Chapter 44 - Through the Cracks

  Harlan leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter, his gaze fixed on the thin crack running along the ceiling of the cramped safehouse living room. The apartment was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the city below – the sounds of Imperial patrols roaming the streets, trying to track them down.

  That they’d gotten away at all was a miracle, really. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he had enough to put the pieces together. Kallan must have been fiddling with the drones, managed to get one operational enough to active it. Startled the hell out of him when the drone’s weapons had started firing – he’d thought they were all dead before he realising the shots were being aimed at their pursuers.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t been quick enough to save Kallan himself. He’d seen shrapnel wounds in his time – some worse than what Kallan had gotten, but… not many. And vanishingly few survived. Those that did had access to hospitals, which they decidedly didn’t.

  Across from him, Lena was pacing back and forth frantically, clenching and un-clenching her hands into fists. They were stained red with Kallan’s blood, from when they’d dragged him from the van up into the safehouse, laid him out on his bed. Before Harlan had gotten a look at the injuries and known they shouldn’t have bothered.

  Harlan let out a slow breath through his nose, willing himself to keep calm. There was no point in telling her to stop. She’d run out of energy or tears eventually. They always did.

  The two members of the other cell stood near the doorway, their masks still firmly in place despite the relative safety of the safehouse. They kept their distance, leaning stiffly against the wall like strangers at a wake. Neither said a word, their discomfort palpable.

  Harlan didn’t care. Let them squirm. This wasn’t their burden.

  “It’s no good,” Harlan said quietly, his voice low and even. “He’s gone, Lena.”

  “No, he’s not” she snapped, not looking at him. “He’s injured, but he’s breathing. We can… we can…” she trailed off.

  “Barely breathing,” Harlan replied, trying to keep his tone gentle but firm. In situations like this, it was often better to be realistic. Hope could quickly turn to poison, in his experience. He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder, the weight meant to ground her, to stop her hands from shaking. She shrugged him off violently.

  “Don’t say that,” she hissed. “We can still—there’s got to be something… I mean, we have to try,” she said, her voice breaking. “A hospital, a clinic, something.”

  “Where?” Harlan asked, his tone flat, devoid of judgment or sarcasm. “Think the Empire’s got a bed open for him tonight? We’ve got roadblocks in every direction, enforcers combing the city. We won’t make it to the end of the block without getting lit up.”

  Lena opened her mouth to argue, but no words came. Her hands clenched into fists, stained red.

  “Even if we could get him there,” Harlan pressed, his voice softening now, “he wouldn’t make it through the door before they lock him up. And I hate to say it… but I’ve seen these kind of injuries before, Lena. They’re not the kind you come back from. He’s… he’s already dead. His body just hasn’t got the message yet.”

  He could almost see the moment reality set in—the way her shoulders sagged, just slightly, as she stared down the truth she didn’t want to face.

  “So… what do we do, then?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “The only thing we can do,” Harlan responded, hating himself for what he was saying even as he said it. “We deal with what comes next.”

  In an ideal world she would be given time to grieve, to come to terms with how fickle life could be. He knew that this wasn’t really about Kallan, as such – Lena wasn’t exactly close to him after all, he was just… new and exciting. But it was the first time she’d had a comrade die, someone she worked with. It was different.

  Lena looked up at him. “And what comes next?” she asked, tone suspicious. She always had been too sharp for her own good.

  “Two things,” Harlan said evenly. “The body, and Echo. We need to figure out how to get them out of here.”

  She blinked, the words not quite registering. “What? What do you mean Echo?”

  Harlan sighed. “Look, I still don’t really know if Echo really was an AI or just an advanced VI that Kallan convinced us was special – but either way, it was useful.” He pulled the bypass kit full of data from his jacket pocket, tossing it onto the kitchen table.

  “That thing’s storage is completely full of Imperial secrets,” he said pointedly. “Echo cut through the encryption like it wasn’t even there – barely took him two minutes. If there’s any chance we can recover the thing from Kallan’s augs or implants… we have to try. Not to mention the expense of building it that frame. We’re not throwing that away just because Kallan didn’t—” He caught himself, forced the words back. “Because of this.”

  “You’re serious.” Her voice was flat, sharp. “You’re already planning how to pick him apart before he’s even gone.”

  Harlan didn’t flinch. “We don’t have the luxury of sentimentality. It’s macabre to think about, sure, but at the end of the day we need every advantage we can get. Not matter where we get it from or how distasteful it is.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” Lena’s voice cracked, the raw edge of it cutting through the room. She threw up her hands, pacing a step before whirling back to face him. “You don’t even care, do you?”

  Harlan’s expression stayed even, his voice cold. This was a harsh lesson, but one best learned early. “I can’t afford to care in the way you’re thinking about. The only thing I can allow myself to care about is the mission, Lena. You should too.”

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she glared at him, fists clenching at her sides. “I should—? Forget it. I’m done.” She turned sharply, her boots thudding against the worn floorboards as she strode to the door of her room. She paused, her hand on the handle, then slammed it behind her hard enough to rattle the frame.

  Harlan didn’t move. That could definitely have been handled better, but he wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He was a soldier. Give him an objective and resources, and he would get it done. Give him an emotional young woman to comfort? He was lost.

  Mara had always been better at this kind of thing. He missed her every day, but in situations like this more than ever. She’d always… believed. In anything, everything. She believed that the Freeholder’s cause was just, that all people needed was an opportunity and they would be so much better. She’d convinced him, after all.

  He hadn’t been ready for her loss. No one was, really, but somehow… he’d allowed himself to believe that nothing could go wrong, that she, they would live forever, heroes fighting the evil Empire.

  How wrong he’d been. Now, he was just a tired old man, trying to live the life his wife had wanted for him.

  Lena wasn’t ready for this kind of reality. Most people weren’t, not until it stared them in the face. He let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting back to the thin crack in the ceiling.

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  This was war. They might call it different things, pretend that the Freeholder’s Alliance was a ‘movement’, or just ‘concerned citizens standing up for themselves’. They were just words. At the end of the day… this was war. It didn’t care if you were ready.

  Harlan straightened from the counter, his body moving before his thoughts could catch up. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he stepped through the dim apartment, making his way toward the back room where Darius lay. It would be easier if he did it himself. Cleaner. No reason to make Lena face the ugly truth head-on, not this time. She’d learn eventually, but for now, sparing her the gritty work was as close to compassion as Harlan could manage.

  Some would call him a monster, he knew. But at the end of the day, this was the only kindness he could offer Kallan.

  The door to Darius’s room creaked faintly as he pushed it open, the dim light from the hallway spilling inside. The smell of blood and antiseptic hit him immediately, thick and cloying in the still air. The bed was rumpled, stained with dark streaks that hadn’t yet dried. His eyes scanned the room, settling on the empty mattress.

  He froze.

  The bed was empty.

  The blanket they’d thrown over Darius lay crumpled, tossed aside like an afterthought. Harlan’s eyes darted to the far wall, then the window. It was closed, but… his gaze tracked downward. A faint smear of blood trailed toward the door on the opposite side of the room.

  The robotic frame that had been standing in the corner was gone as well. Harlan’s mind raced, the pieces snapping into place in a chaotic, half-formed mosaic. Darius must have regained consciousness. The man’s wounds should have been fatal—should have kept him down, unconscious or worse. Harlan wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen injuries like Kallan’s – and they weren’t the kind you could walk off. But somehow, he’d gotten up anyway.

  Although… assuming Kallan hadn’t been making up the whole ‘AI’ thing, and assuming that said AI could take control of the frame without the processing cores Kallan claimed were essential…

  Well, maybe Echo had taken matters into it’s own hands, carrying Kallan’s body… out the window?

  He glanced at the window again, narrowing his eyes. The apartment was four stories up, and nothing outside hinted at an easy escape route. No ladder, no fire escape. Just the endless sprawl of the city, dotted with lights and the occasional Imperial patrol.

  For a moment, he stood in the centre of the room, processing. He didn’t bother calling out. If Darius—or Echo—had managed to get this far, they weren’t about to come back just because someone asked.

  Hell, whichever one was responsible – man, or machine – they had probably overheard him talking about, well…. taking care of things. Hardly surprising they had made a break for it.

  He let out a long, slow sigh, his hand scrubbing at the back of his neck. Voss wasn’t going to like this. Their carefully laid plans, the resources poured into building Echo’s frame, the leverage they might have gained from it—all of it slipping through their fingers.

  They still had the data retrieved from the garrison, safely stored on the bypass kit, but he knew enough about how Voss worked to realise she was hoping for a longer term arrangement with Echo. How voluntary that arrangement was… well, Harlan liked to keep himself out of those decisions. His conscience was strained enough as it was.

  What a mess. And yet, a small part of him couldn’t help but feel a flicker of respect for the kid.

  “Good luck, Kallan,” Harlan muttered under his breath. “Not that it’ll do you much good.”

  He turned back toward the doorway, already forming the words he’d use to explain this to Voss. Maybe it wasn’t all bad. Whatever second wind had gotten Kallan up and moving – or if it was just the robot dragging his body around in search of help – it wouldn’t last long. The Empire would probably find Darius eventually, and his body might calm them down enough to stop looking for the rest of them.

  At least Lena had managed to snag a copy of the frame’s blueprints as she helped Kallan build it. Any sort of disposable drone was worth its weight in gold for the Freeholders, and a decently advanced humanoid robotic frame that could be built with off-the-shelf parts?

  Well, that was a game-changer.

  Sure, they’d have to figure out how to program the damn things, but that was a hell of a lot easier than coming up with a design from scratch.

  With a final sigh, Harlan turned and walked away from the room, unable to shake the impossible feeling that he hadn’t seen the last of Darius Kallan.

  – – –

  Darius stumbled forward, the uneven rhythm of his feet echoing in the empty streets. Each step felt like it took a lifetime, a surreal haze pressing in on the edges of his vision. The world around him alternated between sharp clarity—every shadow, every faint glint of metal in the dim city lights standing out in perfect detail—and a thick fog, muffling sound and sight into an indistinct blur.

  His breath rasped in his ears, a harsh reminder of his body’s struggle. The air felt cold, but the chill didn’t register properly against his skin. His side was wet—sticky and slick—but he didn’t dare look down. Didn’t need to. He’d seen enough blood earlier to know how bad it was.

  “Keep moving.” The voice wasn’t coming from his augs anymore, wasn’t the clear, digital cadence he was used to. It was deeper, resonant in a way that vibrated through his entire being. It wasn’t just in his head—it felt inside him, threading through his mind, his nerves, his muscles.

  “You’re doing well, Darius,” Echo said again. “One step at a time.”

  He wanted to respond, to say something sarcastic, to ask how this was ‘doing well’ when he could barely tell up from down, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. His jaw clenched and unclenched with no sound, his focus wavering as the world spun again. He felt the pressure of something hard and metallic under his arm, steadying him. The frame. Echo’s frame.

  It moved with unsettling precision, a quiet hum accompanying the shifts of its servos as it bore part of his weight. He could feel its rigid surface against his side, hear its footfalls alongside his own. He tried to ask about the processor cores – they were important, he knew that, just couldn’t… quite… remember why.

  “You’ll make it,” Echo continued. “The next junction is close. Then you can rest.”

  Darius grunted, the sound more reflex than response. His legs wobbled as he tried to take another step, nearly folding under him. The frame adjusted immediately, pulling him upright with a strength that didn’t seem possible given its compact design.

  The haze thickened, the city around him disappearing into a wash of colourless smears. For a moment, he felt like he was floating, disconnected from his body entirely. Then the sharp clarity returned, stabbing through the fog like shards of glass. He blinked and realized they were no longer in the open streets. Concrete walls lined the narrow space, dotted with rusted pipes and old maintenance panels.

  The maintenance tunnels.

  “How…” His voice came out hoarse, barely audible, but Echo seemed to hear.

  “You’ve been walking,” Echo replied. The tone was calm, unhurried. “I’ve been guiding you. You’re safe now.”

  Safe. The word rang hollow in his ears. He wasn’t safe. Not from the Empire, not from the Freeholders, and definitely not from whatever was happening inside him. His mind reeled as he tried to retrace his steps, but everything between the safehouse and now was a swirling jumble of fractured images and sounds. The faint echo of Harlan’s voice stood out, the words cutting through the confusion: He’s already dead. His body just hasn’t got the message yet.

  Darius staggered, catching himself against the frame. The jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through his side—not sharp, just a deep, bone-weary ache that seemed to sap the strength from him with every breath.

  “I’m dead,” he muttered, more to himself than to Echo. “A walking corpse.”

  “You’re alive,” Echo countered, the edge of steel in its tone catching him off guard. “You are injured, but you are not dead. Not yet. And as long as you’re not, we keep moving.”

  Darius couldn’t argue. He wasn’t sure if it was because Echo was right or because he simply didn’t have the energy. He let the frame guide him, each step a battle against the growing weight in his limbs. The tunnel stretched on endlessly, its dim lighting casting long, flickering shadows.

  Then the world tilted. His vision narrowed, and the ground seemed to rush up to meet him. He blinked, and the next moment he was standing again, swaying unsteadily in a different part of the tunnel. How much time had passed, he couldn’t tell. The blood on his side felt colder, sticky against his skin, and the walls seemed closer now, pressing in on him.

  “We’re here,” Echo said. The frame slowed, guiding him to a small alcove at the end of the tunnel. It was little more than a dead-end, the air heavy with the damp, metallic tang of rust and old water.

  “You need to rest,” Echo continued. The frame’s arms shifted, lowering him carefully to the ground. He didn’t even protest, his body collapsing against the wall as soon as it was allowed. The rough surface dug into his back, but he barely felt it.

  Darius closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and uneven. He wanted to argue, to ask questions—how Echo had done this, why its voice was different, what their plan even was—but the words wouldn’t come. His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven intervals, each breath feeling heavier than the last.

  “You’ll be fine,” Echo said softly. The words weren’t soothing—they were too matter-of-fact for that—but there was something in them that steadied him nonetheless. “For now, just rest. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Darius wanted to believe it. Wanted to let go of the gnawing fear and doubt clawing at the edges of his mind. But as the fog began to creep back in, thick and suffocating, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was it. If this was where his story ended.

  The frame’s presence loomed beside him, silent and watchful. For the first time, it felt less like a machine and more like a guardian, keeping him tethered to the fragile line between life and death.