Requiem (29 page)

Daniels stepped
away from the wall. 'We do not have any reliable members stationed
at Palin Station.'

'Indeed. I will
make the trip myself. But it will have to wait. There are things
that need tending to here first.'

He rose from
the prostrate door and walked towards the broken elevator shaft.
The others stood and followed him out. They ascended the ladder
that had been fed down the shaft and emerged on the ground floor of
the casino.

Upturned and
gutted slot machines littered the still soft and warmly coloured
carpet. Crap tables, roulette and blackjack games were broken in
pieces and strewn across the floor. You could search for days and
still not find a single coin, a single note or bond or chip.

There was a
water fountain in the centre of the casino floor that, somehow, was
still running. When the Warlord's predecessor, McCullum, had
established himself here, he had dragged most of the bodies from
the main floor and used them as the first pieces for the chalk
outline, the corpse ring that now circled the city. As the Warlord
passed the fountain, he looked into it, at the water long since
discoloured with blood. But he knew that if you closed your eyes
and simply listened then you could convince yourself that the
splashing and sloshing sounds were coming from some pristine river
or brook in some far away place. A place that was still green,
where the air was saturated, sticky with moisture and the water was
a clear shade of blue, hurrying pebbles and stones along its path,
rolling them patiently towards the ocean.

Other than the
sound of the fountain, nothing else could be heard. The building
was mostly empty, apart from the guard stationed inside the main
door.

The Warlord
stopped. He knew the only way to wash the stench of failure from
his skin was to continue on, to push forward with the purpose that
McCullum had handed down to him. McCullum had spent years working
and co-ordinating with Habel. Perhaps it was best that McCullum
should die before seeing that all his work had been for naught.

The plan that
had failed was, for the most part, not his. The deal with Habel had
been McCullum's deal and it was
that
deal that had fallen
through. And when you understood that Habel had probably never
intended to create a benign form of the serum, that he only wanted
to kill his superiors with a staggeringly violent and theatrical
show, then you would also understand that they had never been close
to curing humanity at all. Habel only wanted to seize power. He was
weak. Corrupt. He may have deserved worse than a bullet to the
brain. Perhaps, the Warlord wondered, he should have made more of
an example out of him. He should have used the serum on him... but
no. Habel was merely a product of the hideous world that had
birthed him. What the Warlord wanted was euthanasia, was mercy and
that serum was far from merciful. It was a sadist's wet dream. It
was, if he believed in such things, the work of the devil.

Such thoughts
were far too comforting for his liking and they had been getting
more and more frequent.
It's just the added stress,
he told
himself without believing it. But whatever happens, he thought, in
the mean time the devil's serum is safe in the vault. He exhaled
and pushed the thought away. He turned to Daniels.

'I want you to
start work on the stolen shuttle. It's stationed in the hangars at
the old airport. Part of the left wing was lost and some circuits
were fried when the others were liberating it from the NeoCorp
compound. Take whatever and whoever you need to make the repairs.
There may be a plane or two still left for salvage if you need it.
I need that thing ready within at least three weeks so we can
follow this lead off world. Understood?'

Daniels nodded
then turned towards the hangar door. The Warlord could see that he
was also thinking about the serum, that he would continue to think
about it for some time... but he would still listen; the Warlord
was confident about that. He'd complain and begrudge the whole way
but he would get his work done. As Daniels stepped into the
blinding white light of day the Warlord turned to Jemma, Schultz,
and Harriete.

'I want you
three to continue with recruiting. Try going south of the CBD this
time. I've received reports of some mercenary bands beginning to
form down there. Take some recruits with you, Samuel and Roderick
would be best, and if you can't convince any of the mercenaries
where their allegiance should lie, kill them. I don't want them
gathering strength and confusing things down the line.
Understood?'

'Yes, sir,'
said Jemma. The other two simply nodded. They left through the
hangar door which had been pulled aside for them.

The Warlord
himself, waited by the fountain on the casino floor. There was a
curious need to speak to McCullum again but he knew those times had
passed. What could McCullum tell him now anyway? After the failure
of the serum, McCullum would have gone into one of the terrible
rages that he'd been prone to during that latter years of his life.
He'd blamed it on his illness but they both knew better. He'd
always been angry but the further he pushed himself into his role
the more of the Warlord came out in him. His mercy killings had
become a sort of punishment and an example to anyone who would
listen. He had moved beyond anger and frustration, beyond fury
until he'd become almost rabid. Only in his final days when the
disease had laid him down did he finally return to sobriety.

The Warlord was
listening to the gentle splashing of the fountain in the casino's
dusty haze. He was about to get to his feet when he heard footsteps
outside the door. There was a soft knock. The door was a behemoth
of welded metal and crossbeams, which had been stolen from the
front of an old airport hangar, reinforced and then forced into
place across the old casino entrance. It sat atop bearings over a
rail of steel.

The guard on
the inside of the entrance slid a small catch aside and looked out.
An elderly woman stood at the door, staring directly at him.

'What?' the
doorman asked.

'I wish to
enter,' she said.

'Why?'

'I need to see
the Warlord.'

He stared at
her without speaking. The Warlord watched from his seat on the lip
of the fountain.

'I want to
join,' said the old lady.

The doorman
laughed. 'Join what?'

'The Warlord
and his followers.'

'I don't know
what you're talking about, lady and even if I did, I'd say you're
too old.'

They lady
gestured with her hand to someone and a small boy walked over and
stood at her side. The doorman knew this boy, Donny, the Warlord's
friend.

'Is she holding
you hostage?' the doorman said to Donny.

He shook his
head. 'I recruited her. Like the Warlord said.'

The Warlord
heard the voice but remained where he was.

'He told you to
recruit this old rag?'

The Warlord had
told him nothing of recruiting people. Donny must have overheard
him speaking to other members at some point and taken it upon
himself. The Warlord smiled.

'He, he told
me...' Donny pointed up at the old lady, her face remained calm,
not smiling but not angry. 'She's really smart and she understands
a lot,' argued Donny.

'I bet she
couldn't even lift her leg to fart,' said the doorman and he
started to laugh. The old lady's hand flashed through the slit in
the door and clenched around his beard. She yanked his beard back
through the slit and the doorman's face collided with the inside of
the door. He raised his hand to the door and tried to push himself
back but the old woman had a firm hold of his beard. He kept
pulling back. He reached for his gun when the old lady released
him. He stumbled back, droplets of blood flinging from his nose,
his eyes blinking wildly. He regained his feet and yanked the gun
from its holster. 'You bitch! I'll fucking k-'

'You'll do
nothing,' said the Warlord. 'Put that gun away before you hurt
yourself.'

The doorman
stopped, turned to the Warlord. He was furious and the blood from
his nose had leaked into his beard which he was now rubbing with
his free hand.

'How many times
have you been warned to shave off that ridiculous net of hair
hanging from your face?'

'But-'

'The reason she
got the better of you is the reason you're going to grant her
entry. Scan her first. If she's clean then let her in. If she
isn't, shoot her.'

The doorman
didn't protest but he did stare at the Warlord for a moment. And
when he finally turned to do as he was told he did it very slowly
as a childish kind of protest. He picked up the scanner from the
shelf that had been placed beside the door. He ran it over the old
lady through the door. Clean. He put the scanner back on the shelf
and unhinged the metal rod bolted across the door. He opened the
door.

'Well?' he
said. 'You coming in or not?'

She hobbled
inside and Donny came in close behind, just making it through the
door before it was slammed shut.

The Warlord
watched her carefully as she made her way up the four steps just
beyond the entrance and towards him. Every second step she made was
accompanied by a thud from the wooden cane she held in her right
hand. Her head and thin shoulders were covered in a tattered, grey
shawl that hung down to her waist. She wore heavy leather boots and
a pair of faded jeans. She looked familiar. A sense of mischief
hidden behind dark, lingering eyes. The olive of her skin, although
withered from age, bespoke some ancient, broken heritage. Donny
walked steadily behind her. His chin raised and his eyes steady on
the old lady like he was expecting her to fall and was ready to
catch her. He didn't look at the Warlord.

'Why are you
here?' the Warlord asked her.

She came to a
stop near the fountain. Donny walked around her and seated himself
at the base of the fountain with his legs crossed, looking up at
her.

'I am here,'
she said, 'to help save those who cannot save themselves. Humanity
is dying, slowly, painfully and you offer reprieve from their
suffering.' She knelt down, tentatively onto her right knee. 'I
will follow you.'

It was an old
fashioned gesture. One the Warlord hadn't seen in some time nor one
that he was particularly comfortable with. 'Stand,' he said. And
when the old woman stood, he spoke to her like he would any other,
with a levelled voice and a self-assured bluntness that, to many,
was as effective as holding a gun to their head.

'And what use
do you think you'll be to me?' he said.

Donny couldn't
contain his excitement. He turned to the Warlord, 'She knows all
about the history of-'

The Warlord
looked at him. 'I asked
her
, Donny. Not you.'

Donny knew he'd
gotten off lightly so directed his eyes down to the carpet and
closed his mouth.

The Warlord
looked back to the old lady.

'Hold out your
hands,' he said.

She rested her
cane against her leg and held out her hands, palms up. The Warlord
stepped towards her. Donny watched carefully from his seat beneath
the fountain. The Warlord held the lady's hands in his. He wasn't
gentle nor was he rough. There was a calloused ridge running just
below where her fingers met her palm. Scratches and scars ran from
one side of her palm to the other. The Warlord turned her hands
over. The tendons and knuckles stood out like calcite ridges and
small discoloured spots had begun to blotch her severe tan.

She was old but
her hands... as hard a life that they had obviously seen, they
looked strong. Not a trace of the rheumatism or arthritis that had
plagued McCullum. Then why the limp and the cane? She'd walked in
here, hobbling as if some illness had come over her or she'd been
recently mugged for her purse. The answer was simple. It was an
act. She used her age to her advantage. The Warlord smiled beneath
his mask.

'You're not as
old as you make out,' he said.

'I'm old
enough.'

The Warlord
dropped her hands. He looked her up and down. Standing this close,
she was almost a completely different woman, like she'd just lost
twenty or thirty years. He told her to remove her hood and so she
did. The lines on her face that he'd thought he'd seen as she came
in were not completely gone but did not seem as severe. Her hair
was tied back in a ponytail but a few loose strands hung down over
her face. The ponytail did her no favours but still couldn't
diminish the natural beauty that still remained in the fullness of
her lips and the soft lines of her jaw and cheeks.

The Warlord
looked into her eyes. They were hard, cold. He could see that she'd
done all this before, that she'd been surviving in the Insolvency
her whole life, that she knew the intricacies of war, the way the
eyes of the dead look back at you, through you, past you, the way
the blood seeps from a shredded limb and sinks into the sand,
staining it before death can even arrive.

'You've killed
before,' he said.

She said
nothing.

'And you don't
take pride in it.'

Still she said
nothing.

'You killed
because you believed it was necessary and nothing more. You had a
job to do and so you did it. Is this right?'

'It is.'

'Where did you
learn to kill?'

'My father
taught me. He was a soldier like his father before him.'

She was
standing up straight now and was almost as tall as the Warlord. The
Warlord looked down at her chest. The shawl covered the top half of
her body but he found himself imagining what she might look like
underneath. The shape of her breasts. The curve of her hips. The
taste of her-

He turned away
from her and stepped back towards the fountain. He leaned over the
lip of the basin and stared into the frothing blood. It'd been far
too long since he'd been with a woman. But something drew him to
her. She knew how to kill. She wasn't afraid of him like the
others. But still... he needed her loyalty. She would still have to
be initiated, even if it was only a token gesture.