W.A.N.D. (Paradise of Lead), page 1
W.A.N.D.
Paradise of Lead Book Three
Mackenzie Morris
W.A.N.D.
Copyright © 2014 by Mackenzie Morris
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To Alan. Thank you for being a constant source of encouragement and emotional support as well as one of the most important things: A friend.
Other Works by Mackenzie Morris
Paradise of Lead Trilogy
M.A.G.E.
T.I.M.E.
W.A.N.D.
The Lights of Agramont Trilogy
The Lullaby Blade
Tide of Treason, Storm of Slaughter
Song of Ocean's Peace
Wings of Onyx Shadow
1
Blice draws in a ragged breath and reaches to the wall behind him. His fingers find the bullet hole an inch from his ear. He had been too stunned to use his dark matter magic and even if he had wanted to deflect the bullet, he knows the amount of drugs in his system is affecting his brain. This is what he gets for self-medicating with all kinds of pills and alcohol. Once Blice's heartbeat calms down to what's normal for him after taking a handful of assorted pills, he comes back to his senses just in time to be thrust back into his panic.
Isidore drops his Colt .45 revolver to the floor and collapses lifeless between Blice's legs.
Is he alive? Blice reaches over and places his fingers on his friend's neck. Nothing. Pushing past his fogginess, he rolls Isidore over and leans down to listen for some sign of breathing. When there's none, Blice calls for his Secret Service men who rush in and take Isidore away.
* * *
It's quiet now in the Oval Office as Blice drinks another pot of coffee. He has to sober up and get over to the hospital to be with his friend. Even though Isidore has artificial organs and skin that has been genetically engineered to heal faster than a human's, that android is not immortal. Sometimes it's difficult for Blice to remember that, especially after the harsh ways that his father made him treat Isidore years ago. His hands are still shaking as he combs through his short spiked black hair. Isidore's robotic butterfly, Yuri, flies into the room and lands on Blice's desk. The tiny black eyes beg him for answers, for where Isidore is, but Blice ignores the blue glistening wings that emit calming music as they move. He instead looks out through the thick black curtains at city below.
The streets of Paradise are still bustling as they always are, even now at two in the morning. The multicolored neon lights lining buildings and restaurants, shops and the cinema, call for the citizens to be out there in the glorified city that has come to embody the wealth and pride of the Unified State. Those in the wasteland yearn for this place. They dream of it and envy those inside these lead walls. Blice is the president of all of this, but he feels so alone. The woman he loved is now married to his android computer, his father is recently deceased, and his brother, Byron Erikson, hates him. Isidore is the only person on this Godforsaken planet who gives a damn about him, but Blice is the one person who treats Isidore the worst. He knows it. After all, that is why Isidore overdosed in the first place. Now he's dying and it's all Blice's fault.
Someone knocks on the door and steps into the darkness. "Mr. President, are you ready to go?"
No. Nothing sounds worse than sitting there in the stark white of the emergency room with the crying mothers and sick children, the gunshot wounds and the druggies looking to steal whatever they can when the medics have their backs turned. Blice still hasn't completely recovered from the last time he almost lost Isidore. That wasn't even a month ago. Now here it is almost Christmas and Isidore is fighting for his life again. Can that kid never get a break? Even the body of an android can only be pushed so far until it won't start.
Blice pulls on his wool coat and follows Agent Monroe down the hall where the prying eyes of his servants watch his every move, then outside into the cold desert night. "Thank you for coming so late."
Monroe motions for the transport. "You're not going to walk there, are you, sir?"
"I was hoping to clear my mind. The walk will do me some good."
"I will be accompanying you, then."
"As always." Blice lights a cigarette and watches the twinkling white lights of the space transports hovering high up in the hazy atmosphere.
"Sir, it's not good for you to be out so late. You have a press conference in the morning."
"I'll be okay."
"You don't have to do this." Monroe says. "He's just an android."
Blice stops in the middle of the street as a car swerves to miss him. "Never say anything like that again, Monroe. Isidore is my best friend and if I lost him, you wouldn't have a job anymore because I would be dead."
"He tried to kill you."
"You don't know anything." Blice walks off into the shadows of a side street where he comes all too often to get his fix. Tonight he ignores the dealers peering out of the corners. They all know his name, but notice he has company so they remain silent. Blice used to be one of them, desperately selling and buying anything to get a high . . . until his father who was president at the time, found him passed out in the ditch and covered in his own vomit. Now he has to buy in secret.
It was never an issue of money. If Blice had one thing he could rely on growing up, it was money. He was a dealer so he could be close to what he needed. It also gave him a place to escape to when his father was fighting with the prostitute Blice will never call his mother. Once his father made Blice stop dealing and tried to get him clean, Blice lost all control. That was one of the darkest periods of his life . . . until he got Isidore for his twentieth birthday. As soon as Isidore came into his life, Blice began to live again.
Even though Isidore was only twelve at the time, Blice took him under his wing and a bond quickly formed that nothing could ever sever. At least that's what Blice thought. Now looking back at how far they have come, he knows it was all a lie. Still, he owes so much to Isidore. Countless nights Blice had overdosed and his father didn't care enough to help so Isidore was there, holding him on the floor of the bathroom until he woke up hours later. He would then get Blice cleaned up and into bed where he would watch over him all night long. Blice likes to think that it wasn't only because of Isidore's programmed sense of duty to his owner. Maybe they truly were friends back then.
Monroe joins his side. "Mr. President, are you all right?"
Blice flicks his cigarette into the street. "I'm fine. Just thinking."
"He will recover. You know that. He's come back from two hundred bullets."
"Don't remind me. I never want to hear about a firing squad again. It still makes me sick."
* * *
As soon as Blice steps inside the white room with the mismatched chairs and faded paintings on the walls, he knows this is going to be a long night. The room is empty and for that, he is more than thankful. A woman is screaming down one of the long hallways. As Agent Monroe takes a seat next to the coffee maker, Blice's anxiety is eating at him. He paces around the room as Monroe pours some coffee and scrolls through his PDA. If only Blice could be that calm. When the female screaming doesn't stop, he decides to go investigate. Just as he rounds the corner into the brightly lit hallway lined with operating rooms on either side with medics in scrubs rushing around, he spots her.
Clara is crying and looking through the window into one of the rooms. "Isidore!" She pounds on the glass until her legs give out and she falls.
Blice catches her and sits her in a chair. He holds her to his chest. "Shh. Clara, it's okay."
"You did this to him."
"No. I didn't. He tried to kill himself. He took all of my pills and drank a bottle of vodka."
"Why?"
There's no reason to hide it anymore. She will find out eventually. "He found out what I did to him."
"What could you have done that was so bad?" Clara asks as she trembles both from the cool air and the adrenaline.
"Possibly the worst things someone can do to another person. I've been charged with fifty-eight counts of sexual assault."
"Oh my God." She pushes him away. "Don't touch me. How could you?"
"Listen, I never wanted to."
"I don't believe you. You're heartless. You're evil!" Clara screams at him.
"I care about Isidore and I will give my life for him." Blice says, his desperation reflected in his voice. "Don't you get that?"
"You don't torture and rape the people you care about."
It's useless to even attempt to explain this to her. "No one will understand. You are all blind to the truth. I did it to save him."
Clara screams into her hands.
Blice watches the tears on her face that is pink with anger. "Clara, if I sit down with you and Isidore in a private place and attempt to explain myself, will you hear me out before you pass judgment?"
"You'll just rape us both."
"Clara!"
She looks up and her normally pale green eyes are now dark and condemning. "Hell is too good for you, Blice McSage."
* * *
Byro
"What are you drinking?" Damien asks as he pours more maple syrup on his pile of pancakes.
Byron looks down at his glass. "Um . . . orange juice."
"Anything in that orange juice?"
"More orange juice."
"Are you feeling okay?" Damien asks.
"Yes, why? Do I look sick or something? You've been watching me all morning like I'm an alien or something."
He shakes his head and begins sharpening his throwing knives as he eats. "No, no. It's nothing."
"Pass the syrup. These are good. Where did you get them?" Byron asks.
"Apparently someone in the Presidential Palace made way too many of them and even Rubble City had their fill."
Byron looks at the pancakes and notices something. "Are these apple pancakes?"
"Looks like."
"I bet Isidore made these. You know how he likes apples."
Damien tosses one of his short knives across the dining room where it sticks in a map of Paradise. "Since when do you even notice what you're eating? I swear, you aren't my partner. On top of that, you're actually awake before ten in the morning. What have you done with Byron Erikson?"
He stuffs an entire pancake in his mouth. "Nothing. Drop it already."
"No. I see. How long have you been sober? You haven't had a drop of tequila for at least a day."
"And I never will again."
"You're going to stop drinking?"
Byron thinks back to the only woman he has ever truly loved. He couldn't be the man she needed and now she's gone. He blames himself for that still, every day that he breathes. If his judgment hadn't been clouded by alcohol, he would have noticed the impending danger. "I'm doing it for Leena. I have to be the man she needed me to be."
"That's a noble cause, Byron." Damien types something into the gold sensor on his arm. "So, today we are going to investigate some strange rumors I've intercepted on a radio broadcast from Common Ground."
"Spying again?"
"We're the Outlander Force. That's what we do. Our titles are Chief Outlander Force Investigator. What did you expect us to do? If there's something that needs to be investigated, we have to investigate it."
Investigating? More like running headfirst into unknown dangers. "The last time we investigated something, I almost died from your crazy plan."
"You played along well, though. Good job pretending that I shot you."
"I find it difficult to trust you knowing that you paralyzed your last partner and put him in a wheelchair."
Damien's demeanor completely changes. He leans over the table and slams a knife blade into the polished wood. "Never talk about Seth. He was the best partner I could ever have and no one will take his place. What went on between me and him is private. Yes, we had our problems, but Seth deserves respect."
Whoa. Apparently Damien hasn't moved on completely. "I wasn't trying to disrespect him. Sorry if you thought that."
He sighs and pulls his knife from the table. "Never mind. Ever since his death, I can't stop thinking about him. I can't believe the police haven't caught his killer."
"Yeah . . . me either. Why aren't we investigating that case? That's what we do, right?" Byron asks. He searches Damien's face for any clues to back up the doubts and suspicion that has been culminating in his mind ever since that incident.
"I passed on that one. I was too emotionally invested and it would only get in the way."
There's something about that entire situation that really bothers Byron. Of course he trusts Damien . . . but he can't overlook it. He has to know the truth before they move on from here. "As your partner, I have already sworn to never tell anyone about our conversations, no matter how incriminating the subject."
Damien eyes him curiously. "Yes. The same goes for you. Have something illegal you need to get off your chest?"
"I actually had a question about you."
"What about me? I have nothing to hide from my partner."
"Did you kill Seth Thompson?"
Damien puts down his cup of coffee and leans back in his chair. For a few minutes, he looks into Byron's eyes and doesn't say a word. A tiny grin spreads across his lips. "Why would you ask something like that?"
"I just want to be able to trust you."
"Do you not already trust me?" Damien asks. "You agreed to become my partner, you took the vow, and you live with me. If I was going to kill you, don't you think I would have already done it when you were passed out drunk? Or I could have killed you when we were alone in that virtual combat simulator. No one would have heard you scream from under the ground and behind the soundproof walls."
Classic Damien divergence. "You're not going to answer my question, are you?"
"Maybe I feel like I shouldn't have to answer you. It shouldn't matter one way or another to you what happened between me and Seth. You agreed to trust me with your life. You're in too deep to back out now."
Byron shakes his head and finishes off his orange juice. He needs a drink badly, but he knows he can't. As he looks into those cold and calculating hazel eyes on the other side of the table, he knows. The truth is undeniable. "You killed him."
"No. I didn't kill Seth. I loved Seth. You didn't know this, but Seth and I were very close . . . almost romantically close. We kissed twice."
"Don't try to kiss me, Damien."
"You're the one who kissed me, remember?"
True. Damn tequila. "Okay. Neither one of us is going to kiss the other ever again."
"Deal. All joking aside, no. I had nothing to do with Seth's death. Kazimir Dark killed Seth Thompson. I have been cleared of any involvement by the police. There is no evidence of me being involved in his death or the explosion at the Outlander Force headquarters. What a massacre. I've been working my ass off recruiting new agents to the force. Even now, we only have ten agents including us. It will take years to get back up to where we were before. You've seen me staying up all night meeting with potential contacts. Why would I go through all of this work if I was the one who destroyed it all in the first place? I wouldn't. Those agents were my friends." Damien laughs and pours another cup of coffee. "What else? You want to ask me something else, don't you? I can see it on your face. Is it about Maria?"
"You didn't have anything to do with her death, did you?" Byron asks, already knowing that Damien is going to deflect again.
"It was ruled a suicide."
"That's not what I heard from Clara."
Damien doesn't look pleased. "When have you been talking with Clara?"
"I didn't know I had to report every aspect of my life to you."
"You don't. I was only asking. What did Clara tell you?"
"Nanobots."
"Nanobots?" Damien asks as he types something into his sensor. "Is that what killed Maria?"
"Not officially, but Clara found some hidden reports in the database she hacked into."
"Nanobots . . . who would have access to that kind of technology? I'll tell you who. Kazimir."
"You really think he's behind everything?"
A loud beeping sound comes from Damien's sensor and he holds it up. "Get dressed. We're needed at the hospital."
Byron wipes the sticky syrup from his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "The hospital? What for?"
"Remember who we directly serve under?"
"The president."
Damien pulls on his thin long black coat and buckles his boots. "That was Blice. He needs us to meet him there. Something's happened to Isidore."
"Did he say what?"
"No. Just hurry up and let's get over there."
2
Byron takes a seat in the corner of the room as Damien goes up to the unmoving bundle of wool coat stretched out over a row of seats. "Blice, what's going on?"
