ElyriasEcstasy (31 page)

“Micah,” said the onetime Weapon to the current Shadowflash.

Chapter Eighteen

The taller of the two buildings occupying opposite points of
the intersection was only partially collapsed. The one across from it had
almost completely tumbled in on itself, only its steel framework revealing its
original height. The vehicles made a path between these piles. It was a
squeeze.

Arvra had seen the Weapon snatched from the roof of the
transport behind her. Her eyes had been on the rearview mirror when it
happened. She had seen as well the face of the man who’d abducted Urna in such
a dramatic way. Rune. He was even wearing that distinctive blindfold like in
the publicity photos the broadcast commentators showed when they were discussing
the Shadowflash’s prowess. Arvra was sure it had been him, though she’d said
nothing to Bongo and Hervo. Those two didn’t need any distractions.

Neither did she, she thought grimly. They’d made fast time
across the park, despite losing Urna on the way. Now, Bongo said, they were
only one block from the arsenal.

A lot could happen in one block.

She steered the six-wheeled vehicle through the littered
street. It was worse, in her opinion, being in these ancient rotted cities than
out on the gray, lifeless open spaces of the Unsafe. In the colorless flats and
hills you could—providing you didn’t look
up
—pretend you were just
crossing some particularly dreary stretch of land. But within these sad, old
cities you were helpless against imagining what they must have been like when
they were inhabited, functioning. Alive. And those thoughts led invariably to
the cold realization of how many had died here. Whole populations just wiped
out. Slaughtered by the Passengers. Granted, those deaths were long ago. But
being here, on these streets and among these soaring, ruined structures, made
the ancient tragedy seem like it could have happened yesterday.

Arvra gripped the wheel tighter, detouring around a heap of
bricks that had fallen, many years ago probably, into the lane.

“That should be the building.” Bongo pointed.

Arvra gritted her teeth. “Should?”

“Is,” the blond man amended. “It is.”

Behind them Hervo loosed yet another crossbow bolt. Farther
behind came the discharge of the pistol. The woman named Virge had taken up
Urna’s firearm, it seemed. As far as Arvra could tell, the female in the Guard
outfit was making decent use of the weapon.

The Weapon. The word, in another context, touched her
memory. Again Urna’s image flashed across her mind. His naked form, his silver
hair spilling over her. But the vision was quickly canceled by one of him being
torn from the roof of the vehicle and borne away into the sky.

Arvra braked. The structure was a dark block with stolid
architectural lines. Slit windows looked out onto the jumbled street. It was a
squat building compared to some of the towers nearby, but had weathered the
long years better. Aside from some crumbling at its uppermost story, it
appeared intact.

Carved into the facade, still just legible, were the words
POLICE ARMORY. A wide green metal door stood ajar just beneath.

Behind them, Gator slowed, turned, wrangled his big-wheeled
transport around so that its lights pointed outward into the street. Arvra
copied his maneuver. It put the loading hatches for both holds toward the squat
structure.

“Okay,” Arvra said, feeling a quickening of blood in her
veins but holding her voice steady. She turned her gaze toward Bongo. “It’s
you, me and Gator—we go in and start collecting the goods. The others give us
cover. Simple. We do it fast. Got it?”

Bongo had already heard the plan but he nodded. They jumped
out, leaving Hervo in his elevated seat. Gator had already climbed down and was
hurrying toward them. Virge too, Arvra saw, had hopped down from the
transport’s rooftop. Pelkra, pulling the feathered end of an arrow back toward
her cheek as she sighted on a target, stayed where she was.

“You’re supposed to be giving us cover,” Arvra said sharply
as Virge approached, the pistol still in her fist.

Virge indicated the partially collapsed rooftop. “I’ll have
a better vantage from up there.” She ignored the skeptical look Arvra gave her
and strode toward the structure.

“And how exactly…” Arvra started, then her voice trailed off
as the woman in the Guard uniform slipped the pistol into her waistband and
vaulted onto the highest point of the debris piled in front of the building. It
wasn’t a particularly good jump, but she managed not to fall. Arvra was further
startled when Virge showed no hesitation in using her new perch as a sort of
springboard to launch herself at the facing wall. Arvra’s eyes widened, but
Virge caught onto the bottom edge of one of the slit windows. It was a struggle
to swing her left arm up, but she did it. There were plenty of handholds on the
decrepit fascia and soon she was making her way up. It was more a matter of
tenacity than athletic skill.

Next to Arvra, Bongo let out a chuckle. “That girl just
keeps on surprising me.”

“Let’s get to it,” Arvra said, flexing her fingers in her
gloves. The air was crisp, as it always was under-Ship. All around them the
dead city lay, contrarily alive with the scuttlings and scurryings of
Passengers.

The trio made for the green metal door.

* * * * *

When Virge reached the roof she pulled herself up and over
the small rise of the ledge. Several large pieces of slate scraped away under
her feet, falling into the building. She heard them crack and looked back over
her shoulder to see blackness. There wasn’t much of a roof left to speak of.
She was panting from her efforts but not exhausted by them, rather, she felt
exhilarated in a way.

She could hardly believe what she’d done. But whatever
instinct had compelled her to scale this building, it was the right tactical
move. She saw that clearly as she took the gun from her belt and surveyed the
view. She had a terrific sweep of the street below, and firing off this weapon
during the past several minutes had proven to her that she could hit a target.

Pelkra looked up and Virge lifted a hand to let her know she
was all right and in place. Glancing around herself, she saw that the rooftop
was all but gone. Large holes would drop her down onto the floor below if she
wasn’t careful where she stepped. But at least she was alone up here, with no
Passengers for company. She stayed near the ledge, feeling much like one of
those gargoyles that decorated the eaves of some of the older, statelier
buildings in her town—her
former
town.

From here she could see for several blocks in each
direction. There were few Passengers in sight and no armor-plated Guard units
coming for them. Not that she was expecting the latter. Gator had said the
Guard wouldn’t follow. She believed that.

The Guard policed the Safe. But the military worked the
Unsafe.

Rune had taken Urna. The shock of that had punched a hole in
her mind, leaving a deadness, a blackness into which she couldn’t look too
closely. She could only wish that the Weapon was still alive, that Rune hadn’t
come to kill his wayward teammate.

She could also only hope that more military personnel
weren’t on their way. If that were the case, the Passengers might end up being
the least of their problems. There was no telling what duty Aphael Chav would
charge the other Shadowflash/Weapon teams with tonight. Possibly, they were in
the Unsafe right now. Rune had ended the search for their renegade brother. But
old Aphael might be after this very team of illegal salvagers.

But it did raise the question—how the fuck had he found out
about them in the first place?

Virge Temple, crouching on the crumbling roof’s edge, caught
sight of movement below, still half a block distant. She took her time, aimed
carefully, squeezed off a shot. By now she was used to the gun’s kick. The
Passenger fell. It hadn’t even gotten near the vehicles. She grinned. Despite
Aphael Chav and Rune and anybody else who showed up, this operation might just
succeed after all.

* * * * *

“Let go of me,” Urna ground out through his teeth. “Let…go.”
His pale face was beginning to darken. Rune could hear the blood gathering into
his cheeks. That beautiful face. He had to see it.

But he had the Weapon’s coat collar wound up in one fist.
That was what was choking Urna. In his other, Rune gripped his pistol. It was
aimed squarely at Urna’s forehead.

A giddy horror raced within the Shadowflash. Thoughts and emotions
were flitting through him almost too swiftly to leave any true trace. He didn’t
know what was going to happen here, upon this rooftop. That uncertainty was
intoxicating.

Choosing to hold on to the gun, Rune released Urna’s collar
then reached up to yank the blindfold from his eyes. A second’s wavering passed
as his vision focused. He no longer needed his other senses enhanced so to
track the Weapon. He had him. He
had
him. But what was that name Urna
had just called him?

Name?

Why did he think the word—a strange, unfamiliar word—was a
name?

Micah.

They had barely reached the top of this tower. Rune had
thought the wings were going to give out just before he could carry himself and
Urna past the edge. But they’d made it, and once over, Rune had lost his grip
on Urna, the Weapon tumbling alarmingly across the gritty surface. Rune had cut
the wings’ motor but had made a poor landing himself, hitting the ground at a
bad angle. He too had rolled, no doubt bruising himself. A knee and an elbow
both throbbed painfully but it was a pain he could ignore for now. Undoing the
harness had taken some effort, but he’d gathered himself together before Urna
had. And now he had the advantage. The Shadowflash dominated the Weapon.

Urna had a scrape on his forehead, which was oozing blood. A
hank of his silver hair was pasted against this wound. He blinked his dark blue
eyes again and again. He looked ridiculous out of his combat clothes. No Weapon
should visit the Unsafe dressed like he was, in civilian garb.

The thought twisted a strange, high laugh from Rune. He cut
it off and, with the pistol still pointed at Urna’s head, said, “What did you
call me?”

“Micah.” Urna turned his head, spat out blood. Internal
injuries? No, Rune saw. He’d only bitten his tongue when he landed. Perhaps
he’d actually suffered no worse injury than that. “I can explain…”

The simple words touched off an anger in Rune, deep and
vibrant. Explain?
Explain?
Explain why he had abandoned his duties and
his partner. His lover. Leaving him behind without a word and perhaps not even
a thought?

“Can you?” Rune asked, but it was as though he were only
wondering aloud. He heard that fatal giddiness in his own voice now. His grip
tightened on the pistol, finger caressing the trigger. He remembered shooting that
brass plaque out of Urna’s hand long ago. A twitch to one side and he would
have put a bullet into the Weapon. He could do that now, deliberately. Few
hindrances seemed to lie between himself and that action. It felt like he was
dealing with a different person here, a stranger. Not the Urna he had known. So
many things had changed.

At that moment, when the possibility of pulling the trigger
seemed keenest, Rune saw that Urna was suddenly no longer lying beneath him.
With a twist the Weapon had rolled to the side, fantastically fast. And on top
of that same instant, a blur of movement came chopping at Rune.

The blow, a hard open palm, caught his shoulder. It was the
same arm with the injured elbow, and new fierce pain rang along the limb even
as Rune lost his balance. Even as he yanked on the trigger and heard the report
and felt the instrument buck in his grip. Too late. The bullet skipped off the
concrete.

He expected another strike. Urna had deceived him. He wasn’t
so hurt as he’d pretended and now he could finish Rune, almost at his leisure,
considering the Weapon’s abilities. Rune still had the gun but that probably
wouldn’t matter against such amazing reflexes.

Nevertheless, Rune caught himself before he fell flat on the
rooftop. He turned, brought the pistol up, feeling its heat, breathing in the
lethal reek of burnt powder. He would get off one more shot. One more. If he
could, he would make his betrayer
pay
.

He thought Urna would be on him by now. But the Weapon was
running in the opposite direction—and not running easily, one leg limping, a
hand clasped to his ribs. Not uninjured after all, then. Was he heading toward
the wings…?

No. In the great but spectral glow of the Black Ship, Rune
the Shadowflash saw his erstwhile Weapon racing as fast as he could manage
toward the nearest escape—which was the edge of the roof.

With silver locks trailing behind, Urna went leaping over
the rooftop’s lip. Rune’s finger again jerked the trigger but he was barely
aware of the shot.

Meanwhile, Urna was over. Plummeting toward the rotting city
below.

* * * * *

There had been occasions on missions, a time that seemed so
far in the past now, when Passengers would come pouring at him and even with
Rune spotting them, telling Urna which way to strike, the horde of clawed,
bloodthirsty creatures would become overwhelming. With his sword dripping dark
blood and his gun hot in his hand, a thought would beat in Urna’s head.

Anywhere but here.

Sometimes retreat was called for. So it was today, though
under truly unique circumstances. Urna had chosen for himself quite a dramatic
retreat.

The second shot Rune fired did not strike him either, but
Urna wasn’t going to wait around on that roof for the Shadowflash to try to
kill him a third time. Rune had lost his mind. In those first moments Urna had
thought he could explain things to his onetime partner. He had information.
Crucial, vital knowledge about their shared past. When he had been Laine and
Rune had been a boy named Micah.