Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (47 page)

Even though she had no problem seeing in the total darkness, Cass took it slow, careful of her steps, minimizing her noise level. She counted flights as she descended, but lost track somewhere in the sixties. It was around that time that she became aware of a faint hum, one that at first she couldn’t be sure she was actually hearing. Trying to determine its source was what caused her to lose her count of the stairs, but she made a best guess and continued on. Sometime later as she approached the bottom, she was in the low one hundreds, give or take a few. The count might not have been perfectly accurate, but it was close enough to make the point. Cass was deep, deep underground. A thousand feet or more, by her estimate. Though marginally warmer than the temperature above ground, it was still surprisingly cool and here the air was very dry. The hum had grown quite distinct; a resonant drone, mildly soothing. And Cass knew she was reaching the end because she could see a doorframe outlined in a moonlight blue. Her first instinct was to freeze, fearing that she was seeing the light from a Weir. But after a few moments she realized something else was shining mutedly below her.

Cass followed the final set of stairs, and stepped up to the sliding door. It beeped and clicked, and opened to a small chamber. There was another door at the other end, and when she went to it, it behaved exactly as the first. When it opened, however, Cass stepped out and then stopped short.

Whatever she’d been expecting, this wasn’t it.

The chamber opened out to a cavernous room, with a ceiling that stretched easily twenty-five feet above her. It was hung with an enormous steel grid laden with huge stacks of pipes. No, not pipes. Bundles of cables. The room was filled with rows of machines, laid out in uniform aisles. Stacks and stacks, for dozens of yards in both directions. Each one hummed softly, but taken all together in that huge room they joined in a droning chorus that filled the emptiness. And each had a tiny light of familiar hue, undoubtedly reporting its status. Cass walked among them as if in a dream, awed by the immensity of the system, and by its perfect order. This was surely a relic of the old world, something left by the people lost to time. And yet, though its creators were dust and ash, this technology remained. More than remained. Persisted. It continued on in its purpose. And Cass knew that purpose.

This was the mind of the Weir. Or, at least, a single node of it. She wondered how many of them there were, how far their reach extended. As she explored them, her vision of the node through the digital came back to her. The Weir’s datastream had been connected to it, it was true. But hadn’t there been more? Now that she thought of it, she remembered the swirl. Yes, the Weir, but other signals as well, individual strands rather than the complicated churning mass of the Weir’s collective stream. Not just the mind of the Weir, then. Was the node also responsible for her own connection? For the connection of everyone else out there who relied on it?

And how was it still functioning so well after all this time? There was hardly any dust to be seen, the air was cool and dry. The environment was well-controlled to protect the machines. But it seemed unlikely that it could have been designed so well as to remain in such pristine condition for who knew how many decades.

Cass moved further into the facility and made yet another astonishing discovery. In the midst of the aisles of smaller machines was an open space, a miniature courtyard of sorts. And in the center of that space sat a single, massive machine. Ten feet tall at least, and twice as wide. The most striking thing about it, though, was that Cass had seen it before. It had been smaller, more compact, less intricate in its inputs, but the same nonetheless. She had seen it in Morningside, in the governor’s compound.

Underdown’s machine.

This, she knew then, was what she sought. The center of Asher’s power. Or, at the very least, a critical component to his control over the Weir. For a time she evaluated it, walked around it, studied it. Wondered how it functioned and what exactly it did. She told herself she was looking for the best way to cripple it, but all that time she found herself having to resist an urge to connect to it. She’d seen it from afar so many times, but only had glimpses since her first discovery. Now, here was a chance to see it in its full glory, unhindered by distance. Before she knew what she was doing Cass started to stretch out to it.

It was then that she realized her great danger. The urge she was feeling was not her own. She was being compelled towards it, as if her physical proximity had hastened the process she had been fighting against for so long. And it was as she wrestled herself back under control that she learned the answer to the mystery of why the machines were so well-maintained.

From somewhere deep in the facility, a cry echoed, sharp and distorted, white noise translated by an organic voice.

Cass stood, paralyzed by the shock, even as the cry was answered by other voices, too many to count or process. The Weir. The Weir were in the building.

And in her mind, a connection forced its way to her in a lightning flash, a burst of signal lasting less than the blink of an eye. The afterimage was unmistakable. Asher. He had glimpsed her, he had found her, his eyes were on her.

She broke into a run then, twisting her way through the aisles back towards the stairs, but too late. Far too late. The Weir were swarming toward her now, their electric howls saturating the room and overwhelming her senses. Every turn she took led her to a Weir.

Cass whipped the jittergun from its holster, cut her way through the onslaught as it crashed into her, filtered by the rows of machines. If it hadn’t been for the aisles forming so many narrow corridors, the numbers would have engulfed her in seconds. But the Weir were constantly forced to redirect, and the separation kept the attacks coming in bursts of only two or three at a time. Cass’s speed and reaction time, coupled with her unconquerable ferocity, were too much for so few to contain. With gun, fist, and claw, she rent all who stood in her path.

But in the confusion and chaos, Cass was driven off course, forced back, and she found herself circling against her will towards the great machine. Though she slew them as they came, the Weir used their superior numbers to direct her. They were corralling her. Asher’s will. To drive her to the machine. There, to do what? Sacrifice her at its foot, at the altar of Asher? Or to complete the process of reintegrating her, of casting her once more into bondage?

There was no escape for her, she knew that now. But she wouldn’t give Asher the privilege of taking her life, whether by slavery or by death. She’d wanted to punch him in the mouth. This was her opportunity.

She fought her way back towards the machine, and found that as long as she made progress in that direction, the attacks were fewer, less vicious. A few of the creatures still dared to test her. One lashed out just as she came out from an aisle. They were so slow compared to her, she saw it all before it developed into a danger. She stepped outside the attack and brushed the creature’s arm by, then stepped in and embraced it, trapping its outstretched arm over her shoulder where it could do no harm. With a swift twist, she lifted the creature off its feet and crushed its skull into the concrete. Another tried to pounce from behind, but she turned in time and slapped its head sideways, guiding it into a rack of machines.

Though she hadn’t intended to, something happened when she touched the creature, and she felt power go out from her. The Weir shrieked for half a heartbeat and then abruptly went silent and collapsed to the ground as if it had just been switched off. After that, though they continued to keep pace with her and hem her in, no other Weir approached her.

The machine was just ahead of her, and she slowed her advance to it. When she reached it, she put her back against it, and kept the jittergun moving in a lazy arc, ready to cut down any foolish enough to move towards her. For the moment, none of them did. They were hanging back, either having accomplished their purpose of encircling her, or afraid to come any closer.

It was then that Cass became aware of the ripple in her thoughts. A dark pressure that stretched into her mind, threatened to force control of herself to the side. It brought pain that she felt somehow other than physically; a mental agony as if her mind was literally bending. She pushed back against it with all her will, and as she strove against it, she knew its source.

Asher. Asher was trying to force his way into her mind again.

Cass felt peace descend on her then. She’d only begun to understand the power that had long been latent within her. There was no way she could withstand a determined attack from someone as skilled and powerful as Asher. She reached to her belt, to the grenade that Finn had given her. Just in case.

In those final seconds, she did what she had decided long before to do. She pimmed Gamble, speaking quickly to minimize the connection time.

“They got me, G. But I took a bunch with me. Tell Wren I love him.”

And before she got a response, she activated the grenade. Five seconds, from the time she released it from her hand.

But just before she did, the pressure in her mind released immediately, and she felt a sudden void where it had been. A moment later, the line of Weir broke. Some lunged forward, but most scattered into chaos.

Cass cut loose with the jittergun, dropped to a knee. Weir fell before her, and to either side. But for that instant, she saw a clear path back towards the stairwell. She left the grenade at the base of the machine and surged forward. Five seconds.

Even if she could get clear of the concussion blast, she had no idea what that pulse would do to her. She smashed through a Weir who had either tried to stop her, or just been unlucky enough to cross her path.

Three seconds.

Two.

One.

“Cass?” came Gamble’s voice.

And then hell broke through and threw her into darkness.

W
ren held
the pistol just as Haiku had showed him the night before. It was early afternoon now, and they stood together a little distance from the tower. The pistol was heavy, and large for his hands, but so well-balanced that it almost felt like it was helping him. Haiku had set an empty water canister on top of a three-foot tall block of concrete, about fifteen yards away. Wren focused on the front sight, lined it up with the rear, and placed it in the center of the slightly-blurry canister. It felt strange to keep his attention on the gunsight instead of on what he was shooting at, but Haiku assured him that was the only way to do it. Once he was on target, Wren took his finger from the side of the gun and slipped it inside the trigger guard. Touched the trigger.

He took a breath, held it. Steady. Keep the sights lined up. As long as those sights were lined up, Haiku said, the round would go where it was pointing.

Wren put pressure on the trigger, tugged. The trigger clicked back, the hammer fell.

Click.

“Too quick,” Haiku said, from off to his left side and slightly behind him. “You want steady pressure on the trigger. Don’t jerk it. Did you see what happened with the sights that time?”

“They went down and left.”

“Down and left,” Haiku repeated. “So you’ll shoot low and left. Try it again.”

Wren repeated the process, more mindful of the pressure he was putting on the trigger. Slow and steady. He drew the trigger back fraction by fraction. Any second it was going to release. Any second. He reached the point where he knew the trigger “break”, pulled through that last bit.

Click.

The sights dipped again.

“Same thing,” Wren said.

Haiku nodded. “You’re anticipating too much.”

Haiku stepped up next to him, adjusted Wren’s grip slightly.

“You have two jobs,” he said. “The first, and most important, is to keep those sights lined up on the thing you want to destroy. The second, is to put smooth pressure on that trigger. You’re not firing the gun. That’s not your job. You do your two jobs, and the gun will fire itself. That’s its job. OK?”

“OK,” Wren said. Haiku stepped back to his previous place.

“Again.”

Wren tried again. Same process. On target. Finger on trigger. Smooth pressure. Eyes on the front sight. Smooth pressure. Front sight.

Click.

The sound of the click actually startled Wren that time, he’d been so focused on the front sight, he hadn’t noticed how close the gun was to going off. And, he was happy to notice, the sights had barely moved.

“Well?” Haiku said.

“I think I see now,” Wren answered.

He tried it a few more times. Sight, on target, finger to trigger, pressure.
Click.

He kept at it so long his arms got tired of being extended. Haiku watched him practicing, made occasional comments and minor corrections, but once Wren had seen how it was supposed to work, he was able to make a lot of his own corrections. A benefit of his training, carrying over to a new skill. It was mildly thrilling to see how quickly he could learn something new.

“One second,” Haiku said. “I need to check something.” He came over again and took the pistol from Wren. He gently guided Wren back a few steps and then stepped up to the firing line, between Wren and the target. Wren rubbed his eyes, massaged his arms while he waited. He heard the clicking of Haiku manipulating the weapon, checking the cylinder to make sure it was clear, dry firing, checking the cylinder again.

“Here,” Haiku said, bringing Wren back to the line. “Show me one more time.”

Wren took the pistol, careful to avoid pointing it anywhere except the ground, just as Haiku had taught him. He waited for Haiku to step back to the side and behind him, and then went through the process.

Gun up, sights aligned on target. Finger to trigger. Steady pressure.

The pistol belched hellfire and leapt in Wren’s hand so violently he almost dropped it. His ears rang with the echoing thunder that rolled across the open plain and back again. Wren’s mouth dropped open. There was no sign of the water canister. It had been completely obliterated.

Wren looked at Haiku, who was standing there with his fingers to his ears and a grin on his face.

“You didn’t tell me it was loaded!” Wren said.

“You should’ve checked it yourself,” Haiku said, taking his fingers away. “And I needed to see how you handled it.”

“I only had three shells for it,” Wren said.

Haiku looked over to where the canister had been, where the concrete was smoking faintly.

“Don’t think you’ll need more than one,” he said. He picked up another canister from the ground by his feet and motioned to Wren. “Show me it’s clear.”

Wren flicked open the cylinder, took out the spent shell, showed the three empty chambers to Haiku. Haiku nodded.

“Keep it that way. Be right back.”

He walked back down to the concrete block and placed the cylinder there. When he returned he held out his hand for the pistol again. Wren reluctantly handed it to him. His nerves were still rattled by the unexpected blast.

“If you can hit something that small at that distance, you’ll be able to hit something bigger and closer no problem,” Haiku said. He had angled himself to the side as he spoke, but he had the cylinder open again. “If your target’s farther away than that, don’t bother trying to hit it.”

He snapped the cylinder shut again, handed the weapon back to Wren, and then stepped off to the side and put his fingers to his ears. He gave Wren a little nod.

Wren got back into his proper stance, and then paused. He flicked the cylinder open, saw the back of one shell in the chamber. Closed it again. He glanced at Haiku, who was smiling again. Wren took a breath, brought the gun up and on target. Sights, finger on trigger, gentle pressure.

As he got closer to the trigger break, he braced himself for the roar, gripped the gun more tightly. Closer. Closer. The trigger released.

Click.
The hammer striking a dead shell. A dud?

Wren opened the cylinder, withdrew the round. It wasn’t a dud. It was the one he’d already fired. He looked up to Haiku, an unspoken question.

“How’d you do with those sights?”

“Low and left,” Wren said.

Haiku nodded. “Anticipating the gun going off. Don’t worry about that. What are your jobs?”

“Sights and trigger,” Wren answered.

Haiku held his hand out again. Wren gave the pistol to him, the process repeated yet again. This time, though, Haiku didn’t let him check the cylinder.

Click. Click. Click.

Over and over, for the next twenty minutes, Wren practiced sighting in and pulling the trigger, cycling through all three chambers, never knowing if the gun was going to go off. Eventually it didn’t matter. He felt himself relaxing, maintaining his grip and a good sight picture on target. Then, at one point, after one
click
and the trigger broke for the second time, the gun again leapt and thundered in his hand. The water canister evaporated. Wren didn’t even flinch.

“I think you’ve got it,” Haiku said.

“I hope so,” Wren said. “I’m all out of practice.”

Haiku shook his head. “Practice continuously,” he said. He held out Wren’s last shell to him. “But save that until you need it.”

Wren nodded as he took the last remaining round and slipped it into his pocket. He removed the empty from the pistol, and got the other back from Haiku. Three had always carried the empties around.

So would Wren.

W
hen she woke
, Cass found herself lying face down on the concrete, about twenty feet or so from the stairwell. For a moment, based on how she felt, she thought she had fallen from a great height. Her entire body hurt, and when she tried to lift her head, the whole world sloshed. Everything around her was dark and still, but there was a strange buzzing in her ears. She lay there for a minute or two, unsure if she was capable of moving and unwilling to test it. The buzzing grew louder, took on strange shapes in her mind. Eventually they resolved themselves to words.

“Cass...” a woman’s mutilated voice was saying. “... there?”

Static overwhelmed all other sounds for several seconds, and then the voice came again, process, distorted, full of audio glitches and artifacts. “... signal is still there... see you... respond...”

Cass had heard that voice somewhere before. Somewhere long ago. Was it her own voice?

No.

Gamble.

The recognition snapped Cass back to herself. She opened her mouth, stretched her jaw. Slowly drew her arms towards herself, placed her palms flat against the floor. Pushed up on shaky arms. To her relief, and mild surprise, she was able to support her weight, and even pull her legs in enough to get her knees under her.

“Gamble,” Cass pimmed. “I can hear you. I might make it after all. Not sure yet.”

She felt the message got out, felt it stutter and glitch. Something was very wrong with her. She managed to sit back on to her knees without losing her balance. All around her was chaos. Between the concussion wave and the electromagnetic pulse, the neat aisles of machines were in shambles, both physically and in that unseen, digital realm. She’d made it a lot farther away in that five seconds than she’d thought. And thankfully, the stacks of machines seemed to have absorbed most of the energy from the blast, concussion and pulse. She hadn’t quite cleared the blast radius, but she’d almost made it.

The room seemed to be a lot hotter than before. And here and there she could make out the broken forms of Weir. Most were still. Some were twitching spasmodically. Two were still on their feet, but of them, one was staring blankly ahead, and the other was turning slow circles to its right.

“Cass... coming in str...” Gamble’s broken voice said, but it was a little cleaner now than it had been before. “... location when...”

Cass realized then the problem wasn’t with her. It was with her connection. Possibly with every connection for who knew how many miles. The signal was degraded. And then the Weir that had been turning in slow circles stopped. Switched direction. Facing her. It opened its mouth. Started towards her in an ungainly lope.

Whatever was wrong with the connection wasn’t permanent. It was being repaired. The other Weir turned its head to look at her. Cass’s jittergun was a few feet away. She crawled to it, scooped it up off the floor. The Weir that was moving towards her was having trouble staying on course. She dropped it before it ever posed a serious threat. But the other was still tracking her with its head.

Cass looked over at the stairs. She’d come down them knowing full well she was going to have to climb them to get back out. The idea of trying to run up them was almost enough to keep her from getting off the floor. But whatever she’d done had hurt Asher. Better. It had scared him. He had fled her mind when he realized what she was up to, fled the machine. She wasn’t ready to give up yet. Not by a long shot. Cass called up her last reserves of strength and got herself up and moving towards the stairwell. She cycled through the small chamber, and when she got into the stairs proper, she turned around and gave the controls on the door a half-second burst from the jittergun. Maybe that’d slow them down a little bit.

Then, with arms and legs of lead and a heart full of fire, Cass climbed.

T
o Wren’s surprise
, Foe had given him the rest of the day off from training. Wren had gone to his room and washed the grime off himself, excited about the prospect of getting long hours of sleep. Instead, he was still awake in his room. He’d turned off the overhead light, which cast his room in near total darkness. The bathroom light was on, though the door was drawn all the way shut. Just barely enough light for him to make out his coat hanging on the back of the door to his room. Wren stood against the opposite wall, practicing drawing Three’s pistol from its holster. Not for speed. Just for familiarity. Hand to grip, smooth draw from hip to firing position, front sight on target. Finger to trigger. Steady pressure.
Click.

He returned the pistol to its holster, which he’d fixed to his belt. The weapon was heavy and felt like it might make his pants come down on the side, even though his belt was as tight as he could get it. Again; smooth draw, on target, finger to trigger.
Click.

Wren had tried to sleep. He certainly needed it. But every time he’d started to drift off, he’d had terrible nightmares. Nightmares of unspeakable and bizarre things, things his mind couldn’t even properly reconstruct now, leaving him with broken fragments of images and a haunting fear. Practicing his draw and shot all as one movement was focusing, the repetition calming. He’d done it so many times now that even in the low light he was developing a feel for how the weapon should feel when it was on target, and whether or not he’d executed a proper trigger break.

For all he was facing, it was Painter that was causing his turmoil. There were too many emotions surrounding the circumstances for Wren to identify exactly how he felt. Maybe he was feeling
everything
, or all the bad feelings anyway, all at once. Fear, anger, grief. And maybe even a sense of vengeance. He had saved Painter, after all. He’d done everything he knew to do to help him. And Painter had repaid him in the cruelest way possible.

Wren didn’t want to kill anyone. He could barely imagine what it would be like, to have someone on the other side of that pistol when he was pulling the trigger. It was one of the reasons he was practicing borderline obsessively. When it came time, he just wanted his body to do it.

But the thing that scared him most was that with Painter... well, with Painter, he
could
imagine it. And though he tried to ignore it, he found that the longer he waited, the more difficult it was to resist the urge to reach out and find Painter. He would have to do it eventually. And though his inclination was to wait until he could ask Foe for permission, he felt like maybe he was beyond that now. After all, Foe had fully restored his own connection. Maybe this was one of his final tests. Maybe Foe was waiting for him to see the opportunity and to take it. Then again, maybe he was just trying to justify it to himself.