Heart of Annihilation (17 page)

Caz
5 hours and 40 minutes pre-RAGE

Caz had never taken the opportunity to step inside the council chamber. Few did. Not that it was forbidden. Just looked down upon. For a government with the sole purpose of keeping their population peaceful and content, they allowed little if any participation in decision-making. Everyone was always happy with their decisions, thanks to the serene enforcement of the marshals.

One would think that the council chamber would be housed beneath the extravagant, gaudy dome that could be seen from thousands of grids away. Attikin’s dome. It wasn’t. But the council chamber was legendary in and of itself. An enormous half-circle amphitheater descended before her, the roof open to the sky. A zapping, multi-colored electrical web usually covered the arched entrance. The web was now missing, absorbed by the blast in the square. A chatter of frightened voices from deep in the chamber filled the air in the web’s absence.

Caz trailed her fingers across the archways and came to a stop inside the chamber. Each step of the amphitheater was made of a different metal: the ones closer to her were alloys, making them more resistive to electrical conductivity; the lower ones, pure metals such as copper and gold. Highly conductive. Highly valuable. Exactly one hundred and twenty-two elaborate seats, staggered across the different steps, were filled with either aging Rethans who would most likely die in their seats or the younger sons or daughters of dead council members, groomed their whole lives for the position. Like Vin.

The very epicenter of the chamber was a stage made of the most precious of Rethan metals, the most highly conductive pure silver, which had been tarnished through the ages. The hundred and twenty-third seat, a huge, garish throne, was occupied by the commandant himself.

Caz stood above them all, looking down at the silver heads. Some were already out of their seats, gathering their things in preparation to leave. Others stood in tight groups. A cold wind whipped through the chamber, scattering their tense, frightened chatter.

Caz took the time to count.
Attikin’s ass
. All the seats were filled except one. And she knew exactly who was missing.

Xander.

She shrugged, knelt, and opened her bag. Several items were laid neatly side-by-side. Caz touched the melon-sized orb in the very center. The yellow glow warmed her fingers. It was so lovely. She sighed, and moved her hand to the two items beside it.

She’d spent her whole Rethan life obsessing over weapons. The cold, hard mathematics; the elegant engineering, the thrilling potential of killing capacity. What she never considered, until the last few weeks, was the artistry essential in taking an individual life.

Fire a weapon, set off an explosion. None of it had that personal touch. The cool of the other person’s skin. The flicker of terror in their eyes. The recognition of her complete power.

All the mathematics and science in the world were no match for the most basic of weapons. She already had the materials in her lab: the anvil, the forge, the nichrom hammer. And silver. Alloy silver with lead, and strength was added to the weapon’s high conductivity.

The blade sang against the Heart of Annihilation and whispered across the fabric of the bag. Caz held it before her eyes. Twelve inches of glistening, untarnished silver alloy, sleek with a graceful curve. A handle of polished copper fitted perfectly to her hand.

Caz draped her bag’s long carrying strap over her shoulder and adjusted it so it hung down her back. She stood. Her eyes went straight to the lord of the room, sitting on his throne.

The commandant stared back at her.

“Cazandra, what in Gauss’s law are you doing here?” Commandant Paliyo’s voice echoed all around the chamber, silencing the other council members. The one hundred and twenty-one other faces turned on her.

The commandant pushed himself to his feet. Caz hadn’t seen him since before Vin died. He’d aged in that time, adding at least another ten kilos to his weight. His face was splotchy, and cavernous circles shrouded his eyes.

“We have an appointment,” Caz said into the silence of the room.

“The hell we do. I told council member Fisk not to allow it.” Commandant Paliyo gestured to the side. A half a dozen marshals materialized from the shadows and came her way. “Get her out of here. And will someone
please
get me a report of what’s going on out there!”

“I can tell you.” Caz adjusted her fingers on the blade.

“You?” The scorn in the commandant’s tone worked a twinge of anger past Caz’s cool façade.

“Yes sir, your honor. Or I could show you.” Caz sighted down the blade.

The marshals climbed the steps toward her. Caz set her feet, bent her knees, and grinned at the closest marshal. He was young. Not much older than Caz was when Zak Faras died. Too young to carry the vacant mien of all Rethans.

He reached for her. Caz slashed the blade across his arm, cutting through flesh and bone with ease.

The world silenced. His mouth opened, his tongue as red as the blood flowing from the missing appendage. She recognized that noise should be filling her ear—screams, perhaps a spattering sound. It was lost behind the
whoosh, whoosh
of her own singing blood and the deafening song of adrenaline. Of rapture.

The first marshal hadn’t even fallen before her blade moved on. A slice to her left, a stab to her right. She felt the blade penetrate flesh. The catch of bone. The tug of fabric. She counted as they fell. She danced down the steps, her feet light upon the alloyed daises, the melodious whoosh in her ears.

Pure, tarnished silver brightened beneath her feet. The rushing sound faded and sounds penetrated. Screams. Running feet, cries of supplication, chaos. The quiet zap of the energy surging up and down the dripping blade.

“Silence!” Caz whistled the blade through the air, projecting energy into a sizzling lightning bolt that swept the chamber and spattered those closest in blood. “I said silence!”

The screaming melted into whimpers, and the council as a whole froze where they were. An ancient male wiped a crimson spot from his cheek. Caz scanned the doorways, nooks, and corners for evidence of other marshals. None appeared. Her path could be mapped by the blood and bodies.

Caz’s boots squeaked as she turned on the silver daises. Commandant Paliyo cowered behind his oversized throne.

“My esteemed commandant,” Caz said quietly. “Would you be so kind as to ask everyone to take their seats?”

He came out from behind his chair, shuffling on his knees, his hands clasped prayerfully.

“Cazandra.”

Caz cocked an eyebrow. He stood hastily.

“Everyone, take your seats,” the commandant said in a hoarse whisper.

The council members, for the most part, obeyed. Hesitant and shaky, they managed to get to their feet and either collapse into the closest chair or perch precariously on the edge, so as to take flight at a moment’s notice. A few were unable to move in any direction.

“My dear council.” Caz ran the blade of the knife across her arm, revealing the weapon’s shine. Blood saturated her sleeve. “We are gathered for a plenary session to discuss the inclusion of weapon number one-twenty-three to the public arsenal.”

No one moved. No sound was heard except a groan of pain from one of the closest fallen marshals. Caz swung the blade around, directing a powerful charge of voltage into the copper handle and down the blade. White lightning curled out, striking the prone figure atop his head. The body jerked, then lay still and silent. Gasps exploded from the council members. Half rose from their seats. Caz silenced them with a look.

“However, your graces, I would like to submit that it is no longer enough to add a weapon to the arsenal. The public record may state its presence. It may hold at bay those lower dimensions who would like to invade us for our technology.” She raised her voice. “But it will
never
deter the Thirteenth Dimension.”

Caz allowed a pause for emphasis, then continued. “As requested—nay, as forced upon my dearly departed parents—the Fisk family has completed the weapon in which we will be able to combat the Thirteenth Dimension, the Heart of our beloved planet.”

Caz reached into her bag and palmed the orb. She withdrew it with one hand and held it aloft for the council to see.

“What I am proposing is not simply adding this magnificent feat of engineering to the arsenal, but using it to eliminate the threat to Retha and the remaining dimensions.”

Some gasped. A few muttered complaints. At least she had gotten a response of some kind. Not favorable, but then she hadn’t expected it to be.

“Cazandra,” Commandant Paliyo’s voice broke over her, angry and disbelieving. “You can’t possibly think we would ever be willing to start a war with a dimension so far beyond our capabilities to combat. This not only goes against the rules of etiquette and—”

Rage boiled her blood in a sudden burst of heat. Caz slammed the Heart of Annihilation into his lap. He choked on a gasp. Caz put her face in his, pressing the tip of the blade against his throat. He shrank from her as far as his seat would allow while pushing against the orb.

“Do I look like I give a damn for the rules of etiquette and serenity?” she snarled. “The Thirteenth Dimension has destroyed billions of lives, including Vin! Your son, Commandant! My husband!”

Caz inhaled and exhaled through her nose, forcing the rage back to a manageable place. A drip of blood welled from the point of the knife. She withdrew the blade and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. With the other she retrieved the Heart.

“I think we should put it to a vote. Wouldn’t you say, Commandant? That is, after all, what this council is for, right?” Caz looked around at the assembly of Rethans, most staring at her in terror. However, enough anger still encompassed the room, giving her the opposition she craved.

“All in favor of including the Heart of Annihilation in the public arsenal, where it will perish in disuse and anonymity while the Thirteenth Dimension lays in wait to destroy us all, say, ‘aye.’”

Only the groan of a dying marshal could be heard. Caz scanned the room for signs of affirmation. Nothing.

“Okay then,” Caz said. “All in favor of allowing the Heart of Annihilation to reach its full potential and eliminate the Thirteenth Dimension before it can destroy us, I repeat, say, ‘aye.’”

Muttering and whispering. Some council members even leaned toward each other, while others remained frozen in their seats.

A quiet “nay” echoed from the back of the room.

Caz searched for the perpetrator, but before she could locate him another voice answered, “Nay.” Then another and another. Soon the room rang with nays. The deep voice beside her, so unbearably like Vin’s, echoed, “Nay.”

Caz rotated so she was facing Commandant Paliyo. He seemed to have gained strength with each nay, and now sat up straight in his throne.

“You see, Cazandra,” he said. “The rules we have created are not just a nice thing to keep everyone happy and compliant. We hold peace in our hands when we follow them. Murdering an entire dimension over rumors of their genocidal capacity breaches the etiquette and serenity put in place to not only protect our way of life, but our hearts and souls.” He shifted in his seat. “You may come in here with your weapons of anarchy and terrorize us into your absurd way of thinking, but you will never get these fine council members to agree to something so brutal, so beyond everything we’ve dreamed for our dimension. You have been voted down, Cazandra Fisk.”

He clenched the arms of his seat. His eyes, sad and weak, scanned his comrades, connecting with each of them. Caz felt the unity of the chamber, the companionship. The utter rejection of everything about her.

Caz scraped the tip of the blade along the Heart of Annihilation and nodded her head. She looked at the orb, felt the warm yellow glow penetrate her skin, and then calmly tucked it back into her bag.

She turned on Commandant Paliyo and touched the tip of the blade to the drip of blood on his neck. She gave him a vapid smile, her head still bobbing as if in agreement.

“Wrong answer, Commandant.” Caz thrust the blade downward.

Agony arched my back, every muscle rigid. Someone was screaming. Disease churned in my organs, burning through my blood vessels. Hands gripped my body. Each point of pressure exponentially increased the sensation of my nerves tearing apart.

“She’s crashing!”

“Paddles!”

A bright explosion of light mimicked a burst of electricity in my body. My heart ripped from my chest. Screaming drowned out the beeping, but not the voices.

“Hold her down! Let me get this IV in!”

The stinging scent of alcohol bit my nose. I couldn’t breathe. The tug at my hand might as well have been a tank driving over it.

Then the pain retreated into soothing sleepiness, warmth, and comfort. Silence and emptiness.

An incessant beeping roused me from a world of nonexistence. My eyelids felt as heavy as Dad’s homemade bread. I pried them open, blinking at the semi-darkness. It was too much, and I gave up without an effort. My lids dropped, shutting out the dark, foreign-looking surroundings. I didn’t even try to imagine where I might be, nor did it seem very important. I relaxed. The beeping faded.

The beeping penetrated my consciousness again. This time I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming through a tiny window above my head. I blinked heavily but managed to keep my eyes open this time. The small room was covered with fine wood paneling, an overwhelming amount of cupboards, and limited furniture. My hand rested on my stomach. A luscious-feeling fabric covered me to my armpits. I examined a red-lit clip on my forefinger, and a clear tube leading into a vein taped securely to my skin with transparent tape. My eyes followed the tube to a blood pressure and heart rate monitor near my bed. Squiggly green lines measured my heartbeat. Ah. That horrible beeping sound. A bag of clear liquid hung from a metal pole. I tried to read the fine print to discover what was being pumped into my body. My eyes tired of the challenge almost immediately, and the bag went out of focus. I dropped my hand back to a champagne-colored, brocade quilt.

The movement jarred into my other shoulder. Achiness and shadowy echoes of pain drew my eyes open. I rolled onto my side with a groan and pushed myself into a sitting position. My IV-restricted hand tried to tug me back into place. I fingered the thick, white bandage covering my shoulder. I wanted to peel back the dressing to see the damage underneath—but then again, I didn’t really. I rubbed my eye.

The image of blood spraying from Thurmond’s head jolted through my mind, so vivid that my whole body lurched. I could still feel his dead weight on top of me. I tore back the covers and threw my legs over the side of the bed.

I used my thumb to flick off the heart rate monitor. The beeping turned into a long drawn out squeal. I growled and sent a volt into the machine. It sparked and went silent.

Frustrated, shaking fingers tore at the tape holding the IV in place until I finally caught an edge, grimacing as I yanked out small hairs, a layer of skin, and the needle from my hand. I dropped it on the bed. Clear liquid with a curl of watery blood leaked across the quilt’s bright white monogram—a very swirly X.C.

I put pressure on the small, bleeding hole in my hand. My bare feet curled in the plush carpet. I glanced down at myself. Then stared. A black, lacy nightgown barely covered the most important parts of me. The spaghetti straps did a great job of keeping the bandages clear but other than that I couldn’t imagine why I would be wearing something out of a Victoria Secrets catalogue.

At least it gave me a fine view of the enormous bruise wrapping from the back of my left thigh. The majority of it was a deep wine color, although the edges were already yellowing.

That’s what happens when your so-called comrades decide to put you in the ground.

I shook my head to dislodge the voice.

Sure, shake me out. That will work. If I hadn’t been there you would have been the hood ornament for a Hummer.

I could almost feel the rush of air as the Hummer’s wheel missed my face, the jolt of the massive vehicle slamming onto my thigh.

If you’d put up more of a fight the key wouldn’t be gone. Rannen as well. Lafe with a hole in her forehead.

Nausea twisted my gut into a tight mass of agony. I pressed a fist to my mouth and breathed through my nose. Not nearly good enough. I stumbled to my feet and yanked open the door hoping to find a bathroom. Instead I found myself staring at a small kitchenette, some very nice leather couches and recliners, and—a steering wheel?

Throwing open a door to my right in a wild guess, I finally found the toilet. I slammed the toilet lid up. Again and again my stomach tried to expel nonexistent contents, as though it would also eject the images from my head.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and upper lip. In an attempt to force my mind somewhere, anywhere else, I hummed the Beach Boys song about the Salt Lake City girls. Dad loved to break into that song at the most inconvenient times, because he knew he could get it stuck in my head. As true today as then.

Slowly my stomach settled. My throat felt tight and sore. I spat, wiped my face with toilet paper, and spat again. I rested my head on the toilet seat and let the words of the song tickle my lips.

Even with the song I found my thoughts focused on Thurmond. He was alive, I was sure of it. Hadn’t my last memory been of talking to him? About what? I couldn’t remember much, just his face. Muddy, bloody, but very much alive.

When I was sure the toilet would no longer be requiring my services, I pushed myself to my feet. All the aches and pains I’d ignored in my mad rush to the bathroom crept up on me with sharp hands. My leg, of all things, hurt the worst. Putting any weight on it made it feel that perhaps the muscle was more than simply bruised. I limped to the sink to splash cold water over my face and rinse out my gummy mouth. I felt like I hadn’t opened it in over a week. How long was I down?

I stared at my hands as the water ran over them. I pictured blood soaking the skin instead of water. Not my blood. Not Thurmond’s. Blood, splattered onto the handle of a knife. A silver blade pressed against a white throat. Silver eyes peered at me, pleading. A Rethan in another dimension. A Rethan at another time. I rubbed my hands together, wondering why I could feel the stickiness of blood even when my hands looked clean.

Soap.

I grabbed the scented bar of soap from the lip of the sink, ignoring the stab of pain in my shoulder. I lathered quickly, running the soap between my fingers and all the way up past my wrists. Again and again I rinsed and lathered, desperate to rid myself of the Rethan blood. I felt the resistance of the knife against bone. The slipping as my fingers tried to grip the slick handle. The squelching sound as it pulled clear.

Again and again. Soap, lather, scrub, rinse. My hands turned raw and my shoulder ached with the strain.

Movement in the mirror above the sink finally caught my attention. I froze. Burning water ran across my hands. I rested my hands on the lip of the sink, staring into the mirror. Steam rose past eyes I barely recognized.

The irises could probably still be considered hazel, but were now flecked with silver spots. The inner edges seemed to be fading into lightened pupils.

A scoff burst from my throat that sounded wrong—the wrong reaction to something very clear.

Very Rethan.

“Shut up!” I rubbed my face with wet hands and then scrubbed my nails through my hair.

My hair.
Damn.
The long, auburn thatch cascaded across my shoulders and down my back, shimmering with a hint of metallic, silver—
Rethan—
highlights.

No, not silver. Gray, or white, or something. Trauma equals white hair. It had happened before. I’d read about it somewhere. It was nothing a little Clairol couldn’t fix up. Gray—not silver. I pulled a multifaceted strand in front of my eyes, repeating the words to myself
.

Sure, Kris. Make sure you follow through with your textbook denial. That usually fixes everything.

I slammed my hand on the faucet to shut off the water and braved one more look in the mirror. My face looked almost as foreign as my eyes and hair with the multiple scrapes, cuts, and bruises. I turned my head this way and that, witnessing small flashes of memory of how each one occurred, ending with the shrapnel wound on my hairline. The hair parted around thirteen stitches. I glanced at my eyes again, and the silver in my hair, before sinking to the floor with my back against the door.

They told me I was a Rethan. Some kind of murderer. I rubbed the barely-visible, tarnished symbols burned on my palm. Proof, they called it. And hadn’t powering their portal been proof as well? But I wasn’t! How could something of this magnitude have escaped my notice or knowledge for the entirety of my life? I supposed being a Rethan in and of itself might not be so bad, but a mass murderer? No, I couldn’t be
that
person!

Caz,
the acidic voice whispered.
That person has a name.

I rubbed my raw, wet hands together, looking at them with fresh eyes. Just hands. Clean hands. Not murdering hands.

Murdering?
Sure. That would put us right up there with Ben Attikin, Genva Lunas, and the commander herself.
There was a brief burst of laughter inside my head.
What are you going to do about it?

Shut up, Caz, shut up! You’re not real. I can’t be hearing this.
I clenched my hands in my hair. Terrified that the madness from the battle had carried itself over to wherever I was, I slipped from the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. My back pressed against it to trap the monster inside, my breathing loud and heavy in my ears.

I touched my neck with trembling fingers, searching for comfort from my dad. The instant I felt the bare skin I remembered the commander lifting my tags and pendant away, the silver BB suspended from the center. A key, she’d called it, but the only thing that mattered to me was that I didn’t have it anymore. The commander did. She had the key, and she’d taken my last lead in finding Dad.

Who knew she had it in her. Damn her.

Apparently I hadn’t trapped the voice in the bathroom. I squeezed my eyes shut, pounding the back of my head against the door.

I needed Thurmond. I opened my eyes, glancing down at my clothes—or lack thereof. Thurmond would ground me. He always could. But not like this.

Back in the tiny bedroom I rooted through the closets and cupboards, finding pillows, blankets, t-shirts, handkerchiefs, and even socks adorned with the same X.C. monogram. I paused once to examine an oil painting of a very tan man with overly white teeth.

I finally spotted a hint of camouflage poking out from a neatly folded mesh of tissue paper on the bedside table. The paper crinkled as I pulled it away, finding my uniform with the Rose nametape indicating ownership. It was washed, ironed, starched, and I fingered an almost invisible patching job on the right shoulder. I shook it out and dropped it on the bed before grabbing the starched pants, a black t-shirt that wasn’t mine, and a small pile of white underclothing that looked new.

The black nightie I shoved under a pillow. I worked on the pants one-handed, buttoned one-handed, pushed my right arm into the shirt sleeve without trying to move my shoulder too much, all of which very nearly tested my patience for the year. I tucked in my shirt simply because it was the one easy thing to do one-handed, and was reaching for my boots when something gold under the tissue paper caught my eye.

I picked up the M-16 tracer round, my round, and rolled it between my fingers. It was buffed and polished to a high shine. Not the slightest dirt was visible in the tiny imperfections of the surface. The last time I’d seen it was before inserting it in the rifle. It hadn’t fired when I’d needed it. I ran my thumbnail along the red-painted tip and wondered if the rain had dampened the gunpowder. I folded it in my fist, allowing the tip to bite into my palm, before placing it in my pants pocket.

I jammed my feet into my boots without socks and left the bootlaces hanging open. There was something downright liberating about going into public with my uniform completely out of whack.

I made my way past the comfy couches. Blinds covered all the windows, even the windshield, giving the whole area a muted, shady look—bluish even. Although hadn’t everything kinda gone blue after my first Azshatath injection?

An overabundance of framed photos of a single man covered the walls and cabinets and sat on every available counter space. Tanned skin, white teeth. The same man in the oil painting in the bedroom. A twinge of familiarity touched my mind, but aside from the fact that I was using his RV as a recovery room, I didn’t really care who he was.

Mid-afternoon sunlight blinded me as I swung the door outward. I used the rail for support down the three steps. My feet hit hot black asphalt, and I shielded my eyes. Several other RVs like the Winnebago were scattered across the pavement. Other temporary buildings also sat neatly in rows, spaced so close together the doors would hit if they opened at the same time. Uniform trees farther to the south hinted at a more permanent infrastructure, but everything else around me screamed short-term. People strode past, talking importantly on cell phones or making their way toward some critical appointment or another. No one paid me the least bit of attention.

I didn’t notice Thurmond at first because he was nestled in a shady spot not far from the door. He lounged in a camp chair, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, looking very relaxed except for the tightly folded arms across his chest. He wore his uniform, although his mutilated camouflage jacket had been replaced with a black t-shirt adorned with the symbol of some punk-rock band. A long, thick gash slashed toward his temple and was held together by a large number of stitches. The blood had drained across the entire side of his face, and his left eye and cheek were mottled in a symphony of colors. His eyes followed the progress of one person after another, but his head only turned to scratch his ear with his shoulder.

“Hey,” I said, leaning causally against the stair railing.

One faded glance of indifference, and then Thurmond was on his feet. The camp chair fell backward and folded with a clatter. He covered the distance between us in two strides and stopped. His eyes searched my face with his wonderfully normal, gray-blue eyes.

I lowered my chin and lashes in a sickening moment of self-consciousness.

Thurmond exhaled. His hands lifted to my cheeks. His fingers trembled against my bruised skin.

“They said you might not . . . they weren’t sure if . . .” Thurmond’s eyes flitted away from my face before returning with lowered brows. “Dammit, Rose, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to talk to you?”

His gruff anger trailed away and he pulled me into a rough embrace.

“Sorry,” I said, a little surprised at the warmth of his welcome. My voice muffled against his shirt.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” He pressed his cheek against my hair. His breath was hot and fast on my scalp.

I ran my hand across his back, trying to smooth away his tension. Maybe smooth away a little of my own discomfort at his lack of uber-army toughness. His breathing mellowed. My contrition went up a couple of notches. He drew away, stared hard in my face for a moment, and dropped his eyes.