Chapter 75: Harsh Lessons

James flew out over the ocean, his speed slow, his thoughts in turmoil. She was fucking with him. This was a test, a trap. There was no way she’d come through with any promise. But then again, she’d sworn to give him proof he’d find convincing. He’d no idea what that could be, but say she came through, convinced him.

Would it be the right move? To sacrifice Crimson Hydra for the seven or so million she’d predicted would die?

James scowled. Why was he believing anything she said? She was the enemy. She was only here to bring death and ruin to them all.

But then again, the demons, the system, it could have wiped them off the face of the earth on Day 1. All they’d have had to have done was drop the Fourth Wave of Nem3’s instead of the First Wave of Nem1’s, and everything would have collapsed in fire and ruin.

So there was an ulterior purpose here. He’d discussed it before: a sense that the system was preparing them, educating them, helping humanity get ready for the real war that was to come. And if that was the case, maybe the Monitor wasn’t just trying to screw with him. Or not just screw with him but offer benefits.

Then why not ask that he also kill himself? Offer Brooklyn in exchange for his suicide, or something like that?

But fuck it, the details didn’t matter. What it all came down to was whether he should play ball. Because yes, obviously, the lives of nine people weren’t more important than those of eight million. She’d been right: everyone on Crimson Hydra was willing to risk their lives over and over again to save thousands.

James cruised slowly, gazing out over the Atlantic, not seeing the endless waves, the distant horizon turning dark as evening fell.

It was morally repugnant, the thought of killing everyone in Group 1 to save the city. But was it the right thing to do?

James blew out his cheeks. No.

The answer was stark and clear and certain.

No, it was not the right thing to do.

But he couldn’t explain why, not even to himself.

He thought of Bjørn, hirsute and suave, elegant and forceful. Bjørn would take the deal without hesitation. As long as Bjørn himself didn’t have to die.

There was a clue in there as to why it was the wrong choice. It wasn’t that the lives of Crimson Hydra or Blue Light were inherently worth more than the millions of Fabricators - though perhaps an argument could be made that saving NYC in the short term would doom it if they lost all their fighters in the long term - but rather that… the principle of the thing was wrong.

James allowed the Angel Wing to slow to a stop. Looked down and ran his thumb over the ivory and gold of the craft. Felt its smooth, untarnished surface. So pure, so radiant, so… glorious.

He felt old and worn sitting on its glory.

If he were to start making such deals with the demons, would he be worthy of sitting on such a craft?

Or, more accurately, would their species? Should they entrust all leadership to the likes of Bjørn, for whom the ends always justified the means, no matter what?

Or would they lose something precious, irreplaceable in doing so?

Was that what the Monitor was after? Why she was willing to make this deal? To corrupt humanity, to get its most advanced fighters to break, morally, and lose something they could never get back?

A new thought occurred to him: what if later powers on their character sheets could only be earned by the righteous? These three miracles they’d never heard mention of?

By why him? Why make him this offer? Simply because he was the most advanced in the region? Were similar offers being made to men and women in Shanghai, Mumbai, London?

James inhaled raggedly.

The Monitor was not his ally, not even covertly. Whatever it offered him, it was to his ultimate disadvantage. There were thorns hidden in the depths of this bargain that he couldn’t yet anticipate.

And moreover, what would happen to the eight million folks who were spared when the Pits opened? With no demons attacking them, they’d be deprived of the chance to level. With Blue Light gone -

And oh shit. Would effect would that have on the nation? Forget the 8 million in New York. What would people in Miami, Houston, Chicago, and LA think if they watched James slaughter a thousand operators to safeguard his city? The Blue Light movement would collapse. National morale would shatter. The army would have to go it alone, and he’d go from being some twisted symbol of hope to a hated symbol of greed and horror.

Almost he could hear Jessica laughing at him from the depths of the distant symbol.

He spat over the side of the Angel Wing and aimed it toward home, picking up some speed but not enough to tax its reserves.

Fuck the Monitor. And screw his own short sightedness. It had taken him this long to figure out what a terrible deal that was.

No.

Better for humanity to undergo this trial by fire and emerge stronger and more resilient, even if it meant millions dying.

Because millions were nothing compared to the whole species going extinct.

James shuddered. The math was horrific, the acceptance on his part bordering on sociopathic, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. Better that most of humanity died so that the species could ultimately win through then to safeguard the bulk of it and have everyone die altogether.

Question was: should he share the offer with Hackworth and the others? James tried to imagine the chaos this would plunge Blue Light into. Of course there’d be universal rejection over their being sacrificed, but what if work got out to the people in the city? Might they not turn against Blue Light in turn? Demand their sacrifice?

Fuck, but that would be a nasty turn. The city baying for their deaths?

No. He’d tell Hackworth and nobody else. Hackworth he could trust to keep this close.

Because James had seen how people could get when they were desperate. Time and again on the streets he’d seen cold and fear and addiction turn good people into creatures of instinct. People were like onions. Layers of good and culture placed over deeper cores of need for survival. Sure, during times of disaster the best usually came out in people, but that was for brief, heroic spells. Week in, week out, if left alone, or fending for their kids, people were capable of surprising themselves with just what they were willing to do to be safe.

Not good surprises, either.

The Long Island coastline appeared on the far side of the sound. Of course he’d not been out over the Atlantic. Just forgotten for a moment how huge the Sound was.

Musing, concerned, introspective, James flew the Wing in what he thought was the right direction, angling toward the right so as to cross Long Island and slice into Queens, and eventually came in low over a jutting corner of land that gave way to a small bay, an outflung island, and then a small bay choked with anchored white boats. Marinas bristled at the edge of a small town, and he flew in over a park, a soccer filed, crossed railroad tracks, then over the small commercial core of the picturesque town.

He gazed down with mixed feelings. This was just the kind of upscale little community he’d never have bothered visiting a few weeks ago. The kind of place where he’d have been noted by the local cops and firmly guided out to the city limits. It was early evening now. There were few signs of the apocalypse here. Everything was quiet. Somehow it seemed like the smaller communities managed to keep services functioning longer than the big cities, for he didn’t see much by way of mountains of trash or abandoned cars.

He flew over a rooftop bar, Bob Marley music rising up to greet him as a dozen regulars nursed drinks and failed to spot him cruising silently overhead. Passed over a parking lot beyond, enclosed on three sides by the backs of commercial buildings, cars orderly, the place dimly lit, three people struggling in the corner, their movements jerky -

James brought the Wing curving tightly around.

One was a woman, the other two men.

Nobody else was in sight. The men had pulled the woman in behind the dumpsters and one of them was trying to pin her arms behind her back while the second fought to kick her legs out from under her.

Dull, ponderous anger filled James and he brought the Wing down to the asphalt.

“Hey,” he called out, voice soft with menace. “The fuck you guys doing?”

The men startled. They were young, good looking, well dressed. The woman was the same age, her caramel hair in disarray, her expression somewhere between furious, terrified, and suddenly hopeful.

The men were checked by the sight of the Wing. The one who’d been trying to kick out the lady’s legs turned to glare at him, slowly recovering his arrogant anger. “We’re just friends. Just getting along. No problem here.”

“The fuck we’re getting along, Graham.” The woman tried to shake herself free. “Let me go.”

“You heard her.” James moved forward, slowly opening and closing his hands. “Let her go.”

“Fuck off,” said Graham, his tone growing haughty, seething. “Get on your fancy toy and get the fuck out of here.”

“Don’t think that’s going to happen,” said James quietly.

You are reading story Dawn of the Void at novel35.com

The woman tried to break free again, and the second man shoved her, hard, so that she fell to the floor. He moved up beside Graham and pulled a small, pretty gun.

James slowed. This second guy was trouble. There was a feverish gleam in his eye and he was smiling all crazy. “You threatening us, pal? We’ve a right to defend ourselves if so.”

The woman had frozen, her eyes wide and locked on the gun.

James kept moving forward but raised his hand placatingly. “I’m James Kelly with the Blue Light force out of Brooklyn. There’s an apocalypse going on, gents. We should be focusing on the demons, not fighting each other.”

“Jesus man,” said Graham, licking his lips and moving away. “What are you doing?”

“Self-defense,” said the second guy. “We’re being threatened. You guys got Stand Your Ground in New York?”

“Graham, tell him to stop,” said the woman.

James thought he heard the Monitor’s laughter again. His anger was thick and ugly, like dirty stormwater surging through the sewers. The kid with the gun was practically laughing, so hopped up on adrenaline and power and whatever else he’d taken.

“Put the gun down,” James said. The kid wouldn’t shoot. He was out of divine power, couldn’t even throw a Sacred Strike at the kid to blind him. But just a little closer -

BLAM.

It felt like being punched in the thigh. Dull impact, his leg jerking back. The girl screamed, scrambled to her feet and ran off down the narrow alley toward the front street.

James looked down. The kid had shot him square in the thigh. A small hole was already turning crimson, and suddenly he could feel his pulse throbbing in the wound, pain blossoming.

“What the hell?!” Graham took off after the girl.

The second guy’s grin had grown wider. “Now apologize, old man, for threatening me. Or the next bullet will be between the legs.”

James’s leg was going weak, his vision narrowing, the pain growing like a fist of fire in his leg. The kid had missed a major vein, which was a blessing. The bullet had punched through muscle, nothing more, but he needed to apply pressure to the wound, cinch a belt tight across his upper thigh -

“Fuck you,” said James.

The kid raised the gun and aimed it right at James’s face. “Fuck me?”

James hobbled forward, hands still raised, his fury turning ugly. Moved right up to the gun and leaned into it so that the barrel pressed against his brow. “Fuck you.”

The kid wavered, then laughed, the sound high pitched, and stepped back. “Oh man, you’re a hoot. You’re crazy, grandpa. Get the fuck out of here.” And he lunged forward and slammed the pistol butt into James’s brow.

James tried to block, but he was too slow. Agility fucking 5. The gun cracked against his brow and he went down.

He lay there for a second, blinking away the dizziness, and heard the kid walking away, laughing.

After a moment he sat up, undid his belt, and looped it around his leg. The kid was gone. A couple walked toward their car, paused at the sight of him, then hurried into their Mercedes, locked the doors, and drove away.

James cinched the belt tight, but there was no hole for the buckle tongue. He was out of Aeviternum, so no healing.

Frustration suffused him. What an idiot. What had he been thinking?

Hissing against the pain, he slowly rose to his feet and hopped over to the Wing. Sat gingerly on it, lifted his leg over, and willed it to rise.

It did so.

His best bet was to just fly back to the Marriott. He’d be there in twenty or so minutes.

The Wing gained altitude, cleared the rooftops, then soared south-west.

The beautiful little town rolled by below, gave way to thick woodland pocked with open pockets in which ridiculously huge mansions sat, complete with guest houses and swimming pools. Those eventually gave way to a golf course, then endless suburbs, large homes in old neighborhoods. He flew over a highway, and the buildings below became more middleclass. His thoughts were in a fog, and he’d almost reached the far coastline of Long Island before realizing he had to turn.

He found a highway and followed it west. His pant leg was red and soaking now, the tourniquet not doing shit. The pain was intense, but he could handle pain.

What he was having trouble with was humanity’s fucking stupidity. Its sordid pettiness. How even now people were willing to act like animals.

And him? An idiot. Walking up on a guy with a gun. He’d never have done that before. Too much time spent ashing demons had given him a sense of invulnerability.

What had his Iron Aura done for him?

Nothing.

His Sacred Strike would have healed the guy.

His Heavenly Assault would have maybe surprised the man, little more.

Speed 8 and Agility 5 meant he was still slow as fuck compared to a trigger finger. If he’d managed to throw a punch, his Power 12 and Strength 15 would have decked the guy, but who was he kidding?

He wasn’t decking anyone with Agility 5.

Idiot.

Star Boy’s praise for the Aureate Buckler came to mind: Useful against shitty humans.

Manhattan’s towers came into view, and he curved toward the south, cutting through Queens and into Brooklyn.

He felt tired, worn out. A lot of that was blood loss, but the wound wasn’t too bad. Small caliber. Neat little hole. More the shock of it. The rage. The sense of frustration and futility.

James felt like a fool. One second he’d been debating the fate of millions, thinking himself this ultimate arbiter, the next he was nearly killed by a rich dipshit with a cracker-jack gun plated all in chrome.

Still. There was no way he was going to fly past and not try and help.

Hopefully that woman would steer clear of those two moving forward. He doubted she’d report them to the cops.

Downtown Brooklyn hove into view. He arrowed in on the Marriott, descended past rooftop level, and eased around the back of the hotel to descend into the parking lot.

Only to slow at the sight that greeted him.

Hundreds, no, maybe even a thousand people were slowly making their way down the ramp, most on their phones, moving with wary patience and determination.

A voice echoed from deep within through a megaphone: “Keep moving please! Battle Engineers on the left! Structuralists and Domestics one more floor down! War Smiths on the right!”

Jessica’s voice.

And James hated how the sound of it made him tense up with suspicion and anger.

You can find story with these keywords: Dawn of the Void, Read Dawn of the Void, Dawn of the Void novel, Dawn of the Void book, Dawn of the Void story, Dawn of the Void full, Dawn of the Void Latest Chapter