldn't stop his
mouth from opening. A plastic tube was forced to the back of his
throat. The fingers stopped working at his jaw and his mouth closed
on the tube. The respirator was held hard against his face and a
strap was pulled over the back of his head and let go with a slap.
He drew in another breath. The chill in his throat and lungs didn't
disappear but it didn't get any worse.

The
interrogator's face was masked by a black, reflective screen that
covered the front and top of the visor. The back of the helmet was
bulky, heavy looking.

'No wonder you
wear that mask. Your lungs are absolutely fucked,' said the
interrogator.

The respirator
device was much like his own mask, wherever that might be. There
was a small microphone on the inside and a speaker on the outside.
His breathing crackled on the other side of the mask. It sounded
small and weak, like a child's.

'Where am
I?'

The
interrogator's voice was distorted and synthetic. 'You don't need
to worry about that. What you should be worried about is what you
can tell us about the station you just destroyed.'

The Warlord
could feel where the needle had pricked in his arm. There was
warmth, circulating through his body. It was a faint sensation,
lingering at the back of every thought. He could barely feel its
presence but he had no doubt there was something there, something
sinister, something that couldn't be trusted.

'Tell us what
you know and we'll make your death easy,' said the interrogator.
The words resounded a dozen times in the Warlord's skull before
finally dissipating.

'How did you
get onto the station?' said the interrogator.

The Warlord was
going to give no reply. Let this man ask his questions. Let the
silence be the answer and let this man's superiors kill him for his
failure. He had experienced pain before. Whatever these neophytes
could try to do would pale in comparison to what his life had
already heaped upon him.

The
interrogator repeated his question. His tone, calm and
indifferent.

'How did you
get onto the station?'

The warmth
grew, slow at first and then it swelled all around his body. Nerves
thrummed violently inside him. His mind was engulfed by the warmth
and the pink light that it excreted in the back of his eyes. A hand
was squeezing deep in the centre of his brain and tearing thoughts
out of order and out of place.

'How did you
get onto the station?' the interrogator repeated.

'I used your
contact on Sceril,' the Warlord blurted before he could hold the
words back.

'I see,' said
the interrogator. 'It's good to see you're going to co-operate with
us. I appreciate your honesty.'

For some reason
these words lit up in the Warlord's head. He was... almost happy
that this man would offer such a kind compliment. The Warlord shook
his head.

'So your
contact was Gliphen, correct?' the interrogator asked.

'Yes.'

'But Gliphen is
dead.'

'Because of
me.' The Warlord almost smiled but he forced it away. 'What did you
inject into me?' he demanded.

The
interrogator stood with his hands firmly behind his back, his legs
apart. 'An obedience serum we've been working on. Customised, just
for you, Warlord. Does that make you feel special? I bet it
does.'

It did and the
Warlord hated it.

'I'm curious.
Tell me, how did you manage to kill Gliphen?'

The Warlord
struggled against his own thoughts, against the pink warmth pulsing
inside him but it was no use. They'd turned his own mind against
him. This was punishment, for trusting Seventeen, for letting the
ones he could actually trust die in another failed mission, for
letting the suffering of this world continue. They had all been
counting on him, their lives were in his hands but they had slipped
through. His mind was carried back to Sceril, to before he launched
his doomed assault on the Verison Station. He pictured Gliphen in
his head and narrated as truthfully as he could to the patient
interrogator.

'Do you know
where she is held or not?' the Warlord demanded.

Gliphen's
laughter stopped 'They're holding her in a space station in the
Verison System.'

'How long have
they held her for?'

'Not long.'
Gliphen smiled. 'Although I'm sure she doesn't think that.'

'Why haven't
the Yurrick tracked her down?'

'There's only a
handful of people who know the station's location. The Yurrick, in
their arrogance, believe they can see straight through NeoCorp.
They even believe they can see straight through me.'

'Where is the
station?'