Waybound (28 page)

He twitches on the ground.

I do not toy with the other. She dies in a red mist.

I shed my bandages, rip off wrappings that smother me.

Sirens shriek. They're too loud, driving into my exposed brain.

I escape the wail. Doors yield before me. Crash through, toss them aside. Guards are coming, but they are slow. In the hallways, Greencoats cower and flee. They are lucky I ignore them.

I smash through the barrier that leads outside. What was muffled is now a roar. Every sensation magnified. Bare muscle fibers, raw bone, naked to the cutting air and sizzling suns.

I race through the Depot.

Head to the Control Core, glass dazzling in the daylight.

Alarms blare because they have lost me. Will never find me because I feel when they're near. I hear them breathe from far away. Every vibration of their vehicles, their footsteps. I smell the clicking Omnicams, know the ping of their motion detectors.

My confusion is gone. I see layers of light, feel atmospheric patterns. My nerves weave into a new grid of ever-present pain. But the grime has been flushed from my mind.

My new senses are awake.

The world is mine to savor.

I reach the Control Core and climb. Metal beams yield to my touch, soften as I squeeze. Climb higher. Exposed in the light like a rat on a wire. The cursed suns sear my not-skin. Someone will surely see me pulling myself up.

Let them see.

I leave sizzling handprints on the building's skeleton. No reach is too great—the next handhold is always in my grasp. I stretch and twist like a hallucination.

Every second their poison drains from me I grow stronger.

I arrive.

Leer through the window, cling to the frame. Muscles do not ache, they burn with desire. Watching my targets behind the glass.

The directors. They do not see me.

My bloated heart throttles. I trace the course of boiling CHAR flooding my veins. Shatter the glass with one blow, send a blizzard of shards at my prey. Their wafting fear fills my nostrils.

I leap.

They scatter.

Guards emerge, Watchmen and humans.

No matter. I charge the machines, which raise their weapons. Vomit my toxin at them. Their empty faces melt like wax. Plunge my hand into one of their heads, rip out its living AI-unit. The sparking, spastic worm turns to slop in my hand.

The human guards aren't prepared. They expected a wild mehkan, perhaps a madman. Not the thing that is me.

Bullets thud into the wall, into me. Icy spike of bonding rounds. The chemical is released, wages war with the living metal within. White bubbles froth like acid in my wounds.

But the pain does not slow me. My joints unhinge.

I strike. Then they are in pieces.

My body twists like a screw. The directors cluster in a frenzy. The bald one with the gold glasses holds up his hands, as if he could ward me off. He is the one that took me from Mr. Goodwin. He gave the order to torture me. I will save him for last.

But the others are not innocent. They all must pay.

This is why I have come. A killing wind.

Darkness made flesh.

T
he lobby of the Control Core was packed with troubled employees. Everyone had heard the commotion. Goodwin shoved his way through the crowd until a soldier recognized him and allowed him to enter the elevator.

“Once I am up, shut off power,” Goodwin ordered. “No more access. Double the guards at all exits and notify me if anyone attempts entry. No one is permitted upstairs. Is that clear?”

“Uh…” The soldier looked around, unsure. “Yes, sir.”

“Clear these people out. Lock down the building.”

Goodwin straightened his cuffs as the elevator ascended. At the top floor, the doors slid open, and the setting suns that blasted through the shattered glass walls nearly blinded him.

The room was chaos. Executives scurried about in aimless panic. Grisly evidence of the recent violence was painted across the windows and soaking into the lush, burgundy carpet. Some guards were documenting the bloody tableau with Fotosnaps, others moving the bodies or covering them with sheets.

Goodwin climbed onto a table.

“Stop!” he shouted above the disorder.

The room fell silent.

“Perry,” Goodwin addressed a nearby soldier. “Gather your people. Secure the stairwells.”

The man snapped to attention and assembled his team.

“Dietrich. Confiscate all Fotosnaps and Scrollbars. Absolutely no information or images are to leave this room.”

The officer did as he was told.

“This is a crime scene,” Goodwin declared. “Nothing is to be disturbed. Investigators are on their way. Until then, everyone will remain on the premises. Understood?”

A few nods amid the silence.

Goodwin stepped down from the table and crossed the room, feeling everyone's stares as he crunched through shards of glass. He looked down at the corpse of his old colleague, Director Malcolm. Strange, after all these decades of working together, he had never learned the man's first name.

Leaning out of a broken window, Goodwin eyed the scorched, sunken handprints Kaspar had left on the beams. The strength required for such a climb was astounding.

“We must speak,”
said a voice in Goodwin's earpiece.

“Notify us when you're ready.”

“You are in charge here until I return, Dietrich,” Goodwin told the officer. He cast one more glance around the room. Satisfied that things were now a bit more in order, he stepped through a gold-inlaid mahogany door and closed it behind him.

Obwilé's office was sparsely furnished, though that might have been due to the recent move rather than taste. The desk was onyx black, polished to a mirror shine. Tidy stacks of documents lined with Obwilé's meticulous handwriting sat beside a glowing Computator screen. Across the room hung an uninspired painting of a sunset. It did not surprise Goodwin that Obwilé displayed no taste for art.

Goodwin settled his broad frame into the high-backed armchair. There was a single photo in a chrome frame on the desk. It showed Obwilé standing beside his wife and two small children, smiling before a waterfall. Goodwin saw his face reflected in the glass, superimposed over the happy family.

“I am alone,” he announced.

“
James
,” spoke a voice of the Board.
“We appreciate your decisive action in this matter.”

“The chain of command has been disrupted,”
stated another,
“and we knew we could depend on you to handle the situation.”

The Foundry's five directors in Mehk had just been brutally murdered. Yet the Board appeared unmoved.

“Of course. We are all in shock,” Goodwin replied sincerely.

“This attack has come at a most inopportune time.”

“International tensions are elevated in Meridian, and it appears that the rebellion in Mehk is not yet under control.”

“I tried to warn Obwilé that it was a mistake to treat Kaspar with such cruelty,” Goodwin intoned. “I wish he had listened. Kaspar was my creation. I feel…I feel somehow responsible, even though Obwilé had assumed full control of the project.”

“It is unfortunate.”

“Can you guess where the Dyad might be?”

“Information from your recent visit to him, perhaps?”

Goodwin considered this. “Unfortunately, no. He was barely responsive. But Kaspar still looks up to me. Once we locate him, I will use that to elicit his surrender.”

“And if that fails?”
a voice replied.

“Then he will be dealt with accordingly.”

“Our investigation will determine exactly what went wrong and how the Dyad managed to escape.”

“We will discover who is responsible for this catastrophe.”

“And their punishment will be unprecedented.”

The Board let this foreboding statement linger.

“That is a relief,” Goodwin said. “Please keep me informed.”

“On to other matters.”

“We face significant gaps in our operational capacity.”

“It will take time to reconstitute a fully functional leadership.”

“Indeed,” Goodwin acknowledged.

“We are working to find replacements.”

“But we must maintain stability until new directors are vetted.”

“Someone to coordinate departments.”

“One with experience and oversight.”

“Have you spoken to Winslow?” Goodwin suggested.

“He is not familiar with our current diplomatic situation.”

“We need someone who already has a deep understanding of the manifold complexities we are up against.”

“While we smooth over the chaos caused by Saltern's speech.”

“Yes,” Goodwin said. “His arrogance has proven disastrous.” Goodwin checked his watch. “My train leaves in an hour, but if it pleases the Board, I could speak with the President. As you know, we have a strong relationship, and I manage him easily.”

“Yes.”

“But forget your train.”

“Your retirement has been postponed.”

Goodwin's eyes opened wide. “Pardon me?”

“You are reinstated as Chairman.”

“Until a suitable replacement is selected.”

“And new directors are in place.”

“I…I see,” Goodwin said. “I am honored.”

“But there is no margin for error.”

“Briefing documents have been filed in your accounts.”

“A medic will be dispatched to uninstall your earpiece.”

“But you must continue to wear it.”

“We will be in touch.”

“Chairman Goodwin.”

Then with a soft click, the Board was gone.

A warm feeling of satisfaction filled Goodwin. He pulled out his Scrollbar—his passwords and access had all been restored.

Goodwin smiled. He looked at his new desk and dropped Obwilé's family photograph into the trash can.

His first order was to find a replacement for General Moritz—he had endured enough abuse from ol' Bert. Next, he would organize a summit with the military executives to ramp up the Covenant Task Force. He had no faith that the Foundry's fight against the rebellion had been handled adequately. Once that was taken care of, he could deal with Saltern's blunder.

Then, the children. That last thread needed to be snipped.

T
he sea was harsh, the night wind harsher. It hacked at Phoebe and Micah, cutting across the flux with arctic fury. Their arms burned, their bodies screamed with exhaustion, and there was nothing left to do but row.