Max Collins: After the Dark

Opening his eyes to dim illumination, White surveyed his surroundings and his situation. He was in a sparse gray cell, asprawl on a cold stone floor, the cell barren but for bars inset in a small window of the door — no bunk, no toilet; the cell was clean, the stinging smell of antiseptic tweaking his nostrils. A small, naked lightbulb hung in the hall beyond the tiny window, providing the only light; somewhere, water dripped. He still had his clothes (another surprise), but his parka, belt, and boots had been removed.

Looking into the hallway through the bars, he saw not a row of other cells, but a blank stone wall, where shadows danced and jumped. White knew that most ordinaries — the term both the Familiars and the transgenics used to refer to “normal” humans — would be paralyzed by fear to find themselves in such a dank, dark environment, and would constantly search the shadows for mice, rats, or something worse.

White, on the other hand, found the cell comforting. These surroundings, in and of themselves, presented no problems. His only concern now was coming up with a plan that would get him the hell out of here. No matter how bleak his future might appear, one favorable fact remained: the Familiars hadn’t killed him immediately when they found him.

“You have failed repeatedly, Brother White.”

The voice rattled the bars — a booming basso profundo, piped in from somewhere in the darkness of the cell ceiling.

White was startled, but only momentarily. Despite the obvious attempt at intimidation, this was not the voice of God, unless God had a German accent... and, since that seemed unlikely to White, he had a good idea who among the Conclave was doing the talking.

“That’s true,” he answered, calmly.

“And you know the price of failure.”

The voice had all the warmth of December in Meander River.

“I do. But—”

“But? You’re going to try to negotiate with us, at this point?... After these countless failures?”

White had the good sense to not answer.

“... Do you imagine you have something with which to negotiate? ”

Despite the sarcastic tone, the man seemed to be leading him — as if trying to... help him?

Why?

White knew this man to be a key figure among the Conclave, wielding a power far greater than any he himself had ever hoped to achieve. And yet now, for some reason the former NSA agent could not comprehend, this important figure was trying to guide him in this dark hour.

White considered his response carefully — the correct answer could mean another chance for him, and the wrong answer... well, that would most assuredly lead to the imminent death he had expected ever since seeing those ski-masked trackers back in Meander River.

Injecting the proper confidence into his voice, Ames White said, “I can deliver X5-452.”

At first silence...

... then a terrible, dismissive laugh rattled the speakers in the ceiling.

Chilled, White realized instantly that he had just made a tragic, perhaps even a fatal, error. His response did not seem to be what the Conclave figure had wanted to hear.

But what else could he offer them besides 452? Every plan for the future the Conclave had made hinged upon that bitch’s extinction! Within days, the comet would arrive, and a new era would begin — an era threatened only by the existence of X5–452! What in hell could be of greater importance than “Max”?

A terror rose within him — a panic that urged him to scream, to beg for his life; yet some strength in him wisely prevented any sound, any words, from coming out. But the logical part of him, his keen intelligence, failed him as well — he simply did not know what to say, what to bargain with...

“You can ‘deliver’ X5–452 — how many times have you promised us that very thing?”

“More than once, I know.”

“And how many times has she bested you? How many times have you failed your brothers?”

“Too... too many.”

“ What makes you think this attempt will be successful? Why should this be any different from all the other failures? ”

Hesitantly, White said, “The plan I have in mind is—”

“ Foolproof? Like all of your other cunning plans?... You’ve had so many plans, haven’t you, Brother White... and yet on every single occasion she has defeated you. ”

“Meaning no disrespect,” White said, “she has defeated us — all of us — too frequently. As much as we may despise her and what she represents, she is a worthy foe.”

“ Worthy...? ”

“If she were an insignificant impediment, her existence would not pose such a threat to our cause.”

Now a terrible silence followed, and White wondered if he had spoken too frankly, if his brashness would result, finally, in the ultimate, fatal censure of the Conclave.

“Your previous ‘plans’ have left much to be desired, Brother. How can you reassure us of your abilities? How can you restore our faith in you?”

“You can allow me to present my plan to you. For your consideration. Surely I don’t need to remind you that only days remain.”

“... Speak, then. ”

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, forcing himself to stay calm — losing his temper here would be to lose his life — White explained the scheme, in broad but complete strokes. Even he didn’t know every detail as yet, but the high points were already in place, and he went with them.

And, too, there were aspects of his plot that it was best the Conclave not know, at least as yet — not until after the ends had justified his means. The important thing for the Familiars at this moment was he could deliver to them 452... and the Coming would remain securely on schedule.

“This plan will lead to the successful capture of X5-452? ”

“I’m staking my life on it,” White said.

“ That much is guaranteed. ”

What followed wasn’t exactly silence — a muffled whispering, as the voice above and other Conclave members discussed White’s proposition.

And then: “ Do you have funds? ”

A hopeful sign.

“Yes,” said White. “Some.”

“Then those funds will finance the operation.”

White couldn’t stop himself, blurting, “My own money?”

The voice remained calm. “ Whatever funds you have are yours only by our dispensation .”

Best not to challenge that.

“Now that that is settled,” the voice said, “ we’ll turn to the timetable... ”

Rubbing his forehead, trying to stave off one of his headaches, White said, “We can start as soon as you see fit, sir... Might I ask to join you in better quarters, better circumstances?”

“You know you can’t afford to fail again.”

“I do indeed, sir.”

“That should you fail, there will be no reprieve.”

“Yes.”

“ Only your family’s history with the Conclave allowed you to buy another opportunity this time. ”

“Thank you.”

White remained stubbornly passive. He knew they were watching him from somewhere, knew too that they were well aware that he hated being lectured as much as he hated to fail. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure.

Soon the sound of a key in the door announced his return to the Conclave fold as grandly as a fanfare of trumpets.

Forcing himself to breathe deeply and slowly, he instead concentrated on the jackhammer pounding in his skull. He was coming to understand that pain had its purposes, and in this case, it seemed to help him focus.

In the case of 452, her pain would bring him only pleasure, and her death would ensure the triumph of the Conclave, in the imminent Coming.