Broken Read online

  Broken

  By Susan Jane Bigelow

  First edition published January 2011.

  Copyright © 2011 by Susan Jane Bigelow

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Candlemark & Gleam LLC,

  Bennington, Vermont.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-936460-01-4

  Cover art and design by Kate Sullivan

  Editors:

  Kate Sullivan

  Vivien Weaver

  www.candlemarkandgleam.com

  Table Of Contents

  [PROLOGUE]

  [CHAPTER 1]

  [CHAPTER 2]

  [CHAPTER 3]

  [CHAPTER 4]

  [CHAPTER 5]

  [CHAPTER 6]

  [CHAPTER 7]

  [CHAPTER 8]

  [CHAPTER 9]

  [CHAPTER 10]

  [CHAPTER 11]

  [CHAPTER 12]

  [CHAPTER 13]

  [CHAPTER 14]

  [CHAPTER 15]

  [CHAPTER 16]

  [CHAPTER 17]

  [CHAPTER 18]

  [CHAPTER 19]

  [CHAPTER 20]

  [CHAPTER 21]

  [CHAPTER 22]

  [CHAPTER 23]

  [CHAPTER 24]

  [CHAPTER 25]

  [CHAPTER 26]

  [CHAPTER 27]

  [CHAPTER 28]

  [CHAPTER 29]

  [CHAPTER 30]

  [EPILOGUE]

  [PROLOGUE]

  To be opened by Michael Forward

  November 10th, 2106

  Hello, Michael,

  You don’t know me, but I knew Joe very well. He and I were good friends when I lived on Earth. By the time you get this letter, I'll have been dead for several years. However, since I possess the same sorts of abilities you and Joe both have, I am able to know when you will need it, and I’ve arranged to have it sent to you then.

  You’ve seen her in your mind many times, the woman with the baby in the subway station. You have some idea of what the baby could mean.

  The train is the 10:14 Silver westbound, at the Union Tower station, platform 2. The date, you know already.

  I won’t tell you that it’s important. You know that, too.

  Try to find Silverwyng—she will help you. Ask at Union Tower.

  I’m sorry. Please know that. And thank you.

  All of my love,

  VAL

  Valentino Altrera

  West Arve, Valen, Terran Confederation

  August 4th, 2101

  [CHAPTER 1]

  Broken remembered flight.

  She lay on her back, belly aching with hunger. Nearby, a space-bound ship heaved itself off the ground with a sigh and a groan, then sluggishly powered its way up towards the outer atmosphere and the vacuum beyond.

  She followed its path with her finger, tracing the dissipating wake back and forth. Silverwyng had been more graceful by far.

  Her stomach howled in pain. She groggily stood and staggered off towards the nearest place she knew of where she could get something to eat.

  * * *

  Broken remembered the rush of wind against her cheeks, whipping her long hair out behind her in a flashing silver arc.

  * * *

  The mission looked like any other: Third Perthist Universalist Ministries. It was in the dark, dingy basement of a building standing in a neighborhood that had never quite been rebuilt since the war. The Sisters there gave Broken the eye; they knew her.

  "Have you been drinking again?" one asked, fixing her with a disapproving stare. Broken didn’t say anything. Her head hurt. One downside to being her was that it took an awful lot of booze to get really drunk. She usually ran out of money first.

  They gave her a plate of greasy something and a slice of something else. It may have been cheese, but Broken couldn’t really see it too well. She ate it anyway, and immediately felt better. Her system needed to recharge. She mumbled her thanks and shuffled outside. She'd come back again when she got hungry enough She always did.

  * * *

  A tall, brilliantly handsome man took her hand as they leapt into the night sky together. Her heart soared.

  * * *

  She poked through some garbage cans, looking for anything she could use or sell. Jude would buy pretty much anything, if it didn’t stink too badly. Eventually she gave up and settled in an alley next to a trash compactor, huddling desperately against its cold metal sides in a futile attempt to get warm. Winter was coming on. Maybe she ought to go south. She’d always wanted to. She might be happier if she were warm all year. She reached into her coat pocket and felt something cool and hard.

  An unopened bottle of something strong. She took a rushed swallow and felt the warmth spread through her. Her eyes grew heavy. Thoughts of heading south evaporated like droplets of alcohol from her lips. She drained the entire bottle as fast as she could, and waited for oblivion.

  * * *

  Broken remembered… she couldn’t stop remembering.

  * * *

  She jerked awake. Two men in dark, irregular uniforms with black and white armbands marked with stars loomed at the far end of the alley. Black Bands; Reform Party militia. She scrunched into a little ball. She didn’t want Black Bands to notice her. They’d caught her once, and…

  She moaned softly despite herself.

  A shrill squeak, something animal, brought her back to senses. They had a cat, they were...

  Broken liked cats. Fury burned through her.

  She stood. She was still drunk. Of all the times... She swayed back and forth dangerously before she found her legs. The two Black Bands looked her way.

  "Drop the cat," she heard herself say, voice slurred and shaky. "Or else."

  A beat.

  That was easy! How long had it taken Silverwyng to get to this point? She’d agonized and searched her soul for months before doing this. Broken had less to lose, perhaps, than Silverwyng.

  The man opened his hand. The cat hit the ground and sprinted away to safety. Their quarry lost, the Black Bands advanced on her instead. She crouched in a ridiculous fighting pose, desperately reaching back to remember some of her training as they bashed her head in.

  * * *

  She returned from the dead some hours later.

  A red mist blanketed her field of vision. Her bones stretched and knitted themselves back together; her muscles contracted and expanded; her lip’s two halves found each other, latched on, and sewed themselves up. Her body contorted and crackled, trying to piece itself back together in the time it takes to carve a turkey.

  She writhed and spun in agony. Blood—hers—had soaked through all her clothes. The pain was unbearable, excruciating.

  She spat out a tooth, moaning in pain.A new tooth was already driving its way through her gum. She laughed and screamed at the same time. Ecstasy. She loved it. She loved it.

  [CHAPTER 2]

  "Excuse me," the nervous-looking young man said, "But I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me."

  The secretary looked up from her screen, where she had been reading a fine novel of highest-class erotica, and sighed, looking him up and down. He was small and slight, skinny like a boy, but with anxious, intelligent eyes and a strange, pinched expression on his face. He was trying not to look at her."Yeah?"

  "Her name is—was—Silverwyng. Spelled with a ‘y’ in the ‘wyng,’ I believe. I know that she lived here, once."

  The secretary sighed again, this time with more flair; she had a whole repertoire of sighs for annoying visitor
s. "We don’t give out personal information about Union members."

  "I’m a reporter." He gave her a complicated ID card; she took her time swiping it. "I work for the Reformist Monthly, I’ve been assigned to profile some lesser-known Union members. Is there anyone I can talk to?"

  The secretary spent several resentful, unhurried minutes scanning through his credentials, but at last tapped a message into her computer. The Reformist Monthly sounded too official to ignore completely. "Mr., uh, Forward, Sky Ranger is going to come down and see you," she said. "Consider yourself lucky." It was obvious from her tone that she wished herself in his place, all of a sudden.

  "Thank you," he replied courteously, trying not to shriek with anticipation. Sky Ranger! He’d had Sky Ranger posters on his wall when he was little. Joe had disapproved for some reason, but Michael hadn't cared.

  He took a moment to look around. Union Tower. He’d always wanted to come here as a kid, to fly with the Union members, but he knew well enough he never would. This would be his only visit. Maybe one more, but if he had to come back here, his life would be almost over. The place was decorated like a fancy whorehouse. Gold trim, expensive paintings, marble floors… It had cost the government a fortune to build it for them.

  A few minutes later, a huge man with a shock of jet-black hair, steely blue eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee strode out of the lift. Why would Sky Ranger take the lift? Michael wondered idly. Trying not to offend visitors? He was not dressed in his customary tan and white outfit, but instead in what looked almost like a Black Band uniform. It was mostly black, with white collar and trim, and the new Confederation flag was appliqued on the front and sleeves.

  Michael Forward instantly saw about three dozen possibilities, and wished he hadn’t. All except two ended in darkest tragedy. He wanted to shout at this man who had once been his hero, to grab his ears and scream, "How could you?!" into them. Was this why Joe hadn't liked the man? Could he see it all coming, the devastating possibilities? But Sky Ranger had done nothing yet. And so Michael could do nothing but sit back and watch the trains slam into one another. So much for heroes.

  Cynicism didn't become him, Michael thought, but then, he didn't really have a choice. He’d seen hundreds of his own future possibilities, too, and he always ended up bitter and angry. If he lived that long.

  "Hello, young sir!" Sky Ranger boomed. "You’re a Party reporter?"

  "Uh, yes," Michael said. "I’m doing a piece for Reformist Monthly."

  "Oh! Fantastic! I’m a Party member, you know," said Sky Ranger, guiding him into the lift, which was fitted with a glass capsule that looked out onto the courtyard. "A lot of my people support what the Reform Party is doing these days, and we’re big fans of President Peltan." The lift shuddered and rocketed upward. Michael felt faintly ill as the ground dropped away.. The effect was rather like flying, Michael supposed. That might be the point.

  Sky Ranger continued. "I always have been, right from the beginning. I joined the Party early on, before President Peltan was even a senator. Great things we’re doing, great things. More than just saving one life or two, but saving everybody, more than any of my people could ever do on their own. You see what I mean?"

  The lift sighed to a halt, and they exited into a spacious office. Beauty surrounded them. The office was dominated by a huge window that looked out over much of this part of the city. Union Tower was one of the tallest buildings east of the Hudson, and Sky Ranger's office had to be near the top floor. A carved wooden desk, inlaid with intricate patterns and swirls, sat in the middle of the space. Michael, trying to look as nonchalant as he thought a Reform Party reporter would feel, took a seat and helped himself to some candy from the delicate crystal dish on the desk.

  * * *

  "So,” said Sky Ranger. “I’ve probably read your publication."

  "Actually, we’re pretty new," said Michael evenly. "New programs and all that. But you’ll be seeing a lot of us in the future." He tried to look smug.

  "Even better!" Sky Ranger smiled broadly. "Now, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  Many things, thought Michael. But he said, "This could just be a beginning. For now, I was hoping you could help me find someone. She was a Union member once. She went by ‘Silverwyng,’ with a ‘y’. This would have been about ten years ago."

  Sky Ranger said nothing for a moment, then sat down and cupped his massive chin in his equally massive hand, crossing one leg over the other.

  "Hmmm…." he rumbled. "You know, I do recall a Union member going by that, a few years back. She could fly, I believe, right? Whatever happened to her?"

  "I... was hoping you could tell me."

  Sky Ranger laughed, but his eyes had narrowed, and his tone sharpened. "Well. She's no longer here, that I know. I don’t remember much more. Let me think a minute."

  He sat back in his chair and posed thoughtfully again. Michael could only marvel. Here sat a man with the strength of a Titan, who could destroy an entire city block with an errant mental flicker, the head of the Extrahuman Union, posing and strutting like a vain teenager in front of his mirror. Did he think that Michael was taking pictures?

  "I have to say I can’t remember what became of her," Sky Ranger said at last. "It’s unusual for one of my people to leave the Tower permanently—in fact, that’s illegal. As you well know." He sighed. "It was a long time ago. Around a decade, I think. We searched for her but found nothing. I promise you, if she is even still alive, she's no threat. I can have you check with our archivist, however. Fifteenth floor; there are signs. I'll tell him to expect you.” Sky Ranger suddenly seemed a lot less friendly, “Why are you looking for her?”

  “Orders,” Michael said, shrugging.

  “Ah.” They sat in silence for a moment. “So. Is there anything else?"

  "No," Michael said. "That’s about it. For now. But I'll be back."

  "All right, then." It was the end of the conversation; yet Sky Ranger still seemed embarrassingly desperate to please. "So. Put in a good word for the organization, and for my people, huh?" he said, a bit too jovially. "We need all the support we can get. Mention to the locals that I’m a loyal Party guy?"

  Michael glanced at Sky Ranger's cold blue eyes and had a sudden vision of the Union's leader asking his secretary to run a background check on Michael and Reformist Monthly. Just in case. Right; he didn't have much time, then.

  "Will do," said Michael cautiously.

  "Great! Strength, then!"

  "Honor," Michael intoned, giving a traditional Reformist reply. He found his way out of the glorious, light-filled office, and back into the lift Fifteenth floor.

  * * *

  An old man wearing several Reformist pins sat behind an ancient computer terminal, absently clicking through page after page of Union reports.

  Michael had a sudden vision of the old man planting a small, heavy device gingerly on an exposed beam of the Tower, pressing a button, and then, sadly, sitting on the ground to wait. Michael shook it off.

  Michael explained himself, and the stooped old man’s eyes lit up.

  "There are many loyal Reformists here," he said. "Myself among them."

  "...I’m glad to hear that. I’ll remember it," Michael promised. That seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

  “Did they give you anything for me?”

  What? “Uh, no. Not this time.”

  The old man nodded. “I see. You wanted...?”

  Michael explained about Silverwyng. The old archivist made a face.

  "Hnng… I remember her. Yes, that was about ten years ago, was it not? She’s not here, now. She left. Illegal." He coughed into a handkerchief. When had Michael last seen a handkerchief? "Let me see…" He tapped a few commands into his terminal, then swiveled the screen around so Michael could see.

  A short scene looped endlessly; Sky Ranger, in his tan and white outfit, black hair gloriously perfect, perched atop the Tower’s curved peak, cape swirling in the breeze. A thin young woman with striking
silver hair, dressed in a feminine version of Sky Ranger's uniform, alighted next to him. Their eyes locked, she smiled, their lips met. The recording looped back, and the scene played again.

  A shock ran through Michael. She had been that close to Sky Ranger? He had seemed to not even remember her.

  She seemed very happy and confident, and difficult to forget. He thought of the shattered, filthy woman with the heavy eyes he saw in his visions as Silverwyng once again landed next to Sky Ranger, smiled and kissed him, blissfully unaware of what the future held.

  "Who was she? What happened to her?"

  The archivist sighed, a heavy rasp. "Was a member of the Union’s Law Enforcement Division. That's the uniform they're wearing, of course. Flyer, self-healer. Stopped being able to fly, though, just before she left us. Broke her heart." He jabbed at the image of Sky Ranger on the screen. "He forgot all about her. Sad story."

  "Oh," said Michael quickly. His time was short. "So where did she go?"

  The old archivist sifted through his records. "Left the Union. Lessee. Last known location... somewhere in the city. No beacon. Highly irregular. There was a hunt, but it didn’t turn up anything. Can’t tell you any more than that."

  Crap. Some possible futures had the old man giving him somewhere to check.

  "I need something specific," he insisted, hoping for more. "Reform Party business." Come on. I have no time.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. "I’m sorry." He shook his head. "If you want to find her that badly, the last track we had of her was a few years back in the Bronx. A Perthist shelter reported a Healer to us."

  "Address?" Michael did his best to sound authoritarian. It worked.

  "Third Perthist Ministries in the Bronx," the old man grumbled. "I can’t give you any more."

  "You’ve been most helpful," said Michael.

  A message flashed on the archivist’s screen. Time’s up, thought Michael.