Lance crouched atop the ruins of the Empire State Building, preparing himself to take another man’s life. In one hand he held a long-range pistol. In the other, he held a hand grenade. He preferred the hand grenade; a lot less blood that way. And there would be bloodshed today.
Lance looked through the scope of his pistol and surveyed the rubble below. The MacDonald's building just across the street was in ruins. The neon ‘closed’ light flickered in the morning mist. The road next to McDonald’s was a mesh of potholes and trenches. There was one clear spot on the road. That was where it would happen.
That is, if he really wanted to murder the Emperor.
Zeppelins rumbled overhead. The zeppelins’ sleek, long sides gleamed silver. Painted on their sides was the insignia of the United States Empire and, below that, the insignia of the Mathematicians was barely visible. The Mathematicians, also known as Magicians, were examining the roads ahead of the Emperor, raking the ruined city with bright searchlights. Being found by the searchlights would mean death.
Lance took a deep breath and adjusted his position. He might as well be comfortable while he shot the Emperor.
Emperor Conrad was an evil man—a murderer. For three decades his mantra had been “Root out the weak to rebuild.” And that he had done. Millions had died at his hand.
So why was it so hard to kill him now?
Lance tightened his grip on the trigger, reminding himself to squeeze, not pull, to shoot.
The echoing rumble of the Emperor’s car sounded behind Lance. He took a deep breath and squinted at the clear spot in the road. When the Emperor passed through—
Lance shuddered, his knuckles white. His trigger finger twitched as if eager to get it all over with.
The car, a deep blue limousine, came into view. Lance counted under his breath, trying to time his shot perfectly. From where he perched, the car was the size of a mouse, unless he looked through his scope. He glared through the scope now.
The limousine’s tire came into view, and Lance squeezed the trigger. A muffled bang came from the gun as the bullet flew toward its target. The bullet scuffed against the ground and bounced into the surrounding rubble. Blast! He had missed the tire by just a few seconds.
The limousine shot forward, causing Lance’s next shot to bounce off the hood with a dull thud, leaving a small dent. The car skidded around a corner, disappearing from view.
Lance, a religious man, refrained from swearing. Instead, he jumped off the top of the building.
Hundreds of feet raced by in mere seconds. Lance’s stomach seemed to push up into his spine, and his clothes went wild in the wind. His heart raced in his ears. His brain, jacked up by a fierce adrenaline rush, worked quickly.
Without another moment of hesitation, Lance forced his hand into his pant pocket and pulled out a glass sphere—not his first pick, but he had to do with whatever he pulled out. It began to glow. He struggled against the wind resistance to bring his hands together in order to crush the sphere. The wind ripped the sphere out of his grip. It crashed into the Empire State Building, flashing a bright blue. Lance prayed that it would work.
The sphere, a Dividend, momentarily fractured gravity’s equation. Lance felt strong forces suddenly pulling at him from all directions, threatening to tear him apart. He jolted to a halt, midair. The Fracture lasted only a few moments. Earth quickly forced gravity back into working condition. But it had given Lance enough time to pull a more delicate disk from his bag.
He shattered the Variable in one fist and immediately felt the effects. The air pressure around him increased slowly and then exploded in force, slowing him to a halt, then shooting him upward. It jarred his bones and caused serious bruises, but it was better than smashing into the ground after a fall that was nearly a mile long.
Lance felt himself slowing again. He whipped out a Solution and pointed it in the direction of a distant building. He put pressure on the cube, imprinting the equation of the the building. After a few long moments, the cube flashed a brilliant blue. The solution had been found.
The cube yanked Lance at an incredible speed. It felt like his arm was ripping off. The roots of his blond hair tugged at his scalp. His bag of Numes jerked off his shoulder and fluttered away. He nearly cursed. Without his Numes, he could do nothing but count on his instincts and the natural, unchanged equations of nature.
He still held the cube in his right hand. It pulled him all the way to the building and threw him with incredible force onto its top. He lay there, breathing raggedly. Finally, aching all over, he stood and looked over the sprawling metropolis of New York City.
The horizon was streaked with smoke from distant factories. Most buildings were crumbling, although the center of the city was in full repair, gleaming in the rays of sunlight that poked from the clouds. The zeppelins were dots in the distance. The smell of rancid waste was everywhere.
Lance bowed his head, and his locks of hair fell into his eyes. Sweat dripped into multiple cuts and scars, forming into stinging pools.
I’ve failed.
Silently, Lance pulled a yellowing sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and read it with a furrowed brow. It read:
WANTED: all rebels and dissenters. Those who kill a rebel will be awarded a garden. Any who kill a rebel in the following list will also be awarded $5,000: Jason Cornelius, 19; Geo Pedder, 31; Lance Raeburn, 17…
Lance looked up from the paper, trying not to cry. Jason’s name was crossed off—Lance had crossed it off himself when Jason had died fighting alongside him. Geo Pedder was missing. Lance—Lance had failed on his mission. When serious missions like this failed, the Rebels killed the soldier who had failed, in this case Lance. He was now considered useless, and he knew too much.
I’m going to die.
Lance buried his face in his hands. He was only eighteen, and already both sides of the Civil War wanted him dead. Where could he go? Where could he hide?
Before he could answer either of those questions, however, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck. It felt as if a projectile had hit him there at light speed. He staggered forward, silently screaming. A wave of drowsiness passed through his body. His head buzzed. Darkness snapped into place, and he felt as if he were floating.
“He isn’t awake yet,” a man said.
“Then wake him,” said Limsky, a man Lance was familiar with.
Lance tried to open his eyes and move, but he was completely paralyzed. His brain felt foggy, his heart beat rapidly, his outer extremities tingled. The good news: he was alive.
Lance felt a tiny, electrical shock run through his body.
“That won’t wake him,” Limsky snapped. “Put it on half-power.”
“But, Commander, that will kill him.”
“He’s strong.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Half a second later, a powerful jolt of pain screamed through Lance. His hairs stood on end, and he arched his back, screaming with the pain. His heart jumped frantically. Finally, after only ten seconds, it stopped. Lance opened his eyes. They streamed with tears.
“Good, nice to see you, Lance,” Limsky crooned, grinning. His round face was a rosy red color.
Lance tried to speak, but only a weak mumble escaped his lips.
“I apologize for your lack of speaking abilities. Perhaps more electricity would clear that problem up…Doctor, what do you think?
“No,” the doctor said firmly. “It would kill him.”
“Later, then.”
Lance glared, vision blurred, still gasping for breath.
“We should wait for the drug to leave his body before proceeding,” the doctor said.
“Yes, yes, very well. We’ll let the baby rebel rest for a few minutes.” Limsky winked at Lance. “Isn’t that right, baby brother?”
Lance’s vision slowly cleared up. He was soon able to see the dim light bulb above him and to his right. The room was plain except for a desk at the far corner. The walls were a lackluster white. Lance twisted his head to see in the back of the room, but the loose straps had tightened—when? He thought he heard someone crying behind him.
“Ready, Lance?” Limsky asked. His grin was genuine—the same grin he had had as a child, slowly peeling away the skin of a living baby rabbit.
Lance stared straight ahead, avoiding Limsky’s gaze. Limsky was the real son of Russian parents, while Lance had been adopted. It had been Lance who was loved. He knew that whatever Limsky did to him, it would be far from merciful.
“Doctor, please get me a chair.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor moved to the desk and grabbed the chair. It was oddly shaped, metal, and had shackles attached to the armrests. Not Lance’s first choice for a desk-chair.
The chair was placed directly in front of Lance, glinting faintly in the light. Then, without any gentleness, the Doctor grabbed whoever was behind Lance and dragged him to the chair.
Lance gasped.
“J-jason?” he breathed. “You’re—you’re dead.”
Jason shook his head, still crying. “They got me, Lance. They got me.”
“That’s what you said right before you died,” Lance said, beginning to cry. “You’re not real. You’re dead.”
“I’m not dead—not yet.”
“I watched as you got shot,” Lance said. “I watched as your body was burned with the rest of the rebels that died that day.”
“They got me.”
“I hate to interrupt,” Limsky said, “but we have important matters to attend to.” He pulled a knife from his belt and walked close to Jason. “Tell me everything you know about the rebel movement, Lance. Oh, and don’t lie. The doctor is an expert on telling when people are lying.”
Lance struggled against the straps, forcing himself into a forty-five degree angle. He spat at Limsky who casually stepped out of the way. The globule landed on Jason and disappeared, seemingly into his tattered, denim jacket.
“Tsk, tsk. Let’s not be babies here.” Suddenly Limsky was inches away from Lance, pressing the knife into his throat. “The next time you do something like that, I cut off one of Jason’s fingers. Then one of yours. Understood?”
Lance grunted, not daring to nod.
“Good.” Limsky took the blade from Lance’s neck, but not without cutting him. A trickle of blood ran down Lance’s neck, into his blue T-shirt. “Now tell us everything.”
Trembling, Lance shook his head.
Limsky smiled warmly. “I was hoping you’d say that. It give me the chance to do this:”
Limsky moved over to Jason who was shaking so hard, the chair rattled. Or was the chair rattling anyway? Wasn’t everything rattling? Lance had an epiphany. He was in the middle of a zeppelin.
Limsky slowly placed the knife on Jason’s finger, preparing to dig in.
“He isn’t real!” Lance shouted, more to himself than anyone. “He’s an illusion.”
Limsky jerked his wrist back, and the blade dug into Jason’s skin. He screamed, eyes wide open, showing the whites. When the cut was over, he looked at Lance, sweat gleaming all over.
“It’s your fault,” he said. “Everything was your fault.”
The words stung. But Jason was just an illusion.
“He’s just an illusion,” Lance yelled. “None of the blood got on you, and no matter how much Jason moves, the chair doesn’t react.”
“Very good, little brother. I had hoped you would be dumber than that. Oh well, I guess we’ll have to bring someone in who really is alive. I believe you already know him?”
The door into the gray room swung open, and streams of light burst past the stooped silhouette of a small man and a guard with one arm who held him tightly. The small man stumbled into the room, his eyes on the floor. Finally, as if ashamed, he looked up at Lance’s face, but not into his eyes.
“Hello, Lance,” he said in a thick, Russian accent.
Lance gaped, not sure what to feel. Here was the beloved priest who had saved his life, shipped him off to America. Here was one of the only religious people left on the earth.
“P-priest?”
“Yes,” the Priest cried, suddenly looking into Lance’s eyes. “It is me. I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?”
Priest rubbed his bald, sweaty head with fidgeting fingers. Part of his skull was slightly caved in and had dried blood on it. His robe was greasy, ripped, and patched up in many places. His eyes were a sad brown.
“What happened?” Lance repeated.
“I failed.”
“What do you mean?”
Limsky was watching the conversation, smirking.
“I started a rebellion in Russia,” the Priest said, “and they killed my friends. I didn’t stop.” Fresh tears dribbled down his once-chubby cheeks that were now hollow. “Then they killed my parents. I didn’t stop. Then they killed my children—even cute, little Aida. It was her fourth birthday. When they walked into our home, she asked if they wanted cake. Then they shot her through the forehead. I—I didn’t stop.” He choked back a sob. “Then they killed my wife, and I had no one—no one. Then they took me.”
“That is the way of the Empire,” Limsky said. “Killing a man makes him a hero. Killing his family makes him pitiful.”
The little man set his jaw. “But I haven’t failed yet.”
What do you mean?” Lance asked.
The little man didn’t answer. Rather, he grabbed something from thin air and smashed it.
“Goodbye, Lance. Do as you promised your parents.”
Limsky ran forward, but he was blown backward by Priest. Priest had changed his own equation, something that would give him incredible power, then kill him.
Priest raised his hand and blasted a hole through the wall. The walls.
Lance sprinted through the tunnel of holes. Priest could not be saved, so he didn’t look back. When he got to the last hole, he leaped out of the zeppelin. He flew out, close to the front of the zeppelin where ropes waved in the wind. He grabbed hold of one. He gritted his teeth as the rope burned through his skin. His fall was ended, but the zeppelin had entered a steep dive—he had no idea why. The wind became more powerful, and he was battered against the side of the zeppelin.
He looked about at the confused landscape. The zeppelin was over Manhattan Island, close to the ocean. He could just make out the headless Statue of Liberty.
Wait for it…
The zeppelin scraped the top of an intact building, throwing Lance higher than ever with the force. He let go and risked a mind-driven Nume. He knew that if he got it at all wrong, he would explode, or worse, implode.
He looked at the ocean, remembering its equation. He formed the solution in his head, and, still carried by the force of the zeppelin’s crash, flew into a steeper arc. Seconds later, he crashed into the ice-cold ocean. It dragged at him with powerful currents caused by naval warfare several miles away. He struggled, fighting his way to the surface. He gasped for air when he broke free. It took him what seemed like forever to swim to the statue. He grabbed hold of the sticky surface with wet hands. Shivering, he hefted himself up, avoiding the slime-filled barnacles.
He curled up into a ball in a large crack and slowly fell asleep. His dreams, those he could remember, had to do with Jason’s death. It was, as the illusion had said, all his fault. If only he had resisted the urge to use the Exponential Nume.
When Lance awoke, it was dark all around him. He heard the sound of waves crashing and felt rain pounding against him. His left leg was sticking out; its boot was missing. He shivered intensely, curling himself into a smaller ball. He hadn’t been this cold since his last night in Russia on a skipper during a rainstorm.
He heard voices, faint voices, below him.
“Why are we out here, master?”
“Sh-h-h, Hiroki. Raise the lantern.”
The soft glow of light broke through the torrent of rain. Lance could make out a small fishing boat. He adjusted his position to get a better look.
“I saw something,” Hiroki said. “It was in the statue.”
“Good, the old man said to search the statue. Do you have the gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll bring us in.”
Lance pushed himself deeper into the crevice. Who were these people? What did they want?
They want to kill me.
The boat pushed through the waves with ease. Obviously it was a Numician boat—and the Numicians were almost all on the Emperor’s side. That meant—
Just as the boat tapped lightly on the statue, Lance leaped out of the crack, into the ocean. He heard a cry of terror for Hiroki, a boy who seemed to be a little younger than him. The ‘master’ was an older, fatter man who had not reacted at all.
Pushing his way under the boat, Lance felt a surge of panic. The current, stronger than ever, dragged him further and further under the boat and into the ocean. He would drown. That was much worse than getting shot by a Numician.
Just as he thought his situation was completely hopeless, a strong hand grasped him and pulled him up, up toward the surface of the water where lightning flashes reflected with violence. Lance broke the surface. He tried to breath, but he could not.
“His lungs have begun to fill up with water,” the master said. “Do you remember your training?”
Hiroki nodded hesitantly.
“Then help him.”
Lance’s vision became spasmodic. He gripped one of the boat’s ribs with a white-knuckled hand. His back twisted as he tried to gulp in air.
Hiroki, none to gently, put his hands on Lance’s chest. Lance tried to get away, thinking that Hiroki was trying to murder him. Hiroki pressed down and up three times. Lance threw the water up, breathed for the first time in what seemed like ages, and lunged at Hiroki.
Hiroki knocked him back. Lance, weak, crumpled into a pile. He tried to get up again, but the older gentleman pushed him down making hushing sounds.
“I saved your life,” Hiroki said. His voice cracked. “I would be in your debt if you didn’t murder me back.”
“Sorry,” Lance croaked. “I thought you were a Numician.”
The master shook his head, his dark eyes sorrowful. “We’ll take him to the tunnels. He has been through a lot—more than a mere boy should ever go through. Unfortunately, he will have to go through much, much more. The least we can do is give him a rest.”
“You really believe that this is the boy then? He doesn’t seem like much.”
“But he is. Just wait and watch. You will see.”
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