The Raising (The Torch Keeper Book 3)

  A wave of hushed murmuring passes through the crowd.

  Cassius silences the disruption with a wave of his finger. “I stand before you all now to assure you that there is no need to panic. Even as we gather here, the terrorist attack has been thwarted, and the new alliance forged between our republic and Sanctum is working together to vanquish the plague of rebellion amongst us once and for all.”

  If Cassius expected cheers he couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, the multitude remains silent. The only sounds are the blasts from the air strikes, booming like a breaking storm.

  After the uncomfortable silence, Cassius resumes his diatribe. “Standing before you are the latest prisoners of war, caught trying to infiltrate our great city’s defenses, which, if successful, would have rendered our forces vulnerable to destruction.”

  Despite their condition, Cage and the others hold their heads high.

  Even with one eye swollen shut, Cage manages a quip through blood-crusted lips. “It’s all right. You can hold the applause. Save it for when you stop being cowards and stand up to these monsters and show them you bloody matter—each and every one of you.”

  I feel a stabbing pain in my gut, a dark premonition. Cage is trying to expedite his execution, go out on his terms in the hopes of sparking a reaction from the frightened throng.

  Reflexively, I activate the more intimate feeds of the opticom.

  The Imp nearest Cage shoves him to the ground and aims his gun right at Cage’s head. Cage closes his eyes and smiles.

  “No!” Dahlia pushes Cage out of the way.

  The blast rings out, echoing through Town Square.

  Reeling from that terrible sound, I brace myself against the nearest column.

  Someone—Arrah or Drusilla, I can’t be sure—cries out.

  Cage grips Dahlia close, his eyes wide and wet. “Why’d you go and do that for?” he whispers. “I had everything under control.”

  Blood’s streaming from a gaping wound in Dahlia’s chest. “It’s…not…so bad,” her voice is little more than a gurgle, “besides…couldn’t let you…show…me…up…,” she grips his shoulder and looks up at the sky. More ships fly by, firing at each other. “…shooting…stars,” her eyes glaze over. Her head slumps into Cage’s shoulder, still at last.

  I have no tears. Only rage. After all Mrs. Bledsoe did for Cole and me, I failed her and her daughter.

  No. Lucian Spark failed them both. He’s too weak.

  Cage lifts Dahlia’s head and strokes her cheek. He presses his quivering lips against hers. “See you real soon.”

  “Sooner than you think,” the lead Imp snarls, hauling Cage to his feet.

  Arrah and Dru rip free of their captors and position themselves in front of Cage, forming a human shield.

  “You’ll have to go through us first,” Arrah hisses.

  “My pleasure,” the Imp aims the muzzle of his gun straight at her forehead.

  I lunge forward. “Cassius.”

  “Hold your fire and await my command,” Cassius says into his com, cutting off his transmission.

  The glow from the holo bathes Cassius’s silhouette in a sickly, amber light. “I know this is a difficult decision for Lucian Spark to make, but you’re only delaying the inevitable. The more you resist, the more pain you’re forcing yourself to endure, and the lives of your friends become expendable. You can end it all right now by letting go and telling me what I need to know. I’ll give you a few minutes to think it over, before resuming the executions.”

  Turning away from him, I scramble to distance myself from that scene, I need to escape it, whether from guilt or indifference, I’m not sure anymore.

  Instead, I find myself accessing Corin’s opticom feed. I’m immediately thrust into the adrenaline rush of the aerial raid. The view beyond the cockpit’s window is a dizzying array of rolls, spins, and explosions.

  “—losing too many ships!” a fellow pilot’s voice crackles through Corin’s console speakers.

  “Stay in formation!” Corin shouts. “We just need to keep them busy a little longer until Cage’s strike team can take their systems offline—”

  I bite into my lower lip. He has no idea what’s happened. None of them do.

  Another series of explosions strike all around Corin’s ship.

  “—not going to hold out much longer—” Croakley’s voice.

  One of the Flesher vessels is on a collision course with Corin’s ship, while the monitors show a Thorn ship approaching Corin from behind, weapons blazing.

  Corin adjusts his controls. His ship does a three hundred and sixty degree spin, avoiding blasts from both ships, and then suddenly dives, leaving the Flesher vessel to fire and obliterate the Squawker.

  Corin lets out a victorious yelp, but it’s short lived. A blast from another ship sends his craft into a tail spin. “I’ve been hit.” Warning sirens blare through the cockpit. Emergency lights flash. “I’m going down.”

  The view outside the cockpit is nothing but black smoke.

  Swallowing the bile burning my throat, I quickly switch the feed.

  I’m looking through the cockpit of another ship. From the pulsating, organic matter surrounding the interior, it’s definitely a Flesher vessel. But why would a Flesher be utilizing opticom tech?

  Swerving from the raging battle, the ship’s pilot guides it into the hangar bay of a much larger vessel that I’ve never seen before. The entire docking area is alive with thick, undulating membranes. These spread out web-like from support struts hewn from bone, and wrap around control consoles, feeding them energy in the form of vein-like cables and dark fluids.

  Fleshers glide about, some on legs, while others dart on wheeled extremities and tentacular appendages. I recognize a few of them. The four Hive members who are all that remain of the Fallen Five recruits. They stand majestically, taking in the carnage of the aerial battle displayed on the bridge.

  Every single Flesher stops what they’re doing and turns in unison to stare at the new arrival wearing the opticom unit.

  There’s only one being that can be commanding their attention like this, and even before I see his face reflected on the metallic chest plate of the Flesher he faces, I know that it’s Digory Tycho, come home at last.

  Digory’s face looks completely emotionless once again. It’s as if all the experiences we shared since I broke him out of the brig and we arrived at Nexus Prime have been wiped clean. Maybe he’s already undergone some type of upgrade and embraced the machine side of him completely.

  He communicates with the other Hive members in silence, then turns to the nearest, glowing console and presses his fingers into the film of gook covering it. The substance pulsates and shimmers. I can really see his face now, His eyes are rolled back into his head, exposing nothing but white. Any semblance of humanity he had left has been completely stripped away as he communes with this living vessel.

  The screen to the right of the console comes to life. It’s my eyes that open wide now. I can’t understand the readouts, but from the display, it’s clear that this ship is spooling up every single one of its power reserves, heading on a collision course with the main resistance carrier, the Lady Liberty. The impact will be disastrous and will cripple the Torch Brigade, leaving survivors to be picked off by the Thorn ships like pesky flies.

  Fury and despair tear at my insides. I clench my fists, not caring that the feeds are cut off. None of it matters anymore.

  “Well, my son?” Delvecchio asks. “Have you made your decision?”

  The pain in my head’s excruciating. I wipe away more hot blood from my nose, smearing my bloodied hand against my chest. Cage, Arrah, and Dru will be slaughtered, just like Dahlia was, with no chance of completing their mission and taking the Republic systems off line. Corin’s probably already dead, another casualty of this senseless war, waiting in vain for a reprieve that will never come.

  And Digory’s about to wipe out what’s left of humanity’s only hope against the machina
tions of Cassius and Delvecchio, effectively ending my brother’s life. I feel more weary than I ever have in my entire life. Maybe Digory has the right idea. He’s embraced who he truly is at last. Maybe there’s a peace there.

  I look up at Delvecchio, then turn to Cassius, staring deeply into those venomous green eyes, seeing more clearly now than I ever have before.

  “I’ve made my decision,” I say. “If you want Queran Embers, you shall have him.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  A look of relief washes over Cassius’s face. “You’re finally being reasonable.”

  I shake my head. “You misunderstand. I’ll embrace being Queran. And speaking for him, the answer is no. You will never take what belongs to me.”

  Cassius doesn’t seem surprised. He activates his com. “This is how it’s done, Queran.”

  The fury inside me ignites to a blaze.

  “Execute the prisoners,” Cassius orders. “Beginning with the Worms.”

  There’s a barrage of gunfire, and the Worms collapse in a bloody heap.

  I lunge for Cassius, but the two guards intercept me, pulling me away.

  On the holo, the Imps grab Cage, Arrah and Drusilla, shoving their weapons against the prisoners’ temples.

  Before they can fire, a roaring sound fills the square. It sounds like a ship’s about to crash into the crowd.

  Except it’s not. The sound’s coming from the spectators themselves.

  En masse, the onlookers fling themselves onto the dais. Male and female, old and young, they pull each other up by their arms, legs, even hair, tumbling onto the platform like an oncoming human tide, with the surprised Imps caught in the surge. The mob rushes the Imps, who push the prisoners aside and begin firing.

  “Stay the hell back,” the lead Imp shouts. He blasts several people in his path, including a boy no older than fourteen or fifteen, who collapses from the dais with a large, smoking hole in his chest.

  The crowd holds back for a moment, then pounces on the soldiers, clawing, biting, ripping through anything in their path. Hundreds of them, factory workers, teachers, farmers, medtechs, children, grab the guards, tearing them apart, united at last in vengeance and blood lust against their oppressors. More shots ring out as reinforcements arrive, but they’re vastly outnumbered. The screens fill with images of tangled limbs, blood spatters, cries of anguish and rage, even as the pandemonium continues in the skies above them.

  While Cassius and the guards stare in awe at the chaotic scene, I activate the opticom. “This way. C’mon!” Arrah shoves an Imp out of her way.

  She and Drusilla each have one of Cage’s arms wrapped around their shoulders. They haul him away from the scene and into an alley.

  “It’s no use,” Cage mutters. “Without the virus we can’t take out the defense main frame.”

  Dru shakes her head. “Give me some credit. You don’t think I made a copy of the virus?”

  An Imp grabs for her. She kicks him in the gut and seizes his weapon, using it to shoot a few more of his comrades, who collapse at her feet.

  “That’s my girl.” Arrah grabs two of the weapons, tossing one to Cage.

  “We’ve got to get back to the server,” he grumbles. “I know a short cut.” He pauses for a moment, glancing back at the rioting behind them. “Dahlia…”

  Drusilla slaps him on the back. “We can’t go back. But we can go forward and carry out the mission for her.”

  He wipes his eyes and leads the way through the backstreets.

  Explosions strike all around them, sending concrete and stone raining through the air.

  I can barely make out their images through the clouds of black smoke and dust obscuring everything.

  What I can see fills me with conflicting emotions. Bloodlust, hope—and dread.

  As Cage, Arrah, and Drusilla battle their way back to the main frame, I catch vivid glimpses of the carnage surrounding them. It’s as if I’m right there with them, dodging falling debris, ducking out of range of ear-piercing weapons blasts, trading shots with Republic agents.

  For the first time ever, the citizens of the Parish have come alive as a cohesive unit. Gone are the looks of fear, the numb expressions created by years of repression, intimidation, and torture. Instead, their eyes are wide with primal energy, their teeth bared like animals defending their territory and fighting for survival. Young and old, women and children—they charge the enemies with stolen weapons, makeshift spears, homemade grenades. After a lifetime of being ground under the heavy boots of the Establishment, only to find themselves under the choke hold of Cassius Thorn and the sadistic religious doctrine of Delvecchio, they’ve finally reached their breaking point and decided to strike back against their oppressors, regardless if it costs each and every one of them their miserable lives.

  “We’re almost there.” Cage leads the trio down another alley. He swears at the burning wreckage of a neighborhood tenement blocking their path.

  A weapon’s blast strikes the concrete wall, inches from Arrah’s head. “There must be another way around.”

  “Looks like we’ve got company.” Drusilla opens fire on an approaching squad of Imps.

  She’s joined by Cage and Arrah. The three of them take cover behind one of the ruined concrete slabs obstructing their retreat.

  “We can’t afford to be wasting so much time,” Arrah takes out two of the Imps with her pulsator, but five more take their place.

  Cage fires round after round, taking out maybe a dozen of the agents, but they keep coming. There’s an unmistakable sound of a sharp click. “That’s it. I’m out, mates,” he mutters.

  “That makes two of us.” Drusilla tosses her spent cartridge behind her.

  “I don’t know about you two, but I’d rather not be taken alive.” Cage punctuates his words by spitting out a wad of blood.

  Arrah holds up a small, black, oval device. “My last grenade.”

  The three of them share a solemn look.

  Cage nods. “Make it count.”

  The Imps must have figured out they’re out of ammo. In unison, they rush in for the kill.

  Arrah turns to Dru, tears in her eyes. They pull each other close, sharing a deep kiss. “I love you, Dru. I always will.”

  Drusilla smiles at her, wiping her cheeks. “Love you, too. My girl til the end.”

  When she pulls away, Drusilla’s clutching the glistening grenade instead. She tosses Cage the virus chip.

  Arrah’s eyes are stark. “What are you—?”

  Dru pushes away from her. “Carry out the mission. I’ve got this.”

  Before Arrah and Cage can stop her, Dru sprints toward the oncoming squad and leaps.

  The agents fire. Arrah’s agonized shriek carves right through me. Drusilla’s body is riddled with bullets, spraying arcs of blood into the hazy air. A defeaning blast engulfs Drusilla and the squad. Clumps of flesh, bone, and blood spatter the alleyway.

  For a few moments, the feed cuts out, replaced by static.

  First Dahlia. Now Drusilla. How many more of the people I called friends will be gone when this is all over? And what makes it worse is that I’m too numb to feel anything anymore. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t care? That I never really did?

  The world of Queran Embers is a much less complicated place to live in than Lucian Spark’s, filled with a lifetime of pain and loss. At least in Queran’s there are no delusions of morality, masked by meaningless attachments. Simple. Efficient.

  When the feeds return, Cage is practically dragging Arrah away from the scene.

  “Get your damn hands off me!” She punches him repeatedly, but he won’t go.

  “I know what you’re feeling,” he says. “But if we don’t go now she’ll have bloody died in vain.”

  She tries to bite him, but he backhands her. “Get a grip. She’s gone. We’ve got a job to do, Soldier.”

  Arrah takes another look at the grisly scene and nods.

  Cage gives her a fierce hug. They push away and take advan
tage of the reprieve they’ve been given, staggering away from what’s left of the bodies, into the alleyway and down another side street, picking up speed as they go. Along the way, they stoop to scoop up weapons and supplies from the bodies strewn about.

  “Such a waste.” Cassius’s voice brings me back to the Citadel’s observation tower. He’s studying the screens. Each one is broadcasting scenes of republic agents trying to contain the relentless mob. “Useless bloodshed. The end result will be the same.” His gaze wanders over to me. “I underestimated you. You could have avoided all this bloodshed. But you’re already too much like Queran Embers to care.”

  I shut the opticom’s feeds off. “No matter what I would have told you or not, Cassius, the end result would be the same.”

  Cassius doesn’t seem to appreciate my sense of irony. “Maybe when Fortune’s River flows red with the blood of all your friends you’ll be persuaded to see reason at last.”

  He taps his com unit. “Forget trying to round up any prisoners. No need to ask any questions. Shoot any citizen violating curfew on sight.”

  As if the Imps needed any more encouragement.

  The view of Town Square on the holos is one of total devastation. Bloodied bodies are scattered everywhere, military and civilian alike. The dais is a crimson stream dripping rivulets of darkness into the now wet cobblestone. Outstretched limbs reach out from under toppled pillars. Others lie contorted into unnatural shapes, trampled under the weight of the furious stampede.

  Judging from the views on most of the still working monitors, the rest of the Parish is faring much worse.

  Cassius’s usual calm has developed a noticeable chink. As he checks in with his people for status reports, he grows visibly shaken.

  “Say again?” He barks into his com.

  “—plant workers have commandeered… we’re under attack—” the voice on the other end is drowned out by an explosion, replaced by the steady crackle of static.

  It makes no difference that the connection’s been lost. From our vantage point high above the Parish, we feel the vibration of the blast. The smoke stacks of the Industrial Borough erupt into a fiery vortex. The western most stack lurches into the next one, which careens into the next, and so on, creating a domino effect of roaring flames and dark, billowing destruction.