RAZOR
Razor knows this place inside and out—not on a personal level, but in terms of cold, hard schematics. Which should be enough to get to where he needs to go.
He exits the containment room, stepping out into a long, winding, tunnel-like corridor. He takes off at a fast run, his footfalls echoing on a layer of mounted metal grating that jangles and clanks under his feet. Dim overhead lamps illuminate the passage, thick dust motes winking lazily in the light. Behind, he can hear the humans running to keep up with him. He hears Shiloh calling out his name. She doesn’t understand why he’s in such a rush. His behavior both confuses and disturbs them both. And it should.
It might already be too late.
Razor skids to a stop, metal heels sliding on the grating, sending up sparks that flash like fireworks in the shadowy passage. He taps a button on the wall next to a slim, one-to-two person elevator. The elevator is cylinder-shaped, like a bullet in a gun. The clear oval door slides inward, and Razor slips inside, pressing the middle of three different buttons on the inside. The clear door shuts, just as both Shiloh and Cade come into view in front of it, Shiloh banging a fist on the door angrily. Then the lift activates, taking Razor upward.
It’s just as well. They’re better off not being involved. Unfortunately, they’ll be able to see his destination from the elevator lights on their floor, but at least he’ll have a head start, which is exactly what he needs. If he plays his cards right, it’ll all be over in seconds. If not…
The elevator door zips open. Razor darts out and into another hallway, nearly identical to the one he just left. He takes a right, heading toward the cave-like shadow of an open doorway, the one he knows leads to Storage Room C, where both the Blast Model—Silas—and his captor will be waiting. He moves slower now, carefully, with near-silent footsteps, masking his approach.
He’s about to do something dangerous, something risky, but he has no other option. It’s now or never.
The trick will be to avoid the parameters of his opponent’s Protocol. It’s hard to mistake that short stature, those glowing arms. Up close, the effects of his abilities are devastating. But to Razor’s knowledge, it should only work within an approximate twenty foot radius. In the video feed, Silas was strapped to a table, with his captor operating a console close by, easily forty feet away from the entrance to the room. If his approach is silent, and he moves fast enough, Razor can neutralize the Biodroid from the outset. He has no other choice. Under no circumstance can he be allowed to live; his very existence jeopardizes everything Razor and his new allies are working toward.
Not to mention what would happen to Razor himself, which is the more immediate concern.
Printing two throwing knives, one in each hand, Razor steps through the doorway—and freezes in place. As if his entire body has been encased in a block of ice. The only thing he has control over, the only thing he can move at all, are his eyes, which are drawn to a flitting shadow of movement to one side of the doorway. He watches as a short, slim form emerges from the darkness next to the wall, facing him, emitting bright turquoise light from two bars, one running down each of the figure’s arms. As he adjusts his stance, the bluish-green light from his arms illuminates his pale, sharply angled face, framed by long, silken tendrils of straight black hair, parted down the middle of his head. His clothing is dark and plain, and also loose, with lots of wear and tear.
One of the turquoise bars shifts as he raises one of his hands, mentally beckoning Razor forward. Razor’s heels drag on the floor as he’s lifted slightly off the ground, held by some unseen force and pulled along. There’s another shift of the arm, and Razor is lifted up into the air, a good two feet off the floor, arms spread slightly apart.
The Biodroid tilts his head, looking up at his new captive with a certain vague, detached interest.
“Razor,” he says.
“Echo,” Razor says, realizing he can still speak. “Long time no see.”
Echo squints, looking confused. For an ex-Corsair Model designed for strategy, tactics, and complex permutation analysis, some things seem to go right over his head. Maybe that’s what happens when you design a Biodroid that isn’t supposed to think for itself.
Most of what Razor knows about Echo is hearsay. Rumors. Second and third hand info. Who’s to say what’s true and what’s not.
Supposedly Revenant had captured him and managed to jailbreak his programming parameters, effectively giving him free will. After that, Echo was quick to join Revenant’s warband, becoming one of the Scions of the Fall, and Revenant’s most loyal follower.
“I see,” Echo says, finally. “A colloquialism for having missed someone. There is a certain satisfying irony to it. The last time I saw you we were on opposite sides of a battlefield.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about bygones.”
“You would say that,” Echo says, his countenance hardening. “After what you did.”
Right. There lies the problem. When Razor hacked into the facility, he eliminated most of the Biodroids who were still in stasis. Echo’s friends. Right under his nose, while he was powerless to stop it.
“I’ve already anticipated your objections,” Echo says, his expression turning bitter. “It wasn’t personal. You were just following orders. If you hadn’t done it, another agent of the Protectorate would have in your place. And what should I expect, given that we’re at war? You are a soldier, bound by duty. And think of all the things the Scions did to provoke such a counterattack in the first place. Should I go on, or does that just about cover it?”
Razor makes another go at getting back control of his body. Just to make sure. Perhaps, with enough willpower, he can get free of Echo’s grasp.
So far, nothing.
Which means his options are depleting rapidly.
“I’m sorry,” Razor says. “Truly I am. I…I’d become too used to following orders, trusting in the grand design. I relinquished control. I took no responsibility for my actions. That was wrong of me.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
No shift in Echo’s expression. None at all.
“I’ve already defected from the Protectorate,” Razor says. “That’s why they were after me. After us. I want to save this world. Give humanity back what they’ve lost.”
“Humanity is the reason the Old World was destroyed,” Echo says. “Even if we were to fix this planet, and return it to them, they would inevitably destroy it again. And again. And again.
“Our interests don’t align, Razor. You have nothing to offer me. Nothing to bargain with. And it wouldn’t matter even if you did.”
He walks backward, pulling Razor with him, toward the middle of the storage room, past rows of free-standing shelving units and stacked piles of tables and chairs. Closer to the cool glow of the console monitor, murky and glittering with more lambent, airborne motes of circulating dust. There’s white noise from fans whirring in a vent, somewhere on the far side of the room.
The examination table is empty. Silas isn’t strapped to it anymore. He’s standing off to one side of it, his back to both Echo and Razor.
Footsteps. Shiloh and Cade, running in the corridor, getting closer.
Razor’s first inclination is to call out to them, to warn them. But he doubts it will matter. Whatever Echo’s plans are for them, there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. It would simply be a waste of energy.
Cade enters first, with Shiloh directly behind. They both come to a stop, panting and out of breath, their shoes scuffing and squeaking on the smooth floor. They take in the scene with wide, uncomprehending eyes, tentative and uncertain.
Shiloh takes a couple steps forward. She glances at Razor, suspended in the air, and Echo, who is clearly holding him there, paralyzed and helpless.
Then she turns to look at Silas, whose back is still turned to them, both his neck and shoulders hunched.
There's a question in Shiloh’s eyes, but the words seem to keep dying on her lips, as if she fears what the answer might be. She has no context for this situation, no ability to predict what might happen next, no cards to play. And where does that leave her? Where does that leave them?
I'm sorry, Razor wants to say. But at the same time, he’d prefer not to scare her. He doesn't want to make this any worse than it's already going to be. Let her have a
Meanwhile, Silas slowly straightens his posture, making his shoulders wide and his neck tall. He rolls his neck once to the left, once to the right, then turns to look at Shiloh, revealing bright yellow, glowing irises, and a harsh, weathered expression—a far cry from the intense, excitable demeanor Silas usually has. This is an older, more severe character, someone with eyes devoid of fear and brimming with spite. These are the eyes of someone who has chosen vengeance above all else.
He gives both Shiloh and Cade a dismissive sidelong glance, then his eyes catch Razor’s, holding his gaze. His expression is hard and unyielding, difficult to read.
"I was wondering when you were going to show up," Echo says, addressing the humans. "It seems you're just in time."
Just then, reddish-yellow Nanobit particles flare into existence, like welder sparks, whirling around Silas’s body—no, Revenant’s body. As the Nanobits dissipate, Silas stands there in a long, black-tailed surcoat, a long black sword hilt jutting out from behind his shoulder.
As he steps forward toward the center of the room, Razor twitches in Echo’s grasp, struggling like a mouse caught in a trap.
Revenant comes to a stop next to Echo, peering up at Razor, then reaches for the hilt of the sword resting in his back scabbard.
"Looks like we caught a rat in the cellar," he says.
There’s something different about his voice—deeper, more resonant than Silas's ever was.
"I’m sorry, Silas," Razor says quickly. "I said it, and I’ll say it again.”
“Don’t call me that," Revenant says.
He pulls the hilt from the scabbard, revealing a long black beam of metal. As he holds it up, massive twin blades of solid yellow plasma flicker to life on either side of the rod, glowing and fizzing with energy, illuminating both his and Echo’s faces in sickly greenish-yellow hues.
"I want to change," Razor says. "I want to stop the Protectorate, just like you do."
"Don’t look to me for reconciliation," Revenant says firmly. "You’re a virus, Razor. You need to be purged. It won’t bring my friends back, but it will bring me some satisfaction to know their killer is gone. I’m going to treasure this moment."
He hefts the sword, cherishing the weight of it.
"Wait!" Shiloh rushes forward. "You can’t do this!"
Revenant turns toward her, holding out the sword and pointing it directly at her. The yellow glow lights up her face as she stops, freezing in place with the blade just inches from her neck. She stares into Revenant’s eyes, her breathing and heart rate both accelerated, according to Razor's sensors. She’s terrified.
"At least let me go," Razor says, drawing Revenant’s attention again. "Let me die on my feet, with a weapon in my hand."
Revenant cocks his head, looking up at him. "Do you think it’s going to matter? Dead is dead, Razor."
"Then what do you care, either way?"
For a long time—too long—Revenant stares up at him. Finally, he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Echo’s hold on Razor releases. He drops, landing on his feet. He holds out a hand, Printing a rapier with a long, slim blade. It’s brittle, but sharp—it’ll break on the first hit, but if Razor can’t make the first strike it won’t matter anyway.
"Razor…" Shiloh says, but Razor holds up his hand, shaking his head at her. He needs every bit of focus he has. He has a shot, even if it's the slimmest of chances—but it’s going to take everything he has.
He gives one last look at Shiloh, and then Cade, who seems to be watching the proceedings with steely resignation, analyzing the proceedings with cold, distant clarity.
Revenant moves toward Razor, and they both begin to rotate in a slow circle, orbiting like twin satellites.
"Whenever you’re ready," Revenant says.
Razor doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges forward, thrusting the rapier, aiming the point of the blade at Revenant’s face. His eyes are open, unblinking, as the point makes contact, puncturing Revenant’s forehead.
Razor’s synthetic heart jumps in his chest as an intense feeling of relief washes over him.
It’s a miracle. He’s done it. Somehow, he’s managed to defeat the leader of the Scions himself in a one-on-one duel.
Stranger still, the rapier’s blade is still intact. Perhaps the blade had better integrity than he thought.
But he can’t stop to celebrate now. If he moves quickly, he can withdraw the blade from Revenant’s skull and use the rapier as a projectile against Echo. There’s no time to print another throwing knife, and he has to strike now, before Echo can—
Wait. Something’s not right.
Revenant’s body shimmers and ripples, then begins to glide sideways, circling around Razor.
It takes but a microsecond for Razor to realize that the hit was an illusion. Revenant has dodged the attack with a degree of swiftness that not even Razor’s OS can keep up with. The speed at which he moves is godlike—it’s like fighting a mirage.
A flash of yellow. The circular spin of Revenant’s sword, so fast that it appears to be a solid yellow ring in the air, penetrating Razor’s neck from one side to the other.
Sparks fly. There’s a harsh, crunchy, high-pitched sound like compressed radio static.
The room spins around Razor until he touches down on the floor, sliding briefly, rolling to a stop.
He can see the back of his own hand, but he can’t move it. He can’t feel it anymore. Distantly, he can hear Shiloh screaming. He’s glad that the sound is muffled, that everything is slowly getting darker, quieter.
It’s a shame, after everything, to die in this place. He would’ve loved to see the verdant beauty of the Old World just one more time, even if only by way of augmented reality. He misses the sky. He misses the open spaces of the overland, and the promise of green, flowing hills—the ones from both his AR programs and his dreams. But the darkness is good. The darkness allows him to imagine, to dream once again of a green world, and Parallax there with him to experience it, as all other things—even the flashing error messages from his OS—slowly drift away.