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The man held something up in his other hand.
 
“For these pretty marbles.
 
What will you trade me?
 
White marbles are always worth the most.”

The overlay picked out what was in the man’s hand, and the lattice bunched, pulling him away and down the corridor.

My God.

Still.
 
Julian tugged at his collar, pulling the lattice under control.
 
You couldn’t make progress without some investment.
 
Sure, some of these people here wouldn’t ever be right again, but once Reed had the technology the prisoner was using, they could —

Well.
 
Take over the world, most like.

He lifted his weapon.
 
Julian had slid a set of tranqs into it, more than enough to take out a man.
 
He wasn’t going to take chances.
 
He watched the overlay, the live feed at the right of his vision showing the corridor to the main part of the crypt.
 
The man hadn’t come that way, not yet, so there was still time.

Someone screamed in the dark in front of him, and Julian broke into a jog.
 
He caught a flash of movement, the overlay putting a wire frame around someone, and the sidearm barked.
 
The body spun, tumbling, and Julian didn’t slow as he moved up to the —

“Shit.”
 
Julian nudged the tech with a foot.
 
Not him
.

A voice spoke out of the darkness.
 
“Julian Oldham.”

Julian looked up.
 
“Yeah?”

“Julian Oldham, I’m so glad we have this time to talk, before the end.”
 
It was the prisoner’s voice, the man sounding calm.
 
In control.

“Before the end?” said Julian, walking towards the crypt.
 
Just down here, and then…
 
“The end of what?”

The man’s laugh sounded in the dark around him.
 
“The end of you, of course.
 
The end of all you hold dear.
 
The end of what you love, what you strive for.
 
Because, Julian Oldham, I made you a promise.”

You will release me or I will kill everyone you love.

Julian frowned.
 
“Yeah, about that,” he said.

“Oh, it’s too late to bargain, Julian Oldham,” said the man’s voice.

The man was using the PA system.
 
His voice was filling the room, maybe the whole Reed building.
 
“There’s just one problem,” said Julian.

“What’s that?” said the man.

“You’ve still got to get into the crypt,” said Julian.
 
“And I’m pretty sure I’ll find you and punch your lights out before that happens.”

“Really?” said the man.
 
“Why do you think that?”

“I know this place,” said Julian, steps taking him through the dark.
 
“You don’t.”

“No,” said the man, his voice agreeable.
 
“Except — well.
 
I’ve lifted what I need out of the minds of your servants.
 
So many petty concerns in their heads.
 
So much freedom of thought.
 
You should run a tighter ship, Julian Oldham.
 
It really has been too easy.”

“So, you know this place.
 
Big deal.
 
You’ve still got to get into the crypt.”
 
Julian had arrived at the door of the crypt, the white vaulted wall standing tall in front of him.
 
The status light on the front blinked red.

“No,” said the man again.
 
“No, I don’t.”

“What—” said Julian, but the door was already sliding open as he realized,
red light
, it was a goddamn red light —

The crypt stretched in front of him, stasis coffins laid out in the dark.
 
Lighting on each casket was dim, but Julian could already tell most of the status lights were red, a sea of dots blinking a silent scream at him.

The man stood beside one of the coffins, the lid open, and Julian raised the sidearm.
 
He paused, the link snapping and fluttering in his mind, and he stumbled.

“You see,” said the man, and Julian heard his voice from two places.
 
One, at the door, where he —
a remote, solid, secure, stable
— stood, and the other, in the coffin, where he —
a body, weak, fragile, insecure
— lay, cracking eyes against the brightness of the coffin’s lamps.

The remote’s link snapped away as it fell to the ground.
 
Julian looked up with his own eyes into a face cruel and hard.
 
“Julian Oldham,” said the man, rubbing at a stain of dried blood on his lips.
 
“I think it is time for you and I to become … better acquainted.”

“I—” said Julian, the sleep sickness making his face numb.
 
The lattice under his skin tried to fire, but his arms only twitched.
 
Overtime wouldn’t kick in, and he —

The pain started then, pain beyond anything he’d felt before.
 
Through the pain, he could hear the man’s voice in his mind.

“Don’t cry,” said the man.
 
“This is the start of something beautiful.
 
This is the start of the rest of your life.”

“How’s the fit?” said Mike.
 
He was looking at Zacharies, something in his eyes, measuring, calculating.

Zacharies touched the front of the suit they’d given him.
 
It was form-fitting, stitched with a sigil of crossed sabers.
 
“It feels… tight, master.”

Mike laughed.
 
“I’m not your master, kid.”
 
He stopped laughing, but a smile stayed in his eyes.
 
“Hell.
 
I’m not sure anyone’s big enough for that job.”

Zacharies touched the front of the suit again.
 
“It feels very fine.
 
I’m sorry if I caused—”

Mike held up a hand.
 
“Zach?
 
I get it.
 
Shit’s gone weird, yeah?”

“A little,” said Zacharies, nodding.
 
“I don’t understand how this Heaven of yours works.”

“No one does, kid.
 
That’s the thing.”
 
Mike gestured at the room around them.
 
“Take this place, for example.”

“What of it?”
 
Zacharies didn’t know what he was looking at, machines scattered about the vaulted space that stretched high and wide.
 
Black and crystalline, the walls didn’t quite reflect light, catching the edges of his vision.
 
“I don’t know what any of this is.”

Mike frowned.
 
“No, I guess you don’t. Ok, let’s break it down.
 
You remember the R&D freaks?”

“The men who wanted to…
 
I think you said, ‘peel me like a grape.’”

“Yeah, those guys.”
 
Mike pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Zacharies.
 
Zacharies held a hand up.
 
Mike shrugged.
 
“Suit yourself.
 
So anyway, those assholes put a call in.”

“A call?”

“Right.
 
So these guys around you, they’re going to try and peel you like a grape instead.
 
Different way, though.
 
Outcome’s the same.”
 
Mike pointed at one of the machines.
 
“That guy?
 
I was on a mission with him three, maybe four years ago.
 
Real psycho.
 
No offense.”

“Go fuck yourself,” said the machine, rising with a hiss and a whine.
 
Huge metal legs stamped forward, the clank of metal against the floor a hard scrape of noise.

Zacharies stepped back, stumbling into another machine behind him.
 
It swung into motion as well, standing tall above Zacharies.
 
“Watch where you’re going,” it said.

“I…” said Zacharies.
 
He looked at Mike.
 
“What are these things?”

Mike was looking at the first machine, which had —
somehow
— spoken.
 
“Machines, mostly.
 
Whatever else is pure asshole.”

“Hey,” said the first machine.
 
“Watch what you’re saying.
 
You want to get pulled apart today?”

“Yeah,” said the second machine.
 
“Place like this?
 
Accidents happen.
 
No cameras.
 
Specialist Services guy like you, could just go missing, you know?”

Zacharies turned his head between the two machines.
 
The second one spoke differently, some kind of softer way of rolling his words.
 
“They…
 
They are people?”

The first machine leaned backward, shaking, a loud laugh coming from it.
 
“The kid catches on fast.”

“Yeah,” said the second.
 
“A little too fast.
 
What if we…”
 
It moved forward, large metal legs clanking across the floor.
 
Two quick strides brought it to Zacharies, a metal fist raised in the air.

Somehow Mike was there.
 
Zacharies hadn’t seen him move, but the man stepped in front of him, hands up.
 
“Guys, don’t.
 
This isn’t part of the test.”

The first machine moved around Mike, something inside it groaning low, a bass rumble rising slowly in pitch.
 
“Or what?
 
You look a little out of your depth.”

“Or,” said Mike, “I will pull you the fuck apart.
 
Maybe not today.
 
But you got to go in for a service sometime.
 
Chassis opens?
 
I’ll be there with a pair of bolt cutters.”

No one spoke, the only noise in the room the mechanisms inside the two —
Men?
 
Machines?
 
What are they?
— machines.
 
Zacharies was breathing heavy, his pulse pounding inside him.
 
He threw a quick glance at Mike, but the man wasn’t watching him.
 
Zacharies could see the stress lining the man’s face, the trickle of sweat starting at his brow.

He realized that this was the first time he could remember another standing in front of him, taking the whips of the slave master.
 
Another other than his sister.
 
The thought caught him off guard, and he —
   

“Naw,” said the second machine.
 
“Not if I pull you apart here.”
 
A heavy fist swung through the air, a whine accompanying it, and Mike danced back, leather soled shoes whispering against the floor.

The first machine snatched him up, raising Mike up in the air.
 
The man thrashed, an arm trapped next to his body inside the metal fist.
 
The machine brought the other arm up.

“No!” said Zacharies, and his gift lashed forward, touching —
metal, new forged, the strength of a thousand men.
 
There, at the core, the shell of a man, hidden deep in a cage of Heaven’s forging.

The first machine’s raised arm whined, holding in the air, and the thing’s head turned to look at it.
 
“What—”

The arm sheared off, spinning across the room in a spray of sparks and fragments of metal.
 
The machine stumbled back, Mike dropping to the ground.

Zacharies turned to the second machine, the movement in the corner of his vision warning him a moment of time before something ratcheted out from behind it, a weapon of some kind coming up over its shoulder.
 
He pushed out with his gift, feeling —
tiny fragments, each strong and deadly.
 
Too many to hold at once, a belt of interwoven links.
 
Tubes of steel, impossible heat, a weapon of the Gods
.
 
Zacharies raised a hand.

“No.
 
This weapon?
 
It is for the angels.
 
It is not for you.”
 
He chopped his hand down, and the weapon sheared away from the machine’s back, rivets popping, fragments of sound as they bounced against the hard surface of the floor.
 
The machine hissed, swiveling around it’s middle, then took a step forward.

Zacharies swung his hand sideways, palm open, and the machine flew through the air to crash against the wall, the sound mighty and terrible.
 
Then, silence.
 
He turned to Mike, and held out his hand.
 
“Master?”

Mike took his hand, wincing as he stood.
 
“I’m not your master, kid.”

Zacharies frowned, looking at the fallen machines.
 
“A master cares for his slaves.”

“I didn’t do much of that,” said Mike.
 
“I’m pretty sure you cared for me.”

“I’m no master,” said Zacharies.
 
He held up his hands.
 
“I…
 
It’s never felt this strong before.”

“No shit.”
 
Mike winced again, pulling out his packet of cigarettes.
 
The box was crushed, and he pulled a crumpled cigarette from it, lighting it with a hand that still shook.
 
“What do you call people back home who look out for you?”

Laia.
 
“We call them family.”
 
The first machine was struggling to its feet, and Zacharies stepped around Mike, lifting his hand into a fist.
 
The machine rose into the air, legs and remaining arm flailing.