Outcasts of the Worlds Page 2

  A lone guardsman remained. After surveying what had become of his allies, he ran. Wiping the blood from her split lip, Jean pressed her palm to the wall. Chunks burst unevenly out until one struck the escapee, knocking him unsteady. Jean charged, shoving him face-first to the ground. A streak of blood on the gray tile became a pool as Jean caved his skull in with the mace. She flashed a cruel smile that spoke of sadism and vindication, then hunched over, panting and splattered with blood.

  “Enjoy the show?”

  “You like this sort of thing,” Flynn observed. Kneeling by one of the bodies, he unbuckled the dead man’s chest-plate.

  Jean’s response was strangely clinical, lacking either joy or contempt: “They’d have done the same to me.”

  Flynn felt her eyes on him as he tore off his prison rags, wondering what sort of aberration they were seeing.

  “Ya look like some kinda beast,” she observed.

  Naked, he stripped the uniform from one of his former captors. Behind him, Jean took his cue and followed suit.

  *

  Wearing the uniform of a patrolwoman either dead or unconscious, Jean stood guard. All was quiet on the current level—a floor apart from the cells, sectioned off for administrative and recreational functions. Jean tried to adjust the body armor, which she found constricting around the chest. It stank of another’s sweat and she hated wearing it—an oppressor’s skin suffocating her own.

  “You sure they ain’t gonna know we’re here?”

  “Civilis runs entirely on piecemeal technology,” Flynn replied as his fingers clacked away at the keyboard. It was dark, and the light from the monitor cast a long shadow. “There are no radios, let alone cameras. If someone wants to call for help—” he rapped his knuckles on a nearby phone, hardwired into the wall, “they have to call for help.”

  Flynn went on explaining problems with the radios, inconsistencies in frequency or range. Vaguely listening, Jean began to notice that almost nothing in the room matched. Monitors and units were different colors and shapes, emblazoned with different logos—competing products once in conflict for shelf space and consumer interest alike; petty rivals, long forgotten.

  “Civilis, and other structures like it, run on this sort of tech,” Flynn explained. “Whatever still works, and whatever can be made to work together.”

  The indexing program he was navigating hurt just to look at, the interface a hideous mix of teal and magenta. The worst tech in Civilis could run something that looked a hundred times better, so whoever wrote the program most likely did so long after the bombs dropped, having only begun to understand the method.

  “You sure you know what yer doin’?” It looked as though Flynn was constantly slipping in and out of the program, backtracking and going back in again.

  “This index is a mess,” he replied. “I have to use gaps and backdoors to get around the authorization I lack. One wrong move and the whole thing crashes.”

  Jean could barely read anything on the screen. Reaching back, she felt the bloody scab forming on the back of her neck. Still wet and fresh, she struck the blood off on her pants.

  “Yer pretty savvy.”

  “I have a knack for these things,” he replied indifferently. Then he stopped, turning back to her. “I need to know what to look for in order to find your friend.”

  “Told ya before, ’is name’s Mack,” she snapped. The quiet was setting her on edge. She knew better than to trust quiet.

  “You really don’t get it, do you? We’re not people to them. We’re just numbers in their system. Physical attributes—what we can do, if they bother finding out.”

  Faltering, Jean turned her back to him. It was frustrating to spend a year trapped and find you weren’t even sorted by name. “Not sure how to word what he can do …” she stalled, trying to shift her focus to what he was more than who. “Dirty blond hair. Pasty skin. Bad posture.”

  The list rattled on. The traits narrowed things down, bit by bit, until Flynn found something. Only then did Jean quit her post, dashing to the monitor to look over his shoulder. Expecting a picture, all she saw were lines on a screen.

  “Yeah, I can’t read this shit.”

  “It says he was brought in a year ago. With someone matching your description.” Flynn pointed to a reference note. “Prisoner six–four–nine–zero–two.”

  “Heard them call me that before,” Jean confirmed.

  “Mack is prisoner six–four-nine–one–nine. They probably took their time processing him. He’s down in an interior cell, on the mid-levels.”

  “Then let’s haul ass.”

  “Not yet.” Flynn picked the receiver up from the dusky telephone on the desk and dialed an extension. His accent changed. “Yeah, Cal? This is Jimmy on level ninety-three. The door on cell seventeen’s been heating up something fierce for the last fifteen minutes. Yeah. Can you send me a couple hands in case things get messy? Thanks.”

  “The fuck was that about?”

  “Chess is easier when you’re playing both sides of the board,” he said. “That was pawn to E6.”

  “And the fuck does that mean?”

  She got no answer. Flynn, amused with himself, began closing panels on the screen, dwelling on the index. If he expected her to see something and say something about it, she had nothing. Most people she knew could barely read and, in truth, Jean had just never learned.

  *

  In the northwest corner of the former skyscraper, a rigid spiral of stairs wrapped up the inside of a vertical concrete shaft. Beams of moonlight fell through unshielded windows carved into the stone as two pairs of footsteps kept pace in rapid descent. Even disguised, Flynn could never pass under scrutiny. Better, he knew, to take the less traversed route, avoiding the elevators and the probability of confrontation. Already the trip was slow due to the sheer height of the building—his numerous segues to find another landline only mired things further.

  At first, he met with no complaint. At the fifth act of sabotage, Jean grabbed his shoulder. “Can’t we just get the fuck outta here?”

  “Either we do this fast, or we do this right.” He wasn’t in the habit of consoling irate tag-alongs. Each call was carried as though it were another sunny day, with Jean keeping uneasy watch over his shoulder. Only once were they stumbled upon, time enough to see Jean’s practiced hand with violence at work. It was soon after that, and after a dozen detours, that she became fed up and pressed her hand against the door of the forty-first level, stopping Flynn from opening it.

  “The fuck’s with all this crank-call jackassery? Let’s just grab Mack and get outta here!”

  “Every alarm they investigate, however small, moves a few more guards out of our way.” Flynn stared her dead in the eyes. Though she had freed him, he would not be bullied by her lesser methods.

  “I don’t care about a few fuckin’ guards,” she retorted. “I’ve been smashing ‘em all night! I’ll smash a few more if I have to!”

  “And you think it’s that simple? You expected some easy exit, where you just hop a fence and you’re home free?”

  Jean snarled and rolled her eyes, slouching against the door. Lacking a good comeback, she shared her only certainty: “I ain’t gonna be taken alive.”

  “Likewise.” Flynn placed a hand on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have even ended up here. But you got me out, and I’ll get us out. I promise.”

  He attempted to pull the door open, but Jean remained planted in the way.

  “And Mack.” She was firm.

  Releasing the door’s handle, Flynn asked, “Is he worth it?”

  “He’s my best friend.”

  “And he’d do the same for you? Right now, if it was his chance to break free, would he come find you first?”

  “… You’d ditch a friend?” she asked, accusation in her tone.

  “Ah … no …” Flynn backpedaled, badly. Neither was fooled.

  “Cause I wouldn’t. And Mack wouldn’t.” She nearly punched the door, but caught he
rself before making the sound. “I hate this place. I don’t just mean this tower, but I hate the fuck out of it, too.” Coldly, she told him, “I’d get it if you did. You’d be a bastard for it, but I’d get it.”

  Flynn dwelled on this for a moment before sighing in resignation. He moved past Jean, down the stairs.

  “Yo, what about the call you were gonna make? Prisoners loose, refrigerator’s runnin’, all that?”

  “Not yet.” Flynn glanced back as he rounded the corner, one flight below. “I’m saving that for last. We need to pull your friend out first.”

  He’d had no intention of helping her rescue Mack. Her hand gripped the metal railing, and he knew she wanted to beat him bloody for it. Outside, she would have. But this was inside Civilis, and they needed each other. It was only for her that he was doing the decent thing, albeit when pressed.

  Feeling the need to clear the air, Flynn added, “Just so you know, I don’t have anyone here.”

  “I figured.”

  *

  Following the incident on the forty-first level, Flynn kept his word, leading Jean down to the twenty-third on the promise that Mack was nearby. Having skimmed Mack’s file, Flynn knew enough to expect a mess of a human being, little more than human ballast. He shared nothing of this with Jean.

  Unlike the upper levels of Civilis, bedecked with moonlit gaps, the lower mid-levels were much further along in restoration. Lacking comprehensive illumination, they depended on a network of lamps forged of thick, heavy glass and strung only at necessary corners and junctions, each burning with a bright, hot light. Midnight patrol was sparse and the halls ran long before one might bend or fold, leaving much of the lower levels awash in darkness. Inside the cells, the passing of a lantern’s light was a reminder of the jailers’ vigilance. Outside, they were beacons, easily evaded within the deep dark.

  As Flynn led Jean by the sleeve—an arrangement she had groused about but could do little for, reliant as she was on his superior night vision—they heard the sounds of elevators shunting up and down. With over a dozen false alerts raised, it was no surprise. Yet none visited the twenty-third floor; it was a bubble, steady and undisrupted. Finding Mack’s cell would be the real feat. Markers from the old world remained, ranging from carved nameplates to luminescent glass that remained faintly visible even in the dark. Civilis ignored these old-world signs; each door was painted with a large number scrawled in violent contempt for its occupant. It was with a little diligence that they found cell thirteen.

  “Lucky number,” Jean observed hopefully.

  Flynn placed no faith in something so capricious as luck. He took Jean’s forearm, feeling for a moment the bulge of her flesh in his hands—no heavier than expected, nor any denser. It ran from wrist to elbow, and Flynn almost suspected some part of it was hollow. He guided her hand to the lock on Mack’s cell, which began to rattle in time with Jean’s vibrations. Flynn leaned in, whispering, “How long did you practice this before breaking out?”

  “Practice?” Her tone was smug as the lock popped, striking the ground like a lost coin. The door lurched open with a sustained groan that gasped through the corridors. Both tensed, waiting for approaching footfalls. After several moments, a frustrated voice broke the silence.

  “Alrighty, I give up! Who’s there?”

  Abandoning all fear of ambush, Jean fell in toward the familiar sound of Mack’s voice, groping through the darkness to find him. Flynn could barely discern the outlines of a cell not unlike his own, and of a scrawny figure sitting cross-legged on the wooden bench, apparently mystified by the proceedings. Mack shifted and despite the darkness, Flynn couldn’t help but notice how gaunt his frame was, with little more than the muscle needed to move about. Yet as Jean whispered, “Mack? Buddy?” he shot up and cried out—“Jeannie?!”—before thinking better and suppressing himself. Once the two found each other, they held tight. There was no passion in their embrace, but rather the affection of two who were relieved just to see each other again. Most wouldn’t chance this danger for something so half-baked as friendship; Flynn concluded that Jean was a special breed of stupid.

  “You’re okay!” Mack’s hand drifted, landing on the back of Jean’s neck, and he added, “And you’ve got a neat scab!”

  “Glad yer in one piece, buddy.” Jean pulled away with that and found her way to the door. “We’re gonna scram. Wait here a tick … lemme get you a change of clothes, okay?”

  “Waiting! Got it!” Mack called quietly after her. Flynn watched as Jean groped her way out to ambush one of the patrol they’d taken care to avoid, and was startled by a sudden inquiry. “So, whose acquaintance am I makin’?”

  “Flynn. You’re Jean’s friend?”

  “Yeah, Jeannie an’ me go way back,” Mack replied. “I mean, maybe not as way back as I’d like, but way back enough.”

  “So you want her to make it out of here safely then? You’re … invested … in her well-being?”

  “… What’chu gettin’ at, Flynn-o?”

  “I need you to do something for me,” Flynn said. “For Jean, too. She’ll understand, when this is all done.” He moved purposefully in the darkness of Mack’s cell, opening his hand and extending, from the tip of his index finger, a single sharp claw. Reaching down, he found the lone sheet that warmed Mack’s bed. Holding it taut, he sheered a strip from it, then withdrew his blade, his hand tensing momentarily. He flexed his fingers, then took hold of the strip and banded it firmly around Mack’s head. “Hold still.”

  “Too tight,” Mack complained, fidgeting needlessly. “A little too tight.”

  A scuffle ensued outside, echoing in the halls. A guardsman’s lantern drew near, and Flynn could already see considerably more detail as it kissed the fringes of Mack’s cell. It was necessary to act quickly. He adjusted the band, fixing it in place, and asked simply, “Do you understand why I’m doing this?”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Mack replied. “I’m savvy!”

  Both spoke in low voices, co-conspirators. Jean appeared in the doorway, holding a lantern that lit the dark cell, possibly for the first time in months. Both Flynn and Mack recoiled from the rude light before seeing the unconscious guard she was dragging by the collar. For the first time in a year, Jean saw Mack.

  “You’ve lost weight,” came her parched voice, before her tone shifted to bewilderment. “… and what the fuck are you wearin’?”

  With a toothy grin, Mack adjusted the crooked headband covering the left half of his face. “I think it’s stylish,” he said, posing comically.

  Jean’s smile shared none of the sadism Flynn had seen at their first meeting, having traded it for something more heartfelt.

  As she turned the lantern toward him, he asked, “I trust we have no one else to collect?”

  “Naw.” She tossed the guard into Mack’s cell. “Change.”

  *

  As Civilis guards went, they were the most unconvincing bunch to ever walk its halls—if not for Jean’s uniform—almost painfully constricting—then it was Mack’s, which was impossibly loose. Finding any that might have reconciled with his scrawny frame would have proven impossible. As for Flynn, Jean shied away from mentioning how ill-fitting and ungainly he looked, though Mack wasn’t so subtle.

  “He’s kinda puffy looking, you know?”

  On the twenty-first level, Flynn caught a guardswoman about to make a call. Keeping to the shadows, he convinced her that a minor disturbance with a prisoner was just that: minor, and not worth her time. Although the guard wandered away, Jean worried she would circle back around. A black phone sat on the desk, another ebony patch in the moonless halls. Closing his eyes, Flynn inhaled. Forcing his breath out, he inhaled again and again, until his breath was nervous and rapid. Picking up the line, he raised his voice an octave.

  “Hell—hello?! Listen this is—this is Samuel! Sam—Samuel! Ay–zee–six–two–seven–dash–oh! On the hundred and twenty-second! Listen, we’ve—! We’ve got a jailbreak here! I—”

/>   “Hey! Fuck-head! You put! That down!” Jean brought her mace down, smashing the phone to splinters.

  Flynn cast her a sidelong glance. “‘You put. That down?’ Could that performance have been any more phoned in?”

  “It counts! You were on an actual phone!”

  To Jean’s annoyance, Flynn ignored her, concentrating on the unfolding events. “Alright, he should have realized a few seconds ago we were cut off. He’ll be calling the director and—”

  The prison sirens howled, reverberating through the tower floors.

  Astounded, Mack said, “I have never heard that sound before.”

  Flynn was too good, and it gnawed at Jean. “How’d you know that was gonna happen, Flynn? You psychic?”

  But he just shook his head and marched off into the shadows, expecting them to follow.

  “Cause I knew a psychic once,” she clarified. “He was kind of a dick …”

  *

  Frantically, the elevators rose and fell, returning time and again to dispatch more soldiers to yet another newly erupted hotspot. To the jailers, it must have looked like a coordinated riot had broken out, but such a thing was impossible in Civilis. Were it not for their frantic guards and the blaring sirens, every floor would be as silent as ever. With their keepers so thoroughly scattered, a perfect window opened and an elevator stopped on the trio’s floor. Flynn stepped in, holding the door for the other two. Inside, the elevator had been stripped to the essentials: tiles, railing, anything that hadn’t been fused to the walls was gone, pried away to offset the weight of heavily armed soldiers. Only a tinny speaker remained, trapped behind a grate of cheap, fused screws. Rustic elevator music played.

  “How long ya think we got?” Jean asked.

  “Between the false alarms and the bodies we left behind?” Flynn considered. “Long enough. They won’t know that it’s us, or that we got this far this fast.”

  “Seems a little tiny bit a shame,” Mack piped in. “Us gettin’ out while all the other peoples here stay.”

  “We’re no heroes. Not a one of us. We get out, we don’t come back.” Ugly though Flynn’s words were, neither disputed him. No one escaped Civilis. None who did would be fool enough to return.