CADE - RAZOR

"We're gonna die out here."

Cade doesn't mean to say it out loud. The thought roils in his head, and he doesn't manage to hold his mouth shut long enough to keep it from getting out.

Shiloh shakes her head. "We're not gonna die out here."

There's something noncommittal about the way she says it, like she's still trying to convince herself. She stares into the distance, a subtle wind playing with one lock of blonde hair resting against her cheek.

Somewhere out there, toward the horizon, the laws of reality are being rearranged. A bright beacon of light impresses itself on the sky. It pierces a cluster of clouds, forming a ring of blue around it. It crawls toward the ground, mere seconds from impact. The chariot of a god about to touch down on earth.

Cade swallows. There's a click near his Adam's Apple, and an acidic sensation creeping up his throat. "No one survives this."

Shiloh shakes her head again, but it's more subtle this time, her eyes still glued to the horizon. "You can't possibly know that."

There's only so much knowledge to be gleaned regarding SERAPHIM Incursions. Most of the records have been destroyed, just like everything else has been destroyed. Concrete data on what happens when a HERALD touches down is kind of like having credible proof of the afterlife. Usually all you can see is the aftermath, what's left behind.

People die from SERAPHIM occasionally, but usually it's wayward drones, leftovers from a scouting protocol or some long-past Incursion.

This is not that. This is the real deal. This is a HERALD, touching down in human territory. For the first time since...ever.

And in a way, the last, because it's never going to be human territory again.

Is this what it feels like to wait as the nuclear bomb falls? To see death coming, and know all you can do is watch?

"I can't just sit here," Cade says. "I have to go."

But Shiloh grabs his arm. "You can't. This is where Razor and Silas are meeting us."

Cade and Shiloh are still standing in front of the tall outcropping. It's where Razor left them, after he woke up and took off, claiming he was going to get 'a ride'.

"Shiloh, there's no way to know if he's actually coming back."

She tenses, fingers clenching, digging into Cade's forearm. "You can't outrun this. Not on foot."

"I know," Cade says. "But...I'd rather die running."

A realization seems to dawn on Shiloh's face. Almost like she's just now allowing herself to see just how dire the situation is.

"Okay." A deep breath echoes inside her oxygen mask as she gathers herself. "Okay. I'll come with you."

Still, Cade finds himself hanging back, just for a second. Taking in the moment. His surroundings. Trying to glimpse this place, the outside world, with a sense of grandiose wonder, perhaps for the last time. Trying to imagine, for just another brief moment, what things were like before. What they might have been like again.

Then, he sees Shiloh turning to go. And he races with her. Like a deer whose flight is instigated by no particular tangible or discernible thing, but by instinct itself. Here, still and listening, watching. Then gone. Running at full tilt. Fueled by one long, internal scream.

*****

Razor draws the sword. It's well-made. Light, but not too light. The perfect heft, an extension of the wielder's body. The handle hums with a subtle vibration, while the blade's edge glows an angry dark orange, crackling with energy and heat, making Razor grateful for the circular guard which acts as a barrier between the blade and his hand.

Aesthetically, it's modeled after the Katana, used as far back as the year seven-hundred AD. Japanese swordsmiths had to make use of local metals by folding the low-carbon steel several times over, purifying it. The signature weapon of the samurai, noble warriors who served the daimyo and the feudal lords. They were respected. Their services were sought after. They had purpose, prestige.

A samurai who survived the death of his lord was no longer 'samurai', but 'ronin'. A wanderer without a home or a cause. His ties were severed. He had no family, and no code to live by. He was simply...adrift.

Is that what I am? Razor wonders. A drifter?

He surveys Silas' fallen form in the sand. What should be of more concern--and soon will be--is the bright light coming down in the distance, still reaching for the ground. But for now, Razor can't seem to take his eyes off the Blast Model.

He'd waited for the Operating System 'SERAPHIM Detection' to kick in, knowing the Incursion warning would override the proximity sensors, as well as distracting Silas and leaving him open to attack. One strong hit to the head, before Silas was ready or even aware, bypassing his shock-absorption systems, which are mostly relegated to the rest of his body anyway.

It's a good thing, too, because Silas was going to kill him. Even if he didn't go through with it now, it would happen later. It was obvious he hadn't taken the death of the Salvo Model well, and Razor couldn't blame him. The killing of a comrade is not easily forgiven, if it can even be done at all. In fact, if Razor were in his shoes, he wouldn't have hesitated. All things being equal, he would have taken the shot.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He thinks he needs me. That's what saved me. As soon as they've got what they need out of me, he'll take me out. It's just a matter of time.

Which is why I should act now.

This chaos, this Incursion--it's a gift, really, if Razor can survive it. Both Artifice and Parallax are about to bail, if they haven't already. They can't fight a Grade Five HERALD, not on their own. They're not going to risk their lives for some Blast Model's data, no matter how volatile or classified it is.

Razor steps toward Silas, bootheels scraping as they slide across the sand. He cocks his head, heart pounding, mind racing.

Just...do it. Do it, already.

"Razor!"

Razor's heart bounces, catching in his throat.

It's Parallax, leaping over the edge of the sandy rise, hovering down toward him. Several staves of light staves are suspended vertically in a circle around her, attached to her by invisible strands of plasmic energy, slowing her fall. She's like Mary Poppins with an umbrella, but three times as magical, radiating an aura of a comic-book femme fatale as she descends, arms extended as she manipulates the plasmic energy, hip popped, eyes glowing, dark hair flowing up in a whirl, like she's lying on her back in a river current.

She lands, waving her empty palms down and causing all the staves to plant firmly in the sand around her, within arms reach.

"Don't, Razor. Just hand him over, we'll forget this whole thing."

She really doesn't get it. Even after all this time, she doesn't get it.

It's almost like she never understood me to begin with. Could that really be?

Razor points past her, toward the impending HERALD. "From here, it looks like you have bigger things to worry about."

Parallax frowns, exhibiting something like parental concern. "You might be surprised."

There's a roar as Artificer's airship zips past overheard, a couple hundred feet up. It slows, looping until one of the sides is facing Razor, then brakes into a holding position. A little palm-sized, metallic coin--a holochip--ejects from a port in the side of the ship, landing on the ground just several paces away from Razor. The air above the holochip fizzles a little, and a life-size, near-perfect hologram of Artifice zaps into existence. She's crossing her arms, scowling. Her goggles are high on her forehead, but one of the lenses is slightly askew from the other.

Frown lines on her forehead flex and squeeze together, making an 'M'. "You must be even more dense than I assumed."

Razor waves, once. "And you're only half as ornery as I remembered."

Out of all the Elites, Artifice has always been the bitchiest of the lot. Everyone knows that. She's the Karen of the post-apocalypse. If it were the twenty-first century, she'd be asking to speak with Razor's manager.

Artifice snorts a laugh. "Don't try to play it off. Did you really think we're here just because you fucked up? Do you think Suzerain sent the two of us just to spank you and fix your mess?"

I can't believe this conversation is actually taking place. The world's about to explode, and instead of protecting themselves, these two are standing around, critiquing my job performance?

"I don't get it. What's your obsession with this Blast Model?" Razor articulates with the blade of the sword, pointing at Silas' chest.

Both Artifice and Parallax start at the same time, alarmed at the proximity of blade-to-body.

Razor cocks his head, increasingly perplexed.

Artifice's legs are bent slightly, and she has her arms up, open palms toward Razor, like she's negotiating with a twitchy gunman. "You're really not picking it up, are you?"

Parallax's posture is similar, but with one hand gripping one of her staves. "Not a Blast Model. The Blast Model."

...oh.

Like a rock dropped in a well, falling, before that inevitable splash. The realization.

It was 'The Key'.

The Power.

The answer to the war, to the SERAPHIM, to...

...everything.

It's true, then. It has to be. The stories. The rumors. The insinuations, buried in bits of old, classified data. Razor already knew the song. The Key is the sheet music. And it's here, right in front of him.

He never would have believed it, if not for the severity of this situation, and the way both Parallax and Artifice are staring at him, wide-eyed.

For perhaps the first time in Razor's existence, he is the one with the power. Decades of war against the SERAPHIM, and each other, and it could all come down to this moment. With one twitch of the wrist, he could end everything the Elites have hoped and worked for.

But he can't. He won't. In fact, Razor might be willing to die before letting that happen. Because Silas has the Key.

And the Key is everything.

"Don't get cocky, you little shit." There's a little bit of holographic spit in the air as Artifice says it. The silver-tongued devil.

"Razor," Parallax pleads. "Give him up. Come with us. There's no other way out of this."

"She's right," Artifice pipes in, before I can answer. "I know about your little runaway car. Let me guess, you salvaged it from your ship's crash site, and hacked it. Bravo for you. Too bad I'm about to blow it up en route."

"No you're not." Razor adjusts the sword, lowering it. The glowing tip is a mere finger's breadth from Silas' throat. If Razor merely lets go of the sword, the blade will puncture into and through the Blast Model, staking him to the ground.

A bluff. Because Razor would rather the Elites take the Key than it be destroyed, or acquired by SERAPHIM. But the best outcome is if Razor can get Silas to safety. He has to take a risk in favor of that possibility.

And hopefully it works, because time is running out. To the West, the bottom end of the beam of light is no longer visible, meaning the HERALD will likely make contact at any second.

According to Razor's trackers, the unmanned land vehicle is about thirty seconds off, still. He can hear the engine, a faint thrumming in the distance.

Movement. A slight flicker in the air. A subtle warping.

Not enough to figure out what it is. Only to act.

It comes naturally. Razor's adept at summoning and using edged weapons. It barely requires a thought.

He materializes a knife in his free hand and swipes at the warbled air, bisecting one of the same little camouflaged bots that electrocuted Silas only moments ago.

The small droid falls to the ground in two sparking pieces.

Razor glances at Artifice, still holding the knife at the ready, his feet and the position of the sword still exactly the same as it was a few seconds ago.

"Got anything else? Either of you?"

The ground trembles. Not a brief shake, but an ongoing rumble.

It's here.

"I'll be back," Artifice says. "I'll kill you with my bare hands, Razor. That's a promise."

Her hologram disappears. The airship moves and pivots overhead, and a hatch opens up on the side. A cable drops, landing coiled on the ground next to Parallax.

Parallax reaches out and grabs the cable, never taking her eyes off of Razor. It's a last look. A last goodbye.

The cable pulls her up as the ship pulls away, heading east. Soon, both her and the ship are out of sight, and the summoned staves dissipate, exploding into purple energy ripples in the air.

She's left him. Again.

Or is he the one who's left her, this time?

The ground is still shaking. If he didn't know better, this could be a particularly intense earthquake.