Prototype T7x

Chapter Two

Kilian

The holographic screen fizzes, projecting from my wristwatch. Amelia's insignia moves quickly to our subjects. We're actually going to get our next lead on who is producing these weapons. I know it can't be Vulture. He's only the vendor. The data shows that he's sold grenades for Wilder, stole and refurbished militia weaponry and sold them to the Underground, and trades weapons with other vendors anonymously.
     Their rebellion doesn't have a strong spine. Vertebrae keep chipping off, crumbling to dust. Luckily, most of them have surrendered themselves and turned themselves in. Our spies keep them under close supervision. It would be hectic keeping them under a microscope like a bunch of lab rats. No, the spies keep track of them via implanted beads that continuously report their locations. They only intervene when necessary. If I wanted to see the rebels' positions, I could toggle it on my map, but they are distracting during missions.
     "I'm almost there. How far are they from the outskirts?" Amelia asks over our comms.
     Swiping my finger on my wristband, I calculate our subjects' distances. After the numbers load, along with predicting directions and times, I report the information to her. One jet on my backpack sputters. The machinery clanks and combusts.
     "I have to make a pit stop. My jet pack is acting up again. I thought I fixed the problem, but I guess not." I ramble as I land on a rooftop. My shoulders slouch as I slide off the straps. "Do not engage until-"
     "Connection lost. Rebooting signal." The prerecorded voice memo I made interrupts.
     "Damnit!" I curse, dipping my head.
     Static takes over the channel. Random stations connect as I look at my backpack. The most robust connection being a tribal drumbeat. I roll my eyes at the noise, plopping onto my butt. My foot starts to tap, unable to resist the rhythm.
     The tank is full. Pipes are aligned. The equilibrium isn't off this time, which makes sense since the controls were working smoothly. Even the gas cap is sealed shut. Standing up, I hold on to the strap and press the ignition. It sputters like an old car, puffing out black smoke.
     Weird. It's never done that before.
     I turn it off and flip it over, looking into the shafts. The flashlight on my goggles turns on. Nothing is blocking the exhaust route. The fan looks like it isn't stuck. I flip it over and give it a good shake, patting the bottom of my bag for good measure. With another push of the button, it turns on. Blue flame blossoms into a warm yellow before going invisible. I slide my arms through, clicking the safety belt over my chest before taking off.
     Bronzedale Avenue is less than half a mile away. The streets below fade into darkness the closer I get. They have tested the gun. It's a good thing the power lines do not connect to the street bots, or the whole city would be asleep.
     I lower through a cloud of factory fog. Amelia's jet-black motorbike rests near a green dumpster. Her location is undisclosed. Not even my wristband can track her. It must've gone out when our comms did. I turn my earpiece back on, but only static plays. Not even tribal music can be picked up. I'll have to look at this when we get back to the lab.
     Around the building corner, two vehicles are parked. Vulture's van is wide open-and empty. Amelia has intervened. So much for our plan. Without hesitating, I round the sharp building edge to find the buyer loading chests into his truck.
     Sander Dulles. He's a local that lives in the northside of the city. A divorced mechanic with two children. I guess this is one way to pay for child support. Too bad the banks use traditional technology, and these weapons won't help power through locks and vaults.
     "Where is she?" I ask, slamming him against the truck. One of my arms presses against the back of his neck while the other holds his wrist between his shoulder blades.
     His cheek is smushed against the glass window, distorting his words. "I don't know. She was gone when I woke up."
     With a swift motion, I pull a small disk out from my pocket and inject it in his arm. It holds him against his vehicle like a locked cuff. I shove him as I take a step back, marching over to Vulture's van.
     He lays with a bullet wound in the side of his head. Amelia wouldn't shoot and leave. That isn't her style. Let alone leave a suspect to take whatever weapons he looted from the corpse.
     I run a hand through my tangled hair, tugging at the strands. My nostrils flare; my skin heats. A dagger carves my lungs, slicing at my patience and practicality.
     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blinking light in the storage area of the van. It catches my attention like a gnat. A faint, high-pitched beeping comes from it. I sprint, taking cover behind Sander's truck. A sonic boom rocks the vehicle. Debris from the van falls from the explosion. One of Vulture's arms lands a meter away. The skin is charred, already turning to ash. His head, bullet wound and all, lay a short distance from his arm. Crystal blue eyes stare at me. The sight is almost nauseating, but I'm too distracted by my thoughts to process his obliterated body.
     "Who was here?" I threaten, turning on my heel to sneer at Sander.
     The color in his face has drained as he looks at Vulture's decapitated head and the string of his insides. Sander shakes, throat bobbing as he looks at me. Tears stain his eyes.
     What a criminal.
     "Who took her?" I yell, not caring to grip on to the last of my composure. Instead, I grip the collar of his shirt.
     He whimpers, cowering like a dog. "I don't know, I don't know."
     "'I don't know' is not a satisfying answer!" My knuckles turn white. "Think! Who took her?"
     "L-like I said, she was gone when I woke up," he sputters like my jet pack.
     I growl, shoving him one last time before taking off. His pleas for mercy are muffled by my jet engines, along with the flames licking the rotten air. I turn on my wristband, forwarding a call to the headquarters.
     "Hello?" Devin answers.
     "Vulture is dead, and Sander is still at the scene," I speak, watching the sun slowly rise. A pastel orange devours the night sky. My stomach churns at the harsh contrast and the changing colors.
     "Where are you guys? Your trackers have been turned off." I hear her typing on the keyboard.
     "I just left Bronzedale, heading to the lab." Sirens whistle below. The blue and red lights blink, gliding on the surface thousands of feet below. "Run a search for Vulture's contacts and send it to me. I need to know who took Amelia."
     The line is silent for a moment. "Yes, of course. I'm on it. Would you like me to inform the spies of her disappearance?" Devin asks, robotically.
     "Yes," I say, hanging up the call.
     I have lived in Cystele for most of my life, but the smoke is starting to make me choke. Every inhalation is razor-sharp, and my diaphragm doesn't open entirely. Two twenty-ton bricks compress against my chest. Frantically, I turn on my earpiece, listening to the static channels sift through the stations. Pressure has left my head, leaving a swirling world to look at and decipher. Not even my goggles can straighten the view or help me see clearly.
     The sky reflects off the grand windows of the headquarters building. It's a large facility lodged in the mountainside. Very modern compared to the area. Travertine columns keep the granite from caving in. Support holds the foundation that juts off the cliff. I land, walking into the main office. The tinted glass door slides shut behind me. Black, metal detectors follow after. The chip in my neck keeps them from alerting as I pass through.
     Devin sits at the front desk, clicking away at her keyboard. She looks over the monitor, offering a sympathetic smile. Her straight, shoulder-length, red hair glistens in the fluorescent light.
     "Wren is waiting in the lab. He's trying to fix the connection. I sent all the research I could find to your file. The privates are going to the scene to investigate." Her words are dim, mute compared to the blood pounding in my skull. She notices my blank expression, lowering her eyes to her screen and opening the door for me.
     The hallways stretch for miles. Employees swim around the room like schools of fish. All of them are preoccupied with tasks, each one contributes to our overall purpose. Spies jog to the emergency exits. Either to company the privates or to intervene with rebels.
     The city never sleeps.
     White walls have become whiter, sending me into a daze. My legs feel like pudding. Glue must be sticking to my feet, slowing down my steps. The lab doors taunt me in the distance. The cyan, glossy metal reflects my silhouette as I approach, gradually focusing. My tongue prickles my throat, scratching the roof of my mouth. The door is heavier than I remember. Pushing it strains my muscles.
     "Hey, Devin told me what happened," Wren says immediately. He sits on a swivel chair, hunched over a computer. His eyes stick to the screen. Black-rimmed glasses perch on his nose. His eyes are slightly slanted, nose pushed in, and smooth. "I turned your location off, hoping it would strengthen her connection, but it hasn't worked."
     I chuck my goggles onto my workbench. They are useless when I'm on the ground and not on a mission. I set my backpack on the floor, propping it against the leg of the table. My computer turns on, automatically opening to the file Devin mentioned when I walked in.
     "Why would someone take her?" I whisper, slouching into my chair.
     Spinning around, Wren looks at me. "She knows the ins and outs of the city. She's valuable." He shrugs.
     I scoff. "So do I, but here I am. You know, if my jet pack didn't break and our signal didn't fry, then she would be fine."
     His eyebrows furrow together. "I thought you fixed it last week?"
     I bend down, picking it up. "When I looked, everything was fine." I set it on my table.
     Electronic journals and news coverages of Vulture pop up on my screen. The computer looks through them, discarding ones I've already seen. It chimes as I take out my earpiece.
     "Five new resources have been discovered. Would you like to open them?" It asks.
     "Tell me what they are," I respond, grabbing a screwdriver and a USB cable.
     "Florence Vance Harbor was born in 5167 in the Plain district. Vulture is his code name, originating from his predator-like behavior. He was seen five years ago with members of the Underground, a well-established city south of Bosque. Data shows he was with them for ten years. He transported machinery, information, and weaponry." Security camera footage plays from the street cams. "A second source states that he stole a blueprint for a prototype the Underground was planning to build. The prototype being Prototype 2-70b. This was two years ago. At the time, the Underground's technology was not advanced enough to construct it."
     "Scan the security footage and find the members," I instruct, plugging one end of the cable into my earpiece and the other into my control panel.
     Wren's computer dings, signaling that he's gotten a connection. His fingers pound on the keyboard. An accomplished breath deflates his lungs. Digital chimes flutter from his speakers once he presses enter.
     "She's offline," he sighs, slouching. "Let me run a test for your location."
     I shake my head, concentrating on my comm. There are other versions, but they are not synced to Amelia. Before we left for this mission, she was nagging me to use the upgraded ones I made the week before. They haven't been tested, and ours were working fine. I didn't see the urgency. Now, I'm starting to regret not listening to her.
     "One man has been found. The others are not stored in the catalogs. Elias Lynn. He is a member of the Underground. Seen mostly as a messenger. His origins are unknown." I look up to the screen. Another video from a street camera plays. A man with grey, waist-length hair is displayed. His nose is long and sharp; face sculpted like a statue in a historical museum. He wears a black robe, a digital scripture is encrypted on the trim.
     "Wren," I call. "Do you recognize that pattern?"
     He rolls beside me, looking at the screen. His eyes narrow. "That's an ancient language spoken in the Estuarine: Thalassian. It's derived from Greek mythology's spirit of the sea, Thalassa."
     "Estuarine?" I look at the scripture, zooming in on the video.
     "Yeah, it's the district southeast of Bosque. Supposedly it's where the Underground originated from." He pushes his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and rolls back to his desk.
     "How come you're just now telling me this?" I question, crossing my arms over my chest.
     He shrugs. "I thought it was common knowledge. Plus, it was said in the meeting when we first started these operations." Wren looks over his shoulder. "But, of course, you wouldn't remember that."
     I scoff, spinning around to continue analyzing my earpiece. "I have the memory of an elephant."
     "Sorry, let me correct myself, you weren't paying attention." He laughs, typing away at his keyboard. I chuckle, biting my tongue.
     The door swings open. Devin marches in with one of our spies. "We have Sander in custody downstairs. Spy 324 has some information for you guys."
     Spy 324, or Angie, nods. She's one of our top agents working alongside us and has been for several years. "First, we were not able to salvage any weaponry. Second, this was found near Harbor's body." She holds Amelia's earpiece between her fingers. I stand up, taking it from her. "That was the only thing we could find, along with this."
     She holds out a small, rectangular vinyl tape in the palm of her hand. The magnetic recording tape is in pristine condition. It doesn't even look used. Wren takes it from her, walking over to his 3,245-year-old refurbished cassette player. I've only seen Wren's Neil Diamond tapes. He listens to them sometimes when he is researching or working in the lab. I didn't think they were still being manufactured.
     The tape plays nothing but noise for a few minutes. Devin and I share a disappointed glance. She shrugs, leaving with Angie.
     Someone is duping us, wasting our time. Before I lose hope, a rumbling voice sings through the speakers. Whoever it is, speaks a language I've never heard. It's a mix of pitches and tongue clicks.
     Wren jumps, dashing to his desk, grabbing a notebook and pen. He rewinds the tape, scribbling on a blank page. I walk closer, peering over his shoulder. Random words litter the paper.
     "What is it?" I ask, trying to fill in the blanks, but it's too ambiguous.
     "A message." He rewinds the tape again.
     "What language are they speaking?"
     "Thalassian."
     I go back to my computer, looking at the man's clothing. Elias Lynn. I save the attachment to my desktop, printing out a screen capture of the security footage and a headshot. He has to be the one who followed Harbor and Dulles.
     "Eva, what else did you find about Elias Lynn?" I pin the smaller print out on the corkboard over Estuarine. Hundreds of documents, pictures, and small objects are posted on the board. Some of them have been crossed out due to them being dead ends.
     "He has been a member for fifteen years. It is reported that he has a special ability that stuns his victims into submission by chanting." My computer reads.
     "Like a witch?" I ask, taking a marker to cross off Vulture.
     "Yes and no. He is an enchanter. His voice will travel into their heads, making their ears and eyes bleed until they become unconscious. It's a reason why he has become a messenger for the Underground." She elaborates. "Photos of the scene have been sent to your file. Would you like to view them?"
     "Yes." I push the earpieces to the top of my desk with the back of my hand. Amelia's sends a cold chill up my arm. She has to be okay.
     The pictures consist of the explosion, damaged street post, gravel, markets, and Vulture's corpse. I cringe at the sight of it, scrolling past those photos quickly. Bile bubbled in my throat, sinking back to my stomach. There's a picture of Amelia's earpiece, not far from the wreckage. I'm surprised it is still intact. Then again, I made it with the best fibers available.
     I grab it, rolling it between my fingers. It has rust near the speaker. I narrow my eyes, bringing it closer. How could it rust? It's the best material. I rub my thumb over it. Blood. It drops on the table, clanking like a spinning top.
     My chair scrapes against the tile flooring, nearly flying over. The printed headshot of Elias crinkles in my grip. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding against each other. The door slams behind me. Metal echos from my boots pounding on the stairs that lead to where rebels are held for interrogation. I barely acknowledge the guards standing in front of his cell as I walk past. They don't bother stopping me, noticing my blind rage.
     I slam the photo flat against the glass. "Do you recognize this man?"
     Sander jumps at the sudden activity. He is still recovering from the shock. Meticulously, he walks over to me, inspecting the picture of Elias. He squints, raising his chin.
     "I'm not in the mood to play games, Dulles," I say through gritted teeth. "Tell me what you know."
     He smiles like a cat flicking their tail. Now he is tough, standing behind a shield of glass. I could easily break it with a tap of my thumb. "He has worked with Harbor before because of that group. What is it called? The Underground? Y'know, the gang trying to overthrow your little city."
     "What does he want with Amelia?" I ask, not wanting to hear any more about Lynn's life story.
     Dulles shrugs, walking to the cot. He lays down, kicking his feet up and resting his hands under his head. "What could I know? I just wanted the gun."
     "Why did he kill Harbor if he works with him, then?" I try to tip-toe around the questions. Maybe he'll spill a secret I can't find on the Internet or in the archives.
     "Business. I heard that's how they work. He must've done something wrong." He chews his nails.
     "Did he mention anything about that?"
     "No, but he was paranoid during the trade. I guess he did hear someone." He mutters, letting out a breathy cackle.
     I turn around, ready to exit the muggy atmosphere. Dulles is a dead end. He's useless in this department. What could a man wanting a gun possibly know anything about the Underground and its members?
     "Wait," I stop, turning my chin to my shoulder. The stretched linen groans beneath him as he stands. "Your girl good at technical stuff?" I don't respond, hardly even move. He chuckles, apologizing for his assumption. "I guess she's useful in more ways than one, no?"
     The photo crinkles in my fist. He hollers after me as I stomp away. The guards open the hall doors, swiftly. They nod at me as I pass.
     My ears are ringing. The metal steps don't aid in alleviating the symptom. They only add on to the noise. The pain in my head grows as I enter the main halls. People blur past me as I race to my room. The stairwell door is about a meter away when someone yells my name.
     "Kilian! Come quick, I translated the message!"