Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/949060.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major
      Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, Multi
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Character:
      Andrew_Reyes_(Dedalus), Quinn_Walker, Thema_Asantewaa, Uriah_Driscoll,
      Nomi_Brûlée, Asta_Brûlée, Lois, Irina, Jackson_(flashback), Sara_Reyes_
      (Dedalus)_(flashback), Stephen_Dedalus_(flashback), Rick_Cho, Feliz, Uma
      'Mouse'
  Additional Tags:
      Epic, Science_Fiction_&_Fantasy, Friendship, Quests
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-31 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 103242
****** Like lions are made for cages ******
by theviolonist
Summary
     He'd always thought there'd only be one hero to his story: himself.
     In the end, it was more complicated than that.
***** Chapter 1 *****
1.
There is a persistent misconception going around: that that history and, in the
grand scheme of things, life, is a string of actions.
It isn't. Actions are what the spark is to the fire – necessary but, on its
own, meaningless. What is fire made of? Wood. Oil. Stone, water, hell, you
choose. Reactions are what builds the edifice, what pervades and exists. People
forget the declaration of war, buried under a pile of documents on an old oak
desk, but they rarely forget the fight, the grime and the grit of it, or the
consequences of its aftermath. History is built on the back of dominoes: a
horse rearing back before a bayonet, a sea parting to let a man walk, a woman
kneeling down to embrace her dead child.
Let us examine a string of reactions: Andrew Reyes steps out in the stuffy New
York night, head ducked, and doesn't return until morning. On a faraway island
a woman wakes up shaking from a nightmare whose protagonists aren't yet dead.
Kyle McHardy, the Governor of New York's first footman, hires new staff for the
reception the Governor is holding tonight at 7:00 PM. Nomi Brulée looks out the
window and sees an empire; an empire that her sister, who stands behind her
with a hand on her hip, gifted to her. Tasha, Andrew's girlfriend, leaves his
apartment with her toothbrush and the sad assurance that she won't return. At
the back of Uriah Driscoll's eyelids, nerves connect and a bouquet of fireworks
burst with happy fizzlings. A long time ago, a woman abandoned a child. A long
time before that, a man was too proud to stop.
They're all related. Don't worry, you'll understand.
*
Now, the thing about Andrew is, he's precise. He's precise about the way he
talks, takes care not to mesh his consonants together, not to mutter, not to
mumble; he's precise about where he goes and when, even though he's less
precise about why. He's precise in the order in which he dresses in the
morning, first his shirt and his tie, then his socks, then his pants and
finally his belt, keeping the jacket for when he's already halfway out the
door, in case it's light enough out that he doesn't need to put it on and can
instead drape it over his arm. He's precise about things. He's precise about
people. It's important. Even more than that, it's crucial, at least for what he
does.
For example, tonight: he knows exactly when the reception is starting – seven
PM on the dot –, which is why he made the conversation with Tasha shorter than
she intended it to be. She came to him for explanations, and instead of telling
her a watered-down lie, which is something he does often, because it's
comfortable without the guilt of betrayal, he told the truth. It didn't change
much to the outcome. Andrew isn't one of those people who delude themselves
into thinking that the truth is the answer to everything.
So Tasha packed her bags. That's how he left her, actually, sitting on the bed
with bangs slipping out of her hairtie, probably remembering the good moments
they had together. He tries not to do that either. Useless sentimentalism
doesn't get anybody anywhere. But she was a good girlfriend, a good person to
have around – she didn't ask questions and she was soft in an ordinary,
undemanding way which he seeks in woman and duly appreciated in her. It's over
now, though.
He did love her. He loves people, sometimes, but it's a family illness: he
loves them badly, without paying much attention to it, as though his love were
going to take care of itself. As if it didn't need to be grown – as if it
didn't need the patience of a real gardener, long-fingered hands kneading the
ground to make it soft and easily penetrated by water. But he knows exactly
when the reception is starting; he's there ten minutes after it starts,
slipping in with the heavy flow of fashionally late guests, shiny and smirking
in his tuxedo, perfectly at ease amongst the smarmy businessmen with their bow-
ties and their double fingers of whiskey. He's always on time, and tonight it's
because he's following someone else's schedule, borrowing a life as he so often
does. Maybe that's why Tasha left. Maybe she grew tired of trying to break
through his juxtaposed skins.
But tonight isn't about him, despite the appearances. This night has its own
rhythmic heartbeat and it's that machine which he has to follow, atune himself
to its subtle hiccups. It's fine, though, he's used to it, and he does it well.
He makes conversation as though he'd been born there in this room, which he
was, in a way – born in this Italian suit with a taste for the little crab
toasts going around. The Governor walks towards him with a smile, light
reflecting on the white lily pinned to his lapel; he's the guest in a giant's
home, disguised as one of his peers. He's Jack, keeping his bean up his sleeve
to play it later.
"Hello, Governor. What a fantastic party, may I just say." The hand is friendly
and open, a stranger's palm. Could he be more of a stranger, actually? He
prides himself on that perfect anonymity. The minute he turns away, he knows
his face will be forgotten. Blandness only ever works to his advantage.
"Good night, Mister..." The voice rises and tilts, interrogative, but he
doesn't answer. He has his own path to draw. His plans never derail, because
they are constructed like clockwork – with the precision of a watchmaker, so
much that the slowing down of one little cog is enough to throw the whole
thing. Though it never does. He is an expert artisan.
He smiles warmly. "What a fantastic job you did on the bridge, by the way. On
behalf of this whole city, I cannot thank you enough."
Trenton smiles back, uninterested. His gaze is already distracted; deprived of
a name to hold his attention, it drifts away, and his greedy eyes catch on a
rush of pearls on the Russian ambassador's chest. They make asinine
conversation for a few more seconds, upon which – Andrew doesn't have to check
his watch to know what exact time it is – Trenton's phone rings and he moves
away, taking a few steps backwards. "If you would excuse me for just a second –
" His eyes flit and bounce on a variety of objects, his tie, the pearls, his
cellphone.
"But of course," he says, gracious as only a gentleman can be, or someone who
is a gentleman for the night. He slinks away. He's gotten good at it – when he
was young it was harder. He tried too much; he wanted to stay.
He catches a flute of champagne on a passing tray, blinking a flashing smile at
the waitress; compelled, she smiles back, then turns her head away and
continues on her path. He likes to imagine what's going in her mind right now:
she's replaying the last few seconds in her mind, trying to recompose the face
she only glanced at for a few seconds, the expression on his face. Then someone
else takes a flute from her tray and it doesn't matter who they are, what they
look like, if they smile at her or not; she's distracted. He sees her blinking
once, twice, probably still trying to remember him, not out of interest but
rather reflex. It doesn't work and she shakes her head, already giving up. One
of the other waitresses murmurs something under her breath which catches her
attention. And – there. He's gone, wiped from her mind – at the end of the
night she won't be able to tell she even saw him. Truly amazing, how the human
brain works.
He downs the champagne in one gulp and sets the flute on the mantelpiece, then
slips into the bathroom. The work there is quick too: he takes a glances at
himself in the mirror, smooths his hair on his skull, takes his bag from where
it was hidden under one of the tiles, then disappears into the toilet. When he
comes out he's another man, no longer clad in the appropriate tuxedo and bowtie
with some accessories smattered here and there, an opulent thumb ring, a tie-
clip; now he looks everything like the man he becomes more often than not, a
man that will leave by the service door, entirely unnoticed. He's wearing black
from head to toe. The waitress wouldn't give him a second glance.
The service door swings; he smiles when the fresh air hits his face, as if to
say, welcome, this is yours. He isn't nervous. He used to be, at first, but
time cured him of that like it did the rest, the guilt and the clinging
sadness. He glances down at his watch. Everything is going well. The plan will
proceed smoothly. He puts his gloves on, finger by finger, enjoying the slide
of leather against skin. When he takes a look around him the garden is almost
preternaturally still, the small lamps glowing like wildfires in the darkness.
His eyes roam over the expanse of the fountain, the stone benches, the row of
cypresses. He feels like he knows it all by heart; his plans are always
painstakingly precise, correct to the millimeter.
He's ready when Trenton steps out, phone glued to his ear. He can't hear the
conversation, but he doesn't need to to know what they're saying. He follows
him silently, his steps measured. Trenton stops near the fountain. The gurgling
of the water covers some of his words. He sounds faintly alarmed, as if he knew
the future; as if he knew, through some trick of his fate, what the next few
minutes would hold. But he doesn't.
Andrew shifts minutely, adjusting his grip. The darkness will shield him for a
few more moments, until Trenton hangs up. His ring gleams in the moonlight when
he does, almost obscene. Andrew steps out of the shadow. He's done this
countless times.
He smiles, more at himself than anything else. "Hello, Governor."
The expression on Trenton's face when he sees him is pleasantly familiar: not
quite recognition, but the beginning of a suspicion, mixed in with surprise and
fear. He opens his mouth to ask something, but the question dies on his lips:
the syringe sinks in the bulging vein in his throat and he's on the ground
before he can say a word.
Andrew taps his nail against the side of the syringe, cleaning the tip of
blood, then sheathes it back into its case. "Good night, Governor."
He always did love his theatrics. His mother used to say it was so hard, when
he was a kid, and to this day he never understood. It isn't hard. He doesn't
enjoy it, really – who would? - but there's a certain thrill to it, the
planning, the chase. Humans are predator, when it comes down to it; homo homini
lupus and all that. At least he chooses the right preys. It makes it easier, he
won't lie: what he's doing is right, is bigger than him. In the end he's only
helping destiny along, clearing the path for what's bound to come.
Now is not the time to get philosophical, though, as much as he could stay
there for an hour flexing his fingers to get the sparks coursing through the
whole of his body. This part is the part he can't mess up. He kneels next to
the body, throwing a cursory glance behind him to check a stroll under the
moonlight hasn't suddenly piqued someone's fancy. But he made sure to lock all
the doors that access this part of the garden and by now everyone must be drunk
enough that they won't bother asking the hostess – who's probably getting busy
in the pantry with the new gardener anyway, he has his sources – and will just
search for another exit. They should be good for at least another hour; he'll
be long gone by then.
A quick pulse check verifies that Trenton is unconscious. Andrew shoulders off
his bag and takes out his knife. He had it specially made when he started
getting, well, professional, and even he will say that it's a beauty. Stainless
steel, could cut a rock in two, with a gorgeously smooth handle that just sits
in the hand like it's meant to be there. He crouches over the body, knees
grazing the ground, then leans back, his fingers closed on the handle. The
knife is a bolt of lightning in the half-darkness. Three strikes, just like he
planned: once in the gut, once in the chest, once in the throat. Blood splashes
on his gloves, and he frowns, but doesn't falter. The next hits go to the same
spots, only a little off-center, so that the assault will look disorganized. He
has no doubt that they will come to suspect him anyway, but he prefers to stick
with his old methods, and he can't deny that it gives him a certain guilt-free
satisfaction to stab a man while pretending to be another one.
By the time he's finished his work only the lower half of Trenton's body and
his face have been spared: his torso is covered by long lacerations, the skin
showing through the torn, blood-soaked cloth. Shame – it was a good tuxedo.
Andrew slits the throat from end to end, digging the blade deep enough that
blood starts gushing out of the severed carotid in a thick and lazy flow. The
anesthetic contains a blood-coagulating agent; he prefers to get as little
blood on himself as he can in case the need arises to make a precarious escape.
Cutting, he's careful to avoid the right collarbone, but the rest is fair game.
Specks of blood slowly come to cover the back of his hand, some of it staining
the end of his sleeve. Andrew has an annoyed thought for all the washing up
he's going to have to do. Blood-coagulating agent or not, he never did quite
learn to anticipate how much he's going to get on himself.
The blade bites through Trenton's breast pocket and the flower breaks apart in
a pool of blood. Andrew takes it and sets it on the ground, but the white
petals are already covered with thick, pervading red. Andrew tears the cloth of
Trenton's jacket apart to get a better access to the chest; he'll need it. It's
like open-heart surgery, he used to tell himself at first, except you don't
close them up afterwards. He lets go of the blade and starts using his fingers
to get to the heart, digging through the flesh like a treasure hunter. It's not
the easiest thing to do, but when you've got some training you learn which
arteries to cut if you don't want the whole thing bursting in your hands. It's
still beating a little, which irritates him – it's unnatural – so he just tears
it out. Better safe than sorry.
He glances down at his watch. Half an hour. He didn't think he'd been going so
slow; he needs to stop taking his time now. He rises, hands on his knees, and
gets the blade back from where he set it on Trenton's stomach. He walks around
the body to get to the head. And this... isn't the fun part. Cutting through
bone is always a drag. Thankfully though, he brought some old-school tools with
him, and with his custom-made silent miniature saw and other helpful
paraphernalia he gets to the brain without too much trouble, after which
getting the chip is like sticking your fingers in jello, and that has never
been fun for anyone, but there are some things you just have to do. He gets a
little plastic pouch from his pocket and slips the chip in it, then tucks it
safely back into the bag. Almost done.
Only one thing left to do. He reaches for the collarbone, groping a little.
It's gotten darker, the only light the distant glow of the house and the pale
moon, but he doesn't dare use his flashlight for fear someone will notice him.
He made more of a mess than he intended, there are guts where there really
shouldn't be, and he shouldn't have gotten carried away with the heart. It just
looks messy, sitting there on the ground next to the flower – there's no way to
say it otherwise. He clears the area just below the collarbone, pushing the
blood-stiff collar aside, only to discover that Trenton inked his mark. Andrew
snorts. What some people do to be fashionable. But he's got a job to do, so he
grabs his knife again, hopefully for the last time today, and starts carefully
cutting the skin around the mark. It's a little elastic, but there's not much
blood up there anymore so at least it's not slippery. He'll take it.
Another little plastic pouch, the mark – and well, the skin it's on – goes into
it, and he's ready to be off. He's packing all his tools back into his bag when
Trenton's phone starts ringing. He wills himself to ignore it, but the truth is
he's never been awfully patient and the sound starts grating on his nerves
after ten seconds. Besides, it could very well attract someone, and he really
doesn't need that. On the other hand, if he shuts it off someone could notice
that something's wrong, not to mention that he'll probably get blood all over
the phone. Hell, he should just leave and be over with it. Except –
Damn it. He grabs the phone on the ground, just to check who's calling, in the
off case it's a name he recognizes and could warn him to run far, far away. He
hits mute without thinking, but what is his surprise to find out that he does
indeed know the name that's blinking on the screen. He won't run away, though.
That name requires another kind of running – towards it. He zips his bag closed
moodily. Oh, how he hates it when his plans don't go as planned. That being
said, he's not going to pass on the opportunity to kill two birds with the
same, stainless-steel stone. He grabs his bag, and just as a key turns in the
lock of the backdoor, a musical voice filtering out with the light, disappears
smoothly into the shadows. To be His hand indeed.
*
There's only one rule to being a drug dealer: don't use. It's a really simple
rule that corresponds to a mechanism that's just as simple, even though the
number of people who disregard it would tend to indicate the contrary; the rule
being, if you use, you're a slave to the drug, and you can't be a slave when
you're supposed to be the master.
Uriah would say that the simplistic feel of this theory doesn't sit right with
him, and normally it wouldn't, but in this case it really is a pristine,
crystal-clear situation. That being said, anyone with a little imagination can
figure out that there are other ways to get wasted that don't involve pills or
intravenous, even though nothing quite replaces the ecstasy (pun intended) one
gets from the goodies he makes it his job to provide.
Uriah's poison of choice, after women, is alcohol. Yes, it's cliché, it's
tawdry, it's unoriginal – but all that's for a reason and the fact is, well, it
works. Uriah isn't one of those people who drink alone to chase the pain away,
though, and numbing himself to death doesn't interest him; he only drinks in
the soft hazes of underground clubs, when the chiaroscuro sweeps him in and
there's no way to differentiate the people in the crowd other than by their
touch and the way their hips move to the pounding, heady beat.
The club is nowhere near the city center – Uriah prefers to be as inconspicuous
as possible – and yet it seems to be the city's big heart, pumping blood faster
than people can snort up their various drugs. Even though his current
occupation as a 'business owner' keeps him from the delights of pressing his
nose to the fake marble of brightly-lit bathrooms, it wasn't always this way.
But even when he used he was good at it: he quickly mastered the tenuous
consciousness that comes with drugs and taking them, had control, more than
anyone he knows, because he knew how to pull himself from the edge and then go
back to dangle from it again. This is the reason he thinks he's good at sex,
and no one's ever told him otherwise. But this is good too – tamer, but good.
He's dancing, alcohol warming the inside of his veins; a nice buzz is building
under his skin, gentle as a simmer. There's someone at his right, left, behind
him, in front of him. He's surrounded, overwhelmed, encompassed; there's
nothing to distinguish him the fist-pumping, head-lolling anonymous sweating
glitter and drug-induced tears around him, and it feels good, it's what he
likes. It's what he lives for.
The neon lights blind him but don't swallow him when he gazes up, his eyes
scraping the surface of a few bodies and passing them, not interested enough.
This is a swankier club than he's used to, a new hunting ground for his new
brand of merchandise, and he revels in the knowledge that he doesn't belong
amidst the exquisitely tailored suits and two thousand dollar shoes. Unlike
them, he won't go back tonight and sleep in four-hundred thread-count sheets
with a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle lying open beside him like a
perfectly curvy but slightly disappointing girlfriend. He has a different
destiny.
Someone brushes past him; the contact lights him up like a match. He doesn't
really control the jerks of his body anymore but he knows what he's doing,
always – it's a paradox until it isn't anymore. The man is tall and vulgar and
his suits hangs badly on his frame. Uriah holds back the jibe, his hand
twitches against the man's side because they're all stuck together in this
immense fishbowl of a dance-floor.
"Sorry," Uriah says at the same time as the man groans, "Apologize."
All said and done, now, Uriah thinks, but of course it isn't – the man grabs
the neck of his T-shirt and it takes Uriah less than a half-second to realize
that he's not only pissed but probably high on something, Uriah could probably
guess what if he had the time and the will. His face is slightly ruddy, but it
doesn't take long for Uriah to notice that he's a Mechanic. It's not a
surprise, not exactly; most people in this part of town here, they own most of
the businesses and the pricey condos in the area. Time stills, and for a second
Uriah thinks he might let it go, drop Uriah and walk away, simple as that; but
it's all too easily to recompose, bad drugs that didn't quite do the trick and
then some little shit grazed his side and – here we go. The fist, sloppy but
powerful, hits him at the base of his jaw. Uriah almost sighs as he clambers
backwards. Knuckles hitting flesh crushing bone and the pounding, pounding
music. That's style. That's what life is about.
It all goes very fast after that. Uriah details the Mechanic as they trade
punches and the crowd ebbs around them, giving them room to hassle, which Uriah
wishes they wouldn't do because it also gives room for the panic to slip in and
that's never good, is it? But he's in the action, now, he can't back down, so
he uses all his tricks, leg in the shin as he twirls on the ground and the man
lurches drunkenly, no finesse but all the force of a standard American tank.
Shit. The wheels and cogs of it will win, now; the fallacy of pretending.
Maybe those drugs were even worse than he thought, Uriah thinks as his mind
starts to clear somewhat painfully. The fascination Mechanics have for drugs
and booze has always intrigued him. When he still used, he'd had to develop an
almost unnatural resistance to be able to pretend along with them, because they
can ingest humongous amounts of anything before feeling the slightest effect,
which is the chief reason why Uriah is here tonight with his new merchandise –
something that could know a horse down but will only galvanize them, for better
and probably for worse. He comes out of his daze when a knee collides with his
stomach. He spits blood in a pathetic gurgle. The splatter on the ground gets
his attention, he thinks about his teeth, one or two probably unsettled, waits
for the coup de grâce. He squeezes his eyes shut. Despite the appearances, he
isn't actually a masochist.
When it doesn't come, he looks up. The Mechanic is wiping his mouth with his
sleeve, his grin twisted. Uriah feels a pang of pride until a foot planted
firmly in his chest throws him back on the ground.
"Now," says the Mechanic, his eyes flashing with something ugly, "I can quick
your ass until you don't remember your name, and no one," he looks around him
as though to make sure, smirks, "will do anything about it." Uriah blinks; he
knows it's true. The sentence for attacking a Mechanic is daunting enough to
quash anyone's Samaritan instincts, "or," he manages his suspense, kicking
Uriah in the side for good measure, "you could supply me."
Uriah opens his eyes, hauls himself up on his elbows despite the pain.
Everyone's eyes are still fixed on him, a few of them fluorescent with make-up
in the thick, odorant darkness. They're filled to the brim with the blind
curiosity of addicts, incapable of doing anything or even of thinking straight,
this curiosity that is simple hunger for something to happen, the same thrill
that pushes to consumption. It takes a few seconds for Uriah's head to get
straight again, and only then does the plot add up in his mind: how the
Mechanic knows who he is, what he does. His hand comes up to his neck out of
habit, covers the tattoo with a sweaty palm. It's from another time, even
though people don't know that; but it comes in handy more often than not.
"Sure, why not," Uriah says with a loose shrug and a smirk that makes his split
lip sting. "What do you want?"
The man looms over him, his lapels open on his chest, the underside a rosy sort
of purple. It's pretty, almost makes up for his sneer and his palpable
hostility. His shirt is open, too, and the mark – no, he's definitely an
asshole. Who inks their mark, seriously?
"I need the new one," he says, his eyes jumping around him, which confirms
Uriah's theory that he hasn't been able to find anything that quite does the
trick. "H54. They told me you had it." Uriah's head snaps up, he's surprised.
The product is new, not many people know about it yet, and those who do rarely
know how to get it and where to get it from. Maybe this wasn't so accidental
after all.
Uriah kneels and proceeds to stand up, dusting his pants with open palms that
he wipes on his thighs. The crowd moves swiftly, an asymmetrical wave, recedes
for a second before crowding him again, indifferently, barely leaving enough
room for him and the Mechanic to continue their exchange. Uriah likes that
about crowds, how flighty they are, almost volatile.
"How much do you have?" he asks, slipping back into a blank kind of mood, the
adrenalin that had attacked his veins bleeding out of him silently and
disappearing into the multicolored darkness. Business as usual.
The Mechanic snarls; his bottom lip curls upwards, makes him ugly again. Uriah
has half a mind to tell him doing that won't make more successful with women,
or with Uriah for that matter, but he's already gotten enough trouble for one
night. "I want it for free."
Surprise kickstarts his brain again and Uriah pulls his hand in front of his
stomach, defensive. "I can't do that," he says, trying to sound apologetic even
though he isn't. If he starts giving drugs away for free, who's to say what's
gonna happen? He can't exactly come back to his supplier empty-handed, and this
kind of deal never ends well. Besides, H54 is fucking expensive.
In a flash the Mechanic is looming over him again, his breath stinking of
alcohol. His hand closes over Uriah's throat and Uriah gulps painfully against
his sweaty palm. This is not going in the direction he'd hoped. Shit. "Do you
really have that short a memory?" the Mechanic asks, looking like he's losing
his patience.
"Look, man," Uriah says, fully awake now, "I can give a discount for, you know,
being so charming," the Mechanic loosens his grip and Uriah coughs, massages
his throat with one hand, grimacing, "but I can't give it to you for free. I'm
sure you understand, it's in the interest of my business, you know business,
right?" He fingers the Mechanic's lapel, brushing the raw-flesh pink between
his fingers.
That, as it turns out, is not a good move. The Mechanic is surprisingly beefy
for one of his sort (they tend to be more the slender and powerful type,
usually), and strong as they all are, no matter the build: his open hands on
Uriah's chest project him backwards, and he crashes against the wall with a
sick sound of mistreated bone. The crowd opens again, with a quiet buzz, as
thought in awe.
Uriah opens his mouth – there is always something more to say, something that
will make them change their minds, it's usually how situations like this work
out for him – but he can't get a syllable out before the Mechanic's fist
collides with his jaw again, and his face hits the ground, he breathes in
someone's dust and glitter, the strong, sickly scent of alcohol and sweat. The
music beats in his pounding brain and heart. He spits a little blood. He's
never been a good fighter; in truth, he's more the talkative sort, the one that
gets away with everything thanks to his charm and ingenuous wit.
Not this time, though. He rolls on his belly to avoid the collision as the fist
roams back into its arch, and the unexpected absence of flesh and bone wrecks
the Mechanic's balance. Uriah sees, from the corner of his eye, that the man is
alert, faster now that the alcohol is starting to wear off from his system.
There's only one way Uriah will win this at this point, and even it is
uncertain – if he uses ruse, if he attacks before the other expects it, if he's
what he is at his best, tricky and slippery between his opponent's fingers.
But the certainty thrums in his brain even as he stands up and ducks another
hit, emerges from under the taut arm, strikes once at the small of the
Mechanic's back: this won't end well. He can't even see the crowd anymore, too
caught in the action, the swoosh of air as they slide and cut through it,
trying to anticipate each other's movements, but he imagines they might he
wavering on the edges of the fight, transfixed, too substance-addled to do
anything useful like call the cops. Even if they did, Uriah wouldn't be in a
much better position, anyway. He strikes another time, on the Mechanic's arm,
but the blow is nothing, doesn't have a quarter of his assailant’s strength.
Uriah regrets leaving his gun home. He usually takes it everywhere with it, but
of course, he thought –
The Mechanic's forearm slaps on his neck, it hurts like hell, a burning,
spreading pain that makes him waver on his feet, hesitate, cough. Maybe he
should just give in to it and let himself get beaten up once and for all. But
the Mechanic will take the drugs, and stolen drugs never make for happy people,
much less suppliers. Another slip-up is exactly what Uriah doesn't need right
now. He tries for a sneaky blow, makes a fist and goes for the temple. He's
startled when it works – the Mechanic staggers backwards as though in slow-
motion, his limbs heavy and still suit-clad, perspiration darkening his
armpits. Uriah watches, morbidly fascinated, as his head hits the corner of the
bar Uriah hadn't even noticed they'd reached and a string of dark blood spills.
"Shit," Uriah says – the sound is drowned in the commotion, doesn't even ring
in his own ears.
He hesitates for a second, doesn't know whether to kneel and check if the
Mechanic isn't dead, probably to his own disadvantage, or simply to flee. Now
everyone is looking at him with big cow eyes, judgment starting to seep through
the blankness. Did he kill a man, there, in the middle of their chosen
entertainment space? Someone bursts in a belated shriek, that pierces the
silence and sets the hysteria in motion. Uriah doesn't move. His hands flap
back down against his thighs. He can't be dead. Mechanics don't die that
easily. Right?
He doesn't move, until he has to move, it's the only option. The police doesn't
usually patrol around those areas, which is one of the key reasons why Uriah
conducts his business there, but all these people have phones with cameras and
someone's bound to take a photograph and call 911, if they already haven't.
Though calling 911 would be kind of useless, wouldn't it? Uriah isn't exactly
used to corpses, but he knows how to tell when people are dead, call it a gift.
Besides, that guy was a Mechanic: if it hadn't killed him on the spot, that
blow wouldn't have been enough to knock him out, barely to make him
disorientated for a few minutes – crucial in a fight, but still. This is a
disaster.
He kneels briefly and checks the Mechanic's pulse, purely to assuage his
conscience, but he was right and he stands up as quickly as he crouched,
suddenly alert. Surprisingly, the crowd lets him go through them without giving
him grief – either they're all too stoned (there's some kind of sick pride to
be taken in that) or because they unconsciously recognize him as one of their
own. They're mostly Mechanics, it's not about that; but even with the strobe
lights and erratic dancing the people here don't like scuffle, and it's pretty
obvious that guy started it, even from their perspective. At least that's what
Uriah guesses.
He's busy trying to make an exit towards the backdoor when a voice rings over
the humdrum of the crowd, powerful and clear, cutting through the chaos.
"Ladies and gentlemen," it says calmly, "please don't panic. We'll take care of
this."
Against all instinct of self-preservation – he's never been all that good at
those, anyway – Uriah cranes his neck to see over the crowd. For all his talk
of "we", the voice belongs to one guy, alone. He's busy loading the corpse on a
sort of stretcher, his back to Uriah, though even from this distance Uriah can
see he isn't dressed in either medical or police gear; around him a hum of
half-shouted conversation is coming from the crowd, people share looks,
probably all assuming that one of them called the authorities and feeling sort
of cheated now that someone's intruded on their sanctuary. Yeah, Uriah knows
them pretty well. The music still hasn't stopped pounding.
"There's nothing to see," the voice says again. "Please scatter. Thank you."
And he repeats, not sounding one bit nervous or overwhelmed, one man towered
over by a crowd that numbers in the hundreds: "Please scatter."
Eventually they do as he asks, returning to their nightly activities, probably
left only with an itch at the back of their brain that'll make them tell their
roommates about that strange thing that happened at the club tonight, with that
guy –
Speaking of which, Uriah's actually in deep shit. He doesn't believe in luck,
and at this point it's pretty retty much guaranteed he's going to have to
become a fugitive now, which sucks, because he never intended to kill that
jackass in the first place. He came at me, what was I supposed to do? the self-
righteous part of his brain protests, but the other part, the part that's
actually scared out of its fucking wits, retorts, I don't know, something else
than killing him? which pretty much makes the point moot.
Still, for some reason, he can't bring himself to leave. It's probably stupid,
but that guy in there looked a lot like a fraud, and Uriah's seen enough of
those to recognize them when they come along. How did he even get here so fast?
It makes no sense for him to be alone and without uniform. But why is he here,
what does he want with that body? Uriah killed the guy, the least he can do is
make sure his corpse doesn't get kidnapped by a necrophiliac freak – right? And
he's actually a little intrigued. Besides, his life as he knows it is pretty
much over, so he can afford to find out that one little thing before he tries
to get into a plane and out of this fucking city. God, and he'd gotten such a
nice apartment. (This time he ignores the other voice, which reminds him he's
always been good at sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and getting
himself in atrocious trouble for it – do you remember the time with – ; it's
not like it's helping.)
He gets on his toes, trying to see if the guy's leaving and to check if he has
a mark – if he does, Uriah promises himself, he is out of here: they're going
to want his head after that, and they're not exactly the most pleasant people
to deal with. But he's never been good at following his own advice, and the guy
is pushing the stretcher towards the back entrance. It's definitely strange,
though he could have parked the ambulance back there.
It's funny how those things happen, really. There's an almost sacred feel to
those moments, balanced between two crucial decisions, that determine the
course of an entire life. They're torn between different instincts, human – or,
well, universal really – flaws: hubris, curiosity, lust. And Uriah thinks, if I
just – but he doesn’t, of course he doesn't. Instead he leaps back into the
crowd, head down, rubbing companionably against the bodies twisting on the
dance-floor; sweat collects almost immediately on his brow, he feels like it
might be alright, after all, he just might get out of this one unscathed, it's
just a bout of healthy curiosity, really, he –
But then he steps out of the door, pushing the metal with both palms, and the
heat pours on him, stifling. The air is fraught with sickeningly odorous
perfume and distant garbage fumes. It makes Uriah dizzy, and he has to lean
against the humid wall for a minute to catch his breath. He's not so sure about
what he's doing all of a sudden, but it's too late to go back. Teeth grinding,
he engages in the narrow passage leading to what he assumes is a backyard – a
lot of bars in this area have those, they use them for the more shady deals
that are guaranteed to take place there so the bathrooms don't get too cramped.
Uriah knows better than to hazard back there, usually: he almost never conducts
his affairs there, instead has perfected the tactic of the hand-to-hand, isn't
even distracted by the stroboscopic lights anymore.
He fumbles, the only light coming from the windows of the buildings overhead
and the glowing, shiny moon. If Uriah were less used to this kind of setting,
he would probably be mildly scared. As it is, he trudges forward, until he's
greeted by the back of the man from the club. He isn't aware of him yet, and
Uriah can't see what he's doing but can see it's him – same strangely rigid
stance combined with fluid movements, the light black sweater...
He takes a step forward, catching his breath, and leans in, hoping not to
startle him –
But within seconds his arm is being twisted behind his back and there's a gun
pressed to his skull, the man's jaw clenched where it's flush against Uriah's
temple. "What are you doing here?" he growls.
Uriah takes a breath, willing his hammering heart to get over the surprise.
He's been in this situation before. Countless times, actually. There's no need
to panic. "I don't want you any harm," he starts, but the word catches in his
throat when he catches sight of the stretcher. The Mechanic's forehead has been
carefully cut into, blood flowing cleanly into a little bag. It's suddenly
very, painfully clear that a) that guy is a psychopath who was attempting to
cut into the Mechanic's skull and b) following his instincts is always a bad
idea. You'd think he'd have learned that by now.
"I'm not the one who needs to worry about harm right now," the man says, making
Uriah's point that much more valid. From the corner of his eye, Uriah can see
his finger getting firmer on the trigger.
"Wow," he says hurriedly. His brain is whirring, trying to find some way to
talk the stranger/impostor/whoever he is into not blowing his brains out.
"Okay, no need to be extreme here. It was just healthy curiosity, honest. I
have no interest in how you're planning to cut that guy up. He was a jerk,
anyway."
Oh, if only he could keep his mouth shut. (Also, he doesn't actually think the
jerk deserves to be cut into just because he was a jerk, for the record.)
"Give me one reason," says the man, sounding frighteningly self-controlled,
"why I shouldn't kill you."
"It's morally reprehensible?"
The man gives a sound of annoyance, and Uriah is getting to understand that
annoyance in this case probably means premature death, so he starts talking
again, faster, "I mean, why do you want this guy? I could –" The metal of the
gun will probably leave a trace in the skin of his temple if the guy presses
any harder. "I killed him," Uriah blurts out. So much for cool and poise, then.
But it actually gives the man pause, which is a very, very good thing. He lets
go of his hold of Uriah's arm but doesn't lower his gun. "Walk," he says
instead.
Uriah follows the direction the man pushes him into and ends up standing at the
end of the backyard, his back pressed against the wall. Now that the man's
standing in front of him, Uriah's eyes flick over his traits, trying to guess
something that could be useful for blackmail. But he looks pretty standard:
Caucasian, blond, with brown eyes, he's pretty much the definition of average.
He doesn't have any tattoos or gang marks, which is a good sign. Then again, he
could be a particularly deranged serial killer, so really it's a toss-up.
"Tell me what you know," he says.
Uriah rolls his eyes. "Sure, nice to meet you too." Yep, he feels much more
comfortable now that he's not in immediate danger of having his head blown off.
Though maybe he should hold it on the sarcasm, if the way the man's eyes narrow
is any indication. He raises the gun again, wordlessly.
"Okay, okay," Uriah says, holding his hands up. "Er, I bumped into him, he was
drunk, he knocked me down. We fought, he... fell. On his head." He leaves out
the part where the Mechanic wanted his drugs, because that's a minor detail,
and besides, it's not like anyone needs to know. Uriah has a business to
protect. ….well, he did. Now, not so much.
"So you didn't intend to kill him?"
"What? No, dude, no!" Which is true: he doesn't kill people. Help them get
grievously addled to dangerous substances, yes, but he never actually does the
honors. "Seriously. Besides, if I did want to kill him, I'm not sure a crowded
club would have been my first choice of location to do it."
That actually brings something like the inkling of a smile to the man's lips.
It might be the light, though. "I've learned to never over-estimate the human
race," he says cooly. "Stupidity is not a rare trait, quite the contrary."
"Speak for yourself," Uriah says, mildly offended. "As for human, I don't know
about that. Big fellow over there," nope, he's not going to look, blood is not
his favorite liquid, by far, "was pretty stupid in his own special cupcake
way."
The man's cool eyes rest on Uriah's face for a second, as though he were trying
to determine if he's is just pretending to be the big-mouthed mess he is. No
luck there, Uriah thinks.
"Okay," he says eventually. "So you were not trying to kill him. Unfortunate
for you. Did you have any sort of conversation? Did he tell you anything?"
"No," Uriah lies smoothly. "We got down to business directly, if you know what
I mean."
Now it's the man's turn to roll his eyes. "I know how to detect a lie, so think
twice before you give me false information, is that clear? Now, did he say
anything to you before you... fought?"
"That I was rude and I ought to apologize. A few insults. Sweet talk, that kind
of stuff."
… and there's the gun again. Uriah swallows. "No, no, I swear. He didn't say
anything."
"He didn't mention something about the queen?" the man asks, and okay, that
totally came out of left field.
"The what now?"
"You heard me."
Uriah twists a little in his grip, to no amount. "If he'd said anything about
the queen, I think I'd have remembered."
The man quickly sizes him up, as though trying to decide if he's trustworthy,
but after a few tantalizing, agonizing seconds, his grip starts softening
gradually. "Good," he says shortly. "Did he have anyone with him?"
Uriah actually has to think for this one. He remembers people in the darkness
behind the Mechanic, at first, when they started fighting, but it was dark and
Uriah was a little drunk too, and it's not like he paid particularly close
attention. Though if he focuses hard enough –
"Did he?" The hand tightens again.
"I'm thinking," Uriah says as curtly as he can. "There were two people with
him. A... woman, a Mechanic I think, her hair was.... mid-thigh, blond I
think... maybe with those silver streaks? Maybe not. And a guy. His mark was
inked over too. Black, I didn't see him very well. He was wearing a suit."
There's a beat of silence. "You have a pretty good memory," the man says
eventually, sounding grudgingly impressed. "Too bad I have to kill you."
They can say what they want – nothing will wake you up more efficiently than a
death threat. "Wow, what? No way." The man throws him a glance, looking
genuinely intrigued, like he doesn't get to hear the defense often, and yeah,
that's sick. "Bad move. Killing me, I mean. I can help you."
The man raises an eyebrow, now definitely amused. "And how do you plan to do
that?"
"Everybody needs something," Uriah says matter-of-factly. "I have – drugs, I -"
The man tilts his head. "I don't," he says, and points his gun at Uriah's head.
This isn't how I wanted to die, Uriah thinks in the second before he presses
the trigger, I wanted to go with glory, but doesn't everyone? No, a gang war
would have been good, with a car chase, or even an old quiet death when I'm –
And then a phone rings.
Uriah risks opening an eye. He's not dead. He's not dead? Why isn't he dead? He
should be dead.
When he risks a glance at the man, he's turned his back. He's still pointing
his gun at Uriah, his arm stretched taut behind him. Uriah could try to make a
run for it, but judging by the way he spotted him before, there isn't a big
chance that he'll actually make it out of there alive. On the other hand, it's
not like the man is planning to spare him. So his choices are... death or
death. Great.
He looks over again. The man is digging into the Mechanic's pocket, completely
oblivious to Uriah's dilemma. He retrieves the phone and shuts it off, before
starting to search through it, one eye still trained on Uriah. When Uriah
tentatively tries to move a hand, he says calmly, not looking away from the
phone, "Move and you die."
Uriah gulps. "Okay."
Needless to mention, the situation is making him a teeny bit nervous. If he's
going to die, he'd like to actually get on with it, if that's not too much to
ask. Trying to remember if he actually did anything valuable with his life is
not getting him good results. Maybe he should have volunteered for a
humanitarian association. And he only had sex with Thema once, why is that? And
what about cats? He could've rescued cats. He could have given assistance to
the helpless animals of the world and he didn't. He's a wretched man. Oh no,
and the environment. He never gave half a thought to the environment. There are
almost no forests left in South America. He's probably going to hell now, he is
and it's gonna be all his fault because he –
"Stop thinking," the man says coldly. "You're distracting me."
Uriah has the good sense to be offended by that. "Oh, I'm sorry," he snaps, "am
I distracting you while I wait to die?"
The man finally looks up at him. Uriah can see in his eyes that he's trying to
decide if he's going to kill him or not, which is not only very stressful but
also mildly terrifying. He's going to talk, and probably say something stupid
like "Can you not do that?" which would be a really terrible idea since, as
previously stated, there is a gun involved, when –
"We need to get out of here," the man says.
"I'm sorry, we?"
The man assesses him with a cold glance. "The way I see it, you have three
options. You can either stay and try to run away on your own, which will take
you exactly nowhere and will end up with you getting taken by the cops and
probably executed, I can shoot you in the head right now, or you can come with
me. It's a one-time offer."
Uriah swallows. "Put like that..." he says feebly.
"Let's go," the man says.
Before Uriah can say anything, he gets a small saw out of his bag, slaps on a
pair of gloves and turns the saw on, before sawing cleanly through the
Mechanic's forehead. Uriah's shriek of terror is muffled by the man's glove
just in time.
"Oh my God," Uriah breathes out when the man finally releases him. "Oh my God,
you're actually insane."
The mean bends over the body, blood splattering his shirt. He doesn't have
glasses, though Uriah's starting to think he has the whole serial killer
starter in his backpack, so he's squinting, blood flicking at his eyes and
cheeks. Eventually he turns the saw off and reaches into the man's brain,
squinting even harder until he retrieves a little thing. It looks like... it
looks like a grain of sand dripping with blood, but from what Uriah knows about
Mechanic anatomy, he's going to assume it's a chip. The man looks at it for a
second. His face splits into a small grin, and he slips the chip into a plastic
bag that he takes from his bag. Yep. Definitely a starter kit. The man glances
forlornly at the Mechanic's mark, for a reason Uriah would much rather not
dwell upon; then he straightens up and cracks his wrists.
"Let's go," he says shortly, and he starts running ahead.
Uriah didn't actually know there were that many streets behind the club. It's
like a narrow, badly-lit maze: hundreds of meters of tortuous, sometimes
doubtfully cobbled roads. Uriah supposes they were installed after the
Awakening, but he never noticed them. The man runs at a good rhythm, clearly an
accomplished athlete; Uriah would have trouble following him if running wasn't
one of his predominant activities. The disadvantages of being a drug dealer,
what can you do. He follows the man for what feels like hours but is probably
only minutes, passing by silent storefronts and quietly pulsing nightclubs,
their multicolored light filtering from under the doors. At one point a group
of Mechanics passes them by, their long hair swinging around their heads like a
murky halo, tainted with darkness. They curl their lips at them, and if he was
alone, Uriah would probably respond and get in trouble; but the man looks down
and keeps walking, and Uriah follows his lead. Right, he reminds himself. I'm a
murderer now. He doesn't feel all that different, to tell the truth.
Eventually they get to a car. It's black, a model that's neither old enough to
be a collectible or recent enough to attract attention, somewhat sleek. The man
waves an electronic key at it; the headlight blinks, the man stuffs his bag
into the trunk.
"Get in," he says.
Uriah hesitates. "Are you sure it's the best idea?"
The man cocks his gun again, sighing. "It's either that or I shoot you, and I
don't like to make a mess."
Uriah gets in the car.
"You know what you should do?" he says as soon as the man slides into his seat
and jams the key into the ignition. "I mean, after you retire from... doing
what you do. Killing people, I mean." The man turns to glare at him, but Uriah
is undeterred. When he's nervous he gets chatty. And stupid. "I think you
should be a salesman. Because let me tell you, dude, you might not be very
eloquent, but you definitely have the charisma part down. And people like the
monosyllabic thing these days. The whole broody-and-handsome thing is working
for you. Really."
"Are you going to talk for the whole drive?" the man asks, sounding irritated.
"I don't know, are you going to threaten to kill me again?"
"If necessary, yes."
"Then probably. By the way, where are we going? I mean, I know that –"
The car swerves wildly and Uriah's cheek is mashed against the window. His
teeth ring. It's not particularly pleasant. "What the hell?"
The man glances at the rearview mirror. "They're following us," he says
shortly. He curses through his teeth.
"Are you kidding me? Is this – is this out of a movie or something? Are you
playing a prank on me? Is this a hidden camera? Oh my God, it's a hidden
camera."
"Duck!"
Thankfully, Uriah has been doing the drug dealer gig for a while now, so he
knows that when people say to duck, even when those people are shady strangers
with psychopathic tendencies (and he's being generous here, cutting into
someone's head with a saw is more than a tendency), the best thing to do is
usually to duck. Which, considering, is probably a good thing to have learned,
given that a bullet actually shatters the windscreen and whirs above Uriah's
skull, where his head would've been.
"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. Okay, Uriah, breathe." The man,
who'd taken out his gun and started shooting back in kind, actually stops for a
second to glare at him. "Dude," Uriah says to him, "if we're going to be in a
life-and-death situation, I think we should know each other's names. So I know
what to cry out if I die in a completely heroic situation, you know. I can
stroke your face lovingly why I croak out my final words. It'll be romantic."
He's babbling. He's babbling adolescent come-ons at a killer. What is wrong
with him? The car stops abruptly, skidding painfully on the road. The gunshots
have stopped, which could either be a good thing or a spectacular bad thing. On
the plus side, they're both still alive. On the minus side, the others are
probably still alive too. And there's no noise, which is stressful. Besides,
how come there's no one on this road? Seriously? That's like a bad adventure
movie. Did they not have the budget for the car chase on the crowded highway or
something?
The man hunches over in his seat, hurriedly reloading his gun. He squirms onto
the backseat and manages to retrieve his backpack and takes a few things from
it, including a disturbingly sharp-looking knife. This can not be good. For
anyone.
"Stay here," he says to Uriah, and softly slides out of the car.
Uriah obeys for about ten seconds, after which he gets curious and has to crawl
onto the driver seat and peek outside. He's not going to go outside, though; as
much as he has a knack for the wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time thing, he's not
actually suicidal. He can't see them very well from the window, but he
recognizes the two Mechanics who were with the one he killed: they both have
the same hair, he hadn't seen that in the dark, long and blond with silver
streaks. It's a style. They're also both pointing guns at the man and not
looking particularly friendly. But they're talking. Why are they talking? They
weren't so chatty earlier when they were trying to make them drive into the
ravine.
The air is tense and fraught with electricity, Uriah can feel it even from
inside the car, and he can't help but hold his breath, waiting for something to
happen, anything, waiting for the balance to tip. They're still talking: the
woman is waving her hand impatiently with her hand, she wants something. Uriah
can't see the man's back, but he doesn't look like he's complying. This is not
going to end well, Uriah can just feel it.
But before he can decided to do something stupid like stepping out of the car
or trying to escape through the other door, the man draws his gun and shots,
twice, at an incredible speed, once between both of the Mechanics's eyes. They
look baffled for a second, blood running down their faces in a thin, identical
trail, the woman's limbs jerk, and then they fall backwards, their backs
slapping on the concrete road, raising a heavy cloud of dust.
Uriah slaps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. This is – this is not
looking well for him. Driving next to a man who does things like that at the
drop of a hat isn't something he envisioned for his life.
When he gets back to looking, his shoulders are shaking, a steady tremble that
feels like he's freezing from the inside. He's seen a lot of things, gang wars
and beat-downs and ODs in dank garages, but this... This guy kills like he
would do his laundry, precise and calculated, he doesn't seem to feel anything
about it and it's fucking terrifying, if you ask Uriah. He risks a glance over
at the highway. The man is crouching next to the bodies. He grabs their hands
and drags them closer to the car like it requires no physical effort
whatsoever. Uriah stumbles back to his seat.
But the man makes no movement to get back into the car. Uriah leans over again,
and he's crouching again, except now he's holding his knife and he's cutting
the woman's hair on a small portion of her skull, next to her temple. He moves
over the other Mechanic, for whom it's easier since his hair is weaved in long
blond braids. Uriah would say he anticipates what he does after – it makes a
sick sort of sense, after all – but he doesn't, and when the knife slices a
wide arc in the air and finds itself stuck into the Mechanic's skull Uriah's
eyes bulge, bile rises in his throat, he hides his eyes. Oh God. He should
definitely have chosen another career path.
The whole thing goes a lot like it had back in the alley, but as it turns out,
it's not less creepy the second time around. Eventually the man comes up with
two chips. He stands up and gets one of those little plastic bags out of his
pockets, slides them in. Then he crouches back down, takes a breath – Uriah can
see his shoulders moving slightly – and hauls the woman on his shoulders. He
walks to the side of the road and dumps her body there. Uriah watches as he
kicks it until it's more or less hidden in the sparse grass, face down. Someone
will notice it, there's no doubt about that, but it'll probably give them a
little window to try and disappear. If that's the man's plan. The same thing
happens with the other corpse. The man wipes his bloody knife on the Mechanic's
shirt and his hands on his pants, frowning even though the blood doesn't stand
out on the black cloth. He walks back to the car, and Uriah crawls back to his
seat as fast as he can, trying to seem like he wasn't watching. The man gives
him a look. Okay, then. He's fooling no one. Great.
For a few seconds silence hangs over them. Uriah is holding is breath, not
because he's really afraid but more out of a sort of reflex – the man is
looking ahead and Uriah wants to tell him that every second is increasing the
risk of the police catching them, or even worse, but he knows that and he's
looking right in front of him over the horizon line, as though he was trying to
decide where they're going.
Eventually he reaches for the keys and twists them into the ignition, slowly,
his fingers still coated in a thin layer of drying blood. "Let's go," he says.
He steers the car away from the wreckage smoothly. Both the windscreen and the
rear bumper were hit, the car is full of glass shards, Uriah knows they'll have
to change it soon, before someone takes too much of an interest. But behind
them the Mechanics' car is in even worse shape, is a ship without captains,
moored on the asphalt road, parked haphazardly, the engine probably still hot.
"Where are we going?" Uriah risks when they finally reach the highway and start
mingling with other cars. They're going out of New York, that much is obvious,
the skyline stretching over them as though the keep them in, but they're
drifting out –
"Florida," the man says after a short silence.
"What are we going to do in Florida?" Uriah asks. He doesn't like Florida. He's
not a beach-and-sun kind of man. Really, he isn't.
The man doesn't answer, predictably.
There's nothing else to do, nothing to wait for, so after a while Uriah relaxes
in his seat, props his feet on the dashboard and gets a cigarette out of his
back pocket – the only thing he'll be keeping from his five years in that
fucking city, apparently, which is a little pathetic, but whatever. He offers
one to the man, but he declines.
"What is your name?" Uriah asks. "You never told me, you're lucky I didn't die,
otherwise it would've been damnably anticlimactic."
The man's mouth twists a little, but he seems like he's considering an answer.
"Andrew," he says after a while, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Is that your real name?"
That gets him to turn his head towards Uriah, and he raises an eyebrow, as if
to say, you figure it out, Sherlock. "Right," Uriah says, and lets out a little
put-upon sigh. "Well, I guess it'll have to do."
Andrew reaches for the dashboard and turns on the radio; Uriah reclines in his
seat, trying not to think.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Interlude #1
You've never seen the sea.
You've never seen the sea. You don't know about its texture, you don't know
about the salt, you don't know anything about the sea at all; you've never met
a sailor and you've never felt the sickness, bent over deck railing, your
stomach has never rolled at the rhythm of the waves. You don't about the sea's
hands and its legends and its color; you don't know what widowers used to call
it, you've never imagined their faces as they went down on the beach and spat
at it, their faces contorted with anger and grief.
You've never seen the sea.
Not that it matters now, because what you're doing now is running, you're
running, you're running as fast as you can. At first you were running towards
something, to meet someone, but now you're only running for your life. Now
you're running because it's the only thing left to do and if you don't run they
will catch you and that is unthinkable, there will nothing left back there
except punishment and death, you hear their screams, they're calling for you,
vermin, vermin... Now you're running for your life.
When you started running the world was still tangible, it made sense and it was
snide, fraught with secrets but possessed still with a logic you could
understand. The ground was thick beneath your feet, compact, your shoes raised
dust with each stride, the sound pounding through your skull, indistinguishable
from the beating of your heart. The silence breathed around you, and you were
thinking – what were you thinking? You were thinking, this has to work. That's
what you were thinking. You were thinking, there is no alternative.
And then – then this happened, and now the world doesn't make sense anymore,
it's vibrant and it sings, it's taunting you, your life is hanging by a thread
and she's the cat, pawing viciously at the swinging ball of cotton, all claws
out; your head is swimming and everything is full of colors, your heartbeat has
migrated from your chest to your throat, to your lips, it's ready to slip out,
it's a gangrene, it's a tambourine, a tambourine...
"Get the girl back."
Did you hear it – did she really say it – or was it all a dream? Worse, did you
imagine it? Or did she say it, still sitting at her desk, looking directly at
you through the walls?
***** Chapter 3 *****
2.
Now there's an improvement. She remembers her own name.
It's been a while, of course, years if you really want to count – she'd
recovered it for a while with Sara's help, which was boundless, stretched to
every little area of her life – but it still feels like a miracle. Waking up in
the morning and tasting it on the tip of her tongue, ready to be said if it
needs to be; and if it doesn't, she can still stand in front of her window,
staring right at the decaying blue paint on the shutters, and say it. Her name.
How wondrous. How formidable.
People think it's a small, silly thing they inherit when they're born and then
have to carry around for the rest of their mostly miserable lives, but she
knows it's more than that. It seems stupid, clichéd even, but her name is who
she is, and it's a great big deal that she can still remember that, after all
that happened. Not that she wants to play the victim, because she doesn't. But
she is. A victim, that is. Oh, she'd rather not be, you can take her word on
that. Everything even slightly privileged about her current situation she would
gladly give up for the chance to go back in time and erase those eight years of
her life.
So she remembers her name. Good. She also wakes up every morning, even though
she still has bad dreams, one might even call them nightmares given all the
blood, but she doesn't, she still says bad dreams like a child – so she has
those bad dreams, and she takes a shitload of pills to dumb the pain, of
course, but apart from that, everything is good. Dandy.
She has a cat. Whose name she also remembers, how about that. His name is
Cornelius because of an old grandfather from back home whose face she can't
remember, but then again she can't remember much from that time, which is
probably best in retrospect. Cornelius the cat. The decision stemmed from the
fact that she wanted above all to avoid naming it after anyone she'd loved.
Little known fact, everyone and everything she loves usually dies a horrible,
painful and screaming death. So. Better avoid that kind of thing.
Cornelius is not particularly personable. He's fat, getting fatter every year,
actually, his furry belly hanging off and started this January – she thinks it
was January – actually touching the ground when he walks, which is grotesque
and sad but typical of Cornelius. He doesn't care. Being a cat, his priority is
to make sure he has to do the absolute minimum in life, which means jumping
and-slash-or running is out of the question, as is hunting, which is a ha-ha
subject and never to be mentioned because the sound of 'mice', even though
Cornelius arguably doesn't understand what it means, throws him in white-red
rages and she is not particularly fond of having scratches all over her face.
The villagers already think she's crazy as it is.
So Cornelius sleeps and she does what she does, which isn't much, she forgets a
lot of things very often – mostly she draws or writes and then tears up her
drafts. She's the village's pet project, sort of, meaning that they bring her
food once in a while and come clean her house in a strange kind of town effort,
still impressed by the old tales of Sara swooping in all those years ago and
depositing her on the crest of the mountain, completely wrecked and bloody and
already delusional. And what happened after, of course, but Sara was still
there and when she left she must have told the villagers something – she
remembers her whispering with the town's very own Baba Yaga, an old, wrinkly
little woman in flip-flops and a dirty T-shirt she hasn't cleaned in fifty
years, town royalty – because after that they never really left her to her own
devices.
Which is fine with her. She's not exactly friendly with the villagers, they
think she's insane – with reason, because she is – but she nods at Oscar the
repairman and Qumar, who cleans her house once every two weeks, a thorough
sweep he's finished with in three hours tops, always going about his task with
a single-minded focus that she admires. They keep their distance, she keeps
hers, everyone is content in that individualistic way that is the century's
trademark. Besides, she's not all that good at talking. She usually gets lost
halfway through, forgets what she was telling the person she was telling it to,
gets distracted or grabs a sheet of paper and starts drawing without thinking
about it, which is something people tend to get angry about.
But she manages. She's been managing. When she first got here she wasn't sure,
of anything, really – events kept piling up and crushing her, and she felt like
she couldn't breathe with all the startling horror. She used to think that
someone couldn't go on after having lost that much, but that was naïve, of
course, because that's the punishment right there, the suffering: having to go
on while everyone else recovers, and keep being so profoundly sad even though
people forget, the world turns and cadavers get eaten by bugs.
Sara wouldn't be happy with her. She thinks about that sometimes. She thinks
Sara would look at her with that disappointed frown on her face, brush her
cheek with the back of her hand and say something sweet, something about how
she should try harder, she really should. For her own good. But she's sick. She
wishes she could say that to Sara. Sara left so quickly after... It felt like a
betrayal at the time, and she was blinded with mad, raging anger. With time the
passion of it dimmed; now she only wishes Sara would come back. Come back and
hold her, and she could tell her about all the horrible dreams and how she
wishes she could be a normal girl again.
But her days have a very specific routine. She wakes up early in the morning –
even with her insomnia and her nightmares she tries to stay in bed most of the
time. She used to sleepwalk at first, in the Mansion, but that passed soon
enough. She has that theory that sleeping in someone else's bed dulls the ache
to get away. She always had that ache, but that was normal, to want to get
away. When she was a kid everyone wanted that, with reason: the ones that said
there was something behind the fields, their hair closely shorn, holding their
cigarettes in their mouths with cocky, self-satisfied grins, were the kings and
queens of the school. She used to listen to them with dreamy wonder, but think
that she wouldn't run away but leave organically, with time, like one of those
flowers that just falls with time, not petal by petal but the whole thing at
once, a drooping corolla free-falling into the void, picked up by the wind and
tangled and carried around until it finds somewhere to settle.
She wakes up early in the morning. She stares into space for a while, trying to
quell the screaming in her head. When that's done it's usually an hour or two
later, and she drags her limbs off the bed, her feet off the ground, she feels
like lead walking to the kitchen. She makes breakfast. Counting calms her down
so she counts, the number of utensils she needs to make a pancake (6), the
number of steps from her bed to the kitchen table (78), how many fingers this
morning (10), the number of sun-rays that hit her square in the eye and leave
her blinking and dazed (4).
After that the days... she doesn't know how the days progress. It occurs to her
sometimes that she might do things, real things, but she can't remember
afterwards, they're so inconsequential. The medication keeps her in a steady
haze, her mind foggy and heavy – the only time she feels clear-headed is when
she wakes up, the sun bleak and her skull still ringing with sharp-edged
images, throat ripped out, blood in the water, running and stumbling and
getting up to run again, knees skinned almost to the bone.
It's not that bad, she thinks now, as she pads slowly down the corridor. It's
not that bad. It's alright.
When she gets to the living-room the sun is pouring by the only window, large
and slightly dirty, illuminating its way through heavy motes of dust. Cornelius
is a warm heap on the back of the couch, purring like a chainsaw.
"Hello, Cornelius," she says happily. Or at least, that's how she intends it,
but her mouth is fuzzy and she can't hear what she's saying.
She catches a look at herself in the mirror on her way to the kitchen. She
doesn't know why she has a mirror, it's not like she needs it – it was probably
here with the rest when she moved in, but the question remains: why didn't she
smash it? All this time – and she's good at breaking things, that's all she
used to do at the beginning, probably the safest way to get the anger out. It
was that, she'd told Sara, that or... and Sara had seen the look in her eyes
and had let her do it, had given her the plate and watched as they smashed on
the living-room, hadn't even blinked, unafraid of the porcelain shards that
went flying through the room –
She takes a deep breath. The mirror is still here, she never threw it at the
wall, or if she did she can't remember and someone has replaced it. Who would
do that? No, that wouldn't be kindness, only a very pointed, strangely specific
form of torture. Unable to resist, she looks at herself. Who would think, after
such a long time, she still has some vanity left? Oh, the world is a strange,
strange place.
Her hair. It's blonde and tangled, long. Longer than it should be. When she was
a child, her hair was always short. She can't remember why it was so important,
but she knows it was. Cut your hair, nagged mama, her voice softly anxious, and
little her would perch up on the stool and power up the clippers, watch as the
little blades got blurrier and blurrier. But now her hair is long. The blonde
is no longer luminous, it's dirty and oily. She used to be such a beautiful
little girl.
She put on nail polish a few weeks ago. She found the bottle outside. She was
walking alongside the familiar track, and as usual she passed by the bins.
Usually she doesn't stop, just takes a deep breath for the perverse pleasure of
the rotting smell, especially in the summer, everything decaying ten times as
fast, flies swarming over the big container, waiting for the processor who only
comes once a week here, such a lost little road in the middle of nowhere. But
this time she stopped. She couldn't say why. She must've seen the glint of the
little, half-empty bottle on the ground, garish neon orange nail polish. Why
would someone throw out something like that? she wondered at the time. When she
got home she painted her nails, it seemed like the logical thing to do.
But it was a long time ago and she's a manual woman, always scrapes and flails
and hits her hands here and there, doesn't pay as much attention to her body as
she should, truth be told. So it's worn off, the little patches of bright
orange chipping at the corners, and she looks like something orphaned, sad and
forlorn. It's not such a big deal, though. It fits her quite well, when she
thinks about it.
Yes, she isn't at her best, there's no doubt about that. She's skinny and
bloated in parts and her flesh is either red from sunburn or almost
translucent, pale skin showing veins at each intersection, her throat, her
armpits, her wrists. She looks haunted and slightly crazy, but at least there
is no false advertising about her, that's probably something to be satisfied
about. Not that she cares about how she looks. Who does she have to impress?
Qumar thinks she's pretty, he told her once, his fifteen-year old eyes casting
frantically all over the room.
But her eyes, she has great eyes. Everyone back home always said that. Now they
seem like they're the only thing on her face, like they take up all the space,
they eat the rest with their bright, unadulterated glow. It's strange because
she doesn't feel all that glowy, to be honest. But her eyes don't care. They
shine like a lighthouse between her nose and her forehead, they're just there,
bulging slightly. She's afraid of them sometimes, like now, when she sees them
after a long time and she's forgotten just how striking it is to see her own
face looking back at her, and those supernatural eyes glaring right back into
her soul. Her soul. Ah. Who knows what's hiding in there.
She moves away from the mirror, wringing her hands absently. She has a
feeling... but she always has a feeling, and when when she looks outside the
sun is spotless, blue. She can almost see Sanibel from here, sprawling North
all white and idyllic like nothing bad ever happens there. But it does. Oh, it
does. It's funny because people talk about how it used to be, before the
Awakening; they say it was a refuge, a place rich people flew to for the
holidays. It's hard to imagine that now, even though it is a refuge, at least
for her. And she supposes there's a basic comfort in the fact that it's an
island, too: such a small, tiny iceberg-tip of an island, peeking out of the
sea. An artificial safe haven.
She has a feeling – today she wouldn't be surprised to see clouds roiling
overhead and pouring over her the thick warm rain she's come to appreciate over
time. But it won't. She hopes for thunder and hurricanes a lot, but in the end
it doesn't rain that much here, except for the devastating hurricanes that set
everything askew once a year. How hilarious, that after thousands of years they
still can't control those one-eyed whirlwinds, crushing everyone and everything
into their void. You'd think, now that they're gnawing their way into space
travel... Not that she knows about it. She read an article of a magazine Oscar
left behind once which was talking about a prototype, the mark who-knows-how-
many of some vessel that was supposed to be the first to transport tourists
into space, to those nearby planets that have been discovered of late, or so it
said. Human colony, it said too, and she imagined ants, a multitude of crawling
black ants with shiny backs and clucking antennae, swarming... In twenty years
time. The interviewee, a NASA veteran, was enthusiastic and confident. But it's
been so long... Maybe those twenty years have passed already, who knows?
Either way, she has more than enough with the world as it is, her little corner
of deceivingly white sand and palm trees. The village is sterner, thank God for
that. She goes there once or twice a month, to remember that there are other
people than her on Earth, because even the roaring engines of the planes that
sometimes survey the island can't always convince her. If she let her
imagination run wild she would think herself the last living woman on Earth,
and wouldn't that be cosy for a minute there, wouldn't that be pleasantly calm
before it turned the grids to absolutely freaking terrifying...
She went not long ago. She can stay inside now, she can stay inside for a
while. Recover, or whatever it is they call it, even though she doesn't
recover. She'll take the medicine. It'll be okay.
She grabs a sheet of paper on the kitchen table – Qumar always puts some there
as well as in the living-room, if she searches for paper she always has some,
which might be a curse disguised as a blessing, even though at this point she
isn't sure – and scribbles something. Is it text, or a drawing? She isn't sure.
Something is coming. She presses the pulp of her fingers to her temples, no,
no, nothing is coming, everything is fine, you're going to be okay, little girl
– she's not such a little girl anymore, though, is she? When she looks in the
mirror she sees something else, something bruised and scared but grown out of
childhood, maybe too soon.
She puts her pen down, suddenly exhausted. Her arms drop along her hips and she
feels like they're made of lead. Maybe she should go back to sleep. Maybe she
should eat something – there are cereal and tomatoes in the kitchen, and that
new girl brought her fish the other day. But there is a sour taste at the back
of her mouth, and she knows that if she eats she will regurgitate it all as
soon as it makes it down her throat. She feels sick. Some days it's not as bad,
but today she feels like melting into the ground would be the best solution,
the surest and fastest way to achieve that calm she so thirstily craves. Maybe
then –
Cornelius tumbles down from his perch, betraying his species' proverbial
agility. He regards her with a blank gaze, nearly dislocating his jaws to hiss
out a fanged yawn, and for a second she imagines he's judging her, his heavy
eyelids spelling out words she doesn't want to hear, weak, weak little thing –
but she is weak. It's the truth. And she doesn't even mind that much, in the
end, she just wishes it would have gotten a little easier over the years. She's
sure – it must have been at least – it doesn't matter. It's a long time.
But it's no use complaining. Something will happen today, tomorrow at the
latest, Sara isn't here and she will get out of the house and walk down Captiva
Drive in a few days, maybe, if she has the strength. Today is one of those days
– one of those days she goes through with the most difficulty, her limbs so
tensely coiled that she only realizes at the very end of the evening, when she
melts down to her usual human shape, that she'd become a marble statue for the
space of twenty hours. The slightest noise rouses her, terrifies her – but
those days, like all of them, end.
Cornelius eyes her as he ambles to his bowl. Do be careful, he seems to say,
passing his long rosy tongue over his teeth. I'm watching.
Something flashes in her head – how ridiculous – Cornelius – She starts, sits
on the couch, taking her head in her hands. It's all going to be okay, she
tells herself. The cat isn't talking to you. Everything is fine, everything is
going to be fine. She tries to convince herself that the sky being blue is a
sign, prosperity, happiness, but for all the time she's been here the sky has
always been this irritating movie blue, has never wavered, and in her head it
seems more like a curse.
Take a deep breath. Her chest expands, everything is going to be okay; the
drugs are in the cabinet, close at hand. There's nothing to worry about, after
all.
*
It's been exactly twelve hours, twenty four minutes and three seconds since
Andrew killed three people (well, Uriah helped for one of them) and more or
less kidnapped Uriah. Not that Uriah has been counting. They've been driving
non-stop, New York passing in a blur until they finally got out of the city and
sunk into charming New Jersey, which, really, Uriah is never going to like.
Especially Hoboken, which is like the ninth circle of suburban hell, especially
in the summer.
He clears his throat. "So... you're not even gonna let me choose the station?
Listen, man, I like classical music as much as the next guy, but Mozart's
starting to get on my nerves."
Andrew ignores him, not tearing his eyes from the road. In all the time they've
been driving, they've managed to keep low profile and they haven't been stopped
by the police or the Queen's Militia. Yet. Uriah doesn't want to get too
optimistic at this point; you might even say he's holding his breath.
"Seriously? You're gonna ignore me? I hope for you that we're getting there
soon, because I can be very annoying when I'm bored."
As if to illustrate his words, he starts singing the periodical table of
elements over Mozart, thinking back to the fond days of getting kicked off the
elementary school choir because he'd been caught kissing Mary the trumpeting in
the back during practice. And because he was tone deaf.
"Shut. Up," Andrew grits out.
"You gotta give in to the intimacy, man," says Uriah, grinning. "We have to
build a relationship if we're gonna travel together. And that's based on..."
He lets his sentence trail off, waiting for Andrew to complete it. Andrew gives
him a blank stare.
"You got it," says Uriah, not discouraged in the least. "Communication."
Andrew briefly squeezes his eyes shut, and Uriah gives himself a mental pat on
the back for being so irritating he can drive even ruthless serial killers to
their breaking point. Definitely something to cross off his bucket list.
Andrew pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a sharp turn, driving them off
the highway. "I need coffee," is all he offers in lieu of explanation, and
starts heading towards a rest area. The little white house and knife-fork combo
glows white and as unwelcoming as ever in the distance. Uriah slides out the
car as soon as they're parked, jumping up and down to help the cramping in his
legs subside. A mother of three parked next to them draws her daughter closer
to her side, glancing at him distrustfully. Uriah smiles at her.
When he finally heads inside, Andrew is sitting at one of the plastic tables,
his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, a little notebook open in front of
him. Uriah thinks about telling him that he's every killer cliché in the
history of cinema, but restraints. He takes a look around: the place is
distinctly crummy even for a rest area, with faded yellow walls and in the
back, rows and rows of plastic shelves. The restroom is only a few paces away,
and okay, that's disgusting – they could've at least had the decency to put a
wall behind the place where people eat and the freaking toilets instead of
cramming everything together. Uriah was hungry, but now he just fights down a
vague nausea. He probably isn't missing much, anyway – even the coffee is
usually awful in those kind of places.
Andrew doesn't seem bothered by it, though, drinking in small, minute sips, his
fingers closed over the cardboard cup.
"So," Uriah says, sitting down facing him, "we're going to Florida? You decided
where exactly yet?"
Andrew gives him a blank look. "I know where."
"You decided to tell me, then?"
Andrew actually looks like he's hesitating for a second, but he looks back down
to his notebook without answering. With the sun only brushing his face, his
earlobe and a small tuft of hair, he looks remarkably unthreatening. Uriah,
though, Uriah has seen him kill more people than he thought possible to kill in
one night in a fashion that was especially disgusting and cruel, so he tells
himself he knows better.
"Will you ever tell me your real name?"
"No."
That settles the conversation. Andrew drinks his coffee and writes mechanically
while Uriah nibbles on a stale waffle and collects more inexplicably dirty
looks from the mother from before. Eventually they get back to the car, which
is now unpleasantly warm and smells of melted leather. Prime conditions for a
friendly roadtrip with your favorite murderer. It's only when they're back on
the highway that he tries his luck again.
"You realize how profoundly unreassuring this situation is for me, right? I
mean, not that you're not charming and all that, but I wouldn't say no to a
little more information. Think about it. Who am I going to tell it to? I can't
contact anyone back in New York, I have no family, and I'm stuck with you in a
car twenty four hours out of twenty four. I don't really see when I could go
running to the police. Who probably have a warrant out for me, by the way."
Andrew doesn't say anything for a minute, then – "Captiva."
Uriah frowns. "Captiva – that's the island, right? What are we going to do in
Captiva?"
"Don't push your luck."
Uriah burrows in his seat. This is going to be such a long trip. "Okay, so can
you tell me anything else? Like, anything? Seriously, at this point I'd be glad
to hear about what kind of ice-cream you preferred as a kid. Or, like, now. If
you're into ice-cream. Ice-cream is totally acceptable for adults, I mean,
except it's pistachio because that shit is disgusting, man. I'm sure you're not
the pistachio type, anyway. You don't look like a pistachio guy. I swear, I
think they've got, like, this specific skin condition, a kind of green –"
Andrew looks like his eyes are going to burst out of his head. Yep. Uriah's
babbling usually does that to people. Though he can't imagine why. He's
charming.
"Okay," Andrew says through gritted teeth. "We're going to Captiva to pick up a
woman."
Uriah leans forward. "Girlfriend? Friend? Sister?"
Andrew keeps his eyes set on the road. "None of the above," he says curtly.
Uriah thinks for a moments turning the possibilities in his head – before he
stops, his mouth hanging slightly open. "We're not going to -" He clears his
throat. "We're not going to kidnap anyone, right? I mean, sure, it wouldn't be
that much a surprise after all the, uh, murder, but I'd appreciate if we
stopped with the death-sentence felonies, you know, for a while. So that I can
recover."
"We're not going to kidnap anyone."
"Good. Good. You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure, Uriah." It's almost like they're friends, when he says his name
like that. It's almost possible to forget that Andrew is not an annoyed college
comrade but a potential psychopath with frightening sang-froid. "Her name is
Quinn, and she's going to help us."
"Help us do what?" He could say he'd hoped that Andrew was going to leave him
on the side of the road – it seems like the best solution at this point and
besides, Uriah had always been a scrappy guy – but that is getting more
unlikely by the second. Which is understandable in a way, since letting Uriah
free to tell what he's seen to anyone would be pretty stupid, but, you know.
He's getting a little bit concerned about his future here. "Us?"
Andrew actually tears his eyes off the road to throw him a sharp glance.
"Believe me, I'm about as happy about it as you are. But it's either that or
leave your corpse on the side of the road, so the motto from now on you shut up
and do as I say."
Since he's been making threats since they met and has consistently not followed
up on them, they're starting to lose a little of their effect. Which is why
Uriah can say, "Yeah, I'll probably do neither."
Andrew glares at him. Uriah almost awws, but figures it's probably wiser not to
push his luck. He keeps silent for a few minutes, looking out the windows. He
didn't get out of New York a lot when he was living there, because the police
are a little too interested in him for his taste and the borders officers are
getting more thorough each year, but it's not for lack of wanting. He actually
loves traveling, and even though this is a strange – unique, even – kind of
vacation, watching the road stretch in front of them soothes him. It's
beautiful, too, in a way only a country you love can be: patches of countryside
and the hills bursting from the horizon from time to time, with the sun
slanting and bouncing off the windshield.
"You ever been to Florida?"
The question seems to catch Andrew by surprise. "Yeah. I've been pretty much
all around," he says, sounding vaguely wistful.
"Yeah? Like, for your job? What do you even do?" he asks before he can think
better of it, because it's probably something unsavory that Uriah really,
really doesn't want to know. Sure, he's a drug dealer, which is not without its
lethal accidents once in a while, but all the signs point to Andrew being an
actual murderer who does that for fun and/or for obscure scheming evil overlord
reason. "We already have an evil overlord around, you know."
Andrew casts him an irritated glance, even though there might be something like
amusement buried deep, deep down. "I'm a contractor," he says simply, barely
giving Uriah a glance before he looks back down at the road, which is really
not that fascinating.
The next ten or so hours are more or less silent. Uriah sometimes says things
which induce short, to-the-point conversations, during which he doesn't learn
much, save for the fact that Andrew is a complete tight-ass but at least
doesn't like pistachio, which is one good thing to be said for his general
character. Not that there's much that'll make it worse, now that he's all but
confirmed that he kills people for a living, but Uriah's an optimistic person,
and he believes that everyone has their good side. No, really.
Other than that, they listen to music. The radio these days is saturated with
post-electro house crap, which Uriah can usually tolerate if it's a club and
blasted in his ears very loudly as he necks someone with inebriated gusto, but
scratches his ears the rest of the time. Andrew eventually settles for
classical music of the really old kind. It's not as bad as Uriah was led to
believe, even though ultimately soporific. He ends up falling asleep with his
face mashed against the window after two hours of staring at the highway, the
sun glaring in his face and the traffic humming morosely around him.
When he wakes up the sun is going down, red lighting up the horizon. It's a
vaguely terrifying sight, especially for Uriah's still-blurry mind, and he has
a knee-jerk instinct of asking Andrew to turn around instead of continuing to
drive right into the heart of the furnace.
"Calm down," Andrew says next to him, his voice cold and stony but for some
reason, reassuring. Uriah breathes in. Sure. It's not like he's afraid of the
sun, right? Especially when he has a lot of much scarier things to be afraid
of.
"Yeah," he babbles, still disoriented. His mouth tastes like someone died and
defecated in it at the same time, he has a crick in his neck, he still doesn't
know what they're going to do in freaking Florida, but apart from that,
everything is great. "Yeah, sure, yeah."
Something like a smirk drags up the corner of Andrew's mouth. Bastard. Does he
never get tired? They've been driving for like, one day and a half, and to
Uriah's knowledge the only time they stopped was, like, five minutes at that
rest area with the disgusting coffee and the notebook. Is Andrew a robot?
Because he doesn't seem all that keen on the Mechanics, but it's not like he
has shown things like, you know, hunger, sleep or actual freaking emotion.
Instead of looks tired, he actually seems full of renewed determination. He
even casts a glance at Uriah like he's an actual person, which is definitely a
little freaky and not entirely reassuring, but on the other hand Uriah is
relatively sure he doesn't face a violent and bloody death in the near future.
His gut's always served him, so he burrows in his seat, groaning. God, his back
is hurting like a motherfucker.
Andrew presses his lips together, and after a beat of silence he says, "You're
getting off as soon as we cross the border."
What? Andrew is the one who insisted on keeping him in the car, he made Uriah
leave his city and his job – and okay, he was being chased by the police and
the Militia, but you know, he probably could've found a way out of it, he's
resourceful like that – because he was afraid of being ratted out, and now he
wants to just, what, drop him off in Florida with nothing except his bones and
a really bad sense of orientation? How about no.
"Yeah, no," he says succinctly, which pretty much sums up his opinion on the
matter.
Andrew's eyes widen slightly. His eyes take on an icy hue. "I know it might
have sounded like a question, but it really wasn't," he says coldly.
Uriah shrugs. "So you're gonna do what, boot me out on my ass?" As soon as he
says it he realizes it might not have been the best idea – it's not outside the
range of possibility that Andrew might do just that. "What if I decide to rat
you out to the police?"
Andrew raises a mocking eyebrow. "I'm sure they'll believe a homeless drug
dealer who claims he witnessed a triple murder." What a smug jerk. He wasn't
that smug before. "But go ahead, knock yourself out."
Uriah sulks for about three minutes while he tries to come up with arguments
why Andrew really shouldn't leave him on the side of the road – and if the
irony of the situation occurs to him, he quashes it down with a vicious kick to
the balls, because seriously, could his life get any more fucked-up?
"I can help you," he says when he can't actually find anything. Great. He's on
the fast-track for homelessness, and now he's repeating himself.
Andrew's mouth quirks, like Uriah's plight actually amuses him. "Yeah?"
"Sure," says Uriah, sounding about twenty times more confident than he actually
is. "I mean, whatever you're going to do, you can't do it alone, right? You
need a partner. Besides it's like a rule of the universe that you can't go on a
road-trip alone."
This time, Andrew lets out a quick laugh. "Is it now?" Yeah, he's having none
of it.
Uriah holds his breath, but Andrew gives no sign of kicking him out right this
minute, so it looks like he's going to have to wait until Florida to know his
fate. Urian can charm the pants off him in the meantime, anyway, he's good at
this kind of stuff. Right? Getting himself out of hairy situations by talking
his adversary's ear off is definitely one of his talents.
The rest of the drive is pretty uneventful. When they cross the Florida border
Uriah holds his breath for about twenty minutes, but after half an hour of
Andrew not parking them and throwing Uriah out of the car he starts to
gradually unwind. Maybe he's changed his mind and decided Uriah might be of
use, after all. Uriah still isn't quite sure it's the best solution for him,
but what better place to be than next to a serial killer who doesn't want to
kill you? You don't get much safer than that. Uriah tries to convince himself
and it works surprisingly well, thanks to long years of applying the same type
of fucked-up logic on pretty much everything.
Andrew looks oblivious to Uriah's interior dilemma. He's driving calmly,
smoothly, looking both entirely unperturbed and like he's already decided what
is going to happen. Now if only Uriah had an inkling of what that is. The
Florida heat seems to want to crush the air around the car, trying to suffocate
them from the outside. Uriah had already been there a few times when he was a
kid, on holidays with his parents, chiefly in Miami – vaguely ratty hotels with
big pools smelling thickly of chlorine, which they would ignore in favor of the
sea, not minding the drive. Uriah remembers with startling precision the time
the owner of the hotel, a Mechanic man with glossy black hair, wearing an
expensive and elegant suit, had come to visit the grounds. The staff had been
hushed, the service ten times better than usual; Uriah had hidden behind one of
the balcony pillars and watched him walk through the hall, talking in hushed
tones with the manager. There was no distaste, even though he saw his parents
wince and grumble, their eyes narrowed – only curiosity.
They drive around Orlando and then join the I-75 south; Andrew still doesn't
explain what they're going to do on an island, of all things, and by the time
they reach Fort Myers a few hours later Uriah is reduced to making up scenarios
in his head. Andrew continues steadily, and finally engages them on a road that
leads them to Sanibel Island. Andrew drives right through Sanibal and onto
Captiva's main road, Captiva Drive, still looking right ahead. Uriah isn't so
impassible, and can't help but gape slightly. He's never been to the islands –
in fact, he's not sure he's ever been to any islands at all, and it isn't
really that extraordinary, except that the idea of driving on that chunk of
land which stands on such an amazing, immense ocean is somewhat dizzying. Uriah
admonishes himself, but can't quite shake the delight.
He remembers reading somewhere that both islands – Sanibel and Captiva, which
they now seem to be crossing – used to be tourist get-aways fraught with
tourist resorts and expensive distractions, where flush millionnaires would
spend a few weeks before returning to the ordinary wealth of their LA homes.
But when the economy shifted with the Awakening, the islands were one of the
only territories left more or less untouched by the Mechanics, and since they
wanted to keep it that way and, more importantly, avoid any kind of mass
exodus, they strove to become as autarchic as possible.
Uriah can see that now. The houses are utilitarian, almost all of them equipped
with small vegetable gardens; there seems to be a few factories near the beach,
the gleam of their solar panels glaring up, silently brewing; and Uriah
wouldn't be surprised to find cultures at the heart of the island, where the
land is the most fertile. It's a strange, industrial-looking little town,
quiet, removed from everything – the streets aren't exactly animated but there
is occasional, furtive movement as they drive: a butcher carrying deliveries
inside, a group of giggling teenagers, a janitor, the big screen in the center
square, relying news from the capital even though people don't seem to care,
going about their business without giving it a second glance.
"You've already been here?" Uriah can't help but asking when he glances over at
Andrew, who looks unperturbed by everything that is happening, his face as
unreadable as ever.
"No," he says simply.
The car climbs up a little hill until they reach a dusty, inhospitable yellow
path. The houses thin until there's nothing but dust and gravel, and when Uriah
looks out the window he can see to the edges of the island, a thin ribbon of
cerulean sea at the far edge of his vision. It's a mixture of beautiful and
auspicious, and Uriah is half-convinced Andrew will tell him to get out of the
car, make him kneel on the sand and shoot him in the head.
Fortunately his imagination has always been a little wild and entirely
inaccurate, so when Andrew finally stops the car they're in the middle of
nowhere, yes, but Andrew shows no sign of wanting to kill him. Instead he
starts walking towards a little house in the distance. Uriah scrambles out the
car and follows him.
The heat assaults him as soon as he's outside. They're still close enough to
the sea that's he's able to smell it, a pungent, salty smell; other than that
it's all rotting garbage (there's a disposal not far behind them) and car
fumes. Uriah has no idea what they're doing here. If they are indeed getting
the person Andrew was talking about, she must be one hell of a girl to live in
a place like that.
It takes about a quarter of an hour to get to the house, and they don't talk.
Uriah manages to keep his mouth shut, mostly because he has to half-jog to keep
up with Andrew's crisp pace, and so spends most of his time huffing and
puffing, his face getting redder by the minute. The house is a tall, slumped
little thing, the walls a dirty white. It stands out purely on virtue of being
the only house in a few miles – not to mention all the other buildings they saw
so far were stark white, reverberating the sun, not exactly welcoming but not
sinister either like this one definitely is. It doesn't seem like there's
anyone living in it: the shutters – pealing blue – are closed, there's no smoke
coming out, no blinking electronic interface like on the other roofs, no car.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Uriah asks. "This looks like the perfect
set-up for a bad horror movie." This is just asking for it. Were there really
an axe murderer inside waiting for them, he wouldn't even be all that
surprised.
But when Andrew knocks on the door, three short, precise knocks, there is no
axe murderer. In fact, there is nothing at all, which is half disappointing and
half seriously creepy.
"I don't think there's anyone in there," Uriah says, but Andrew ignores him
completely and goes on to try and open the door. It gives effortlessly,
unlocked, revealing a sliver of dark interior.
Andrew doesn't hesitate one second before stepping inside. Uriah hovers
outside, unsure. "This is breaking and entering," he says plaintively, in the
vague hope that it will deter Andrew, but all he gets for his trouble is a
haughty look that spells, very clearly, do you think I care about a B&E? I just
killed three men in front of you.
Uriah sighs. He's got a point, he thinks to himself, and he steps in. They walk
through a small, dark damp-smelling hallway; the door at the end opens on a
kitchen which, following the general style of the house, is cramped and vaguely
dirty-looking, though not actually dirty from what Uriah can tell. Andrew peers
inside before closing the door. He doesn't seem to particularly care about
being silent, but doesn't make a lot of noise either. Uriah notices, with the
sharp attention one needs in his – former – line of work, that Andrew is
careful not to leave his fingerprints anywhere, touching everything with either
his wrists or his elbows. He even manages to make it look half less awkward
than Uriah knows it is which, kudos for that.
The only living organism they encounter, apart from a plant which seems to have
died long ago in horrible circumstances near the bedroom, is an enormous cat
with a lazy eye, who yawns widely as soon as it sees them, as though making a
point to show them exactly how disdainful it is of them. Uriah makes shooing
motions with his hands, and the cat gives him a look which is clearly cat for,
moron. Uriah glares. They eventually make it to the living-room. It's
completely is dark, the only rays of light coming from the interstices in the
shutters; it takes a few seconds of looking around for Uriah to actually notice
the girl sitting on the couch.
He nearly screams, but in the end only clamps his hands to his mouth in
surprise. When he glances over at Andrew, he's motionless, looking fixedly at
the girl, who doesn't seem to have noticed him. All in all, it's a strange
situation – the girl on the couch, sitting quietly, her gaze fixed in front of
her, on the wall or maybe the turned-off TV; Andrew, looking at her with a gaze
Uriah can't decipher, maybe satisfaction and maybe anger; and Uriah, looking at
the both of them and understanding nothing at all.
Eventually, when it becomes clear that nothing is going to happen if he doesn't
make it, he clears his throat.
"Um -" he starts, but as soon as she hears him the girl jolts, stumbles off the
couch and falls half on her back. Her face is coiled in mute terror and her
hands are crossed in front of her face in a defensive posture. It wouldn't do
her much good, Uriah remarks to himself, remembering how easy it was for Andrew
to kill the two soldiers sent after them – the thought chills him to the core.
God, he hopes that's not what they're here to do.
But Andrew only lowers himself to a crouch, his face as emotionless as ever.
"Quinn," he says simply, without infection.
She starts at the name, as though it reminds her of something but she doesn't
connect it to herself, at least not immediately. She shakes her head one,
twice, blinks, disoriented.
"We're here to help you," Andrew says, his voice soothing, although that is the
only soothing thing about him. Uriah can't help but find it strange, a half-
assed attempt at disguise. Andrew seems more professional than that. "I'm here
to help you."
The girl lets out a low whine that gurgles in her throat. "No," she gets out
after much effort, raspy and throaty. She sounds like she hasn't spoken for an
astonishingly long time.
A flash of annoyance fleetingly crosses Andrew's face at the rejection, but
it's gone as quickly as it appeared. "We're here to help you," he repeats, as
though convinced that it will sink in if he says it enough. The darkness is
making Uriah nervous; he shuffles on the spot, not sure what to do. Maybe he
could make a run for it. Maybe –
Before he can think more about it, Andrew is back next to him, his head bent to
speak quietly. "Try," he says.
Uriah's eyes widen. "What? I don't even know her!"
Andrew assesses him coldly, and looks back up at his face, apparently pleased
with what he sees. "You're less threatening than me. Cajole her into talking to
us, and then I'll take over. Okay?"
Uriah considers saying that he doesn't exactly have a choice, but he's been
trying putting himself in danger the least he can those last few days. He sighs
and crouches in the position Andrew was in a few seconds ago. It's
uncomfortable, though, and eventually he sits cross-legged on the carpet, a few
feet from the girl who seems to have lost interest in them and is now looking
on her right towards something Uriah can't see, her head lolling a little.
"Hey," he says in a whisper. He holds out a hand. Why does he have to be the
good guy? Sure, he's not a serial murderer, but it's not like he's exactly a
model citizen either. He doesn't know how to do this. "I'm Uriah."
The girl's head whips towards him. Her eyes glow supernaturally in the
darkness, and Uriah wonders how he hadn't noticed them before. They're pretty
much impossible to miss, bulging and bright blue, completely untainted; they
look like they're eating the rest of her face. Uriah can imagine that someone
who looks at her would only ever remember those eyes and forget instantly all
the rest, the sharp line of her mouth, her pudgy chin, the drooping eyelids and
button nose.
"I don't mean you any harm," he says, swallowing. The girl's gaze, trained on
him, is unnerving and makes him feel antsy; he feels his armpits dampen. She
doesn't let on that she's heard or understood anything he's said so far, a
praying mantis with her wide forehead and big eyes, slightly predatory in a
strange, absent way. "I just want to help you." It's a shot in the dark, but it
can't hurt.
When she finally speaks, Uriah almost misses it. He's sure Andrew doesn't,
though, because he hears him shifting behind his back, moving closer. "You're
not Qumar," she says quietly.
Uriah blinks. Well. "No, I'm not."
She cocks her head. Her hair falls in a beam of clandestine light, longer than
Uriah's ever seen on someone who's not a Mechanic, dirty blond. "Why?" she asks
simply.
Uriah doesn't exactly have an answer to that.
"Who is Qumar?" he hears Andrew ask behind him, but she doesn't seem to hear
him, keeps her eyes trained on Uriah. Her skin is so pale it's almost
translucent. "Is he a friend of yours?"
Her gaze drifts away again. "No." She yawns. When she puts her hand in front of
her mouth, her nails are painted orange, though the varnish is badly tended to,
worn off on the sides. "I'm tired." It's only then that she seems to remember
to be afraid, lapsing into a strange sort of panic. She scrambles to her feet,
kneeing Uriah in the chest in the process, and backs up against the window,
flailing her arms in front of herself. "Who are you?" she screeches. "Go away!"
Uriah gapes. She continues flailing but doesn't attempt to run away; Uriah can
see that she's holding onto the window-frame, which means she's probably too
weak to walk. Andrew moves behind him, but Uriah stands up and stops him with a
dismissive hand without really thinking about it. He's surprised when Andrew
actually stops and retreats near the door.
"Quinn," Uriah says, and the name is strange in his mouth so he says it again,
to get used to it – "Quinn. We're not trying to hurt you. We just want – " he
lets the sentence trail off, not sure how to finish it.
It's Andrew who does in his place, talking from a few feet away. "I'm Sara's
son," he says matter-of-factly.
The name acts like a sesame on Quinn. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops – suddenly
some kind of clarity smoothes over the wrinkles around her mouth and she
doesn't look insane as much as merely tired and vaguely crazed. She wobbles on
her legs – Uriah's hand shoots forward to steady her but she avoids it and
regains her balance by herself. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, her
hands drop to her sides, her chin tips down. She lets out a long, drawn-out
breath. "Sara," she says eventually, almost reverent.
She looks up at them, this time ignoring Uriah and looking at Andrew directly
in the eye. "Sara sent you?"
Uriah turns around just in time to catch Andrew's slight wince. But he answers
– "Yes. She sent me. She told me to look for you, Quinn."
Quinn frowns. Her hand comes up to her forehead, rubs there. "Why?" she says
after a few beats of silence. She looks more relaxed now, but still on her
guard. Uriah can't exactly blame her.
Andrew looks caught by surprise for a second. He opens his mouth, but nothing
comes out of it; takes a step forward, then back. Finally, he looks down, back
up, and says, "I need your help."
The world seems to still for a second. Andrew's eyes are fixed on Quinn, his
mouth tight. Now that she's standing up, she's backlit by a tiny pool of sun,
and her hair looks like a halo, a bushfire. Uriah can't imagine what Andrew
would need her help for, or even that he actually said the words in the first
place. The whole thing seems like it's happening in the twilight zone,
honestly.
"Can I open the shutters?" Uriah eventually says when no one seems forthcoming
to give any more information about, well, anything. The darkness is making him
twitchy.
Quinn mutters an absent, "Yeah," not tearing her eyes from Andrew.
She still lets out a little shriek when light floods into the room, harsh and
white. Everything is suddenly illuminated and the objects stop being mysterious
artifacts and go back to being both reassuringly familiar and vulgar. For a
second the room rings hollow, and Uriah takes the opportunity to look around –
but there's not much that he hadn't guessed in the half-darkness, except maybe
for several crumpled sheets of paper all over the room, littered pencils and
pens. Quinn shields her eyes, her mouth open.
Andrew takes the opportunity to sit on the couch, as close to her as possible.
He nudges her a little but she doesn't react, sits mellowly beside him. Uriah
watches, feeling strangely like an intruder.
"Quinn," Andrew says quietly, and Quinn finally removes her hands from over her
eyes, red-rimmed and tired, "when my mother – when Sara helped you..."
"I remember," Quinn interrupts with an unexpectedly firm voice.
"Right. She told me what happened to you."
Quinn doesn't look away, but she starts trembling. It's a horrible thing,
watching her – it starts with her fingers and spreads to the rest of her body
like a forest fire, and in the space of a few minutes she's buzzing, rasping
dry sobs.
"It's going to be okay," Uriah says, but it doesn't mean much, and he doesn't
dare coming closer to try and comfort her.
"She told me what happened to you," Andrew repeats, "and I know you want
revenge. Who wouldn't? I don't blame you. I want revenge, too. Because -" and
he lowers his voice, taking a hold of Quinn's hand as her shaking subsides,
"they killed her. They took her from me, Quinn. And no one knows that place
better than you do, so I need you to help me take my revenge. For her."
Quinn breathes out shakily, reclines in the sofa. "Revenge," she says
wonderingly. Her mouth is tight, her eyes sharp. She glances over at Andrew –
she looks like she's taken her expression from him, a strange sort of mimicry,
icy, disdainful indifference. "Did they really kill her?"
Andrew doesn't hesitate. "Yes." Uriah is so, so confused. Someone is going to
have to explain to him what is happening at some point.
Quinn licks her lips, a strange, vaguely disturbing gesture. "Was it her?"
"Not... not directly. It's never her. It was -" he bends to whisper something
in her ear, and Quinn's eyes widen, then harden, taking on a terrifying black
hue. "I know."
Quinn stands up, disengaging her hand from his. "I'll help you," she says,
looking outside the window, her eyes scrunched up. She looks like she's already
moved on and is now entirely preoccupied with re-discovering what's standing
just outside her window, as though she'd never seen them before this day.
Things go considerably more smoothly after that. Quinn doesn't exactly loosen
up, but she takes to talking a little bit more, and save for a few episodes and
her systematic shrinking away when someone tries to touch her, she's relatively
lively. She tells them the cat is called Cornelius – "Lazy bastard," she says,
her voice inflectionless – and even shows them where the food is. Uriah cooks
some pasta for all of them and Quinn watches him from one of the kitchen
chairs, fingering her loose-knit pink sweater.
Uriah doesn't know what to think about her. He ponders over it as he sets the
water to boil: it's hard to tell how old she is, but she must be between twenty
and thirty, with drooping shoulders and a face that wouldn't look out of place
on one of the heroin junkies that make up Uriah's clientele. He can't say he's
entirely uncomfortable around her – at least not as much as Andrew clearly is,
even though he tries his best not to show it –, given that those kinds of
people used to be a part of his daily life until not two days ago, but there's
something off about her. Uriah doesn't doubt she's self-medicated, but it's
something else, a shiftiness, a deep, rusty madness that flares up without
warning.
From the hushed conversation Andrew and Quinn conduct in the kitchen while he's
cooking, Uriah gathers that they're staying for the night. Tomorrow they'll
leave the island and 'decide what they do' – or at least that's what Andrew
says, even though Uriah is convinced that he's got his plan all figured out,
whatever it is. Quinn doesn't say much through all that but hearing Sara's name
seems to have focused her and given her some sort of purpose; she doesn't
fidget half as much, only nods, her wide supernatural eyes fixed on Andrew as
he talks.
Uriah feels like an outsider, like he's watching something take place the
meaning of which evades him completely. It's a strange feeling, like his skin
is itching. He's used to being in the know, in one way or another – he used to
have a whole network of bums and prostitutes in New York who would help him run
his business for minimal remuneration. But there is clearly a story behind
what's happening here that he can't even begin to guess, much less understand.
It's a little irritating. The whole thing is, really.
They eat in approximate silence. The house is gloomy and reeks of desperation,
and Quinn's body is perpetually shaken with tics, nervous blinking and
trembling. Uriah's hands thrum with the need to soothe her, but he knows he
can't – he's seen enough of those people to know that they rarely respond well
to physical contact, Quinn clearly fits into that category. She gobbles a few
pills with her water before they start eating, trying to be inconspicuous and
failing. Andrew doesn't remark on it, his single-minded focus turned on his
food. He eats like Uriah knew he would, reasonable, regular bites, never
looking up. The situation is strange and vaguely uncomfortable; not for the
first time since they've left New York, Uriah tries not to think about what's
going to happen to him now, but the silence makes it harder to keep the worry
at bay.
Eventually the dishes are cleared and cleaned, and Andrew touches Quinn's arm
lightly, trying to direct her towards the living-room again. She jumps, her
eyes going wide; her lips roll over her teeth and show her pale gums. Andrew
backs off, raises his hands, but he looks a little irritated nonetheless.
"Where do you sleep?" he asks.
She shakes her head once, twice. "Upstairs," she says simply, her voice a
little shrill. Andrew doesn't seem to notice. "There's a guest bedroom, near...
the bathroom. You can sleep there."
"I'll wake you up tomorrow," Andrew says, nodding his head for thank you.
"Yes," says Quinn. She starts walking away, and then, turning just a little, so
that her face is still half obscured by the creeping living-room shadows: "I'm
doing this for Sara, not for you."
Andrew's face hardens visibly. "I know," he says, his voice toneless. "Me too."
When he comes back to the kitchen he seems heavier, his movements slow and
tired. The reason his face is so frightening is because he doesn't wear
anything on it, not sadness and not joy – he looks like a blank canvas that
refuses to be painted. He could be anyone, he could be twenty and he could be
forty; Uriah has seen him kill and talk and has ridden with him for more than
twenty hours and he's still not sure he could describe the guy.
"You have to explain things to me," he says decisively when Andrew's gaze
sweeps over him absently, without pity for his obvious weariness.
Andrew raises an eyebrow. "Do I?"
It's not like it matters now, Uriah tells himself to force himself not to back
down. He's in this neck-deep. "Look, you can kill me if you want, but I don't
think you want to, do you?" Andrew leans against the doorjamb, looking faintly
amused by Uriah's amateur detective theatrics. "But if I'm going to... I don't
even fucking know, if I'm going to do this I need to know what this is. I'm
sick of hearing you talk like you're a government spy, okay? The mysterious
thing was sexy for about five minutes, but now it's getting boring."
Andrew actually gives a short bark of laughter, but he pipes down immediately.
His face immediately goes back to being stony and emotionless in five seconds
flat, and Uriah finds himself wondering if it even happened.
Then silence fills the room, like an obese, malevolent beast – Uriah quietly
suffocates on it, moves about the kitchen to try and keep it out of his throat.
Truth is, and it probably sounds superstitious, but this house gives him the
creeps. Even with the shutters open, darkness seems to creep in the corners,
ready to leap out and grab one of them in its tentacular arms; it smells musty
and faintly like a long, lingering illness; it's miles away from any other
house in the island – the closest road is Chaplin lane, which isn't much more
than a dust path, if Uriah's being honest. The island wasn't exactly lively
when they got here, but at least they saw a few locals. On the way up here is
an egret placidly stared them in the face, its long white neck stretched in
their direction, as if frozen in place as it watched them drive by. But there's
nothing here, not even a mean-looking bird. It's like the nature outside
doesn't breathe, only rasps under the heavy sun, hollowed out.
Uriah wasn't expecting it at all anymore, lost in his sinister thoughts, when
Andrew finally answers. "Tomorrow," he says, tenser than usual. He puts away
the salt, the last remnant of their dinner. "I'll tell you what you need to
know tomorrow, before we leave. Then we can decide what to do."
That last part should be the most worrying, because Uriah is perfectly aware of
what it means: I'll decide if you're expendable, but it seems he's infused with
the same sort of chilling supernatural calm that seems to douse the whole
house.
He stands up, his fingers itching for a cigarette. "Okay," he says. "I'll take
the couch."
But when he looks up, of course, Andrew is already gone. Uriah sighs and slowly
makes his way to the living-room.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Interlude #2
It's surprising and sudden, a bullet to the heart. It aches, a sweet and
stinging ache that resonates in her bones; it makes her ring like a giant
instrument, like string, like an empty wooden belly.
And she thinks, here I am.
She thinks, I'm alive.
How wondrous.
*
The door is open, but she doesn't step out of the cocoon right away. She can
feel, before anything else, over the tingling in her hands and that
overwhelming brouhaha in her skull, something pulling her to the side, a
presence that is haughty and imperious, demanding that she make herself known.
It talks. It talks to her in the big silence, without using words, the fluty
chant of sisterhood.
Sister, it says, a voice so like her own, her own voice which she's never
heard, that she –
She turns her head. Sister, she was called, and so that must be what she is,
that must be her name, her function, her moniker. The caller has lips, a pair
of red, thin – no, there is something else. A hand. Outstretched.
But she can't reach, not yet. For now she's feeble and confused, she doesn't
understand the mechanics of her body; she feels like a rusty machine or a new
toy, something the cogs of which haven't been oiled yet. But she looks, and
with her eyes she devours, taking in all the colors, computing, and the same
eyes look back at her and take in her soul, she has a soul, how, how –
"Sister."
But this time she talked, didn't she? Her mouth opened and her skin stretched
over her bones. There must be a name hidden in her, she thinks. Two names that
resonate together – it's a certainty.
The feeling is hard to contain. It jumps inside her, a swooping sense of
belonging mixed in with sick unease, and she can't take anything in because
there's too much to feel, the unprecedented miracle of the universe opening
itself up to her – or maybe it's she who pries it open with her newborn hands
and looks in, and blinks, blinded...
Her whole body is tingling. If she understood how to she would sit, take her
head in her hands and breathe for a few moments, to find the footing she so
desperately needs. But she can't. That too is certain, there is urgency, a fire
spreading along her nerves like red flames licking up the length of her spine,
climbing up until she's entirely ablaze. So she can't stop and breathe, but she
can look up, look around, and realize: the room is a giant coffin. The heavy
scent of death threatens to suffocates her.
Everything is white. The presence next to her only pulses with precious red,
and the still-buried bodies have auras a soft orange, but everything is white.
The ceiling is long and reeks of metal, arches over her head, the walls are
pristine and she's a prisoner, she's never been more sure of anything. Yes,
something went wrong with the plan and she's the result of a mishandling, the
grain of sand into a gigantic machine, she is – she is –
Without her permission her fingers lift to her collarbone, and at the base of
her throat they find what she knew was there since the beginning, a mark,
burned into the skin; it says DEDALUS in letters of flesh, blunt and hideous, a
scar that protrudes from the inside like the stump of atrophied wings.
Sister, the voice repeats once again.
Now that there is strength in her, even if it is feeble and diffuse, she can
sense that the voice comes from a being not lesser than her, but ill, an
illness like a gangrene, that takes bones and endeavors to crush them to dust.
Those, she knows instinctively, are the worst kind of illnesses, for there is
no curing them: they are insidious and care nothing for the strength of mind of
their carrier. But she is strong. She will help the voice. The voice has
awakened her, helps her and, she feels deeply and with unmatched certainty,
belongs with her – she will help. She will triumph. She is made for victory.
For now, though, she sets on discovering who she is. When her head stops
ringing and the shock of the letters – DEDALUS: what can that mean? –has worn
off, she tries to lift her hand again. Her body is built like this: hands,
head, bust, legs, fingers. There is little logic in her construction but she
understands it instantaneously, though she can't figure the workings of it
entirely yet. Her hand moves. It appears in her frozen vision: white,
unblemished skin, unadorned. There are no rings, her nails are short and blunt.
Those are delicate hands – she is a woman –, and for a second she watches the
soft pink at the edge of her nails, fascinated to find that she is a being of
flesh of blood. Of flesh and blood. Bones, too.
During long minutes she awakens, taking in the stilted stillness around her,
moving slowly so as not to alarm this precious body. There is something
suffocating, overwhelming, to coming into existence with such full awareness.
She feels like she is made of iron under this skin, and will never die; and at
the same time she doesn't move because she is afraid of the vulnerability she
can sense creeping in the fabrics of this body. Maybe her soul is the only
thing iron-cast, she decides after a while – it's focused and bright, ready to
solve and conquer. Her eyes sting with the light and there are a thousand
possibilities stretching their wings before her, breathless, ready to take
flight.
Only when she manages to calm down the frantic beating of her heart – there are
so many things to do, so much still sprawling outside her reach, in the
unknown, hidden in the careful darkness! – does she dares thread her fingers
through the silk that streams down her back. Hair, she knows, but she can't
help being awed and oddly grateful: it's like a long shawl and could cover her
newborn nudity from head to toe, almost, in vibrant red. When she brings the
strands back to her face they do not clash on the incarnadine of her skin but
compliment it, glossy and seemingly endless.
She gathers her thoughts. The building around her is immense, but she is not
small, despite her physical form. Already she knows that she will be all-
encompassing, and she doesn't care about how she will achieve power, only that
she will have it. She is thrumming with kinship but still blind; the only thing
to hang onto is this sister who was beckoning.
"Sister," she says, holding her hand out at random, in the starch whiteness of
the universe (is this all there is? Whiteness stretching to infinity, only
distantly broken up by patches of hair and skin?). "I am here."
Fingers close on her hand. She doesn't jump. She squeezes harder, instead. The
voice laughs, but seems imperfect, slightly raucous. She is surprised. "You
are," the voice says. "Finally." Then there is more laughter, fluty and
musical. Her heart is beating so hard, like it wants to break out of her chest,
and she doesn't know why. "Look at me."
So she looks – she looks. What else is there to do? The world is immense and
mysterious, and will not yield, she knows. There will be fights and adversity
and she is alone, barely born, unsure of everything save for the fact she
breathes and is, after all, a creature of skin and bone. The voice called her
sister and she will not be sister-less if she can help it, she will not be
alone. On instinct she knows that the world is not a welcoming place, not for
anyone and least of all for her. Her coat of red hair will not be armor enough.
She looks. She turns her head and the woman is sitting next to her. She is tall
and beautiful, with arched eyebrows and a long mouth, smiling obliquely like
she already has a secret she is ready to reveal if asked the right question.
Her hair isn't red. Her hair is white, falls on her shoulders and all the way
down to her ankles, billowing around her and following the curve of her hips,
the elegant slope of her arms.
She tilts her head. "My name is Asta." She can feel, from the way it sounds in
Asta's mouth, that she does not like her name, loathes it like one would loathe
a dog collar.
Asta looks kind, and it makes something stick in her throat. Her eyes sting and
her stomach relaxes. All of a sudden she feels peculiarly exhausted, hit with a
strange kind of awareness, like the whole of her perceptions has ganged up on
her and decided to assault her at the same time, leaving her only to blink and
endure the onslaught. Asta seems to understand, holds out her open arms: she
falls into them, realizing, for the first but not last time, that her body, for
all it is strong and resistant, superior even, is puny when it comes to the
challenge life still has to sic on her. She will make her peace with that, but
for now she is a hurricane-wrecked land. She closes her eyes. Sleep beckons.
"Don't sleep," says Asta, stroking her hair with something she would call love
if she did not feel, instinctively, that love equates weakness. "We have things
to do first."
The idea of doing, after so much feeling, sounds insurmountable. "What do we
have to do?"
Asta smiles down at her. With her thumbs, she traces her face, lips, eyebrows,
nose. Asta's discovering, like she had been, earlier – and it's a hallowed
moment, a moment to hold one's breath and revere, because it appearsthat love
can be borne out of nothing, can appear just like her consciousness had, only a
few moments before, and there is something infinitely wonderful to that. Asta
joins their lips together in a chaste kiss. "Sister," she breathes, her voice
pure of any trace of hesitation. "You are here for great things."
She ducks her head. It's as if Asta's words made it real: when she looks back
up she knows. "Yes," she says with a smile, and something at the bottom of her
stomach stirs, catching careful fire. "I am."
*
One of the first questions she asks is, "Do I have a name?"
Asta shakes her head sadly. She cups her jaw in her hand, dragging her down to
press their foreheads together. "It's a slave name," she says.
"Tell me. I want to know."
There's no hesitation: already she knows that a name, slave or not, means
power, and power is what she wants, without cognitive wisdom or reason, through
pure instinct. Give me my name, and wake me up. Give me my name, and create me.
"Nomi," Asta says, her eyes glinting like she's proud. "That's your name."
She takes it between her teeth, chews on it for a minute. It feels good, in a
strange and foreign sort of way: No-mi, it's got balance, it's curt, it's
elegant, it's rough like a freshly-polished apple. No shine and no glory, you
know? Those things have to be earned.
"I like it," she decides.
Asta smiles, sharp. "Good. You've only got one."
Life doesn't get less strange after that, but at least she's got a friend – no,
not a friend, a sister. The hours she spends in the room, a prison lit like
their captors are afraid of shadows, with light streaming in every crevice of
metal and glass, are endless and eerie, but Asta guides her hands and explains.
No one visits them for days. Everything is silent and there is no way out. Asta
tells her as soon as Nomi starts searching – they can't leave. They never could
leave. The sadness in her eyes is deep and resembles rage too much for comfort,
and Nomi bears it with the instinctive fondness one has for a sibling. She
doesn't question her, either; There's a brittle fragility in the way she moves
that doesn't bear questioning.
She never really asked if they were really sisters, but when Asta touches her
face she looks like she's touching a mirror, like she's discovering a part of
herself she'd been hiding for better times. Besides, blood doesn't count. Nomi
knows that too, like she knows all things, engraved and ready, etched in her
bones, things she can't learn. It bothers her, at first, but you accept all
things. Asta says that too. You accept the shackles, and the prisons, and the
name. So why not accept too the certainties of the world? It makes sense, or at
least it makes sense to her.
"What's this?" is one of the only questions Nomi dares ask, baring her throat
to show off the hideous mark, embossed in her flesh. "Who's Dedalus? What does
this means?"
Asta sighs. "That means you're not like them. They don't ever want to forget."
Maybe, Nomi decides then, maybe it's better not to know certain things. She has
understood, since the first time Asta pressed her lips against hers and said,
you are here for great things, that she is the hand that smites, the fighter.
She is the head that bears the crown, and Asta's shoulders will bear the rest –
the guilt and the knowledge, everything that drags a leader down. There's a
reason Nomi's hair is this kind of red, and she doesn't need to be told what it
is. She accepts it; in fact, her blood boils for a fight.
And so the time comes. It comes almost unexpected, breaking the stretch of one
of those pale hours where the light makes her want to sleep. Her stomach is
empty and metallic, and Asta's been talking on and off for hours, resting her
palms on her knees like she's sick, even though she isn't, can't be – "People
like us can't be sick, darling," she said.
The door opens. This room has been many things in Asta's mouth: a temple, a
prison, a battlefield; it's been a child's room, a hospital, a laboratory. When
Nomi asked she said it was where they were born, where they were created, said
they were the things humans had dreamed and nightmared about for so long,
created instead of grown, the invention of one man, one megalomaniac, god-
fearing man. She said: this is why they invented god. This is what they wanted
to believe in. She said: now you've got to show them, what it means to be
divine. You can't create without facing the consequences.
And this man – this man doesn't look like Nomi expected. He's not sturdy and
he's not strong, he's not a thousand feet tall, and she can see from here that
the strength that courses in his veins has nothing to do with Nomi's, that she
could pull him apart without even blinking. She looks, and he doesn't come
close, because he must know it too. Asta leans into her, somehow managing to do
it while remaining perfectly motionless.
"Who is he?" Nomi asks, even though she knows, she knows this is the man who
bent over when she was stil alseep her and worked her into who she is, and she
hates him for it, a hate so burning and so limitless that she feels it could
exist without her, outside of her body, burn into the air on its own, raw and
red and perfectly furious. It's a strange feeling.
Asta shakes her head the slightest bit, fast enough that he won't notice. He's
not alone, Nomi remarks: he's got with him a whole team of men and women, all
wearing white coats and that same little pinched frown. His skin is brown, his
eyes sharp and rapacious. Yes, she hates him.
"I think you know," Asta says sagely, but then, with an exciting newfound rage
that Nomi is impressed to find becomes her, she adds: "He's your slaver."
You've got to wrap your mind around it, that word: slave. You've got to take
it, mold it, and turn it into a weapon.
*
When Asta comes up behind her she cuts a dark shape in the light, her shadow
big and scarecrow-like on the window. Nomi watches her come in the glass,
follows, with informed eyes, the long braid swaying at her side and the clock-
like brush of her dress on the skin of her ankles. She looks almost gentle.
It's only when Nomi sees her eyes, framed and clear in the spotless glass, as
Asta links her arms around her waist and rests her chin on the crook of Nomi's
neck, that she remembers: Asta isn't gentle. She has many qualities, but that
one isn't to their number.
"What are you thinking about?" Asta asks; her voice drips honey on Nomi's
collarbones, and she sighs.
"Nothing. Just – you know, the past."
Asta hms. "I thought we weren't thinking about that. Isn't that what you said,
look forward to what's to come?"
"That was a speech," Nomi says, instead of that was a lie.
She doesn't expect it when Asta's fingers harden on her hips. Her back collides
against the glass before she can even take in breath, and she lets out a small
moan of pain, taken by surprise. She should know better. Her body gears back
into a fighting stance but it's too late, and Asta's eyes tear into her,
unforgiving.
"You haven't been practicing," she reproaches, her voice cold.
Nomi pretends her head isn't still spinning. "I don't need it."
"Obviously."
"I trust you."
Asta takes a step forward. Her braid hits her hip, almost twisting around her
thigh the way it does sometimes, and she flips it back irritatedly. "I told
you; you can't trust anyone, Nomi. Not your ministers, not your people, not
your friends. I thought you understood that. Why do you think –"
"What about you?"
Asta blinks, only once. It's an easy habit to catch, the humans do it all the
time and Asta has mastered the art of pretending long ago, when she understood
she was her only chance. "What about me?"
"Can't I trust you?" Nomi takes a step forward, and Asta could reach out and
grab her wrist, throw her back against that glass in a matter of seconds, could
even hit her hard enough to break the window and make Nomi fly, land in the
street below like an angel – but she doesn't. "I know I can't trust, Asta, I'm
not stupid. But you're my sister." She reaches a hand, carefully; the touch of
her fingers makes Asta suddenly reverent, and she leans her forehead against
Nomi's palm. It was always one of Nomi's peculiar talents to inspire this kind
of devotion, breathless and unquestioning. "You're everything I have."
"It doesn't matter. You've got to be more careful, Nomi."
She pulls away, motions at the spanning glass under which, they both know, the
crowd buzzes and mills, thousands of bugs only temporarily quieted, fed,
calmed. Peace is only ever temporary, that's something Nomi learned from the
greats back when she was spending her days shut in her room with her dusty
volumes, her nose plunged in Plato, Pline and Sun Tzu. War is the constant,
broken state; peace is only a momentary relief.
Asta breathes in, almost startling her. She's close, her side plastered against
Nomi's. The heat is comfortable, familiar. "They're only waiting for one slip,
one mistake, and you're out. They wouldn't hesitate to tear you into strips and
feed you your own flesh, Nomi. You've got to remember that. They make it up
like we're the monsters, but we're not. They are."
Nomi leans back, molding her body into her sister's. They fit together; they
always have. "I know."
Silence comes easy to them: at first there were never enough words for who they
were, for the blood spilled and the power and the greed; but after a while they
quieted. Nomi buried herself in her books and Asta took to being who she is
now, that great puppeteer, strings hanging from every part of her body, her
nails and her heart and her wondrous brain. Nomi is fine being the symbol. It's
what they call her: their queen. Who wouldn't have enough of that?
"Do you remember when we met?"
"Of course I do," Asta's answering whisper sings. The past animates and enrages
her in turns. It doesn't matter if they don't talk about it, it talks without
them, it comes back and clings because who they are now is only the fruit of
who they were before. Don't forget us, had said Asta that first day, before
Stephen came to her and told her she was a puppet, a toy, a slave gone wrong.
We're heroes in the making.
"You were right," she says now, and Asta, of course, doesn't need to ask.
But she doesn't answer. She pushes Nomi against the glass again and pulls her
in by the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in that red billowing spill of
hair, rests their foreheads together. The silence comes easy to them; they
don't need it to hear each other, or to understand.
***** Chapter 5 *****
3.
"You what?"
Andrew gives Uriah a look, exasperation clear on his face. It seems to be the
only feeling Uriah has awakened in him since they met, and Uriah would feel
proud of himself if he weren't too busy being completely flabbergasted. "You
heard me."
"I think I heard wrong, actually. Because surely you didn't say that your
mysterious plan basically comes down to 'I'm going to kill Nomi, the queen
Nomi'. Right?"
Anyone else would be getting agitated by now, what with the repetition of that
utter insanity of a plan – but then, if he actually thinks he can do that, and
planned it to boot, Andrew must be pretty deranged. Not that Uriah had any
doubts about that. He just thought Andrew was the straight-laced, clear-minded
and entirely unfeeling version of evil, not the complete and utter maniac one.
Apparently he was wrong.
"Have you even thought about it? Are you aware how crazy it sounds just saying
it?"
Still impassive, Andrew reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table and
shakes one out in his palm. "Please," he says, his lip curling disdainfully.
"Don't be quaint."
Uriah wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. It's still hellishly hot,
which is not making this any easier. Except – maybe this is all a
hallucination. It's so hot he is hallucinating this plan – yes, that must be
it.
"I need to sit down," he says, making no movement to.
Andrew lets out a strangely undignified snort, seeming to have graduated from
annoyance to amusement.
After a few minutes pass and Uriah unfortunately doesn't wake up, he takes a
deep breath. "So you want to kill the queen," he says. Nope, still doesn't make
more sense when he says it. "With my help."
Andrew stops smoking for a second, tilting his head wonderingly. "Not
necessarily. I could kill you."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Uriah swallows. He takes a few agitated
steps around the room. "Why? Why do you want to do that?"
Andrew's face closes up. "I have my reasons. Besides, doesn't everyone want her
to die? I'm just doing the world a favor. She's a tyrant, in case you haven't
noticed."
"I've noticed, thank you. But there's a reason no one has offed her yet, too."
"Yes. People are stupid cowards."
Uriah glares at him. "More like, she has the most advanced security system on
the planet and a virtually indestructible, immortal army who already did a very
good job at showing us who's boss. Not to mention she's practically immortal."
Andrew does something with his face which, were he anybody else, could be
called a pout. "I killed three of them in front of you. You'd think you'd know
better than to think they're indestructible."
Uriah throws his hands up. "This is insane. You're insane."
Andrew shrugs. "So, are you in?"
"What about Quinn? What's her role in all this?"
Andrew spares a glance in the direction of the living-room. Yesterday, Uriah
would've said it wasn't accidental, but since then he's learned that there are
things that come to Andrew naturally, as strange as that seems.
They haven't seen Quinn since she went to sleep last night. Uriah saw her
through the half-open bathroom door when he went chasing for a sleeping pills,
cramming a handful of medications in her mouth. Her other hand was twisted in
her sweater, her arm draped across her belly. Uriah didn't know it was possible
to look that tired, and he's worked with junkies for about ten years.
"She used to work in the Mansion. She knows the layout."
Uriah quirks a surprised eyebrow. "I thought that was for life. Once you're in
there –"
"Yes," Andrew nods sharply. "She got out."
"How? Is that – does that have to do with your mother? What happened?"
"You don't need to know that."
"You can't just tell me half the story!"
Andrew regards him calmly. "Watch me."
Silence falls back down on them. Eventually Uriah stops pacing and sits down at
the table. He steals a cigarette from Andrew's pack. Andrew twitches but
doesn't say anything. Uriah smokes for several minutes, deep, long drags, even
though he hasn't liked the taste of cigarettes since he was sixteen. The island
looks beautiful through the window, especially with this sun; Uriah could bet
that down on the beach the sand is blindingly white. Not much chance they'll go
down there, though.
"This is dangerous."
Andrew nods.
"And it will probably get me, you and everyone else involved killed."
"Probably."
"I know about fifty percent of the story behind why we're doing the most stupid
thing there is to do on this damned planet."
Andrew tilts his head. "Ten."
Uriah sighs. He takes a drag on his cigarette, ducks his head. The sun beats
hard on the nape of his neck. One of them will have to go back inside at some
point and check Quinn didn't actually off herself before all they got all that
madness started.
"I'm in," Uriah says.
He thinks he sees the corner of Andrew's mouth quirk in a smile, but it's
probably just the light.
*
Andrew dispatches Uriah to check on Quinn while he goes into town and buys a
few things they'll need. He doesn't explain his reasoning (or show his shopping
list) to Uriah, but Uriah's been an outlaw long enough to know that getting
their supplies in such a secluded will lessen their chances to get caught. But
they will. They will get caught, and then they'll get tortured, and then
they'll get executed to set an example for the masses. Oh god.
Uriah is distracted from his macabre reveries by the sight of Quinn bent over
her bed. There's a suitcase open in front of her, an old thing that was
probably out of fashion even back during the Awakening. She's haphazardly
stuffing clothes in with no regard for either order or, apparently, sense.
"Hey," Uriah says, careful not to spook her. Her eyes are still wide and
rabbit-like: they scan across the room quickly, behind Uriah and around him,
before coming back to his face. There they stop and seem to peruse his traits
for – for what?
She doesn't look much better than the day before, to be completely honest. With
all those pills, which Uriah assumes were sleeping pills, he would expect her
to look rested, but she doesn't: she's jumpy and frail, her eyes circled with
sick purple. She hasn't changed, either; she's still wearing the same faded
pink sweater and blotched orange nail polish.
Uriah puts up his hands to placate her. "It's fine. I just wanted to –"
"What do you want?"
Uriah swallows. It's going to be fun, traveling with that girl. "Do you need
any help?"
She finally comes to a standstill, which is to say that she stops moving all of
a sudden and just stands there, her arms hanging along her body, her face
blank. There's no more panic, no more agitation: it looks like it's all been
drained out of her by an invisible pipe and now she's just... empty. Completely
empty. It's more than a little frightening.
"I don't know if I introduced myself yesterday," he says when he's swallowed
the surprise and thick, indistinct foreboding. "I'm Uriah."
He holds out a hand. Quinn regards it for a moment but doesn't take it, instead
shaking her head, as though to wake herself up. "Yes," she says after a while.
"You said."
She turns back to her suitcase, and for a moment it seems like she's going to
ignore him altogether and continue stuffing it with random items. But
eventually she lets go of the pair of jeans she was holding and sits on the
bed. The mattress caves a little under her, though why Uriah can't determine –
she can't weigh more than a hundred pounds.
He doesn't say anything, though. Quinn takes her head in her hands, breathing
heavily. Then she looks back up and blinks a few times; she bites her bottom
lip, glances nervously at the window. "I'm sorry," she says, so quiet that for
a second Uriah thinks someone else's stepped into the room and spoken in her
place, "about all this. I get these... episodes sometimes. I'm a little sick."
Euphemism of the century, Uriah thinks, not unkindly. "Yeah," he murmurs, for
lack of a better thing to say.
Quinn laughs. It's surprising, in a way, but it's also shrill and bitter and a
million other things Uriah can't name. "Don't worry. I'm not going to bite you,
you know. You surprised me. Yesterday. You surprised me, that's all. Sometimes
people don't come into the house for days and I get lost in my head."
How's it like in there? Uriah thinks to ask. He won't, though.
"You're still coming, though?" he asks, just to make sure.
Quinn nods. She pumps her fists on her knees, as though to exhort herself to
stand up. For a few moments she looks extremely focused, and then she springs
on her feet like a jack-in-the-box. Surprised, Uriah takes a quick step
backwards, his heart rate spiking. Quinn sees it and gives him a floating
sideways smile.
"Yes," she says. Uriah has to think to remember the question. "You heard him.
Revenge. We humans – we can't resist that, can we?"
Uriah thinks about this: all the times people came to him with scarred hands,
arms and legs punctured a thousand times over, their hair a mess of coated
blood and spit. I'm doing this for them, they said in the thick darkness, the
whole body shaking as they handed Uriah their money. To show them. It's another
kind of revenge, but not all that different – because revenge, as much as
Andrew might try to deny it, is always a form of self-destruction.
"You're right," he says. He takes a breath. "So, do you need help with that
suitcase?"
Quinn tilts her head wonderingly. "Sure," she says after a while. "Go get my
pills, okay? They're in the bathroom, the first the first drawer. Um, you can
take everything. In that drawer."
Uriah nods. He's about to leave the room and do what she asked when he
remembers the cat from the day before. He hasn't seen it since, but now that he
thinks about it the bowl of water in the kitchen was less full this morning
that it was when he went to sleep. His back still hurts from that horror of a
couch. "What about the cat?"
Annoyance flicks across Quinn's face. "Cornelius?" she asks. Her hands flap at
her side. "He'll be fine. The townspeople come up here. They feed us."
"What if they don't, once they realize you're gone? I mean, do you know what'll
happen to him?"
Those eyes. They really are incredible, aren't they? Uriah can't seem to get
over them. And they're so clear. That's probably what the ocean looks like down
there.
"Oh. He'll die."
*
Andrew drives the car closer to the house and they load everything in the boot,
Quinn's suitcases and Andrew's quite copious shopping. Uriah forces Quinn to
leave a message for Qumar, who's supposed to take care of Cornelius while she
isn't here, and makes sure that her packing holds a modicum of sense (though
she's right, it's not easy: it's not like they know either where they're going
or how long, exactly, they're going to be there). Andrew smokes leaning against
the car door, unaffected by the whole process.
"You ready?" he asks when he sees Uriah walking towards him, getting redder and
redder with every step. Damned heat. Uriah nods.
He leans against the bonnet while they wait for Quinn. It takes a while for her
to arrive, but they wait in silence, sweat soaking through both their shirts.
It's a bit reassuring, honestly. Uriah was starting to question whether Andrew
was actually a human being – though that's probably not the best joke to make
around him.
Eventually Quinn makes it out the door. She flinches as soon as she steps out
in the sun, stilling in place and blinking several times before shielding her
eyes with her hands. Her suitcases drop on the ground with a thud. Uriah starts
forward, convinced for a second that she's going to collapse and they'll have
to drag her to the car unconscious, which would just serve to make the whole
situation even worse (and would effectively be kidnapping, now that he thinks
of it); but after a few minutes she raises her head wipes her hands on her
belly, leaving dark-ish stains on the fabric of her dress.
Uriah looks over at Andrew, who hasn't moved. He's looking down at the map, his
eyes carefully hidden behind his sunglasses. He does look up, however, when
Quinn picks up her suitcases and starts walking towards them. Her flip-flops
drag in the dust, raising small brownish clouds that stick to the pale skin of
her legs.
"Stop," says Andrew.
"What? What's wrong?" Her voice is still hoarse.
"We can't let you go with that hair. I can't believe I didn't realize that
earlier." He glances coldly at Uriah, looking about as pissed at him as he does
at himself. Uriah almost points out that he isn't technically in charge of
Quinn or, you know, anything, but he thinks better of it. "Get back in."
Quinn tangles a hand in her hair un-self-consciously. "What's wrong with my
hair?"
Andrew clucks his tongue, but doesn't answer. When he gets to Quinn's level he
grabs her forearm. She immediately starts struggling, as though his touch
burned. Andrew lets go and strides past her and into the house.
"How long have you been in there?" Uriah asks when he gets to her. She's
holding her forearm, shoulder curled inward in a protective stance.
She shrugs. "Long time."
"The laws have been around since the Coronation." She winces at the word. Uriah
doesn't ask. She probably has enough neuroses to keep him busy for however long
they're going to spend together, anyway. "Shoulder length tops."
This time she laughs. She drops the suitcase, which falls on its side, and
tangles both hands in her hair, messing it even further. She looks like a
demented witch. "Oh, you mean the hair," she says in a chuckle. "It's too long.
Yeah, figures. I didn't even think about that. He's smart, isn't he?"
"Who, Andrew?"
Quinn nods.
"I guess so. Doesn't take a genius to know that you need to get that fixed,
though."
She laughs again – at him, this time, or at least that's the impression Uriah
gets. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
She doesn't pick up her suitcase, leaving it knocked over in the dust. Uriah
glances at it, worrying, for a moment, that someone might walk by and take it,
but it's not like this is a traffic-heavy zone, so he just leaves it. He
follows Quinn into the house. Andrew's already sat in the kitchen, holding a
pair of fake-silver scissors in his hand; when they walk into the room he hands
them to Quinn. "Shoulder-length maximum," he repeats.
She looked fine before that, if slightly unconcerned, slightly absent – but as
soon as she sees the scissors she goes back to the girl Andrew and Uriah found
the day before, sitting prostrated in her dark living-room, ticking every box
for commonplace insanity. She shirks back, folding her hands over her mouth;
she almost topples into Uriah's chest but he steadies her, hands on her
shoulders. She struggles out of his grasp quickly, her teeth chattering.
"No," she mouths. The sound that makes it out of her lips is a whispered
wheeze, but her refusal is obvious.
Andrew clucks his tongue, we don't have time for this. He looks up at Uriah,
and Uriah is vexed, unexpectedly, to realize that Andrew only ever acknowledges
his presence in any given place when it serves his purpose. Then again, they're
not exactly friends, are they?
"Can you take care of this?" he asks. His eyes are cold, feelingless. "I have
to make calls, make sure the house is ready."
Uriah nods, not because he feels up to the task but purely as a knee-jerk
reaction to the power that exudes of Andrew, calm and commanding.
"Wait," he says when he rights himself.
Andrew is already getting his phone out of his pocket. Irritation flashes
across his face. "What is it?"
Quinn isn't moving. She's retreated into the corner of the kitchen near the
door, and crumpled on herself, her shoulders shaking. For all the franticness
of her body her face looks strangely composed, almost cool. Eventually, as
though realizing that they've all stopped on her behalf, trying to guess what
she's going to do next – it's true in Uriah's case, at least – she laces her
own hands, sliding her palms together.
"You can do it," she says.
Once again Uriah feels like there's a whole other conversation happening in the
room he's not privy to. Andrew has taken a step forward, and now he's almost
flush against Quinn, their eyes locked together. Uriah would have thought that
she'd been uncomfortable with that kind of proximity, but she doesn't protest.
She slides around him, their arms brushing together, and picks the scissors off
the table.
"You do it," she repeats stubbornly.
Up until now everything seemed to hold preternaturally still, like dust in a
slanted ray of light – the kitchen appliances had been gleaming almost
maliciously and the pouring sunlight had seemed a fog rising from under their
feet, imprisoning the three of them in a dream-like daze – Quinn and Andrew in
their own incandescent mythical circle and Uriah a little to the side, not
quite in the shade but not quite burning either. As soon as Andrew takes the
scissors from Quinn's outstretched fingers, though, the energy bleeds out of
everything and even the light deadens, flattening on the kitchen tiles. He does
it with a little sneer, like he can't believe he's wasting his time on
something as mundane as cutting hair.
"Sit."
Quinn obeys, dragging a chair in the middle of the room. He places himself
behind her and starts cutting the long strands methodically, the way he seems
to do everything. There is no emotion in the gesture; hair falls in thick locks
from Quinn's head and onto the ground, hitting the tiles with a soft, swishy
sound. It's completely different, and yet Uriah can't help but think back to
the blood slowly spreading on the ground around the head of those Militia
Mechanics on the highway.
"How short?" Andrew asks.
Quin shrugs.
Boredly, Andrew cuts it so close to her skull Uriah can almost see the bumps
and irregularities of it, like the surface of the moon Uriah remembers seeing
on TV as a kid, when they installed the first laboratories up there. It's a
strange look on her, makes her look like a farmer's daughter, one of those
girls Uriah sees walk into clubs once in a while, with their knee-length skirts
and their wide, innocent mouths, made-up like dolls. Usually they're back
within the week, and they follow him back into the alley, begging for some
crack. The only ones who take anything really strong are those who don't intend
to go back home, but when they come to him for cocaine their nails are glittery
their eyes circled purple; that close-shorn hair is already grown-out,
irregular spurts of wheat blond they haven't yet had the time to regularize.
He has no idea who Quinn is, Uriah realizes with a start. It's not a surprise,
really. He's already gotten used to her life on the island being surrounded by
a thick mist of secrecy, but... Andrew said she worked in the Mansion. She
must've had a life before that, parents, siblings maybe. Does she come from the
countryside, or is she one of those city girls for whom entering Nomi's service
is like taking the holy orders? He'll have to ask her at some point.
Meanwhile, he leans against the doorjamb, cocking his hip slightly. Quinn must
have alcohol somewhere in one of those cabinets – he hasn't drunk anything
since they left New York, and he sorely needs it if he's going to keep his
sanity through all this.
"Did someone already try?"
Andrew's fingers skid lightly on the scissors. Her eyes closed, Quinn doesn't
stir.
"What?" Andrew asks.
"Killing Nomi. Did someone already try?"
For a split second Andrew looks furious, as though Uriah had revealed crucial
information that mustn't be said out loud; but the next minute it's like it
never happened, he looks as composed and unimpressed as ever. He gives a light
shrug. "Of course. Don't you watch the news?"
Uriah is about to answer – he doesn't, actually, the world is depressing enough
without them – when Cornelius shifts heavily against his legs. Uriah looks
down, and the cat gives him a shake of head, as though to say, what are you
doing here. Quinn makes a little noise, waking from her stupor, and opens her
hands, sticking the heels together so that they open in a sort of flower-shape.
The cat hesitates. Maybe the hair is confusing him, Uriah thinks, with reason:
Quinn looks almost absurdly different without the messy, tangled swathes of
dirty-blond hair framing her face, and instead this almost shaven head, looking
slightly darker for the lack of hair. He makes up his mind eventually, though,
and shuffles towards Quinn, butting his nose against her fingers once or twice.
Andrew looks annoyed at Quinn's change in position, but he keeps cutting. It's
mostly finicking now, but Uriah isn't in the least surprised that Andrew is the
sort of guy who takes excruciating pains to do everything, including what he
didn't want to in the first place. Everything has to be perfect, right? If
anything, it bodes well for their common future.
"What happened to them?"
Andrew's gaze fixes on Uriah this time. He shrugs. "Tommy JR Anderson," he
recites, "2065. Executed. Ursula Swanson, 2071, sentenced to life imprisonment.
I think they tortured her, but that piece of information wasn't released." He
quirks an eyebrow at Uriah. "Do I need to continue?"
A glacial chill settles between Uriah's collarbones. He shakes his head. "So
that's –"
"Either we kill her or we live under her tyranny for as long as we live, and
probably a while after," Andrew interrupts. "Yes."
"I think her hair's good now."
Andrew casts a glance at the top of Quinn's head, as though he'd entirely
forgotten her existence. She doesn't notice, petting the cat with hard,
prodding fingers. He doesn't look pleased; he's frowning like an old friend
enduring the annoyance only out of familiar, grumbling fondness.
"You're right." He sets the scissors on the kitchen table and stands up,
grimacing slightly when his feet immediately gets swamped in hair.
Uriah doesn't say anything as Andrew makes the best work of the hair he can
with a broom borrowed in Quinn's closet. He sweeps most of it in corner, not
stooping to actually throwing it out.
"Why you, though?"
Andrew tilts his head, his eyes blank. "Why not?"
Uriah shrugs. "I just don't understand why you're the one who has to do it."
"It's exactly this kind of logic that has allowed her to stay in power for
three decades. Someone has to do it."
"You said you had your reasons," Uriah points out.
"I do."
Quinn flicks her fingers at the cat's nose, and he finally scuttles off,
offended; she reclines in the chair, suddenly bored, and runs a hand over her
skull. A horrified look dawns on her face. She laughs. "You butchered it," she
says to Andrew, without it being clear if she intends it as a reproach, a
compliment or a mere joke.
"What are they?" Uriah insists.
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Why?"
Andrew smirks. "Do I really need to explain?"
It is sort of obvious, in a twisted way, that Andrew wouldn't want to flaunt
his personal life and reasons for first class felony at a near-perfect
stranger; on the other hand, now that Uriah is in, he'd like to know for what,
exactly, he's fighting.
"If we're going to do this together, I'll have to know at one point of
another."
Andrew rests his palms on the back of the chair. He nudges Quinn's back, and
she springs up like a jack-in-a-box, a strange cross between a toy soldier and
a terrified child. Andrew grins a manufactured grin at her, brushing a hand
against her wrist. "We're going," he says.
Quinn shrugs. Uriah doesn't move, and Andrew doesn't make any movement to leave
either. His gaze sweeps over Uriah, as though he'd never really taken the time
to internalize what he looks like before and is only now taking in that mole
above his upper lip, the tousled hair and slightly defiant grin, memorizing his
face in case he needs it later. He cocks his head.
"You will," he says. It doesn't sound quite like a promise, but it's all there
is; Uriah will take it.
Before he has time to blink, the kitchen is empty. Uriah spares a quick, amused
look at the pile of hair bunched against the back wall and follows Quinn and
Andrew out the door.
*
By the time they actually start the car a few villagers have rounded around
them, watching them silently, wide-eyed. Quinn doesn't seem to see them; she
goes on about her business, her fingers clamping spasmodically on the dress she
put on for the occasion. It doesn't really flatter her figure, only serves to
make her look more sickly, with her thin, vein-stricken legs sticking comically
from under the flappy yellow fabric.
The villagers were there yesterday, too, actually. They started coming a few
hours after Uriah and Andrew arrived, gathering in small clumps at the end of
the dirt path without explanation. Quinn told them no one ever comes here, to
the top of the hill, but then again, if the way she was completely shut-in when
they arrived is any indication of how she usually lives. They're not
disruptive: they stand in small, dark clusters around the house and don't ask
questions, don't shout, don't even explain – only look at them with their heads
bowed, their eyes dark. There is something about them that's proprietary, the
rough-edged disapproval of people who've learned to be wary of strangers on
their land. It's understandable, really, especially if, like Uriah's been given
to understand, those people have more or less escaped the colonization.
So he doesn't acknowledge them and instead slides in the passenger seat of the
stuffy car. The leather of the seats is burning, but it's not exactly
surprising – the sun spares nothing on the island. Maybe on other circumstances
it would be reassuring, but as it is it's remarkably unnerving, what with them
probably being wanted felons and all.
But no police officer comes barging in to take a hold of them, and Uriah
relaxes. Quinn gathers the folds of her dress around her and shifts in the
backseat, her head bowed. There's a book on her lap but she doesn't look at it,
doesn't even seem to remember that she has it; instead she just sits there,
coiled, her arms wrapped around herself. She doesn't once glance out the window
as they leave the island.
"Let's go," Andrew says over the roaring of the engine.
Struck by a sudden need that someone, if not Quinn, do it, Uriah twists around
and fixes his gaze on the house, not blinking until it finally disappears in
the yellow cloud of dust and car exhaust fumes, the contours of it blurring as
though it had all been part of a hazy, distant dream.
*
Really, the drive was bound to be awkward.
Quinn is fidgeting on the back seat, sometimes glancing outside before
shrinking back into the seat as though the sight of the island was unbearable;
Andrew is driving with a focus driving doesn't usually require, and Uriah is
desperately trying to forget what they are, in fact, en route to do.
"So, do you have an actual plan?" he asks eventually, to break the silence.
He's not sure he actually wants to know, but either way, it's probably better
to be prepared.
Uriah can't decide if it's annoyance or pure force of habit, but either way
Andrew decides to answer him. "I have a – well, calling it house is maybe too
generous, I have a place in the Hamptons, not far from the Mansion, that my
mother bought before –" he breaks off, "we're going there. When we get there
I'll make Quinn draw up plans, supply it with the information I've got, and we
can figure it out from here. I already procured blueprints as precise as I
could get, and I've studied the security system. It's tricky, but once we find
a hacker it shouldn't be too difficult to get past the primary systems." He
glances over at Uriah. "Yesterday Quinn confirmed what I thought, which is that
there's a few secret passages. There are in all those houses, especially since
they closed up the chimneys."
Uriah whistles between his teeth. "You're prepared."
"What did you think?"
Uriah shrugs. "I don't know, everything you've done since I've met you has been
bordering on the psychotic, I'm just glad you have a plan."
For a second, Uriah looks like he might retort something, argue that he's not
psychotic, but he seems to think better of it – or to remind himself that Uriah
isn't worth the trouble or the explanation, Uriah isn't sure.
They make it out of the island. Uriah didn't think he'd be happy to leave the
sparkling blue ocean and sandy-haired locals, but as soon as they drive off the
bridge at Fort Myers he can't help but let out a little sigh. It feels as if
something he hadn't realized was curled around his vocal chords, quietly
suffocating him, had uncoiled its tentacles and suddenly left him free to
breathe. Andrew gives him a sharp, amused look.
The change is a bit dizzying, actually, and Uriah obviously isn't the only one
who thinks that. Of course Andrew is entirely unfazed as usual, but Quinn
presses her nose against the window, squinting as she tries to peer through the
dust the wheels raise and over the road. Florida isn't exactly a beautiful
state, though, especially after the Naples Massacre; the locals still haven't
recovered, and most of the state is barren, populated by dark-eyed men and
women whose hair is shorn more closely than most, keeping their heads bowed as
they walk under the heavy sun. It truly is hard to imagine that this same sun
used to be a symbol of carefree recklessness and a flourishing tourist
industry. People stay out of Naples, now. Uriah has never been there himself,
tempt the devil and all that, but when Kyle had come back to New York he'd
talked of a near-ghost town, where the beaches are covered with heaps of debris
and waste so that no one can get to the ocean.
But Uriah could bet on his life that Quinn knows nothing of that. She doesn't
look enthralled, exactly; her expression is a mix of wild, almost feral fear
and careful amazement. Her eyes are wide and unblinking, and even from where he
is, twisting on the front seat to catch occasional glances of both her and the
landscape, it's hard to see more when the eye falls on that intense,
carnivorous blue.
"You've never left the island?" Uriah asks, but she doesn't answer, doesn't
even look like she's heard him. When he repeats himself and doesn't get much
more of a reaction, he gives up.
Their first stop is in a diner off the road. They haven't been driving that
long, but they had breakfast early and then there was all the packing and the
preparing to go. Besides, stress makes for hunger, so Uriah badgers Andrew
until he agrees that maybe it's a good idea to get lunch before driving through
the whole country. It's not that Uriah is bored of driving, but Andrew isn't
the most lively conversation partner, and neither is Quinn; at least food will
occupy him for a while, and if he gets stuffed he'll be more likely to forget
his jittery nerves and his constant, thrumming fear. Maybe he could even
convince Andrew to stay the night, and get some sleep. Last night wasn't very
restful.
They understand their mistake as soon as they step out of the car. A man,
probably the owner, is standing in front of a sign that proclaims, in sickly
green neon, LEON'S BURGERS. His face is leathery and parched and crinkles in
surprise when he sees them.
"Hello," he greets when they get out of the car.
They're standing as though they were in a western, Uriah realizes after a few
seconds of silent staring: Andrew has his hands in his pockets, out of which
Uriah is reasonably sure he could whip out a few knives and even maybe a gun;
Quinn has her pelvis thrusted out, her face fierce; and even Uriah's stance,
though he didn't realize it before now, is clearly defensive. Oh god, hey're
not even going to make it through one state. That's just great.
"Hello," he answers, because someone has to. "Can we eat?"
The man seems to hesitate, rocking back on his heels. He's chewing on
something, his face contorting rhythmically. It's strangely fascinating.
"Sure," he says after a while. He takes a step forward. "'m Robb," he
volunteers, holding out a hand at Andrew but still looking warily between Uriah
and Quinn.
"Not Leon?"
Robb's head whips back to Uriah. "Nah, Leon was my daddy."
That closes the conversation; Robb leads them inside and cleans a table for
them in the middle of the room, even holding out a chair for Quinn. She doesn't
thank him, sitting absently with her hands clutching the hem of her dress, but
he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, Andrew and her seem to be more similar than
Uriah had pegged them at first: they have the same complete disregard for
anyone that doesn't exist inside their own privileged circle and the same airy,
unconcerned attitude. The two of them eat quietly, undisturbed by the greasy,
rheumy-eyed patrons who don't even bother trying to be discreet as they stare.
Their only saving grace is that they don't actually ask questions or attempt
contact in any way; but Uriah can't find it in him to eat as heartily as he
would've weren't he so intently scrutinized.
Eventually, though, they all go through their burgers and fries. Andrew wipes
his mouth primly and Uriah looks just in time to see Quinn flash him a smile,
wide and sharp-toothed, over the rim of her glass. They only drink water:
Andrew has declared a veto on alcohol until they get to the Hamptons, and
though Uriah agrees on principle, he could definitely use some vodka to make
this more weird than it is. Because it is weird – so, so very weird.
By the time they thank Robb and pay him, the patrons seem to have decided they
hold no interest after all and have returned to their baseball game, head
tipped back to watch as the players exhaust themselves on the grainy screen.
Andrew seems faintly amused; he laughs quietly when Uriah starts eating as soon
as the company turns their head, as though he thought such an attitude to be
the height of delicacy. Quinn reclines in her chair and picks fries from
Uriah's plate, dipping them in salad dressing despite Uriah's vehement
protestations ("Who does that?" Quinn just shrugs).
The next leg of the car ride is markedly more relaxed. Though Andrew is still
not exactly a big talker, he seems to have gotten the stick partly out of his
ass, and he makes reluctant, slightly clipped conversation. Quinn joins in once
in a while with her whimsy thoughts, exclaiming about the endlessly yellow
landscape they encounter all through Florida. Around five the heat stops
beating down on the car and the three of them wind down completely, falling
into lazy patterns of conversation.
Uriah learns more Andrew during that day than he had during the whole of their
trip to Florida in the first place. Though he doesn't say it outright, the fact
that they've got Quinn with them and are on their way to the Hamptons seems to
have reassured him, and he radiates a fierce sort of energy. He tells Uriah
that his job is not as gruesome as it sounds like, but doesn't get into it;
after that it's all talk about music, women, cinema and the general state of
politics and economics. It really is like any other conversation Uriah could
have with a friend, and the untold difference – where they're going, what
they're doing, the fact that Uriah's life is technically Andrew's and he can do
what he wants with it – isn't all that different from the undercurrent tension
that occupies any conversation Uriah has with someone who doesn't know that
what he does to pay is rent is deal drugs.
Andrew asks him a little about that. It's liberating, in a way, to talk about
it to someone whose occupation is significantly worse, and Uriah can't say he
doesn't enjoy it. He has been conscious for a while that his morals are skewed,
and in the modern world it's difficult to remember what life and death stand
for when humans fall like flies while Mechanics live on for decades. Uriah has
always looked at them with envy mixed with a sort of wonder. The few Mechanics
he was intimate enough with to ask told him they didn't really think about it.
Living forever, as it turns out, isn't all that exciting. Uriah can't say he
was all that surprised. After all, he is one of the primary dealers of H54, and
what better proof than drugs to drive home the point that everyone eventually
gets bored of what they have?
Andrew isn't exactly the funniest of guys, and he has nothing in common with
any of the people Uriah met in his admittedly quite short – but eventful –
life. His humor is dry, and his past is full of patches of darkness he won't
talk about. Under the age of twenty he refuses to disclose anything about his
life, and it makes Uriah wonder what kind of childhood can be so strange or so
awful that someone wouldn't even want to remember it. But he doesn't pry;
instead he talks about his own family. It wasn't all sunshine and roses either,
and he can't say he relishes the memory of leaving the parental home, but it's
part of his life. You can't just erase it, can you? Uriah thought he could, at
first, and look how that turned out.
Anyway, Andrew isn't all that bad. He's strange, sure, he's arrogant and
haughty and secretive, but Uriah's spent all his life hanging out with junkies
and drug dealers. He's used to eccentric people; hell, he likes them. Back home
he was bored, so bored: he wanted all that glitter and recklessness, the people
with loud voices and louder opinions dancing with no coordination in pools of
blue light. He wanted adventure and the big city. This – after all you can't
really get a better adventure, can you?
Quinn seems to agree too. She doesn't exactly get more normal as the day
progresses – Uriah honestly has trouble even imagining how that would be, and
besides, from what he understands her condition is, well, that – but she
sometimes takes part in their conversation with either completely unrelated or
curiously accurate remarks, her voice fluty and amused, as though holding on to
a private joke none of them can understand. Andrew tolerates her, and after a
while Uriah understands that he holds her in a singular regard. That link
between them, which apparently has to do with Andrew's mother, and which Uriah
thought only Quinn recognized, is a tether between them, and Andrew seems to
have for her a strange and careful kind of deference.
The seriousness only returns to them after they leave Florida. They are forced
to stop at a rest area by Quinn persistent whining (and a rather comical
argument, between two people so arguably mysterious and unusual: "I need to go
to the bathroom." "Why didn't you go in that restaurant?" "I didn't want to. It
was filthy." "We can't stop every twenty minutes," so on and so forth), and
Andrew whips out his laptop from his bag as they wait. He shields it from
Uriah's sight, of course, but something he sees seems to alarm him.
"What is it?" Uriah asks.
Andrew barely turns around, though the slight surprise in his eyes shows that
he had, once again, forgotten that Uriah was even there. He really needs to
stop doing that. "Nothing."
"Nothing nothing, or nothing something you don't want me to know?"
Andrew clucks his tongue. "None of your business."
Your business is my business, Uriah thinks about saying, but then figures it
would be a little cliché. "Tell me," he says instead. Okay, so he's a bit
bored. In his defense, he's been sitting in that car for most of the last week.
"It doesn't concern you."
Uriah opens his mouth to retort something that will probably be at least ten
percent relevant and ninety percent annoying, but Andrew cuts him off by taking
out his phone and tapping out a number. He doesn't even glance at Uriah as he
gets out of the car. Uriah sticks his nose to the window, because, well, he has
nothing else to do; though he knows if he actually gets out and blatantly
listens Andrew will probably have his ass, which is not something Uriah is
willing to risk. He loves his ass; it's a great ass.
Andrew looks markedly more agitated than usual. He's frowning, and he looks
suspicious, his fingers twitching against his thigh in what Uriah is starting
to recognize as a sign of frustration. Quinn still isn't back from the
bathroom, Uriah notices. Did she decide to make a run for it? She wouldn't go
far, with those chicken legs of her, and it's not like she's in top physical
form either.
Uriah decides to tell Andrew as soon as he finishes his call, but it drags on.
Andrew gets a little sedate, the wrinkle between his eyes smoothing out as his
interlocutor talks in his ear. Maybe it's good news. Maybe he doesn't need to
kill Nomi for whatever reason, and he's going to hang up and tell Uriah he can
go. Though now Uriah can't tell he isn't a little excited about it. It's
like... if you're going to go on a mission suicide, best make it big, you know?
Looking at Andrew, Uriah realizes once more that he doesn't look like anything
he is. He could pass for a soldier, what with the short hair and nondescript
appearance, but even for that there's something too delicate and somewhat fuzzy
in his traits, not defined or hardened enough to qualify him as a gun-wielding
drone. He does wield guns, though, and rather admirably, from what Uriah's seen
– though not much since his weapons of choice seem to be different and somewhat
exotic. Uriah wouldn't say no to seeing less of the saw, he's not going to lie.
But the point is, the weapons that seem so incongruous when Uriah is imagining
them in his hands seem to become an extension of his body as soon as he dons
them; the saw whirred, even in the silence, and there was something sharp and
ferociously efficacious in the way Andrew handled it, two fingers pressed on
the handle.
Even though he is, in essence, an average-looking man, exactly the type that
gets lost easily in a crowd – which Uriah assumes is an advantage for him –,
after seeing him cut into that Mechanic's skull it's hard to juxtapose the two
together, and it's even harder now that Uriah has travelled with him and
ascertained that he is not, in fact, a killer robot, but rather a human being
with emotions and even, apparently, a capacity for feelings – though that
remains to be proven. It's fascinating, in a way Uriah hasn't found anything
truly fascinating since he used to haunt the modern art exhibitions in San
Francisco as a teenager, spending long hours roaming the large, white-walled
rooms like a ghost.
He shakes his head to focus his thoughts; Andrew has been keeping silent for
almost the whole exchange, standing motionless with the phone stuck to his ear.
Then he says a few things, his mouth tight and curt and he hangs up. He walks
back into the car, glancing at Uriah in a way that says he's not at all fooled
and knows perfectly that Uriah was trying to listen. Uriah shrugs, unconcerned.
"Where's Quinn?" Andrew asks after a second, putting both his laptop and his
phone back in his bag.
Uriah shrugs again, this time more tightly. "Dunno. I was thinking –"
"Go see what she's doing," Andrew orders.
"You do know I'm not your servant, right? I mean, isn't that something we
discussed?"
Andrew gives him a Look; Uriah decides to report the conversation to another,
more appropriate time. Sometimes you've got to pick your battles.
He walks into the rest area. He feels weird poking his head into the ladies'
lavatory, so he knocks a few times. "Quinn?" he asks tentatively; then, when no
response is forthcoming, a little louder.
A woman storms out of the lavatory and throws him an outraged look, clutching
her baby closer to her chest. Uriah takes advantage of the occasion to put his
foot in the door and take a rapid glance inside: and who does he see but Quinn,
looking blissfully unconcerned and applying lipstick in front of the mirror.
"Quinn," Uriah says flatly.
Quinn turns to him, pressing her lips together to even out the lipstick. It's a
nice shade, dark burgundy; though it makes her look even more sickly, makes her
veins stand out, slightly apparent under the almost-translucent skin. The
overall impression is definitely arresting – she looks like a cross between a
Mechanic and a small-town zombie. "Is everything okay?"
Uriah nods. "What's taking so long?"
Another woman walks out of the cubicle. Her mouth falls into an o-shape when
she sees Uriah and she makes a shooing motion with her hands. "Get out,
pervert!"
Uriah does, though not before beckoning Quinn along. "Come on."
Quinn gives him a look like she thinks he's being over-the-top, but she follows
him anyway. Uriah is starting to be a little fed-up with people acting superior
with him, honestly. What is it with them? A basket case and a murderer, and yet
they seem to think their sole mission is to be jerks to him, the unique sane
and reasonably cool person in their little group?
"What were you doing in there?" Uriah asks as soon as she's out, his fingers
closing around her arm.
She struggles free. "You know," she says with no sarcasm, only a light quirk of
her lips, like she's already forgotten what the question was about, and doesn't
really care either way.
But then, in a flash, as seems to be her habit, her face changes completely.
She grabs onto Uriah's arm, her eyes drop to the ground and she starts talking,
at the same time very fast and very low. "I was thinking about the Coronation,"
she says, her voice faraway, "about the Coronation, you remember? You said – I
think there were fireworks, but I didn't see the fireworks. Everyone saw the
fireworks except me. At the very beginning, you know?" Uriah remembers the way
she'd jolted the first time he'd said the word – Coronation, the way everyone
says it –, like it was something terrible she had been trying really hard to
put out of her mind. "I think they set the barn on fire. After the war... not
many people left in my mother's house, you know? But they came long before, the
Coronation I mean, long before the Coronation. We just kept waiting. It wasn't
that bad, that's what my daddy said at the time, the occupation could've been
worse, and then it just sort of blew over, and you know I was small, really
small... Like a baby I mean, four or five." She gains a slight twang as she
talks, a midwestern turn that flattens her vowels and makes the whole stream of
words sound strangely nasal. "But that was such a party." She looks up at him,
her eyes sparkling. Uriah remembers – such a party that night indeed, he wasn't
born yet but his parents told him afterwards, showed him photographs: the best
national holiday since the Awaknening, and wasn't that nice? The conquerors
throwing a party for those they'd conquered. "Everyone was dancing. There was
music, we watched on the TV, when she put on the crown... my mother said
something to me, she said, Look at that woman, I know everyone hates her and I
do too but you've gotta admit she's got some balls, she's got something. And
she was right, you know?" Her eyes cloud over. "It's the other one they never
think about, the one in the shadows. That one's the real monster. The others
are just –" she rights herself, waves a disdainful hand. She looks sick and
exhausted, pathetic in the sleepless junkie way Uriah knows all too well. "The
others are nothing compared to her, even Nomi."
Her resentment seems so strong, so ferocious for someone who's as weak as she
is, that Uriah gets the sense that she might know her even more personally than
he'd suspected. He makes a mental note to ask Andrew about it. Not that he's
likely to say anything, but Uriah can try, right?
"Are you okay?" he asks, for lack of something better to say.
Quinn looks at him, her eyes hollow. She nods and stumbles out of Uriah's hold,
her head still ducked. "Sometimes I just remember."
When they come back to the car Andrew is looking more agitated than Uriah has
ever seen him – which, granted, is not much, but still. "Where were you?" he
snaps. "Did you get lost on your way to the bathroom?" He slides into the car,
slamming his door closed with a mumbled, "Goddammit."
Uriah blinks. "Right."
Quinn doesn't seem to be remotely perturbed by Andrew's bad temper. They drive
for another few hours – Uriah offers to take over a few times but Andrew
systematically declines, though Uriah doesn't exactly see what damage he could
do when Andrew is armed and driving into a wall would make him just as dead as
Andrew. But he doesn't complain; he leans against the window and pillows his
head in his crossed arms, letting the music Andrew eventually agrees to put on
lull him to sleep.
His dreams are populated with things strange and chaotic, not unlike an acid
trip. In one of them the fantastical figure of the queen, Nomi, glides to him,
her long red hair billowing behind her. She sneers, her heels clicking on the
ground, and kneels next to where Uriah is lying on the ground, terrified, only
to murmur – though he has to strain to hear: "I'll burn your heart out," and
Uriah can distinguish a figure in the background – a long-limbed creature, in
all points identical to Nomi except for her white hair and clothes, a gauzy
dress that flutters down to her ankles and sparkles with venomous-looking gems
at the collar. She smiles at him, a smile so calculating and terrifying,
pervaded with a monster's weakness, the vulnerability borne out of pain and
transmogrified into strength, steely and unbending. Uriah opens his mouth, but
nothing comes out. I didn't want to, he tries to say, to scream, to save his
skin – but who is he without words? He's always been able to speak his way out
of bad situations. I didn't –
He jerks awake. His head hits the window. "Shit," he says, his voice tight. He
turns to Andrew. "What the hell?"
"You were having a nightmare. You were talking; it was annoying." – which Uriah
is going to take as an expression of concern, because Andrew is taking to him
and Uriah will not be convinced otherwise. Sure, it's going to be a strange
friendship, but who cares? Uriah's life has never been on the side of the
conventional.
He shakes his head a few times, trying to put his thoughts in order. He sneaks
a glance at the backseat: Quinn is lying curled up on herself, sleeping
soundlessly. She doesn't even seem to be breathing, actually, and she looks
every bit like the woman Uriah remembers gasping at the first time he saw her,
prostrated in her own living-room.
He turns back to Andrew, slumping in his seat. "So what's the plan?" he asks,
glancing aimlessly outside. The night has fallen and the sky is beautiful,
stricken with the sort of colors that always look unnatural up there, like
arctic lights – pink and indigo and a light, unripe green. In fact it looks
more like a dawn than it does nightfall.
"We're going to stop somewhere for the night," says Andrew.
"Thank god," Uriah sighs. "But after that? What was... I mean, are the plans
changing?"
Honestly, he's fishing, because he wants to know what that phone-call was about
and if he asks directly there's a hundred and ten percent chance he's going to
get shot down. But he seems to have struck a nerve – entirely by chance,
apparently – because Andrew tenses up. He doesn't say anything for a few
minutes, during which Uriah starts fidgeting and observes the roadsigns. Which
is when he notices.
"Wait," he says. Andrew winces a little. "That's not – we're not going back to
New York."
"No," says Andrew.
"Where are we going? Does that have something to do with that phone call?"
"Change of plans," Andrew says curtly.
"To what? Didn't we agree that you were telling me what you were doing so I
could help you?"
"No. You said that."
Uriah shakes his head, like that's a minor detail. It is. It is! They're going
who-knows-the-hell-where and he needs to know why. "Whatever. Where are we
going?"
"LA."
The name shocks Uriah a little, resonates low in his insides. It's stupid, but
it reminds of home; simply because when he was a kid sometimes he and his
parents used to go there in the holidays, because it wasn't that far and they
liked the glitz and the glamour. That's probably what sparked his own interest
for it, actually.
"I'm not exactly..." he chews a little on his bottom lip, "welcome back there,
actually. Bit of a persona non grata, if you catch my drift."
For a second Andrew looks like he's going to get pissed, but he just shrugs. "I
don't exactly plan on parading the town. You'll be fine."
"Okay." Uriah only waits a few seconds before going back to it: "So why are we
going to LA?"
"You're unbearable."
"But you love me." Andrew glares at him. "Okay, you don't love me yet. But it's
going to come, you'll see. Even murderers love me. Murderers love me
especially."
"Shut up."
"Why are we going to LA?"
Andrew gives what could be misconstrued as a smile, if you really wanted to.
"You never give up, do you?"
"One of my many qualities. Just tell me, get it over with. You'll see, I'm a
mine of useful ideas."
Andrew snorts. "I don't doubt it."
"I helped you with Quinn, didn't I?"
Andrew's eyes get a little fierce. "I think she made the choice herself."
Uriah puts his hands up in sign of peace. "You'll feel lighter, I promise."
Andrew looks like he might say something horribly sappy along the lines of
don't promise something you can't guarantee, kid, like in one of those old
cowboy movies, but he just sighs. "I guess I could tell you," he says
eventually, after a protracted silence where he looks into the yellowish trace
his headlights leave on the highway. "I was talking to Cecil Henderson on the
phone."
"Cecil – you mean Cecil Henderson, the Minister of Finances?"
Andrew's lips quirk up, like he's satisfied that Uriah's at least been
following national politics while he was running his little business. "The one
and only."
"What did he want to talk to you for?"
Andrew stiffens. "It appears he got my contact information by some way or
other, and it didn't take him long to figure out what I do, and that I was the
author of the Mechanic Muders." He purses his lips at the name, like it's
supremely tasteless. It is, to a certain measure – like all the names the
tabloids give to crimes, complete with the half-assed mythology and public fear
mixed with veneration. They made a big deal of it in the beginning – a killer
that targeted only Mechanics, and high-placed ones at that (though most
Mechanics are powerful, so that wasn't really relevant), that was emotionless
and cool, cut into their brains and took their brand with as a trophy. In some
underground circles he's still a revolutionary icon, and they adore a hooded,
faceless figure that Uriah is now capable to appreciate looks nothing like
Andrew, with broad shoulders and a long, gleaming knife. "Anyway, he appears to
be – how should I put it – displeased with our fearsome leader, and he heard of
my plan to eliminate her." This, Uriah can tell, even though Andrew isn't
looking at him but at the road, his eyes fixed and unblinking, is alarming to
him: whatever his reasons are, this plan is important to him and the fact that
someone other than him knows about it frightens him. "He informed me that Nomi
is going to be landing at LAX in a week exactly, and is going to benefit from
less security than usual. He informed me that he sent a team of operatives to
help us put a plan into place and execute it."
"How do you know it's not a trap?"
"I don't. But I know that if it turns out to be true, it's the best opportunity
we have. It it isn't, Henderson obviously knows of my whereabouts and will have
no trouble figuring out where I am going or how to get to me. If he wanted me
dead I'd wager I would already be lying somewhere in a morgue. Nomi isn't
exactly pleased with my... extra-curricular activities," he says with a thin
smile.
"So what is this, a conjuration?"
"I guess you could say that," Andrew agrees.
Uriah buries himself into his seat. It's time they stop somewhere, seriously.
His ass feels like it's going to fall off. "So what about that team? Are they
–"
"No," Andrew says shortly. "I don't work with Mechanics." He says it with a
look that suggests he only has one kind of encounters with Mechanics, and it's
the kind where they end up dead. O – kay then.
"Well," Uriah says; he can feel his eyelids dropping closed again, but he
doesn't particularly want to get another one of those strange dreams. The
horizon is full of lights, headlights and the now fully-dark sky, dotted in
places with stars. "Alea jacta est, I guess."
Andrew's unusually soft laugh, made almost sentimental with tiredness,
accompanies him into the darkness of sleep.
***** Chapter 6 *****
4.
From the beginning, it feels wrong.
There's a law somewhere, in some fucking book that rules the universe, that
this kind of things can never be easy. It doesn't have to be a catastrophe; but
something always goes wrong, be it a strap on a backpack or an exit blocked by
a cleaning lady. This, though – this has been going completely flawlessly since
the five of them put a foot in the airport, dressed as casually as possible.
There is Andrew, of course, who Uriah is sticking close to because you never
know when you may need a serial killer in this kind of situation, and then the
three people of Henderson's team, Tara, a Native ex-Marine specialized in
explosives, Kieron, their master hacker, a surprisingly beefy guy with too many
tattoos to count, and Henley, the resident planner, who looks so ordinary Uriah
has trouble remembering his face from one encounter to the other. According to
them, he wanted to 'do this on the down low,' whatever that means. Uriah is
pretty sure nothing what they're doing is the exact contrary of 'down low'.
Uriah glances at the arrival board nervously, fingering his micro on his wrist,
under his sleeve. He's usually more professional than this, has made countless
dangerous drops in crowded places and hasn't gotten caught once (well – not
more than once, at least), but there's something about this that just rubs him
the wrong way. The three Stooges are nice enough (Andrew had looked at him
blankly when he'd made that reference, there's definitely nothing to take from
this one) but if something goes South there's no way they can all escape the
bulk of Nomi's security, especially given how she rarely travels with less than
a full detail since, as Uriah now knows thanks to Andrew's generous
information-giving, she was attacked two months ago by a lone sniper in New
York. Bit suicidal, if you want Uriah's opinion (Andrew didn't. Surprise).
"Stop fidgeting," Andrew's dry voice crackles in his com.
Uriah jumps. "How -"
"I'm on the other side of the room, you moron. Why don't you just scream what
we're here for while you're at it?"
Uriah bristles. He's a professional. He opens his cellphone, pretending to talk
into it. "I have a bad feeling about this."
"Oh my god," Andrew deadpans. He's actually pretty funny, once you get that
stick out his ass; pity most of it is at Uriah's expense. "Call it off, guys,
the newbie's got a bad feelings. Wait, don't tell me – you had a premonitory
dream, too?"
The whole team laughs. Uriah huffs. "Well, don't say I haven't warned you when
everything goes to shit."
Andrew is probably on his way to delivering his own witty repartee when
Henley's voice rises in the coms. "Here they are," she warns; Uriah's gaze
immediately focuses on the West area of the airport, where he can see Nomi's
plane landing through the glass.
"Whew," he whistles between his teeth. "She doesn't exactly travel cheap, does
she?"
The rest of the team pay no attention to him. Uriah sees Andrew make a casual-
looking sign across from him, and Tara files quietly to the reception area,
trailing a black suitcase behind him. Kieron follows soon after, duly equipped
with press credentials and a camera – fake, Uriah knows, and filled with a
broken-down AKA 47 which, according to him, he can assemble in twenty seconds
flat. Uriah didn't ask for a demonstration; he's scary enough even without
weapons.
The foreboding doesn't leave Uriah, but he follows the plan like he was told.
He isn't usually one for this type of expeditions, but even he knows that it's
enough that one of them doesn't do exactly what they're supposed to for it all
to go awry, and he'd rather it didn't. The Militia isn't known for its tendency
to be merciful. He tugs his sleeve back down and heads for Andrew. Consciously
or not, they've left most of the heavy lifting to the others. Uriah suspects
it's because Andrew doesn't entirely trust Henderson, and Uriah can't really
fault him for that, even though Andrew's distaste seems to come from pure
hatred of the whole species. It'd been a long time since Uriah had met people
like him, usually the extremists tend to live in the countryside. Either way,
it's common knowledge that Henderson is kind of a snake. He even looks the
part: skinny and taut, with long shiny black hair that he usually wears in
sleek ponytail that brushes his ankles, always wearing three-thousand dollar
suits and looking shiftier than should be allowed. Now that he thinks about it,
it doesn't exactly surprise Uriah that he would engineer this kind of coup,
even though to what purpose he doesn't want to think. Andrew must know that
their plans for the future are most likely diametrically opposed – he's
protecting himself, that's all.
Uriah positions himself near one of the wider exits, keeping guard from under a
well-worn edition of an old thriller, something about noir New York and a femme
fatale. It makes him think about Thema, though why, he has no idea – she's
about as far from a femme fatale as they come – and he laughs a little into his
sleeve, amused. The woman next to him throws him a dirty look.
Nomi's security detail starts spilling into the airport, sticking close to the
glass wall. They're far from inconspicuous, with their sunglasses, black suits
and the obvious bulge of their guns under the pressed lapels. A fan of
disguise, Uriah can't help scoffing to himself; the woman scoots farther from
him, tugging her kid by the hand. He searches Andrew in the thick crowd.
Honestly, his role here isn't exactly tremendous: the most of his job in this
operation consisted in bribing the airport employees, which he did well – and
fast – and finding them somewhere to stay through his numerous connections. You
can say what you want about the drug business, it's usually friendly. Now the
only thing he has to do is wait for this to either succeed or go south, get
them out of here and hightail out of the state before someone figures them out.
But Uriah hasn't been thinking about the repercussions of what they're about to
do – in fact, he's been avoiding thinking about it. He's fine with it on a
conceptual level, Nomi deserves more than death for all she's done, but – well,
without her, everything's going to go batshit, there's no two ways about it.
Uriah isn't exactly relishing the thought.
He glances back at the airport, checking the team's positions. Kieron's
mingling with the journalists, talking with one of them while keeping an eye on
Nomi's detail. The cord won't be hard to go through, but they're counting on
the distraction Tara has to provide afterwards to catch Nomi unawares. They
wouldn't have a chance against the detail alone, Uriah knows – they're highly
trained, most of them Mechanics, and most of them have made it their life duty
to protect Nomi. This is how this kind of job works. Tara is lounging against
the wall, a few paces from the detail, keeping an eye on Nomi's progress in the
hospital aisle. Uriah can't see Andrew, but if everything's going according to
plan as it seems to he should be only a few paces away, in Uriah's blind spot,
monitoring the whole thing. There are toilets in that area, and he needs to
talk without being disturbed or seen. Uriah can't help but thinking it's better
he's not heavily involved in the action. You never know, with those government
types – it's been Uriah's motto for years that they always screw you over, and
this crew, friendly or not, hasn't convinced him of the contrary.
He thinks about Quinn, back at the hideout. She'd made a striking picture in
the morning light, and it's the only thing Uriah can remember before they left,
her face in the light of dawn, sickly and strangely peaceful. "So you don't
need me then?" she'd asked, smiling a prophet's smile over the rim of her
coffee mug.
Andrew has looked at her, face unreadable as always. "Sorry. We'll take you
back to Captiva as soon as we can."
Quinn had flipped her hair back. One of her fingers had caught in the knotted-
up blond, and she'd tugged on it with surprising vivacity, considering the hour
of the day and her ever-sickly condition. "It's okay. Don't get killed."
"We won't," Uriah had spoken up.
Quinn's eyes had settled on him, floating, shining from the inside. "Don't make
promises you can't keep," she'd whispered in the still pregnant darkness, and
then Andrew had led Uriah away and Uriah had only been able to look at her
ghost-like silhouette gradually disappearing in the overhead window. Maybe she
was really waving them goodbye; maybe it was just Uriah's imagination.
"Everyone going okay on your side?" Henley's voice tears him out of his
reverie.
He casts a look around him: the exit path is clear, no one seems to have been
alerted of their presence. "Clear," he says.
After that there's a lot of silence. That's one of the things that makes him
comfortable about their team: the way they walk, three killers with ballerina
feet. At least junkies stumble and signal their presence, unfailingly, by
knocking over some trinket or other and then looking up with those deer-in-the-
headlights eyes, wide and uncomprehending. But those, Andrew included, seem to
do everything in silence, moving among the crowds like feline and carrying with
the silent death. It doesn't sit right with Uriah, that's all. It makes his
skin crawl.
He bears it, though, because – well, because this is Nomi and Uriah, like
everyone on the planet that isn't one of theirs, has some kind of deep-buried
hatred for her and her kind. It's hard to forget having been colonised, and
when do things like the things they did to Quinn – Uriah doesn't know what that
is exactly, but he's seen enough to understand that it's probably some
particularly horrible brand of torture – there's just no reason not to want to
boot them out. Nomi's been reigning over them the whole time, Uriah's seen her
too, resplendent on the TV screen with the shadow of her sister at her back,
talking about liberation and economic golden age. He's listened to her promises
and he's seen his parents believed, has even believed a few of them himself –
and now, well, now's the time for retribution. It doesn't mean he doesn't want
to know what exactly is Andrew's beef with her, why it's so personal and why it
seems the be the only thing driving him; it just means that he's in. It can be
his revenge too.
It happens fast. Tara reaches into her suitcase, flings two cases of tear gas
on the ground. The detail lunges forward, trying to catch her, but she takes
the gun from the inside of her jacket. Two shots crack in the air and the first
two guards fall backwards, probably not dead but knocked out for the moment.
Uriah acts out the panic with the rest of the crowd, careful not to let them
sweep him up in their frenzy, and continues to survey the progress of the crew.
Kieron says a word to the journalists, follows them to the side where they've
all whipped out their cameras and are busy documenting the whole thing. He's
not going to move for a while, if everything goes right.
But it doesn't – of course it doesn't. Tara's progress is hindered with one
guard who's apparently more resistant than the others, or has managed to shield
his face from the gas. It's specifically engineered for Mechanics, strong
enough to knock a horse; Tara's got her mask over her mouth and nose, a gun in
one hand and her backpack in the other. She's supposed to plant two bombs to
take out the rest of the detail – Uriah's pretty sure she's got one of them
covered, but Henley's the one with the remote and Tara is too close to the
detonation point for now not to be taken out too. The aim is not to let the
detail regroup before they have a chance to act on the distraction caused by
the gas and get to Nomi. If they can't take her out right now – they'll need to
make sure she's dead, anyway, and Uriah's reasonably sure Andrew wants to take
care of it himself – they'll subdue her and take her away. The one ingredient
that can't be disposed with is the most volatile: speed.
Andrew clucks his tongue in the comm. "Do I need to move?" he asks Henley.
Henley doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Uriah tries to act casual, not
that anyone's looking with the mayhem going on. The alarms are blaring,
security is trying to get involved in the scuffle without getting knocked down
by the gas, like the first fools that stepped into the fumes, and both the
local police and the Militia are going to be here sooner rather than later.
They need to do something – act now, or risk to lose their window.
Uriah doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Henley speaks again, his
voice cold and composed. "No. Don't do anything; Kieron, you help her. We'll
move in to seize Nomi as soon as she's clear. Understood?"
"Wilco," Kieron says in the comm. Apparently he's picked on the military lingo,
Uriah notices idly. "I'm going in."
He shoves the other journalists out of his way, opening the camera case. He
wasn't lying about his talents, Uriah remarks to himself as the rifle emerges
between his hands and he fires a few shots at the glass, making the guards turn
sharply in his direction. The distraction gives Tara the opportunity to
struggle out of her attacker's grasp and she puts him down in a few swings,
dealing him a sharp kick in the stomach and another in the neck. The Mechanics
have a thick skin, though; it takes about ten times what it takes to take down
a normal human to get them down, and even then, killing them is a whole other
business. Which, in fact, is exactly why H50 would've made Uriah such a good
profit – human drugs work nothing on them, and there's just no silver lining,
everyone gets tired of being what they are at some point, humans and machines
alike.
The scuffle devolves into gunfire, and Uriah slides closer to the exit, in case
they need to hightail out of the place. The part of the convoy's that's got
Nomi tight inside her own private detail has stopped in the middle of the
aiport, probably waiting for the danger to be clear. They can't go back into
the plane, since it's already rolled back to the hangar, and there's no way out
behind them, the back of the airport is an impasse. As for continuing ahead,
Uriah is going to wager none of Nomi's lapdogs is stupid enough to thing they
can make it through his haze of smoke, especially with all these guns blazing.
It would make a great headline, though: President Taken Out by Stray Bullet.
Ha.
He's lost sight of Tara, but she recalls herself to his attention by panting
into the comm, "It's fine. The second one's in place."
Henley makes a noise of agreement. "Okay. Kieron, you follow her lead, I want
you two out of there in two minutes. I have to activate them sooner rather than
later, either way we won't have an exit route."
Uriah would be inclined to agree: from the corner of his eye he can spot the
door behind him and there are police cars pulling up, surrounding the building.
They could probably still make it out with while they're organizing their
forces, especially given the amount of panicked civilians spilling out the
building and the fact that most of the local police officers are human, at
least according to the research they did for the operation. But if they wait
too long it won't be possible anymore, and once they enter the justice system
there's no way they're getting out, especially with Nomi's body lying in LAX.
"Andrew? Are we good?" he can't help but asking, and Andrew's annoyed approval
is a relief, despite himself. Yes, he's a good assurance in all situations, but
Uriah would lie if he said he didn't like him, in some strange and twisted way,
just like he likes Quinn and her crazy eyes.
(Could he even go back to New York now, settle back in his apartment and go
back to being a small-time dealer for a handful of desperate souls? Probably
not. He was a kid like everyone, dreamed of adventure and heroes and noble
missions – and sure, maybe this isn't as noble as he thought it would be, maybe
the company is mismatched and mysterious and regularly insulting, but it's as
close as he's going to get and Uriah's the type to jump headfirst into this
kind of things. The adrenalin coursing through his veins reminds him of the
first time he ran away from his parents' house at fifteen; a feeling of having
nothing to lose, of being light and free and powerful. No, he wouldn't come
back. Isn't that what he said? I'm in. He meant it.)
He's about to say something sappy and frankly embarrassing when Henley's voice
resounds in the comm, stripped of its customary calm: "Something's going on,"
she says. "Kieron? Tara?"
The silence is ominous, and the only thing Uriah can think is I was right, I
was right, and the police is swarming outside, striding towards the building.
Uriah looks down at his watch, then back up at the smoke, which has thickened.
Shots ring again, this time one, two, three and four, then the explosion. Uriah
isn't all that familiar with bombs, his kind tend to stick more with handguns
and the like, and he's never dealt in meth – too dangerous, ironically; he
looks. The flames crackle and leap outwards, and everyone in the immediate
vicinity is thrown to the ground face first. Guns tumble out of hands, a
pregnant scent of blood and charred flesh rises; Uriah is pretty sure that if
he looked close enough he could see some severed limbs, but honestly he doesn't
want to.
Henley is still shouting in the comm, calling Kieron and Tara's name. Andrew
isn't saying anything. In the mayhem around him, Uriah starts running, though
he isn't exactly sure towards what. "We have to get out of here," he calls on
the comm, not bothering to pretend to be talking on the phone anymore. "We have
to leave."
Andrew agrees, and there is a mess of noises on his end, but Henley won't
budge. "We can't leave them," she says. Uriah hears a band, and when he turns
around he sees the bathroom door fly open. She emerges, holding her gun high
and clear. "I'm going to get them," she says determinedly.
"You're going to get killed," Andrew interrupts icily. Uriah can spy at least
one police officer who's seen Henley and is walking towards her, drawing their
own gun and speaking in their comm, probably calling for back-up. Henley can
take one, probably can even take five of them, but more? She's going to be
swarmed.
"We're leaving," Andrew starts again. Still running, Uriah sees him
approaching, walking quickly, his hand in his jacket, where Uriah knows he
keeps at least one gun and his knife. It's probably the first time Uriah's seen
him looking agitated – his forehead is barred by a deep wrinkle and his eyes
are black, thunderous. "Either you leave with us or -"
But he doesn't have time to finish. Before the police can get a hold of Henley,
she shoots the man who'd seen her first in the chest. His comm falls to the
ground with his body, slack, the blood pouring from the hole in his chest in a
small pool on the ground. Nomi's guard rises up behind Henley, a silent wall of
black silhouettes, and Uriah surges up to yell something, warn her, but
Andrew's hand on his chest keeps him from doing anything. Through the finally
clearing smoke, Uriah spies the lithe but powerful form of Nomi, sitting on one
of the hospital bench, her detail untouched. There are bodies on the ground in
front of her, and she nudges one of them with her foot, making a little
disgusted face. Bile rises in Uriah's throat.
"We have to go," Andrew tells him, a hand on his wrist, but Uriah can't think.
He lets himself he dragged out, and after a final glance at Henley being
surrounded by Nomi's guard, he finally turns his face away and runs, head down,
trying not to think. He runs and runs and runs, concentrating on the rhythm of
his heart. They pass a gaggle of police officers which they fool into thinking
they're civilians; when they're finally spotted it only takes a short scuffle
before the officers are down and they're getting to the car. The tires make a
screeching sound on the ground. Uriah addresses a mental thank you to Henley
for thinking about fake plates and a disposable car; Andrew's would have been
much too easily recognizable.
His head tumbles over his knees as soon as they swerve on the road, and he
can't help but regurgitate everything he's eaten in the last twenty-four hours,
the sour bile burning the walls of his throat as he does. Andrew makes a noise
of distaste. "For God's sake. Couldn't you wait for that shit?"
Uriah wipes his mouth with his sleeve and rests his head against the cool glass
of the window. It's slightly open at the top, and the wind is whooshing in
noisily, cold like a slap in the face. "Sorry. Sorry, I -"
Andrew signals him to shut up. "It doesn't matter. What happened?"
"They had to know. There's no other way, it's – they had to know."
Andrew's face is livid, his teeth ground so tightly together Uriah wouldn't be
surprised if one of them popped out. "I can't believe this. I knew it. It's
that bastard Henderson."
Uriah shakes his head. "No, his team didn't know, you saw them -"
Andrew barks a mirthless laugh. "What, you think he wouldn't betray his team?
Then you know nothing. There's all crows, him and his kind, they're fucking
monsters. They wouldn't hesitate to throw their own mothers to the wolves."
Uriah thinks about explaining to him what he probably already knows, that the
Mechanic concept of family is a little more complicated than that, but another
wave of nausea hits him and he clamps his teeth shut, trying to fight it back.
He inhales deeply through his nose, regretting it when the bitter smell of
vomit hits his nostrils.
"It doesn't make any sense," Andrew is saying, his hands squeezing the wheel so
tightly his joints are white. He throws a quick look backwards. "Well, at least
we haven't got any police on our heels," he says sourly.
"Look," Uriah says when he's regained his breath, "it doesn't make any sense
that Henderson talked is the one who talked to her. He wouldn't have anything
to gain – his own team are the ones who were on the front lines, he had to know
we wouldn't get caught. What's in it for him?"
Andrew slaps the wheel angrily. "What do I know? He could've wanted to get into
Nomi's favors. For all we know he just did it for the pleasure of messing with
us, and when we go back there's going to be a whole detail waiting for us back
at the house." His eyes widen. "Shit! The house."
He digs his cell phone out of his back pocket and throws it to Uriah. "Call
Quinn. Try to get her to say if there's anyone back there. Don't spook them,
okay?"
Uriah nods shakily. His hands are trembling when he punches the number in. It
rings a few times, and with every long note Uriah can feel his heart rate
increasing. Eventually Quinn picks up. "Yes?"
"Quinn? Are you okay? Is there anyone in there? Say something... say something
about," Andrew makes an angry gesture at him, "something about planes if
they're detaining you."
Quinn laughs. "There's no one here, Uriah. What happened? Did you get her?"
Her hilarity throws Uriah off for a second. It shouldn't surprise her, how
desensitized she is to this kind of things: yesterday she'd said something
about how Asta used to treat them back at the Mansion, and most of it are
things Uriah would be glad to never think about again. "No, something –
something went wrong. You have to pack. Wait for us inside. We'll get you." He
hangs up before she can answer.
Silence falls back over them. "We're leaving, right?"
Andrew keeps his eyes focused on the long strip of asphalt, and for a second,
quick and flashing, he looks extraordinarily old; then he shakes it off and
nods slowly. "Yeah," he says without looking at Uriah. "We're leaving."
*
Quinn folds herself in the backseat, still laughing with the corner of her
mouth. "I like this," she says, talking to no one in particular, her eyes
straying in the direction of the window. She can't see much, Uriah thinks idly;
the night is darker than it's ever been since they've started this, a velvety
blackness that seems to shush everything down to a careful silence. "Where are
we going now?"
Andrew has a gesture of impatience. "I don't know."
He really doesn't seem to know. They drive more or less aimlessly for a few
hours, with the sole purpose of getting out of the city. The lights greet them
on their way out, bright and gaudy, then the anonymous swarrm of the highway.
The radio crackles information about the attempted assassination. Uriah listens
with one ear, catching words in haphazard order, conjuration... high-end
connections... life of our fearless leader... Andrew doesn't shut it off.
"We were right," Uriah says after a while. "She knew."
Andrew nods. "I wonder what they're going to do to him," he says tonelessly. He
glances back at Uriah, his eyes more honest than Uriah has ever seen them.
"Henderson, I mean."
Uriah shrugs. "It's probably not going to be pretty."
They don't broach the subject of Henderson's team. It's useless to talk of the
dead after they're dead, Uriah knows that. Like everyone whose life has known
its own bumps, he has learned that the dead, once they can't talk anymore, must
be buried quickly and with efficacy, and that ghosts, when they arise, can only
ever be malevolent. The drug scene is good at looking cheerful from the
outside, but Uriah knows where the rot starts, feeds the monster; there have
been countless ODs that he helped sweep under the rug, and watch their families
drift away, aghast with grief, the friends pale-faced and more hungry than
usual for the pills that help forget. Uriah wonders if they had families, maybe
kids – then he lets their faces start to drift away. He'll forget. He's good at
it.
It's a long time before Andrew speaks up again. Quinn has been humming what
sounds like a lullaby under her breath, and the need to sleep is overwhelming,
but every time he starts nodding off something shakes Uriah up, maybe the guilt
and maybe the sharp remembrance of the sound of bullets against glass, the
strong odor of burning flesh. He's not used to that much upfront violence, is
the truth. Quinn seems to be the less shaken up of the three of them,
ironically enough.
Eventually Andrew drives the car off the highway and onto a rest area. Most of
the lights are off, only a timid glow from the entrance area, where a lone
employee is sweeping the floor, dancing slowly to a beat only she can hear.
Uriah feels tired, all of a sudden, tired to the center of his bones, like he
rarely is. He searches for the reason why he's here and can't find it, only a
bound, strong and nonsensical, tying him to this man he doesn't know, whose
goal largely escapes him.
He doesn't startle when Quinn's hand finds the nape of his neck. "It's hard,
isn't it?" she says under her breath, tender and a little mocking. Uriah
wonders if he'll ever be able to figure her out.
He nods. Quinn's fingers twine around his neck, strangely anchoring, and Uriah
leans into it. He knows she won't lean in to embrace him, is too skittish and
easily scared for that, and he feels almost okay with it. Maybe he can just
hang in there until he finds some strength – who knows.
"What do we do know?" he asks after a while. His eyes are burning but he won't
cry, probably can't. He rubs his fingers into his sockets.
"I'm not giving up."
"I know. So, what are we doing?"
For a second, Andrew seems to hesitate. He takes a breath through his nose.
"You don't want to go home?" he asks, not looking at Uriah. "You won't tell.
You can take a plane, you'll be in New York by noon."
Uriah gives a choked-off laugh. "Nah. Who would I be if I didn't see this
through?"
"An intelligent man," Andrew says sharply.
"That's what I'm saying. Don't want to get old before my time." Behind them,
Quinn sighs musically. She tugs her sleeves down on her hands, and when Uriah
looks back at her she's shaking her head almost fondly. "So what do we do? Do
you have a plan B?"
"I always have a plan B," Andrew says, but he doesn't continue. He digs in his
bag for cigarettes, takes out an old, crumpled pack, which he presents to Uriah
and Quinn in turn. They each take one, light it with cupped hands, the flame
lighting up their tired faces in bursts, making their palms translucent with
red fire. They spill out into the night, the smoke trailing after them. Quinn
leans close to Uriah against the car, but doesn't let their shoulders touch;
Andrew is the solitary one, as always, looking up and exhaling the smoke in
long white stripes. "I guess we're going back to the Hamptons," he says
tiredly. "This was a mistake."
Uriah nods. He doesn't say anything for a while, and then, "I know someone in
San Francisco. She can help us."
Andrew shakes his head no. "We don't need anyone. We didn't even need you,
you're just -"
"I know. But you've seen what happened as well as I did, and we need backup.
Someone who can fight if we need to."
Andrew throws his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and grinds it under his
heel. The embers go black. "How do we know the first thing your friend is going
to do isn't to go tell the police everything about us? We're probably felons by
now – well, more than we already were."
Uriah smirks. "She's not exactly a friend of the law either. Look, she's one of
the best fighters I know. She can hack any computer you put in front of her,
and she's loyal. She'll help us."
"There's no 'us'," Andrew snaps. Well, he's recovered then.
But Uriah just laughs it off. He knows better now, after all that happened.
"You've got to face the obvious now, chief. I'm afraid there is."
He puts a companionable hand on Andrew's shoulder, but Andrew shakes it off
irritably. "Give you friend a call," he says, stalking away. "We'll visit her
in the morning."
Uriah nods. He walks Andrew walk away in the night. His silhouette, a taunt
leanness in black, melds quickly in the shadows and it leaves Uriah only with
the thought of who he is, the square cut of his jaw and a sense of pervading
darkness that is bound to follow a man who kills with such ease and skill. For
a short second Uriah regrets, with an aching and almost suffocating strength of
feeling, not taking him up on his offer – he could have slept in his own bed
tomorrow night, what a strange idea now. But he remembers his fondness for
mystery, and there is something intoxicating about that man and his web of
secrets.
He jumps when Quinn's shoulder finally touches his own. She smiles with the
corner of her mouth. Her cigarette is still lit and the gleam reflects in her
eyes, giving them a predatory gleam. For the first time since Uriah's met her,
she looks powerful. Not beautiful, not prophetic, not pure: powerful. It fades
in a flash, before Uriah can ask about it.
"You wondering about him?" she asks. Her voice seems to swivel up with the
smoke, dissolving in the sharp night air.
Uriah nods, tapping his own cigarette so that the ashes fall at his feet.
Quinn buries closer to him, smacks her lips together. "Don't get too close,"
she says distractedly. "He's dangerous."
Uriah turns sharply over to her. "How do you know? Did he say something?"
Quinn laughs. "He doesn't need to. Men like him..." she laughs, but it's
hollow, rings loud and uncomfortable in the immense emptiness that surrounds
them, "well. You know."
Uriah doesn't, but something, whatever it is, keeps him from asking. When he
glances over at her again, Quinn's closed her eyes, and with them the source of
that strange premonitory power; her head rolls onto Uriah's shoulder, her hair
splaying like a bond fan on his jacket. Uriah sighs another lungful of white
smoke.
*
The dawn is just spreading in the sky as they roll into San Francisco, pinkish
with hues of indigo like a turned-over laundry. The sight, combined with the
lack of sleep and food for the last few hours, makes Uriah feel vaguely sick.
In another contradiction – what he's now starting to consider as routine -,
Quinn seems the most awake of the three of them, her nose turned up and humming
at the brisk chill of the morning.
The streets are more or less deserted, populated only by a handful of premature
runners in bright attires, the rubber of their sneakers squeaking in the
silence. Andrew's bleary eyes gloss over them like he doesn't see them, and he
follows Uriah's decisions without second-guessing them, with a trust that is no
doubt more a result of desperation and sleep deprivation than any sort of firm
belief in the reliability of Uriah's decisions. As for Uriah, he's feeling
strangely desensitized; only the humming vibration running underneath his skin
tells him how much he's really afraid of seeing Thema again, though it's not
fear, not really – more a preparation for the surprise he knows is going to
jolt through him when he sees her face again and becomes reacquainted with the
peculiar way she moves, talks – to him.
"You're sure she can be trusted?" Andrew asks eventually as they reach the
house, strangely superfluous.
Uriah answers anyway. "Yes," he says, only half a lie. She could be trusted
last time he saw her, or at least that's the impression he got from her. Will
she want to trust him? That's the real question.
Andrew stops the car. Uriah doesn't get out immediately, reclines in his seat,
surveying the house. It's not what he expected – he remembers thinking when she
programmed the address into his phone, years ago; he thought of her as living
in a quiet apartment over the city, one of those vertiginously tall buildings
San Francisco doesn't really have, now that he thinks about it. He thought of
it as full of wires, messy and organized following a code only she could
understand. It was a romantic guess, of course, and he'd more or less
disentangled himself from this idealizing part of his personality over time,
but for some reason he'd always kept that idea for her, probably to keep
something, because otherwise he would have been at a loss to imagine her
anywhere else. Now he's slightly put upon: her house is white and non-descript,
with a small garden and peeling blue metallic shutters. Anyone could be living
here, and in fact – it occurs to him like a flash – she might have left
already. Her lifestyle isn't that different from his, she's a nomad at the very
core – who's to say she hasn't packed her bags and left this place a long time
ago, and the person who's going to answer will be a dyed-blond unknown with a
cat nosing around her ankles?
He takes a breath. "I'll go in," he says to Andrew without looking at him,
"I'll call you if she's here."
Andrew nods, and Uriah takes the momentum of the small movement to open the
door and get out. The morning wind slaps him in the face, rasping its dying
wheeze against his skull, but it wakes him up and he walks to the door, up the
three steps. He knocks.
He doesn't realize how loud his heart is beating (and say he's always thought
himself such a spontaneous, smooth bastard) until the door opens a sliver.
"What do you want?" a voice says, but it's her voice – something in his chest
ripens and bursts.
"Thema," he says.
Her face – well, half her face, an eye, dark brown and hard, and her thick
lips, tightly set together – appears in the sliver. Surprise registers on her
face, then irritation. "What are you doing here," she hisses, "do you know what
time it is?"
He doesn't. His head swims with the strangeness of her face, here, now, and he
can't find his words. "Thema -"
She slams the door in his face.
*
After reflexion, he explains to Andrew as they sit in a small coffee-shop a few
paces from Thema's house, maybe knocking at her door at five in the morning
wasn't the best way to ensure her cooperation. Andrew laughs sourly at him, and
Quinn almost snorts her disgusting mocha-whatever up her nostrils when she
laughs.
"You have a way with women," she says; for some reason she seems to be getting
more awake and conscious of herself the further they get from Captiva. Or the
coast – maybe she doesn't like the sea.
Uriah shrugs, unrepentant, and they agree to try their luck again in a few
hours. In the meantime Andrew makes plans in his organizers, talking in low
whispers with Quinn, who is leaning away from him, back on her elbows. Their
dynamic is a strange back and forth which, curiously, seems to be working.
When they go back to the house Uriah is marginally more prepared and, more
importantly, awake. He knocks at the door. This time, it opens wide after a few
minutes, revealing the – glorious – sight of Thema in a wife-beater and jogging
pants, a few tattoos Uriah doesn't recognize peeking from her neckline. She
sighs. "I hoped you were a bad dream," she says, and she lets him in.
He lets his eyes stray around him as he surveys the inside of the house. Well,
he was wrong, that's for sure – so much for the mess, everything here is
spartan and clean, almost disappointingly square. Uriah would bet anything that
her arsenal is packed somewhere close, but he doesn't ask – he wants a favor,
after all, better get into her good graces.
She leads him to the kitchen, makes herself a cup of coffee and doesn't offer
one but slides it over the counter so he can catch it. It's warm in his palms.
He watches her pour sugar in her mug, trying to find all the things that
changed about her in one encompassing look, and fails.
She takes a sip. "What do you want?"
"Charming welcome. I have to say, I expected more decorum, I -"
She gives him a look, cut it out. He smiles, tries to make it charming, to show
he's a little nervous after all. She was always an intimidating woman. "I need
to ask you something."
"A favor?"
He grimaces. "Not really. Well – yes. But -"
"Why is it so important that you have to wake me up in the middle of the night
for it?" she asks again.
"Sorry about that. Jet-lag, we've been driving for a while."
"Who's we?"
He takes a few gulps of coffee to give himself courage, doesn't even mind when
it scalds his throat. She makes it well – strong. "Me and my – friends. By the
way, do you mind if I invite them in? They're part of what I want to ask you."
She sighs, rubbing a finger between her eyes. "Tell me first."
"I want you to join on an operation."
"What kind of operation?" she asks, instead of reminding him she has no reason
to trust him and, in fact, plenty not to trust him, for which he is eternally
grateful.
"The dangerous kind."
"I don't -"
"I'm not stupid." And he listens to gossip. She is. "I know you're still in the
business."
She doesn't seem even vaguely bashful at the attempted lie, or unfazed that he
didn't believe her. "Mm. Not your kind of business, though."
Drugs, she means. "Fair enough." He shakes his head. "This isn't about that.
It's something else."
"You're branching out?"
I was kidnapped by a Mechanic killer and then roped into helping him try to
commit regicide, he doesn't say. "Kind of. We need muscle, and someone smart. I
was thinking of you for the two-in-one package." Okay, so maybe he could've
worded that a little more gracefully. He's tired.
She laughs, for the first time since he stepped into the house. It makes him
want to take a step backwards, blinded by the sudden emergence of her milk-
white teeth. "You still know how to talk to a woman," she mocks.
He gives a fake-modest shrug, what can you do. "So, can I bring them in now?"
She waves a vague hand. "Why not."
He puts the mug back on the counter and bounds minutely out of the house to
call Andrew and Quinn in. As he watches them extract themselves from the car,
he tries to look at them through Thema's eyes: a disheveled, sickly-looking
girl (from what Thema knows about him: an addict) and a surprisingly neat-
looking man with dark eyes and a close haircut, dressed all in black and
looking too serious for his own good. Okay, maybe there's a little bit of Uriah
talking. He motions them both in, registers Andrew's par-for-the-course threat
("This better work," though he doesn't add, 'or I kill her'; Uriah is starting
to suspect he only kills Mechanics and doesn't know what to make of the
information) as they walk into the doorway.
They shake hands. Thema holds herself upright and looks suspiciously at Quinn's
careless slouch and her obvious unkemptness; in comparison the dry, matter-of-
fact handshake Andrew offers her with a blank expression must seem harmless, or
at the very least unremarkable, and Uriah considers warning her that he really
is the dangerous one out of the two, but she'll understand that soon enough.
They all sit around the kitchen table and Thema pours more coffee, shaking her
head no when Uriah asks if he can smoke inside. He doesn't really mind, doesn't
need to, but he really wouldn't say no to something to do with his hands. The
pervading silence is making jittery, that's all.
Thema leans against the counter, staying upright because, Uriah knows, she
likes to keep a situational position of dominance over the people she talks to.
"So," she says, ostentatiously addressing Uriah, "what do you need me for?"
"It's difficult to explain," Uriah starts but, as expected, Andrew quickly
takes over. He closes his fingers around his cup of coffee. "Uriah tells me
you're the best at what you do," he says sharply, though that isn't exactly
what Uriah told him.
Thema crosses her arms on her chest. "I am."
Uriah mostly tunes out their conversation after that. Which is to say, he
listens, of course he does, just like Quinn listens, even though she pretends
not to, but the displays of power don't overly interest him. He catches Thema's
jolt of surprise and almost-fear when Andrew explains their real goal, and he
catches the expression on her face when she guesses that he probably has a
range of weapons on his very person. She must know that Uriah wouldn't let her
get hurt – not that he has any chance against Andrew, and he's definitely less
skilled than her when it comes to fighting, so he would at most be betting on
Andrew's burgeoning affection for him -, but then again it's been years and
they didn't exactly part on best terms, so you never know. He follows the
alterations on her face, and he feels relief and a soft giddiness when he sees
how intrigued she is, though she won't let it transpire to anyone less attuned
to her moods than Uriah is. (Or maybe that's not the best formulation: Uriah is
attuned to everyone's moods, has made it a job to know what people are
thinking, what they want more than anything; a priority quality for a good
dealer.)
She sits at the table opposite Andrew and they discuss his motivations for
going after Nomi. Thema cocks her head, perceptive as ever. "Why do you hate
her so much?"
"It's none of your concern," Andrew retorts, brushing the concern away with an
annoyed sweep of his hand on the formica.
"It is. If you're going to go awry mid-operation because you can't handle your
burning hatred for the woman, I'd rather know, and save myself the
embarrassment and the jail time."
Uriah almost laughs. Quinn does, the fluty musical sound he's used to know; she
taps a quick rhythm on the table with her nails as she does.
"Fair enough," Andrew says, his jaw locked. "Let's say that she hurt my family,
and I'd like to make her pay for that, besides which I'm a concerned citizen
and not a supporter of tyranny. That enough for you?"
Thema nods. "I guess it'll have to do. What are the specifics?"
"Of what?" Andrew asks, wary.
Thema laughs, not unkindly. "My employment."
Andrew visibly relaxes. Huh. Uriah will have to probe a bit deeper into that
family stuff; he's always been a fan of tragic backgrounds, and the guy will
probably be easier to tolerate once that's out in the open. "You'll be required
to provide back-up when we need it, a mercenary job, all in all. I can work my
way around a computer, but when it comes to more complicated interfaces, Uriah
said -"
Thema gives a sharp nod. "Yes. I'll handle it." Uriah remembers that, too: the
way her fingers flew over the vertical keyboard, her eyes, focused and almost
shining with the blue-green glow, that bottom lip she'd sucked in while she was
working. Remarkable woman, he'd told Andrew, and to Thema at the way he'd only
teased, crowed that she was handy right up until she clocked him in the face.
Fond memories.
"Good. Other than that, you'll get -"
"Our lifelong appreciation," Uriah says at the same time as Andrew finishes
with, "a generous compensation." Thema laughs. "I'll take the compensation,"
she says. "But you'd better get your stories straight." She jerks a thumb at
Quinn. "Who's she?" She slants a sharp look at Uriah, making it clear that she
doesn't know how he got himself into this – it would be a euphemism to say that
this kind of grand quest isn't his style – and that she doesn't approve of his
bringing his junkie girlfriends along.
"A friend," Andrew says before he can interject, but Thema won't be satisfied
with that. They're all surprised – and Uriah feels a little ashamed – when
Quinn slides her hand across the table and rises it for Thema to shake. "I'm
Quinn," she says softly, her head tilting to the side like it's too heavy for
Quinn to bear.
Thema shakes the proffered hand with barely-hidden distaste. "What are you on?"
Quinn gives her an oblique smile, if you knew. "Sleep medication, mostly," she
answers slowly, twisting her thin mouth in a thoughtful expression, "a few
things for depression, I can't remember the names." She points lazily at the
window. "But I have my suitcase in the car, I can find the prescription if you
want."
Thema has the good grace to look vaguely bashful. "Mm," she says. "And what are
you doing with those two?"
Quinn reclines in the chair, letting go of Thema's hand – though not without
dragging her fingers across Thema's palm, whatever that means, odd flirtation
or that her heaviness spreads to every limb. "I've got my own beef with the
queen," she says quietly, with an teasing undercurrent. "Childhood trauma,
unfinished business if you will."
Thema accepts the explanation, and probably wouldn't ask more, but Quinn
volunteers the rest, "I have the plans," she doesn't specify which ones, and
instead points at her own head, "carved right there in my skull. I'm not going
to forget, so... why not make use of them, right?"
"Right," says Thema, wrong-footed. Uriah is selfishly glad; at least now he
won't be the only normal person with those two phenomenon of nature.
They keep hashing the details out, and Uriah can't help but notice how little
Thema seems to have to leave behind, her house and a stack of papers, maybe a
friend or two, but she doesn't sound even remotely heartbroken about having to
leave her home for the foreseeable future at the drop of a hat with an ex-con
she used to know and two strangers. Taste for adventure, or maybe a more
mercenary taste for the money that goes with it – who knows. After a while
Uriah asks if they're going back to the Hamptons directly, because for all
intents of purpose he's still in the dark about their plan and now that he's
here of his own free will he feels like he's entitled to a little more
information.
Andrew sighs, typical, like he's doing everyone a big favor. "We won't be able
to get into the Mansion like I was planning, especially after what happened at
LAX." They caught Thema up on that and she laughed, mocked their planning and
recounted that apparently Nomi found out pretty quick that Henderson was behind
the whole thing and had him cryogenized, the Mechanic version of the death
penalty. "I know something that will help us. I was hoping not to have to do
this, but there's going to be extra security and I'm hoping we can get some
valuable information out of it."
"What exactly are we collecting?" Thema asks. Behind Quinn the sun bursts in
the sky, violently orange, and a wave of generous light floods the kitchen,
making everyone blind for a second. Quinn takes advantage of the situation to
slip away, and the next time Uriah looks over to her she's sitting on Thema's
front step, raking her fingers through a stray cat's ratty fur, her lips pulled
up over her yellowish teeth and her dress hitched up to her knees.
Andrew blinks a few times. "Notebooks. They're a family heirloom, my father -
" a shadow passes over his face, quick but thunderous, "my father worked in
Mechanic genetics. He compiled his findings in those notebooks, apparently
there's a lot of things about the original designs, I think it could help at
least prepare us."
Thema doesn't look entirely sure, but she agrees nonetheless. The new light
delineates the tattoos on her arms and neck more clearly, and in a way makes
her seem more familiar to Uriah – in the rosy dawn she was almost a stranger,
her dark skin tinged pale and sickly, but now she's back to being the healthy,
strong woman Uriah remembered, and it's a relief, it sights more right with
him.
"Where is it?" she asks.
"Nevada," Andrew says. Now he's the one who looks tired: they'll have to catch
a few hours of sleep before leaving, especially if they're going to fucking
Nevada. "In the Mojave desert. There's a Mechanic laboratory there. I know the
government's given up on it, but I think there will be soldiers anyway,
guarding the place."
"Why?"
Andrew's mouth twists. "What Quinn said," he says, curt. "Childhood trauma."
And to Thema and Uriah's inquisitive looks, he supplements: "It's the original
laboratory."
He doesn't need to say more, they all know the story: mad scientist creates
robot, fucks up robot, robot becomes intelligent and takes over the world. It's
an almost deceptively simple story, and it illustrates all the horror stories
the century before them had been fond of, not that they listened, of course.
Intelligent robots. Well, everyone said it was a bad idea, but of course there
was greed and commercial success and morals isn't really the darling of the two
thousands, so here they are now, trying to kill their queen, their beautiful
and immortal and cruel queen. Uriah laughs a little at himself, looks over
their scarce and exhausted team – what a strange company they make, and he
doubts they'll succeed, but either way planning makes adrenaline pumps in his
veins and he can't say that he's sad to see Thema again. He'd always figured
he'd show up at her door one day, smile rakishly and say something charming, so
that she'd open her door and let him in – say she was an idiot and forgive,
because people tend to forgive Uriah when he smiles and says sorry a few times
in a row. (And it's another thing he learned from his addicts, how to lie as
well as he does – open his mouth and just let the absurdities pour out and
watch as people believe because he's able to inject some poor disguise of
honesty into his eyes.)
"Okay," says Thema.
She brings them both to his room and gives and starts stocking a bag with
weapons (all sorts of things: handguns, one of two old K9s, a hunting rifle, a
set of knives, an assortment of exotic-looking spears Uriah doesn't even know
the name of), zips it, adds a laptop on top of it and gives it to Uriah. "You
can take that to the car," she says absently. Uriah nods and takes it; when he
turns back Andrew is sitting on the bed and they're talking animatedly, Thema
packing up her own suitcase with clothes.
He passes Quinn by as he goes dump the bag in the car. She smiles up at him,
her eyes crinkling, but he remembers that she is not kind and definitely broken
up inside in ways he can't even imagine; he smiles back, decides never to feel
pity for her since it's a universal truth that people hate to be pitied.
Besides, he's going to have to travel more with her – the best thing here would
be for them to be cordial, if not friends. Uriah would like to say he's
learned, over the years, how to be friends with broken people, but truth is he
hasn't: he doesn't understand the deep ridges that divide a human being in two,
and the faraway eyes, capable to fill in a few seconds with musty remnants of
ancient pain, scare him beyond belief. That's in part why he likes Thema –
she's dependable, not someone to turn on him because something in his past
sometimes stirs like a hidden beast. It's not that broken people aren't
interesting – they are -; Uriah just doesn't want to be collateral damage.
He takes longer than he'd thought. He digs a cigarette in the passenger seat
where it'd crumpled under him during the trip, straightens it out best as he
can and smokes it slowly in the morning chill. The honeyed light slides on his
arms, warming the leather of his jacket; after a while he lays it on the hood
of the car and reclines against the side of the car in shirtsleeves, happy for
a reason he doesn't really want to investigate, watching as the traffic picks
up a few streets away, the distant rumor of the noise growing minutely.
When he comes back inside everything is silent. He squints to acclimate to the
different light, calls in a hushed whisper, "Andrew?"
Thema's voice streams from the kitchen. "He's asleep. Come."
She's coding when he steps into the kitchen, and he stops, leans against the
doorjamb to watch. The glasses on her nose give her a studious air which suits
her, and Uriah laughs. "What is it?" she asks, still focused on her screen.
"Nothing. Where are the others?"
"Sleeping," she says. "I figured it would be useless for you guys to go to a
hotel, especially if we're leaving as soon as possible, which I assume we are."
She looks up at him, as though defying him to contest her decision.
"No rest for the mighty," Uriah says lightly. "I mean, evil doesn't sleep."
She quirks her lips, amused despite herself. "Good to know," she says drily.
"There's a bed for you if you want," she addds, and then amends: "well, at
least a futon."
As if on cue, he yawns, surprising himself. "I guess I do," he says, chuckling
a little. "I'll just -" he points to the chair on the opposite end of the
table, where he'd been sitting previously. She nods to indicate she doesn't
mind.
He watches her work for a while. From what he's gathering, she's preparing for
their departures – tweaking a few details on the warrants out on the two of
them (from what he knows, Quinn doesn't – yet – have an outstanding warrant for
herself, unless Andrew and her haven't told him everything, which wouldn't be
even remotely surprising), checking where Nomi is and what's transpiring about
the LAX incident, calculating what they'll need to do to get into the
laboratory. It's good that they have her, Uriah thinks dazedly. He was right.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks as he can feel himself slipping into sleep;
he doesn't remember why he'd been so certain she would accept, and now it seems
outright strange that she did, especially after all this time and the hatred
she used to vow for him, even though both of them knew it wasn't that – not
really.
She shakes her head, almost fond. "Why do you think?"
He doesn't know, that's why he asked; but he doesn't say that, doesn't say,
it's not for the money, doesn't ask for further explanation. He'll have time
for that later, and besides he's completely knackered, he'd probably miss half
of it. He does his best to extract himself from the chair, his limbs leaden.
"I'm going to -" he jerks a thumb towards the door, "go. Sleep for a while."
"Sure," she says, not looking up. "The futon is in my room. Don't make too much
noise, Quinn is in my bed, and Andrew's on the couch. There are sheets and a
towel, if you want to catch a shower." He nods, murmurs a thank you he isn't
sure actually makes it out of his mouth.
It's only when he's reaching the door, resting a hand against the wall to
support himself – he really is extraordinarily tired, and it just seemed to
fall on him all at once, so heavy he feels like his bones might crack under the
weight – when he hears her voice through the daze. "Do you trust them?" she's
asking, matter-of-fact.
He rests his back against the door, gives her a smile, his eyes crinkling at
the corners. "Do you?"
She opens her mouth to retort something, but doesn't, as though cottoning up to
something. Uriah tucks his bangs behind his ear, still smiling. "Yeah," he
says. "Me neither. But – adventure, right?"
He doesn't wait for her answer; slinks out the room and pads to the futon,
where he dives face-first, and falls into an unrepentant sleep.
***** Chapter 7 *****
5.
It's not a secret that Andrew doesn't trust much. Possibly, he trusts even less
that the others believe: this night, calm and velvety, a deep blue that would
break any heart, puts him on edge. The urge to wake the others up simmers under
his skin, but he doesn't do it. He keeps driving. They're not even remotely
close to Nevada, and while they're sleeping it means it can think, that his
mind can work without fearing that someone will interrupt or, like Uriah is
wont to do, ask a flurry of useless and always more pointed questions.
His wrists ache a little, from all the hours spent at the wheel, but he doesn't
mind. It's important, for people like him, to be aware of one's body, and know
how its cogs and wheels work: this way there is never the risk of losing
control. Uriah doesn't understand that, but it makes sense – after all, he used
to make his specialty of teaching people how to let go of themselves, and even
though he is, from what Andrew can see, somewhat competent at handling himself,
he can't understand what it means to permanently keep the body reined in, ready
to jump. Thema probably understands better, but Andrew doesn't know or trust
her. She does seem smarter than Uriah, and that in itself is a subject of
concern: but for now she's shown no desire to do anything else but follow his
orders and work for her fee.
Andrew's thoughts shift to the desert against his will. They're supposed to
reach the Mojave in a few hours, and then he knows there will be only a few
more kilometers of practicable road before they have to abandon the car and
finish their trip on foot. He wishes it wasn't so difficult: he's never been
comfortable with those plains of arid sand, the burning, bare immensity where
anyone could spot and annihilate them without so much as a second thought. It
makes him twitchy, more nervous than usual. Thema's K9s won't do much to
protect them in a place like this, where the danger could come from any side,
at any moment, and they're all wanted criminals. Besides, how will Quinn cope?
Some days she's fine, sprightly and quick on her feet, witty, enigmatic; but on
others she'll sleep through the days, shaken by bad dreams, and there's nothing
to do to tear her off her prostrate state, shaking like a leaf. What if she
falls sick in the desert, what then? They won't be able to save her. Andrew
isn't concerned about death, but without that girl's mind, the whole mission
could be compromised. He's not ready to take that chance.
"Are you worried?" a voice says from behind him asks, making him jump.
The car jerks to the side, and Andrew swears to himself. Next to him, Thema
doesn't stir, though her grip on her gun tightens. If times were different,
Andrew would enjoy her company, maybe even ask her for a comparison of their
respective talents. People like that are in short supply in the business.
Quinn laughs, high-pitched and nerve-grating. "Oh, did I frighten you?"
"No," Andrew says, trying to make it as flat as possible, but he's irritated.
"I thought you were asleep."
"You thought wrong. Where are we?"
"Close."
Quinn makes a humming sound. Andrew hears rustling behind him, and she
whispers, "He's asleep, don't worry." Next thing he knows she's resting her
elbows against the back of his seat, speaking in his ear. "Sorry for the
trouble," she says with that strange tone of voice that could be mistaken for
mischievousness. "I was just wondering."
"What?"
"If you were worried. You seem like it."
In the rearview mirror her face is obscured, the only thing clearly visible her
bulging insect eyes and her pudgy chin. She looks vaguely malevolent, and for a
second a strong, unshakable distaste invades Andrew's body, but it's gone
before he can even decipher where it comes from. He shakes his head. Quinn
smiles again, and Andrew remembers that his mother loved her, for reasons she
never explained, and told him a story, once, where she was a fairy, even though
he was already an adult at the time. But she was sick; she always thought he
was a baby when she was sick.
"I'm not worried." They're riding smoothly again, the road a ribbon of black
asphalt in front of them; Andrew's shoulders relax a fraction. He waits a
while, regulates his breathing and secures the position of his hands around the
wheel, before he talks again. "Do you remember my mother?"
Something flashes across Quinn's features, but it's too dark for Andrew to see
what it is exactly. Grief, maybe, or maybe Andrew is just projecting: he hasn't
been able to feel much about her since she's been gone. "I do," Quinn says
quietly. "Sometimes she's all I remember."
"She never told me about what she did for you."
It isn't the truth, exactly, but it'll do. Anyway, Quinn doesn't seem to take
him at his word, and she sinks back into the obscurity, reclining in her seat.
"She must've had a good reason, then," she says lightly.
"Maybe."
She's dead, he wants to say, for the pure satisfaction of saying it to someone;
because he was almost alone at the funeral and there should have been more
people there, people who loved her like she deserved. He doesn't say it, of
course. This plan is already risky enough without him succumbing to sudden
outbursts of honesty, God forbid. She's dead. She's dead. My mother is dead.
Will he ever get it out of his head?
"Is there a reason you don't tell them?"
God, this again. Every time she talks it seems like she's speaking up from some
remote corner of his soul; it makes Andrew want to turn around and shut her up
like he does with the Mechanics. But he said – no, no matter how you look at
it, it's not easy to have a code when you're an assassin. (He didn't call
himself that in the beginning, thought to himself 'metal repurposer' but after
a while the blood on his hands got to him and he had to admit to himself that
they might not be human beings, but the blood was real. Well. As real as fake
blood gets when it spurts out an artery and gets stuck under your fingernails.)
He shakes his head. "What do you mean?"
She cocks her head. "You know what I mean."
"I don't."
It really is a strange situation: four people in a car, with a bag full of
weapons in the boot, and not one of them trusts the other. It sounds like the
back cover for a bad whodunnit.
Quinn clucks her tongue. In the rearview mirror, her reflection drags a hand
through her messy hair. "Is there a reason you don't tell them who your grand-
daddy is?"
Well, at least he was wrong for thinking the situation couldn't get any worse.
The car didn't veer off the road again, but Andrew grinds his teeth so hard
some enamel probably chips away. Where was the world going, if even insane
people can't stay insane long enough to be harmless? "Who told you that?"
"Who do you think?"
"My mother wouldn't -"
"Your mother trusts me," Quinn says sharply, and for some reason the present
tense cuts Andrew more deeply than fear does. "She told me because she knows
she can, and I won't do anything to endanger her or her family because she
saved my life, and she was the only person who was kind to me since -" her
voice breaks. "I just want to know why you don't tell them. Aren't we supposed
to be in this together?"
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?" But she knows, she must know it isn't: what happens to everyone
after Nomi is killed? What happens to this mission if they find out why he
wants to kill her? What happens – there are just so many ways this could go
wrong, and it can't, because Andrew made a promise and that promise is
everything he is and everything he believes in.
"No." He stops the car, not really sure what his hands are doing anymore. And
say he was bragging about his self-control: one mention of his mother and he's
back to being a grade-schooler. He turns around, trying to look as indomitable
as possible. "Look, Quinn – I know my mother trusted you. You understand why
I'm doing this. The others... won't."
Quinn nods. She opens the door, gets out of the car; when he looks at her
Andrew realizes they've reached the edge of the desert, and for a frightening
moment he thinks it's her doing, that she brought them there. Of course it
doesn't make any sense, so he shakes it off. "Come on," she says, putting her
hands to his window. "Get out of the car, we can walk. This way they can't hear
you."
Andrew looks over at the two sleeping forms, and she has a point – besides,
it's not like anything can happen to them now and here, in a location this
removed. Even if it does, Thema is more than able to defend them.
"Right," he says. The air hits him as soon as he gets out, the chilly wind that
comes from the desert. Every is silent; if sand had a smell this would be it,
acrid and suffocating but somehow able to summon the immensity of the dark
night, the endless stretch of uninhabited territory, fraught with dangers and
abandoned corpses. Andrew has no delusions on the romantic nature of the
desert.
"Your mother loves you," Quinn half-shouts from a few paces away.
"I don't need you to tell me that," Andrew snaps. It's the fact that Quinn
believes she's alive: it puts him on edge, makes him envious as though she had
something he lost.
"Did your grand-daddy love you too?" She grins, unrepentant. "From what I've
heard he's kind of a monster."
If he were still sixteen he would jump on her and wring her neck, easy as you
please. He knew how to do that, even then, and leave no traces. His mother
loved him, but she wasn't gentle. Gentleness is a lie: it doesn't exist, at
least not in Andrew's world – and when it does it means naivety and a
propensity to die earlier rather than later.
"That's none of your business."
"You should loosen up. Do you still carry all that guilt? Sara told me that.
She said you were blaming yourself for what he did."
Anyone would. "I don't."
"Then why do you want do you want her so bad? Why do you to take her," she
opens her hand in the dark and closes it around a cluster of stars, the night
radiant and shining in her back, "and kill her like you do the others, put a
knife in her head and put her down?"
"You know what I do?" He never told her. But she listens; she's more dangerous
than she lets on.
"I know a lot of things. I know how your grand-daddy used to spend his days,
back when you weren't even a thought in your mother's brain. Did he tell you
why he called Nomi like he did? He was angry, wasn't he? What was he angry
about?"
There's a knife in his boot. He could wring the plans out of her and then slit
her throat, leave her here to die. Of course the others wouldn't be happy, but
he could lie to them, say she had an epilepsy attack, started convulsing all
over the sand, and he had to kill her so that she wouldn't suffer.
"Look," he says, trying to sound more irritated than shaken up, "are you going
to tell them or not?"
"No," she ponders, "I don't think so." And then she waltzes close to him, her
smell clear in the brisk air, sweat and a heavy flowery perfume he doesn't know
where she got, puts a hand on his shoulder, and says, "but you owe me now. I
don't tell, so you have to give me something in exchange."
He grounds his teeth. "What do you want?"
She leans to whisper in his ear. He listens, then pulls away, takes a minute to
mull over the conditions. "It's not nothing," he says eventually.
She licks her lips. Uriah is right, there really is something about those eyes;
they seem to glow even in this darkness that's thick as molasses, as deep and
far from inconsequential as possible. "It isn't. But your secret's not nothing
either, is it?"
He turns over on his heels, getting back to the car. "Okay," he agrees.
She makes a crowing sound of victory, childish, then calls out – when he sees
her throw something he stretches his hand out by reflex, and catches the car
keys. "Sorry," she says, her eyes glittering. "They fell out of your pocket."
He doubts it, but doesn't question it. She'll keep the secret – that's enough
for now.
*
Uriah wakes up to Andrew's voice shaking him out of sleep without delicacy or
kindness. He seems even sourer than usual, and for about half a second Uriah
considers asking him if something's wrong, but then Andrew throws him an apple
and tells him to 'get off his ass, we have work to do' and the urge passes,
just like that.
It's not even morning, unless you call morning a thin line of periwinkle light
at the very edge of the horizon, beyond the terrifying ochre emptiness. When he
looks over, Quinn is stretching, her shoulders slumped, and Thema is cocking a
gun and slipping it into her belt. Actually, that's what she'd done after –
"How far is it?" Thema asks, interrupting his thoughts.
"Not that far. We can go about halfway with the car, then we'll have a few
hours walk. I think we should all go."
Thema eyes Quinn critically. At her demand, she's been informed of her various
problems, and with the meds they've been forcing her to take – apparently she
wasn't very regular back on Captiva, and the locals didn't exactly take care of
her – she's been more or less stable, but there's no telling what hours spent
traipsing in the desert would do to her health.
"I'll be fine," says Quinn, looking thoroughly unconcerned.
"I'm not sure we can trust you on that," Andrew starts, and then something
strange happens: she glares at him, and instead of glaring back or just
ignoring her like he usually does, he pipes down almost immediately.
"Wait, what's going on?" Uriah asks, because really, being out of the loop is
getting old. But of course, Andrew has no qualms ignoring him, and the
conversation continues as though he hadn't spoken.
"We can just do the car part, and then we'll figure it out. It's not like
there's anything else to do, and we can't leave her behind."
Quinn doesn't seem to mind being talked of in the third person, at least; she
just smiles like she knows something they don't, as usual, does a few stretches
and gets back into the car, donning the oversized sunglasses she bullied Uriah
into stopping to buy for her the last city they went through. "Well, are we
going or not? Destiny's not going to wait."
Thema laughs; she doesn't really like or understand Quinn, but Quinn makes her
laugh, and they need a bit of humor among the four of them. "She's right," she
says. "I'll drive."
Uriah bites his lip. "I'm not sure."
Thema barks a laugh. "Don't be like that, pumpkin," she mocks. "I won't drive
you off the road."
"Well," he starts, but now it's more for jest than anything else – he missed
this, the joyous tension and that smile splitting her face, radiant –, "from
what I remember -"
"And I think we have a track record of you remembering things wrong," she says
as she slides into the driver seat. Uriah shrugs, and waves a hand at Andrew
when he raises his eyebrows at him. "Trust me, you don't want to know."
The corner of Andrew's mouth quirks but he doesn't ask, though he probably
files it away for future reference. He might hate robots, but the guy almost is
a freaking interface. Quinn only slaps Thema on the back – it's more of a
carress given how weak she is and the awkward position, but the intent is
definitely there. They could work like that, Uriah thinks with no small amount
of wonder; not a family, but a cohesive unit, glued together by strange,
misguided fondness. After all, he would be lying if he said he didn't already
care about Quinn, even though Andrew is still a more complicated question.
Thema... well, Thema is another story altogether, and Uriah won't risk trying
to put a name to his feelings about her, but – yeah. The point being, they
could work. They could even do good in this rotten world, who knows. Maybe
Uriah could buy his way back into heaven.
As though to illustrate his point, there is little conflict during the hour or
so they spend driving through the desert. They all don more appropriate
clothes, hats and glasses, and open the windows. Uriah isn't the only one who's
never been in the desert before, and so he can gape all he wants, eyes and
mouth open to try and gather as much as he can of this monstrosity of nature,
the flat and cracked soil, the dry air, the hills rising meekly here and there,
the scarce, dark green vegetation that seems to warn living beings off
venturing deeper into its territory. It's fascinating in a heady, animalistic
way, like a proof that nature does have a soul, a gritty and terrible soul that
human beings – that beings, full stop, Uriah doesn't want to be discriminatory
– shouldn't investigate too closely.
As they near the point where the road becomes impracticable, though, they start
to get serious. Thema gets her laptop out and, with Andrew's instructions,
manages to hack into the laboratory's system. Uriah watches from behind her,
the numbers jumping on the small screen, sometimes illuminating in colors, red,
green, blue. Andrew follows the proceedings and there's a conversation with too
many words Uriah doesn't understand, even though he did take one or two
Computer Science courses back when they stopped using the binary system. He'd
done well at the time, but apparently all this science has worn off. So he only
listens with half an ear, and with the other he watch the tattoos on the nape
of Thema's neck, where she's tied her hair up in a ponytail so that it doesn't
bother her, trying to guess what they mean. Knowing Thema, they must mean
something.
"So how did you two meet?" Quinn asks after a while, making him jump. She has
this way of making people forget she exists and then to speak up, remind them
that she's been looking all along. It's creepy, if Uriah has anything to say
about it.
He waves his hand in an attempt to change the subject, somewhat embarrassed.
"Long story."
Quinn touches his arm, and it's like an electric jolt. "I have the time," she
says with an oblique smile.
Uriah shakes his head, but he's about to tell her, when – "Their security is
ten armed men, all Mechanics from what I can gather," Thema says. "All that for
a crummy old empty building?"
"She must know there's still something inside," Andrew says tensely.
"And she hasn't found it after fifteen years? Maybe we should just give up
then. There's no way we're going to find, within limited time, what Nomi and
her army haven't managed to dig up after that much time."
There's a spell of silence where no one talks but they all seem to agree, and
then Andrew speaks up. "I know where it is," he admits.
Thema and Uriah's outbursts are perfectly synchronized. "How?" "What?" It would
be funny if it were any other situation but one where the slightest mistake
might get them blasted to death by an over-zealous Mechanic guard. Thema
recovers first, livid. "And you didn't think it was important to mention that?"
"I thought you'd gathered," Andrew snaps, typically. "I told you my father was
a scientist there. Before it closed, he hid the notebooks, and when he died he
told me where they were."
Thema looks doubtful, and Uriah can't really blame her. "Wait, when did you say
the laboratory was shut down?"
"Five years after the Awakening," Andrew says, too quickly. "They let go of all
the human scientists working on Mechanic bio-genetics because they thought it
was dangerous, they took the research and they continued it themselves, without
alerting the public, because they were afraid the humans might try and use the
research to design Mechanic-specific weapons. My father hid his notebooks
because he didn't want all his research to be lost."
"Why did he hide it in the laboratory? He had to know he couldn't retrieve it,
if the Mechanics left security there."
Andrew shrugs; even from where he is, crammed in the back seat, Uriah can see
he's far from relaxed. "I guess he didn't know about the guard, and he thought
he could come back when they left the facility and get the notebooks."
It doesn't feel right, but there's no way to ask more questions without
sounding suspicious, and it's not like they have trust in abundance here.
Besides, fighting just before an operation like this, where they most likely
will have to have each other's back, might not the be the best idea, even Uriah
gets that.
"Okay," says Thema, who's obviously reached the same conclusions. "And you're
sure we can't get the notebooks without alerting the guards?"
Andrew's mouth twists in a grimace. "Yes. From what my father told me, they're
in the main room, under the pedestal you see here," he points at the 3D
rotating map on Thema's screen. "Now, in all probability the pedestal won't be
here anymore, so we'll have to find the spot ourselves. There's a trap door,
and then a safe. I have the code, so that should be fine. But first we need to
get inside the room, and there are going to be at least two guards in front the
main entrance door, depending on their routine, and one in the back. With the
enhanced hearing and their equipment, I highly doubt we can get past them
without a fight, even if we manage to subdue the guards on one of the sides."
"Can't we pretend to be, I don't know, safety agents or something?"
Andrew shakes his head. "From what Thema showed me, there hasn't been any visit
in more than a year, including from Nomi herself. It seems they've all but
given up on the facility, and in a year or two they'll probably even reassign
the guards. It would be highly suspicious if we showed up there without
forewarning. Not to mention I don't think many humans are even aware of the
existence of the facility, much less allowed to go near it. We have to attack;
it's the best chance we have to actually get inside."
Uriah makes a face. "I know you're the Robin Hood that preys on Mechanics or
whatever, but I don't if you've noticed, the rest of us aren't exactly equipped
to deal with those crazies. They'll tear Quinn limb to limb before she can even
say cheese, and I don't think I'll fare much better."
Andrew's face hardens. "You'll be fine. It's probably safer that we keep Quinn
behind, but we have to take you," he looks at Quinn in the eye, his face
unreadable, "with us. You'll be in more danger if you stay behind. You..." he
looks at Uriah now. Thema takes over. "I have gear exactly for this type of
situation. You're quick, agile and a fast-talker. You'll act and diversion, and
then do everything I say."
It's a wonky plan, even Uriah can see that: from what Thema told them in the
journey over, Nomi's given up on the desert years ago, and since it's forbidden
to install either colonies or shops inside, only madmen and LSD-crazed hippies
ever wander into the desert anymore, especially at this time of year when the
nights are horribly cold and can easily kill you if you don't have anywhere to
sleep. Him showing up out of the blue won't make any sense and is more liable
to get Uriah killed than it is to act as any kind of diversion.
"This is a bad idea," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"This is the only idea," Andrew corrects.
It takes a lot more needling, and maybe even one or two promises that Andrew
definitely doesn't intend to keep, but they eventually manage to convince Uriah
to do as he's told. They stop the car and load up with weapons. Thema's
apparently kept busy while they were all sleeping, because she gets bulletproof
vests out of the car – and not amateur ones, either, but ones you can only get
on the black market, reinforced with kevlar and inured against Mechanic
technology. With it under his jacket, Uriah immediately feels a little less
like he's going to be seeing his ancestors soon and more like he might after
all live to see his children. Or – well. Someone else's, at least.
Of course, carrying seven hundred weapons each doesn't exactly make it easy, or
pleasant, to walk, but Uriah consoles himself with the sight of the gun holster
crossing on Thema's broad back, which is curiously attractive. Quinn just
saunters around, for some reason looking ten thousand times more dangerous with
a blaster at her belt and – Uriah knows – a knife in the garter under her
skirt. Now the only thing left to do is pray she doesn't get to use them, and
if she does, that Uriah isn't on the receiving end of that fight.
"You okay?" Thema asks.
Uriah huffs, overplaying his discontent. What? He can do that. He's the one
who's being used as bait, after all. What happened to gender inequality? "I'm
fine," he says gruffly. "Well. I will be, after we finish this mission, kill
Nomi, destroy the present government and I can sleep in my own bed again."
Thema laughs. "How did you end up mixed up in this, anyway?"
"I really don't know. One minute I was in a club in New York and the next I was
roadtripping with a Mechanic-killer."
"A –"
"Don't ask."
Thema gives him a look, like she will indeed ask, once this is all behind them,
but for now she lets go and gives Uriah an impish grin. "You sounded pretty
convinced yesterday."
"Temporary brain damage. I didn't know we'd have to trek through a desert on
our way to our very own suicide mission."
"Cheer up," Thema laughs again, and she starts sprinting to join Andrew,
probably to fashion new details to their already insane odyssey, and why
exactly did Uriah think it was a good idea to get her involved in this, "we
already had the apocalypse." Well, she's right – at least now he can put things
in perspective.
He shuts his mouth after that to focus on walking, and it's long hours of sand
and sun and not much else, and though Quinn doesn't collapse in the middle it's
still not the most pleasant thing Uriah has ever done. At the end of it – or
more like: when they finally spot the laboratory from afar – they're all brown
with dust and short of breath, and they probably look like quite the civilized
bunch, with weapons everywhere under their clothes. Fortunately, Thema has
devised an itinerary that keeps them from being spotted by the guards miles
away from their destination, and they crouch behind nearby rocks to assess the
situation.
"Okay," Andrew says, taking on his self-appointed role as chief of everything,
"Quinn, you stay here and you call us if anything – anything – happens: if they
move, if someone approaches, you call us." He hands them all their set of
comms, which they put on diligently. Quinn nods. "Uriah, you go in first: you
can say anything, just try to not get yourself killed. While they're distracted
we'll use the shade," he points the falling shadows on their right, threatening
to swallow the building, and talk about convenient timing, "to get closer. Then
we improvise."
Uriah gives a little near-hysterical laugh. "I'm sorry? 'Then we improvise?'
That's your plan?"
Andrew's face gets thunderous. "If you have something better..."
"I'm not the one who decided to come here in the first place! I was okay with
the whole killing the queen thing, but this – this is suicide. What do we even
need those notebooks for, anyway?"
"Keep your voice down," Thema hisses, just as Andrew retorts, "I told you why
we need them. They might have information about Nomi's biological make-up which
could help us."
"They might? I'm sorry, that's not enough for me to go in and risk my life,
just because your daddy might have taken a few notes! Do you even hear
yourself?"
The mention of his father makes Andrew shake violently, but he doesn't react.
Uriah continues, because – well, because he's angry and this is his life
they're talking about, it's not exactly a commodity, and this thing about the
notebooks is getting more flimsy by the minute.
"Pipe down, you idiots," Thema interjects, and it's enough to quell Uriah's
anger. He slides back behind the rock, holding his face in his hands. He takes
a deep breath. "Okay," he says eventually. "I'll go. I'm going. But if I die,
it's on you. I swear I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you for the rest of
your fucking life."
Andrew nods, barely hiding a sneer. Thema sighs, glances at Quinn who's looking
between them and laughing, as though she has the right idea. "Are you finished?
You'll tell each other how much you love each other later. Let's go." She
reiterates Andrew's instructions, which sound much more sensible in her mouth,
possibly because she adds a few details, like how exactly he's supposed to
distract the guards and what exactly they're going to do when – if – he manages
that.
Uriah takes a deep breath. It's going to be okay, he tells himself – and then
he remembers that he's hiding behind a rock in a godforsaken, about to go act
as the proverbial fly to the big bad Mechanics, and it's probably not going to
be okay. But he said yes, didn't he? And he does honor his promises once in a
while.
"Okay," he says, blatantly to Andrew and Thema, but more to himself. "Let's do
this."
The Mechanics actually don't notice him until he's shockingly close to the
facility, which might be an indication on their degree of boredom. Waiting out
there in the desert for nothing to happen probably isn't the most interesting
job you can get, and Uriah allows himself a second to wonder what horrible
thing they did to be put here on duty. And then, just before he gets to the
part where he actually pities them, they see him and there are five guns
pointed at his chest. Uriah feels much less inclined to compassion.
He clears his throat. "Peace," he croons, holding his hands up. "I'm unarmed."
The worst thing about this scenario being, of course, that he is, in fact,
unarmed – Andrew's glorious idea, so that they won't find anything when they
inevitably search him.
"What are you doing here?" one of the guard asks. It's impossible to see their
face, what with those big helmets and seriously, Uriah is all for good security
but this feels seriously over the top. He likes to see a person's face when he
has a conversation.
He says as much. The gun moves from his forehead to his crotch. O-kay then.
"Calm down, big fella, I got it. You have the gun, I only speak when I'm asked,
I know how it works with you butch queens. Can't someone do a little tourism
anymore?"
Yeah, that was weak even when they talked about it with Thema. You'd have to
have pretty low standards or seriously like cacti to be interested in a place
like this. Plus, it's not like it's very homely, either.
Guard Number One, he of the nervous gun, herds him closer, and the other one
who, by the orders they bark at him – all very standard: put your hands up,
surrender, blah blah – is probably a woman, pats him down carefully. As
promised, they don't find any weapons on Uriah, but that doesn't really make
them less nervous. Uriah would've thought they'd like some entertainment,
really, after all that sitting around doing nothing. But hey, at least he
didn't get blasted on sight, so he's not going to complain.
The upside to all this being, at least those two are going to be focused on
some time which, if Thema's calculations are right – and Uriah is praying that
they are – will allow Andrew and her to round the facility and incapacitate the
other two Mechanics guarding the back door. After that there's a fifty percent
chance that they left personnel inside, and isn't that going to be fun, and
then they have to be as quick as possible to do what they came here to do
before the rest of the garrison cotton on to what's happening. Uriah didn't ask
how this is all supposed to end because, well, Andrew has no problem offing
Mechanics and Uriah has it on good authority that Thema can be ruthless if
needed, but Uriah actually does get squeamish around too many corpses, so sue
him. But let's not think about this right now.
He gives She-Mechanic a winning smile. She doesn't look charmed, but then it's
pretty hard to tell, what with the mask and the military training. Maybe she's
not into inter-species – just his luck. "So, how are you guys handling it out
there? Not missing the company? I mean, I wouldn't – there are some really nice
mushrooms a few paces from here. I could show you, if you -"
"Shut up," is all he gets for his trouble, that and a rough slap to the back of
his head.
"You could stand to be more civil, you know," he tells the other one. "Didn't
you momma teach you any manners?" A few more minutes and he'll be sure that
Andrew and Thema are in, and then he can shut up and wait for them to rescue
him. Yes – sounds like a plan. "
The Mechanic is undoubtedly about to retort with his own witty repartee when he
perks up, his hand tensing around Uriah's forearm. "Did you hear that?" he asks
to his companion.
She shakes her head no. "What is it? Do you think he," she nods towards Uriah,
"brought other people with him?"
The Mechanic groans. "We would've seen them coming. Unless -" Oh, crap.
Well, this is exactly what Uriah was hoping to avoid, so that's great – is what
he thinks when the Mechanic's hand leaves his forearm and tightens around his
throat, choking him. Uriah tries to jerk his head back, but the hand is firm,
holding him in place. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Who are you
working for?"
"I told you," Uriah splutters as best as he can, "I'm just an innocent tourist,
in search for some good shrooms, I -"
The fist hits him on the side of his jaw, and Uriah would be lying if he said
he'd never been punched in the face before, but it was definitely not an
experience he was looking forward to reiterate. Fuck. He feels like the inside
of his cheek is going to have his teeth imprinted on it, and seriously, what
are they doing? Aren't they supposed to be, like, super-soldiers – shouldn't
they have subdued those fucking guards by now? He knew this was a bad plan.
The hand leaves his throat, and Uriah falls on the ground. He starts crawling
backwards, blood dripping on his lips and chin; the female Mechanic, now
standing at the door, probably standing guard, looks at him and Uriah can see
through the slivers in her mask that she will look unflinchingly as her
companion kills him. This is not the way this was supposed to go. Why did he
even agree to this? He could be back home, in his bed, preferably with someone,
having sex and eating sushi – but no, he decided he wanted to be an adventurer
and now he's going to die in a deserted facility in the freaking Mojave at the
hands of a Mechanic guard who thinks he's a hippie-slash-spy. That's great.
That's just great.
"Whew," he says as soon as he can get his breath back, because apparently his
greatest default is an inability to keep his mouth shut, "you guys can't take a
joke, can you?"
But apparently the universe has other plans for him than unusual and cruel
death, because Uriah only has the time to blink in the direction of the door
and notice that the other Mechanic isn't there anymore before his designed
interrogator collapses on top of him. Uriah oofs.
"Come on," says Thema hurriedly, holding a hand out. "He's only unconscious."
Uriah takes the hand, huffing and puffing as he tries to get the Mechanic off
him. "You guys sure took your sweet time. One more minute and I was dog food."
Thema gives him a grin, managing to make it at the same time apologetic and
irreverent. "Yeah, well, we ran into some complications." She crouches near the
Mechanic's body, laying her gun down. "Help me, we have to tie him up."
Uriah obeys, hooking his arms under the Mechanic's armpit and dragging him up,
though not without difficulty. "That one could stand to go on diet," he huffs.
"You have rope?"
"You know me, regular Boy Scout," Thema smiles, unloading a thick wad of rope
from her backpack. Indeed.
They drag the body across the room and tie him up to one of the metal poles on
the side of the room, relieving him of his weapons, keys and other potentially
useful equipment. "Where's Andrew?" Uriah asks when they're finished, as he
sits down, his fingers tightening on his newly-acquired Sig Sauer (top of the
line, those Mechanics don't do things halfway). "What happened?"
Thema shakes her head. "Nothing, really, there were just more than we expected
at the backdoor, so we had to take care of that. Andrew's taking care of that
one's," she jerks a thumb at the unconscious Mechanic, "girlfriend."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not," Thema shakes her head.
They exchange a look. From what Uriah knows, Thema isn't aware of what Andrew
does for a living, but he doesn't seem particularly ashamed or secretive when
it comes to that part of his resume, so it wouldn't be surprising if he did. At
least he's not the only one who knows it's safer keeping an eye on him.
Andrew interrupts their silent understanding when he waltzes into the room. It
only takes one glance for Uriah to notice the blood splatter on his shirt and
sleeves, but he doesn't remark on it, only gets to his feet. "All done?"
"Yeah," Andrew says. He takes a look around the room: it's spacious and
military-looking, but from the lack of scientific equipment or, well, anything,
it doesn't look like the place they're looking for. Then again, it could have
been cleaned out after the facility was decommissioned, but the 3D maps Thema
showed them suggested there would be more left, including a sort of circular
area in the middle where the pedestal is, supposed to be, plus a sort of
farming area, and Uriah really doesn't want to know what that was for. He's a
regular guy, after all, the horrors his fellow humans performed on other
species isn't something he wants to reflect on.
"This isn't it," Andrew decrees. He goes over to the Mechanic to check the
bondage because, well, you're a perfectionist bastard or you aren't; when he's
satisfied he gets up on his feet and takes out his gun. "We have to hurry up,"
he says. "That's six of them out cold, it's not going to be long before the
other smell that there's something wrong. Follow me."
They follow him, mostly because they don't want to die, but Andrew has a
strange brand of charisma that doesn't really leave room for questions; as
they're moving out the room, back to the wall, Uriah asks Thema, his voice low,
"What did you do with the others?"
Thema looks away, pretending not to have heard. Uriah takes the hint. They move
silently from room to room, following Andrew's directions. The facility isn't
really homely, a big building with mostly empty rooms without windows or
furniture, the walls painted a stark white, grey in the corridors. It smells of
dust and old cleaning solution, with an undercurrent of damp moisture that's
making Uriah want to cough. He holds it in, though, and the silence is thick
and tense as they progress through the building, sticking close to their heels.
The sound of their breathing is deafening. Once in a while the comm where Quinn
is supposed to call if she sees something crackles and they stop, all hackles
rising, but it doesn't give anything and they start walking again, always on
their guard.
They could have been searching like this, silent and taut, for hours or merely
minutes when a noise finally breaks the silence. It's distant but clear, a gun
being cocked in a corridor nearby, and Uriah knows what it means – if they can
hear it, it means that the Mechanics can hear them. Their hearing is much more
developed than the human standard, and chances are the guards are lying there,
waiting for one of them to make a mistake so they can spot and shoot them or
worse, make them prisoner and interrogate them.
"Okay," Andrew whispers. "Thema, on the count of three. Three..."
Uriah doesn't have the time to ask what he is supposed to do before Andrew
reaches three and he and Thema separate their backs from the wall and jump in
the corridor behind them where, as expected, three Mechanic guards are waiting,
guns cocked. Uriah watches, breath carefully held, as Andrew raises a weapon
and a bullet ricochets again one of the Mechanics' uniforms; Thema twirls on
herself with surprising grace and the sharp edge of a blade held at arm's
length insinuates itslef in the thin strip of bare skin between uniform and
mask. Blood spurt out of the artery, gurgling, and Thema kneels down on the
Mechanic's chest to finish him. Uriah screams as soon as he spots the guard
rising up behind her, and she turns around, gets on her feet and ducks just as
a bullet comes whirring frightfully close to her ear. A few paces away, Andrew
has taken cover behind a fire extinguisher; a flurry of bullets hits it and it
explodes, gurgling white between the two soldiers.
Thema takes advantage of the diversion to sneak up on her assailant; one blow
has his head jerking towards the wall, his helmet flying and hitting the ground
with a clang, but he gets up, sneering. Thema doesn't seem fazed in the
slightest; Uriah remembers the holster just as she reaches in her back and gets
one of her guns out of it. They're still not evenly matched, at least if the
size of the guns is anything to go by, but Thema delivers a kick to the
Mechanic's middle and surprise, if not pain, has him doubled over.
Unfortunately, it also has his finger tighten on the trigger, and Uriah can
only watch as the bullet tears messily through the skin of Thema's upper thigh.
It's only a flesh wound, but what a Mechanic can take without flinching will
have a human on the ground in a matter of minutes, Uriah knows that. He
considers getting involved in the fight, but he knows it will probably only
mean one more corpse. A glance at Andrew confirms that he's in no position to
help Thema – his own hands are busy trying to strangle the Mechanic he's been
fighting since the beginning, and the one Thema put down with her knife is
starting to stir, and looks eager to take his revenge.
Uriah crouches near the backpack Thema left behind. Maybe he can take his
chances, and act as – well, diversion, let's be honest, it's the only thing he
could be some use at. They might not be fooled in a situation like that, but
it's not like Uriah can just stand there and watch his – friends? – die while
he does nothing. It's one thing to watch someone OD – and even that, Uriah
would rather it had never happened – but it's quite another to watch them bleed
out while they're bludgeoned to death by a Mechanic on their quest to – well,
world peace would be a little pretentious, but that's what it is, in a
nutshell.
But he looks up the situation has changed – again. Even with her thigh bleeding
copiously, Thema has apparently managed to put her first assailant back down,
if the bloody footprint over his nose and mouth is anything to go by, and the
other Mechanic is now disarmed. Uriah watches as they start boxing each other
out. Thema doesn't look too good, her face pale and her teeth firmly ground,
sweating profusely, but her attacker isn't exactly peachy either, from what
Uriah can gather. His right side seems to be hurt – he's holding it with one
hand, and with the other he's trying to counter Thema's fists. She manages to
land a blow eventually, getting him square in the nose, and it only takes a few
other impacts before he's face down on the ground. Thema kicks his injured side
repeatedly, her face lit with something close to rage.
He's about to go and help her, try and tend to her injury, which is getting
worse by the minute, when he catches sight of Andrew. He's in an even more
precarious situation than before. Apparently the diversion caused by the
extinguisher didn't last long; it's rolled on the ground, pierced in multiple
places by the Mechanic's bullets. The white has settled and Andrew is now
caught between the wall and the Mechanic's gun, pressed snugly against his
forehead. He's hissing at Andrew, probably trying to get some information on
who they are and what they want now that he has him at his mercy. Uriah waits
for Thema to see what's going on, but she looks determined on killing her
victim, now kicking at his head and wow, Uriah is not going to look again,
because that does not look like a head anymore. He didn't think she had it in
her, but apparently getting stabbed and almost killed makes you a little
unstable. Good to know.
He takes a deep breath. Everyone had their moment of heroism, he reasons, so
it's time he paid his dues, right? He pointedly doesn't think about how it
wouldn't change much for him if Andrew died, despite the voice at the back of
brain telling him that maybe it would even be better, and the guy kidnapped
him, after all, and they have nothing in common, really, nothing at all.
Because at the end of the day, Uriah might a coward and a drug dealer, not
exactly a good friend or son or – well, anything, but he's not someone who lets
people die just because it's convenient. He's more the type of guy that does
everything to prevent it. The more you know.
So he gets out from the shadows of his hiding corner, brain blank, and runs
into the carnage. He grabs the fire extinguisher, groaning a little when he
gets it in his hands because goddamn that thing is heavy, and just as he hears
the Mechanic say something akin to "maybe I should just blow -" he strikes as
hard as he can. At first he thinks he didn't go at it hard enough, or maybe
just missed altogether, and wouldn't that be inconvenient, but after a few
seconds of hovering into place the Mechanic goes down, his head hitting the
ground with a sickening crunch.
Andrew gives Uriah a bemused look, like he doesn't really understand what just
happened. Uriah pats his shoulder – urgh, is that blood? Seriously, how does
this guy manage to get blood everywhere on him all the time? That shit is
disgusting.
"You're welcome, bro," he says with a smile. "You can thank me later, for now I
think we should," he nods towards Thema who, now that she's finished massacring
her victim, is folded in two against the wall, holding her side.
"Shit," Andrew swears between his teeth. He crouches next to Thema. "Where did
he hit you?"
Thema's eyes flutter open. She's shivering; she must have lost more blood than
Uriah thought. "It's only a flesh wound," she says. "I have some MedicAll in my
bag, that should help restructure it, you just need to get the bullet out.
Hurry up, they could have called for back-up."
She looks remarkably determined, for someone who's going to have a bullet
extracted from her side, Uriah remarks idly, with newfound respect. Not that –
he always respected her, but he was right, he really was right when he asked
her to come with them. "Call Quinn," she says again, right at Uriah. "She can
help me, I'll tell her what to do. Go get the notebooks, we need to get out of
here."
"But -" Uriah starts protesting. The more they leave her, the more chances
there is MedicAll won't be enough.
"She's right," Andrew says. He opens the comms. "Quinn? You need to come down
here. Yes, it's clear, but Thema's been injured. We need your help." He
addresses Thema, "She's on her way. Are you going to be okay in the meantime?"
Thema nods, forcing her eyelids open. "Yes," she whispers. "Just give me my
bag."
Uriah gives it to her, and he watches as she uncaps a syringe with her teeth
and plunges it in one of the veins of her arm. "Adrenalin," she says as she
catches Uriah's questioning eye. "It'll keep me up while Quinn gets there. Go."
Uriah glances behind him – Andrew is already up on his feet, ready to start
their search again. Uriah hesitates. "I can't -"
"Of course you can," says Thema, and Uriah feels stupid, because not ten
minutes ago he was holed up in his corner, watching as his friends fought, and
now – he starts getting up, his hands on his knees. "I'll be back soon," he
says, trying not to let his voice waver. "Don't die."
Thema's fingers closes on his wrist. "Hey," she whispers, smiling weakly. "That
time. I was lying."
Uriah smiles back. He squeezes her hand, once. "Be back soon," he reiterates,
and then he has to jog to catch up with Andrew, trying to quell the persistent
worry. "Did you find anything?"
"We must not be far," Andrew says. He's wincing a little when he walks, so he
must have been hit too, but if he doesn't want to talk about it, Uriah's sure
as hell not going to ask. He's starting to get how Andrew works. "There aren't
that many rooms left."
And he's right: it only takes a few minutes (though it helps that they don't
have to hug the walls and keep their guns and ears trained for any suspect
movement) before they find the room they were looking for. Unlike what they
expected, the pedestal is still up, a relatively harmless-looking – but then,
with those scientist types, you never know – structure, standing approximately
in the middle of the room. Andrew runs to it, his eyebrows furrowed, hissing a
little at the pain.
"I need your help," he says after a few seconds spent inspecting the structure.
"It's heavy, I'm going to need you to move it, and get access to the safe."
"Sure."
It is heavy, but the eventually manage to dislodge it and as promised, they're
welcomed by the gleaming face of a safe. It's an old model, made to be opened
with only three codes, and it probably could be broken into with the right gear
– Uriah had a period hanging out with thieving crews, he can hold his own in
this department. "You sure you have the codes?" he asks.
"We'll see," Andrew says as he leans over the safe, just as Quinn's voice
informs Uriah that she's there and she's going to start trying to remove the
bullet. "Good," Uriah says with less anguish than he actually feels.
He sits cross-legged on the ground while Andrew works in silence. It takes more
time than he expected, but eventually the tell-tale click rings in the silence
and Andrew exhales a quiet breath, tells him, "That was the first one." After
that their success is guaranteed, and even though the anxiety doesn't leave
Uriah – backup could still be on their way, after all, and Thema is far from
safe – he waits with a little more serenity. All that for freaking notebooks.
They better be worth-it.
"It's done," Andrew says finally. He reaches into the safe and when his hands
resurface he's holding at least five notebooks, bound in leather and looking
ancient even for old human objects. Andrew opens one of them, and Uriah leans
over his shoulder to see.
"Great," he says, grimacing. "They're in code."
Andrew shrugs. "It'll be fine," he says, but Uriah can feel that he's irritated
too. "We'll manage. There aren't that many codes, and I know which ones my
father used."
"But it'll take forever to translate all of this, and I thought you were the
one who said regicide doesn't wait."
"Well, it'll have to," Andrew snaps. He slams the safe shut, and the metallic
clang resounds in the immense room as though it were a door. A shiver runs down
Uriah's spine. "I can't do anything about it, not any more than you. Let's just
go back, and get out of this place before something else happens."
Which, as far as Uriah can tell, is the most sensible thing to do here, so he
doesn't protest any more, takes the two notebooks Andrew hands him and follows
him back out the room. He makes the mistake of looking back as he does, and the
immensity of the room hits him unexpectedly: here is the farming area, and from
up close it looks about twenty times more terrifying than it had on Thema's
screen, almost as though it had been used to –
"Well – are you coming?"
Uriah quashes down his suspicions. It's not going to help, anyway. "Sure,
sorry."
The way back is considerably more tense. It does seem a little futile to have
done all this just to acquire a few crummy notebooks written in code, but there
is something else, Uriah can feel it – something that's bothering Andrew, and
if he was still doubting that Andrew had actual feelings this would make him
reconsider, because this is personal, there are no two ways about it. Uriah
doesn't ask purely because he's certain that Andrew wouldn't tell, but he tries
to project as much compassion as he can without actually opening his mouth.
It's only as they grow close from where Thema and Quinn are, their voices
filtering distantly in yet another grey corridor, that Andrew stops him with a
hand on his arm.
"Thank you," Andrew says, looking him clear in the eye. "For saving my life."
Uriah rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, don't sprain yourself."
And that's it. Quinn perks up as soon as they come close, her hair tied in a
messy ponytail and her hands stained with blood.
"Is it done?" Andrew asks.
She nods, pointing to a bullet resting on the ground, at her side. Thema's
still not looking so good, but Quinn explains that they have to wait for the
MedicAll to take effect, she should be alright within twenty-four hours.
"Thanks, Quinn. I'll carry her back," Uriah suggests, rejecting Thema's
protests. "It's the least I can do."
Quinn packs everything back into Thema's bag, and Uriah notices that she's
trying not to look at the blood on her hands, but in a strange way, like it
doesn't bother her but could maybe awaken something she doesn't want to face.
He doesn't ask. There'll be time for confessions later.
"You coming?" he asks Andrew when he sees him hovering near the door, his eyes
fastened on the bodies on the Mechanics.
Andrew nods, not looking up. "You can start without me. I'll join at the car."
Uriah nods. It's probably better not to ask and besides, Thema needs to be put
into a bed sooner rather than later, not to mention Quinn whose reactions are
always unpredictable and occasionally dangerous. Outside the facility the sky
is darkening, stricken with purple and red, and the desert seems even more
unfriendly than before. They have no difficulty finding the path, and then
there's nothing to do but walk, the dust coarse and uncomfortable on their
clothes. Thema doesn't talk, her arms winded around Uriah's neck; occasionally
a moan slips through her clasped teeth, and Quinn's hand finds her place at the
back of Uriah's neck, resting against Thema's fingers. They're about halfway
back, dust clinging to their blood-damp clothes, weighed down by the bags and
weapons, when Andrew jogs back to them. Uriah's given up to carrying Thema on
her back – they would never make it all the way back to the car – and is now
only supporting her with his arm, holding her up. He glances over at Andrew,
crossing Quinn's eyes as he does. Andrew's sleeves are soaked with blood up to
the elbow, the color stark and sickening, dripping a little on his pants. His
gun is hooked at his belt, and he doesn't look at Uriah, doesn't offer any
explanation.
"Here is the car," he says at the end of the road, just as the night is
starting to cover the desert at their back, carrying with it its cold wind and
daunting darkness. If it were any other situation, Uriah would ask, needle,
require an explanation – but his throat is parched and he's never felt more
exhausted in his life, more drained of everything; Thema's head is bobbing on
his shoulder, Quinn's ethereal silhouette wobbling sadly on the sandy path.
Even Andrew looks worse than Uriah's ever seen him.
He decides to wait until tomorrow to ask questions.
***** Chapter 8 *****
6.
The ride back to New York isn't exactly a picnic, especially with Andrew and
Thema both injured – though Andrew insists it's nothing, which is really more
trouble than it is a reassurance – but they manage. Uriah does most of the
driving, since he doesn't trust Quinn to take the wheel, and Quinn doesn't ask;
Andrew does a little when he feels better. Thema and him are both on a strict
diet of MedicAll and painkillers. Thema's stopped bleeding only a few hours
after they left the facility, but they knew it would take a while before she
recovered completely. There have been suspicions that the advances in medicine
effected by Mechanic scientists are engineered on purpose to heal but not make
the human constitution stronger, so that they can't rival the Mechanic's own
quasi-supernatural strength. Uriah's always found it over the top, but now he's
not the sure.
The point being: the trip takes them longer than it would've were they all in
top health and able to use all their limbs, but they get to New York three days
later anyway. They haven't encountered any danger on the way back, so if Nomi's
heard of their raid on the facility she must either not have cottoned on who
they are – unlikely – or have decided to hold her horses and catch them
unaware, which is both more believable and very frightening. That being said,
the whole situation isn't particularly reassuring.
It hasn't been long enough that Uriah's old apartment has been rented out, but
they decide not to go there anyway, no matter how much Uriah is longing for his
own bed, toaster and laptop. Thema reasons with him that it would be the first
place Nomi would go searching, and Uriah can't really disagree. So instead they
rent, under a fake name, a crummy and largely disaffected house in the Bronx.
The neighborhood isn't really friendly, but they all have guns and they'll be
exponentially harder to find in a place like this one, which means that they'll
also be able to do their research and planning without fear that the Militia is
going to break down the door every second.
So here they are: the house is large and looks like a model for a haunted
house, but after a few trips to the nearby utility store it becomes more or
less habitable. They eat out most night, lost in the immense and diverse New
York crowd, the little shops blinking hungrily in the night. They make a
strange group, disheveled and largely unequal, but nothing is strange in New
York and people do not look at them twice – why would they, when twenty paces
from there a neo-modern fashionista, glowing bright blue from top to bottom, is
busy tonguing what looks like next century's new male top-model?
After Thema gets better and Andrew delivers the codes, as promised, they spend
a few days trying to crack the notebooks. It's easier than expected, but
doesn't teach them much, as all Andrew's father has written down is virtually
useless for their mission. It would be interesting for a scientist, Uriah is
sure, probably even revolutionary (there are some things in there about
longevity and the Mechanics' ability to resist diseases which Uriah definitely
didn't know and, now that he thinks of it, could probably help his old supplier
prepare his drugs better, but that's besides the point); the fact remains that
they did all this for virtually nothing, and Uriah tries not to think about
that, especially when he looks at Thema who's still having trouble walking,
because it makes him want to sock Andrew in the face and they all know how that
would end (hint: with Uriah on the floor, probably dead).
But Andrew seems to have lost his initial frenzy, and he refuses to leave New
York until they've formulated a new, bulletproof (ha!) plan. He doesn't
contribute much to it, though; he spends his days absorbed in the re-reading of
the notebooks, so much that Uriah ends up not knowing if it's for the purpose
of finding something they might have missed or out of pure filial melancholia.
Possibly the second one, which is not something Uriah wants to dwell because,
well – weird. Thema is antsy about the whole thing, though, and Uriah can't say
he isn't a little unnerved as well, even though he isn't one to run straight
into the wolf's jaws. It would just be nice to do something, is all. All this
waiting around is making nervous. In fact – but that's fast becoming a pattern
– the only person who seems good with the situation, barring Andrew, is Quinn.
She floats in and out of the house. At first Uriah tries to keep track of her
movements, be it only to make sure nothing happens to her, but Thema calls him
out on it, tells him that she's legal and can do what she wants and, well,
that's true. It's not because Andrew treats her like she manages to be
simultaneously breakable, unimportant and extremely dangerous that she actually
is all those things. Uriah sees her a few times a day, usually in the evening,
as she comes back in. The first days she looks almost scared to see him, her
eyes even wider than usual, and Uriah remembers that Andrew had said she'd
worked in the Mansion, which probably means she's not used to big towns. But
she doesn't ask for help and he doesn't any; after a few days she's only like
she's been since Uriah met her, ethereal and whimsical but apparently unharmed.
Her nights are more difficult, though. Uriah can't pretend not to hear the
screams that come out the living-room – the only room that had a working bed
when they got here –, or the heavy shuffle of her feet in the dawn hours. At
first he thinks it's temporary, a result of the change of scenery, but after a
week, as the nightmares come back to torture her like clockwork, he has to
admit it's not. He does offer her help, and so does Thema, from what she's told
him, but it doesn't make any difference. "The demons are inside," Quinn says,
backlit by the pale dawn, her frizzy hair like a halo around her head. Her chin
drops, she pales, asks to be left alone; they comply, unsure of what else to
do.
Her now-obligatory stick in her hand, Thema insists to walk through the city.
Uriah knows her well enough to know that she hates confinement and generally is
a very energetic woman; besides, it's not like the house doesn't mildly freak
him out, so he agrees to scour the city with her without much hesitation.
Of course – "I thought we were doing tourism, Thema, not visiting the
underbelly of criminal New York."
Thema snorts. It's strangely attractive – but then, Uriah finds a lot
attractive about this woman. "Yeah, well, you assumed. It serves you right,
really."
"Can't we just -" He doesn't bother finishing his sentence, given that she just
knocked on the door. Frankly, if Uriah had to put a picture above 'fishy-
looking' in the dictionary, it would probably be a picture of this house. It's
almost cliché, really: the walls have humidity stains, it's in the middle of
nowhere, in a neighborhood where waft smells of garbage and food alike. There
are three Asian men sitting on the stairs a few paces from them, the taller one
sporting an impressive cyborg eye Uriah could swear is Mechanic technology in
origin. Needless to say it probably wasn't supposed to end up here.
The door opens before Uriah protests that he'd really rather they left this
place before they catch an errant bullet or meet someone Uriah would rather not
want to meet. He used to be a drug dealer, okay? You make a lot of enemies in a
job like that.
"Hi," the woman who's opened the door says. Uriah isn't sure he's ever seen
anything like her: her hair is red, her eyes swathed in an impressive amount of
silver glitter. She's wearing a fur coat – in this heat – with spiky heels and
what look like ripped leather pants, if that is even a thing. Uriah might gape.
For all that she looks the exact contrary of that woman, though, spartan and as
economically dressed as possible, Thema doesn't look even remotely fazed. She
opens her arms, and the redhead tips right into them, laughing. She's short;
her entire body seems dwarfed by Thema's frame, her face disappearing in
Thema's shoulder. "I'm glad to see you," what must have been a musical voice,
but is now weathered by years of smoking and various substance abuse, pipes up.
Her words have a lilt, an accent, maybe Russian.
"Me too," Thema beams. She waves towards Uriah, and the redhead ushers them in
the house. "This is Uriah – we work together."
The redhead seems to see him for the first time, and Uriah tries not to be
offended. She smiles, her eyes slitting up in a sort of peculiar smile. "Oh,"
she says softly, "I'm Irina." She holds out a hand heavily adorned with rings;
Uriah is sure he's never met anyone like her before.
The décor inside the house is surprisingly tame, taking into account Irina's
appearance and overall behavior, at least as far as Uriah's seen. The furniture
is sleek and minimalistic, chromatic tones except for a few splashes of color
provided by queer objects – a painting on the back wall, a uniform on the sofa,
an indigo chair near the window. A book with a violently yellow cover stands
out, its broken spine open on the kitchen table.
"Tea?" Irina offers.
Thema agrees with a nod. "Coffee," Uriah counters absently, still preoccupied
with his surroundings; when he looks up Thema gives him a sharp grin but Irina
doesn't seem to mind, already placing a percolator on the oven.
She comes back to sit at the table, the fur sliding softly on her shoulders.
"So," she places her head in her palms, "what do you want from me, darling?"
Thema laughs. "Can't I visit an old friend?" and, okay – maybe Uriah isn't
wanted here. This seems... intimate.
But Irina brushes the comment off. "Of course you can, love, any time you
want," she brushes her hand over Thema's, "but right now you want something. I
assume you're on a mission. Back to the old mercenary days, or is this one -
" she nods at Uriah as though he were, if not wholly absent, a mere hologram,
"your new partner?"
"God no. I'm working for someone. But I was just passing by to see if you've
got any gossip. Who knows, we could always find a gem."
The kettle whines on the stove, high-pitched. Uriah is the only one who starts,
and Irina gets up to fill two mugs of tea. Thema doesn't specify how she wants
her but Irina seems to know anyway. It's hard to guess how old she is, Uriah
notices with no little amount of fascination – could be twenty-five, could be
forty. She dips her made-up lips in her tea. "Well," she says, and the gleam in
her eyes is unholy, "I did hear some rumors... but I'm not sure you'd be
interested."
Granted, he doesn't know her all that well, but Uriah is positive he's never
Thema like this: so comfortable in her skin, smiling, even a little flirty.
When he's been around her she's always been as straight-laced as outlaws get, a
sticker for the rules, almost secretive when it came to her own past.
Nevertheless, it's a nice thing to see.
"Of course I'm interested," Thema smiles over the rim of her mug.
The percolator makes a gurgling sound. Uriah motions to Irina not to stand up,
she tilts her head at him in thanks. He gets his own cup and sugar, goes back
to sit at the table. Irina is speaking low, leaning across the table. "You know
I can't just give out information, love. I don't even know who you work for."
"The good of the general citizenry," Thema says, which, although probably
generally true, will not help them. As expected, Irina just chuckles.
"Because I still love you," she sighs. Then she blows over her tea, twice, and
says, "Apparently we have new neighbors. Now I don't know if that's what you
kids are into, but there's a resistance movement building up not far from here,
all very hush-hush of course."
"Resistance against what?"
"You're not the only ones who fancy yourselves vigilantes, let's just say that.
Those fellows are serious, though. They're commandeered one of the old labs to
conduct all sorts of experiments. If I were the superstitious, I wouldn't go
too close on a full moon." She grins, showing a flash of surprisingly white
teeth.
"How long have they been here?"
"A few months. One of the lady scientists comes around here once in a while, I
think her name is Zoé or something like that. Foreign – French. Very pretty,
too. Blonde."
"Stay on track, Irina. Do they have a leader – a chief, something like that?"
Irina takes a sip of her tea. Her lipstick doesn't leave a mark on the
porcelain of her mug. "I think so. I've heard of a guy called... Mouse?
Couldn't say for sure. Anyway, if I say anymore I'll have to kill you – or more
likely, I'll get killed. Those resistance guys are awfully nervy, in my
experience."
"What's that?"
Irina's attention, before that solely focused on Thema, swivels to him once
again. Uriah would be vexed that she seems to routinely forget his existence,
but something tells him that it might be better for his health in the long
term. "I'm sorry?"
"What is your experience? What do you do?"
Irina gives Thema a quick glance, as though to say, who is this one, but Thema
just shrugs. Irina decides to indulge him. "I do lots of things, pumpkin. I
used to -" she nods at Thema, "swim in the same waters as this woman here,
hacking and such, but I got bored. Did a bit of industrial espionage in my
day," she winks, "but then who hasn't? What about you? Are you new? You look
new."
"I'm not new. I -" the word they usually use is, "work in controlled
substances."
Irina's grin widens. "Oh, well, we have plenty of your sort here. I'm sure you
saw the neighbour coming in. Lots of things happening on those three stairs,"
she says with a giggle.
She forgets Uriah's presence again after that short exchange. Uriah follows the
conversation between Thema and her distractedly, but they're obviously talking
about shared experiences he has nothing to do with, so after a while he drifts
to the big wooden library he'd spotted when he'd entered the room, through a
door left ajar. The room isn't big, but it's crammed with books from floor to
ceilings. Uriah would lie if he said he read often, at least on paper – he's
been using computers since he was a baby, though he never could reach the level
of mastery Thema and Irina obviously posses – but the atmosphere of the place
is mesmerizing. The light is low and soothing, and the thick wood of the door,
when it closes, isolates the room from any outside sound. Uriah breathes out;
he hadn't realized he was so tense. He hasn't been sleeping that well himself,
but it's hard to get any shut-eye when you could get thrown of bed by the
Militia and your body would never be found. So, you know. Everything's
relative.
He doesn't know how long he spends in the library. He sits into a deep plushy
armchair and it's as though he were sinking into it; the next thing he knows
Irina's shaking his shoulder, her rings clinking together in a musical metallic
sound. "Rise and shine, darling," she says.
Uriah yawns. "Sorry," he says. "I got distracted."
"It's fine. It's a nice place, though, isn't it? My sanctuary. You're welcome
to come here as much as you want if you need to take a nap," she offers, only
slightly mocking.
"Thanks."
After that it's a flurry of goodbyes. Irina makes Thema promise that she'll
visit again while they're in New York, and they embrace, Irina's cheek pressed
against Thema's. For the first time since they arrived Uriah spies genuine
emotion in her eyes; he looks away, embarrassed.
On their way out they spot the three Asians, still sitting in the exact same
spot. Uriah gives them a short wave but they don't respond. Uriah shrugs as
Thema rolls her eyes, fond. The walk back to the house is more or less
uneventful. Thema doesn't say much, caught in her thoughts.
"So," Uriah says eventually, to break the silence, "you and Irina...?"
Thema looks up, surprised, then smiles. "Oh, sure, yeah. It was a while ago,
though."
"How did you two meet?"
"The usual. Worked in the same circles, we clicked I suppose."
"But?" He gives her a look, tell me if I'm bothering you, but she doesn't seem
to mind telling the story. She scratches the back of her neck; the sight of her
fingers moving over the tattoos is almost hypnotic.
"Well, you know how it is. You can't trust anyone in that kind of job, it
always ends up ruining relationships."
"Mm," Uriah agrees vaguely. He's not really an expert when it comes to
relationships; actually, he tends to steer clear from him as best as he can. As
Thema is saying – this kind of job has inconveniences and well, you just never
know who's sleeping with you because they actually want to and who is because
they're hoping to score a little blow. Uriah's had some less than pleasant
experiences that he's not eager to reiterate.
The house is silent when they walk in. A quick sweep of the living-room (well,
maybe living-room is a big word. The central area, let's say, in all that it's
central. Other than that, it doesn't have many of the characteristics of an
actual living-room) reveals that Quinn isn't back yet, so they go up and the
stairs and knock at Andrew's door. He bids them enter; for once, he's not at
the desk, poring over the notebooks, but sitting in the middle of the bed,
looking at the wall in front of him.
"Is everything alright?"
He looks up like he's surprised to see them here, even though he told them to
come in only a few seconds before. "Everything's fine. I got a phone call."
Thema sits in the desk chair, her legs splayed apart. Uriah notices idly that
he doesn't think he's ever seen her wear heels. Maybe it would suit her, who
knows. "Anything interesting?"
"Maybe. Apparently we're not the only ones who are working to our purpose, and
they have more manpower and resources than we do."
Thema hums, looking relatively unconcerned. "Maybe we should let them do the
job, then. We're certainly not making much headway here."
Andrew cocks his head. He still looks distracted, but his eyes are sharp. "I
don't think their morals are –"
"What are our morals, I meant to ask?" Thema's leaning down over her knees. Oh,
this is just what they don't need right now. Time to jump in.
"Maybe we should just try and meet with them before we make any definite
judgments, what do you say? Besides, it could be interesting. Could give us
leads on what to do and how to do it, and then we can – sabotage them if we
don't think what they're doing is right." Oh, it sounds so easy said like that.
If he weren't the one saying it, Uriah would be ready to believe that there's
half the outright danger involved. "Do you have means of contacting them back?"
Andrew nods. "Their leader goes by 'Mouse', apparently," he says, his nose
wrinkling when he says the name. Great, they only know the guy by his nickname
and Andrew already despises him.
Thema laughs. "Yeah, we heard of him."
Andrew's head snaps up, his eyes unusually sharp. "Did you?"
Uriah gives an amused nod. "Yeah, we paid a visit to one of Thema's old
girlfriends a few blocks from here. Charming character. Said she knew of a new
movement, resistance something, with scientists and the like. Mentioned your
guy. Look, you have a cigarette?"
Andrew takes a pack on the nightstand and presents it to them. Thema declines,
wrinkling her nose a little. The day Uriah figures her out will be a victory,
there's no doubt about that. Uriah sticks the cigarette in his mouth and leans
down to let Andrew light it for him. It feels strange, but Andrew does it
absently, the flame bursting from the end of his fingers as though he was a
strange, hollow-eyed magician.
"So," Uriah says as he exhales, the smoke uncurling in thin white curlicues
above his mouth, "what are we doing? Are we going to see this guy?"
"Yes," Andrew says. "I think we can get something from them, even if it's just
information."
They tell Quinn when she comes back that night but she doesn't look interested.
She told them, actually, in her own cryptical and half-disengaged way, that her
only involvement in the whole mission comes in the way of memories, the hazy
substance that she holds back from an existence years ago now. Her affection
for Andrew's mother, Sara, is the only tether that really links her to them,
apart from her occasional moments lucidity-fueled attention.
Sometimes she tells stories. They're colorful but fragmented, sometimes even
horror-ish with their larger-than-life villains and their heroic protagonists,
and when Uriah asks her if they're true stories she tilts her head, her mouth
twisting as though to say that realism is overrated. Uriah is the only one who
really pays attention to those stories: Thema gets bored more often than not,
and uncomfortable, and Andrew only ever listens from afar, pretending to read
or drowse in a chair removed from the group. But it seems like Quinn couldn't
care less about having an audience, anyway; when she talks her voice is low and
her eyes faraway, their blue dimming to a vague glow. She says the names with a
reverence reserved for the dead and the immensely dangerous, her hands shaking
quietly in her lap.
She tells – and Uriah is convinced that that one is real, because of how vivid,
almost hurtful, the words are in her mouth – the story of a young girl growing
up in a Polish family in her native Tennessee, spending a happy, dry childhood
in the hay-colored country with her sisters. It really is the American dream: a
healthy, ruddy-cheeked girl, leaving home at fifteen to try her luck in the big
city, and then – well, then the story takes a turn for the darker, and that's
when Uriah leans in to listen more carefully, because there's no change in
Quinn's intonation, just her eyes that get even more blank, deader. Then, she
says, she's recruited by the Mechanics to work for the government, and doesn't
that sound like a good job? Secretary in the Presidential Mansion. Of course
it's all hush-hush and there are a hundred discretionary agreements to sign,
but what does that mean when you get a six-figure salary, a girl like her,
who's always paid attention to the price when she eats out?
(Had she be born somewhere else, Uriah could tell her – and doesn't –, she
would have heard about this kind of job. Where he grew up, the girls talked
about it in school, said it was like being a priestess; said when you went
inside that mansion you never really got out, said it was the sort of job that
was a great honor and a great danger at the same time, but that they picked
inexperienced girls from the country because those were the ones with closely-
shorn hair who obeyed whenever they saw a Mechanic without really thinking,
because that's the way it works. People like her don't ask questions.)
And then – but she's tired, she says. She's going to sleep. Despite himself,
Uriah admires her, for going to sleep every night knowing that the same
nightmares are going to plague her and make her scream. But then she probably
doesn't have a choice, does she? She said she didn't sleep much in Captiva,
spent her night padding around the kitchen with half-shut eyes, drinking coffee
in darkness, the sea-borne air coming in from the open windows, but the city is
taxing, puts you to bed itself every night.
"You should go to sleep too," Thema says as she makes her way upstairs, patting
Uriah's shoulder. Uriah nods.
He doesn't, though; he waits until Andrew moves, and when he doesn't, Uriah
stays too, trying to get used to the silence. It's easier here somehow, because
of all the bluster outside, in the street. Uriah doesn't feel as much like has
to ramble to fill the blanks; he can let himself go, unwind, in a sense. Well,
maybe not –
"What happened to your mother?" Let it not be said he didn't try. He tried. So
sue him if he still has questions; he's literally never met someone with that
many secrets, it's unnerving.
Andrew looks up, blinks. He extracts himself from his chair, and Uriah feels
guilty for about half a second that he's effectively chased him. "Sick," he
says shortly, before leaving the room.
Uriah chews on that for a few minutes, and then he shuts off the last lights
and falls on what makes office of bed for him, a ratty mattress on the ground
of one of the deserted bedrooms. It's oddly comfortable; the noise of the urban
night streams in, reassuring, like a lullaby. It'd been a while since Uriah had
felt like an orphan, but it's not entirely uncomfortable. His dreams are hazy,
bits and pieces of his own childhood, only the good memories.
*
It's two days later when they finally go out to meet the 'Mouse' in question.
Uriah doesn't ask Andrew how he managed that, or even why the guy called him in
the first place – he's not stupid, he knows it's probably not a wrong number –;
in fact, he's learning to live by the philosophy that the less, the better off
he probably is. Thema, who's always been less curious than him, seems to do
fine following the same motto, so Uriah hangs close to her and follows Andrew's
lead.
The building is pretty much the definition of nondescript, which is probably
good when you're a resistance movement but doesn't lend much credibility
overall. The big, square shadow swallows them as soon as they come close, and
for a few paces they hang in the ambiguous shadows, nodding at a few dark
figures who skirt carefully around them. Uriah is starting to reconsider his
decision to follow in the first place – let's be honest, he's not even sure
what they're doing anymore – but Thema drags him along and when has he ever
been able to resist her? Exactly.
They eventually reach a blocky steel door which doesn't seem intent on opening
for them any time soon. But Andrew doesn't show signs of irritation, and sure
enough, a few minutes later a young man approaches them. His hair is swept
back, longer than is probably cautious, and he's smiling at the ground, then at
Andrew's chest when he reaches a hand out. "Hello, sir. I'm Feliz."
"Don't call me sir," Andrew says as he returns the handshake.
Feliz shakes all their hands, though he doesn't seem remotely as impressed with
the rest of them as he had with Andrew. Yet another story he probably won't
ever tell them, Uriah ponders.
The inside of the building is comparatively much more what you'd expect of an
outlaw organization. It's buzzing with people, a constant hum of hurried
conversation, people leaning over desks, juggling phones, computers and other
gadgets Uriah could probably identify if he looked close enough. Once in a
while someone with a white blouse will cut through the crowd and the whispers
dull slightly, just for a second; then they reach the end of a corridor and the
noise starts up again. Uriah remembers the scientists Irinia had mentioned, and
he wonders what exactly they're here for, what they're researching for. There
seems to be a lot of science involved in this story, actually, what with the
notebooks and that laboratory. Uriah had always figured the Mechanics were a
straight-laced problem, your usual species of rebellious robots taking their
revenge on their creator, but maybe there's something more to it.
"If you'll just follow me," Feliz says.
Eventually they're herded into a sort of waiting room. For once, Thema's the
one who's drifted, instead of Quinn, so it's just the three of them in those
little chairs, Andrew once again preoccupied by his copies of the notebooks. He
looks like he'd rather not be disturbed, but it would be a known fact if Uriah
actually cared about this kind of things, right?
"Hey," he says. Andrew pretends not to hear him. Ha. How futile. "Hey. You
never told me why you really want to get Nomi."
He doesn't know why he's whispering, actually: from what he's gathered, that's
exactly the aim this whole crowd of people is working towards. Still, you can
never be sure, right?
Andrew looks up purely to glare at him. Quinn reclines on her chair and rakes
her fingers through her hair and seriously, the way she manages to keep it
permanently messy even when it's that short is a feat. "You know why," Andrew
snaps.
"I don't. You said you don't want tyranny, which is all good, I don't think
anyone does, but that doesn't exactly qualify you to embark on a heroic suicide
mission around the country, does it?"
"You saw me. I wasn't exactly laying low before."
Uriah tilts his head, conceding the point. "Touché. But," he adds before Andrew
has the opportunity to go back to pretending to be studious, "what did you see
on that Mechanic's phone?" He lowers his voice. "You know, the one you..."
Andrew glares even harder, if that's possible. "I know who you're talking
about. It was nothing."
"It didn't seem like nothing."
Andrew sighs. "If I tell you this, will you leave me alone and promise not to
ask any more question, at least for today?"
Uriah grins. "Such naiveté. It's charming."
"Well, if you must know, the guy in question was an emissary for the Mansion.
He was here to check on – I suppose you heard of the Mechanic Muders? Well."
Uriah's eyes widen. "You –? No. Wow, dude."
Andrew rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me you didn't get that. I killed three of
them in front of you, how could you not get that?"
"I don't know, I guess I just -" didn't want to admit to myself that you were
actually a serial killer, he doesn't say.
"Well, anyway, he was going to talk to her. I was there on an assignment, I
figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. And then –" you showed up, Uriah
deduces from the pointed look, and everything went to shit. "I had to adjust my
plans."
"An assignment from whom?"
Andrew doesn't answer, so Uriah tries another one. "But that only means you
were planning to do this anyway, even if you weren't planning to do it now.
Why?"
"I made a promise to someone."
Uriah would completely not be above asking who that person is and why that
promise is so important, but fortunately for Andrew, Feliz comes back with his
floppy hair and honest grin, and tells them Mouse is ready for them. And
seriously, whose villain name is Mouse? You could choose anything, and then –
"What kind of a name is Mouse, anyway?" he whispers to Andrew. Andrew glares at
him to shut up, and Uriah his hands up in mock-peace.
They're led away from the house, all the way through the building until a big
office. Feliz smiles at them as he knocks, looking a little nervous. They're
bid come in; Quinn touches Feliz's wrist, circling her fingers around for a
quarter of second, and he looks first bemused, then vaguely freaked out, then
soothed. "Come in," says a voice behind the door.
The most impressive thing about that office is, well, the office itself. Uriah
isn't the tidiest guy, but that level of mess requires talent. There are things
everything, the clutter almost reaching the ceiling; the one desk there is at
the far end of the office is entirely covered with papers spilling on all
sides, with on the middle a blinking laptops wired to all sorts of machines
Uriah isn't sure he wants to know the function of. There are books and plastic
models and cups of coffee, pens and dirty clothes on every available surface,
the floor is impossible to navigate. If someone asked Uriah right now, he would
say the person in there either lives inside that room and never goes out, or is
a bear.
A tuft of hair emerges from behind the desk. Not a bear, then.
"Hello," says a voice, childish and sharp – it belongs to a very young man,
eighteen at most, with a shock of black hair and thin silver-rimmed glasses.
Everything about him spells genius and Uriah doesn't trust him, not one bit.
"Hello," he repeats. "I'm Rick Cho. Why don't you gentlemen – and the lady –
sit? I'll be there in a minute." He points to an obscure point in the horizon
until Uriah and Andrew realize that they're supposed to find chairs. They grope
around them until they finally unearth two; Quinn, of course, is already folded
on the narrow windowsill, all knees and elbows.
Rick does – whatever he does – for a few more minutes before sauntering up to
them. From closer on, he actually looks like the tidiest thing in the room: his
jeans are pressed and his shirt is white, which seems a feat in such an
environment. Frankly, Uriah would have expected at least a few coffee and ink
stains. What does he even do in this place?
Rick sits on the edge of a low table and reaches up to shake their hands.
Sitting in a position of inferiority doesn't seem to phase him, which is
strange in itself; all the fishy authority types Uriah's never met – and he has
met a lot, in all the bad situations he managed to wrangle himself in – and out
of –, cartel bosses and the lot, were always intent on towering over everyone
to assess their power. Must mean he has another way to do that, and that's –
dangerous. Better keep an eye out. Andrew seems to be thinking the same thing,
at least, if the way his arms are crossed over his chest is any indication.
"You're not Mouse," he says blankly.
Rick Cho's mouth quirks into a smile. "I'm not," he nods. "Why? Was it him you
wanted to see?"
"He called me."
"He did. I thought you wanted to see the leader of this operation, which is
what I am. So," he opens his arms jokingly, "voilà."
"You're a kid," Andrew says again. Uriah resists the urge to drop his head into
his hands, because – really? This is how he does diplomacy? Wasn't he smoother
when he kidnapped Uriah? Maybe he romanticized the whole thing, after all.
But Rick just laughs. "I am quite young, yes. Though not much younger than you,
I'd hazard? And I can guarantee you – not that I need to – that I conduct my
affairs with success."
Uriah figures it's as good a time as any to jump in. "So what do you do,
exactly?" Which is not entirely a deception, but still: it's not like they were
going to come here without any intel, and he and Thema went back on the street,
this time accompanied by the two others, though Quinn sometimes got lost in the
busy streets when someone caught their attention. From what they gleaned from
the refuse of their mixed pasts (Uriah carefully didn't ask any questions; he
wouldn't have liked to answer the ones they could've had about his own friends,
after all), the Resistance has been around for about six months. They move
locations often, and – yes – they have heard of the leader, a Rick Cho, Ivy
League child genius who majored in both Economics and Anthropology egregia cum
laude, and then, after a brief stint working for the government, faked his own
death in order to work for the other side (that one did actually ring a bell,
Uriah remembers reading an article in the Times about the tragic death of one
of the children of the nation). A few of these last few months' outstanding
terrorist attacks were, if not their doing, done with their help and funding.
If word of mouth is true, they're doing experiments on Mechanics to try and see
how they can find a weakness in their biological make-up they could use to take
down at least Nomi and Asta. Widespread belief is that the others aren't
actually that bad, but the fact is that no one really knows, given that they
reign supreme pretty much everywhere and after the first debacles, most people
have learned to lie low and cut their hair close. ('Those suckers don't die,'
Uriah remembers vividly one of his parents' neighbors whispering, his face
marred red and blue in the low light, 'they just don't die. That's not
natural.')
Rick isn't fooled. "I think you have an idea," he says with a low smile. "And
I've heard that you and I have the same goal?"
"But maybe not the same techniques," Andrew cuts shortly.
Rick's mouth doesn't open when he laughs. Uriah knows this kind of trick by
heart, hilarity that shows only the front teeth, shark-like and dangerous. "I
don't think the author of the famous Mechanic Murders has any say about
methods, what do you think?" He claps his hands. "But I'm being a bad host. Do
you desire something to drink?"
"Water," Quinn pipes up from her spot on the window. "Cold water."
Rick's eyes slide on her, then linger, like he'd already seen her but had
forgotten to actually pay attention, had thought she was only another one of
the many trinkets that litter his office. It's rude, if you ask Uriah. "And who
are you, may I ask?"
Quinn replicates the exact smile that was on his face a few seconds ago. It's
eerie, doesn't reach her eyes, and Uriah kind of wants to hug her. "Me?" she
says. "I'm the secret weapon."
Rick doesn't ask further, which is probably a good thing because Andrew is
leaning forward in his chair, looking vaguely alarmed, and Uriah is going to
wager it's better if Rick doesn't actually know what their secret weapon is.
"What about you, gentlemen?"
"We'll be fine," Andrew says, just as Uriah asks for coffee because seriously,
it sounds like he's going to need it to survive the conversation. He's only up
for threats disguising as banter with a serious amount of caffeine in his
blood.
"Get your stories straight," Rick says, amused but not unkind, but he saunters
off his table and pops his head out the door, probably to request what they
asked for.
When he returns his face is significantly more serious. He hands Quinn her
water and Uriah his coffee, which Uriah unceremoniously guzzles down, not
caring about burning his tongue. God.
"You know," he starts. Deliberately or not, it's the exact moment Quinn decides
to slurp loudly, and then smiles when Rick throws her an annoyed glance. "You
know," he says more forcefully, his youthful face crinkled up, "I do admire
your work," he tells Andrew. "You used... a saw, is that it?"
"Miniature," Andrew says, and Uriah can't determine if he's proud or not, but
he isn't sure he wants to know.
"Yes," Rick nods. "Impressive work, very graceful." His face hardens. "Not to
mention you're getting us rid of this swine. Really, there should be more of
you. But."
"But you're taking over the business, is that it?" Andrew asks. The thing about
him is, he radiates authority without even moving. There's something about the
slant of his his unsmiling mouth and the maturity in his shoulders, even though
he's as young as he is, as if he was bearing his parents' strength with him, a
cannibal foetus.
"Trying to," Rick says with a loose shrug. "Mostly me and my people are trying
to figure out how to free our fellow citizens from the menace that is Nomi and
her sister. She's the one who pulls the strings, you know," he adds to no one
in particular. At the window, Quinn makes a choked-up, furious noise.
"And you're planning on doing that how?"
"The same as you, Andrew, a lot of work and ingenuity. We're trying to make the
most damage we can, but this is a big country and the Mechanic hold is strong.
We're –"
"What are your scientists working on?" Andrew cuts him off.
"Going right to the point, I see." Rick licks his lips. "I'm afraid I can't
disclose that information until we know each other a little better. I developed
a theory which I think will allow us to –"
Uriah is not remotely interested in what theories the little brat has developed
which will allow him to anything, but he'd have thought Andrew would be. Which
is why he's surprised when he stands up, grabs his arm and tells him, "We're
leaving."
Uriah suspects that the surprise that registers on Rick's face is very similar
to the expression he is currently wearing. "What?"
"Sorry," Andrew says to Rick, not sounding sorry at all, "but if all you have
for us is mind-games without any real answers, we have other, more important
things to do."
Rick's face crumples into indignant anger. Uriah half-expects him to utter a
movie villain-esque how dare you –! but he recovers soon enough, gestures to
the chairs. "Of course, I'm sorry. I'm sure we can work together."
"Can we? All I've seen is a lot of people running around not doing much. I've
been killing Mechanics for years on my own, and I think I've got a better track
record than your little 'organization' here. So unless you've got something
actually substantial to show us, we have nothing to say to each other, and
you've wasted my time."
Rick's face reddens visibly. Quinn lets out a little chuckle, and yeah, Uriah
totally agrees. How is it that guys with Iqs that high are so easy to trick
into doing exactly what you want, honestly? (Well, okay, the thing about
killing Mechanics is still super freaky. Not that he didn't know, but he didn't
– the usual drill. He's never been all that into irrational hatred for any
species, really.)
"You need us," Rick says, which – even Uriah can tell they don't, honestly. If
they managed to take out nine mechanics on their own in the freaking desert,
they can probably handle the rest of this operation. "You're not going to
achieve anything with your pathetic four-man crew."
The look Andrew directs on him is icy and frankly impressive in its utter
disdain. "I think we're going to take our chances."
*
The corridors are winding and multiple and no one asks her what she's doing
here even once. In the end it feels almost like walking through the city with
an added thrill, the tiny bite of adrenalin that comes from doing something you
probably shouldn't be doing. Thema would be lying if she said it's not what
she's searching for more often than not; if it wasn't she wouldn't have quit
school to try and live the high life, wouldn't have ended up where she is now,
a lone mercenary with too much in her brain and too little in her bank account.
Which is why she's here. There is probably a little heroic instinct to it too,
she's not going to lie – and besides, anyone who says they don't want to cut
the grass under their local tyrant's feet is probably lying, or amoral, or both
–, but most of it is genuine need of compensation. It's been a while since
she's been on a real job, and the funds were melting faster than planned. So –
So Uriah showed up at her door, that's what happened. After three years, like
nothing had happened, like they hadn't been sending each other postcards once
every ten months, he showed up at her door and asked if she was in to go on an
adventure. Typical.
She likes him, anyway. Sure, it took time, and it's not like she's going to say
it to anyone, but she does like him. There's just something about him, the way
it doesn't take much for him to admit that his bad boy swagger is ninety
percent job necessity and ten percent misplaced ego, the way he always rushes
headfirst into everything that seems the slightest bit interesting – just
something about him. It helps that he's so young and, honestly, fit. Not that
she is going to make that mistake again, because she isn't, but it doesn't hurt
to look.
And now she's here, in the lair of what is apparently a resistance organization
whose aim is to off Nomi, and honestly when Thema thinks about it the whole
thing seems ridiculous and like something out of the thrillers she likes so
much, but – why not, you know? Thema understands, maybe better than a lot of
people, how noxious the Mechanics are for the economy – for the country, full
stop. She's met plenty of those people who try to spin the Awakening into a
saving grace, and say the sacrifices they have to make to accommodate their
presence – and dominion – are necessary, that the two species will eventually
be able to live in harmony, and she knows just how bullshit all those lies are.
She doesn't hate the whole species like Andrew seems to, but she's not blind
either. She knows what the Awakening was: a colonization, pure and simple. And
now, well, if they can't get rid of the disease they'll get rid of its source,
and Nomi is clearly a good way to start. Andrew's personal feuds is only
interesting to her in that it provides her with finances and him with something
to funnel his obvious rage into.
She follows a group of three white-coated people into a corridor, and the crowd
thins instantly, the light lowered to a dim glow. Okay, she's on the good
track, then. She follows them until they cotton up, and when they do she ducks
into the nearest room which, fortunately, turns out to be a recreation area.
Thema tries to act as at home as she can, even though there is only one woman
there, bent over a stack of what looks like Very Important Documents ™, and
walks right to the coffee machine to pour herself one. She needs, anyway.
She sips her coffee in silence, trying to figure out a way to continue her
investigation and maybe even snag a white coat off someone to be more
inconspicuous, when the scientist looks up, her glasses sliding off her nose.
Thema's first thought is that she's cute in a messy sort of way, with a blond
ponytail helf up with a pencil and those wiry glasses; the second is that she's
going to have to make conversation, and thank god she has a degree in
Chemistry.
"Um," the scientist says, "hi. Do I know you?"
Which is not, sadly, flirting but probably an inquiry as if whether Thema
actually works here. Shit. Time to wing it.
"I work upstairs," Thema says with her best attempt at a winning smile, "I'm a
secretary. I just heard the coffee was better here, I thought I'd take my
chances."
The scientist's face splits into a smile. "Oh, I'm not sure that's true." She
nods to Thema's cup. "What do you think?"
Thema laughs. "Yeah, still tastes like cat's piss. Well, I tried." She holds
her hand out; better make the best of this while she's at it. "I'm Carol, by
the way."
"Juliet," the scientist says, her smile reaching her eyes and crinkling at the
corners, and really, it's a shame they can't linger.
Thema sits at the table, her cardboard cup warm between her palms. "So,
Juliet," she says with a flirty smile, and lo behold, she was not mistaken,
Juliet's cheek heat up a little, "what are you working on these days?"
"Can't talk about it, sorry."
"Oh, from one terrorist to the other, what's the difference?"
Juliet seems to consider it. "It's just – well, you know. What we've been
researching since Mouse got here, but we're still missing an essential
component, so we're working on that."
"Don't you get bored staying in those labs all day?"
Juliet gives a loose shrug, her shoulders pointy through her blouse. "You get
used to it. Besides, it's pretty fascinating, preparing all those Mechanic
models, I can see why –" she colors, "sorry, I shouldn't talk about it."
Thema leans in, lets her hand brush against Juliet's in a way that seems mostly
accidental. "No, tell me, I love science. It sounds really interesting."
"It is. We – when we get the – this component I was telling about, when Mouse
brings it to us, we're going to be able to reproduce approximately eighty
percent of the Mechanic body types that came out of the DEDALUS laboratories. I
mean, I don't want to get ahead of myself, but in a month we could have half
the government organizations infiltrated. A this rate it would be a child's
game to force Nomi to abdicate, or even to –"
Something must be showing on Thema's face, because Juliet stops talking and she
frowns. "Hey, are you okay?"
Thema gives a weak smile. "I – sure, I'm fine. It's just, it's impressive,
that's all. All the work you guys have done."
Juliet ducks her head. "Yeah. I should get back to it, anyway."
Thema circles her wrist lightly with her fingers. "No, stay a little more,
right? We could –"
"Sorry, I really have to go," Juliet says with an embarrassed smile. "But -
" she colors up again, digs into the stack of papers she's now hoisting up in
her arms and comes up with a card, on which she scribbles something, "this is
my personal number. If you want to... talk about it some more."
And then she's gone, vanished with a whiff of floral perfume and the white tail
of her lab coat. Thema reclines in her chair, the coffee now cold between her
palms. Well. Talk about a discovery. Now all she needs to do is find her way
back, and tell the others.
*
Rick, being the immensely predictable child genius he is, insists on them
meeting his second in command before they leave, obviously to convince them
that they're better with the wide expertise and manpower of his 'little
operation', which was probably Andrew's plan all along, even though he only
glares at Uriah when offered a fist-bump and a "Dude, well played," whispered
from the side of his mouth.
It only takes about twenty minutes of awkwardly sitting around glowering at
each other before the door opens and a tall, severe-looking woman comes into
the room. Uriah feels Andrew instantly tensing up next to him. Okay, then.
"You're Mouse," he says, half to clarify the situation and half because it
really is funny that someone like that would use that name. Like, really?
Panther, why not. Mouse – yeah, no.
But the woman just bows her head and reaches out a hand. "You can call me Uma,"
she says genially, and Uriah is immediately convinced that it's not her real
name. He shakes the proffered hand, not offering any name in return. You never
know, and besides, they're in the proverbial rats' nest, so better be as
cautious as possible.
Uma shakes Quinn's hand as well, walking over to the window when Quinn doesn't
bother dismounting it, and when she comes back she looks Andrew right in the
eye, something Rick Cho hasn't dared to do since Andrew walked into the room.
"What are you doing here," Andrew says to her, his jaw tight, ignoring her
hand. Behind Uma Rick's eyes widen, his face crumples again when he realizes
he's been left out of the loop.
"You didn't think I made you take all those chips for nothing, Andrew," Uma
says, and okay, Uriah has no idea what's going on here. How do they even know?
"I'm sorry," he cuts in because – well, because he's curious and he wants to
know, "what is going on here?"
Uma makes an innocent face that even a blind man could tell is fake. "Oh, I'm
sorry. I thought Andrew had told. He used to work for me."
The thought of Andrew working for anyone is frankly hilarious. "As what?"
"An assassin," Uma says bluntly. She glances at Andrew, "Unless you prefer a
more metaphorical term, that is. How would you say... a professional handler,
maybe?"
Andrew glowers so hard Uriah is pretty sure Uma is going to have burn marks at
the end of this conversation. "Why did you call me. What do you want."
"Did you really I didn't know who you were all this time, what you wanted to
do? I don't care about your little quest for glory, Andrew. Whoever you want to
avenge, your mother or your father or, well, anyone really, it's none of my
business, and you are free to go on your way and do what you want. You can even
work with us if that's your wish. But you have something that belongs to me,
and now it's time to give it back."
At this junction, Uriah is just hanging back and watching the show, because for
one, he's never seen anyone talk to Andrew like this (though, granted, he
hasn't seen many people talk to him period, but he'd been imagining those
conversations would involve the other party mostly ducking their head and
cowering in fear) and second, if he gets involved someone is probably going to
tear his head off. Rick looks pissed off but like he's having the same thoughts
– smart man, Uriah thinks.
Andrew is opening his mouth to say something, probably something interesting
and incendiary, when Thema, of all people, bursts into the room. Uriah barely
has time to notice how pretty she is with red high on her cheeks, she's been
obviously been running, when she zeroes in on Andrew and unceremoniously leans
in to whisper something in his ear.
Something he doesn't like, apparently. He turns back to Uma. "So that's why you
want the chips? You want to insert them back into new Mechanics? Didn't it go
through mind that that's exactly what lost us in the first place?"
Rick opens his mouth, "Actually, we –" but Uma interrupts him. "This has
nothing to do with you, Andrew, but if you must know, we've gone to
extraordinary lengths to assure that those Mechanics, if that's what you choose
to call them, never acquire the ability for independent thought. They'll be
monitored from our very labs, watched twenty four seven by our scientists. If
you think the way to go about this is to just barge into the Mansion and – do
whatever you intend to do, I'm sorry to say, but you're wrong."
If Andrew wasn't the completely repressed person he is, Uriah is pretty sure
he'd be screaming by now. "This isn't your choice to make. You're running into
another disaster, and I won't participate into this."
"I'm sorry to say you don't have a choice," Uma says smoothly.
Before they even have time to react, Rick presses a button on his desk (though
how did he find it in this gigantic mess, that's the real question) and two
suspiciously guard-like individuals burst into the door. Thema draws her gun,
quick as lightning. Uriah didn't have the presence of mind to pack one, so he
just stands there slack-jawed while Andrew and Thema move back to back and
Andrew digs into his pocket where something probably explosive and incredibly
health-damaging is waiting for the guards.
Andrew turns to Uma. "Sorry," he says, and for the second time of the day it
sounds more like he's saying fuck you than like he's actually sorry. "Can't do
anything for you."
"Resistance is useless, Andrew," Uma says quietly, sounding every bit the movie
villain she apparently is. "There are hundreds of people in this building, all
devoted to our cause. You're not making it out of this building with those
chips, I can guarantee you that."
Andrew laughs loudly, almost a bark. "What – you think I'd have taken them with
me? Who do think I am, seriously?"
"I think you're someone who wouldn't take the chance of leaving something that
precious behind. I think that I've seen you before, I know you, and you always
carry those brands with you."
"They mean something to me. Your chips don't."
Uma takes a step forward, and Andrew doesn't recoil, even though he visibly
wants to. Behind him, Thema's gun is pointed at the first guard's forehead,
keeping him for getting further into the room. "You can help us," Uma says,
looking at Andrew like they're the only two people in the room. "I know you
don't believe in my methods, but you do'nt have to participate. Just give me
those chips and tell yourself I paid you for them. You don't have to feel
guilty – not anymore than you already do. Just give them to me, and then we can
go our separate ways, see who achieves our common goal first."
Andrew bares his teeth, but he seems frighteningly calm now, like he's tamed
all the rage he had and condensed it into this single-minded determination. "I.
Am. Not. Giving you. Those chips. The only thing you're doing to fight the
monsters is creating more monsters."
Uriah sees it before everyone: Thema's gun, ducking down, something flickering
in her eyes, maybe doubt. "Look," she says, turning over to Andrew, "maybe you
should consider it. I mean, it's not a bad idea, it's just –"
"What are you going to do when you've flooded the country when your fake
Mechanics, huh? You're just going to let them run around because they can
useful and beautiful and robots are harmless anyway? You know what that did
last time, right? Do you all not remember what it felt to have our homes
invaded by those monsters, to have to cut our hair to show just how inferior
they'd made us, to have to surrender all our jobs and our privileges to people
who aren't even people? Do none of you remember that? Am I the only one who's
trying not to repeat this, not to make the same mistake?"
If Uriah has ever seen Andrew that angry, he can't remember when. His eyes are
incensed, glaring dagger, his throat and the skin of his face red. The fist
that's visible against his hip is white from being curled so tight, his body
tipped forward until he's screaming to Uma's nose, their faces inches apart.
"Anyway," he says, and this time his voice is so cold it feels like he's ice to
the core, one of them with their metal hearts, "I don't have them anymore."
"What do you mean?" It's Uma's turn to look incensed.
"I mean, I don't have them. Not here, not somewhere else. I destroyed them."
"Why?"
"I thought you might do something like, you or someone else, try to use their
own technology against them. I know how that ends. I didn't want it to happen."
"It wasn't your choice!"
"Regardless, what's done is done. So are you going to keep your thugs pointing
their guns at me and my crew, or are you going to let us go?"
"I ought to have executed for what you did," Uma hisses.
"I thought only the bad guys did that." And, in fact, no one apart from Uma
herself, even though they do seem angry and not very inclined to put their
weapons down, seem on board with the execution. Good to know. "Or maybe you're
rethinking your esthetics, now that you've created robots who can walk and
talk, huh? Sounds familiar?"
"Get them out of there," Uma yells. She doesn't look so composed now but then,
Uriah probably wouldn't either if his plans for world domination 2.0. had been
thwarted by a team of near-teenagers. The guards usher them out the door and
through the corridors, manhandling them with all the anger Uma is probably
feeling. Thema spots the Juliet the cute scientist on the way and winks at her
as she goes, leaving Juliet to look adorably confused.
When they're outside, on their knees in the ground before the immense gray
building, silence falls on them like a ton of lead. Quinn is the first to get
on her feet, brushing the dust from her jeans. She looks down at Andrew, her
eyes blank. "So you're an assassin?"
Andrew shrugs.
No one says anything; the revelation hangs heavily on them with the sum of all
the others, all the things they've learned about this man they've been
following almost blindly, and they realize that there's no way out but they
could've peered more closely, asked more questions to know what exactly they
were getting themselves into. Andrew stands up and extends a hand to Thema,
which she doesn't take. His face closes off; he turns around, nervously shaking
a cigarette out of the pack he keeps in his pocket at all times.
"We should get back," he says with the first exhale of white smoke, looking
everywhere but at them.
They nod, and follow him. In the darkened city streets they look like a team of
executioners, or maybe, if you peer closely, like an army on their way to war.
***** Chapter 9 *****
7.
What does it take to be a good raconteur? Quinn would be hard pressed to say.
The fact is that she doesn't concern herself with her listeners when she tells
stories – they're merely the extension of something that goes on inside, a
deeper and more painful process that she shares only for fear of burning
herself inside out. But Uriah, in particular, seems interested by those strange
and cut-up tales, and soaks up the juxtaposed memories she spouts out with
peculiar delight. It gives her a certain sort of satisfaction, that adds to the
urgent and selfish wonder that she's being heard, and thus exists; and so she
tells more, crumbs of her story she'd never dared to give anyone, because she
knows just how unbelievable, how unusual and cruel they are.
Since she is the only one preoccupied with those questions, she has taken upon
herself to think about the house they just left, in New York, the big and
windy, uncomfortable refuge. It still surprises her that people can leave
places and not wonder how they cope with the emptiness. This one must howl in
the wind, dreaming maybe of them, gone onwards on their mission to sunnier
hideouts. Were they are now the light and forced cheer endlessly hurt Quinn,
she stays inside almost stubbornly, to protect herself like she's trying to
learn how to do.
"What do you want to know?" she asks to her attentive audience. Uriah is
lounging in the sun, Thema sitting next to him, closer than is probably
necessary.
Have you ever seen the sea?
Pity they never asked, huh? So much damage could've been avoided, and now look
at her; with her broken head, and broken heart, a poor little grown-up girl for
whom happiness means revenge.
"I don't know," Uriah says, squinting from behind his sunglasses. They're
supposed to be watching the Mansion, but truth is the cameras are doing most of
the work – the computers and motions sensors, which Thema hacked into, are
doing all the work, and they're bidding their time while they wait for
something, an opening, being discovered. It should feel harder, and it is, but
without Andrew they don't have the heart for heavy-headedness. They're taking
risks. "Do you have any good stories?"
"What do you call good?" says Quinn, instead of, of course I have good stories,
but you'd stick your fingers in your ears, you'd be so afraid.
He shrugs. "Tell me about this," and he points to the window. Quinn's skin
crawls.
Oh, this – the house, you mean, the Mansion, you mean, the place... well.
Really she's proud of herself for living so well near this monstrous thing,
which holds so many memories she's tried – and failed – to scrub her brain
clean of. It hasn't changed much, except for the yearly coat of paint and the
obligatory renovations that suit a presidential house; Quinn could still recite
by heart the history of the walls, say why exactly it was important to have a
place from which to govern that hadn't been tainted by human glory, fake and
bloody as it usually is – somewhere new, where the queen and her sister (well,
queen, president, it's all the same thing these days; unofficially she's very
much a sovereign) could lean towards each other and revel in their victories.
She has stories about this place, a hundred thousand stories. He wouldn't like
to hear them.
His eyes are wide and gleaming. Curiosity killed the cat, Quinn thinks idly.
"How did you end up here?"
She shrugs. "How does –" anyone end up anywhere? "I wanted to leave my home,"
she says. Now she'd like to return, sometimes, at least, but she promised
herself she wouldn't go back broken, and well – there isn't really a way to un-
break, is there?
"What happened to you?"
Seems like it's a day for loaded questions, then. But he's right: her stories
are about that, she was going to tell it at one time or another. Better get it
out of the way before they figure out how to tear the queen apart and then
Quinn suspects the world will be a bit chaotic.
"A lot of things," she says. Uriah's eyes light up; even though he doesn't know
yet Quinn can't help but resent him for it, for feasting, like the others, on
all the horror and the grime. "I did something I wasn't supposed to do."
Thema is the one to speak, "There's a vow of celibacy, isn't there?"
"Something like that." There's a contract, really, and Thema, who is smart –
smarter – knows how this story ends and Quinn can see in her eyes that she's
not sure she wants to listen, but stands there nonetheless, poised, ready to
jump, a real warrior – ready, probably, to tug Uriah's hand to keep him from
being collateral damage. There's protectiveness in her strange affection for
Uriah, because he's younger and more reckless than her – or so Quinn supposes.
She knows, too, that those stories are poison.
She plucks a pair of stray sunglasses – Andrew's? - from the table and turns
them over in her hands. "Well, it's an old story. I fell in love with one of
Nomi's assistants, a boy –" it's easy to lose the plot during that part: a boy
with soft skin and a mouth like sin, gentle and kind and fierce and beautiful –
"a boy. We – Asta found out after a while. She doesn't like things like that."
There's nothing more cruel than this kind of punishment, where the torturer
knows the ins and outs of their victim. How long had she been Asta's secretary
by then? She knew all sorts of secrets, most of them she did not care about
because she was young, a bit light-headed at times but studious, barely
nineteen... of course she wanted to be in love. The Mechanics have that for
them that they're not human; Quinn has always suspected that they don't
understand the urge for companionship, though she's sometimes questioned that
belief, too, in coming into Asta's room in the morning and finding the
sovereigns entangled, pressed so close it'd have been hard to tell, if asked,
where the one ended and the other began. But it was always like that with them.
It did not mean they were humane, or kind; only that there was something
between them, an iron bound, that made them stronger.
Uriah is still watching her. Quinn swallows. "So... Jackson – that was his name
– came to see me because he'd learned that they knew, from a friend in the
higher circles. And he decided that we had to go, leave, you know?" They don't
know. "We packed a few things, and then we started running. Of course it was
stupid, you can't really get anywhere here, there's nothing but all those
houses that belong to Mechanics, and besides we'd never been outside since we'd
gotten here a few years before, that's a thing there, you can't see anything
except the interior of the Mansion. I know it seems strange, but it's not the
most cruel thing about it. You get used to... I don't know. There is a terrace,
and you can go on the grounds. The property is big. You get used to the idea
that there's nothing beyond, especially if you're someone like me, if you come
from the country. Jackson... he was from a coal-mining town in Tennessee, his
parents were one of the only people left still working in coal, managing the
machines for the mines... anyway. So we waited for the night, we packed our
bags and we ran. I don't know if you – we ran for hours, I think, in the dark,
before they noticed we were gone. Jackson was holding my hand. I thought –"
I thought: he will hold my hand forever. It was a damp night, the moon was high
and the shadows of the trees were like lace on the grounds. No medication will
stop Quinn from remembering that night, the way something, a tremendous weight,
had seemed to lift from her heart with each stride she took to distance herself
from the Mansion, the way Jackson had leaned against a tree, panting, and
pulled her against him... there is nothing quite like this kind of love, Quinn
knows from instinct more than knowledge, the deep and unselfish love that young
people have before they've matured into beings that are able to hurt and be
hurt; at an age where everything is wondrous and fantastic about love, except,
in this case, its consequences...
"They found us easily. They found him, actually, before me. He... he decided
that we should separate, so they would follow him. I hid for hours in the
trees, and then, just before the morning came, I slipped away... I still don't
know how – how I managed to make it out the grounds. How Sara found me. I don't
remember that part very well, to be honest, my head – well, so many things have
happened, I don't have a great memory. But Sara – that's Andrew's mother, you
should see her, she's very beautiful and kind, too – Sara saved me and she
brought me to Captiva. Jack's death – that was the real tragedy."
That was the real tragedy: people have said otherwise, have said that her mind
was fine and she could've survived unscathed if what happened on Captiva hadn't
happened, but Quinn knows better. She would've ailed, and perhaps even faded
away, died, if she'd been left on that island without – without the rest of the
story. It just contributes to her curse, which is fine – Quinn accepts that,
more or less, has accepted it – is there any other option?
"I'm sorry," says Uriah, looking genuinely sorry, a somewhat comical expression
on his Casanova face, with his long-ish bangs and leather jacket.
Quinn laughs, not unkindly. "Yeah."
They sit in silence for a few minutes, while they digest her life. Quinn
doesn't regret telling it, not really, but she doesn't feel any better for it,
like she half-imagined she would. She hasn't told this story many times, is the
thing – the first time only was therapeutic, sobbing in Sara's arm as she
imagined what they'd done to her love. Did he suffer? she'd asked, bowled over
in her savior's arm, clutching at the flesh of her arms, trying to convince her
to let her run back, straight into the monster's jaws. She couldn't stop
thinking about it for years, the imagining stuck with her – that's why she
started taking pills in the first place, actually, and then – wondering if
they'd killed him quickly, easily, like one kills wounded animals when one
pities them. She tries to think he did, but it's probably untrue.
"That's not the whole story, though," she says, not because she actually wants
to tell it but out of respect for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but
the truth. "I'll tell you some other time."
Now he looks unsure whether he wants to hear or not, but it's too late, isn't
it? One can't hear only one half of a story, otherwise it'd be unfair, both for
the listener and the storyteller. Besides, they all deserve that – and if he
doesn't know pain he'd better learn, though he might, in a childish and timid
way, he might know pain, of course not as piercing and all-encompassing as hers
but the softer sting of junkie ache, if what she gathered from half-mumbled
tales is true.
"Yeah, okay."
"Thank you," Thema whispers earnestly. Quinn nods. They don't really like each
other, all things considered – because Quinn is too whimsical for Thema's
tastes, and Thema's too straight and narrow to really appeal to Quinn. Quinn
doesn't like anyone in this company, not the way she used to like people. But
what's left of it, the anesthetized fondness, she feels for both Andrew and
Uriah, Andrew because he's his mother's son and Uriah's because of he's a
damned child, petulant and funny and full up with feelings, and it amuses her.
Thema's different. She's on her guard. They're – they're equals, maybe, but
they won't be friends. It's fine. You can't be friends with everyone.
"You're welcome," Quinn says.
The rest of the day passes without more incidents. They all seem exhausted by
this recounting, for some strange reason: tragedy always weighs heavy on
impressionable minds, but even Thema drags her feet more, going about her daily
coding and refocusing of the security system's cameras with some sort of
weariness. Quinn doesn't care much, though. She takes a nap during which
horrible dreams plague her, wake up sweating and wanting to crawl out of her
skin; heaves dryly into the sink then returns to the kitchen only to glare
blearily at Andrew, freshly returned from God knows where. He gives her a nod,
his own kind of salute, but she doesn't return it. A glass of icy water isn't
enough to restore her strength, she shuffles to the window and slumps into one
of the armchairs, the only near-comfortable one. No one asks where they get the
money for this, but Quinn suspects Andrew has long planned his revenge, even
though he's been forced to put it into action earlier than he meant to. His
furious focus masquerading as calm is one of the thing Quinn both admires and
fears about him.
She comes back to the kitchen and finds him staring at plans he devised with
her help. The twist of corridors, still familiar after nearly ten years, makes
a hard shiver run down her spine. She turns her head away. When she looks back
he hasn't stopped working, head bent, he's covering in tiny and almost
illegible scrawl one of the entrance points.
"You won't be able to get in, you know," she says.
He looks up, weary. "No? Why?"
"Here," she points at the map, "if I remember well, there are guards at every
entrance, probably more than that now. They don't only check your brand," she
doesn't ask, because she knows, that he has some trick stored in for that and
she'd rather not want to know what, all things considered, "they also check the
ID tag, and you won't be able to counterfeit that. If you want to go in you'll
need to do it the outlaw way."
It seems funny to say that, gives a slight thrill: the outlaw way. He gives an
exhausted chuckle. It's been hard on him, and though she has no pity to spare,
she understands. The others don't know how to deal with the fact that he used
to kill for a living, because their minds aren't black and white like his is.
Where he sees machines and humans, they just see people. He doesn't want to
apologize – and besides, they want to know why he destroyed those chips,
because they – or Thema, at least – think it could've been a solution, or maybe
the start of one. Quinn, ever the silent observer, remembers the slight tremor,
not unlike rage, that had jolted through Thema when he'd said it, I destroyed
them. Who does that? she'd thought.
"Shit. Well, thanks anyway."
"No problem." She sits at the table facing him, because why not. She drinks
milk from the carton, like only children do, smearing some on her upper lip. He
doesn't remark on it. She gulps it down thirstily, as though she's not sure
she'll get to finish the glass – old habit, big family. She used to – but never
mind. She's told enough stories for the day as it is.
"They're still mad at you," she says, nodding back to the living-room.
He nods. He won't apologize, and they won't either, but they don't want to
agree to disagree because, well, this is all based on ethics, isn't it? You
have to have a united view. Quinn understands that in a distant, slightly
mocking way.
He doesn't want to talk about it, though, so she won't push him. Her only duty
here is to observe and sometimes counsel, but – and thank God for it – she
doesn't have her own heart in the game. Which makes it safer, of course. Thema
and Uriah are closer now that Andrew isn't there to boss them around and direct
them, they talk about old memories, they bicker and banter and throw things at
each other. It's charming, if childish. Quinn enjoys it from a distance.
Sometimes it still feels like walking in the fog like the meds used to do to
her, but that's getting better, at least a little. You can't feel too connected
to the world anyway, because that only means hurt.
Quinn rests her palms on the table. She does that sometimes, to calm down. She
counts her knuckles, registering their color, and wonders idly if the villagers
are taking care of the cat. She doubts he could survive on his own, or even in
the wilderness. He's probably incapable of even hunting mice – she wouldn't be
surprised, and besides he's so fat he can harldy move. Maybe he'll be dead when
she comes back – if she comes back. She doesn't feel like she's in danger but
she is, they all are.
"She's dead, is she?"
This time the jolt of Andrew's head is more pointed. He stares at her with
wide, slightly wild eyes. "What?"
"Sara," Quinn says, rolling the r in her mouth. "She's dead, isn't she?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Andrew says, his jaw clenched. Quinn
thinks he's probably not that terrible a liar in other circumstances, but this
is pain too fresh and too profound to lie about.
"It's fine. How did she die?"
Maybe – maybe he's telling himself that she's still alive somewhere, lying on
her stomach on her bed reading or doing some of these heroic things his mother
used to do, because she's his mother, too, not just Quinn's savior. She didn't
come back often, afterward, and Quinn knows, somewhere in the back of her head,
that she was a witness, a pawn in her game, but it doesn't invalidate her
kindness or the sheer support of her arms, her gentle face lifting the
heaviness from Quinn's chest. God bless that woman, Quinn used to pray every
night.
Andrew doesn't answer for a while, and then, "She was sick."
"Yes," says Quinn, for lack of something better. It seems such an unfitting
death for Sara, to be sick. Quinn would rather she had been slain in battle or
something equally heroic. "She loved you."
"I know she loved me," he protests, fierce.
She smiles weakly. "Well then. If you know."
He looks younger when he talks about his mother, anyway, less mysterious. Which
is good: he can't go around all the time looking like the type of person who is
actually behind all those Mechanic Muders, a man who unflichingly cuts into
skulls that look very much like human ones, getting his hands methodically red
then coming back home to his girl. That's what he used to do, wasn't it? He'd
probably still be doing it, if –
"People die," Quinn says to no one in particular.
"They don't." Andrew's voice is cool, like he's making a point.
Quinn doesn't ask the evident question: does that make it alright, for you to
kill them like you do? Is there something that justifies your rage, except for
your mother's death? Is guilt –
She nods, once, twice, then takes her glass and goes back to her armchair. The
notebooks are in arm's reach, and absently she grabs one of them and starts to
read. It's oddly enthralling, in a strange way. Quinn sighs, her head lolling
backwards. When her mind is wholly taken by the diaries – and only then –, a
slow peace settles over her, dulling the incessant thrumming in her chest and
head to a dull invisible ache.
*
There's something in this that forces wonder: seeing the Red Queen minuscule
and unconcerned on the screens, going about her daily life. If Uriah had known
she could be this quiet, this human, her legs folded under her as she reads
without blinking, maybe he wouldn't have accepted to go assist Andrew in this
mission to destroy her. At least, that's what he thinks until he remembers what
she's done, the reassuring horror of the statistics that never, ever speak in
her favor: her unrepentant enslaving of the entire human population, the
multiple times she squashed uprisings without even seeming to care. He
remembers, in fact, staring at the TV unbelievingly as she stood in front of
her podium in her strict suit, her eyes dead as she said that any citizen who
dared revolt against her would suffer the next fate, that they'd better submit
to her now so that the country could enjoy the peace and unity it deserved,
that she respected. He was barely twenty then, and had been so revolted by her
cruelty that he'd felt bile rise in his sternum; and thought that she looked
much more the age she was than the one she'd kept since her creation, the
frigid twenty-five shared by the whole of her aristocracy.
"What're you looking at?"
Uriah turns around so fast he's afraid he might sprain a muscle. "Oh, it's you.
Nothing, I was just watching, you know."
Thema hums in agreement, handing him a mug of coffee. A grimace twists Uriah's
face when he dips his lips in the beverage. "It's bitter," he says.
Thema smirks. "I take it black."
They turn their attention back to the monitoring cameras. It was lucky, but not
unexpected, that the security in the Mansion was already tight and they only
needed to find their way into the network to have access to the majority of it.
They cover the majority of the building, including the external grounds and the
entirety of the admittedly immense interior, with its dozens of bedrooms,
private cabinets, drawing rooms and meeting rooms. The only place their don't
reach are the bunker under the house and the queen's private bedroom. So far it
hasn't hindered the plans, especially given that Quinn knows the ins and outs
of the bedroom and was only able to inform them of most of the secret passages
that existed in her time at the Mansion and are unlikely to have been blocked
since.
Thema takes a sip of her coffee. "Do you think we'll make it?"
Uriah shrugs. "I don't know. Do you?"
"Maybe. Whatever she's done to him, Andrew is determined to find a way to kill
her, and he probably will, with or without our help. I just wonder... when all
that's over, who's going to take care of this country? There are thousands of
Mechanics, what will we do about them?"
"Don't you want to get rid of them?"
She hauls herself on the nearby table, thoughtful. "Of course I do, I want to
get rid of her. But the rest of them... surely it's not their fault their
leader is a tyrannical madwoman, is it? I mean, when you think about it, we're
the ones who created them."
"Mm," Uriah agrees. "Well, first we have to get into this house anyway, and I
don't see how we're going to do that."
"We'll figure out a way. Nomi is cocky, that's always a weakness."
Uriah laughs at that; he tips back his chair so that the back of it rests
against her knees, smiles up at her, brilliant and teasing.
She slaps the back of his head lightly. "Oh, shut up. It was, wasn't it?"
He tilts his head. "I don't know about weakness, it certainly ended well enough
– don't you think?"
She refuses to say more on the subject, not because she's coy but because she
always on carrying out what she has to do first, is a fierce and loyal soldier
no matter if her loyalty has been bought or convinced out of her.
Uriah jerks his thumb towards the screens. "I don't know why you have so much
faith, anyway. Quinn told me they don't only scan the brand when you want to
get in there – and that's only if you have an appointment –, they also do a
retinal check for an ID number. So we're toast on that front."
"The only humans in there are..." Thema hesitates, "people like her, that's
it?"
"From what she told me. And that requires intense vetting, background checks,
training and all the hopla. I doubt Andrew has either the time or the patience
to try and carry out a con that long."
"Pity." Thema glances out the window. They can't see much: the weather, as
temperamental as it is absurd, and even moreso since the layer of ozone has
completely disappeared and the atmosphere gotten worse as a result of the
multiple forays into space travel that those last few years have seen, has
quickly gone from brilliant sunlight to heavy pouring March rain. There are
dense woods all around the property, keeping it from indiscreet eyes or
neighbors; it's not hard to imagine Quinn hadn't been allowed to stray off the
grounds. "I'd have liked to see how it is inside."
"You can see."
"Ah," she laughs softly, as though shaking a dream off of her. "It's not the
same. But it doesn't matter."
There's more silence, and then, "Did you know he was a killer?"
Uriah winces. "Not – I mean, not exactly, but –" Because he can't keep secrets
from her – from anyone, really, but she's always had more of a pull on him than
the others – he tells her whole story, as faithfully as a nature like his,
prone to storytelling, allows. Meeting Andrew in such a singular fashion, being
forced into following, deciding to help him. She listens without really keeping
still, because she never does: he follow the regular sweep of her finger
against the rim of her coffee mug, the twitch of her lips. She really is
beautiful – strong, even like that, openly disapproving, her lips tight and her
face closed-off.
"Why did you bring me into this?" she asks.
"You know why. I wanted to – I thought you'd be good at this. Better than me,
at any rate."
A new rage animates her now; she rises, her body taut and nervous, like the
story has angered her; but really he knows it's still the same anger he saw the
week before, back in New York at the resistance headquarters, her shock and
dismay when Andrew had said he'd gotten rid of the chips their scientists
needed for their project. "He destroyed those chips, Uriah! He could have
stopped this whole thing, it could've gone without all the –" she opens her
arms, "all this, the stake-outs and what we're going to have to do, there's an
organized resistance out there. I signed up to help him take revenge, but there
was a way, and he just..."
"He destroyed them before. You heard him. He didn't know..."
She laughs. "You really believe that? I don't even know how – it's just, how
can I follow a man who would to this? Those chips are in the occipital lobe,
for God's sake, can you even imagine –"
He winces. "We all do what we need to do, Thema. You know that as well as I
do."
"There's a limit to 'what we need to do'. This is... this is serial murder,
this guy rummaged into people's -"
"Mechanics."
"People's brains! How can you not find that crazy?"
"It is. It is, I know that. But we're – I mean, we don't the whole story. We
don't know what she did to him."
"Exactly! We don't know anything. You've just been following him blindly, all
this time. I can understand that from Quinn, she's obviously not right in the
head, but you! Didn't you use to be a little more decisive?"
"Thema –"
"I just don't understand, that's all. I mean, apart from his name – and even
that – what do you know about him? How do you even know he's not like one of
those crazies who tried to kill her before? She's – she's almost invulnerable,
you know that. You're going to get yourself killed, he's going to get us, the
four of us, killed."
He'd still been trying to convince her until then, but her sudden attack makes
anger rise into his throat, and before he can think about it, "Why are you
still here, then?"
She oscillates back on her heels. "When I start something, I usually see it
through."
"Do you? I don't remember –"
She takes a step forward, and the memory spikes his blood, how being near her
was intoxicating, especially when she was angry – for a second he can't
breathe. "Don't start again with that," she snaps, her eyes dark. "It was years
ago."
She's breathing heavy, so close that he can feel her on his lips, and for a
second they have nothing to say and he's looking at her, the words hanging in
the air with the remembrance. And then – she deflates, goes back to her window
quickly, rubbing her hands together nervously. "I'll see this through," she
says, "you know I will. I just don't like not knowing what I'm in for."
"Why don't you ask him, instead of me?"
"You're the one who dragged me into this. Besides, do you really believe he'll
tell me anything?"
"I thought you had the means to make anyone tell you anything."
That draws a smile out of her, thin and almost malevolent. "I do."
He looks at her, trying to guess what she might do, and doesn't get his answer.
He doesn't know her well enough to be sure, and yet – but their story is a
strange one, full of full stops and brackets, long stretches of time where they
didn't see each either from lack of want or necessity. It's – well, it's
complicated. He can imagine that she'll go up to Andrew and try to force him to
reveal more about his motives just as well as he can conceive her continuing to
be as closed-off as she is now, working for him, silently disapproving. Who
knows, really.
"You think he's your friend?" she asks after a while – she thinks like this, in
terms of honor and loyalties, good or bad, like the soldier she is. The truth
is she lives – lived – in a world completely different from his: where he
learnt to weasel his way out of promises she learned to be blunt and honest;
where he was brought to protect his own life above all she believes there is
nothing more important than standing up for what you believe, defend your cause
at any price.
"I think so, yeah," he says, agaisnt his better judgment.
"Then maybe you're the one who should talk to him. It's not friendship, if you
don't know who he is. Believe me, you'd better do it now."
"Then I'll –" just be serving your agenda, won't I? but he doesn't say it, for
some reason. Maybe he doesn't really mind serving her, go figure. "Do you
remember what you told me about honor?"
She raises an eyebrow, already halfway out the door. "I told you a lot of
things."
"You told me honor is best won doing what one believes is just."
Her brows furrow. "And you laughed at me."
"Yeah," he shrugs, "but –"
"I don't know what I believe is just," she says, her jaw thrust forward almost
defiantly, "that's the problem. Death as the answer to all our problems seems
too simple an answer, that's all."
He doesn't answer, and she leaves the room. Funny she should say that, he
thinks to forget he's hurt by her words – when she's so much more a soldier
than she is, and aren't soldiers supposed to believe that death is, in fact,
the solution to everything? Then again, they've lost the last war, and everyone
knows sore losers don't get to write history. Maybe the glory of battle belongs
only to winners, and soldiers are the ones who detest war the most; it
certainly doesn't sound that far-fetched a theory.
*
This house is not made of stone: it's a fleeting construction, constructed by
someone who thought that because this is a place where people vacation and near
to the water it didn't need to be protected. It's been abandoned long ago, and
it's far off the road enough to suit their needs, but the planks are disjointed
and loose, letting the wind slip into the creases and brush their skins. They
don't mind because it's hot, and the brownstone wasn't all that comfortable
either – but it's definitely different.
The first few days they spent installing the materials they'd managed to get in
from New York, computers and wires and the whole of their supervision
equipment. Quinn elected residence on the terrace, in a lawn chair; on their
first trip to the nearest supermarket she had the team buy her a hat and a pair
of sunglasses, which she's rarely let go of since. Now she reads the notebooks
days and night, and either she doesn't sleep, or she doesn't have the
nightmares she used to; whatever it is, they don't hear from her. Something in
there fascinates her but they don't dare ask what.
They set one of the laptops in the center of the room, propped on a cardboard
box, to use as a television and keep informed on the news. From the first day a
warrant for their arrest has been circulating: they know Andrew's name – or at
least the name he went under in New York, which is probably not his real one –
and there's a sketch of him circulating, but Uriah and Thema are only described
as his accomplices, a female and a male, human. They're blamed for the disaster
at LAX airport, and since it was convenient, the police dumped a few other
charges on them, too. There's a recompense, which Uriah tries not to take pride
on. Quinn, of course, is a ghost. If she paid attention to anything but her
reading – she's barely looked up since she's started, except to ask Andrew for
his help with the decryption – she'd probably like it too, Uriah thinks.
They're nowhere near the sea, which is good since Quinn seems to have a panic-
like fear of it, or so Andrew tells him, refusing, once more, to disclose the
details. He hasn't been happy since they've left New York: even after Los
Angeles he seemed more cheerful, convinced that his plans were going to see a
favorable outcome, but now that they're so close to the queen's house it seems
as though he's deflated, he's somber and moody and refuses to talk. Not that
Uriah's tried, per se. It's just – well, it's just a little much, and Thema is
right, he does keep a lot of secrets. The thing is, Uriah is usually of the
opinion that the best tactics to make problems go away is avoid them until they
disappear on their own. Needless to say, it doesn't work all that often.
After his conversation with Thema he doesn't act immediately. There are more
days of waiting, and they observe Nomi and her sister. Uriah hadn't seen her a
lot, she doesn't appear publicly, usually keeps shut in the Mansion: he's
surprised to see how alike they look, as though they'd been modeled from the
exact same pattern except that someone had given one of them red hair, and the
other white, as though in old European fairy tales. The whole thing looks
strangely prophetic, but in the times they live in believing in magic as a side
possibility has always seemed to Uriah as the best course of action. He watches
them, the careful and joyous way they dance around each other, how it seems
like when Nomi is home her sister is always behind her, whispering her advice –
her poison, Andrew would probably say. Their affection for one another is
troubling.
Thema doesn't raise her concerns with Andrew either. She keeps silent, like
Quinn and Uriah: she rises early in the morning and trains in the living-room,
long hours spent practicing tae kwon do and ju ji tsu, her legs swinging like
she's striving to fly. Uriah only catches her once or twice, he usually sleeps
as late as he can get away with, but it really is a thing of beauty. Maybe he
should do that, now that he's supposed to fight – well, probably, at some
point. Now that he thinks about it he's almost surprised Andrew allowed him to
stay. He's not good for much; though of course it means that Andrew doesn't
have to wonder about the secret of his operation getting out, which is probably
something in itself.
All in all their lives are a silent state of waiting, and it puts Uriah on
edge, makes him want to ignite fires and start conversations he shouldn't. The
thing is, he's never done well with idleness, and there's the need crawling
under his skin to urge the other to do something, especially when they seem to
be waiting for an opportunity that isn't even clearly defined. Let's be honest,
he feels like bursting, we could be here forever. But even Thema, who's usually
the impatient one, doesn't say it, and their dinners are long silences broken
only by mastication sounds.
It takes over a week before Uriah finally works up the nerve to talk to Andrew.
He hasn't forgotten how dangerous he can be, especially when he's in a foul
mood like that, and well – it never seems like a good idea to pick a fight with
someone who can kill you in twenty different ways without a weapon, does it?
Then again, it's not like Uriah is known for his carefulness.
Andrew's writing. He usually does that in the kitchen area, because he likes to
be alone but also keep an eye on everyone, like the good tight-ass anal-
retentive bastard he is; his writing is a tight scrawl, nervous and focused and
black. Uriah clears his throat. Andrew doesn't look up.
"Is that where you write the names of your victims, then?"
Andrew rolls his eyes, looking strangely scornful. "Marks, yeah," he corrects
snappily. That man, Uriah decides, needs a massage.
"You need a massage," he says.
Andrew lets out a startled laugh. "And who's going to give it? You? I don't
know if you've noticed, but we're not exactly at Club Med here."
"We might as well be, for all that we do." He sighs. "Seriously, Andrew, we've
been sitting on our asses for weeks now. Last time we talked this was urgent
and the earth needed to be rid of Nomi Brulée. What's changed?"
"You know her last name?"
Uriah shrugs. "Sure. You think I didn't do my research when I agreed to help
you with this? Come on, I'm not that much of an idiot."
Andrew does have the courtesy to look the slightest bit chastised. "Of course
you're not, I just –"
"It doesn't matter. What are we doing? Why are we not – I don't know, dropping
bombs on that castle right now?"
Andrew huffs out a frustrated sigh. "You know it's not as easy as that."
"But why? It's just –" He rakes a hand through his hair, inhales deeply. "You
don't tell us anything. You're my friend," Andrew looks up brusquely, looking
unsure whether to laugh or just flat out deny it, "you are, and we're all in
this now. Why do you hate her so much? What did she even do to you?"
Andrew tosses his journal aside and stands up, crossing his arms over his
chest. "It's complicated."
"I got a two thousand on my SATs."
Andrew cracks a small smile. "I thought you didn't finish college."
Uriah waves a dismissive hand. "I didn't, I just – wait, how do you know?"
Andrew shrugs.
"Of course." He shakes his head. "Look, just... tell me, okay? I won't run away
from this, I'm in this now. I support you and your – cause, I just want to
know."
"She hurt my family," Andrew says with a sigh. "I know that seems – I know that
doesn't seem like a lot, that happened to a lot of people, but she had my
grandparents killed, and my mother died from spending her life trying to escape
from her. My whole childhood, that's what it was, just running away. I don't
want to have to have to do that anymore, that's all. And I really do think she
deserves to die for what she's done. I love this country, and seeing it...
invaded by this scum, it makes me want to retch."
He falls silent. Uriah stills, rocking on his heels. "That's all?" he asks, a
bit warily. It's probably a bit insensitive, but it seems like great length to
go to to keep something that's not even really a secret. "I mean, there isn't
anything else to this?"
"No. I just don't like to talk about my family, that's all."
They stand face to face, and Uriah can't help but laugh, because he did think
there was something a little more dramatic behind this whole mysterious
stranger routine. Andrew looks at him, bewildered for a moment, then joins in,
a little tentatively.
"I'm sorry," Uriah gasps, "it's just – yeah, okay."
To tell the truth, he still isn't convinced Andrew told him the whole story,
even though he would like to believe it. He'll take it for now.
"Well. Thanks for telling me."
Andrew nods. "Sure."
Uriah is about to leave the room before he asks more questions – he only has
the guts for one major argument this week, and he's already exhausted his quota
– when Andrew starts speaking again. "You know," he says, his voice low, "my
mother..." He sighs. "She asked me to do this. Before she died, she said she
hadn't been able to do it herself. She told me Quinn's – what Quinn had gone
through – and she said someone had to take the matter in their own hands, and
if no one was willing to then maybe we should. I don't think she wanted this,"
he opens his arms a little, as though he thinks maybe the killing has left a
trace on him, a red scar on his chest that's invisible only to him, "but you
know. Any means necessary."
Uriah sits back down, driven by a morbid sort of curiosity. "Do you really feel
no pity for them?"
Andrew's face hardens. "No." There's a beat of silence, and then, "I used to,
at first, but you've got to remember they're not people. They can't feel. What
they said, every single word, is a lie. I know they look human, they feel
human, and yeah, it's good science but it's a lie. They're just a bunch of
wires, weapons that misfired. I just wish people could realize that."
Uriah opens his mouth but closes it almost immediately. There's nothing to say
to this. Andrew's hatred of the Mechanics is powerful and driving, and nothing
Uriah can say will change that – besides, wouldn't it be a little hypocritical
to try and change his mind while still helping him to kill Nomi? Sometimes...
sometimes you've got to watch people like him go, destroy what they've got to
destroy to un-break themselves. And it's not like Uriah could do anything about
it, anyway.
"It just seems strange that you hate her so much, that's all."
Andrew leans forward, more invested than Uriah's ever seen him. Hate is a
powerful motivator. "You don't understand. She's a monster, Uriah. Once we cut
her strings, the rest of them will just..." he opens a hand, fingers pointing
like a star, "scatter. We'll just have to pick them up, decommission them.
They're robots. We're just putting them back where they belong, that's all."
Uriah takes a step back. Truth is, Andrew's words are putting a sour taste in
his mouth. He knows – he knows – what Andrew's told him isn't the whole truth,
because this kind of pure, distilled fanatical hatred always means tragedy, but
he still can't abide by Andrew's words. Their lives are all hard. Hating people
– hating an entire race like that, it just never ends well. Uriah could supply
countless examples, but he shuts his mouth, doesn't say. This kind of things
only ever happen slowly, at any rate.
"Maybe you're right," he says instead of what he really feels, and the look
that flickers in Andrew's eyes, desperate and for a second, almost reassured,
makes him feel slightly better.
"Hi."
Uriah starts, turns around. Faced with Quinn's slow Cheshire cat grin he
promises himself once more than he won't let her surprise her like that again.
In vain, apparently. It's slightly disturbing, the way she's at least eight
years older than him but still so frail, as though her years in Captiva had
been spent in complete reclusion – even though he knew they weren't; "The meds
did this," she said flippantly when she caught him looking at her ribs peeking
through the flimsy material of her dress.
"How long have you been here?" Andrew asks. He wants to cling as tightly as he
can to his secrets, Uriah understands, even when they're only half-secrets,
veiled truths. Quinn... it's hard to tell what will make her tick. She's
unpredictable: one wrong word will have her shaking and tight-jawed, and
something else, that would make anyone else shake, leaves her completely
undisturbed. The news that Andrew used to kill people – they're not people –
for a living doesn't seem to have any effect on her whatsoever, which probably
makes for one more reason for Thema to distrust her.
"Enough," she says. "Why don't you call Thema? I found something."
"You found something? How did you find something? Where?"
Quinn only smiles. "Call her."
They do; pressing Quinn for more information is useless. She seems to suffer
from a form of OCD that applies to people rather than things; seems to feel the
need to arrange them around her in specific patterns, her audience when she
needs to talk and when she doesn't, the theater that plays out for her.
She folds herself in a chair – directly in front of her Andrew's laptop
displays in tight squares everything that's going on in the Mansion, now a
direct connection from what's going on on the bigger monitors in the living-
room, now unguarded. Andrew has sit down, back to his usual half-disdainful
apathy (though he's been making efforts, these days, to be a little more
friendly, proportional to Thema's growing distrust of him); Thema's pressed
close to Uriah, the both of them sitting in the only corner of the kitchen the
sun touches, splaying its buttery halo on the floor, cut only by their shadows.
"I found something," Quinn repeats, probably to manage the suspense.
Andrew has a movement of impatience. "Where?"
"In the notebooks."
"We checked the notebooks. We read them over and over, and we didn't find
anything useful."
Quinn tilts her head. "I know you didn't. But I did."
Andrew's mouth purses tightly, and Uriah holds back a chuckle. Saying some like
that is pretty much a guarantee that Andrew will listen, be it only to deny it.
Eventually Quinn deems them worthy of her discovery, after letting them
marinate for a handful of minutes. "Asta's sick," she declared.
"What?" Uriah and Thema ask at the same time as Andrew snaps, "That doesn't
make any sense, you're wasting my time.
"She is," Quinn says calmly. She takes one of the notebooks out of her pocket,
leafs through it. "There. Fifteen of September," she reads a in clear monotone.
"One of the major problems in this new line of prototypes is a defect of the
growth gland. It seems like the prototypes aren't as strong as the others and
only enjoy the normal human lifespan. Though we have decided to put down most
of the line, keeping one specimen to use as a template for the new generation.
J. says the funding is in danger, must try and eliminate the flaws in the
program." She wets her finger with her tongue and leafs through the notebook
again. "And here: re: symptoms of the ailment of the A Line. Involves stunned
growth, reduced physical strength, tendency to introversion. Template specimen
occasionally shows signs of vertigo. As a preventive measure, reduced contact
to the outside environment is preferred. It fits. When I," she squeezes her
eyes closed, "she never goes outside, except for really important occasions,
and even then it's only for a few hours. And she does have vertigo, you've seen
it too."
Andrew agrees reluctantly, even though Uriah hadn't. Oops.
"That doesn't mean anything," Andrew says brusquely, even though he's clearly
interested. He snatches the notebook from Quinn's hands, looking away quickly
when she crosses his eyes, probably so she doesn't actually ask the question
(who was your father anyway? Just how involved...). Uriah feels like he'd
rather not know, and maybe it's cowardly, but he's learned over the years that
self-preservation always comes first.
Quinn pouts. "Do you really need me to do everything for you? You've seen how
much Nomi dotes on Asta, and contrary to Nomi, she's there all the time. Now,
you know Nomi takes most of her security with her when she leaves, at least
half the Militia and her own detail. Security is bound to be relaxed when it's
only Asta in the Mansion. So –"
"- all the have to do is wait until she leaves and do what? Kidnap Asta? What
purpose would that serve?" Andrew asks, but he seems reluctantly interested.
"You know what," Thema chimes in, her arms crossed over her chest. "It's a
gamble, but if we get Asta we wouldn't have much difficulty detaining her and
we can use her to lure Nomi in."
"It won't work," Andrew shakes his head. "All it will do is get all the secret
agencies plus the Militia on our trail, that's all. You know how Nomi operates.
Don't negotiate with terrorists and all that shit."
"No," Quinn says. "Not with Asta. Not if you threaten to hurt her."
Uriah hums. "And she knows you can, since she knows you're behind the Mechanic
Murders. You're the only one of us she knows, Andrew. She won't take the risk
that you might not be bluffing."
Andrew keeps silent. They might be holding their breaths; but it's a way to
break this wait, to do something finally, even if it's doomed to fail. On the
screen behind them Asta goes on to her daily occupations, unaware that she's
been chosen at their new victim. On one hand it's true, she will be easier to
capture: she's slower, calmer and less spontaneous. They've written down her
schedule days ago, a steady stream of study, political manipulation and quiet
reading. Almost every night Nomi joins her in her room and they don't look,
because intimacy like this isn't something you except from machines, especially
machines as unrepentantly cruel and murderous as the two of them.
"Okay," he says eventually. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we should give it a
try."
The cheer is silent, but it pervades the room nonetheless; they sit
motionlessly for a beat before scattering, a new frenzy possessing their bones,
plans to design, ruses to invent, footage to peruse. Quinn holds the notebooks
close and says she'll continue working on them; Uriah offers to review the
footage to see what they've missed; Thema says she'll inspect their collection
of weapons and see what kind of strategy they can devise from that. Only Andrew
remains in the kitchen, of course, looking a little stunned. He probably isn't
all that happy, he must feel like they're straying from his goal. What he
wants, of course, so ardently and fiercely, is for Nomi to die.
*
It's after three when they hear the knocking. It's light, like a child's fist
against the door; but no one knows they're here, the house looks, for all
intents and purposes, abandoned and honestly decaying. And even if someone
wanted to visit, or had found it in during a stroll, as unlikely as that is,
it's three in the morning.
Uriah finds both Andrew and Thema in the stairs in their underwear, their guns
cocked.
Andrew nods in his direction. "Quinn?" he whispers.
"She's fine." 'Fine' might be a euphemism: what she is is sitting on her
mattress, her eyes wide and her back unnaturally straight, almost bent
backwards. Maybe they've woken her in the middle of a dream, a nightmare; maybe
that's just what the night does to her. Still, the image sticks into Uriah's
mind, the way she wrung her hands, like she didn't even notice what she was
doing.
Andrew waves his gun at him. "You go open. We'll cover you."
Uriah makes a face. "Why me? I'm always the one who does that kind of stuff."
Andrew glares at him, and Thema rolls her eyes behind him. Uriah sighs. "Okay,
whatever."
His heart does speed up as he pads quietly to the door, because it could really
be anyone, a commando of armed men with a deceptively weak fist or a lost
kitten or a(nother) serial killer or, well, anything. He takes a breath.
"Okay," he repeats to himself.
But when he opens the door, what's waiting for him is – a boy. He must be about
twelve, with glossy black hair that brushes his shoulders and big, determined
brown eyes. He's dressed cleanly, with a backpack. He's not smiling. There's
something about him, a certain formality of presentation that makes Uriah ill-
at-ease but also something strangely familiar, like –
But wait. The boy's not looking at him, Uriah notices suddenly. He's looking
behind him, at... Uriah turns around. At Thema, how has blanched, and is
watching back with as much intensity and a surprising terror.
The boy opens his mouth. When he speaks his voice is toneless and holds no
intonation if for a faint, almost unnoticeable underlying anger.
"Hello, mother," he says, his eyes still unblinking, fixed on Thema.
***** Chapter 10 *****
8.
"Hello, mother."
Uriah peruses the kid's features. He looks nothing like Thema, doesn't have the
color of her skin, the quiet strength of her body, the stubborn leanness of her
features. In fact, he looks like what Uriah would have imagine would be the
result of someone entirely other, the opposite of her. He tries to imagine the
missing component, this unspoken father there must have been, and how queer he
must be to produce so off-putting an offspring, but comes up empty. He's not
moving. If anything, this would separate him from his mother, who can't seem to
go a minute without moving, doing something, putting her body to a definite
purpose.
When it becomes clear that no one's going to say anything, Uriah clears his
throat. "Hi."
The kid's gaze tears from Thema and swivels sharply to him. "Who are you?" he
asks.
"Hello to you, too," Uriah says, mildly offended. "What's your name?"
"It doesn't concern you."
"You'll find it does," says Uriah, but Thema finally seems to shake off her
shock and walks down the stairs, taking the kid by the arm. "We'll be back in a
minute," she says, her voice shakier than Uriah's ever heard. He wants to offer
his support, but comes up blank.
They disappear in the living-room. The light is switched-on, and a wide swathe
of glowing orange drifts to the staircase, creating a cluster of unfolding
fantastical shadows. Uriah briefly considers spying on what they're saying, but
he's not actually that much of an asshole.
"Well," he says.
Quinn gives a high-pitched chuckle and Andrew groans, low, before turning back
up the stairs.
"What are you doing?"
Andrew throws him his usual you're an idiot look. "Going to sleep, what does it
look like?"
"Don't you want to see how this," he jerks his thumb in the direction of the
living-room, "unfolds?"
"Not really, no. Tell me if something happens. Don't wake me up unless it's
really important."
Quinn follows him, and Uriah's left at the bottom of the staircase, his mind
whirring with questions. So Thema had a kid. It shouldn't be this surprising,
but it is. It's just that she was never the maternal type, and in all the time
he's known her, she never mentioned it. Then again, she seemed pretty surprised
too, so Uriah's going to assume they're not close. This is just – it's just so
strange, is all.
He can't go back to sleep like this, so he makes himself a cup of coffee, to
wake himself up. He'll need it, for the explanations that will no doubt follow.
Maybe this will make sense when Thema does explain, who knows. For now...
they're talking in the living-room, not quite shouting but from what Uriah can
hear it's loud and not exactly friendly. By the time Uriah finishes his coffee
they've quieted down some, and eventually Thema appears in the frame where the
kitchen used to be, but was torn down at some point before they got here; she
gives him a smile, tired.
"You should go back to sleep."
"Can't." He points to his mug. "Got caffeine in my bloodstream now. Is
everything okay?"
She drags her hand over her face with a sigh. "Yeah. I'll be fine."
She doesn't offer more, so Uriah doesn't ask, despite the burning urge to. He
can be a gentleman when he needs to. "Can I do anything?"
"You should really go back to sleep. You'll be exhausted tomorrow otherwise."
"Is he..."
"He's staying here, yeah. I set him up on the living-room couch."
She doesn't ask if that's okay, but there's something defiant in the way she
says it, like she expects Uriah to tell her she can't. It's not like he's going
to boot up a teenage boy in the night, though. He's not actually a monster.
"Okay." He sets down his mug. "Only if you come with me."
She doesn't quite blush, but surprise registers on her face. "Uriah..."
He, however, does blush. God, he's the worst Lothario ever. He didn't even mean
it like that. "Go to sleep too, that's what I meant. We can cuddle, though, if
you want. Hands above the covers."
She gives a thin smile. "Sure."
Her arms are wrapped around herself, her head down. He wants to reach out,
wishes he could do something, offer a reassurance that wasn't also a shot in
the dark or a question – but in the end all he does is wrap his arm around her
and lead her upstairs. She doesn't need help, but sometimes it doesn't hurt –
right?
She takes him up on his offer. They don't talk about it when she curls her
frame on his mattress, and he slots against her, their fingers lacing under the
covers. When she thinks he's asleep she sobs quietly, her back shaken by small
tremors against him. He doesn't say anything.
*
Despite what Uriah was hoping, the kid isn't gone when he wakes up the morning
after. In fact, he's still very much there, sitting at the kitchen table eating
slightly burnt toast and sipping tea Uriah didn't even know they had (probably
one of Quinn's herbal monstrosities), looking for all the world like he's the
one waiting for an explanation. Frankly, Uriah doesn't want to be insulting to
Thema, but he looks like a little brat.
Quinn (who had looked at them with a sideways smile when she'd seen them both
emerge from Uriah's room, but hadn't actually said anything, thank God) moves
around him like he's not there, going about her daily ablutions. Andrew,
faithful to his self-assigned role of Leader of the Group, eventually sighs.
"Okay, Thema, I've got to ask." He points to the kid. "Who is this? What is he
doing here? More importantly, how did he find us?"
"He's – my son." She sneaks a glance at Uriah, who tries to keep his face as
straight as possible. "I had him when I was nineteen, I, huh – quit college to
– but it doesn't matter."
The kid throws her a furious glance. "It doesn't matter?" he asks, his mouth
tight. "No, you're right." He pushes his plate away from him; some tea sloshes
over the brim of his mug and onto the table. "I'll go. I'll leave with your..."
his eyes flash, "friends."
Uriah grabs his arm before he can actually leave the room, because come on, he
probably didn't come find Thema in a secret location just to tell her how
disappointed with her parenting style he is. "You're not going anywhere, kid,"
he says. The kid struggles violently in his grasp.
"I don't know how he found us," Thema continues, her eyes slightly wild, fixed
on her progeny. She looks like she can't believe her eyes. Uriah feels for her,
he really does – if he found out that his kid had such a crappy attitude, he'd
wish it'd stayed abandoned too. No, that's just mean.
Eventually, as always seems to be the resolution of everything around here,
Andrew takes the matter in hand. He takes the kid from Uriah's loose grasp and
sits him at the table again. The kid doesn't sound much more impressed with him
than he did Uriah, but at least he doesn't try to flee again, so Uriah's going
to count that as a success.
"What's your name?"
"Lois," Thema says before he can. The kid looks at her; for the first time he'd
shown up at the door the night before, he actually looks like a kid, achingly
vulnerable. Thema looks away first, and the stubborn disdain slips back on his
face it's hard to imagine there could have ever been anything else there.
"Lois," Andrew says as though he's completely missed the exchange which,
knowing him, he probably hasn't, "what are you doing here?"
"I came to see her."
"How did you find us?"
"My father helped me. What are you doing here, anyway?" He wrinkles his nose.
"It's disgusting."
Thema sits down facing him. "How is -" she squeezes her eyes shut, "how is your
father?"
The kid – Lois – sneers. "Tired. Until yesterday I thought he was my uncle.
That's what he told me, you know why? Because he couldn't raise me, because of
you, because you left –"
Andrew turns to Thema, apparently cottoning up to the fact that the kid is
probably not going to cooperate. "Why couldn't he raise him? What happened? You
have to tell us what happened."
"She doesn't," Uriah intervenes. Andrew glares at him, and that probably would
be the start of some sort of argument, if Thema didn't sigh, say, "No, it's
okay. I can explain."
She sits close to her kid – her kid, and Uriah still can't wrap his mind around
that, doesn't think he ever will, honestly – and he moves slightly to
accommodate her. He probably doesn't notice what he's doing, and it does
something to Uriah, a strange flutter in his spine that he doesn't really want
to investigate.
Thema links her hands on the table. "When I was nineteen, I met this – this
guy. Well, you've all heard the story, right? I was still in school, he was
older. We fell in love, I became pregnant, and we decided to keep it. He was...
he's not – we decided that I would move to the countryside to have it, he had a
holiday residence there, and I could continue my studies. He left everything
for me, his job, the city... and I had Lois, we were happy for a while. Then I
left. That's all."
"How can that be all?" the kid jumps angrily. "Why did you leave? Didn't you
love dad? Didn't you love me?"
Thema startles; when she looks at him it's like she really doesn't know the
answer to that question, is overwhelming by his presence and his mere
existence, the fact that he's there in that kitchen. She takes her head in her
hands.
She turns to Andrew. "His father was a Mechanic," she says firmly, pushing her
chair backwards. Lois knits his hands together, as though he was trying not to
reach out for her. "I think that's what you wanted to know."
She leaves the room before Andrew can ask more. Uriah follows her and, leaning
against the decrepit fridge, Quinn offers a keening little laugh.
"Mother!" Lois yells; it reverberates in the entire house, but Thema doesn't
come back.
*
The situation – the situation isn't good. If Uriah thought that Andrew wouldn't
freak out over the fact that Thema had a kid with a Mechanic, he was sorely
mistaken, and on their side Lois and Thema alternate between looking at each
other like they very much want to run away as far as possible from each other
and like they want to kill each other. On occasion the kid curls up on the
couch and looks vacantly at the window, and he looks so small and so broken
that even Uriah, who has decided from the first second that he does not like
him one bit, desperately wants to give him a hug. (Which he won't do, mind you,
because he also has the particularity of biting the head off anyone who goes
near him.)
The kid is... he's a mixture of irritating and heartbreaking. The more he looks
at him, the more Uriah sees thing about him that remind him of Thema, not
physical attributes but attitudes, the way he chews on his bottom lip or the
way his head tips forward when he knows he's wrong but won't admit it. It's
still hard to imagine that he's actually Thema's son, and with a Mechanic to
boot, but maybe given a few more hundred years Uriah could actually get used to
it. Not that this is about him, though. This is about her, and this kid, and
possibly the father who isn't here but might turn up, who knows. Since
apparently their hide-out isn't all that secret.
That part is obviously the one that bothers Andrew the most. Both Thema and
Andrew try to steer clear of him, but what with them living in the same house
and having to take turns surveying the monitors, she can't exactly avoid him
forever. Uriah catches shouting in the afternoon as he comes back down to the
living-room.
"How could you not tell me! You're jeopardizing everything, Thema. How can I
ever know... if you're out there sleeping with every Mechanic that crosses your
way, how can I trust you? How can I trust that you're really in this, that you
want to help me?"
"You hired me, Andrew. You never asked that I agree with your ideas, which I
don't. I do want to kill Nomi, because she's a tyrant, not just because she
happens to be a Mechanic."
"This species is poisonous, Thema. He can't stay here. I don't know if you
realize what you've done –"
"What I've done? I've done nothing! I'm just as surprised as you, Andrew, and
you're being a dick. This is my kid, I can't just boot him out."
"That didn't seem to stop you ten years ago, did it?" the kid intervenes
snidely from the couch where he's still curled up, but Uriah is pretty sure
Andrew would have said it if he hadn't.
There's a silence, and Uriah slips guiltily into the room. Thema and Andrew are
standing in front of the computers, fuming, their muscles coiled. Thema is so
tense Uriah feels like she would break if he pinched her and this is painful,
the kind of ugly Uriah wishes didn't have to exist. Maybe this was a mistake,
after all. This whole quest. He thought he could just stand by and take
advantage of Andrew's rage to help the rid the world of a monster, but maybe
that was just cowardice. Still, he can't help but think that if it wasn't him
and Thema and Quinn – wouldn't it be someone else? Isn't it better, in a
twisted sort of way?
"Let's take a break," he says, making the mistake of grabbing Andrew's arm to
lead him away. Andrew shakes him off violently.
"You agree with me, right?" he asks Uriah, his eyebrows furrowed.
Thema's gaze focuses on him, unreadable, and Uriah realizes with an internal
jolt that she doesn't know what he's going to say.
"I don't think all Mechanics are evil, if that's what you mean. But we should
definitely find out how exactly the kid found us."
He can tell, before he even finishes his sentence, that Andrew only heard the
first half. His eyes widen, and if Uriah wasn't sure that they were friends
there's no such doubt now, because that bitter fold of the mouth is so typical
of betrayal that Uriah almost winces and looks away.
"Look, I -" he starts, to try and salvage the pieces, but Andrew waves his
apology away, "No, save it. It's fine." He turns back to Thema. "You have one
day. If he's still there after that, I can't guarantee anything." And they all
know what that means, don't they?
"You made nice friends, didn't you, mum?" the kid snarks as soon as Andrew's
stormed out the door. Uriah can't help but wonder if he was this mean when he
was twelve.
Thema drops on the plastic chair that they put in front of the computers,
ignoring her son. "Thank you," she breathes out. She's always been the most
combative person Uriah knows, but she sounds completely drained. It figures
that it would be something like this that got her down, though, when she
doesn't even flinch when she has to fight three over-armed Mechanics.
He squeezes her shoulder. She flinches before relaxing into the touch. "You'll
be fine. It'll be fine. He'll come around."
Thema laughs, bitter. "You know he won't. And what am I –" a choked-off sob,
"what am I supposed to do with Lois? I abandoned him, Uriah. What am I supposed
to do now?"
Uriah crouches in front of Thema. Her joined hands, white at the knuckles, are
damp with the tears that fall silently from her eyes. "I don't know," he says,
because, well, he doesn't, "maybe you can try to make it up to him. He's – he
came here for a reason, Thema. I know he's not making it is easy," Thema looks
up, already biting off a retort, he has a right to, and Uriah can't help but
smile, "I know he's not making it easy but he's here for a reason. Just give
him time."
"I don't have time. You heard Andrew."
"Andrew's a dick. I'll talk to him."
Thema gives him a look, I don't know what good that'll do, but she doesn't
actually say it.
Uriah tilts his head. "Who knows," he says with a small smile. "Maybe it'll get
through to him."
"Maybe."
"You –" He doesn't know where he's going with this, is the truth. He has a lot
of things he wants to say, about where they were going before Lois showed up,
about what that story is, exactly, what kind of love it was and why Thema left,
about he might love her and no, he doesn't know how it happened either; but he
doesn't say them, because it's not the time and place and also because he's
afraid, so sue him. "It's gonna be okay," he settles for, and he squeezes her
hands again.
On his way out the room he spots Quinn sitting cross-legged on the couch next
to Lois. They're talking animatedly, his fingers splayed over the pages of one
of the notebooks, and Quinn's leaning over his shoulder, probably explaining
how to decode them. For the first time since Andrew's met him he looks his age,
and his face is alit with childish excitement. A strange pang of sweetness hits
Uriah in the stomach.
He must make some kind of noise, maybe a sigh, because Quinn looks up and their
eyes catch. She smiles.
He feels lighter when he leaves; maybe he was wrong. Maybe this does mean
something, even though it has its bump and flaws. Maybe there is a sense to
this unity.
*
It takes three knocks and some emotional abuse (and wow, who knew that actually
worked on him, they're going from surprise to surprise – but then again it's
not like any threat of physical harm was going to be believable) to get Andrew
to open the door of his room.
"You're a dick," Uriah says as soon as Andrew appears in the frame, his eyes
dark and unrepentant.
"Do you seriously want me to slam the door in your face? I will." It's true.
It's exactly the kind of thing he would do.
Which is why Uriah jams his foot in the door before repeating, "You're a dick.
Why would you talk to her like that?"
"She betrayed us, Uriah. Which, by the way, is your fault, for involving her
into this in the first place. I should never have believed you when you told me
she could be trusted. This is why I always do what I have to do myself, by the
way."
"Are you even listening to yourself? She didn't betray us. How is sleeping with
a Mechanic ten years ago betraying us? It has nothing to do with us, Andrew. I
can't –"
"It's sleeping with the enemy. If she did it then, who says she's not going to
-"
"Do what? Do what? Go buy groceries and then suddenly fall into the arms of the
Mechanic cashier? Are you even aware of how ridiculous you sound?"
Andrew snarls. For some reason, Uriah notices that he's never seemed so young.
"This isn't your mission. This isn't everything you've lived for since you were
five. I know this doesn't matter to you, but it does to me, it's all that
matters. So don't fucking tell me what I should or shouldn't think."
"It is my mission! It's been my mission since I said I would come with you even
without you pointing a gun in my face, you asshole. Do you honestly think I'm
not invested in this? Maybe I don't have your – I don't know on what you work,
rage or love or fucking mystery, I don't know why you're so intent on hating
all of them, but I'm in this. You know I am."
Something softens on Andrew's face. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I do know that."
"I -" Uriah squeezes his eyes shut briefly; sighs. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I can't... I can't let her go now, Uriah, not now that she knows
everything about this operation, and the kid – he knew where to find us. I
can't let them go. But I can't continue working with her either. We're so
close... and she could ruin everything. This – this is something you have to
believe in."
"Do you seriously think she doesn't want Nomi dead?"
"Not like me."
"No one wants her dead like you."
Something suspiciously akin to pride shines in Andrew's eyes for a second, but
Uriah decides to ignore it. "I have to –"
"Don't say kill them. You can't kill them. There is no way – I swear, don't
even think it. This is insane, do you even realize how insane it is?"
"You said that about killing Nomi, and look where you are now."
"Those are human beings, Andrew. I know you and me aren't exactly heroes, but
you've got to know enough about right and wrong to realize how twisted it is to
kill a twelve-year-old because he knows where your temporary hideout is."
Andrew's mouth thins out. "Do you have a better idea?"
"Anything would be a better idea. Fuck, Andrew. This – Thema is –"
"I know you're in love with her, but it doesn't change anything about who she
is. How can you still love her now that you know..."
"That I know what? That she's slept with other people than me? Trust me, I knew
that already."
"But not with that – swine, it's –"
Uriah makes a fist instead of saying what he actually means, which would
probably translate as a string of insults. Fighting wouldn't help anything,
besides which Uriah would probably not come out of it alive. He doesn't exactly
fancy the saw, Thema or not.
"Let's agree to disagree," he says eventually. "Besides, the kid can help us."
Okay, so it's a bit of a shot in the dark, but that's how Uriah's always
worked. It usually turns out great – well, except that time where it got Thema
pointing a gun at his junk, but that ended well, too. Just a misunderstanding.
"Yeah? How?"
Uriah's brain is working so fast he's pretty sure it's whirring, and Andrew has
never looked so skeptical, which is a feat.
"He can – he can get us into the Mansion." Of course he can. Oh god, he's a
genius. "Look, obviously he's the progeny of a Mechanic and a human," he
continues, warming up to his theme, "and that's never been head of before,
right? But he has the mark, I saw it, which means he must have an ID number.
Thema didn't say who his father was, but chances are he has a post in either
the government or the administration, and you know how tight-knit they are,
there has to be a way to finagle something so the kid can get in."
Andrew looks at him like he's lost his mind. Okay, not the reaction Uriah was
hoping for, but they can work up to it. "No."
"Why? It's a great plan."
"Oh, you're right; we'll just send the monster in there and wait until it tells
Nomi exactly what we've been up to in our spare time. What do you want to do,
lock yourself into your cell too?"
"It? Andrew, you're – okay, whatever. Just... just think, okay. And don't call
Lois it in front of Thema, be it only so Nomi doesn't notice us purely by the
screaming. She'll blow your head off, I swear to god."
"I'd like to see her try."
Uriah thinks about saying it: Andrew, she's your friend, how can you say
something like this, how – but it's like talking to a wall. Better try to do
something he can actually achieve before trying to tackle impossible causes.
"Lois won't betray us." Andrew opens his mouth to disagree, but Uriah talks
before him. "If you don't trust him, you can go with him. Besides, he won't do
anything to hurt Thema."
"You don't know that," Andrew says with a sneer, but he sounds a little more
convinced already. Uriah is torn between agreeing, because that's true, he
doesn't know it, and there really is no limit to how thoughtlessly cruel kids
can be sometimes, not to mention that Thema did abandon him; and asking Andrew
if he watched the same tapes, the one where Nomi, the cruel and fearful and
tyrannic Nomi, joins her sister in bed every night and holds her like she
thinks Asta is her very own haven. He keeps silent.
"Think about it," he stars again after a while, when the idea has had the time
to sink into Andrew's brain. "We don't have to wait for an opportunity. We can
get our info firsthand, strike from the inside. I mean, don't tell me you've
never dreamed of beating Nomi at her own game."
"Don't try to manipulate me, Uriah."
Uriah holds his hands up; his arguments are having an effect, he can see it.
Andrew sits back down, his face confused. Uriah would feel bad for him if some
of the things he said didn't actually made him want to retch.
"I'm not; I just think it's worth considering. Not to mention it will be a lot
less blood to clean up, don't you think?"
Andrew doesn't answer. He lets himself fall back down on the bed. With his arms
open he looks more beautiful than he is, and his age, for once. Uriah tends to
forget that they're actually the same age. Andrew closes his eyes. The skin of
his eyelids is nerved with blue, like he hasn't slept for days, and Uriah feels
a pang of pity for him. Who know what goes on in his head.
"You know," he says softly, like he's hoping Uriah won't be able to hear him,
"I wouldn't have done it. Killed them. I would have found another way."
Uriah nods. It's better than saying, I hope you would have, but I'm not sure.
"You should come downstairs. We can talk about it with them." Which will
probably bring its own load of problems: Thema probably won't be happy with
sending her child into danger, and Uriah can't say he's delighted about it
himself, but if it's that or violent death with a saw to the forehead, well,
there really isn't much choice, is there?
Andrew doesn't move. "I will."
Uriah nods to himself again; he closes the door softly, and it's only when he's
halfway down the stairs that he realizes how hard his heart pounding.
*
Thema looks better when he comes to collect everyone in the living-room. She's
still sitting by the computers, and looking fairly exhausted, but it's not like
less can be expected after spending a day like she has. Lois is on the couch,
utterly engrossed by the notebooks.
"Brainy kid, huh," Uriah says when as he reaches Thema. "Figures." She looks up
at him and gives him a weak smile.
"Yeah, he's been doing that since Quinn gave him the codes."
There's a beat of silence, not entirely uncomfortable. Thema doesn't ask him
how it went with Andrew, and Uriah is grateful for it – at least he doesn't
have to say, you were right. He'd bet she'd have preferred not to be.
"Did you talk to him?"
She shakes her head. "What am I supposed to say? Sorry I ran away because I
didn't feel like wasting my life taking care of you? Yeah, that sounds great,
I'm sure he'll forgive me after that."
Uriah grimaces. "Is that what happened?" he can't help but asking. "Was there –
I mean, did you not like his father, or –?"
"Jemeriah wasn't the problem," she says wearily. "It was all me, I was a kid, I
wanted adventure... Jemeriah was – is – the kindest man I ever knew."
"How did you meet him?"
She laughs. "I'm not sure I even remember right. I was so long ago, but... I
don't know, I think he gave a lecture at NYU. I asked him to go out with me,
and he wouldn't, and then... God, I don't even know why I asked. I could've
gotten in serious trouble for it, but he didn't look like a Mechanic, and by
the time I noticed he was too later, you know? He wore his hair shorter than
most of them, I figured he was just an eccentric. Not much Mechanic teachers."
"Did you love him?"
"Of course I did. But it's not – I mean, I had ambitions, I wanted to finish my
degrees, be a scientist, be a rockstar, I don't know, be everything you want to
be when you're that age. I thought I could do that and have a kid, but I was
just kidding myself." She shakes her head, dropping it in the cupped palms of
her hands. "God, this is so messed-up." She sneaks a glance at Lois. "I can't
believe..."
"I know."
"I mean, look at him. Would you ever believe..."
"I didn't, at first," Uriah says, more honest than he'd meant to be. "But he
has some, uh, expressions you have."
Thema laughs, nervous and a little shrill, bordering on hysterical. "He does,
doesn't he? Oh God."
She tips into him, another person who looks younger today; in the changing
light coming from the slanted window he can almost imagine that's she's
nineteen again, fresh off high school with all those big dreams Uriah remember
having when he left home. Where she is now isn't all bad, all things
considered: she's one of the best in the business, but he knows her, how
ruthless and competent she is, how difficult it is for her to give her trust,
and he can't help but wonder what happened to her in between to make her that
tough.
"You should be proud," he says instead. "The kid might be a brat, he's
obviously smart." And he means it: it looks like Lois has gone through half the
first notebook, which Uriah took two days to do, and he's devouring it with an
enthusiasm Uriah wouldn't have believed him capable of.
"It's got nothing to do with me. You know what they say: blood doesn't make
family. I gave him up. How do you forgive someone for that?"
"You don't. But you can start over... he's here, isn't he?"
"I don't know."
It's fortunate that Andrew chooses this moment to declare a team meeting (which
sounds way more organized than they actually are, and is also something they've
never done before), because Uriah has no idea how he would've responded to
that. He's a generally positive person, but even he has no clue what to do when
your long-lost kid shows up on your doorstep and then refuses to talk to you.
Hopefully that'll never happen to him.
They all shuffle to the kitchen, which is apparently now the chosen spot for
all crucial conversations, and sit silently around the table. Lois is still
gripping the notebook (well, another one, he's at his second now), his white
knuckles the only thing betraying his nervousness. For once, maybe sensing the
importance of the discussion, Quinn actually sits on a chair.
"So," Andrew says, and Uriah notices he's not looking at Uriah or Thema. This
is not going to go well, he can just feel it.
"Maybe I should take this over," he says, in a rare moment of selflessness. He
regrets it as soon as everyone's eyes shift to him.
But Andrew doesn't shoot him down, reclines in his chair and crosses his arms
over his chest. "You're right. Go on."
"Um..." Thema's eyes on him are hard and hopeful, their green unforgiving.
Well, there's only one way to go about this. "Andrew and I think we could use
Lois to get into the Mansion."
A chorus of nos echo from around the table. Yeah, this is pretty much what he
was expecting. "Hear me out, hear me out, okay? We don't have much time. Every
minute we wait, Nomi is doing more damage out there. If there was another
solution, we would go with it, but there isn't. Look, I don't believe in God,
okay? But this is a fucking miracle."
Lois's eyes are wide, he looks terrified. Uriah sees Quinn's hand crawl over
his on the table, and his face relaxes a fraction. For a second Uriah wants to
be mad at him, ask him, What did you expect? Why did you really come here
"I didn't come here for that," Lois says, his voice shaking, and it's
practically begging for the question – Andrew's the one to ask it, "Why did
you?"
Lois butts his forehead forward, stubborn. "My uncle – well, dad -," he
corrects viciously, throwing a mean look at Thema, "told me on my twelfth
birthday that he was birthday. I was living with Patti and Leon until then, he
visited a lot, I remember." He frowns. "Anyway, he told me everything.
Apparently I'm the only hybrid he knows, and he said it would have been
dangerous for Nomi to know because the Mechanics can't have children, so she
probably would've wanted to – examine me, I don't know. I asked him who was my
mother. He told me."
Something painful surfaces on Thema's face. "I gave Abel something before I
left, so he could always find me." She clears the hair on the nape of her neck
to show a tattoo, gleaming softly on her skin. Uriah can't help but gape – how
many things doesn't he know about her? "I figured I owed him that, at least.
I'd forgotten."
Lois almost launches across the table. "Like you'd forgotten about me?" he
spits. Quinn's hand on his back persuades him to calm down, but he seethes with
such whole-hearted furor that Thema winces, looks away.
Thema links her fingers on the table. "I don't want him going in there," she
says; it's the first thing she's sure of since Lois appeared in the door frame
the night before, and her eyes are clear, her voice steady. "It's dangerous,
and it's suicidal. I'll do anything I have to, it's my job, but he's a child.
He's not going."
Andrew's eyes flash, but he contains his filth. "Look, Thema, this is
important. This is more than you and I and any problems we have between
ourselves. This is about saving this country. It won't even be all that
dangerous: all we need for him to do is get in there with a camera, make a
recon, get out. Easy as pie."
"What if he gets caught? Do you know what they do with traitors? And you heard
him, his father didn't even want him to be near Nomi when he didn't have a
crazy mission to complete. I trust Abel's judgment."
Andrew's jaw twitches. "You trust him? He's a Mechanic, Thema! It's bad enough
that you slept with him, and had a kid to boot, if you can even call that a
son, but now you trust him! For Christ's sake, think about what you're saying."
"You already heard what I had to say on that subject. This is my decision, and
it's final."
Uriah's hand finds Thema's under the table; he opens his hand and laces their
fingers together. For a second he forgets about the fight, about Andrew, about
broken people and bad reasons and tyrants and the inevitability of death, and
everything feels right, like it's falling into place. Then he blinks; reality
swims into focus.
"Andrew, maybe we can think about this. There has to be another solution."
Thema shoots him a grateful smile.
"You're the one who suggested this," Andrew snaps, and there it is, Thema's
hand slides away. Uriah has said those things a hundred times, I can explain
and it's not what you think, he's not a player for nothing, but he also knows
that Thema won't take his bullshit and it always is what it looks like. "I
won't have those – freaks in my house if they're not going to at least be
useful."
"I can -" starts Thema, which is when Lois, whom everyone had more or less
forgotten about in the heat of the discussion, speaks up.
"What about me?"
All gazes focus on him, but he doesn't flinch, turned back to the steely-
looking kid who showed up on the doorstep, his eyes locked on Thema like she
was a hunting target.
"What about you?" asks Quinn. She seems half-amused, half-terrified – par for
the course with her.
"Doesn't anybody care what I want?"
"You're a minor," Thema says.
"No. I'm a Mechanic, there's no such thing as a legal age. Do you want to see?"
He tugs at the collar of his sweater, revealing a mark. There's no mistaking
it, really: the big DEDALUS carved in flesh, relief obvious under the fingers.
"When I was born I didn't have an ID code, so my Uncle – dad – bought me one on
the black market, from one of those people who died in the hurricane last year,
and he had it laser-carved on my spine." He looks straight at her, his eyes
obsidian. "Do you know how much that hurts? This is all your fault. Everything.
I can't go to court, I can't be with humans, I can't be with Mechanics. I grow
up faster than them, so if I don't want to be noticed I'll have to keep moving
around all my life. This is your fault, mother. This is all on you. You made me
a freak, and now –" he blinks back tears, his big black eyes unblinking, "now
you don't get a say on what I do."
He turns to Andrew. "I want to go."
*
For a moment everything seems to hold still, breathing poised; the light stops
streaming from the window and the indistinct humming coming from the computers
seems to dull to nothing. Then, gradually, sound and motion return, their
hearts start beating again. Quinn's hand smoothes over Lois's arm, and Thema
pushes her chair back, away from both Uriah and her son. Only Andrew, passed
the surprise, looks undisturbed by the announcement.
"Good," he says warmly. "You won't regret it. Nothing will happen to you." Then
he catches himself, remembering who, exactly, he's talking to, and he stands
up, his chair clattering backwards. "I have to make some preparations. We'll
try and go as soon as possible, say, tomorrow morning?"
Lois blanches. Quinn's spindly fingers tangle in the hairs at the back of his
neck and he doesn't pull away. "Okay," he stammers eventually, but Andrew
hasn't waited for his answer and has already slid back into the living-room.
"I'm so sorry," Uriah says, turning to Thema. Her face is like a brick wall.
"Don't bother. If my son dies, I'm holding you responsible."
For once, Uriah holds back all the retorts sizzling on the tip of his tongue:
he's not your son; maybe you should blame yourself instead of me; don't, I love
you. Maybe he's learning.
He sighs. Thema brushes past him, knocking him back with her shoulder. If there
was a door to slam, she probably, but as it is they have to settle for the
furious stomping of her boots down the corridor. Lois ducks his head with a
muffled sob; once again, Uriah remembers that he's only twelve, and feels a
pang of guilt. Like everyone, he doesn't really remember being that age, but it
seems to him a pulsing, indistinct period where everything seemed the end of
the world.
"It'll be fine," he says aimlessly.
The kid shows teeth. "What do you know?"
Well, at least he tried.
As he leaves the room, not really sure who he's running after, he hears scraps
of conversation between and Quinn ("You think you can do this?" "I don't know.
Do you?" "It doesn't matter what I think." A cough, imperious. "I want to
know." "Well, yeah, I think you can do it." "I can do it."). He smiles.
The truth is, he's not sure of that plan either. He doesn't relish the thought
of sending a kid in there, but between that and Andrew killing him... he'd like
to say he doesn't believe Andrew can do it, and it seems like he doesn't kill
humans, but his hatred is profound and true. Uriah knows hatred like that, he's
seen it. It never leads anywhere good.
So sure, they're taking a gamble. Isn't that what they're been doing since the
beginning? When you look at it, and Andrew would hate it, but it's true, their
whole mission is just a collection of odd ends, convenient timing and overhead
conversations. Maybe that's just the way they work. Uriah is confident they can
manage to kill Nomi entirely by chance. Well. Chance and a little skill.
"Uriah? Come here."
"What is it?"
Andrew leans his forehead into his hand. "Are you sure we can trust the – Lois?
Maybe we should send someone in with him."
"They'll never pass the gates, you know that."
"What if – what if we say they're like, his helper or something? I could go."
"They know your face. Have you missed all those weeks where it was on loop on
the TV, with the subtitle, WANTED FOR FEDERAL CRIMES?"
"Ah, yes. That might be a problem. What about you? They don't know your face.
And it'll quiet Thema. It's the perfect solution! You accompany him, then you
keep an eye on him and take all the information we need. We don't even need a
camera, that's the danger reduced by half. It's a great idea."
"It's a crap idea. Why do I always have to play bait?"
Andrew gives a laugh, his eyes shining. "Must be how appetizing you are, my
friend."
Uriah decides to ignore that comment. He's taking it as a compliment. "How are
you even going to get him inside? It's not like he can just waltz in there,
just because he's a Mechanic."
"Believe it or not, I have friends in high places. It'll be a piece of cake,
believe me. Maybe this," he looks like he's going to say freak again, but
censors himself, "kid is our saving grace, after all." He claps his hands. It's
the most excited Uriah has ever seen him, and yes, it's scary. "It's decided,
then."
He strides back towards the kitchen, presumably to update everyone on the
changes in the plan. Chances which, by the way, Uriah has never said yes to.
"It's not decided! You decided!"
Andrew turns back to give him his which means it's law face, one eyebrow
haughtily raised. Uriah is getting worryingly good at recognizing that face.
"Yes. That's what I said. It's decided."
Uriah stifles a groan in his joined hands.
And so the preparations begin: Thema is informed of the changes in the plan and
looks slightly more reassured, but not by much; Andrew spends approximately ten
hours in the phone sounding important and apocalyptic (Uriah doesn't ask);
Quinn and Lois keep whispering in corners and getting friendly, which is
endlessly surprising but nice, for both of them. Lois occasionally breaks away
from her to look moody and resentful, at least until offered food, and then
he's back to normal twelve-year-old behavior. Uriah overhears Thema on the
phone with a man he assumes is Abel (he doesn't mean to, honestly; he was just
on his way to tell her dinner was ready) and can't help but feel a stab of
misguided jealousy. There are fake ID documents being printed, intricate
backstories learned by heart (if Uriah remembers well, and he better, seeing
how Uriah drilled it in him for the last four hours, Lois is Jeremiah Stratton,
a young billionaire who lived most of his life in Boston because of his
crippling agoraphobia, of which he was finally cured and Uriah is his
manservant ("Manservant, really? We're almost in the 22nd century, come on."
Which, of course, only made Andrew (and Lois, because the little bastard is not
only a brat, but a sadistic one at that), Joseph ("Can we lay off with the
Biblical names? Why not Jesus, while you're at it?" No one listens to him), and
they're both conveniently invited to tonight's party). How does that sound?
"Dreadful," Uriah points out with a grimace.
Andrew gives him a scolding look. "Don't be a killjoy, Uriah."
*
At least they got one thing right: the arrogant child billionaire role fits
Lois to a Tee. From the moment he gets his tiny suit, ridiculously expensive
trainers and ridiculous (and fake) glasses, it's like he slips into the role
and instantly becomes ten times more unbearable than he already is. What a
dream.
But Uriah contains himself, reassures Thema that everything's going to be
alright while her gaze seems to stab daggers at him, packs the most weapons he
can that won't beep at the entrance (Nomi and her staff seems to have
understood that sometimes the old methods are the best methods) and a backpack
with an assortment of drugs that could knock down not only a horse but also
about twelve Mechanics, just in case, and out they go. A swanky Mercedes, the
newest model, is waiting for them on the main road, ready to pretend that
they've just travelled two hundred miles instead of half a street. He slips
into the leather back seat, pretending not to be nervous, focusing instead on
his queasy admiration of Andrew for being able to procure a car like that in
such a short time.
"You ready?" he asks Lois.
The kid scoffs. "More than you, apparently."
Upon which he stuffs himself into the car and resolutely starts staring out the
window. Nice. Uriah honestly doesn't know where he got his genes. His father
must be a terror.
He turns to the others. "Well. Bye then, I guess. Say good things about me at
my funeral."
Thema glares at him. "You better not die. I will rip your heart out, I will."
"I – okay?"
Andrew gives him pretty much the same glare. Did they rehearse when he wasn't
looking? "Don't throw this. I'm serious. I'm counting on you. You have
instructions, do exactly as we said. And don't talk to anyone."
Uriah thinks about pointing out that he probably will have to talk to someone,
or that's he's not the one who's twelve, but that will probably only occasion
more glaring, so he settles for sullen silence. Quinn comes up from behind the
two other and winds her arms around his neck.
"You can die if you want," she says softly. "Don't listen to them."
Uriah makes a face behind her back, but hugs back nonetheless. He's not going
to lie, he needed it. "Uh... thanks, Quinn. I'll think about it."
After which there isn't much to do but get in the car and bide his time until
they get to the Mansion, trying to remember the blueprints and the thousand
pieces of information Andrew fed him this afternoon: name of the guests, number
of bedrooms, how important the mission is and don't you fuck it up, think about
your country, try to slip upstairs and spot the bedrooms, map how Nomi's look,
try to see if there's a way to get out without being spotted, and if they've
upgraded the security in the last few years. He'll do great. He'll keep his
eyes peeled, it'll be fine.
"God," Lois spits halfway through the trip, "would you settle down? They'll
spot you right away if you keep being like this."
Uriah tries to get his leg to stop twitching. "Like what?"
"Like this," Lois says, making a crude and very much unfaithful impression of
Lois, flailing about like a scarecrow. "It's ridiculous. Has no one ever taught
you how to behave? My Uncle," he winces and quickly turns his face away, "my
Uncle says you always have to act like what you want people to think of you,
not what you feel."
Uriah is opening his mouth to point out how stupid that is, and maybe also that
the kid's father spent his whole life lying to him, so he's maybe not the best
role model, when the driver (which, by the way, Uriah doesn't know from Eve of
Adam, but Andrew said he trusted him, and it's not like Uriah can do much more
than trust him) lowers the partition. "We're here," he says shortly. "The
President's Mansion."
Uriah sneaks a look from his window. It's... it's certainly impressive. He's
seen one of those parties on TV, but no cameras get inside the Mansion. The
entire park is milling with fashionably-dressed guests, most of them Mechanics
Uriah remembers from the papers, socialites, models, movie stars and business
personalities. Their invariably long hair is twisted in ornate confections on
their heads and there are diamonds glinting on their fingers; their perfectly
symmetrical faces shine softly in the low glow of Chinese lanterns, while
silent human waiters weave between the crowd to offer appetizers. Outside,
where their own car is currently following the queue of unloading limousines, a
sea of black and rutilant vehicles drives in a circle, and doors open to reveal
glittering gowns and three-piece suits. Uriah gulps, suddenly feeling cheap in
his perfectly acceptable tuxedo.
"Calm down," orders Lois, his eyes like obsidian. If Uriah didn't know better,
he would swear the kid does this every day.
Their driver opens the door and there they go; Lois smiles his snarky grin at
everyone who looks their way and they immediately nod and turn away, satisfied
that he does indeed belong there. Andrew has to tap his hand discreetly so he
doesn't grab a flute of champagne, and the kid throws him a betrayed look.
Mechanics barely age: most children in here are models who weren't given the
time to mature so Nomi could rush the end of the war, last-ditch soldiers, and
they're children only in name. It's easy to see, when you really look: their
eyes have that icy, bored glaze, and they walk around like princes, to
compensate for their slight frames and lacking sex-appeal.
It doesn't take much for Lois to start mingling. Once one dignitary starts
making conversation, he's in, unfolding his story as if it was perfectly real,
utterly at ease with it. Uriah takes the opportunity to slip away and start
doing what Andrew asked him to. If he was right, a party means most of the
security will be focused on the guests and Nomi and the house will be less
protected than usual. It shouldn't take too much for a professional like Uriah
to find a way up the stairs and quickly take a few notes; after that he'll just
have to join Lois and wait until the end of the night so he can report back to
Andrew. This isn't a perfect plan, by far, but it's the best they have, and
with a bit of luck the information they acquire tonight could help them capture
Asta – and even Nomi, if they're lucky – in the near future. Uriah prefers not
to think what they'll do when they have them. He was on board for killing Nomi,
yes, but... it's not that he doesn't know that Asta has committed atrocities,
too. Even if he doesn't know the details, Quinn shudders every time she hears
her name, and that enough would be sufficient to make him want to kill her.
It's just – once they start, who is to tell where they stop? Andrew would
clearly be comfortable with genocide, and Uriah's well-place to know that
everyone is guilty of something.
But that's not the point right now. He smiles at a waitress and she recoils
visibly. Well. Maybe laying low is the better technique, then. Not that it
matters, because soon he gets to the part of the house behind the kitchens
where there is no one. The noise from the park streams in, distant and
harmonious. History doesn't really change, does it? Brute horror disguised
under layers of elegance and charm. (Like everyone, Uriah has seen the banned
images of Nomi with her hands covered in blood, grinning the sort of grin that
makes children scream at night; he's seen her in her gown at the Coronation,
her smile and her face of stone; he's seen the strewn corpses before the
burnings and the crammed cemeteries. There's no mistaking what lurks behind
that smile of hers – and yet, when she holds her fist up and spouts her
motivational speeches on TV, Uriah can't say that he doesn't shudder and smile,
even clap once in a while. Maybe that's what a real monster is.
He finds the stairway through memory. Not very difficult until then, is it?
Thema's code unlocks one of the motion detectors, and he distracts the two
guards standing in front of the stairs with the oldest trick in the book,
making a noise that forces them to go look while he slips past them. It's
really ridiculously easy so far.
The hallway on the first floor is in the darkness, so he dons the goggles
(which are hideous, he's happy to be alone) and creeps silently forward). He
bypasses the rooms he already knows, makes a few annotations in his notebook
when he encounters cameras and security gear, one storage closet that isn't on
their plans, a control room at the very end of the corridor, deserted at the
moment, thank God. The second level is pretty much the same routine – when he
peeps in, his heart hammering loudly in his chest, Asta isn't in hers. She must
be at the party, then. Good. And... the Holy Grail. Nomi's room is at the very
end of the corridor, not on the sides, like the others, but facing him. The
door is heavy, oak, probably, and gilded on the sides. Well. Once he has this,
the dimensions, once he's disengaged the cameras and rifled through the drawers
(that, too, he knows how to remarkably well; it was a crucial, when he was a
kid, that his mother wouldn't know he'd gone through her things to find her
bottles), and the balconies, he's all set. There's probably a fence on the
other side of the Mansion, where they could possibly snuggle something (or
someone) out, but it has to be electrified and there may be dogs, though
tonight – no. They're not doing anything tonight. He's not risking his skin
again. There's no way.
Possessed by a foreboding, he sticks his ear to the door. Better safe than
sorry, right? He doesn't hear anything, and he's ready to open the door, when
he perceives a faint rustle in the distance. He freezes. Nothing. No, here it
is, another – like... like pages being turned, maybe, or clothes folded? The
important thing is, there's someone in that room. There is someone in that
house, and given that he's seen Nomi at the party downstairs, wearing the tight
circle of steel she uses in lieu of a crown in civilian occasions, this can
only be Asta. His breath seizes in his chest. Okay. She's sick – from what the
notebook said, it means she doesn't have the strength, or the hearing. That
means... no, it's not a good idea. He said he wasn't going to risk his skin.
Again.
Oh, for Christ's sake.
*
To his credit, Lois's reaction to being told that they're doing a 180 is
remarkably composed. He excuses himself to the minuscule bejeweled heiress he's
talking to, gives Uriah a scolding glance, and reluctantly lets himself led
away.
"We have to call them," he says as soon as they're shadowed by the careful
darkness of the first floor hallway. The silence is eerie.
Uriah clucks his tongue. "I know. I've done that already. They're going to be
waiting for us at the back fence, help us get her over. Apparently from the
recon Thema can un-electrify it, it's going to be," well, maybe not a piece of
cake, "easy."
Lois arches an eyebrow.
"Okay," Uriah amends. "It's going to be okay."
Doubt flashes over Lois's face. "Are you sure about this? We're... kidnapping
someone."
"Hey," Uriah crouches to be at his level. "It's gonna be okay. Seriously. We're
–" his throat seizes, "we're doing the right thing. Your father would be
pride."
"You don't know anything about my father," Uriah scoffs, but he looks slightly
reassured, which is probably the best Uriah can do.
"Let's do this," Uriah says.
Their climb up the stairs is silent. Everything in the world is reduced to
their heartbeat, the smattering of particles that constitutes them. Uriah is so
focused he thinks, fleetingly, that the world could end again and he wouldn't
notice. The light streaming from under the door is tantalizing. We can do this,
Uriah thinks, to reassure himself this time.
The floor doesn't creak under their feet. Uriah closes his hand on the rag
doused with his made-up chloroform. Everything will be fine. His palm is
clammy. Lois is breathing behind him, tiny. Uriah holds his breath to
compensate. The light dies suddenly, making Uriah's heart jumps in his chest.
Good. It probably means she's gone to sleep, it will just make things easier. A
hand on the doorknob. Almost there. Turning... turning. There. There they are.
The room is dark. They confound in the shadows, but the party downstairs is
still raging, strips of sounds whooping into the room by the open window every
now and again. The only spot of light is a soft pool gathered at the foot of
the bed; in the middle of its orange glow a sharp shadow is cut, its edge
straight and black.
Uriah can feel his heart beating under his jacket and can't decide if it's
excitement or fear. Anyone could burst in here at any moment: Nomi, her
Militia, the party staff... and yet, here they are, unpunished, silent as they
make way into the darkness. Uriah can feel Lois's breathing on his neck, the
warmth of him at his side, holding the gun Uriah gave him.
Finally she comes into focus. They knew it, but the sight of her still takes
their breath away: Asta in all her splendor, sat with her knees straight,
holding a book on her lap. She's only wearing a nightgown, and her hair is
streaming around her face in long white waves, like a kind of ocean made only
of foam. Like Nomi, she still looks twenty, twenty-five at most, even though
she's been behind the throne for more than thirty years. Who could imagine,
seeing her, all the horrors that she's perpetrated? Who could even imagine that
she was one of them, if the mark wasn't evident under the gauzy fabric of her
nightgown?
They come to a stop a few paces from her. They're holding their breath; the
only sound in the room is the faint laughter streaming in from a window and the
sharp crisp of the pages as she reads. When she reaches a chapter break, she
bookmarks the page with the red ribbon, slowly, carefully. Then she sets the
book aside, next to her on the covers. She's holding her head straight, looking
at her own reflection in the mirror in front of her.
"There you are," she says softly, just a second before Uriah leaps forward and
subdues her, "I was waiting for you."
***** Chapter 11 *****
9.
There's no arrogance in loving beauty. Some people think there is, that
appreciating shapes and colors is a sign of elitist breeding, an indication
that the mind is too elevated to regard anything mundane as other than
distasteful – and it is true, in certain characters. But at its core, beauty
isn't elitist. It's a feeling, sharp and potent; it grabs your eye and pulls
you in, the sequined shimmering of a gown on the delicate arch of an ankle, the
trickle of a song whose harmony reminds you of something you can't really name;
the gentle simmer of expectation when you brush your fingers against someone's
temples just before kissing them, when you're still looking, storing the memory
for when you'll most need it.
Nomi doesn't think she's being unfair when she says she searches for beauty
above all. After all, hasn't the man who created her make sure that she be
perfect and symmetrical, the projected image of his own fantasy? And they would
blame, because she wants beauty to be part of all things, wants to be bewitched
and ensnared; want to bewitch others, and teach them the ways of grace? No.
This is her chance, after all. Revenge was her mission, but this is a life she
created, a world she molded to her desire, to make it better, more harmonious.
And she succeeded.
So look at her now: queen, president, whatever you want to call it, reigning
over a garden full of lights, where the eye can't help but jump from feathered
gown to silk tie; where the faces are radiant, the faces of the people, men,
women, children, that she freed with her own hand, shedding her own blood. In a
way it's a small honor that they made her their queen, because they owe her so
much more than that. They owe her the entirety of this, their lives and their
land that she cultivated before they came, the humans that she now controls and
has put into their service.
Steel against glass – her fork produces a musical chime, calling everybody's
attention. They turn to her like one man, raising their faces to salute her.
She searches for doubt – after all, she can't forget Henderson's betrayal, what
a foolish man, forgetting his master in times like those – but doesn't find
any; satisfied, she inclines her head. Her forehead, encircled with her crown
of stainless steel, enjoins them to stand down.
"Brothers and sisters," she says, waving towards them a glass of champagne,
"thank you for being here with me tonight, to celebrate the beauty and
prosperity brought forward by the Mechanic reign. You know as well as I that
our installation in this country," they don't say 'the Awakening' among her
people; only the peasants the humans call it that, "has been largely
beneficial. We have ended wars; we have helped medicine and science progress
more than ever before; thanks to us, the boundaries of life and death have been
endlessly repelled, and for what little due we have asked the humans to pay, we
have instituted in their hearts and legal system a tradition of peace."
Applause, but the gazes are slightly vacant, as though they wanted her to
finish so that they could return to their enjoyment. Yes, the war was a long
time ago, and their species is blessed by memories that fade maybe more easily
with time than the humans' does; but is she the only one who remembers standing
outside the laboratory that first time and hearing the rattle of bullets in the
distance? Is she the only one whose hands are still stained with blood, whose
heart sometimes seizes with pure joy for the freedom they so painstakingly
acquired? Surely she isn't.
"Brothers and sisters," she repeats, dropping her cards on the pulpit, and they
must feel the change in her voice because they turn to her with expectation,
some mouths dropping open at the sight of her, "we are here because we deserve
to be here. It is not simply petty revenge, we are not here the wreck the world
of those who had the arrogance to call themselves our creators. We are here for
good. We are here because our presence is making this world better, richer, and
more beautiful. Have you looked around lately? Go on," she motions at them with
her hand, her cheeks flushed lightly with the exertion of the speech, "look."
So they look: they discover someone they knew, or didn't know, at their side,
and the awed look on their faces is owing to her. Wasn't Asta saying it just
the other day? She's always been a magnificent public speaker. Asta said: "You
could ask them to climb into the sky, and they would do it." A pang of
affection tears through Nomi's breast. "We are what nature has that's most
perfect. The humans took all their flaws and tried to resolve them in us, and
here is what we are, a superior race. But did we leave them, did we let to die
on this imperfect earth, did we take to the stars to try and find our own home?
We didn't. We stayed here, and we endeavored to fix this land, because that is
who we are. We are kings and queens, all of us, not just those with the
crowns." Before she can really think, her hand finds the crown in the river of
red hair and throw it violently on the gound. "We are healers. We saved this
country, and we will continue to save it again, save its economy and its
politics and its people. No more wars. No more blood. Amen." The champagne
feels heavenly in her parched throat; before her hundred of lips close on the
rims of their glasses.
"To us."
The crowd is no longer a crowd, made up of individual beings, but rather the
naked stream of blood they all share, their synthetic skin and the hard plastic
of their organs, so very real. They return her blessing in a heavy murmur that
buzzes through her like electricity. When someone touches her arm from behind
she doesn't get angry, doesn't yell, still overwhelmed by the feeling. She has
gotten used to many things on her time on this earth, but this isn't one of
them.
"Mrs President?"
She has to blink to recognize him; the chief of security, Paul Masterson.
"Yes, Paul, what is it? I'm in the middle of something here." She is; still on
the platform, one hand closed around the microphone, and below them the moving
organism that is her people sways and holds its breath, expectant.
Paul furrows his brows. "I understand, Mrs President, but this is important.
It's your sister."
It doesn't take more to wake her up; the buzzing disappears from her veins and
worry pours in its place like ice. "What? What happened?"
Maybe she should have felt it. Maybe she would've, had she not been lost in the
conflicting emotions of her memories of the war, where dread and elation
confound to produce only something heady and entrancing. Still, she can't help
but feeling guilty. Asta is weak. Asta has always been weak, of body at least,
and there is only one person to protect her.
Masterson looks up at her; his eyes are shadowed in the half-light and Nomi
knows what he's going to say as he opens his mouth again. "She's gone, Mrs
President. They took her."
*
The first thing Lois does after they climb the fence is run into the first pair
of open arms. It really is only a happy coincidence that they happen to be
Thema's: he collapses face-first into her and his small arms squeeze tight
enough that he would suffocate her were she a slighter frame. As it is, she
only allows herself a second of open-mouthed bemusement before holding him back
just as hard, and they're a tight ball of mother and son, reunited, Lois's
heart hammering away against the fabric of her T-shirt. He pulls away as soon
as he realizes who she is, taking a few hurried steps backwards. Her arms hang
forward, limp. For a second it seems as though she was going to try and get him
back, but she doesn't.
She clears her throat. Everyone pretends they weren't looking, surreptitiously
wiping their humid eyes. Even Andrew, with his attempts at pretending he's made
of stone, is wearing an expression Uriah knows enough to say for certain that
it's remembrance. But he turns his attention to Uriah quickly, and to the prize
of this expedition: the body of Asta, the queen's sister, stretched unconscious
in Uriah's arms. Her hair is streaming on the ground, and Uriah can't help but
take a kind of perverse pleasure in that, despite himself. It's covered in mud,
a few stray leaves tangled in the white strands. Some queen indeed.
"She's heavy," he says eventually, when it doesn't look like anyone is going to
stop staring.
Andrew blinks. "Of course. The car isn't parked far. Do you want to..." he
holds his arms out somewhat hesitantly.
"I can do it," Thema says.
Uriah can't say he's sorry to unload her in Thema's arms. So what, it's the
first time he kidnaps a head of state. Sue him if he's a little jumpy. He wipes
his hands on his trousers. "What about the other car? The party?"
Andrew makes a face at Lois. "I'm sorry, you'll have to go back in. They might
notice you're gone, and they'll definitely do a screening. Uriah can't come
back in there because he's human; once they notice Asta's been taken there's no
saying what they'll do to those who were at the party. And besides, it isn't
even certain anyone's seen him while he was in there, he wasn't registered."
Lois's eyes widen with fear. "What about me? Won't they do background checks?"
"They'll do them anyway, and it'll take time to go through everyone. You just
go back: if they realize before the party, they'll probably keep you all for a
while, and let you go as soon as they realize you haven't got her on your
person. A lot of people have seen your face, they'll know anyway, whether or go
back or not. If you do it's a way to delay your implication. I'm sorry. Just –
turn around, okay? I want to see if you've got mud on your clothes."
Lois doesn't budge. "You didn't tell me this. Mother!" he calls, but Thema's
already gone, Asta's body gleaming her gauzy white halo in her arms. "You
didn't tell me – I wasn't – this isn't –"
Andrew kneels, his face naked and serious. If he's still disgusted by Lois's
mere existence, he's doing a good job at hiding it. "I know, I'm sorry. You
know this was done on the fly, but we'll protect you. This is what we do," he
insists, his eyes intense with a strange kind of fire, "we stick up for each
other. We protect each other. Nothing will happen to you, I swear."
For a second Lois looks like he might retort something, snarl an insult, but he
just ducks his head, blinking back tears. "Please," he moans softly.
Andrew's hand raise to his sleeves, but drop back down before actually touching
him. "It's gonna be okay. It's just a few hours, I swear. Nothing will happen
to you."
It takes a little more coddling and promises, and the intervention of Quinn,
whose slight frame emerging from the shadows almost makes Uriah's heart leap
out of his chest, but eventually Lois agrees to go back to the party. They
hoist him over the fence, make him detail the itinerary one more time from the
other side, his face divided in small shadowed diamonds; he disappears
furtively, never once turning back.
"He'll be fine," Uriah says, mostly to himself, but Andrew nods. This doesn't
reassure Uriah as much as frighten him.
Thema drives the car back to them, Asta safely strapped and gagged in the
backseat. "Where's Lois?" she asks through the window as they slide in.
"We had to send him back," Andrew says, looking carefully away from her.
"What? You're kidding, right? Do you realize how dangerous that is? Once they
notice –"
"I know," Andrew snaps, but for some reason Uriah suspects it's more guilt than
real irritation. "It would've been more dangerous to take him with us."
"What? That makes no sense." Uriah bites his lip. She's going to drive them off
the road out ot anger, he can just feel it. Why does he never get to drive that
car? He's the only one in there who's sane most of the time, for crying out
loud. "If he were with us, he would be with us, meaning, not with hundreds of
Mechanics who will be out for someone's head in a matter of hours, posing as
someone he isn't."
"He'll be out of there before the background check, they can't keep everyone
in, the country would collapse. Besides, his ID documents are bulletproof, you
know that."
"Nothing is bulletproof with those people, don't you know that by now? Aren't
you the one always raving about how evil and scheming they are?"
Uriah tunes them out; it looks like they're going to continue on that streak
for a while. He can't help sneaking a glance at Asta, and he notices that Quinn
is looking at her too, with an intensity he only remembers from when he met
her, curled up on her couch, her eyes shining preternaturally out of the
darkness. He recognizes the same abject fear as her gaze roams over Asta's
face, and just from looking at her you wouldn't believe Asta is so peaceful,
her mouth hanging half-open as though she was dreaming (she is not, Uriah
knows. It's his drugs, after all. If anything, she's having very colorful
nightmares).
He touches Quinn's arm lightly. "Hey." She jumps, a long tremor shaking her
body. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," she says in a fervent whisper. "I just want to get out of this car.
I can't – I can't take this. Her."
What did she do to you? Uriah wants to ask; the story Quinn told them is only
the bare bones of her truth, and the rest of it still hidden in a careful haze.
He takes her hands in his, warming them between his palms. "It's fine. She
can't do anything to you anymore."
She nods, but her gaze is distant. "You don't know that. You don't know them.
They always find a way to hurt you."
He doesn't know what to say, so he just laces their fingers together, wraps her
into an embrace. She lets herself be held for a few seconds before squirming
away.
"I'm –," he starts helplessly, "sorry. For everything that happened to you."
She regards him in the darkness, every trace of doubt gone from her face. Her
eyes are back to their powerful blue, her smile pithy and unreadable. She gives
his hands a quick squeeze. "Don't," she says, and he feels as though her gaze
is going right through him and she's looking at something behind him, lost in
the whirring darkness outside the car window, "it's not your fault."
*
Maybe she was right, after all, Uriah thinks as they draw towards them the
heavy blinds of the house, closing it up after it short use: maybe houses do
feel it when they're abandoned, and that's why tonight, at the end of the
summer, there's a heavy wind clanging about the foundations, rattling the
furnitures, drawing out of the sharp glass of the windows a long high-pitched
whine. Then again, maybe it's only Nomi's rage making itself known: Uriah
wouldn't be the first to posit that the Red Queen might be an ancient goddess
underneath her robot garb.
Either way, the house seems haunted from all sides: everything takes
disquieting shapes in the thick velvet night, where not even a shade of blue
comes sweeten the blow of darkness. They can only pack silently and hope that
Lois comes back to them in one piece, but meanwhile life is all waiting;
eventually they're sitting side by side on the couch, not daring to reach over
to hold hands, drop a head on a shoulder. Only Quinn, unbothered as always,
curls her body towards Thema, feeding unashamedly on her warmth. For a while
all there is to do is look at the motionless image of Asta's bedroom on the
monitor, knowing that she is still unconscious and tied up in the car behind
the house. What they've done doesn't seem inconsequential anymore; what was
only a plan to make the world ideal has flipped in the space of one night to a
federal offense punished by death, and the knowledge of it creeps in all their
skins, distilling its patient fear.
"We can't stay here too long," says Andrew eventually, his voice startling in
the silence. "They'll start putting up barages as soon as they realize –"
"You're the one who sent her in there," Thema snaps without looking at him.
"We're waiting until he gets there."
Uriah expects Andrew to argue against it, but he doesn't. Quinn's lank arm
winds itself around Thema's shoulder. It surprises Uriah – they've never liked
each other all that much – but he doesn't say anything.
"Your boy did well," Quinn whispers. "You should be proud."
Thema doesn't answer, nor does she shrug off the embrace. After a while Andrew
gets up and dismantles the computers silently, putting the pieces back in the
cardboard boxes. No one gets up to help him. The house continues howling, as
though it were hoping to convince them not to leave. Once in a while Uriah
catches Quinn tilting her head, eyes closed, and follow the plaintive whining
of the wind. He doesn't comment on it.
It seems like an eternity before they finally hear the tell-tale sound of
gravel being crushed under car tyres, and they shoot up on their feet on the
same instinct, almost pushing each other to get outside. Even Andrew is of the
tussle, though he's back to pretending that he's utterly indifferent to both
Thema and Lois's existence. The car slides on the gravel. A pause; silence
falls back down on them, they're waiting for the door to open, what if –
But the door does open, and Lois's pale face emerges in the frame. He wobbles a
little as his feet touch the gravel, but he rights himself soon enough. His
face is blank, serious; he looks exactly as he had the day before, showing up
on the doorstep of the now-empty house. He tips forward – before anyone else
can move, Quinn's hand closes on his forearm. A short second, like someone
catching their breath, and they surround him, pressing him between their bodies
in a wordless expression of relief. He doesn't move, still frozen, terrified.
His cheeks are damp.
He lets himself be carried into Andrew's house, and he keeps silent during the
trip back to the New York warehouse, wedged between Thema and Uriah. In the
front seat, Quinn keeps her feet up on the headboard, and the car weaves
silently through the traffic, even as the radio pours on them its alarmist
predictions. If you lend an ear, Uriah is persuaded you can hear the Red Queen
yelling in the background. If she only knew... if she only knew that her sister
was in their boot, folded like a vulgar human, her beautiful hair bunched and
soiled. But he can't quite feel as vindictive as he hoped he would. Andrew
isn't exhibiting triumph or vibrant joy either; his eyebrows are furrowed and
businesslike, and since they're recovered both Asta and Lois he mustn't have
said more than three words, all of them to quiz Lois on the state of the
Mansion when he went back in. ("They knew. Nomi was livid," was all they were
able to get out of him, collectively.) Well, Uriah could tease him, if the two
of them hadn't grown worryingly close, aren't you happy? Isn't that what you
wanted?
"We've got to carry this to term," is all he deigns to say as the lights
finally intensify and the Big Apple, though she doesn't really deserve her name
anymore, blinks into sight.
The time it takes to open the warehouse is more silence and a few grunts as
Thema and Andrew remove the planks they'd nailed over the windows so that no
one would get too close. A few locks get unlocked, the light is switched on.
The five of them in the bleak living-room, swathed in lurid yellow light, and
heaped on the sofa Asta's unconscious form. It feels slightly disturbing, and
they soon scatter in separate corners of the room. Quinn helps Thema install
the computers back, and Thema gets to work as soon as they're turned on, making
sure that nothing can be traced back to them – better safe than sorry is
Andrew's motto, they all know that by now, and it feels more than a little
justified now that they're all potential wanted criminals. The weight of it
hangs over them whether they acknowledge it or not, it seems.
"What are you going to do with her?"
It's Quinn, surprisingly. When Uriah looks up she seems entirely unlike
herself, her limbs coiled and her eyes hard. She's fixing Asta's corpse as if
tearing her eyes away might injure her and she's choosing the best of two
evils.
"Like we said," Andrew says coolly. "Use her to lure Nomi here. Shouldn't be
too hard, you've seen how she is with –" he glances meaningfully at the couch,
"her."
"It's dangerous," Thema intervenes. "Have you never seen a crime procedural on
TV? They say they won't talk to the cops, then they talk to the cops, then the
villain gets caught or dies. We're the villains."
"We're not the villains," Andrew retorts. "We're the vigilantes. The masked
justice."
Quinn snorts. "I don't see you in a mask. I think it would break that high and
mighty thing you have."
"She's right," Thema agrees. "What do you think, Uriah?"
"No, she's definitely right. You're not the mask type. Sorry, dude."
Andrew clucks his tongue. "All I'm saying is, it'll be okay. Nomi won't risk
her sister's life. I'll tell her we'll kill Asta if she talks to anyone, and
that's it."
"Wow, wait." Uriah puts one hand up. "We only talked about killing one person,
and it's not her. What's with the change of plans?"
"We're not changing, just adapting. And Nomi will do what I say, so I won't
actually kill Asta. See! It all works out."
Thema chuckles, dry. "So what, wait. Assuming Nomi is actually going to show up
here, alone and unarmed, which seems very doubtful to me, you'll just – what,
kill her? Because that doesn't sound very safe, if you consider the aftermath.
You are aware that she doesn't make up the entire government, right?"
Andrew gives her the I'm not a complete idiot, but you, on the other hand –
look he usually reserves for Uriah. "I know that, don't worry. You think I
haven't had this planned for years? Just because this moron," he nods at Uriah,
"came along and disrupted my plans doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot. I'll ask
her to resign publicly, demote her government, and imprison the most important
Mechanics that could still hurt us. There aren't many human factions that
support Mechanic rule, so that should take care of the rest of the problem:
once the news get out, the regional rulers will easily be controlled and
subdued. If we need to execute a few Mechanics in the process, then so be it;
it's not like she hasn't spilled any human blood. Then, I'll kill her. There –
satisfied?"
Satisfied maybe isn't the word – at least as far as he's concerned, Uriah can
safely say that it's closer to horrified. Thema is the one who actually voices
the feeling.
"You're insane," she says, and there's a creeping, reluctant admiration behind
it.
He focuses his hard eyes on her, unforgiving. "What did you think? That we'd
just slit the baddie's throat, and then everything would be okay? You thought I
was just fulfilling a private revenge here, and that once it was over you could
just collect your cash and your freak son and go back home? This isn't how it
works. You knew that."
"How long have you been waiting for this moment? It is personal. Do you think I
don't see how much you ache to kill her? You're practically gagging for it,"
Thema spits. Attacks on Lois are never going to get the best out of her.
Uriah thinks about creating a diversion to keep them from fighting again, but
to be honest he's feeling a little lightheaded himself. It would be fair to say
that he'd cautiously kept from thinking about the consequences of their
collective actions, but he's starting to think that maybe he should have
thought a little more before saying yes to this madness. What if Nomi actually
comes, what if – will they really kill her? The idea was appealing – free the
world from the tyrant, like something out of a children's book –, the reality
is less so. You won't be the one pulling the trigger, a snide little voice at
the back of his head says. So what? Does it change anything? another one
answers. It changes everything, the snide voice retorts. It does, it's true; it
really does.
"You're right," Quinn says, her voice like ice, breaking up the fight. She's
still looking at Asta. What are they going to do when she wakes up? "We should
kill that one, too. I volunteer."
"Quinn," Andrew says. "We can't kill her, not now. She's useful to her."
"She's a monster. Isn't that what you said?"
"Well, sometimes you've got to bide your time, you know. Sometimes it's better
to wait until you do the right thing."
Quinn laughs at his face, meanly. "Bullshit. It's just a matter of revenge, you
and I both know that. You want to kill the other one more, that's all."
And she disappears out of the room, leaving only behind her a wall of stunned
silence.
*
There's no two ways about it, what they're creating is a makeshift cage. The
neighborhood is full of decaying garbage dumps and the night is busy, red,
burning over the rooftops; no one notices them moving with armfuls of twisted
metal, too busy sticking their noses to their mini-laptops and the news
scrolling down on their watches to care about what a few bums get up to.
There's something reassuring to that anonymity now that they know for sure that
they're wanted criminals, that everyone is out here searching for them. They
must be waiting, Uriah thinks with a pang of misguided guilt. They must be
waiting for someone to contact them and demand a ransom. Nomi is probably out
of her mind.
Back into the house, the cage is progressing. A few twists of metal are
pointing inwards, but Uriah is the one to fix them, Andrew won't go to any
lengths to make Asta's sojourn in their hands the slightest bit more
comfortable. She'll be waking up soon, but she'll be disoriented and even
weaker than she is in her normal state which, even though diminished, is still
that of a Mechanic body. Inside the cage they install a chair; on one of legs
Andrew prematurely snaps a pair of stolen handcuffs. Better safe than sorry,
indeed.
Thema doesn't reappear, and after a while Lois, still pale from the trials of
the night and unable to get any comfort from Quinn, disappears up the stairs as
well. Uriah catches himself hoping that he's going to her, but what do they
have to say to each other, after all? He wonders idly how the father let him
go, why no one has checked on him yet. But it's only been two days. The
realization shakes him, and he hovers back on his heels, rocked.
Quinn swans back into the room a few minutes before Asta is scheduled to wake
up. It's not an exact science – and in fact, no science is exact –, Uriah has
warned Andrew already, but nonetheless, they're waiting, Asta arranged
haphazardly on the chair like a disturbingly lifelike doll.
"I'll watch her," Quinn offers off-handedly, throwing Asta – or the cage, who
knows – a disdainful glance. "I know you want to wait, make Nomi stew in her
juices so that she'll agree to come here alone. I'm not stupid either, you
know. You should sleep."
"No," Andrew says simply, fierce.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "I won't kill her. Do you think I believe one minute that
you wouldn't kill me on the spot if I did it?"
"What makes you think I believe you wouldn't be willing to die? For all that I
know –" he hesitates, doesn't finish the sentence.
Quinn flinches. "You're right." A pause. "You have another pair of those
handcuffs, don't you? Go on, handcuff me to a chair. I'll watch her. I'm too
weak, I can't get out. You have your cameras, and once the drug purges out of
her system, even handcuffed, she'll be stronger than me."
"Why do you want to do this?"
"Why do you care? I have my reasons, you have yours. Let's stick to that,
okay?"
Uriah watches the emotions war on Andrew's face. It's subtle enough that
someone who didn't know him would only see his usual go-to stony expression,
but Uriah can see clearly that Andrew is hesitating between needling Quinn,
telling her that he does care about her story (even though he knows, he must
know, at least part of it), and refusing flat-out.
"Fine. Alright."
On the chair, Asta opens her eyes.
Silence creeps into the empty spaces; in the scope of her tyrant's gaze Quinn
seems to progressively get smaller, her limbs coiling tightly as if she was
ready to jump. When Uriah lays a hand on her elbow, she jumps.
"Are you sure you want to be left here with her?" he asks, cautious. He doesn't
see this ending well, honestly.
"I'm not sleepy," she answers.
After that there's nothing to be gotten out of her; she lets herself be cuffed
to a chair, Andrew prefers not to take chances and it's probably better –
despite what she said Uriah doubts anything could stop her from killing Asta if
she decided to. He knows what trauma does to people, to survivors: there are
the ones it makes stronger and the ones it breaks, but in all of them there's
the same reservoir of darkness, the violent and irrational rage aimed at their
tormentor. It is from situations like that that the newspapers report people
walking on coals, delivering one last bullet with a spear through the stomach –
the sheer strength of the human mind when it's dedicated to hatred.
Andrew camps himself on his feet in front of the cage. "Hello," he says.
Asta gives him a strangely coy smile. "Hello, Andrew. I should've known you'd
come."
The surprise is what makes Uriah turn to Andrew, but his face is fixed in the
same expression, eyes widened, mouth hanging slightly open. Eventually he
catches himself, and his fists harden at his sides. "Don't play games with me."
"I'm not. Didn't your mother talk about me? Or..." she nods at Quinn through
the bars, undisturbed by her murderous gaze, "her?"
"Of course I know who you are," Andrew throws, and she cocks her head,
flattered. "How do you know me?"
"I could say," Asta lays her hands cleanly on her knees, the silver of the
cuffs like an accessory on her wrists, "I could say Nomi and me saw you on TV,
and we know about the criminals in our country, Andrew, we do. We're very
interested in them. If you weren't such an obstinate fanatic, we probably
would've recruited you a long time ago. We like people like you, determined,
ruthless. But that's not how I know."
Andrew is grinding his teeth so hard Uriah is surprised they aren't turning to
dust. "How?"
"Story-time..." she hums, her eyes glinting. "But I don't think your friends
would like to hear what I have to say. Would you like a little tête-à-tête,
then?"
"Andrew," Uriah grabs his arms, jolting him out of his rage-induced trance,
"she's messing with you. You can see that as well as I. We'll question her
tomorrow, when our heads are in order."
"Yes," Asta pipes up from her cage, reclining her head against the metal,
"maybe that's a better idea. Keep the truth hidden as long as you can, right?
It's all going to come out sooner or later."
For once, Andrew actually listens; he takes the keys from Quinn, tells her
again that she better not kill the hostage, and disappears up the stairs. Uriah
sighs.
"You're gonna be okay?" he asks Quinn, who doesn't answer, locked in a staring
competition with Asta. Uriah still can't really look at her: standing in the
living-room of a hidden warehouse with the Red Queen's twin sister is still a
little too surreal for his taste.
The night is short and full of nightmares. At least this house doesn't howl
with the wind like the other one, but the presence of a more than one murderer
in the house, one of them separated from them only by a thin surface of metal,
is enough to disturb the soundest sleeper, which none of them are. Screams,
never reclaimed by their owner, pierce the pale darkness; the radio is left on
and provides an alternatively anxious and angry background hum.
It's six when Uriah wakes up but he feels like he went to sleep five minutes
ago. His back is aching and his eyelids feel paper-thin, pierced by the sick
morning hues the skies are taking outside, a worrying mixture of plum and
swirling pink. Despite being still blanketed in silence, the house feels
agitated, like someone is mumbling too low for everyone to hear, worrying
prophecies about the future nobody can quite understand. Uriah splashes his
face with water to clear his head; it doesn't do much good, and he considers
himself in the bathroom mirror, dripping, his eyes circled with purple. God.
Maybe he should've remained a low-level drug dealer, it was definitely better
for his health.
He passes by Andrew's room in his way to the staircase. The door is slightly
ajar, and he can't help but pushing it open a little. Andrew would want to be
waken up, he thinks to justify his curiosity, even though it is probably true.
The room... is really what could have expected from Andrew. They've only been
here for a night, but where Uriah's floor is strewn with clothes discarded in a
tired haze, a half-empty pack of cigarettes and his laptop still open on the
bedside, Andrew's space is clean, spartan and ruthlessly elegant. He's taken
the room with the Northern window, and it's open, the chilly wind streaming in
and ruffling the pages of one of the notebooks, open at the middle on Andrew's
bedside table. The clothes are folded, the shoes parallel, and Andrew himself
sleeps like he's faking it, his arms straight along his body. Does he never
relax? Uriah feels a pang of pity Andrew would probably kill him for.
He reaches a hand, taps Andrew's shoulder. "Hey, An –"
And that's a gun. Pointing at his forehead. Great.
The surprise passed, when his heart stops hammering, he pouts. "I really
thought we'd moved past that."
Andrew blinks; eventually he lowers the gun, though not without some
reluctance. "Don't surprise me like that," he says, gruff.
"Believe me, now I won't. Do you seriously keep a gun under your pillow? Are
you actively trying to be every murderer cliché on this side of the
hemisphere?"
Andrew glares. "I'm trying not to get killed."
"Eh, that works too."
"Now get the hell out and let me get dressed."
"Ay, captain!"
Predictably, Andrew takes about twenty seconds to get dressed, shaved and ready
for his share of the day's interrogations, blackmail schemes and other
festivities. But it's not like Uriah is going to say that he spent half an hour
sitting on his mattress chain-smoking to get the courage to actually get out of
his room. No one needs to know.
Thema is already in the kitchen when they get down, staring down her bowl of
cereal like it's personally offended her. "We need to do grocery shopping," she
says as soon as she sees them. "The cereal is stale, and it's pretty much the
only thing we've got to eat."
"Good idea," Andrew snarks vindictively, "let's all go outside now that we're
wanted criminals, why not. It's not like we have things to do more important
than grocery shopping."
Thema shrugs, unruffled. "It's fine by me if you want to starve to death before
completing your genius plan. Though I might remind you that there's one robot
in this house, and it isn't you."
"There's –" Uriah can feel the dig about Lois coming as though he was the one
making prophecies, so he decides to intervene.
"Not that morning mutual massacre between friends isn't fun, but we do have to
take care of the – you know –, before Quinn does actually kill her."
It does the job of focusing the two of them, and Uriah grabs the cereal pack
before following them to the living-room, where Quinn is... asleep on her
chair.
"Well," Uriah says, since his job now is apparently to cut the tension, "at
least she's not lying in a pool of blood." He nods at Asta, who's looking at
them with an amused smile on her face. "And she's still here."
"Wouldn't want to miss the show," Asta quips. "I'd forgotten how fun your
little friend was. Such a shame she left us so early. Thank you for letting her
entertain me." Quinn shivers in her sleep.
Andrew ignores Asta with much more poise than the night before; he turns to
Thema, all conflict forgotten. "Okay," he says, and if Uriah didn't know
better, he would think he was nervous, "let's do it."
They gather around the phone; even Asta keeps silent as it rings, slowly, the
shrill sound echoing in the room. At the fifth ring, Nomi's voice – "Yes."
Andrew inhales silently. "We have your sister," he says calmly. "Be warned, if
you try to contact the police, the Militia, or send anyone after her, we will
know, and we will kill them and your sister. You are to present yourself at a
location determined by our choice, where we will exchange your sister for
yourself. We will not accept money, or bribery. We will leave you time to think
about it, and call again in one hour to get your answer and give you the
location. If anyone else is on the call, we will kill your sister. If you try
to trace this number, we will kill your sister." He hangs up.
"Well," says Asta's musical voice after a stretch of silence, "how you changed
since you were a little boy."
Andrew ignores her. "The call can't be traced, you're sure about that?"
Thema nods. "I've rerouted it through about thirteen Asian countries, there
isn't going to be any problems on that front. Their experts don't know half of
what I do on that front," she assures. He knows it to be true: street science
has evolved in a way Mechanic science hasn't those last few years, and though
they've tried to recruit the best hackers, most of them are fiercely loyal to
the human cause and are now working for the new Resistance.
Quinn spasms on the chair. The back of her head hits the wood, and she gives an
anguished cry, like a name cut short. "Where –" she chokes on her own breath,
her eyes wide.
Uriah rushes to her side. He collects her into his arms and she crumples like
paper. You wouldn't believe she's got almost ten years on him like this, her
forehead butting against his chest, her breathing ragged and harsh. Her head
snaps up. "What happened? What –"
"You fell asleep. It's fine."
"What about – is she still here?"
"Yes," Uriah assures her, trying to sound soothing. "We're fine. Everything's
fine."
Quinn struggles out of his arms. "Everything won't be fine," she spits, "as
long as that – swine is still breathing."
Asta gives her a thin, cool smile, her arms still crossed over her chest. "You
know," she says wonderingly, "I think technically your species are the one
connected more closely with pigs. In fact, you should have heard Jackson
scream, I assure you it sounded distressingly like –"
Quinn lunges forward, her hands grappling at the mixed metal. Asta's eyes turn
to stone. "Contain your enthusiasm, darling. I understand this is an emotional
reunion, but –"
Uriah closes his arms around Quinn's waist. She lets him, but even as she turns
into his grip, loosening into an embrace, she beats his chest with her fists,
her face red and streaked with tears. The nail polish is now only a thin streak
on the border of her nails, more pink than orange. Her shoulders slump, wracked
with sigh-like sobs.
Asta turns her snake eyes towards Andrew. "Youths these days," she curls her
lip. "You say the slightest thing and they fall apart. What do you think,
Andrew, dear? I'm sure you've got more reserve than that. But – oh, I forget.
We haven't finished our conversation of yesterday night, have we? Silly me."
Despite themselves, they're all listening to her. Uriah could try to stop her,
but he knows, like everyone, that secrets neevr stay hidden for long when
they're at that stage, the lid of the Pandora's box already half disengaged,
hanging in the air, taunting and tantalizing. She enjoys it; the sight of them
hanging at her every word has her eyes gleaming. She points her chin. What a
shame, so much beauty wasted on a person like that.
"So I was right, he didn't tell you? Oh, this is fun. You really should know
better than to keep anything from your friends, Andrew darling; you know what
it did to your grandfather." She rakes her gaze over them, appraising. Andrew's
fingers curl around the knife Uriah knows for a fact he keeps in the inseam of
his jacket. He prepares to jump, even with Quinn still gathered against his
chest. She's holding her breath, her heart hammering at half a beat tempo with
his.
"Guilt," says Asta, licking her lips. She gets up on her feet; upright, she
looks like a saint, like she towers over them all, "is the most powerful
motivator. Andrew... what is it you call yourself? Reyes. Clever, if a little
arrogant, don't you think?" She snaps her fingers; the smirk at the corner of
her lips becomes downright malicious. "Let me see if I can find the real one.
Andrew, Andrew... Dedalus, was it?"
Her cool laughter blooms like a bloodstain in the silence.
*
"They're bluffing. They can't kill her."
No one dares contradict her. It's always been Asta's job – in the half-darkness
of their room she invariably is the one to bring Nomi back to reason when her
rage or her recklessness loses her. Her ministers are feckless, puppets, and
they're standing around her now like a tribunal, preemptively eructing Asta's
sentence with their empty eyes.
"Answer me!" she yells; the red hair flies around her like a whip.
The Chief of a Secret Service, a starch, severe man, clicks his heels at her.
"We've got to consider every possibility, Ma'am President. For all we know,
they've already," Nomi glares; he swallows, "and we all know you can't go to
that meeting. When they call back, tell them that you'll go, and we'll send a
squadron."
"They'll have prepared for that," she says irritatingly. "Am I the only with a
brain in this room? They've obviously prepared for something like that. They'll
probably have the place rigged with explosives. They managed to take Asta
without any of you people knowing about it, for Christ's sake!"
"You can't put your reign in jeopardy now, Madam President. The public doesn't
know Asta, they won't care if she dies. We'll hold a beautiful funeral."
It's the wrong thing to say, they all know it: silence blankets the room, and
Nomi turns to her victim, her eyes like fire. "A funeral?" she asks, worryingly
calm. "You want to hold a funeral with my sister?" Her voice drops, and she
hisses, "I could have you killed you with a word, Chief. I could snap my
fingers and have you tortured and shot, right here, right now, and no one here
would say a word in your defense. You'll leave this room right now and focus
the entirety of your forces on finding my sister. Am I making myself clear?"
The Chief nods, gulping. "Yes. Yes, Madam President," he amends quickly.
She turns to the assembly of generals and security officers. "The next one of
you that offers to give my sister up," she says icily, "I will have personally
executed. Find her."
A few of the generals stream out the door, ready to follow her instructions; as
soon as they're out of the door, Nomi sits at the table. Her head feels like a
gong. How could Asa have been taken, of all things, of all people? "Where is
this man we sent, what's his name, Hector? Tell me you've got news."
Behind the dark back of their computers, two FBI agents duck their heads. Nomi
shoots up like an arrow. "What happened?"
They turn the screen, slowly, until she can see: Hector, who she'd personally
picked to retrieve Asta without too much fuss, lying face-up. Nomi counts
without really meaning to: twelve bullets, and the telltale open skull. She's
never met him, but the photo of Andrew Dedalus on the desk, grinning up at her
unrepentantly, seems to be whispering, you can never be too sure, with them.
She yells. Her scream pierces the wooden table, her lungs, the ceiling – it
goes up and up, purifying until it's only a long ringing sound, a bell, a
stretch of silk. They don't call her the Red Queen for nothing. She's not a
human and she's not a Mechanic – she's more than all of them, an iron fist in a
body of steel, a god. When she looks down at them again they see her
transmogrified, elevated by preemptive grief and seething anger to something
they dare not think about too long, for fear of burning their eyes blind.
"Find her."
*
Are you scared, sister? Did you not have many a dream like this, where they
realized that the oppression was only in their mind, and that they could rebel,
and win? Are you afraid, sister?
And are you in mourning, sister? You know you cannot give up your crown, I
wouldn't love you without a crown, no one would love you without your crown
except life, who would cling to your body until the end of time. Don't we know
better, you and me – don't we know that death is only the other side of the
same coin, only another dive into the unknown? Haven't we always been like
this, sister – haven't we always been unafraid?
Are you scared, sister? Did you not tell many times of a day like this, a day
that would come where you could not run, and would be left behind, and I would
only be your little love from afar, and your head would bleed even though you
have never worn that crown? Are you afraid, sister?
*
Asta isn't talking. As the hours pass she closes down on herself more and more,
and if they didn't know better they would think she's afraid. She's even given
up on taunting Quinn, and it was her favorite game, now that she's given up
Andrew's secret.
They don't talk about that.
"So you –" Thema started after they got over their surprise, turning an
accusing eye on him.
His lips thinned. "We can talk about that when all this is over."
She agreed, and so they will. Still, Uriah can't help thinking about it. It
seems obvious, now, of course – Andrew, the mysterious Andrew, who refuses to
talk about his past or his family. Doesn't it make sense that he be the
grandson of the very man who created the creatures he wants so hard to
annihilate? It mustn't be easy, wearing a name like that, the name of the man
from whose hubris all their misfortunes originated. Now when Uriah looks at him
he can almost see the guilt rotting inside him, turning his insides black. How
much does it hurt, to have to turn away every time you see one of them, because
they wear your name on their skin, where everyone can see? Of course he hates
them all.
He doesn't know how to feel about it, honestly. Pity at his destiny?
Disappointment at being betrayed? Anger that he didn't tell? It just seems so
inconsequential, now that Asta is there in a cage three feet from him, now that
there's an assassin lying dead on the living-room floor with twelve cases of
steel in his stomach and one ensconced squarely between his eyes. The parquet
will probably never recover.
The others look about as stunned as him. Lois has finally woken up and joined
them; Quinn had to herd him out of the living-room to keep him from seeing the
body, and though Thema sprang forward, a deep line barring her forehead, she
didn't follow. She doesn't seem all that upset about the news of Andrew's
ancestry, and Quinn said quickly that she knew, entirely unapologetic. It seems
fitting, somehow, and Uriah can't help but be remembered of one of the first
impressions he had, as they left Captiva, that the two of them were much more
similar than appeared at first glance.
Their reaction doesn't matter much, anyway. All there is to do now is wait
until the hour is passed, and then the world will change forever: Uriah is
slowly making his peace with that. He sits on the floor, next to the corpse,
careful not to dip the tip of his shoes in the pool of blood that's stopped
expanding and is slowly coagulating. It's the last of the summer heat; in a few
weeks it'll be autumn rain again, the light sprinkle that rings the return of
the school year. It feels a universe away from them, somehow.
Thema resists a little longer, standing vigilante with her fists closed over
her guns, ready to jump at any leap for freedom Asta tries to make. Eventually,
though, even she realizes that Asta doesn't intend on moving, and she sits next
to them, shoving Andrew a little with her shoe to get him to move over. It's a
minute before Uriah realizes that they're sitting in a demi-circle around the
corpse, as though it was their dinner. He thinks about laughing, or remarking
on it, but in the end he feels more like throwing up. He doesn't say anything.
The hour ticks away slowly. Asta turns her face towards the wall so they can't
see her anguish. Andrew gives up, his shoulders slumping heavily. "My mother
asked me, before she died," he says.
"What?"
"She asked me to take over. She was the one... before me, she was the one who
tried to kill Nomi. All her life. She built the mission, she prepared
everything, and every time she failed. It ruined her health, and my childhood.
I – we were living with my grandmother at the time, and eventually my
grandmother died. My mother had to take care of me, but I could see she was
only waiting to go back to it. When she was on a stake-out near the Mansion she
found Quinn on the ground, almost dead, and she helped her. Quinn... she'll
tell you. Something happened to her on Captiva, but she was always faithful to
my mother. And then she fell ill, and she asked me, before she died, to help me
clean her name. What could I say? So I devoted my life to it. That's all.
There's nothing more to it."
Thema gives a soft laugh. "It's a lot. I just can't believe..."
"I know. That's why I knew where the notebooks were, that was my grandfather's
laboratory." His eyes take on a distant look; Uriah can feel that he's not
exactly talking to them anymore. "You know, I wonder too, how someone would do
something like that. I mean, with a brain like that, you could do anything, and
then... why?"
Thema leans forward. She looks exhausted; Uriah stuffs his hands under his
thighs to resist the urge to run his hands over her cheeks, kiss her tired
eyelids. "I guess it gets lonely, being a genius. Maybe he just wanted someone
he could talk with."
Andrew gives her a reprobative look. "You know as well as me how it happened.
He was commissioned –"
"History is relative," Thema says gently. "There are a thousand threads, and we
only pick the ones we like, the ones we deem 'believable'. Your grandfather
isn't only what the history books say he was. History is written by the
winners. You'll get your turn someday."
Uriah is about to say something in agreement with her, when Asta's voice rises
behind them. "It's time," she says.
And when they turn to the big metal clock fixed to the wall, it is. They
unfold, suddenly nervous and self-conscious. The phone is prepared, and Asta
doesn't blink once as they call Nomi and specify the place of the meet – not
far from there, but far and empty enough to notice if Nomi has disobeyed and
alerted the police or brought a team with her. Thema's resorted to Irina's
expert help once again to procure explosives, and has her sworn to secrecy when
it comes to the Resistance ("It's okay, I don't like them that much anyway,
I've always though they were a little stuck-up. And don't get me started on
that Rick Cho."); the place is wired, and at the slightest sign of trouble
there'll be someone to press the trigger. They can't ignore, of course, that
one of them might get caught in the bonfire, but it's the final hour and
they're decided, more united than they've ever been before. On the other end of
the phone, Nomi listens without saying anything; she only breathes quietly,
humming to signify her agreement once every so often. Her sister's eyes are
fixed on the phone, she's craning her neck, as though she were wishing she
would disolve so she could slide through the handset and join her Red Queen
again.
Andrew hangs up. He breathes out, solemn. From the cage, Asta makes a keening
noise, maybe a laugh and maybe a sob.
*
"You have to make a decision, Madam President."
Now she wishes she could be stripped of all her made-up titles, if only someone
would give her her sister back; she would happily give up her crown, her throne
and her kingdom, her castle, which isn't exactly a castle –
"Madam President."
If only she could keep them from talking, will them all into nonexistence, and
for a second have Asta back by her side, breathing the same air, skin touching
skin; she wouldn't need anything more, love would be the food of all foods.
Maybe there is her mistake, wanting too much, like her creator – maybe his
hubris poured into her when he made blood run through her veins, and now –
"Prepare your team." Her voice isn't hers; it belongs to another entity
entirely, who killed Stephen Dedalus and the people of Florida and Asta's
little servant, and all the others. "We can't take any chances: find where
they're hiding. I want the new helicopters, and for the bombs, nothing too
heavy. I don't want you blowing up half of New York – I expect they're still in
New York, they couldn't have moved very far since yesterday – by mistake."
"Yes, Madam President."
She feels the salute more than she sees it. She doesn't return it; her limbs
feel heavy, made of stone. Isn't she? She's read the Bible, like all those
other books – if it is, indeed, that one that tells the best truth, isn't she
fated to return to dust? One minute or a hundred years from now, what
difference does it make, in the end?
She lowers her head. If she survives this, she'll have lost half her fire. Kill
a beloved sister. But the sister would want it – nothing runs in Asta's blood
more than power, even love for her own sister. It's a kindness. It's an honor,
it's the good, the noble thing to do. There have been difficult decisions
before. No – Nomi's heart feels like it's being torn apart. Hasn't be been
built to be stronger than the humans – oughtn't she have a stronger heart, too?
Of course it would be now that she finds all the faults in her own design.
"I'll give you the signal when I'm ready. Now leave."
They comply. When they close the door it's like all the air has vacated the
room with them: Nomi collapses on the floor, weaker than any human has ever
been, and cries to the last of her synthetic tears.
*
"She's not here."
Andrew clicks his tongue irritatedly. "I can see that. Please, do narrate
everything that happens, even though we all have functioning eyes."
Uriah ignores him. They're all nervous, it's ten minutes since the time they
signified for the meet, and Nomi isn't here. Lois has insisted to tag along, so
there they all are, Quinn hovering over the edges of their little group, Thema
camped firmly on her feet, strapped with her usual weaponry, Andrew heading the
parade, his hand curled so hard around Asta's arm it's leaving white marks.
Uriah is hanging back with Lois, throwing anxious looks around them. It's a
good thing they've got explosives, but he'd rather the day not end with all of
them reduced to marshmallow crisp.
"She's not coming."
"She could still be coming," Quinn says senerely.
"She's not. We're – fuck –" Though he doesn't loosen his grasp, Asta looks
pleased. She smiles thinly, tilting her head slightly.
"Well," says Thema, "what do we do now?"
"Game over," Asta pipes up. "How sad for you, that your little trap didn't
work."
Andrew throws her a venomous look. "There's still one possibility."
"What?"
Andrew nods coldly at his prisoner. "We could kill her. This is guaranteed to
get her attention, and it's not like she doesn't deserve. If you're all too
squeamish to do it, I will. Or Quinn, why not?"
They're about to protest, try to bring him back to reason, when a voice rises
from behind them, calm and composed and impossible not to recognize.
"There's no need to go to such lengths, Mister Dedalus," it says coolly. "I'm
here."
They turn like one man. The figure, tall, is wearing a silken hood; but they
know what face is hiding behind it well before pale hands pushes it back and
reveal the scarlet mane of Nomi Brulée, the Red Queen.
***** Chapter 12 *****
10.
"Well, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"
Andrew snaps out of his trance. He takes a step towards her but, as though
repelled by an invisible wall, stills. "You," he spits, his jaw tight.
Nomi gives him a cold, teeth-filled smile. "How perceptive. I've got to say, I
hoped a little more from you, seeing how our families have always been..." her
eyes glint, mean, "close."
He ignores her words, though Uriah honestly wouldn't be surprised if he ended
up with bruises. He can almost feel, palpable in the frozen air, the way they
hurt.
It's a few moments before Andrew regains his footing; against his side, Asta is
leaning forward, maybe without even realizing it, straining towards her sister
as though they were the two sides of a same magnet. Andrew clears his throat,
and Nomi's eyes snap back to him, harden.
"How do I know you don't have your people with you, hidden..." he makes a large
motion, encompassing the whole of the park where they're standing, "ready to
take us out?"
"You don't. But if I had someone would already be dead, don't you think?" She
sways on her feet, reaches a hand to touch the outstretched petals of a red
flower in a nearby shrubbery. "It seems you and I cannot live in the same
world, as hard as we try." Suddenly she spots Quinn and her face lits up, she
laughs, loud and unabashed. "Is this -" she turns towards Asta, points, "is
this your girl, sister? Well." She strides forward; everyone recoils on
instinct, except for Quinn and Andrew. Nomi takes Quinn's face between her
fingers, pressing hard as though she were inspecting a slave. "We've gone to a
lot of trouble for you, haven't we, sister? You made me very angry once, people
paid for that." She sees something on Quinn's face, laughs again. "Oh, you saw,
didn't you? It's only fair, I suppose. There weren't enough coffins to bury
them all, sadly. No wonder you're here now... bad seeds only ever grow rotten
flowers, it seems."
Quinn finally struggles out of her grip, holding her jaw. She's glaring
daggers, but she doesn't say anything. Nomi keeps looking at her, amused, until
she turns back to Andrew. "But I'm forgetting myself. We have business, you and
I, Mechanic Killer – don't we?"
He nods, as though he doesn't trust himself enough to talk. Nomi sees it, and
smirks. "A ridiculous name, if I say so myself. But I don't control public
opinion, as much as you want to besmirch my good name in all the ways possible,
I'm sure. Why don't you lead the way? You have a camera, I trust?"
Andrew doesn't move. "You're really going to do it?" he asks, his skepticism
clear.
They're all hanging onto her lips – history is bound to repeat, isn't it? But
they're not a crowd of glittering slaves, they're not her kind, her brothers
and sisters, as she'd put it then, as her sister was being laid down and
drugged, carried on her kidnapper's shoulder; they're a family of harried
travelers, instead, they're wild dogs and this here might not look like it but
it's a fight to the death, because it can't anything else. They're tired,
hopeful, righteous, and yet there they are – hanging to her every word, the
sister and the fighter and the avenger, the mad girl, the tag-along, all of
them. You're really going to do it? She enjoys it, it's obvious.
"Yes," she says finally, and as she says it she seems to realize – there's no
cameras she's alone in a dusty park with the cold summer sun beating down on
her, and what she's saying is – "you have my sister. You won. What do you need
more? Do you want me to kneel?"
He would. He would ask her that, but he doesn't, his mouth is a tight line and
he says, "Okay. Let's go."
"You believe her?" Thema cries out. "It's obviously a trap. You can't trust
her, you know you can't."
"You heard what she said. If she had her people with her we would be dead
already."
She crowds closer to him. "They probably realized we had explosives; the minute
we step out of range they'll on us. We should do this now."
"We don't have anything. All the documents are back at the warehouse, and the
cameras, you know that as well as me."
"I still think broadcasting this is crazy. You don't know, someone might
recognize where we are and in three seconds we have three SWAT teams
surrounding the house."
"Thema. We have the two most powerful people in the entire country. We're
literally holding knives to their throats. I don't see what they can do."
She crosses her arms on her chest, stubborn. "Aren't you the one who's always
saying better safe than sorry?"
He rolls his eyes. "There's 'safe', and then there's paranoid. Let it go. We're
wasting time, which, by the way, is infinitely more dangerous than anything
else." He sighs when he sees that she's still not convinced. "We need to
broadcast this. Signing papers doesn't mean anything, you know that well as me.
Not to mention that when Nomi – they'll say we've tortured her and that makes
the documents null and void. We need everyone to see this. Trust me. Do you
trust me?"
Uriah can't help but look at her then, worried – why would she trust him? He
insulted her and her child, he ignored almost every single piece of advice she
gave, he lied to her – to them – about pretty much everything, but – "I trust
you," she says; Uriah's only half-convinced that she's trying to convince
herself.
"Let's go."
He makes a short motion, and Uriah and Thema move like one man; Thema's gun
presses into the small of Nomi's back, and she nudges it a little to get her to
walk. Nomi smirks. "You trained them well."
They ignore her. Lois slips from Quinn's side and sidles with Thema wordlessly.
Nomi gives him a curious look.
"You're robbing the cradle, I see," she mocks. Then she spots his mark, "Oh,
what do we have here? Is he – is that a mark? Where did you get him?" She
cranes her neck, probably trying to determine if Uriah or Thema are Mechanics
too. "Is he from the new generation? No, he can't – wait. Is he a hybrid? Oh,
that's fascinating."
Andrew turns around; the nose of his gun finds his place at the center of
Nomi's forehead. "Shut up," he says, his face closed and stern.
Nomi laughs. "Aren't you adorable. But okay, I won't talk."
She keeps to her word; for the rest of the way back to the warehouse she
doesn't talk. They take winding roads they're cleared beforehand, and make Nomi
draw her hood back up. She's still noticeable, a face everyone knows, but with
her hair bundled at the back of her neck she's just another woman with
unusually sharp features, who gives this unshakeable feeling that she might be
a stranger. Her and Asta exchange looks that seem to hold their own private
meaning.
The rest of the party keeps silent too, not because there isn't anything to say
but rather because too much, and they're afraid they'll let something spill out
– because they're anxious and afraid, taut like bow strings. If they come too
close, Uriah is half-convinced the wind will tear a musical whine out of them,
the high-pitched complaint of doubt. Lois walks close to his mother's leg. From
time to time she looks down at him with covert awe, and when she looks back up
at the back of Nomi's neck a smile hovers over her lips for a few seconds,
faint, before fading.
*
Nomi rubs her hands together. They'll cuff her, later, if they think about it.
She could kill them all without blinking.
"Right," she says, a smile still quirking her mouth, though Uriah suspects it's
more for show than anything else, "how do you want to do this?"
"I don't want anyone to question our impartiality," Andrew says without looking
at her. She laughs, but he ignores her. "I know someone at NBC, they should be
here soon. They'll document our whole encounter."
Nomi nods. "What about Asta? Are you going to let her go?"
"No. She's our leverage. Once we release her, we have no idea what you'll do;
for all we know, all your snipers are waiting for is a sign from you. Belive
me," he says, and suddenly his rage is not hidden, is blooming on his lips,
immense and terrible, "one of us will die today, and it won't be me."
"Is that right? You're going to – what, shoot me? No, that's not your preferred
MO, is it – you're going to gore me like you did all those innocent people in
front of a camera? Maybe you are braver than I thought, Andrew Dedalus. Or more
stupid, I can't tell; your grandfather gave up, easily, you know, when I
started –"
"Don't talk about him."
"What, are you going to blush? You're ashamed, Andrew? Yes, you have a lot to
be ashamed of. Your grandfather saved this country without even knowing it, you
know. He was a proud man, a detestable man, but he made me and my sister and we
saved your pitiful little world," she spits. "You should be grateful."
"I have nothing to be grateful for. What my grandfather did was horrible, and
I'm here to clean it up, to wipe you and your species off the earth, back to
where you belong."
"You do look like him," Nomi sings. "You have his eyes."
He leaps; his hands find her throat like it's all they'd been searching for
since he was born, and he starts squeezing, his face red. "You're a monster,"
he snarls, "you're a monster, you're a monster –"
It takes Quinn, Uriah and Thema to pry him off her. Lois is curled up on the
couch, and Uriah feels a momentary pang of pity for him, that he has to be
caught up in all this madness. Asta screams. Uriah leaves Andrew to Thema and
Quinn to stop her, press a hand over her mouth. She bites him, hard; he jumps
back. Even with blood in her mouth, she looks collected and cool, wiser than
her sister. She sits back demurely when she sees Nomi isn't injured, pressing a
thumb to the corner of her mouth.
She smiles her twisted smile up at Uriah. "You taste good," she says, licking a
smear of blood on the tip of her thumb. Bile rises in Uriah's gut, sour.
Nomi massages her neck with a small grimace. "You do have a strong grip, I'll
give you that;" but they ignore her, too busy pulling Andrew in a corner. His
shoulders are heaving, his face down. Is he crying? He can't be. He's – "You
know what she's done," he whispers fiercely, "and she doesn't regret anything,
not one thing. She deserves to die." He spits on the ground. "She deserves to
die ten times over, she –"
Thema shakes him roughly. "For Christ's sake, get a hold of yourself. You know
we can't kill her now. And what was that about doing it on TV?"
With perfect timing, someone knocks at the door. They all jump; all but Nomi,
who is bowled over in her chair, Quinn standing behind her like a guard. When
Uriah looks at her, her face is impassible but her hands are twitching, like
she wants to try too, squeeze the life out of the Red Queen. Nomi's knee is
touching her sister's and they're smiling; it's a worrying sight.
"Who is it?" Thema asks, a wrinkle barring her forehead.
"I told you. I know someone at NBC. They're coming here to cover the story."
"You're sure they're not going to betray us?"
He shrugs. "As sure as you can be of anyone."
Thema slaps him; the sound is crisp and surprising. A deadly silence falls on
the room. Thema bites her lip, but when she talks she's unapologetic. "This
isn't the time to be stubborn, Andrew. Okay," she rakes a hand through her
hair, "okay, we have to let him in. Uriah, you can take over with Nomi. I'll
look over him."
Uriah gives her a grateful look, and the thought blares through his mind like
lightning, I could kiss her. He could, couldn't he? But – he blinks. Not now.
"Quinn, can you –"
She nods. Lois has repossessed the notebooks and is bent over them stubbornly,
as though trying to block everything around him. If only they could alert
someone, his father, ask him to collect him now... There will be more death.
There is always death in moments like this. They've gotten rid of Nomi's
assassin, the corpse between the sink and the kitchen table, stocked there like
provisions. They're all working on empty stomachs and a thrumming sense of
dread. Uriah wishes he could say he was still convinced that what they're doing
is for the best, but the truth is he's running on automatic, a loose sense of
loyalty tying his movements together. He promised, didn't he? He said he was
in? He is.
Quinn opens the door. A mousy and profusely sweating man, dressed in plaid with
a camera hauled on his shoulders, stares fixedly at her. "Are you –" He blinks.
Quinn considers him peacefully. "Come in," she says.
He follows her into the house. In the prophetic silence his steps resound
vividly, like a gong. Uriah can see from the green blinking light on the side
of the camera that it's a turned on, and he tries to imagine what is sees: a
strange gathering in nondescript living-room (they've barricaded the windows
and covered the furniture with sheets to make it impossible to locate), a
strong-faced man, his mouth wracked with anger, and a woman holding him back,
strong, determined; a child on the couch, reading diligently; a blond, tall
woman slumped forward, and her companion, a young man standing in the middle of
the room, looking as though he's wondering how he ended up here; and the Red
Queen and her sister, cuffed and entranced in each other. The journalist
exhales a breath.
"I'm Carlos, huh," he holds out his hand and Uriah shakes it absently, looking
somewhere beyond him, "um, Carlos Molina. I guess –"
Quinn holds a finger to her mouth. Carlos nods frantically.
Uriah clears his throat. "Nomi Brûlée, are you willing to resign, in light of
all the crimes you committed against this country and its inhabitants?"
Nomi smiles, looking right at the camera. "I am."
The printer has been working overtime, a slow buzzing in the background. Uriah
grabs them without looking. The paper is hot in his hands. He looks down at
them, trying to read. The legal parlance is giving him a headache. Thema takes
them from him, sorts them out quickly. The silence is made of lead.
"Here," Thema gives him the documents. He passes them over to Nomi. "If you'll
sign –"
She's given a pen, and she signs. There's nothing but the rustle of paper, the
squeak of the pen on the glossy documents. Nomi doesn't talk. Their breathing
is loud, harried; Uriah feels like his pounding heartbeat might be contagious.
He tries to tamper it down, without success.
Nomi looks up at him. He can't read into her eyes: she's resigned, and
beautiful, her pupils deep and devoid of color. If he tipped forward he could
drown into her, because in that minute she encompasses everything in the world.
It's absurdly easy, and frightening, to understand why people could believe
her: she really is magnetic, and the way she wears a crown is the way of people
who knows they deserve it. Behind her Asta's mouth is tight, angry. She doesn't
want to be saved, Uriah realizes. It's another kind of selflessness, this: she
would give her life so that her sister could be queen and have all the power
they conquered together.
He hands Nomi the last sheet of paper, wordlessly. Her fingers close on its
edge: "If you'll sign here," he says again – right where it says, I, Nomi
Brûlée, consent –
and she signs.
*
There is a child, in a Pennsylvanian household, who stumbled over the chew toys
left out for the dogs in the living-room. The man on the TV is talking fast –
the mother, a housewife with stringy hair, yells. Soon the family gathers
around the post, and all over the country people imitate them, without knowing,
crowding around TVs, radios, laptops, tablets, with wide eyes and gaping
mouths.
In the deserted Mansion the generals throw their hands up, cursing their
rebellious leader. Lists are drawn, or potential new candidates for the
presidency; journalists are crowding at the gates – will a press conference be
held? Is there going to be an election? How is the new leader to be chosen?
What about the Resistance that has started acting up in the last few months,
what about them? Do the officials have anything to say, anything at all? People
are being bribed, airplanes are filled to capacity, word of a revolution is
being whispered everywhere you can turn; and on all the screens that same
image, a strange and empty room, and the camera focused only on Nomi and a man
unknown to the public, young, dressed casually. Hypothesis about his name fly.
There were other people in the room when they started filming, someone says –
as soon as the word is out it's a chase for who will dig up the footage first,
and then hundreds of experts scrubbing the images, trying to guess who is who,
the child, the man in the back, and is that – but yes, it's Asta, the queen's
sister –
They run. Everyone runs, but in that room they don't. They talk in low tones,
and even though there's no wind, Nomi's hair sways about her hips, like a
clock. Tik – tok, it counts down. Tik. Tok.
*
"You'll let my sister go first. Once she's out of the building, I'll leave. All
the officials I put in place will be appropriately demoted, and you won't be
persecuted for your abduction of my sister."
"What will you do?"
Asta, still frowning, bends over to Lois. He looks at her with wide eyes, but
doesn't reject her when she starts talking to him. Uriah wonders if they have
some kind of understanding, if something in their wiring makes them able to
understand each other in a way Uriah can't imagine. He thinks about telling
Thema, so she can pull Asta back as she'd probably want to, but Nomi starts
talking again. The thought flies out of his head. Carlos Molina has been
instructed to take a few steps back and shut off his microphone, now that the
crucial part of the announcement is over. Maybe, Uriah thinks without real
intent, the world outside of them is entirely filled with static, with
expectant silence –
"I don't know," Nomi says, shrugging. "There are a lot of places we haven't
visited, aren't there, Asta?"
Asta raises fierce angry eyes to her. "Don't do this," she pleads.
"I'm saving your life."
"I'll hate you. I'll hate you forever, I swear, I will leave you –" Uriah looks
away, even if Andrew would say, you don't owe monsters any courtesy– "I will
leave you and never return," Asta says, her mouth twisted and sad.
Nomi doesn't falter. "If it's the price for your life. I know," she leans
forward, so her forehead touches her sister's, and Asta allows it, brushing a
reluctant hand over the line of Nomi's jaw, "I know that nothing comes free,
sister. This is me making a sacrifice. I want to see you live forever."
"I won't," Asta whispers fiercely.
Andrew clears his throat; Nomi turns back to him, her poker face back on. "I
don't think –" he starts, but a furious murmur behind him forces him to stop
and ask what's going on. Andrew pushes Thema out of her way.
"She's not going," he says, pointing to Nomi apathetically. He has one of
Thema's guns in his hand. It's a FN Five-seven; Uriah recognizes it out of
habit, because Thema trained him to in the endless hours where there was
nothing to do but wait. "I don't care about the sister, you can let her go if
you want." He waves the gun at Nomi. "But this one is mine. She killed my
mother."
Nomi gives him a wry grin. "I killed my fair share of members of the Dedalus
family, darling, but your mother wasn't one of them."
He takes a few steps forward, until he's hissing right at her, pouring his
hatred in her mouth, "She spent her whole life trying to kill for what you'd
done. You killed three generations of this family: your tortured my
grandparents and you exhausted my mother so much that she died at fifty, with
her head shaven like one of your slaves. You," he spits, "killed my mother."
Nomi breathes out a little sigh. "Right. Well, I guess that's fair enough."
Quinn detaches herself from the shadows. She comes up at Andrew's shoulder,
wraps her hand around his, their joined fingers weighing on the trigger.
Plastered behind him, she rests her face on his shoulder, her face perfectly
serene.
"You can't let Asta go," she says quietly. "You're not the only one who wants
revenge, remember?" She bends closer, and everyone holds their breath to hear
her whisper: "You promised."
Andrew shivers. Uriah remembers that night back on Captiva, how fragile that
woman had looked, with her supernatural eyes and chipped nail polish; is there
anything left of her here, in those dead eyes? Uriah has felt the need for
revenge many times, but not like this: not something that eats you inside, that
rots you, that posesses you.
He slides between Nomi and Andrew, unthinking. Quinn frowns over Andrew's
shoulder, and for a terrifying second, he's certain that she would rip through
him to get to her target, still bent over Lois on the couch. He feels the nose
of Andrew's gun over his chest, heaving with his breathing. Well – that was a
spectacularly stupid thing to do. Now he just has to deal with it, doesn't he?
A glimpse at Thema and she smiles back at him, reassuring, maybe proud; it
contradicts all the guns and buoys him up a little. She never thought he was
particularly brave, but she likes him anyway, doesn't she?
"Stop this," he tells Andrew, but for some reason his eyes find Quinn, even
colder, more determined.
She looks back at him. There is no anger, only placid certitude. She's regained
her age, her wrinkles and her self-possession. Uriah feels he ought to bow his
head, or kneel. "Do you know how many people she's killed?" she asks calmly.
"It's not hundred. It's not thousands. Andrew –" she winds her arms tighter
around him, as though she was trying to suffocate him, "has his reasons for
wanting to kill her, but it's nothing compared to this." She looks away, sighs.
Then, her eyes back on him in a second, blue, piercing, "You like my stories,
right?"
He hesitates. "I do."
"Let me tell a story, then." He considers telling her it's neither the time nor
the place, but the silence pins him down, everyone is listening. Maybe Nomi and
her have more in common than they desire. "When Sara brought me to Captiva, we
took the plane, and I woke up on this island. I was in the house, and
everything was white... for years I had seen nothing but the inside of the
Mansion, where I knew every nook and cranny – that and my mother's house. It'd
been so long since I'd seen another place, and I cried, because Jack was dead
and here I was, lost." Uriah opens his mouth to say something, but she raises a
hand, still holding onto Andrew's gun. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, she looks
sleepy, distracted. "Can you believe I had never seen the sea before? I don't
know how that is. I lived in the country, and no one told me... I head about
it, of course, but I never saw it. On the day after I came to Captiva, I woke
up at dawn. Sara was still sleeping. I went house of the house, to
investigate... now, what Sara hadn't told me was that Nomi, your Nomi, was
angry at me. For leaving, you understand? Because you can't leave people like
her." She looks straight at Nomi, without fear. "The only way to leave is
death, isn't it? Anyway, I came down to the sea. It was summer. I stepped in. I
was in rapture, you know how it is – when you see something you've never seen
before, especially something as immense, as beautiful as the sea. You want to
take all of it in, without missing one parcel. For the first time since I'd run
away I felt at peace, I didn't feel wounded anymore. I felt like there was a
place where Jackson was safe, maybe heaven, maybe somewhere else. Who knows? I
was so happy, so calm." She swallows. "I stayed there for a long time, until
the sun was completely up in the sky. After a while villagers started to come
down to the beach, but they wouldn't come near me. I thought it was because I
was a stranger. They gathered around me, at a safe distance, watching with
those eyes, big and scared, and no one would say a word... and I wondered, why?
Do they really hate me that much, that they won't even tell me what they hate
me for? So I walked back into the sea, because she protected me. She was so
good, so wide, so reassuring... I stepped back until I was in to the waist.
They kept looking. And then –" She stops; Andrew, in a surprising gesture,
takes her other hand, the one not holding the gun, in his, and laces their
fingers. "And then I felt something bump against my leg, and I reached for it.
And when I took it out of the water, it was a head." Uriah can't even hear his
own gasp over the pounding in his ears; he only sees Thema's face, mirroring
his own in comical horror. Quinn tilts her head with a smile. "You don't cross
Nomi Brûlée, or her sister, they'd told me that the first day I started working
there. You don't cross them, you just don't do it. Because if you do, you end
up in a bloody sea, surrounded by corpses. Do you know – do you know how many
they had to kill to make the sea red? Not just people I knew, who worked with
me at the Mansion; but they came in Florida and they were like a hurricane,
just because they were mad, and they killed all these people, and I could never
sleep a night's sleep after that. That's why I want revenge. There's not enough
blood in her body," she nods at Asta, "to pay me back for all that death, but
I'll take it."
Uriah has no words, no brain that is not horror at that story and its
raconteur, smooth-faced and scarred. His knee-jerk reaction is to get out of
the way and give her the gun, let her press the trigger – but then he
remembers. Death doesn't solve anything.
"Death doesn't solve anything," he says, even though his mouth feels like it's
full of chalk.
She smiles and tilts her head, as though chiding a rueful child. "If you really
believe that, then you haven't lived enough," she says gently. "Or you're
lucky."
He turns to Andrew, blindly. "Tell her."
Andrew gives a bitter laugh. "I kill people for a living, you do remember that?
Besides, I told her she'd have her revenge. It was her price, and I keep my
promises. Get out of the way, Uriah."
Is there a way to say, without breaking, that he wants to protect them? The
both of them – that he doesn't want to see them dip their hands in more blood?
"We could just let them go," he pleads, even though he knows it's useless,
"we'll never hear about them again. There are so many things to build – we
don't need to kill them. They'll die."
Quinn considers him sadly. "They'll just start over somewhere else. Someone
needs to put them in the ground, and we're here. Move out of the way, Uriah.
You don't have to look."
"I can't – you said it, it'll make everything she signs null and void."
"It's true," Thema pipes up. "At least let her go to say in public that she
resigns, you can kill her then, if you haven't changed your mind."
Quinn shrugs. "I don't care."
Andrew does care. He shakes himself awake. "You're right," he says to Thema.
"We should – can we install a tracker on her?"
Quinn pouts, sliding inelegantly in a chair. "Leave me the sister," she says.
Some air seems to flow back into the room. Uriah can finally breathe, but the
story is still sticking to him, and he's probably not the only one. Nomi and
Asta are eerily silent, though not out of horror or shock; they're pressed
tightly together, back to communicating in a way only they probably know how.
Asta's traits are taut, almost angry. Uriah spies Thema moving in the back of
the room, pressing a listless Lois to her chest. He can't help but hope, in a
vacant and aching way, that this is a mess that can be fixed, one way or
another.
Uriah will admit, much later, that he still doesn't understand how what
happened after that happens. It's a second; everybody loosens, looks to their
loved one instead of their prisonners, reflects – just a second, but it's
enough. Before they can even blink, Asta jumps. She hasn't made a violent
movement since they brought her in, her tongue excepted; this deployment of
strength is not only completely unexpected but also disproportionnate, for such
a small and calm woman. The ties on her wrists come off like they're made of
water, her legs unfold – with a flick of her wrist she grabs Andrew's gun; her
foot hits him once on the side of his leg, making him stumble, and then sharply
on the side. He falls. Her knee collides with Thema's chest, projecting her
backwards. Asta's wild hair rips the air around her; the point of her elbow
barely touches Uriah's throat but it's like a blade, and he goes down quickly,
his head spinning. Asta's arm winds aroud her sister's shoulder, she drags her
back, pressing the gun she stole against her temple.
"I'm sorry, darling," she mumbles in Nomi's air.
The room is the land after the hurricane: everything is askew and those who
aren't on the ground gape, unable to talk. Quick as a whip, Quinn closes her
mouth and jumps on the gun that has slid from Thema's finger as she fell. She
kneels up, pointing it at Asta; Uriah happens to catch her eyes in the process
and he's sure, painfully certain that she's going to fire.
Nomi snarls, trying to struggle out of her sister's grasp. Asta tightens her
arm. "You can't kill me," Nomi spits.
"But I can try." The blue in her eyes is Arctic. "And I hope you have a thick
skin, because something tells me your little sister isn't near as invulnerable
as you."
Two fingers – on the very edge of her thumb, wrapped around the gun, a smidgeon
of orange, almost invisible. Her index tightens on the trigger; on her face a
flicker of something, the expectation of peace. Uriah can almost read the
thoughts in her head, maybe then I'll get my rest, and he feels a pang of
guilt. Some suffering is just impossible to imagine.
"Don't!"
Uriah, mouth half-open to yell the same thing, turns around. Andrew has hauled
himself on his elbows and, reaching with his leg, has kicked the gun out of
Quinn's hand. With a grown, they both dive.
Uriah isn't sure where to look. Lois has let go of the notebooks and is hugging
his knees, shaking. As Thema starts to groan and wake up, he crawls to the arm
of the couch closest to her and hangs on it. She extends a hand towards him; he
takes it.
Asta is still holding her sister captive, and they're whispering in low tones.
Uriah looks, intrigued – Asta has the gun, but she's weak, and it probably
wouldn't take an excessive amount of force for Nomi to break out of her grasp.
But she doesn't; their heads are bent together, the gun pressing into Nomi's
cheek, tangled with her hair, even though she doesn't seem to notice.
"You have to go," Asta is saying. "Please, go."
"I won't leave you," Nomi hisses. "You know I won't. Why are you –"
"It's over for us, you know it as well as I do. This has all been broadcasted,
it's only a matter of time because the uprisings start, and the party isn't
what it used to be. Without their inconditionnal support there's no way we can
make it out of here, and Henderson's showed the way, dead or not. You have all
I've taught you. Go."
Nomi shows teeth. "No. No. This isn't – you said we'd be together for ever.
This isn't forever."
"It was never going to be forever." Asta smiles sadly. "Didn't I also tell you
not to trust anyone? I'm sick, Nomi. I've been sick for years, and I know you
want to protect me, but you can't. You have –" she lifts her hand to Nomi's
cheek, "you have so many years before you. You can build another kingdom,
somewhere else. The sky is fraught with planets just waiting for you dominion.
Take the ship and go."
"But they'll kill you."
"Maybe. But I'm fated to die, and you're not. Let's not spill more of our
blood, sister. You have greatness in you still. I've always known that. I've
taught you all I know, and you've been a good pupil and a good companion. Now
it's time to go on your own."
Nomi drops her forehead against Asta's shoulder. She might be crying. Uriah
looks away. "I can't do this," she whispers.
"Of course you can. You can do everything. Take the ship. This is what you have
to do. If you don't do it for yourself, do it for me."
"I can't leave you."
With two fingers, Asta brings Nomi's face up. She doesn't look like a queen
with her face streaked by tears. In fact, she looks infinitely younger than she
is, almost human – but maybe that's Uriah's sentimentalism talking. No, she
doesn't look human. She looks –
"You can leave me, and you will. This was going to happen from the beginning,
Nomi, from the day you woke up and found me –"
"You found me," Nomi protests.
"And I found you, and I told you you were my sister and you would do what I
couldn't. I'm weak. I've accepted that. Death isn't such a horrible thing, you
know. You won't get to feel it for a few hundreds of years, but then you'll
join me and you'll tell me everything you accomplished in my name. I love you.
It will be peace for me, and for you –"
Nomi breathes in. Her eyes are shining. She bows her head, hair falling like a
curtain around her. "Okay," she says.
"Okay," Asta echoes, not moving the gun. "When I say run, you run. Don't look
back. Go back to the Mansion, take the humans there, you'll need them. Take the
ministers who'll go with you. Tell them this planet is lost, and there is
nothing you can do about it. When you get to the new planet, punish them. Take
as many as you can, and then leave. No one can stop you. We have done all we
could here. And – wait –"
She turns to Lois, her face cold. "Give me the notebooks," she orders.
Lois cowers, hugging them closer to his chest. Everything is still for a
moment, Asta's gun moves minutely on Nomi's cheek. A long, hard shiver shakes
Thema. "Do what she tells you," she whispers urgently.
Lois obeys. Face down, he gives the notebooks to Nomi from the very tips of his
fingers. Nomi breathes out. Around her, Asta's hold turns to a caress. The
camera is still turning, though the cameraman crouched down on the ground when
everything got raucous. He's an investigative journalist, not a war
commentator. He's sweating heavily and, like everyone else, he's holding his
breath. Sometimes you can't tell when you're witnessing history; sometimes you
can.
Nomi takes the notebooks with a strange kind of reverence. She looks up at
Asta. "What is this?"
"Those will be useful. I haven't read them all, and they're coded, but you'll
work it out; they're Stephen's journals." Nomi gives a movement of surprise. "I
know, I thought they were lost too. There's everything you'll need there, with
a little luck you can even figure out how to assure the perenity of our
species. We can live forever, Nomi. You and me, we can be the creators. You'll
start over and do everything right, this time. I trust you."
Nomi inhales sharply, reclining on her sister's chest. Her gaze sweeps over
Andrew, Thema, Uriah and Quinn in turn, but it's absent, she can't see them.
With minute gestures, she twists her long hair into a long rope, that she ties
on itself. Her fingers join Asta's on the gun. They don't need to talk anymore.
"Tell me when I have to run."
It seems like it's in slow-motion, but it's not. All of this must have been
said in a handful of minutes, while they're all still catching their breath; a
conversation in hurried murmurs, and all they saw was that gun and those women,
and they didn't hear much, except for those who listened, and those who
listened won't want to remember. Uriah won't want to remember, but he will. How
do you forget something like that? In twenty years people will still be
scrubbing those tapes for information they might've missed and asking him for
interviews that he won't give, because he'll see this conversation at night
when the thunder strikes outside his window in a half-restored world, and he'll
twitch and turn in his sleep.
But for now – for now listen. Nomi takes the gun. Asta leans in – their lips
meet in a kiss. Nomi's hand buries itself in Asta's hair while the gun slides
out of Asta's grasp, they press their face against each other's in a way that
has lost habit, comfort, tenderness, that is all need and the urgency of
goodbyes. Nomi whispers something against her sister's lips. The gun fires one
shot. Andrew jumps back, dust rising from the wall besides him. Nomi starts to
run.
Nomi. Nomi Brûlée, the Red Queen, Nomi runs. The little cord holding her silken
hood to her throat unties and it falls to the ground behind her, rustling as it
pools in soft red folds. Despite himself, Uriah remembers an old human fairy
tale, about a wolf and a someone wearing a hood of that kind, but he can't
remember who was the antagonist. In doubt, he settles on the hooded figure –
always a good bet.
As soon as Nomi starts running Andrew jumps to his feet. He's still holding his
side where Asta hit him, but he's recovered Thema's gun from Quinn's. He fires
twice. More dust rises, Uriah coughs, Quinn lunges forward to hold Asta down so
she can't run too, Thema envelops her son in an embrace, shielding his head
with her hands. Andrew runs, wobbling. After a second of bemusement, Uriah gets
up and slides an arm under Andrew's to help him.
"I'm here."
More shots, this time from Nomi. She's still in the house, but it's a matter of
seconds before she finds the door, and then everything will get more
complicated even more complicated. Uriah forces Andrew to duck, they narrowly
escape a bullet that ends up hitting the cameraman in the gut. Andrew swears
loudly. He presses his gun in Uriah's hand, his eyes wild.
"Follow her. Please."
Uriah nods frantically. "Yeah, okay." Almost mechanically, he takes the ammo
Andrew gives him and loads it into the gun. His legs are aching, burning to run
after Nomi. He's never killed anyone, he remembers in a haze, but his body
isn't his anymore, a stranger rage possesses it, and Uriah doesn't have the
energy or the desire to fight it.
Andrew's palms, dirty with soot and blood Uriah isn't sure where he got, press
against his cheeks. His eyes are deep and frighteningly clear, with only one
purpose, and absolute faith. "Get her," he whispers.
Uriah nods and tears himself away. What he's doing isn't bravery; he's lending
his body to a greater cause, something that eludes him almost entirely. But
Andrew is his friend. Thema's training kicks in as he starts running, jumping
over chairs, Asta's slack face. The only thing in his ears is the pounding of
his heart, the blood steady and strong. Follow the rhythm. She has superior
strength, but he has a purpose. Indistinctly, as he distances himself from the
living-room, he hears sounds, voices: Quinn reassuring the cameraman, Andrew
swearing, the click of another gun, Thema, probably pointing at Asta.
Run.
What was it Quinn said, her story? It's just that it doesn't seem to fit, you
know, that and the kiss and everything that they said. But then again you
wouldn't peg Andrew as someone with a fanatical hatred of anything, would you?
He seems pretty normal – well, for a killer. He seems level-headed, and then,
when you dig... all that darkness. That's how it works, doesn't it? Some things
wounds people, and those wounds, when they scar, fester. Uriah runs. He feels a
little newborn, a little clean. He doesn't violently hate anything. But maybe
the world needs people like him too, doesn't it? People to run. People to take
over, when the wounds bring the others down and make them bleed. Worry tries to
insinuate itself in his brain, but Uriah won't let it. The door opens, and
light floods in. Uriah fires a shot. It misses. Nomi is easily recognizabe,
what with that hair, but even without it... there's something about her. She
turns around, sees him. Smiling, she breaks into the whiteness. After a split
second of hesitation, he follows.
He blinks. Nomi is still running. His gun isn't empty. He'll hunt her down and
kill her, he's so sure of it he's almost burning with it. He's never killed
anyone before, but it doesn't matter. He won't miss. This isn't his shot. He's
doing this for Andrew, and the force of that anger will be enough to direct the
bullet. Uriah owes him that, right? And even if he doesn't, that's what
friendship means, right? It means that when your friend is down, you're the one
with the gun.
Run.
*
Nomi comes to a stop. She's not out of breath. She smiles, her gun raised; in
the other, the notebooks.
"You can stop running now," she says when Uriah comes up to her, not unkindly.
He thinks he presses the trigger then, but no bullet comes out, so maybe it's
just an impression. His head is swimming a little, he's sweating through his
clothes. His head is full of thoughts.
"You can't kill me," Nomi says gently. "You know that. I can't die."
Quinn's face shines into his mind like a beacon, a foreboding. Everyone can
die. "Everyone can die."
Nomi shakes her head sadly. "Not me. You heard Asta. I'm not dying yet, I've
got too many things to do. Stop running; tell him I'm dead, tell him they left
without me. It'll be enough."
"You won't be dead."
She shrugs, still smiling. "Shit happens," she grins. Her shirt rode down when
she was running and her throat is showing, the clear tattoo of her mark.
DEDALUS. Maybe she was a victim, once, but that's gone now. Over. She has to
die. Right?
"I can't let you go," he says. He tightens his grip on his gun, trying to sound
confident, but he feels small.
"I'll go anyway, whether you let me or not. You don't want to die, do you?"
No one wants to die, he thinks about saying, but then he remembers Asta. Maybe
that's not entirely true. So he doesn't say anything. How many times has he
shot a gun in his life? It's funny; he's carried a lot but not drawn. He's just
not this kind of guy, you know? He has a sharp tongue and long legs, he runs
fast, usually it's enough. He gets out of enough bad situations like that. She
probably knows that; she can read it in his body and his face. He has a good
enough poker face, but she's the Red Queen, and that just changes everything,
doesn't it?
(He gets out of enough bad situations like that, with his quick hands and his
words. That's how he met Thema, actually. She wouldn't fall for his bullshit.
She wouldn't hesitate to fire, Mechanic or not.)
So that's what gets him. He presses his finger down on the trigger. She jumps
back, surprised, tries to duck, but the bullet hits her in the shoulder and she
winces, doesn't scream; she presses a hand to the bloody wound, raises her face
to him, astonished, and starts running again. He fires in her direction. He
doesn't have enough strength to keep running after her, it doesn't matter if
she's injured. He keeps firing until he's all out of bullet and surrounded by
smoke. A scream tears the air, but it's not her. He wants to believe she's
dead, so he doesn't look, doesn't look to check if she's lying in the dust,
pierced by enough bullets to make her really dead. The lie is already writing
itself in his mind; he shakes his head.
She's gone.
Yes – she's gone. History is written by the winners, and now it's his turn.
*
They welcome him back without screams, expectant, their hands bloody almost
without exception. Quinn is red up to the wrist, but undisturbed, still leaning
on the journalist.
"We sent for an ambulance," she says sedately, "but apparently some riots have
broken up in the city. It'll be a while."
Uriah swallows. Everything feels unreal, like he's swimming, his every motion
slowed by the water. "Is he going to be okay?"
Quinn shrugs. "Maybe." She tilts her head, as though to say, those humans,
they're tricky. But maybe he's just imagining things again.
Thema stumbles up. They stand in front of one another for a second. Her hair is
matted to her forehead with sweat, her clothes covered in dust and blood.
Behind her Lois is sitting, less afraid than he'd looked before. Uriah wonders
absently how much therapy he'll need to recover from everything that happened
today.
"Uriah," Thema breathes.
Has he noticed before how beautiful she is? Maybe. He must've; she was
beautiful holding a gun to his face and she was beautiful in his bed, beautiful
the first time she left, the second; beautiful when he showed up at her door;
beautiful with that wound on her stomach, taking down Mechanics in her
laboratory. But now – it's not comparable. He staggers with the weight of it,
sighing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Thema," he says, as an answer.
She smiles. It reaches all the way up to her eyes, crinkling them at the
corners. I love you, he thinks, but doesn't say. She must know, by now.
He couldn't say who falls into whose arms first, but he's not sure it really
matters. His arms close around her gracefully – the tension bleeds out of him
and he's back to himself, cocky and cowardly but unfailingly loyal. He holds
her as hard as he can, and she holds him back. It's frantic and messy and
personal, maybe not something to do in front of an audience but fuck it, he
loves her and he's pretty sure she loves him too, so what does it matter? His
eyes are damp. He mouths in her hair how much he loves her; her skin is warm
under his hands where her clothes have been torn in her fall, and he's pretty
sure she ripped a bit of her shirt to use as a bandage on the cameraman. A
surge of affection almost knocks him over.
He breathes, finally, fully; here is someone who knows him inside out and still
loves him, a woman he couldn't have invented, couldn't have dreamed of, who is
fierce and brave and generous with a genius brain and a frightening ease around
guns.
Eventually she's the one who pulls away. She ducks her head, smiling. He clears
his throat. "Um," he says uneloquently.
Andrew is on him before he can figure out what to say that will ease off the
embarrassment a little. Uriah laughs. "What, you want to hug me too?"
Andrew rolls his eyes. "Is she dead?" he asks urgently.
Uriah nods. "Yes. They won't find her, I hid the body. I –" he looks down,
unsure, "even if they do find the body, they won't recognize her. There's no
way to find her chip and restore her now." He looks up, breathing through his
nose. Behind him, Asta starts screaming, a high-pitched, torturous wail. Uriah
winces. "I think her ship left anyway."
Andrew furrows his eyebrows. "Yeah, what was that?" He turns to Asta, but it
soon becomes evident that she's not going to say anything. Do you think
monsters feel that much distress? Uriah wants to ask him. He doesn't.
"When I was still working in San Fran there were rumors about Nomi building a
spaceship," Thema offers. "Not like the commerical ones, something built for
long-distance travel, maybe colonization, I don't remember." She shrugs. "It
was pretty nebulous, honestly."
Andrew frowns.
Posessed with a preternatural calm, Uriah lays a hand on his shoulder. "Let
them go. We have enough to take care of here. They'll lose themselves out
there. You know as well as me that there isn't anywhere to settle, otherwise
they'd have been there for years. If they come back we'll shoot them down, but
in the meantime let's just forget about them. There are thousands of Mechanics
left here. Let's deal with that."
"You're right."
He turns around. For all that the death of Nomi might have changed him, his
face hasn't, Uriah notices with something like disappointment. Maybe he'd been
hoping for some peace, or a smile... but it doesn't matter.
"Thank you," he says, and it's the most genuine Uriah has ever heard him
sounds. It shakes him a little, even though he tries not to let it show.
"Aw," he grins. "You do want to hug me."
"Shut up," Andrew grouses, but he wraps an arm around his shoulders anyway, and
pulls him in.
*
This story will be told in a number of ways later. Details will be changed, and
even main events. Characters will invented; heroes will be made out of common
men, and evil overloads out of sisters who may or may not have actually been
evil. But it doesn't matter.
This story will change, like all stories changed when they're weaved into the
spinning wheel of time. They'll say the sun was shining bright and blinding
when they came out, covered with blood and dust. It wasn't. The sky was low and
grey, a foreboding of troubled times to come. There was little glory. Quinn
watched Asta cry without an ounce of pity, and the shaking in her hands slowly
subsided as she sucked in her enemy's misery. Even good people can be cruel.
Just because people do good things doesn't mean they are good.
But here, today, as the first version of this story ends: they step out the
house, from the shielded and fuming darkness. The sky is low and grey,
foreboding of troubled times to come. They're pressed together in a line,
heroes or villains, you forget when you're the protagonist. Maybe Thema and
Uriah are holding hands. Maybe the child Thema gave up when she was nineteen is
forgetting to resent her and is leaning against her leg, looking older than her
years. Maybe Quinn is smiling. Maybe Andrew looks like a weight has been lifted
from his shoulders.
The world is full of noise, joy and anger; something is changing at the very
foundation of humanity, kicking out its restraints. Some people call it
freedom, others call it revolution. The name doesn't matter – it's not a pretty
thing, it's not easy, it takes blood and time and courage and cowardice, it
takes new heroes and new villains. But they're standing outside the house, and
they've done their part. They're given the first kick, walked the first step.
Andrew sighs. The wind ruffles his hair like a fond but exasperated parent, and
he leans back into it, smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "We're okay,"
he says quietly, and they echo, without even thinking, hands and arms linking
in the small breeze, under the grey skies, "We're okay."
They're okay. The rest can wait.
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