Morningside Fall (6 page)

Painter stood at the window of his second-story room, biting a towel between his teeth to keep the fear and heartbreak and tears in check. He stared out at the street below, but only saw the look on Snow’s face, with crystal clarity, the moment she had first seen him after he’d returned. The reunion he’d imagined shattered by the horror in her eyes, the stark disgust on her face. For weeks Painter had been telling himself he’d go downstairs to work, and she’d be there, sitting at one of the tables, and she’d apologize, and Snow would wrap her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was alive and OK, and they’d be together again. And now… what if it was true? What if Wren was right? What if his baby sister was gone?

His eyes refocused on the flexiglass window, his faint reflection there staring back at him, staring back with those hellish electric eyes. His hand flashed without thought, fist driving through his own image, through the plate, out into the night air. The flexiglass exploded outward with a sound like a thunderbolt, the sharp
crack
snapping Painter’s attention back to the here and now. He pulled his hand back in through the window, stretched out the fingers, watched the black fluid welling up around the shards stuck in his knuckles and in the back of his hand. Sharp fragments of what should have been unbreakable. Black ichor that should have been blood. He tugged at the slivers, drew them from his flesh, and wrapped the towel around the wounds. There was pain, but not what he would’ve expected. It was sharp but distant, with a fiery tingle. Already his modified body was reconstructing itself. Modified.
Optimized.

Painter inhaled deeply, letting his eyes fall closed, felt the cool night air across his face through the hole in the window. He had been unfair to Wren. Only now he realized how much trouble the young governor had gone to, how much danger he had exposed himself to, just to be the one to tell Painter about Snow. Even if Wren was wrong, he had still taken a risk for no reason other than kindness. If Painter hurried, he might be able to catch up with them.

He bounded down the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with Mister Sun at the bottom. Mister Sun caught him by the shoulders, held him upright.

“Everything OK, my friend?” Mister Sun asked.

“Yes, fuh- fuh… yes, fine, Mister Sun,” Painter said. Mister Sun held him fast, the old man’s good hand surprisingly strong on his shoulder. Mister Sun’s eyes searched Painter’s. “Really. I just need to go. I’ll mmm- make up the time tomorrow, pruh- prrruhh- promise.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment he nodded, and squeezed Painter’s shoulder, and then let him go. Painter hurried through the Tea House, realizing he’d have to be careful chasing after Able and Wren. He couldn’t draw too much attention to them, after all.

He was lost in thought as he leapt down the stairs in front of the Tea House, and couldn’t quite stop himself in time as he hit the street and ran right into a trio of men, nearly knocking one of them down. Painter reached out instinctively and grabbed the man’s arm to steady him.

“Suh – suh – sorry, I’m sorry, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just watch–” the man cut himself off as he looked up into Painter’s face, snatching his arm away roughly. “Get yer stinkin’ hands off me, deadling!”

Painter held up his hands, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry, s-s-sss, sorry, sir.”

The other two men closed ranks, one on each side of Painter, as the one he’d run into drew himself up. He was a good four or five inches shorter than Painter, but about twice as wide, and he had a gap between his front teeth big enough to stick a finger through.

“S-s-s-s-sorry!” Gap-tooth mocked. “S-s-s-sorry, he says. You got a busted mouth, deadling?”

“No, sir–” Painter started to say, but before he could say more, Gap-tooth smashed a fist into his face, and Painter hit the ground, his head bouncing hard against the concrete.

“Ya do now!” Gap-tooth said, and his buddies laughed at that, and one of them took a big step forward and kicked Painter in the gut. The shock wave sent all the breath exploding out of Painter’s lungs and made him choke. Then Gap-tooth was on him, a knee in his crotch, crushing but dull pain; a hand around his throat under his jaw, shoving his head back into the concrete. Gap-tooth’s face was right in Painter’s, his foul breath spilling like kerosene over Painter’s mouth and nose.

He said, “You and yer kind better think hard about where you belong, cause it ain’t here. It ain’t nowhere close to here, you unnerstan’? There’s a storm comin’, there’s a storm comin’, and you and all yer kind are gonna wash away or twist in the wind.”

Painter fought to breathe, his vision mixed with dark spots and bright flashes. And floating images, images of Snow, and his reflection, and the window shattering, and dark things. Dark things that he had done before – before Wren had found him. How easily they had come apart in his hands before.

Gap-tooth reared back and punched at him again, but it was badly aimed and little more than a glancing blow. The man spat and Painter felt the wet spatter on his cheekbone and eyelid and upper lip, and then the weight was gone, and the three men melted away, laughing in the haze of Painter’s stunned and battered mind. After a minute, or five, or twenty, he managed to roll to an elbow and push himself up to a sitting position. The world reeled, then settled to a lazy swirl, and Painter felt bile in the back of his throat and realized his hands were cold and sweaty, and he was shuddering uncontrollably.

He held them up and looked at the palms, torn from the fall. Up his slender fingers. How they trembled. And there, at the ends, graceful glints of steel reflecting the yellow-orange street light and the blue of his eyes. The talons of the Weir, a scant half-inch long and sharper than any blade or razor ever honed by human hands. Elegant. Utterly efficient. Painter couldn’t remember having extended them. But for a brief moment he stared at them, and let himself imagine a different outcome. The tearing of Gap-tooth – the gush and spill as the man’s friends screamed in helpless horror.

No. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t like that. Painter watched as the claws withdrew, settling into their housing beneath his intact fingernails. He was better than that. Better than them. In every way. It was his mercy that allowed them to live, not his weakness.

He pushed himself up to his feet, just as a well-dressed couple emerged from the Tea House. The woman gasped when she saw him, and for a moment Painter took it as a sign of her fear. But her eyes softened with concern as they came down the stairs towards him.

“Oh, Painter,” she said, “are you alright? Do you need help?”

“I’m fff-fff,” the word caught. Such a simple word.
Say it!
“I’m fine, ma’am. Took the stairs too fast is all.”

The man with her shook his head and produced a handkerchief from his fine coat pocket. The idea of anyone carrying a handkerchief struck Painter as supremely absurd.

“Here, son,” the man said, handing him the handkerchief. “You’ve got some… something, there.”

“Thank you,” Painter said. He wiped the spittle off his face and handed the handkerchief back. As the man took it, they both noticed a dark spot on it, and the man hesitated. “I’m sorry, I’ll cuh- cuh-, I’ll clean it.”

“No, no,” the man said, smiling graciously as he took the handkerchief. “It’s alright. That’s what they’re for after all. You sure you’re OK?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Mmmm- ma’am.”

“Alright. Well. You take care, Painter.”

“You too.”

They smiled again, a little sadly, and turned away towards their home. As they disappeared down the street, Painter reflected on Gap-tooth’s posse and the couple walking away from him now.

And he couldn’t decide which of them he hated more.

C
ass could feel the pressure building in the city, an emotional power grid straining under the load of fear, tension, and long-harbored mistrust never resolved. She looked out over Morningside in its troubled sleep, the night air around her almost brittle with cold. From her balcony she could see down the long, wide street, almost all the way to the western gate. The roadway was warmly lit by its innumerable lamp posts, though the walks were all deserted this deep in the night. It was still hard for her to sleep at any time, but most especially at night, the time for which her body had been rewired for optimal performance.

She had had great hopes once, in the early days of her Awakening. There had been horror from some, a hatred born of a lifetime of terror. That was to be expected. But kindness had surprised her, and compassion. And after she had taken to wearing the veil, she’d found more and more people were able to overcome their instinctive reactions and Cass had begun to believe that one day she might be accepted as human again.

And when Wren began rescuing others, a network of support had formed almost without any real effort; good, honest men and women of Morningside came forward and gave of their time and money to help the survivors build some sense of a new life, and maybe even come to terms with who they had become. People like Aron, and Mister Sun, and others throughout the city who’d offered places to stay, clothes to wear, jobs to do.

Of course it couldn’t have lasted. One or two, maybe the city could’ve absorbed them, thought of them as poor, wretched anomalies. But there were nearly thirty of them now. Too many to be ignored. Now, in some circles, they were seen more like wild animals that had strayed into civilization; no longer just a handful of damaged people looking for shelter.

Damaged.
Rae had called them that once, in passing. Funny. Cass didn’t
feel
damaged. Different, certainly. But vibrant. Alive. Alive in a way she’d never felt before the change. Before the change, she’d relied on chems to speed her reaction times, to make herself faster, stronger. Now she felt all these things without needing the chemicals. Sometimes she wondered if the pathways that had been forged by her use of quint had been exploited by the Weir’s tampering.

There had been adjustments to be sure, new normals to learn, like how to see the world through her new eyes – or how to process the way Cass felt the presence of the people around her, sometimes even through walls – or how they exploded in light and… and something she didn’t even have a word for, whenever they accessed the digital. No, she didn’t feel damaged at all.

Out beyond the wall, Cass heard a Weir cry; a howl somewhere between a scream and a burst of static through organic vocal cords. At one time she would’ve been able to interpret it. Now it was just noise again. Even so, the sound had a different quality that she noticed but couldn’t quite identify. Another Weir answered the first, somewhere off to her left. But not far. And a third, closely following the second. Cass felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle, found herself alert. There was an attack coming. She knew it without knowing why.

As she turned back into the compound, her brain started peppering her with all the reasons she was wrong. There hadn’t been an organized attack in almost a year, not since they’d brought everyone inside the wall. The Weir had been scattered. Without Underdown’s control, they’d reverted back to their pack behavior; no longer a collaborative entity. They were more like scavengers than predators. They would never assault the city directly.

Except they would, and Cass knew it.

She streaked through her room and sprinted down the hallway towards the front entry, pimming Gamble, the captain of the governor’s Personal Guard, as she ran.

“Gamble,” Cass pimmed, sending the message through the digital directly to her, wherever Gamble was. “The Weir are at the west gate!”

She didn’t wait for a response. Cass saw Joris, one of the night guardsmen, flinch from down the hall as she approached. He raised a hand, but she couldn’t tell if it was to slow her down or to defend himself.

“Joris, the Weir are at the west gate!” she called. He still had his mouth open when Cass passed him. “Get the guard to the gate! The
west
gate!”

She called it over her shoulder, trusting that his training would kick in and Joris would know what to do. Out through the front doors, she leapt from the top stair and cleared the bottom one ten feet below without missing a step. Instinctively, she tried to boost before her brain reminded her she no longer had the implant, no longer needed the chemicals in her bloodstream. No longer had a
blood
stream, for that matter.

Down the wide, empty street she sped, breathing quickly but easily. The cries of the Weir came more rapidly now, growing in number, converging to a single point. It was maybe six hundred yards from the governor’s compound to the western gate. Cass reached it in just under a minute.

There were stairs near the gate, leading up thirty feet above the ground to the top of the wall in a switchback. She took them two at a time and was almost halfway up when the first shockwave hit the gate. There was a sound like thunder, followed by scattered impacts, like rocks after a landslide. When Cass gained the top of the wall, she found one of the city’s watchmen staring down below, open-mouthed, frozen in fear.

“Hey!” she called, without thinking. The watchman’s head snapped around and, seeing her, his eyes went wide, and she saw him fumbling at his hip. “No, no, no, wait!”

But it was too late. He had the weapon up and pointed. It all seemed to happen in half-speed, but the distance was too great. As Cass closed the gap, she saw the leap of blue fire in the muzzle as she twisted her head and body, heard the snap of the round as it passed by. She spun, whipping a hand out and caught the watchman’s wrist as he fired the second time, sending another wild shot out into the night.

“It’s me, it’s Cass,” she shouted at him. The man stood paralyzed for the seconds it took for his brain to process what had just happened, and then his face melted from terror to pure dismay.

“Lady Cass, I’m so sorry, I thought–”

“I know! Did you hit the alarm?”

“The alarm?” He looked confused, like “alarm” was some word she’d just made up.

“Yes, did you hit it?” she asked.

“What?” he said. Cass could see the realization dawning in painful slowness. “No. I…”

Below, the gate boomed again, followed again by secondary impacts. Cass released the watchman’s wrist and gave him a firm shove towards the guard post. “Go, do it now! Go!” The watchman stumbled backwards, and then the shock finally seemed to wear off.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m on it!” He raced towards the post, and Cass ran to the edge of the wall and looked over. What she saw stole her breath.

The Weir were massed against the gate, dozens of them, in a writhing knot of flesh and claw. And as she watched, they fell back, scattering away from the wall. Then they turned again, and charged once more towards the gate. As one they collided into it, the few stragglers following closely behind and throwing themselves into the crush. They were trying to break through.

Cass felt the alarm charge up, an electric tingle just before the alert went out across the network to the City Guard. There was no blaring horn or screaming siren, no citywide notification of danger. The last thing the Guard needed in times of crisis was the mad panic of frightened citizens. Best to keep the sheep in their pens and let the sheepdogs do their work. Help would come.

Below her, the Weir continued their maddened surge, a near-human tide, momentarily receding, before racing forward again to crash against the iron gates. Cass couldn’t see the use. The gates were far too heavy, and securely barred besides. It was almost like watching a child throw a tantrum, a too-small fist landing meaningless blows. She wondered briefly if the other gates were also under attack, but footsteps on the stairs behind Cass caught her attention.

Gamble was the first to reach the top, jittergun in her hand and fire in her eyes. Her dark hair was in tight braids, and she pushed a stray aside as she jogged to join Cass.

“They coming through?” Gamble asked, breathing heavily from her sprint.

“No, gate’s secure and holding.”

Gamble leaned over the wall to see for herself. “What’re they doing?”

“I have no idea.”

More footsteps on the stairs, and Able appeared, followed closely by Gamble’s husband, Sky. Able, focused and intense, flowed past Cass and Gamble and took up a position further down the wall. Sky moved to the women at the edge of the wall, his long rifle pointed skyward but ready to deploy in an instant.

“What we got, Ace?” Sky asked.

“Forty, forty-five, I’d guess,” Gamble answered. “Not sure what they’re up to though.”

For a few moments, they just stood and watched in silence as the Weir continued their futile assault.
Boom.
Withdraw.
Boom.
Withdraw. A few Weir had fallen and lay unmoving at the gate, heedlessly trampled by each new wave.

“They sure hate that door, huh?” Sky said.

Swoop and Wick came up the stairs and fell in on either side of Sky and Gamble.

“You boys are getting slow,” Gamble said.

“Pff, you been here, like, thirty seconds,” Wick replied.

“Forty-eight. Where’s Finn?” she asked.

“With Mouse.”

“Well, where’s Mouse?”

“On the way. Running slow on account of carrying the boy.”

“Not
my
boy,” Cass said, looking sharply at Wick. Surely Wren wouldn’t be so reckless.

“Uh… well,” Wick answered.

“Figured you wouldn’t want him coming on his own, ma’am,” Swoop said, his tone even, his face completely devoid of emotion. “And he wasn’t stayin’ put.”

“On account of being governor and all,” Wick added.

There was an awkward moment of what would have been silence, if not for the continued rage of the Weir below. Cass had to watch herself, to be careful not to undermine Wren’s authority with her mothering. But she’d been his sole protector for so long, it was hard to break old habits. To remember how much had changed.

“You want me to drop a couple?” Sky asked. He had his rifle shouldered now, sighting in on a target in the crowd below with easy grace, tracking it with unmatched fluidity. His weapon was all angles: long and thin with a flat top and an optic attached; his left arm was almost fully extended as he held a fore-grip, while his right hand, tucked in close to his body, kept the weapon in the pocket of his shoulder and pressed against his cheek. A precise instrument of death in the hands of an even deadlier man.

“What do you think, Cass?” said Gamble.

Cass thought for a moment. The crushed Weir at the gate hadn’t seemed to have any effect on the others. She didn’t see how shooting a few would be any different. And now that she knew some of them might be able to come back, she was less inclined to slaughter them without cause.

“Wait for Wren,” she answered. “We’ll see what he says.”

The watchman who’d nearly shot Cass a few minutes before finally returned and stood off to one side, stealing sidelong glances at Sky and Gamble and the others. It was rare for regular watchmen to get to see, let alone talk to, the governor’s elite bodyguard, and Cass could tell the young man was trying to work up the nerve to say something.

“Lady Cass,” he finally said. “The alert’s been sounded. My men should be here in just a few minutes.”

Cass smirked at his use of the phrase
my men
, as if he were an officer of rank. But she made no mention of it. “Thank you…?” she trailed off.

“Espin.”

“Thank you, Espin. Good work.” It hadn’t really been good work, since he’d forgotten to do his job and nearly killed her, but she saw how it puffed him up and didn’t mind the lie. Espin looked at Swoop and smiled. Swoop’s flat expression didn’t change. Espin quickly looked away and bowed slightly to Cass.

“I’ll just uhhh… take up a position over here.”

“Actually, Espin, sorry to do this to you, but you can cancel the alarm. They’re not coming through.”

His shoulders slumped, and for a moment Cass thought he was actually going to protest. But in the end, he just nodded and jogged back towards the guard post, obviously embarrassed. Wick let out a little laugh that he didn’t quite cover with a cough.

Cass turned her attention back to the Weir. It was almost like watching a hand, spreading out its fingers and then sharply clenching them to a fist. Crazed. Or perhaps haywire. She wondered if any of the Weir ever short-circuited.

“Here they come,” Wick said, and Cass looked over her shoulder to see Finn at the top of the stairs with Mouse close behind, carrying Wren on his back. Finn was Wick’s older brother, though you could hardly tell they were related just by looking at them. Finn caught her eye and gave a little shrug.

“Hi, Mom,” Wren said, sliding off Mouse’s back. He said it a little too casually, the way he did when he knew he’d done something wrong and was hoping she wouldn’t notice. His blond hair was matted on one side and sticking up in the back, eyes still clouded by sleep. “What’s going on?”

“Well… since you’re here,” she said, hoping her look made it clear how displeased she was, “maybe you can tell us. Come take a look.”

Wren came over to her side, and she went down on one knee, offering the other as a step for him. He climbed up on it, using her shoulder for support as he did, and his heel dug into her quadriceps with a dull ache. When had he gotten so heavy?

“What do you think?” Cass asked.

She watched his face as Wren studied them for a moment. She waited for the sound of the next impact. But it never came.

“Alright, this is starting to give me the jibblies,” Sky said.

“What now?” Cass asked.

“They stopped,” said Gamble.

Cass took Wren off her leg and stood up to take a look.

“I can’t see, Mama.”

She picked him up and held him as they looked down over the wall together. The Weir were in a loose crowd, as if they’d begun to scatter and then abruptly stopped. Now they were just standing there, looking up at the wall. No. Looking up at Wren. And then one made the strangest sound.

“
Spshhhh. Naaaah.
”

Like a burst of thin hissing static, followed by wave of white noise, somewhere between a violent exhalation and a whispered howl. Cass had never heard anything like it before.

“
Spshhhh. Naaaah.”

The same as before. Exactly the same, as far as Cass could tell.

“
Spshhhh. Naaaah.”

They came in an even rhythm, almost like a chant. Some of the other Weir began shuffling together, gradually closing in around the one making the sound, like a dark pool spreading in reverse. Their eyes remained fixed on Wren. An evil shiver ran down Cass’s spine.