Heart of Annihilation (7 page)

Cold, green light appeared as the first hints of morning brightened our little, canvas prison. I rubbed my eyes and found Thurmond wide-awake. His stubbled jaw was tense, the side of his face bruised. One hand clutched his side.

“You hurt?”

“A bit.” Thurmond shrugged. “Bashed my ribs up pretty good in the crash, and Sanderford wasn’t exactly subtle about his interrogation. What about you?”

“No, I’m fine. I think.” I wasn’t. The memory of Sanderford’s boot striking my ribcage made my side ache, among other things. I waved toward the hatch. “I’m a bit concerned they’re going to throw us from plane when they find us.”

I wasn’t trying to be funny, but Thurmond’s face relaxed into a grin. “We could probably use some parachutes, then.”

I blanched. “There aren’t any—”

“Actually there are.” He poked my shoulder. “I saw them bring in a whole pile of them.”

“Oh.”

It was nice to know there was an alternative to a chute-less free fall from twenty thousand feet, even if it meant trusting my life to a bit of fabric and some shroud lines.

“Come on.” Thurmond groaned, getting to his feet. “We’re going to get a couple.”

He made his way carefully across the scattered gear and dropped out of the back of the truck. I pushed myself up as well. A nervous hammering pained my gut. It was too easy, sitting quietly in the dark, to believe that things weren’t as grim as they truly were.

I lowered myself out of the Deuce to where Thurmond crouched. His hands were balled into fists as he watched for movement from the front of the plane. When he saw me next to him, he dropped onto his belly and crawled under the Deuce. I followed. My belly jarred against the floor. Thurmond glanced back once and then pulled himself out the other side.

I was about to follow when I felt a touch of air from my right. I jerked my arm next to my ribs and sucked my body into a solid, rug-like statue. A second pair of boots marched past. The leather brushed my sleeve. The hatch ground open. Light and a fresh, cold wind poured into the plane. I’d flown a C-130 enough times to know they were either disposing of several dozen full barf bags or taking a gander at the scenery. Maybe doing reconnaissance.

I made to follow Thurmond, feeling oddly incomplete without him, when I felt a double-nudge against my leg. My stomach leapt and I bashed my head on the underside of the Deuce. Eyes watering, I faced the pair of combat boots standing next to the vehicle.

Fear turned a hard fist in my stomach. Maybe someone accidently kicked me while moving past. Maybe they were trying to get something out of the Deuce. Maybe—

The boot nudged my leg again, more insistent this time. I heaved out the air in my lungs and, with great reluctance, pulled myself partially out from under the vehicle.

My eyes traveled up the camouflage-covered legs, thick hands clenching next to the pockets, past the torso and chest, pausing on the staff sergeant rank and nametape before landing on the face. My eyebrows hit my hairline.

The usually friendly face of Sergeant Wichman stared back. He pressed his lips together under his bristling, salt and pepper mustache.

I thought about pulling myself back under the vehicle, hoping our friendship spanned from alien-hunter to stowaway. Then another figure slithered up next to him. The ruddy skin of the second man paled when he saw me. The girlish lips made a round, red O.

Wichman glanced over at Justet and then grabbed the collar of my uniform. He dragged me from under the truck. I gripped the barrel of the rifle slung across my back and scrambled my way to my feet.

“Rose?” Justet shouted. “How the hell did you get here?”

I wanted to think up a really good response, the kind that would shock them to their boots. Something really remarkable that implied I had a different army, a better army, like F-16s and Chinooks bearing down on their lumbering sky bus, prepared to do them in.

My fantasy made me feel like a cockroach—annoyingly hard to kill and not even worth their time.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Sergeant Wichman’s very presence scuttled my last remaining confidence in my military leadership.

“What was
I
thinking? What were
you
thinking?” I yelled. “You . . . you—!”

Stray strands of hair flicked around my head, and I heard as much as felt the cool emptiness to my right. I pressed myself into the side of the Deuce, attempting to pry Sergeant Wichman’s fingers from my collar. The pistol grip of the weapon pushed a reminder into my spine. My fingers tightened around the rifle.

The commander appeared a few paces behind Justet. Her expression went from curious to blank.

“Very good, Lieutenant.” Her small eyes bore into me. “Take her into custody.”

“Remove that weapon from her, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Justet ordered, gesturing to Sergeant Wichman.

Wichman hesitated, his eyes locked on me. Justet turned toward the commander, possibly to plead for her support, as a large package flew past my head.

Justet and I both wrenched to the side. The parachute plowed into Sergeant Wichman’s face, throwing him against the stack of ammo cans behind him. The band securing the cans came loose, and the olive drab canisters tumbled across the floor.

I used the truck to find my balance and yanked the rifle up under my arm, my hand clenched on the pistol grip and my finger on the trigger. The shoulder strap pulled tightly across my back, but at least the muzzle was aimed at the commander’s face.

Justet’s hands were the first to rise. The commander’s smile disappeared, but it took her another full minute before her hands went up. The gesture was so unperturbed that I could have been holding a super-soaker instead of an M-16. Sergeant Wichman got to his feet, cursing under his breath. One hand touched his nose. Blood flowed across his mustache.

I flicked the barrel of the rifle at him, encouraging him to join Justet and the commander. Most of the other passengers were on their feet now, staring in unabashed surprise. Where was Sanderford? He had to be there. I needed to keep him in sight.

“Don’t anyone move!” I yelled. My finger trembled on the trigger. My thumb froze over the safety.

“Everyone relax,” Justet hollered. “There’s no way she has any ammo in that rifle.”

He didn’t lower his arms, and I knew what he was thinking. How much ammo did I really have? One shot. But I wasn’t sure they believed even that.

Thurmond inched his way between the two vehicles. Multiple straps and buckles crisscrossed his chest and around his legs, his uniform bunching here and there. He held the straps of a second chute. I could see myself simply backing into the thing before fighting our way to the hatch. A few eyes turned on him but then went back to me. Without a weapon he must not have appeared much of a threat.

I tried to keep everyone in sight, analyzing each movement and micro-expression. They were all beyond hostile. I don’t think I ever felt so much hatred directed at me in my life.

In your life maybe,
said the voice. My head pounded. My eyes locked onto the commander.

Her pulse beat a rhythm under the chain around her neck, the little beads popping hypnotically toward me. I pictured the chain descending down her boney chest, the tags resting under her breasts, the pendant hooking across the bridge of her bra.

Flaming rage burned up my throat. I flipped off the safety.

“Give me my tags,” I said, the words a guttural snarl. “Now!”

The commander reached slowly into her shirt. Her thumb drew the chain out with cool precision.

“Private Luginbeel.” Justet’s voice worked its way into my consciousness. “Get that nine mil. Quickly!”

My intense focus evaporated. My finger eased off the trigger. Private Luginbeel sat in the seat closest to us, a duffle bag between his knees, pulling a 9mm handgun from the bag.

Attikin’s ass! He’s going to kill us!

Tension turned my muscles into hard knots. A raging ache pounded above my left ear. In one rapid movement, I swung my fist, releasing the tension in an agonizing, knuckle-crushing wallop across Justet’s jaw.

He collapsed, a heap of camouflage and carroty hair, his legs in an unattractive sprawl. Time to go. My eyes went back to the commander, zeroing in on the tags hanging against her uniform. My head split with pain. Lights popped into my vision.

Get the key
. . .
get the key
. . .
get the key
. . . The chant in my mind surged energy into my limbs. I couldn’t look away from the pendant. I’d never wanted anything more.

I stepped across Justet’s body to reach the commander
.
My fingers closed on the tags and snapped the chain from her neck. I felt the welcome, warm curve of the pendant, a blissful moment of contentment.

The commander’s hand clamped onto my wrist. Our eyes locked. I pressed the muzzle of the rifle against her abdomen. My finger depressed the trigger just a hair.

I wanted to kill her. Pull the trigger and feel her blood spill across my hands. The desire was so strong it burned my mouth. I couldn’t breathe.

Kill her, kill her, kill her.

No I didn’t. I didn’t! I didn’t want to kill her. Except that I did.

With superhuman effort, I took a step back. The plane lifted and then dropped. My balance shifted. The ache in my head retreated.

A single gunshot echoed through the plane.

I jerked backward and slammed into the side of the Deuce. Agonizing heat burned down my arm. A spot near my shoulder pounded for attention. My upper body collapsed over in an effort to protect itself. Only the support of the Deuce kept me on my feet. I watched in a daze as my left hand reached over to staunch the flow of an astonishing amount of blood. The thick crimson fluid dribbled over the chain entwined in my fingers.

I staggered, the left side of my body scraping against the Deuce. Every harsh line of the plane’s interior became surprisingly sharp. Scars of sunlight moved across the walls of the aircraft as it banked.

I clutched the rifle, my hands forgetting how to let go. My gaze traveled from the blood . . .
so much blood
. . . to Luginbeel and the pistol he was pointing at me. Wind whipped away a delicate trail of smoke. The commander kicked Lieutenant Justet’s leg out of her way and took a step in my direction.

An arm circled my waist. Thurmond yelled near my ear. I was dragged back several paces. My legs refused to work. In fact, my whole body was going numb. Wichman lunged at me.

A shout. Pressure at my back. Then emptiness, accompanied by the sensation of falling.

Caz
5 years pre-RAGE

Caz tapped the tiny, red-hot shard of metal with her hammer, curving it around the stone anvil. It had been smelted down from the promise ring Vin had given her, not because she no longer needed or wanted it, but because it was the only metal she’d had on her when she descended into the lab two days ago.

Ash flecked her lap. It dirtied her dark, formal dress and glowed white in the darkness. She continued her methodical
tap, tap, tap
with the hammer, turned the shard by microns and
tap, tap, tapped
some more.

She was more than late. In fact, she had most likely missed it.
Tap, tap, tap, turn
. It was better this way. Who wanted to attend the interment of Retha’s most infamous munitioners? Who wanted to hear Xander’s sad words echoing in the vacant chamber?

The door clicked open. Unwelcome warmth blew at her back from the outside. The lab was kept cold for a reason. Not the sterile, metallic cold that encompassed the entirety of Retha but a foreign, damp, earthy cold.

Her parent’s lab was buried deep underground, and consisted of materials only found in the Third Dimension. Everything about the lab screamed the excessive amount it was costing the DC Council. No one had owned a room this extravagant since the days of former Commandant Ben Attikin. Nowadays equal distribution of capital, and the rules of etiquette and serenity, kept everyone on the same economic level. Except for government-funded munitioners, of course.

Tap, tap, tap.
Caz drummed her teeth together in time with her hammering. Footsteps followed the clack of the door closing and the deliberate turning of the key. The flames from the forge revealed a shadow of another person.

The walls were a deep brown, made of some kind of wood. Everything in the lab was either stone or wood. Nothing that could conduct electricity, except the tiny shard of metal held between her nichrom tongs and the matching hammer in her fist.

The archaic lock on the door only reinforced to her the dependency and helplessness of the voltage-wielding Rethans. They could unlock any door on Retha with an electrical charge, but would stand in complete bewilderment at the sight of a key. They were such drones. Caz smiled at the word she’d used as a child. As true today as it was then.

“You promised you’d be there.” Xander’s voice was flat.

Caz continued her work.
Tap, tap, tap
.

“Did I?” After a moment of silence she couldn’t help adding, “How’d it go?”

“Vin spent the entire service making wild excuses for you, chatting up everyone he saw, and trying to pawn your kid off on sympathetic relatives. Even spoke with an LRM representative, if you can believe it.”

Caz paused for one irritated second. Even reference to the Liberated Rage Movement set her teeth on edge. Especially since it was gaining such support from her passionate husband. Freedom from the two laws was tempting, she had to admit, but there was a feverish intensity to their actions that hinted at an escalation she was sure would end in violence. It was better if Vin stayed far, far away from them. She went back her work, pounding out her frustrations on the fragment of metal.

Xander went on. “He’s very diplomatic, that husband of yours. But what do you expect from a council member?”

“Did he manage it?” Caz asked.
Tap, tap, tap
.

“Manage what?”

“To pawn the baby off on a relative?”

“Yes.” The word was clipped. Xander let out a huff. “You know, between having him as a father and you as a mother, it’s a wonder the kid doesn’t shrivel up and die from neglect.”

Caz stiffened, and then turned slowly. The handle of the tongs cut into her palm. Xander stood behind her. The silver of his eyes caught the flickering of the flames. His breath misted in the cold, damp air. In his arms he held a small bundle. The softness of the blue blanket contrasted with Xander’s nicest, mourning metallics.

He stomach lurched. There was that feeling again. What was it about this tiny, immature Rethan in Xander’s arms that made her perfectly aligned world seem askew?

She reached for the child.
Her
child. Xander offered him up with a sigh. She was sure he hadn’t expected her to show any interest. That was where he was wrong. When the child was born, she was surprised to discover that she liked nothing better than feeling the helpless warmth in her arms.

The baby was still so tiny, but getting bigger every day. He would take after her father, intimidating everyone with his size and stature. He would make her proud.

She held him close, inhaling his scent: a mixture of storm clouds and milk. She was held captive by the connection she felt for him. It didn’t make sense in her ordered mind. In fact, nothing about him made sense. And yet here he was, so tiny, so helpless, and so very powerful.

She became aware of Xander, staring at her with those damnable omniscient eyes of his. His gaze never seemed to leave her when she was holding the child, searching for the motherly instincts he swore she was hiding somewhere.

Caz stood, and brushed Xander aside. She held the baby tightly with one arm, the tongs still in the other, and made her way to the forge. She nestled the curve of metal deep in the coals, and turned to Xander. The fire heated her back.

“Did you really come all the way down here to accuse me of bad parenting, Xan?”

Caz bounced the baby even though he hadn’t made a sound. She wanted to squeeze the tiny form, make him a part of her again. The disconnect had been painful, like losing a precious possession without the ability to ever retrieve it again. Xander stared at her. The deficient light made his eyes black holes.

“No.”

“Oh, that’s right, now that’s the lesser sin.” Caz gave a brief bark of laughter, turned back to the forge, and picked up the tongs.

She loved the way the fire seared her face in an unpredictable dance of heat. The cold lab kept the stockpiles of volatile chemicals and explosives stable. The forge was unable to penetrate such bio-crafted cold, but right here it scorched and burned in such strong contrast to the chill she felt herself divided in two.

“Say it,” she said. It was coming. Why delay the inevitable?

Xander shook his head, unable to verbalize his thoughts. Then, “Did you do it?”

“Do what, Xan? Be specific.” He wasn’t going to get away with a passive, partial accusation. If he wanted anything from her, he was going to have to say it.

Xander heaved out a resigned sigh. “Did you kill them? Did you kill our parents?”

She kept her face expressionless, although inside her chest a random bubble of laughter threatened to escape. She batted it down, and when she answered it was with the cool, overly composed voice she used to bully Vin into getting what she wanted.

“How can you even ask that?”

“Because you were fighting with them hours before it happened—”

“I always fight with them—”

“And you know as well as I that they were never going to let you here into the lab.”

“Xander, I’m wounded by the insinuation.” She said his name with condescending affection. Xander, who knew everything. Xander, who stood by her side no matter what. Xander, with his staggering and limited view of the world. She narrowed her eyes. “Have you voiced this to anyone else?”

“Caz—”

“Because with the marshals asking questions about the deaths, what are they going to think of you naming your little sister—”

“Caz—” Xander’s voice was insistent.

“—as a suspect?” She turned from him and worked the tongs deep into the coals. “The work here is too important to allow it to be sullied by conspiracies and false accusations!”

“Gauss’s law, Caz! The baby!” In two strides he was at her side and wrested the baby from her grip.

She tried to hold onto him at first, but then let go. What was the point? Xander stumbled back. The heat from the forge had melted the corner of the blanket near the baby’s feet into a black mound. A curl of rancid smoke rose from the charred spot. Xander ripped the blanket off and dropped it on the floor. The baby gave a surprised squall. Xander checked the little feet to make sure they were unharmed. Her son gave another cry, a whimper, and then sucked his upper lip as he fell back into contented sleep. Xander curled him close and stomped to the door.

The moment she’d shared with his little soul was lost again, just like every time she stopped holding him; stopped trying. She reached for her tongs and removed the tiny curve of metal from the coals. It glowed white-hot. She strolled back to her stool and fitted the curve of metal to the anvil. The key clicked in the lock behind her. Warmth flooded the room again.

“You’d better watch yourself,” Xander’s voice was a quiet hiss.

Caz whirled on her stool. Xander stood in the open doorway, gripping the baby to his chest to keep the small limbs warm in the absence of the blanket.

“Is that a threat?” She raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t one to walk such a dangerous line.

“No!” Xander lowered his voice. “No, Caz, it’s not a threat, it’s . . .” He stroked the baby’s head and looked Caz in the eyes. “It’s me warning you that losing your temper and getting yourself exiled will only succeed in causing your work to fail. Completely! Do you understand?”

Caz rolled her eyes and turned back to the anvil. She was too smart and methodical to ever get caught.

“Enjoy the rest of the memorial, Xan.”
Tap, tap, tap, turn.
“Give everyone who was brave enough to attend my excuses.”

The door slammed, leaving her with only the tell-tale tendrils of warmth touching her hands. As she tapped away she vaguely wondered who would care for her child until she got home later that night. Vin? No, not Vin. Of course not him. Vin would have important council-member work to catch up on. Or perhaps LRM extracurricular activities. It would be Xander.

Thinking on everything Xander said, Caz had to admit to herself that he was right. Again. But she took solace in the knowledge that he couldn’t be right about everything. It was the Heart of Annihilation or the child. Too much work had gone into the Heart to abandon it now. Xander would have to make up the difference in the meantime if he truly wanted to be right.