We had thirteen hours left. Reni went to his quarters and started tracking cameras and drone footage to analyze their positions, so we wouldn't get caught if we had to run. I went to the medical bay to get checked out. A young woman with curly hair took an X-ray, and it turned out I had no fractures—just a few bruises.
Durs kept messaging and calling me, waiting for my orders on what to do next. After my checkup, I answered him. I said I would go scout the two locations the rebels had suggested, pick one, and then send him the coordinates so he could bring the weapon.
Surprisingly, as everything was happening, I wasn't afraid. There wasn't a trace of fear in me. I was confident and ready, as if my whole life had been preparing me for this moment. Maybe it had.
Soon, after checking some data from Reni and contacting the rebels, I gathered my things and went to scout the sniper positions. I was the sniper.
I took the elevator again, enjoyed the view, and stepped into the lobby. The soldiers on guard saluted me. Passing them, I went outside. The fountain was once again shining in all its beauty, and the murmur of water sounded like the call of life itself. The wind carried the last remnants of dust from the storm, and the trees and bushes around had turned green again. But despite all this beauty, breathing the dirty air was hard.
After waiting a few minutes in the square, a car pulled up in front of me. Inside sat two Galts—the same ones who had driven us back from our miniature captivity. They looked tired and defeated, as if they'd been stuck in that car forever. In some way, we were alike.
I got in, and we drove to the first location. Streets changed one after another, districts shifted from poor to rich, and people and alien creatures simply existed within it all. The drive to the first spot took about an hour, and every lost minute was critical, even though we had plenty of time.
Stopping, I looked out the window. Before me stood an old, dilapidated building with holes in the roof and walls. That wasn't surprising—it was in a desolate area, much like the one where the rebels had grabbed us.
"I'll be twenty minutes. Wait here," I told them, stepping out of the car.
"We're at your service, Officer. Take your time," said the old driver, taking a drag of his cigarette, then releasing a cloud of acrid smoke. I winced.
"What kind of cigarettes are those? That smell is disgusting," I said.
He chuckled in response.
"Lilac, sir. Straight from the fields of Aquatura," he answered, then took another drag, coughing.
I turned and entered the building. Inside, two rebels were waiting for me, saying they would take me to the spot. They were armed. Their faces were covered, and their clothes looked like tattered rags.
The inside of the building was no better than the outside. Rebar and chunks of wall stuck out everywhere, and the smell was as if someone had been killed and left to rot for generations. If you could only feel it, you'd understand me right away. They led me up the stairs to the top floor—the elevator and all the electricity had long been cut.
"What happened to these districts where no one lives?" I asked the rebel in front.
I didn't know how old he was, couldn't even tell his gender, but judging by his size, he was a man.
"Many years ago, when Apollo was being built, these districts were the first to welcome people from all corners of the universe," the rebel began, then fell silent as we climbed.
It was hard. I felt like we'd already climbed fifteen floors, if not more, and I was starting to get out of breath.
"And then what?" I asked.
The rebel turned to me, then reached out and touched the other. The second one turned and looked at me.
"Then came the classes. The elite and the dregs. The elite got everything. The dregs got nothing," answered the second rebel, not using a voice scrambler like the first. From his voice, I could tell he was an old man.
His voice trembled, but it was hard as metal.
"So you joined the Children of War to fight against this?" I asked again, addressing the second one now.
"We joined to take back what is rightfully ours," he answered dryly.
"And what is rightfully yours?" I asked, stepping past the rebel in front of me. He hadn't expected that and stumbled back.
"Apollo," he said, and silence filled the entire building. I could hear droplets falling and shattering on the tile floor, then trickling further down, floor by floor.
Soon we reached a small landing that led to a locked door. We stopped to open it. After fiddling with the lock, we pushed it open and stepped out onto the roof.
"Careful. There are holes everywhere," said the first Child of War, walking ahead and holding onto a cable that ran from the door around a corner. "Hold onto the rope."
I grabbed it without a word and followed them carefully. Stepping over holes and cracks, we made it to the spot. Up here, the wind was so strong that my uniform flapped as if it were about to tear off. I walked to the railing and looked around.
It was a beautiful view.
From up here, you could see everything—our docks and the building where we lived. The tall black square structure with panoramic windows stood out against the rest. Somewhere in there, Reni was sitting and working. Around it stretched countless districts—some elite, some poor. In the distance, other complexes were visible, and a little to the left of ours, closer to the east, was a massive spaceport where great ships docked, ships that could rival the Thunderer in size.
But the most striking thing of all was the massive tower, stretching far beyond what the eye could see. Even with a scope, you probably couldn't tell how tall it was.
The Tower of Edem.
It was in this terrible, thin tower that the Galt Emperor resided. From there, orders were sent to the entire fleet and the whole Imperial war machine. That was where Fen had gone, and where he would soon return from. It was terrifying to imagine how well defended it was. But its story would be short. Soon, this spire would split in two and bury millions beneath it.
Because of me.
Millions would hear an unbearable screech, then a blast, and they would look out to see what had happened. And that would be the last thing they ever saw.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" the second rebel asked rhetorically, inhaling deeply. "Well, here it is. Does it work for you?"
I wanted to say yes, just for the view and the solitude. But it didn't work. Too hard to reach, too dangerous to move the weapon. The whole building was riddled with holes and cracks, as if a pair of Class-B assault ships had torn it apart with their cannons just to show off.
And if we had to run, they'd catch us off guard and bury us with the building.
"No. Too old. Too dangerous," I said, still staring into the distance.
"Suit yourself. Your call, Officer," the old man said, turning toward the exit. "Then let's go."
I took one last look at it all. The wind blew in my face, as if urging me to move on. And I went.
Grabbing the rope again, carefully stepping through the holes, I started descending with the rebels. The climb down was faster than the climb up. The whole way back, we were silent.
Back on the first floor, I shook their hands and thanked them, then left the building and got back into the car that had been waiting. Sitting down and closing the door, the younger soldier turned to me.
"The one?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't have to go anywhere else. But my answer disappointed him.
"No. On to the second," I said, speaking more to the driver than to the soldier.
Hearing this, the driver silently pulled away, smoking his cigarette with his right hand.
"Off to the elite district, then," he said.
We drove through empty streets in silence, until the soldier spoke up again.
"That bad?"
"The building looks like it's been bombed, but the view from the top is beautiful," I answered, staring out the window.
"Must be nice up there," he said and sighed.
"Very," I finished. The young soldier turned away, and we continued in silence.
After a couple of minutes on the empty streets, a drone flew over us at high speed and started scanning the car. Its infrared laser pierced through the vehicle, searching for contraband or someone.
"What's going on?" I asked the driver nervously.
"We're approaching a checkpoint. Standard procedure," he explained.
"But we're an officer's car."
"Checkpoints don't care about rules," he said, nodding toward a long line of people standing in pairs. It stretched all the way to the gates of the distribution district. There were poor people, outcasts, some with children. Families.
We drove past them as they watched us, but soon stopped behind another car like ours. Looking out the window, I saw a little boy in his mother's arms staring at me. They were dirty and poor. He was smiling, and he waved at me. I smiled back and waved too, until his mother noticed and immediately pulled his hand down.
They all had bags with various things sticking out. When they reached the gate, soldiers with metal detectors waited for them. Then they had to go through a scanner, after which they were sent for questioning.
We waited in line for about twenty minutes. Those minutes dragged on forever. Soon a soldier approached us, saluted, and asked for our driver's and the soldier's documents. Then he walked off to a booth.
A strong wind picked up, nearly knocking some people over.
"Where the hell is he?" our driver asked, leaning out of the car to look for the border guard—if you could call him that.
I looked out the window too and saw the soldier walking back through the wind with the documents in his hands, followed by two more armed men.
"I think we have trouble," I said, ducking back into the car.
The group of three soldiers approached us. The first one, whom we had dealt with earlier, introduced his colleagues:
"Hello again. These are immigration control officers. Your passenger will have to step out," he said, nodding toward the young soldier sitting next to us.
The driver and I looked at our soldier. His face had turned white as snow, as if he'd been dead for years. He turned to us, and there was fear in his eyes. He had clearly done something—they wouldn't come for him otherwise.
"We need him, soldiers. I have orders from the corps," I said, trying to protect our soldier.
"I'm sorry, Officer, but different rules apply here. He has to get out, or we'll make him get out," the sergeant said calmly.
"Zhanl, what the hell did you do?" the old driver asked, staring at him. The soldier said nothing.
"That doesn't matter, but he's not leaving this vehicle. I won't allow it," I intervened again. "We have important business. If he did something, arrest him at the corps. Right now, we need him."
Of course, they knew there was no guarantee he would come back to the corps after this "important business," or that he would turn himself in. So they had to take him. Here and now.
"I'm sorry, Officer, but I don't answer to you," the sergeant said and ordered the two soldiers behind him to pull Zhanl out of the car.
I wanted to step in for the poor guy, but I couldn't. It would lead to trouble, and we had no time for risks.
They walked to the left side of the car and tried to open the door. It was locked—our driver had locked it on purpose.
"Open it now!" the sergeant almost shouted.
He was thin and gaunt, dressed in a dark brown uniform with a single gold circle on his chest. He had a pistol in his holster and a metal detector strapped to his other side.
The driver ignored him and turned to me. I nodded slowly and silently, giving him the signal. He opened the door.
The soldiers opened the door and started pulling our passenger out—so hard that they threw him to the ground. The poor guy tried to get up, but they kicked him in the ribs twice. He fell again. Women and men began covering their children's eyes and turning them away from what was happening, as if their kids hadn't seen far worse.
"What are you doing, you bastards?" our driver shouted, watching his friend get beaten. He tried to open his door, but just as his hand reached the handle and was about to turn it, the sergeant drew his pistol in a flash and aimed it at him.
"Don't," he said, in that same calm voice.
The driver stared at him in fear. It seemed to me that everything went quiet. The crying of children, the coughing of the people—it all disappeared. The sound of the wind tearing through space vanished. There was only silence and an invisible tension.
I touched my holster and cocked my pistol, ready to fire.
"What did the kid do?" I asked the sergeant roughly.
"He forged a Galt soldier's documents, a blatant violation that puts his identity and activities into question," he answered.
His answer stunned the driver. Of course, they were Galts on the take, having long betrayed their oaths and their Emperor for money they desperately needed. But for Zhanl not to be a real Galt, let alone a real soldier—that surprised even me.
The driver took his hands off the door and watched as the barely guilty Zhanl was beaten. I took my hand off my holster and switched my pistol to safe mode.
Soon the soldiers picked up the poor man and carried him to the booth. He turned to look at us. His bloody face was so swollen you could barely recognize him. They dragged him while he was on his knees.
After he disappeared from sight, everything seemed to freeze. Like a virus had infected a computer's core and paralyzed the whole system. That's how it felt for us. The sergeant was about to follow them into the booth when our driver grabbed him by the collar and pressed him against the car window, staring him right in the face. They were only a few centimeters apart. The old driver, with his smoke-stained mustache and scarred face, with a rage I had never seen before, said to the lieutenant:
"You son of a bitch, you'll pay for this. I'll find you, wherever you are," he said and shoved the sergeant away.
The sergeant recoiled from the car in fear and looked toward the booth, searching for the guards. But they weren't there. He realized he was alone.
Fear engulfed him. Gave him space to live. Settled into his existence.
Soon we were let through the checkpoint and drove into the rich district. Just then, my terminal rang. It was Durs. He asked where to bring the weapon, clearly annoyed at having spent so much time alone with the rebels. We had one spot left, and I ordered him to bring it there. Sending him the coordinates, I asked the driver how much longer. Not long, he said.
Time was running out. The checkpoint had cost us another two hours.
Only hours remained until the arrival.
Looking out the window, I saw the nobles and elites entertaining themselves as they always had. Nothing had changed for these vile, disgusting people. They had nothing that could call them human. Soon, as promised, I reached the place. This time it was a massive luxury hotel, all gilded, with columns shaped like giant swords holding up the ceiling. The Grand Dore.
"Are we sure this is the place?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes, it's here," he said and opened my door.
"Thanks. What's your name?" I asked the driver.
"Lerk," he said, then hit the gas and disappeared, leaving only a cloud of dust in his wake.
I stopped in front of the hotel and looked up. To my great regret, I couldn't see the top. Walking forward, past people leaving the building, I made my way into the lobby, which was packed with guests. How were we supposed to get a weapon through all these people, let alone set it up? Durs was supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes. Not wanting to wait for him downstairs, I took the elevator to the top floor. It was supersonic—when you entered, time slowed down to protect passengers from the high speed.
Stepping out, I opened the door, and a strong wind hit my face. Reaching the edge, I looked down, searching for our complex. It was far. Too far. It probably wouldn't work. I didn't know if the weapon had a scope or if it could even reach.
Soon my terminal rang again. It was Durs. I had to put on my helmet to hear him.
"Durs! Go ahead! Where are you?" I asked, looking around.
"I'll be there in two seconds!" he said, laughing.
"What do you mean?" I asked, hearing a rumble behind me.
I turned around and saw a massive drone lifting out of the ground on two huge rotors. Cables ran down from it to a large gray crate, and Durs was hanging onto one of the cables.
"What the hell…" I said.
Durs laughed loudly in response.
"What were you expecting?" he said, jumping off the cable onto the roof.
The drone was so huge and powerful that dust flew up in all directions, blocking our view of this marvel of technology.
He walked over to me and started showing the pilot on camera where to put the crate. The pilot released it from the cables, then turned and flew away, taking all the noise with him.
Standing there in shock, Durs ran to the weapon and started unpacking it. Once done, he began setting it up. I walked over and helped.
With it set up and aimed at the docks, we waited.
"Scared?" he asked, calibrating the scope.
"No. Not the first time," I said and smirked.
"That's true."
Three hours passed quickly. In that time, we got the weapon ready and contacted Reni, who was ready to blow the bombs on command. Soon a shuttle appeared on the horizon, escorted by two fighters. As they approached the ground, the fighters peeled off and headed back to base.
"There he is," Durs hissed, pressing himself against the railing.
I immediately contacted Reni, warning him that our guest was coming in. He acknowledged.
I ran to the weapon and sat behind it. Staring at the screen, I tracked the shuttle.
"One kilometer out," Durs reported.
I kept tracking the target, searching for the fuel tank. So much depended on my shot.
"Seven hundred meters."
"I see it. I see it," I told him. "Got it."
Spotting the tank, I took the shuttle off autotrack and aimed at it.
"Two hundred meters!" Durs shouted. "Now or never!"
It was too early. If I fired now, I'd bury innocent people under the shuttle.
"Just a little more," I said quietly.
In that moment, everything went silent. The only thing I could hear was the faint static from Reni, waiting for my order.
"Kyle!" Durs shouted. The shuttle was already starting its descent.
I fired.
Time stopped. I imagined the charge flying, piercing through layers of space, splitting it into quanta and quarks, then into strings. It raced toward its target. One hit and the shuttle would tear apart.
Looking through the scope, I saw the shuttle lower its landing gear, its engines slowing down. Then, in an instant, a flash appeared on its side. My heart stopped, as if it had ceased to beat.
But the horror came faster. The shot hit the shields. The shuttle hadn't lowered them.
I turned to Durs in horror. He was slowly backing away.
"Reni, god damn it! Blow it!"
The message went through instantly. Our feet shook from the shockwave. I looked at the docks—a blinding flash lit up the sky.
We did it.
Fen is dead.