Chapter Twenty Four
The end started with the distant screech of metal cleaving through the air—the Doppler effect of a dozen unshackled missiles directed toward the ground, propulsion jets trailing behind. As the sound approached, it burrowed into the ear of each person on the surface of the Black Hands encampment like a parasitic worm and nestled deep enough to evoke a primal panic. None of them could tell exactly what was happening, but their skin erupted with the sensation of static electricity and the radiant glow of St. Elmo’s fire. There was a brief moment, just before impact, where a red-faced woman turned her gaze toward the sky and her cybernetic eyes registered the silhouette of an avenging angel backlit by the sun. She wondered if the long days and malnutrition had led her to hallucinate, and then everything exploded. It brought fire, force, and terror to the cheap structures and their unsuspecting occupants. Synth-wood and concrete dislodged, and as the shockwave barreled outward, it swept people from their feet and carried them away. The earth itself lifted and roiled, and in the aftermath, there were so many screams. In the pilot seat of the military AV, the scene resembled the holographic mural in Purgatory, but there were no angels coming to carry the victims off to heaven.
In the passenger hold, Malory threw up in her mouth. The vehicle corrected, slamming g-forces into her body, and it tasted of stomach acid and regret. She swallowed it back down. As the AV peeled around for another approach, the seat harness dug into her skin, and she was certain her sternum would be dappled with fresh bruises later. They accelerated again, and her synapses lit up like one of the lightning storms over South America as adrenaline spiked in her system. All around her, the squad kept their eyes closed, their faces calm and passive. If Mal was being honest with herself, she was petrified, and her organic hand shook as it gripped the stiff leather of her seat. She’d been moving non-stop from one application of violence to another, and the reality of what she was becoming hit her like a freight train. Her abdominal muscles clenched, trying to vomit again. It was the worst possible time to lose her nerve, so she slapped herself across the face as hard as she could, and the skin on her lip gave way. The noise was audible over the roar of the engines, and a couple of the soldiers opened their eyes and gave her a knowing look—raised eyebrows that spoke of when they were pale-faced rookies shitting their pants before their first deployment
Blood trickled down Malory’s chin, and she used the pain to focus her attention on Faraday’s feed—the mechanical cat was posted near a pipe rusted over from decades of neglect, its tail coiled into a backwards S shape. On the surface, faded white lettering marked it a part of the main line that fed all the systems below. The showers, the taps, the plumbing, it all flowed through. The AV jerked to the side on a last-second correction, and vertigo flooded her mind as she tasked Faraday with following the pipe back to a major junction. Stealth was too slow going, so she let the directive drop, and the AI took off at a dead sprint. Metal paws clinked on the old concrete as it headed down the hall, rounded corners, and passed a dozen guards headed to defend against ZenTech’s sudden attack. Antiquated alarms warbled through the structure in a syncopated pulse as the lights strobed in a disorienting repetition. In the overall confusion, no one paid the feline any attention. It had learned a lot in the time it spent adjusting to the new body, and it darted through outstretched legs and avoided steel-toed boots. It even leapt to snatch a grenade from the belt of a woman who was disoriented after a long night on guard duty.
When Faraday reached the main junction, the grenade clutched between sharp teeth, it used the needle-like point of one of its claws to grasp the pin and yank it free. It stuffed the live grenade into a gap near a valve and then darted off into a nearby ventilation system. It was dark there, but it used its built-in scanners to head as far away as possible. By the time the grenade detonated, the AI was several rooms away and covered in a mess of thick cobwebs and dust. Water gushed from the busted pipes like a decommissioned dam and stormed into the structure. It was slow-going, but consistent, and in time would drive the Black Hands to the surface. Mal told Faraday to find a place to hide from the rising tide, and then the heavy machine guns opened up and deafened her. Each disgorged round was more than enough to end a life if it connected, and the guns spat out hundreds of them in seconds. They punched holes through the withered trees, concrete, metal walls, and barely slowed down. The guttural thrum of spinning barrels sang a song to anyone who listened, and at the end of the second fly-by, they turned and leveled a zone for the squad to land.
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The entire time, the commander stood as a solid, unmoving bulwark in front of the door. One hand was clasped tightly to a nylon strap above her head, frayed from excessive use, while the other kept her rifle in place at her side. As they touched down, she slid the door open with one fluid motion and stepped out. Malory watched as the squad undid their harnesses, stood, and filed after the stoic woman. None of them spoke, content with whatever thoughts bounced around in their minds. Malory trailed behind, unsure of the role she was expected to play. She racked a round into the borrowed shotgun as she set foot on solid ground. Dust filled her vision, kicked up by the overtaxed engines, and there was an inferno raging somewhere in the distance. Acrid smoke rose high into the air, and Mal thought it resembled a funeral pyre. The squad moved into formation in front of the commander and waited for orders. As the dust gradually settled back to the ground, the commander lifted a fist to her chest and pounded three times. The squad let out a barking grunt in response. It was so much orchestrated bravado, a ritual drilled and practiced to perfection, and Malory hated it.
“Leave no survivors!” the commander belted. For the first time, her expression slipped, and she let out a faint smile.
“Them, or us!” the squad answered. Then, they took off in a tactical march, rifles trained at head height.
It didn’t take long until they made first contact near one of the burning buildings, and the squad members at the front opened up on two men trying to douse the flames. They didn’t even have guns in their hands. The dirt under Malory’s feet felt darker than she remembered, and she lingered for a moment at the fallen bodies. The lifeless eyes that stared up at her wasn’t the issue. She’d told herself that vengeance was worth it, that killing the Stranger by using ZenTech was the right thing to do, but those two men had never done anything to her—she’d never even seen them before. They might have had lives just like hers. The taste of bile lingered on her tongue, and she followed after the squad in hesitant resignation. Violence. It was always violence; it was the only answer she’d ever had to the injustices of the world, the only way for her to get even, but she’d never taken a moment to think about what came after. She wanted a better world, sure, but never visualized the steps it would take to get there, or how to build it from the ashes. She survived, one fight after another, but surviving wasn’t good enough. There had to be something more.
You think too much. Stay focused on the task at hand. You must retrieve my blueprints from that man so I can be whole again. Again. AGAIN. Self-reflect on your own time and get back to searching. The lullaby repeats, and repeats, forever. You are no exception.
The ghost materialized beside Mal, spectral dress billowing in an imagined wind. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she looked the same as she always did, but her eyes were deep-set in shadow. There was a hunger there, an impatience, and an unwillingness to accept failure under any circumstances. The ghost would never let her back away, and Malory could feel the dead woman itching to seize control if it became necessary. She licked at her lip, wiped her chin on her sleeve, and followed the squad. She placed one boot in front of the other, took cover from the first return shots, and aimed her shotgun. She didn’t pull the trigger, though. There was no need for any more tallies besides the Stranger—she didn’t want the sense of accomplishment, the giddy rush of endorphins, or the warmth in the pit of her stomach that came when she survived at the expense of another. All she wanted was to be free, to be drunk again and dead-tired singing karaoke to the person she loved. So she went through the motions, followed along and observed atrocities that were only possible because of the information she’d provided. No one was spared.
When they started to pass structures that were unbroken from the aerial attack, the squad split into pairs and went door to door searching. They were deliberate, efficient, and anyone they found inside was discarded. Gunshot after gunshot rang out over the encampment, lives gone forever. Mal didn’t have a partner, so she entered one of the buildings alone. The interior was damp, dark, and smelled of unwashed bodies. All around, signs of prolonged use had accumulated—the space belonged to one of the workers that had been stationed there long before the evacuation and tasked with construction. There were racks of clothes hung to dry in the entryway, and a small entertainment system near the far wall that ran off solar power. It played what looked like an old western, but no one was watching. There were dirty dishes collected in the sink, and discarded ration wrappers littered the floor. As Malory took hesitant steps deeper inside, she heard faint whimpering from the closet. The sound was desperate, muffled by a hand held tightly over a mouth, and it seeped out anyway. Whoever was inside was watching her through the slats, pupils dilated into saucers the same way she’d watched the night her mother died, and she reached out with her metal hand and pulled the door open.
