[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall Read online

  Guess he was excited to see me.

  I check his pockets, finding a wad of cash, a keycard and a balled up note. The cash could do me some good, although I have to wonder what he’s doing with it. Paper money can’t be all that useful in New Manhattan, any more, with this being the first HoloBand-required city.

  I stuff the note in my pocket without unraveling it, then look at the keycard. It’s clear, the golden chips at its bottom gleaming. No explanation, but it has the Circle’s insignia on it—a circle that’s not quite closed at the top. Like an upside down pair of headphones. In the gap, there’s a tiny star.

  What the hell is Matt doing with this? Could have something to do with the project. With a slight wince, I roll his head back and check the nape of his neck. No fresh incision or anything to indicate that his HoloBand has been tampered with.

  My internal clock indicates that I need to get moving. But fleeing isn’t an option. With all the cameras, facial recognition in the city, checkpoints—I’d never make it out of New Manhattan. My fingerprints are all over the place and my face would have a primetime spot on Old Silver Fox’s newsfeed until they hunted me down.

  I glance up in the corner, where I’m greeted by the eye of a camera.

  No light is on.

  Maybe if I check his internal security logs from his workstation—if he has one—I can solve this thing, clear my name. Matt has to have one. When we were kids, I’d always go into his bedroom, lit by the diffuse halo glow of his two monitors and the massive custom-built tower. The tap-tap of his keys was my bedtime story and lullaby, an assurance that everything was okay.

  I rush back around the island, toward the bedroom. Flinging the doors open, I find spartan furnishings—bed, nightstand, hallway to a bathroom. His closet has about thirty of the same colored shirts, along with matching khakis. Everything clean, well-ordered.

  No sign of a workstation.

  That’s not right at all. I rip open the door to the master closet, almost tearing it from the hinges, but there’s nothing here beyond a sea of same-colored pants. The bathroom yields a similarly fruitless result. I walk out, hands on my head, heartbeat rising, and sit down on the bed.

  My mind goes blank for a moment, which has only happened a few times before—mostly in the beginning. Pops used to laugh about this, the look that would come over my face. Like I was hoping that I could suddenly turn invisible when a con went sour.

  I roll through my options. I yank the piece of paper out of my pocket and strain to read the handwriting amid the crinkles and slight tears. Smoothing it out on the soft cotton sheets, I manage to make it legible.

  Luke,

  I’m glad you came. You look good, really good. I know you want to talk to me about why I left. I’ll tell you. But first, I need something from you. A favor. Come with me, over to the camera. I want to show you something.

  It’s not a note to me, so much as a speech, written out, and presumably practiced over and over again, to get the feel down. Matt, he was never a grand orator. Guess he figured that he would need to win me over.

  I jam the piece of paper into my back pocket and dart out of the bedroom. The wall screen lights up, indicating that the men are a hundred floors below. The ETA says that it’ll take a minute and a half. The security feed shows the two of them standing side-by-side, in their matching tailored charcoal suits.

  There’s no indication, whatsoever, of a heart or soul, or any emotion on their faces.

  It strikes me as odd that the system is alerting me about their impending arrival. If they wanted to catch the perpetrator of a crime—notifying said individual of their presence would be foolish. It would allow time for escape. Instead, it dawns on me that, perhaps, these Special Committee men aren’t here because of a murder. They’re here because they had a meeting with Matt.

  That makes my spine tingle—the thought of my hero, working with an evil villain.

  I vault the island and land on the kitchen floor, avoiding the body. Pressing my hands against the countertop beneath the cabinetry, I manage to get myself onto a narrow purchase. On tip-toe, I reach for the camera in the corner, yanking it hard. The plastic lens slips off easily, and I almost put my hand through the cabinet’s glass window trying to keep my balance. Eventually, I manage to steady myself and not die.

  With my bounty in hand, I slowly lower myself from the counter, back onto the kitchen floor. I catch Matt’s body out of the corner of my eye, the blood pooling outward from his head, the open fridge still buzzing and humming.

  I vault over the island again, back to the living room. Opening my hand, I see what I’ve got.

  It’s not a piece of a camera.

  The thing in the corner is a dummy, a phony. Apparently my brother was a better con than I gave him credit for. I turn over the plastic lens, and find a coin taped on the inside.

  “What the hell?” I haven’t seen a coin since I was a boy—if paper money is rare, coinage is positively extinct. I turn the thing over in my hand. The bust of a man long dead stares back at me, the edges rimmed by the words In God We Trust.

  The Lionhearted would love this.

  I squeeze it, and, to my surprise, two tiny needles pop out from its edge. Where the face of the man used to be, a miniscule LED screen appears, with instructions coming one word at a time.

  Place. At. Skull. Base. To. Extract. And. Install. HoloBand.

  This little device must be to remove Steve Reynolds’ stolen band from my neck. Tampering with the bands outside of official Golden Nectar facilities is strictly prohibited, which would explain why the removal device was hidden.

  I blink, the gears in my own mind slowly turning as the TV flashes on again. The elevator has arrived, and the men are exiting with a sense of purpose. There is no escape—the only escape is in what I do best.

  But just being me won’t do the trick. Because if I want to survive, I have to become someone else.

  I have to become Matthew Stokes.

  3 The Con

  I jam the needles into the base of my skull without any real hesitation. If fear plays a factor here, it’s run roughshod over by adrenaline.

  There’s a light pinch, and my vision goes dark for a split-second as the HoloBand disconnects from my neural wiring—wetware, the off-grid tech who installed my stolen band called it, referring to my brain. Then I feel the needles slide out from beneath my skin, and it’s over.

  With a cautious hand, I take the coin apparatus away from my neck and slowly bring it into view. There’s a trickle of blood running down the edge. The two sharp points hold the HoloBand, no larger than a fingernail, in place.

  I take the chip out and crush it in my palm.

  I hesitate when it comes to the next part. There’s not much I find wrong—that’s all a matter of opinion and degree—but there’s something sacred about the dead that even I have a problem with disturbing.

  I remind myself that I don’t believe in spirits, souls or any of that crap the Lionhearted push in their stupid posters, and force myself to kneel down. Wiping the needles clean—as if he cares—I close my eyes and move his hair out of the way.

  “Sorry,” I say, and then I press down, feeling a little jolt in my hand. It only takes a second, but it feels like an hour. He’s still warm, but he’s gotten cooler since I touched him last.

  I pull the HoloBand away and stand up. There’s a knock at the door.

  “Matthew Stokes.” The voice buzzes over the intercom.

  I freeze, clutching the coin and my lifeline. The wall screen comes on, showing me a live feed of the SC agents outside the door. They don’t appear actively hostile—their pistols aren’t out, at least. But a visit from the SC is never good news.

  I see one guy, sporting the beginnings of a beard, next to the intercom, his thumb poised over the talk button. More knocks follow, as I try to figure out what to do next.

  “Matthew Stokes,” the same guy says, scratching his stubble, “we’re here for your appointment.”

&nbs
p; I look down and the plan forms fast, like a jazz musician reacting to the band—not entirely sure if it’s gonna sound good, just rolling with the changes, trying to feel things out. Vamp a little, you know. Pops liked Miles Davis a lot. Said that cat could play. Beneath this memory chatter, my subconscious finishes with its checklist.

  Will it work? Yeah, I guess it could.

  I take the HoloBand and plunge it into my neck. My eyesight dims for a second as the information and firmware interfaces with my wetware. Then it’s up and running again, other than a bout of slight dizziness. I stumble toward the wall screen, where there’s a receiver.

  I smash one of the buttons with a closed fist and mumble into the receiver, “Yeah, I’m in the shower.”

  “Your appointment is in ten minutes, sir,” the guy with the beard says. “I don’t think it’s wise to—”

  Sir? My brother must’ve been some sort of real hotshot.

  “And I don’t think it’s wise for you to question me,” I say. “Or for me to show up unbathed.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Stokes,” the guy says, with a chagrined expression. “My apologies. We’ll wait outside.”

  “I’ll be out when I’m ready,” I say. As soon as the conversation is over, and I’ve staved off the imminent problem, I rush into the bedroom. This is gonna be an issue, passing myself off as Matthew Stokes. Hell, our hair isn’t even the same color. Our faces look enough alike at a distance to fool people, I guess, but I need a little cover.

  I ransack the closet, searching for anything besides khaki pants and collared button-downs. Deep in the back corner, I find a cardboard box of old clothes. Dumping it out in the middle of the hallway, I tear through it like a dog digging a hole. I toss a stack of polos aside, embroidered with the Circle’s insignia on the breast pocket and the words “Gifted Minds” stitched in neat cursive beneath.

  At the bottom, my throat catches, and I slow down.

  A plain black hoodie. One I recognize—because he used to wear it every day, oversized as hell. Enough to drown in, our mother used to say, affectionately. I think he was hiding in it, uncomfortable with being so smart, trying to hide in plain sight.

  When he left, he was about fourteen, so it’s not quite as big as I remember. But it isn’t a snug fit, either, as I try it out over my own shirt. In the same box is a pair of sunglasses with reflective shades. That’ll do.

  I take a quick shower and check my hair in the foggy mirror. There’s nothing I can do about the color, so I’m gonna have to hide it. I try to remember Matt’s facial expressions. He used to look down a lot, had difficulty making eye contact. Confident, but gun-shy around other people. Almost the opposite of who I was.

  Hopefully that behavior held over the past fifteen years. Otherwise I’m gonna die, and it probably isn’t gonna be too pretty.

  I slip into a pair of his khakis and one of those awful button-downs, pull the sweatshirt on—hoodie up, hanging down to my eyebrows in order to completely cover my hair—and put the shades on. I tighten the drawstring a little, so my face is barely visible. Then I take a deep breath and adopt a slightly nervous gait—the kind of a man with supreme confidence in his own abilities, but no confidence in the world to recognize them.

  I open the front door and stare at the floor.

  “Uh, sorry about that earlier,” I say, kind of mumbling, unsure whether these two guys know Matt, “I’m just nervous about the appointment.”

  The bearded guy raises an eyebrow, clearly confused about the apology from someone lower on the totem pole. “That’s okay, Mr. Stokes. I’m Committee Agent Sten. This is Committee Agent Bogden.” He nods at the other guy, who’s completely bald and looks mean as hell. Not a trace of hair on his head or face other than his eyebrows. A scar above his eyebrow and dead eyes.

  I breathe a little easier knowing that these two don’t know my brother.

  Bogden says, “We’ll be your guard to the appointment.” He pauses. “We should take lead, sir. There have been reports of unrest in New Manhattan in reaction to the disaster in the West. A disgrace for it to happen on Anniversary Day. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

  I start walking toward the elevator in a stilted shuffle. The carpet has a lot more burrs in it than I remember. “I saw. The news. Terrible.”

  “Takes care of a problem for the Circle,” Bogden says, his voice hard. “Better Mother Nature kills those rebels in the Lost Plains than us having to do it, right?”

  “Sure,” I say. I glance at Sten, who isn’t as much of a jackass as his companion. He might be about thirty-five. His blue eyes scan the hallway, on constant lookout for threats.

  We pass the door where the nervous woman ran away from me.

  “Sir,” Sten says, glancing behind to appraise my appearance, “forgive me if this is too forward.”

  “We’re all friends here,” I say, with a nervous laugh, “ask away.”

  Sten cracks a mirthless smile. “If you’re meeting with Chancellor Tanner, your method of dress seems…odd. Is everything okay?”

  I quickly resume my staring contest with the floor. This time, though, it’s not an act, because my brain is screaming shit. I’m about to meet the guy in charge of this entire cesspool of a nation.

  It’s one thing to bilk some get-rich-quick idiot after a couple beers. Or tell a girl you love her so she gets off your back—or on her back, if that’s what you’re going after. But it’s another thing to lie to the biggest con artist of them all.

  He might as well be King Tanner, the power he’s got.

  “Sir?’

  “You have a good point,” I say. “But I think he’d like it less if we were late.”

  “I see, sir,” Sten says. We arrive at the elevator, which is waiting for us. I step inside, and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, no plan forms.

  After all, what’s the play when you’re about to meet with the paranoid leader of the not-so-free world?

  4 Origin Points

  Agent Bogden and Agent Sten are quiet in the front seat of the auto-cruiser. I take occasional glances at the screen, where the same gray-haired newscaster silently explains the unrest in New Manhattan. There are images of handcuffed citizens. Others are presumably being shot, but the feed always cuts away before you’re sure.

  Old Silver Fox claims the police force is only using suppression rifles. But everyone knows you can suppress dissent much better with a simple bullet to the head.

  I wonder what they’ll use on me, when I get to the Origin Point. There are only rumors and hearsay about what goes on in the Circle’s little clandestine capital in the heart of New Manhattan—a walled fortress built within the belly of a moated castle. None of them are good.

  What worries me more than my own abilities are the scans, of which there are two levels. At standard checkpoints, Hyperloop stations and while making a transaction—basically anything resembling normal life—you’re subject to a Level 1 scan. A picture pops up on the terminal, the clerk verifies that you match the description, have no outstanding warrants and so forth. In the case of an auto-cab, it just lets you slide without positive ID, so long as no warrants pop. Facial recog is a thing, but to process that amount of data daily…it’s too much. This system is obviously subject to abuse in many areas, as even a flesh-and-blood human can simply look the other way if you pay with a stolen band.

  When you offer them the right deal, no one really gives a shit.

  But Level 2 scans are different. Because also on the HoloBand is detailed information about what makes you you: your DNA, blood type, neural architecture. Circle officials—and Chancellor Tanner—would love to make this type of scan the de facto identification method.

  Unfortunately for them, there’s a single drawback to a Level 2 scan: it requires a blood draw and an MRI to test against the data. This adds about thirty minutes to the process, which is untenable. Down from forty-five, two years ago, but still too long for buying a soda.

  A visit to Chancellor Tanner’s offic
e, though, might justify such an inconvenience.

  The news screen jolts me out of my worries. The red band reports that a 9.3 quake has rocked the Northwest. Seattle, as it once was, is gone. A helicopter aerial shows the Space Needle split in half, hanging like a bent toothpick over the landscape. Then the picture is washed out in a sea of ash.

  I tap the screen and tell it to beam the audio to my band. I then confirm the action by tapping twice at the base of my neck. The newscaster’s voice fills my head, competing with my thoughts for space. Not used to the effect, I find it a little disconcerting, like I’ve suddenly become afflicted with mild schizophrenia.

  “Reports are claiming that the reported tremors earlier today were the precursor to a massive earthquake in the Northwest. While the damage from the quakes is rumored to be severe, the atmospheric ash launched by the Yellowstone volcanic eruption hours prior might be a much larger concern.” There’s a pause in the audio. I see an anxious look crease the man’s lips, like he has to go to the bathroom really bad. “However, I’ve just gotten word from a scientific source within the Circle who says that their data predicts the ash will clear within the next 48 hours, and will not present a long-term hazard.”

  In the right hand corner, the Space Needle flashes into view for another quarter-second before the smog-like grip of the ash swallows the city whole again.

  I tap on the glass separating me from my two guards.

  “How long is this meeting gonna run,” I ask, dropping the meek pretense for a moment. “I got a couple things to do afterward.”

  “I don’t know,” Sten says with a slightly confused look as the glass divider cracks down. “I’m not privy to that information, sir.”

  “You’re not? You’re my guards.”

  “Sir,” Sten says. “Special Committee Agents are not privy to Inner Circle schedules and operational details.”

  “How much longer?”

  “About five minutes,” Sten says. “Sir, I really must ask, if you’re feeling okay.”