Broken Page 11

  Michael rolled his eyes. "Let’s go. She may be able to catch up."

  * * *

  When Broken opened her eyes, she could barely make out a gunmetal gray ceiling. The floor hummed and rocked beneath her. She had to think about where she was before moving. She remembered the fight, she remembered the outstanding plasma gun she’d fired—

  Right, she’d died again. They’d put her aboard the hopper. She lay still for a few more agonizing minutes as she healed herself, then attempted to stand up. The world pitched and rolled.

  She looked around the cramped cabin she was in. Next to her lay two other bodies, both Black Bands. One was the man she’d been wrestling with. He had holes singed in him, and a surprised expression was still on his face. They’d shot him while trying to take her down, she remembered. He’d been right behind her. She wondered what had been going through his mind when they opened fire.

  The other one had most of his throat burned away. She remembered firing that shot. She looked intently at his face. He was just a kid, really. How old had he been when he joined up with the Black Bands? How long had they been around, anyway…? Five, six years, maybe longer. She couldn’t remember. She kind of felt sorry for him. Maybe he’d just joined up so he could earn some money. Did he have a sweetheart somewhere, waiting for him?

  It didn’t matter, really. He was the enemy, and he would have killed her gladly. He was probably another jerk who liked torturing cats.

  She still felt a little guilty.

  They’d put all the "bodies" together in the hold, without guards. Why would they need any?

  She looked around the hold and saw at least twelve plasma rifles. Even better, they were the new ones, the ones she liked.

  "Yeeeeah," she murmured happily. Pain still gnawed at her, but it was growing less and less intense. She’d done a lot of healing while unconscious this time. All the better. She needed to be awake for this.

  Training for the Union’s Law Enforcement Division had been strenuous; Red Knight had tried to teach them everything he could about the business of fighting crime. It was too bad that they hadn’t fought much actual crime—they’d been busy tracking down non-registereds and doing the government's dirty work.

  She remembered several classes about what to do if you were taken prisoner. Lots of people wanted to kidnap Extrahumans. Broken could sometimes do some things other people couldn’t.

  She shouldered two of the guns and opened the door to the rest of the hopper. A corridor ran between the hold and the passenger space. Almost at once, an alarm started to blare. Cameras were all over the place; of course they were watching. "Hey!" called a Black Band from the cockpit, struggling up.

  She turned and ran towards the back of the hopper, where the emergency exit was. She twisted the release, and the door blew off.

  Behind her, the Black Bands were shouting and scrabbling towards her. She looked back once, stuck out her tongue, and jumped.

  * * *

  The night was cold and moonless. She fell, twisting, weightless, rushing toward the gray-black ground far below.

  She stretched her arms and felt the wind rushing past. She tilted her head up, and laughed out loud.

  It was like flying!

  Like flying…

  * * *

  The ground rushed up to greet her with a sickening crunch; she blacked out again. Her last thought before impact was I hope the guns survive.

  * * *

  She woke up hungry, and in pain worse than she had ever felt before. She had never had to do so much healing so quickly.

  She opened her eyes and saw three inky shapes standing over her. She couldn’t make out any features in the dark. She tried to move, but dried blood had frozen her to the ground. "Where’d you come from?" a man with blacked-out teeth demanded. "This your blood? Your guns?"

  "Hrrrnnn…" she gasped.

  "Saw a Black Band hopper go over not too long ago," said another. "You know about that?"

  "UrrriUuuurGhhuuu…" she groaned. "F—f—foooooo…."

  "Hungry? We'll feed you. But you have to talk, right?"

  "Yuh," she promised. They pulled her free—she only screamed a little—picked her up, and carried her towards a shack nearby.

  * * *

  Sky Ranger studied the Black Bands' reports. He liked studying them: It gave him a sense of being in the know.

  He paused, reading one.

  "Subject killed one CGT"—Civil Guard Trooper— "thought to be KIA in retaliation, massive plasma burns all over body. Subject appeared in AHV"—Armored Hover Vehicle—"5.6 hours later with no apparent injuries. Subject proceeded to remove two weapons from the vehicle, and egressed via the emergency exit. The AHV was flying at 3,500m at the time."

  He had known someone, once, who had healed so quickly. And that fake journalist from a few weeks back had wanted to know about…

  "Silverwyng?" he whispered. "Could it be?"

  He studied the record some more, and found the flight path of the hopper. As soon as he could get free, he’d go look for her. Very strange indeed.

  [CHAPTER 16]

  Michael and Monica sneaked out of town under the cover of darkness, trying to avoid police, Black Bands, and anyone else who might be feeling nosy. They stuck to back roads and traces of trails, bearing generally south and west as much as they could. Fat, powerful hoppers and light, skinny zippers streaked constantly overhead, searchlights emanating from their metal bellies.

  "Think they’re looking for us?" Monica whispered.

  "Maybe," Michael said. "Or just looking for anybody."

  They dodged into a wooded area, and lost themselves between the trees. They could still hear aircraft overhead, but they couldn’t really see them anymore. Once, a searchlight passed directly over them, but they held still and were not seen.

  "Jesus, help me now," Monica said softly.

  Michael stared at her as if she had grown another head.

  "What?" she snapped.

  "Nothing," he sighed. "Let’s keep going."

  They trudged on through the snow and the thick undergrowth.

  "So, what, you’re anti-religious?" Monica said, voice a little shaky.

  "No," Michael soothed, trying to make peace. "No, nothing like that. I guess I just didn’t figure you…"

  "Well, I’m not. Not really. I was a Catholic, when I was a little girl. But that was a long time ago, and I don’t really ever go to church, so…"

  "…So?"

  "So? So what? Who cares. Let’s keep going."

  They walked in silence for a few more minutes.

  "Hey," Michael said. "Look. My, uh, grandfather believed in God. He thought Val Altrera had a connection with God. He was sort of a Valenist, I guess."

  "What, that crap about seeing the future? I heard about that. No one can…"

  She trailed off. Michael spread his hands wide, grinning sheepishly.

  "Yeah," she grumbled, "Well, you’re not very good at it."

  Michael deflated. "I never thought what I can do comes from God, if that matters to you."

  "Why should it? Who cares where it comes from?"

  "Monica, I’m sorry—"

  "Shut up, okay?" She sped up, and he had to struggle to keep up with her. Ian, snug in Michael’s pack, started to wail and moan.

  "Monica, stop—I need to change him or feed him or something…" He knelt down in the snow and removed Ian from the pack. The kid didn’t stink; he must be hungry. Michael took a bottle of formula out from inside his coat where he’d been trying to keep it warm, and pressed it to Ian’s mouth. He slurped noisily, dribbling formula on Michael’s jacket, pants, and shoes.

  "Monica!" he called. No answer.

  "She’ll come back," he told Ian. "She’s just pissed. No, I don’t know why, either."

  Ian looked up at him, dark eyes wide. Michael ignored the rush of possibility, and just held the little boy .

  An inescapable sadness washed over him. Didn’t mothers always talk about how magica
l their children were? Was this what they meant?

  Ian sucked contentedly on the bottle. The formula sloshed around and drained little by little. The night was cold, but Michael cradled the baby in his arms, keeping him warm.

  "For right now," he said to Ian, "You’re my son. I’m never ever going to have a son of my own, so I hope it’s all right if I borrow you for a while. I’m not going to get another chance…"

  Ian finished sucking down the liquid, withdrew his mouth, and spat up all over Michael. All he could do was laugh. Ian joined in.

  * * *

  Monica was sitting under a tree, head buried in her arms.

  "Hey," he said, approaching.

  She raised her head. "Oh.. Oh, I thought you’d gone." Her face was streaked with tears. He decided not to say anything this time.

  "You want to get going?" he asked, offering a hand.

  She ignored it, struggling to her feet on her own. "Yeah. We should find a place to hide out when the sun rises."

  "Okay," Michael said. He let her set the pace. They walked in silence for half an hour, ducking under low branches, carving a path through the dense forest. Michael wasn’t even sure they were heading south anymore. He’d know when the sun came up.

  He thought about what he’d learned about living in the woods. Joe had taught him how to make a fire; that sounded good about now, but fires would be easy to see from the air. Worse, he didn’t have any of the materials he’d need, like tinder. Joe had also showed him how to pitch a tent. They didn’t have tents, either. Michael wished Joe had taught him how to navigate by the stars. But maybe Joe hadn’t known. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to tell. Joe died with a lot of secrets.

  Like where he’d got his power from. Michael had actually asked once, when he was ten.

  Don’t know, was all Joe had said. But it seemed like a lie to Michael. It could be true, he supposed… but probably not. Joe had been too smart a man to leave it at "don’t know."

  * * *

  It developed early in Michael. He’d cried for hours while Joe patiently tried to explain.

  "Grampa, I saw a lady dying! In the mirror!" Michael screamed. He was six.

  Joe gave Michael a hug. "Wasn’t real," he said. "Just a possibility."

  Michael trembled. "It could happen?"

  Joe nodded. "There are lots of possibilities. And you and me, we sometimes see some of them. Does that make sense?"

  Michael thought. "No!" he said. "Why doesn’t anybody else see it, too?"

  "Because we’re special," Joe replied. "And we are. You are. I am. This is something only we and a few others know how to do."

  Michael looked at Joe and was suddenly flooded with possibilities. "Joe…" he said. "You’re going to die!"

  "Not now," Joe said soothingly. "Not yet. But everybody dies. You’re seeing some of it."

  "I wish I wasn’t," Michael cried bitterly. "I don’t want to see."

  "Me either," Joe said softly. "But we do. You and me. So there it is."

  Michael stopped crying. "There it is," he repeated sadly. Joe hugged him again.

  * * *

  Joe was there when the terrible dreams came. He understood them. Joe was there when Michael looked in the mirror and threw up because of what he saw. Joe was there when Michael saw, for the first time, his own death.

  * * *

  "A thin man," Michael kept saying, over and over. "A thin man killed me."

  "He hasn’t killed you yet," Joe said. "And you may be able to get out of it. Remember, these are not things that definitely will happen. They’re just possibilities."

  "So I may not die like that?"

  "No. In fact, you probably won’t."

  "There it is?" Michael whispered.

  Joe smiled. "There it is."

  * * *

  After Joe's death, Michael had grown up very quickly . He still missed him terribly. What would he have said right now, Michael wondered. What would Joe have done?

  He’d probably tell me to stop being so sentimental, and get on with it, Michael thought wryly. He marched ahead, listening to Ian’s breathing as the baby fell asleep. One foot in front of the other, now. One, two. One, two. Keep up the pace.

  "Michael?" Monica said, surprising him.

  "Yeah?"

  "Are we going to die today?"

  He took a quick peek. "You really want to know?" he asked.

  "Yes. Please, tell me."

  "Possibly. But it’s hard for me to tell one day from another."

  "Oh." She lapsed back into silence for a while. Then, "Michael?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you think Jane and Lydia and Andrew and Shawn and Fred are in heaven? I mean, can you see any of that?"

  He tried to absorb the question. "Uh. I don’t really know. I never see that…" He glanced over at her. Possibilities swirled… but here and now, Monica had a hungry, needful look on her face, like a drowning man wishing for a lifeboat.

  "If there is such a place, they’re in it," Michael said. "I can’t believe they’re suffering, wherever they are." It was lame. But maybe it would be enough.

  She sighed. "Yeah." Her face started to harden again.

  "They’re probably with God," Michael said quickly. "They probably got to meet him face to face."

  Monica surprised him by giggling. "I bet Andrew is really surprised. Rätons don’t believe in an afterlife, and Andrew thinks like a Räton. So if he’s having one, he’s pretty surprised right now."

  "You’re probably right."

  "And Lydia is bossing God around. I bet he can’t do anything without her saying so. She was always so bossy…" Her voice caught. Michael quickly took up the slack.

  "How about Jane?" he asked. "I bet she’s really happy, finally."

  "She was always so sad…" Monica said. "At least all of her children—our children— escaped. I guess it was a blessing that they were taken away."

  "Yeah." He found himself with nothing else to add. Silence returned, this time to stay until dawn.

  * * *

  Broken ate like a horse. The men gathered around her watching, open-mouthed, as she inhaled a vast pile of potatoes, a bowl of unspecified vegetables, a bit of chicken, a gallon of milk, half a block of cheese, and most of a loaf of bread.

  When she was done, she let off an enormous belch. The men applauded.

  "Damn," said the guy who had first spoken to her, "You’re an eater."

  "I was hungry," she said. "Sorry."

  "No trouble. I guess there’s no more for us, though, right, boys?" They laughed. "Okay, but serious time. You gonna answer questions like you said?"

  "Yah," she agreed.

  "Okay. Now. What were you doing out there?"

  "Jumped out of a hopper."

  They exchanged glances. "Don’t lie."

  "It’s true," she said.

  "And you’re okay? That makes no sense."

  "…Parachute?" she tried.

  "Where is it, then?" another man asked.

  She shrugged. "Don’t know. Fell off."

  "Hang on." A new man, who had a jarring combination of dark skin and radioactive green hair, entered. "What kind of hopper?"

  "Black Bands," she said. "But I got away."

  The green-haired man leaned closer. "How do you know we won’t turn you in? Huh?"

  "You don’t seem like Black Bands," she said simply. And it was true. They didn’t. She’d been around long enough to know who generally fell on which side. These guys weren’t going to be wearing black armbands with VHLS initialed on them any time soon. It wasn’t that they seemed disorganized and purposeless—though that was true. They just had a certain look in their eyes. They looked hunted.

  They moved off and talked in hushed tones for a minute. She caught some of the conversation. "Banders… come back… flight path… next house…" They all looked at her and came to some sort of decision.

  "Okay, we’re going to go on to the next place. You can come with us, but we got to scan you first."


  "Scan away," she said. "I’m not carrying anything."

  They scanned her with three separate instruments, and found nothing.

  "All right. Come on."

  "Hey," she said, regretting it almost as soon as she opened her mouth. "How do you know I’m not one of them?"

  They laughed again. "You're not the type," said Green Hair. "You just some crazy lady. You can’t be one of them and look like you do."

  Fair enough. She did look pretty bad, she was sure. Her clothes were caked in blood, her silver hair was matted and unkempt, and her face… was her face. She was used to it. She rose and followed the men outside.

  * * *

  There were six men in this outfit, whatever it was. They had taken her guns from her, which she figured was fine since they weren’t hers to begin with, and added them to a big stash in a mag-van parked in a dirt driveway.

  "Okay," said Green Hair, who seemed to be the leader. "Everybody get in. We goin’ now." Green Hair’s English was a little strange, almost lilting; he sounded like he might be from the Caribbean, or maybe South America. The men piled into the mag-van, which started up with a deafening roar. The ground engine was an old internal combustion relic. She wondered what they were using for fuel. It sure stank, whatever it was.

  Broken sat on one of the seats next to two leering, mostly drunk men. "Hey, gran’ma," one slurred. "Taking a ride?" His companion found this hilarious and giggled wildly.

  “Not your grandma,” she snorted. Her hair fooled a lot of people into thinking she was older.

  "You look like you been through hell," a more sober man said, squinting through the darkness. "That blood on there?"

  "Yuh," she assented.

  "Yours?"

  "Most. Some belongs to a Black Band, I think."

  The men clapped and shouted, obviously disbelieving.

  She smiled back. She didn’t care what they thought of her; she knew what she’d done.

  The van strained and groaned, then rolled forward on heavily treaded tires.

  "Keep off the main roads," Green Hair said. "Can’t hit a checkpoint."

  "Yeah, yeah," said the driver, an old white man in his sixties. "We’ll be fine."

  The van bumped and jostled down the driveway. "Turn on the headlights," Green Hair said mildly.