Kingdom City: Revolt

Copyright 2016 by Ben Ireland

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. For information visit www.xchylerpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in this story are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

Xchyler Publishing,

an imprint of Hamilton Springs Press, LLC

Penny Freeman, Editor-in-chief

www.xchylerpublishing.com

1st Edition: January, 2016

Cover Illustration by Luke Spooner of carrionhouse.com, Titles by D. Robert Pease, walkingstickbooks.com; Interior design by Penny Freeman and M. Borgnaes of the Electric Scroll

Edited by Jessica Fassler and McKenna Gardner

Published in the United States of America

Xchyler Publishing

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Epilogue

Map

Dedication

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About Xchyler Publishing

Mark could hear the others breathing and crying. He couldn't see them all from his supine position on the table, but he guessed there were twelve people in all. The room he was held captive in was almost completely black, with the exception of the light sneaking under the door. He stared at the ceiling and longed to fall back to sleep. Dreams—even nightmares—were better than this place.

His wrists hurt. The straps on his forearms had chafed through the skin months ago. He could feel the wounds open further at his slight movements, the blood trickling to the stainless steel beneath him. The strap over his forehead was just loose enough that he could turn his head to see Evan in the same predicament beside him. He was crying again. Like Mark, he was bound to the table. Evan shivered in the cold air. The restraining straps were the only thing either of them wore. Mark wasn't sure how much time had passed since his own arrival, but Evan had been there longer.

Evan turned his head towards him, his eyes flashing in the low light. Why doesn't he just . . . just kill us? he asked.

He'd lost count of how many times Evan had asked that question. It's going to be okay, Mark answered as he had a thousand times. We'll figure a way out of this.

No, we won't. He's going to kill us. He's going to kill us. Evan began sobbing. After he takes their faces, he kills them.

Evan, why don't you tell me about that vacation you're going to take? As soon as this is all over. You've never made it up to the monastery in the mountains, have you? Going to head up there with your girlfriend, right? What's her name?

She doesn't care about me. She thinks we're gone. Nobody is looking for us.

That's not true.

The gate wardens said they were taking us to the Iron Empire. This isn't the Iron Empire, Mark.

You think the government did this? Mark asked with a tone of disbelief that he did not feel. As part of the plea bargain his court-appointed lawyers settled, the court had allowed him criminal rehabilitation in the Iron Empire. It was a sunny spring day when he'd hugged his sister goodbye, boarded the train, and woken up on the table. He wasn't sure who was doing this. Had the judge known what rehabilitation really meant? If not, then who did?

Who else? You've seen his face. He shuddered. You've seen his . . . faces.

Mark called the man that kept them there the Collector, because he had never told them his name. The man's collection looked down at him with a dozen pair of empty eye sockets from the refrigerated case on the wall. The sound of footsteps approaching echoed through the door and Evan gasped. He swallowed back his tears and lay still, staring at the dark ceiling. The whole room fell to silence. Mark turned his head toward the door. Only one person ever came into the room. And when he left, he usually took a body with him. The door opened and the lights flickered on, causing Mark's eyes to water.

The Collector came in, dressed in an immaculate grey business suit. He walked up to his collection, as he did every day, and stopped. He tilted his head to the side as he studied the faces one by one, spending an eternity on each. Mark hated this part, because there were only two ways it could end.

Oh, dear, the Collector said.

The temperature in the room dropped. Everyone there knew what that meant. Mark felt himself shaking and pressed his eyes closed in a silent prayer.

The Collector strode to a corner of the room where surgical equipment had been painstakingly organized on a table. Scalpels glinted in the florescent lights beside racks of pressed white scrubs. He stepped into oversized coveralls that protected his shoes, slipped an apron around his neck, and slid his hands into elbow-length latex gloves. Lastly, he donned a headband with a clear plastic shield protecting his face. He gestured with his hand and the case containing his collection opened, the chilled air hissing out as the door slid aside. He removed a mask. It was loose and fleshy in his hands. The door closed automatically.

He stood with the face held up to the light, examining it, then dropped the mask into a trash can at his feet. Despite all my efforts, it's still so hard to keep them fresh.

He muttered under his breath as he selected surgical tools, checking off items on some mental list as he placed them carefully on a cart. Whistling to himself, he pushed the cart between the rows of tables, making his way towards Mark.

Mark felt sweat beading on his forehead at the memory of the knife. He wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, for death, but the Collector didn't like it when they talked. His throat clenched, and he let out a horrified whine. The man stopped, and with a rush of relief, then guilt, Mark watched him turn towards Evan.

Mark followed him out of the corner of his eye as he leaned over Evan, inspecting his face. In the light, Mark could see the incision that encircled Evan's features, running high over his forehead, down past his cheekbones, then across his chin. Seeing the raw wound made the matching one on Mark's face itch. He gripped the table under him with shaking hands.

It's ready, the Collector said as casually as if he were talking about a ripened fruit and not a human being. He pushed a button on the table and Evan let out a panicked squeal as the strap restraining his head tightened, completely immobilizing him. The Collector turned and picked up a scalpel and a pair of surgical pliers. He slipped the scalpel into the incision at Evan's forehead. Evan gasped in pain and tried to jerk away, the muscles in his neck pulling tight against his skin. The Collector ignored him, working the pliers under his skin in the opening he made. Mark turned away and closed his eyes. He'd seen the procedure once and did not want to see it again. It came to him enough in his sleep.

Hey, Mark said before he could stop himself. He opened his eyes and saw the Collector straighten and turn. The room became completely still. Mark swallowed as he noted the scalpel still held in the Collectors hands. His face, partially obscured by the light reflecting off the visor, twisted in confusion at the interruption. Why don't you just kill us first?

Ah, the Collector's confusion transformed into an understanding smile, and he turned back to Evan. Because they have to be very, very fresh. He bent over the table again and continued as if Mark had never said a word.

Now, no screaming, he said, his voice low with concentration. It makes it harder to take off. Not to mention you'll stretch my skin.

Please. Please don't take my face, Evan whimpered. As the Collector began to peel the skin from his skull, Evan stretched his mouth wide and screamed.

Brian Shuman followed the doctor as she trotted down the darkened hall. He wore the katana, Fury, on his hip, the red and black silk-weave hilt holding his trench coat open. She glanced at him over her shoulder, an excited smile on her face. Brian raised an eyebrow impatiently.

It's remarkable, she said. Unbelievable.

Susan, I don't like being made to wait, Brian said coolly. What is happening?

I'm sorry, sir. I would tell you, but I don't think I can explain it adequately.

She pushed open the door to the hospital room and Brian followed her inside. The room was dimly lit, with a bed set in the middle, the headboard against one wall. Life-support equipment stood sentinel on either side. A heart monitor beeped rhythmically.

So, this is what I wanted to show you, Representative. Susan opened the door to the sturdy metal cabinet affixed to the wall and withdrew a syringe. It was full of a metallic fluid that glowed a pale blue in the low light.

The labs have been working on a variety of treatments to stabilize and improve her health, and this—she held up the syringe—is what they've cooked up. It's very exciting.

On the bed lay Autumn Stevens, still unconscious from her injuries one month prior. The bullets, fifty-eight in all, had penetrated her lower spine, stomach, legs—everywhere but her face. She was barely alive when they recovered her from the cells below the Palace, and thanks to the ministrations of Doctor Susan Blanch, she had survived. Her eyes were closed, her auburn hair a dark halo around her head on the hospital pillow. Even in comatose sleep, she was beautiful.

She doesn't seem any healthier than the last time I visited. Brian said and tucked his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

I'd never seen anyone survive with such extensive injuries. We were able to heal her to a certain point, but that was it. We would have had to wait until her body healed itself. She uncapped the hypodermic needle. But look what happens when I do this. She took the IV line and injected a measured amount of the liquid.

Brian watched her work with curiosity. The impetus serum?

Susan shook her head. Not quite, but it is ternium-based. The lab sent this one up yesterday.

The Whisper is not a test subject, he said calmly. Her death would be the loss of an irreplaceable asset.

Yes, sir, I understand. This has been tested before; that's why we knew it would accelerate the . . . well . . . Her voice trailed off as she looked down at Autumn. See for yourself.

Brian felt his breath catch in his throat as Autumn's skin took on a luminescent sheen, then glowed with a pale blue light. He stepped towards the bed. Is she . . . ?

Susan nodded excitedly. She's healing herself, sir. The substance acts as an amplifier to the initial immune reaction. Do we know how Autumn was originally exposed to the impetus serum?

Brian considered answering honestly for a beat, then said, That's classified.

Right. Who knows how long it could have taken her to wake up? But look. She pulled the blankets from Autumn's body and lifted the bandages on her ribcage. Her ribs are setting—you can see the fracture under the skin knitting together.

Excellent, Brian whispered.

I think we can speed up the process if we increase the dosage. Susan turned, sliding the syringe back into the IV.

No. Wait, Brian ordered as he realized what she was doing.

She released the entire tube into the line.

Susan turned back to the bed, beaming. Brian glared at her, but she was too focused on her patient to notice. The light in the room grew steadily brighter as the pale glow of Autumn's skin increased. Whatever was happening within her, the reaction was so fierce he could almost hear the humming of energy. The heart rate monitor began to beep more quickly.

What have you done? he snapped. He strode around the bed, shoving Susan to the side and tore the IV from Autumn's arm.

Susan's smile turned into a look of shock and confusion. I was healing her, like you told me to.

Autumn moaned, and she moved her head slightly.

Turn it off, Brian ordered.

Susan took a step away from the bed, searching for an off-switch that wasn't there. I . . . I can't. It's a chemical reaction—

Paul . . . Autumn murmured from the bed. Her eyelids fluttered as her eyes moved unseeing underneath. The beeping of the heart rate monitor continued to increase.

I told you to keep her under, Brian snarled. Reverse what you've done, now.

Reverse it, reverse it, Susan stammered as she moved to the cabinet, fumbling through bottles of medicine. With shaking hands, she knocked one bottle to the floor, where it shattered. She let out a squeak and bent to pick up the mess before remembering herself. She began frantically rummaging through the cabinet.

You, Autumn said weakly. Brian tried to move away as she reached for him, but he wasn't quick enough. Her fingers found his arm, and she held on tightly.

Susan. Do something.

The blanket covering Autumn shifted as her legs began to move. The beeping of the heart monitor became a steady, desperate staccato.

Another bottle fell to the floor and shattered.

I don't know what to do. Susan was crying now. I'm sorry. I was just so . . .

Autumn's fingers dug into Brian's arm with renewed fervor. Brian forced his fingers under hers and pulled his arm free. His face felt hot as his mind raced to figure out how to keep her in bed. If she managed to fully wake up before they were ready to contain her, he might lose her for good. She groped for him, her head flopping side to side in lethargic confusion.

Move, Brian bellowed. He strode up to the cabinet and shoved Susan away from it. She hit the floor hard and rolled into the corner. He drew back his left fist and metal creaked as his knuckles plowed through the cabinet wall. He forced the fingers of his right hand between the cabinet and the wall, then with a cry of effort, tore the cabinet from its anchors. It came away with a huge crunch as it took a section of drywall with it. All the bottles fell to the floor and shattered as he lifted the cabinet above his head, knocking the overhead light into a wild swing.

Autumn had managed to sit up and watched him with bleary incomprehension as he turned towards her. She blinked, confusion drawn across her face as her mouth moved, forming unspoken words. Her skin glowed as she flexed her fingers into fists. With a wordless shout, Brian brought the cabinet down on to her legs. The supports of the bed buckled and the plastic exploded into splinters under the weight, then whole thing collapsed to the floor. The heart monitor screamed, then the beeping began to slow once more. Dust floated silently in the air.

Brian took in a deep breath and pushed the cabinet off the bed. It fell to the floor with crash, the door creaking as it swung closed. A section of plaster fell from the hole in the wall while the overhead light swayed from its electrical cable, sparking in the darkness. The remains of the bed supports lay in pieces across the room where the force of the impact had thrown them. Through the dusty air, Brian could see Autumn lying in an unconscious heap, her legs twisted where the cabinet had crushed them. She no longer glowed.

A small noise came from the corner of the room. Susan cowered under the window, her hands held up protectively before her. She pressed herself against the wall as she saw him looking at her.

H-how? she peeped. That was at least two hundred kilos. You shouldn't be able to . . .

I want her healthy, Brian said calmly, straightening his coat. But . . . ?

But not too healthy, Susan whispered.

He walked into the adjoining bathroom and wiped the dust from his gloves on a towel. I appreciate your enthusiasm, Susan. But let's make sure we can keep her from killing us when she wakes. Please arrange to have a new bed delivered immediately, and have her strapped down from this point onwards. As he strode from the hospital room, he spoke without turning back. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Autumn felt something crunch as her gloved hands pounded into Williams' chest. He coughed and blood sprayed in her face as he stumbled backwards a step. The crowd roared as she spun, snapping her leg up high, and struck him squarely in the jaw. He stiffened for a second before his limbs turned to water and he crumpled onto the mat. She smiled, looking around the auditorium at the hundreds of faces screaming and stamping their feet at her victory. An eighteen-year-old girl wasn't supposed to have a chance against Williams. Yet, there she was.

She never lost her stance. Her fists were held at the ready in case he sprung to his feet again—the match wasn't over until the judges declared it over. The referee knelt down next to Williams, then waved First Aid over. The cheering crowd lost some fervor as medics bearing a stretcher climbed into the ring. They placed a brace around his neck as a pool of blood bloomed onto the mat from his mouth.

Only Niedermann left. Autumn grinned, thinking of the six-foot-something blonde monster from the East Quarter that would be her competition in the finals.

Someone touched Autumn's elbow and she spun, taking the offending arm in both her hands. She stopped when she saw the hard eyes of her sensei looking back at her.

Easy, there, girl, Sensei Taylor said, sliding through the countermove and twisting Autumn's arm backwards. He nodded to the additional medics converging on the unconscious young man. The blood had not stopped dripping from his mouth. You probably ruptured his lung, Autumn. Damn it, girl. When are you going to learn some restraint? He released her arm and she straightened. It's going to take a while before they clean this up. Come on, there's someone here that wants to see you.

A crowd had gathered around the ring, a couple at the front, apparently the parents of the opponent Autumn had just dispatched. The mother spared a second to glare furiously at her. Autumn looked away as she smiled. Williams should have known better than to go up against me. It's not my fault he wasn't good enough.

She slipped out of the gloves, revealing the sweat-soaked hand wraps underneath. Sensei Taylor led her under the bleachers and through the short tunnel to the women's locker room. It had already been less populated than the men's locker room at the beginning of the tournament, but at the end of Day Three, Autumn was the sole occupant. Her sensei held open the door for her.

I'll wait for you out here, he said, a look of unease on his face.

Autumn strode through, loosening the hand wraps as she walked, and skidded to a stop at the sight of the man sitting on the bench inside.

Good morning, Autumn, Representative Brian Shuman said as he rose from his seat.

Autumn regained her composure and walked over to her locker. This is the little girl's room, she said as she slipped off her gi, revealing the black sports bra she wore underneath. She studied the white cloth, sprinkled with Williams' blood, then threw it into the hamper. So, what are you doing here? Or do you just like watching teenagers change? She walked to the sink and began to splash cold water on her face.

Not quite, he said with a smile. I'd like to congratulate you on your victory. Though I do believe you just killed that young man.

Autumn hesitated. The adrenaline from the fight was fading and she could feel the insecure, socially maladjusted Autumn beginning to surface once again. She wiped her face on a towel. He shouldn't have made it to the semis. He wasn't good enough.

Well, he was only there because Bowen tore his calf muscle.

Exactly, Autumn said. They shouldn't have bumped Williams up. Bowen would have kicked his ass.

But you're the one that broke his neck when you kicked him in the face.

Autumn felt suddenly exposed. She pulled a shirt out of her locker and slipped it on. Like I said, he shouldn't have been there.

So, why did you do that? he asked.

What?

Why did you break his neck?

I wasn't trying to.

Of course you weren't, but you did. He gave her a paternal frown. That lack of restraint will get you in trouble. It's dangerous.

He was a threat, so I took him out.

That's why I like you, Autumn.

Autumn gave him a puzzled look.

When there is a job to be done, you're willing to do what it takes. Though your methods are in need of . . . refinement.

I suppose.

I'd like to run an idea by you. He paused, as if waiting for Autumn to say something. She did not oblige. What would you think about being the next Whisper?

You have to be First Student for that. I'm only Second.

Brian waited a long moment before he spoke again. Whisper Tandy and First Student Peter were killed in a car accident last night.

Autumn felt like someone had punched her in the chest. Whisper Tandy and Peter were her friends, or close enough to it. She saw them almost every day, had been through countless hours of training with them. She felt the compulsion to slip to the floor and bury her face in her arms. But that's not how a Whisper would react. They weren't just my friends, they were my competition. She straightened. That means there's no one else. The thought terrified and excited her. What about Belinda? She's at least as good as me. Better, even.

I don't want Belinda. Being the Whisper isn't just about one's ability to kick ass.

I think I understand.

I'll take that as a yes.

Autumn nodded.

Unfortunately, there is some fine print that should be addressed before we proceed.

I'm sorry?

Part of being the First Student is being trained on what the Whisper really does. You haven't had that privilege.

Okay, what does the Whisper really do?

Brian smiled. What is a whisper?

A soldier for Kingdom City. A glorified security guard.

No, I mean what is a whisper?

Oh, the word? It means talking quietly. What's your point?

Why do you think the Whisper is called the Whisper?

I honestly don't know.

If the position really was that of a glorified security guard, wouldn't a title like 'Warrior,' or 'Dragon's Claw' be more appropriate? Something with more punch to it? Autumn didn't answer. A whisper is when you want to say something quietly. What are the elite levels in the dojos?

Leaf is the first elite level, Autumn said. Then Tread Water. After that is Wind, then Silence. You have to attain the level of Silence to be a First, Second, or Third student.

So you're a Silence-level fighter. But have you ever wondered why Whisper is above Silence?

I guess so, but it's just a word.

But that's where you're wrong. Everything you know has a purpose, even if it doesn't appear to at first. As a Leaf, you learn to be inconspicuous. When you are in Tread Water, you master going places that seem impossible. As Wind, you become swift, and powerful. In the Silent class, you learn to do things so quietly that nobody ever knows you were there. But when you whisper, it's because you're relaying a message, a particular message intended for a small audience. When you are the Whisper, it is your responsibility to deliver that message. That message is death.

But what have they done? Is there a good reason for them to die?

Of course, Brian said in a low, fatherly tone.

It was a long time before Autumn spoke. I understand.

I knew you would. You like biophysics? he added, almost as an afterthought.

It was my major, Autumn said, surprised at the change of topic.

That's right, you just graduated from the university, didn't you? Not bad for an eighteen-year-old. There's a possibility we may be able to find something for that active brain of yours, too. Come by the Palace tomorrow after you've had a chance to celebrate your victory this afternoon. You have a lot of catching up to do.

Autumn wasn't sure who would be celebrating with her. If she was lucky, Sensei Taylor might buy her a bowl of ramen. Belinda was sick enough to have missed the tournament and wouldn't be up for any celebrating for at least a few more days.

Brian extended his hand and Autumn shook it automatically. His palms were wide and solid as steel through his leather gloves. He started towards the door.

But what if Niedermann wins the finals? Autumn asked to his back.

Brian stopped and looked over his shoulder. Do you really believe that will happen, Whisper Autumn?

No, Autumn said. I don't.

Autumn opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling above her—white acoustic tile crossed with pale aluminum beams. She tried to remember how she had gotten there. The space of time between the Palace dungeons and the bed she lay in now was full of things that were either dreams or memories—she couldn't tell. She remembered pain, a lot of pain that twisted around her in the blackness behind her closed eyes.

The pain had resolved, though she felt pricks on her arms and a sharp pressure in her right hand. She moved her head to the right and saw an IV drip next to the bed. She tried sitting up but her body was too weak to obey. It seemed as though she could barely shift her arms at all. She renewed her efforts to move and felt straps around her wrists pull tight. Panic washed away her lethargic reverie.

She jerked against the restraints; unseen chains clanked on the bedframe but did not budge. After only moments, her shoulders and biceps began to burn with fatigue. She crumpled back to the sheets, sweat beading on her face from the pitiful attempt. She pushed against the bed with her hands, letting out a cry of effort, but her fingers slipped on the blanket and she collapsed, panting. It was only then that she realized her legs weren't moving at all. They lay as motionless as twigs at the end of her body. She told her toes to move. They didn't.

She gritted her teeth and steadied her breathing as she tried to take stock of her situation. She was tied to a bed somewhere. A tall window to her right let in either early morning or early evening light. The room appeared to be some kind of care facility, not a prison: there was no guard, and no bars on the window. Though captive, she didn't think she was in immediate danger.

Good morning, Autumn.

Autumn started at the deep voice that came from the shadows on the far wall of the room. Bound as she was, she could not see past the curve of her chest, but she knew that voice.

Brian. You'll excuse me for not standing.

A necessary precaution, Brian said as he rose from his chair. His shoes scuffed on the floor as he stepped up next to her. He was a tall man, with more pepper in his hair than salt, and a warm, sincere smile on his face. She knew the sincerity was a lie. He pulled his chair next to her and sat down. How are you feeling?

She bit back the urge to spit in his face and instead said in a cordial voice, I'm fine.

He sighed, looking into her eyes, seeming to mull over what he wanted to say. I hate that it had to be this way.

What do you want? She tried to make it sound like a question and not a challenge.

Brian looked at her in silence for a minute before he spoke. I'm getting old, Autumn. Old and tired. I've done a lot in my life. I've had a lot more opportunities than most men. And part of the reason why I've had those opportunities is because I was willing to take risks. But risks come at a price, and they don't always pay off.

He paused and sighed again, looking out at whatever lay beyond the window. When we met twenty years ago, you were just a kid full of more energy and brains than you knew what to do with. I had the chance to give you an outlet for both. We've had dozens of Whispers over the years, but none of them had ever been as involved in the project as you.

The straps felt like they were smothering Autumn, but she didn't have a choice except to listen to his self-indulgent rambling. I'm aware of this, she said.

Brian glanced at her and smiled. Of course you are. So, I had an opportunity to offer you, and it was a risk. Choosing any Whisper is a risk. Not everyone has the stomach to do what needs to be done. You did, and you did it well. But the real opportunity was to give you something that your mind would find as challenging as the physical demands, and you exceeded our expectations. The investors, the Board, couldn't believe the progress we were able to make in just a few short years with your assistance. More than we made in the previous one hundred. They called you a godsend.

Autumn wanted to laugh. If she had been sent by a god, it wasn't by one of the good ones.

I took a risk, you took the opportunity, and it paid off for the both of us. We changed a field of science together, Autumn. What a feather in your cap.

She couldn't sit in silence any longer. If he had wanted her dead, he would have done it by now. If he wanted to torture her, it didn't matter; her legs no longer worked, so her body was worthless.

We ruined lives, Brian. Thousands of them.

He looked at her again, his eyes glistening. Tens of thousands, Autumn, and it's increasing every day. He sighed. They've accelerated production. The project is coming to a close.

Autumn swallowed. No, she whispered.

This facility has been given twelve months to wrap up production.

But that's . . . what about all the people?

The ones not suitable to become gate wardens will be left behind to fend for themselves.

What about the resurrected?

There's no way to control them. They're an anomaly and not a product. Some will be taken. Most will be left behind. That will leave thousands of people with the ternium serum working on their bodies, with no way to reverse the effects.

Do we know what the long term effects of the injection are on the resurrected?

Preliminary studies indicate that it's the same as the gate wardens.

Shit.

No matter how the reactions to the ternium manifest, eventually everyone dies. Some die sooner rather than later, but they all die. We're out of time,—Brian leaned forward—but I have one more opportunity to offer you.

What had she gotten for his last offer? She had become a murderer. She had used her knowledge to torture people and destroy families. She had lied to her husband and her children. She had learned more and accomplished more than she ever dreamed possible, but at a cost that she could scarcely bear. What could he hope to offer her now? And yet . . . What is it? she asked, despite herself.

Work with me to create a cure. Help me save as many of the poor bastards as we can. We can't undo what we've started, but we can help.

Autumn felt her face twist in confusion. The words coming out of that pleading face didn't make sense. Brian was a scientist above everything, and that meant he looked at everything with analytical detachment. That included people. That included suffering.

What's in it for you?

A good night's rest.

Autumn laughed. She tried to shift on the bed, but her body refused. Working with you, helping you. Paul would never understand.

I've taken care of that, too.

Autumn felt hot anger course through her and she stiffened against the restraints, her hands futilely grasping for his throat.

No, he said in a soothing tone, that's not what I mean. Paul's fine. He's alive. He and his men escaped from the Palace after you broke in and killed my gate wardens.

You didn't just leave him alone to run around the city after that. I know you too well.

We have to keep up appearances. He's in hiding. We know where he is, but we let him be.

Why?

Because I need you. And I know that if I hurt Paul you would never work with me again.

At least you've got that right. I'll need proof.

Not a problem, he said.

What do you mean you've 'taken care' of Paul?

When you rescued the officers from the Palace, you died a hero, Autumn. Your family isn't expecting you back. They're not looking for you. They've buried you, and as a result you're free of them, free to fix what we did. Their last memory of you will be of a brave, good person, not of a woman that destroyed the life they believed in. Before they know how much damage you did, you'll be able to put it back together—for the people left behind, at least.

That's not fair, she said, glaring at him.

Perhaps not. But is it really that far from the truth when you consider what you and I did?

Autumn looked away from him. The possibility of undoing what she had done was something so incredible she had never really considered it an option. Why did you shut me out?

Your heart wasn't in it anymore. You know I had to.

After eight years of intense research and experimentation, Brian—for no apparent reason—had encouraged Autumn to focus more on her responsibilities as a martial arts instructor, and less on their work together. She simply wasn't needed at the Palace labs anymore. While she knew she was being cut out, she couldn't bring