J. Mitchell - The Severed Tower

“Everything I say is true, little dear,” Ravan replied. “I wonder if you can say the same? Finding out those pointy sticks are tracking our Assembly makes me think you haven’t been entirely honest. Just who are these friends of yours?”

Mira kept her eyes on Ravan’s. “No one special. Assembly never come here. It probably got the Helix curious. They’re very protective of the Strange Lands.”

Ravan studied Mira a long time, and there was no way to know if the black-haired girl believed her or not. Then she turned and looked behind them. They both watched the last of the Condenser Spheres go dark, as what was left of the Menagerie made it through. “Don’t know why anyone would be protective of this place.”

Mira was coming to agree. The longer she was here, the more she despised it. There was a time when it had seemed magical—but now all it did was frighten her. Just like the Helix leader had said.

“I wanna keep moving,” Ravan stated. “Unless you need a break?”

Mira shook her head. She was exhausted, but she wouldn’t let Ravan see that. She turned and started walking through the dark, past the eerie unending line of ruined vehicles. As she did she pulled the compass pendant out of her shirt. It still pointed northwest, in the direction of the Forlorn Passage.

They were still headed in the right direction. If you could call it that.

Something moved next to her. Max trotted at her side, sniffing the cars as he went.

Mira smiled. She scratched the spot between his ears as they walked. He didn’t seem to care.

ZOEY SAT IN A CIRCLE of the Hunters. The one who had revealed itself to her before stood closest in its differently marked tripod, watching. She could feel its intense gaze without looking up. To the others, it wasn’t just a leader, it was something else. Royalty was the closest word Zoey had to describe it. They would fight and die at its bidding, and for them dying was something much less immediate than it was for humans. That dedication carried tremendous weight.

Arranged in front of Zoey were four mechanical toys: a car, a train, and two helicopters. Their dusty boxes lay forgotten a few feet away. The walkers had brought them to her from somewhere outside.

The “suggestions” she felt from the Royal were insistent and firm, and they filled her mind. She was exhausted from pushing back against them, but it seemed to be getting easier, as if that part of her was growing stronger. It had been the same suggestion for an hour now. If she were to piece them together into words, it would be…

Power. Control.

It had taken a while to understand that the Royal wanted her to “power” and “control” the toys that lay beneath her. Just as she had done with the dam at Midnight City, and the old truck. The Royal was testing her, as if that specific ability was important somehow. She could do it instantly, if she wanted, but she made no move to do so.

These things had hurt her friends, scared her, commanded her about like a slave. They had healed the pain in her head, true, but only when it suited them. They were not her friends, they were not Holt or Mira or the Max. So she just stared back up at the Royal, unmoving.

Power. Control. The suggestions came again.

“No,” she said. Speaking, itself, was a form of defiance. The Mas’Erinhah preferred she communicate with her thoughts. Judging from the sensations that bled from them every time she spoke, they seemed to consider it primitive and disdainful. “Honored” guest or not, she had been repeatedly punished whenever she spoke. The thought of another psychic lashing by the Royal made her cringe, but still she did nothing.

They were not her friends.

One of the Hunters lunged toward her. Zoey scooted away in fear…

…and the Royal rammed into the machine, sending it reeling backward.

The chastised tripod lowered itself, turning away its triangular eye. The menacing sensations that pulsed from the Royal suggested only it was “worthy” of disciplining the “Scion.”

Zoey still had no clue what that term meant. Any attempt to ask the Royal questions was met with punishment. All she knew was that she was important somehow. If she only knew why.

The Royal turned back to Zoey. Power. Control.

“No.”

From across the room came an unusual sound. A human moan, weak and groggy. With wide eyes, Zoey looked to where Holt hung from the rafters.

“Holt!” Zoey shouted and stood up—but the Hunters moved in front of her, blocking her.

New suggestions, new feelings, poured from the Royal. It was considering, it had an idea, and Zoey watched as the machine leaped toward the other end of the room where Holt hung, coming to stand underneath his still form, almost tall enough to touch him with its metallic body. Holt moaned again.

Hope sprung inside Zoey. He was waking up.

From a diode on the Royal’s fuselage, a bright, tightly focused red beam erupted. It burned into the building’s wall, and where it hit, the bricks sparked and dissolved.

Slowly, Zoey noticed, the beam of energy tilted upward, cutting a deep fissure as it moved. She followed its path, and felt a chill as she came to a realization. If it continued to rise, the beam would stop cutting into the wall… and instead cut into Holt.

Power. Control. The impressions came again.

The implication was clear. The Royal would hurt Holt unless she moved the toys. Zoey’s heart beat frantically.

Power. Control, the Royal projected. The beam continued to rise. Zoey had no doubt the alien would follow through. It would hurt Holt. It would hurt him badly. It had no reason not to.

The walkers around Zoey watched eagerly. The Royal looked up, as the beam was about to cut into Holt’s shoulder. When it did, it would slice his arm completely—

“Stop!” Zoey shouted.

The Royal turned back, its red-green-and-blue “eye” buzzing as it focused on Zoey. The beam cut off instantly.

Underneath her, the car and train ran in circles around one another. The blades of the helicopters whirred rapidly, hovering just to the side of Zoey’s head.

Zoey could feel the tiny machines—everything about them—their plastic mechanics, the infinitesimal power in their circuits, the turning of their wheels, the spinning of blades.

She moved them effortlessly, feeling them bob and weave and spin. She wasn’t just aware of the toys. In that moment Zoey was the toys. Just as it had been before, and as always, it felt… amazing.

There was a rush of emotion from the Royal at the other end of the room. It was satisfaction again. Pride.

Holt moaned, stirred in his bonds, but this time Zoey didn’t notice.

* * *

THE WORLD SLOWLY BEGAN to focus, and the first thing Holt saw was the burning, three-optic eye of one of the green-and-orange walkers. It was staring curiously up at him, which was odd in itself. Eventually he figured it out. He was hanging from something. He craned his neck to look up, and saw he was tied to the thick wooden beams that ran along a very high and long ceiling.

The walker under him emitted a brief, bored, distorted sound, then walked off. Holt quickly checked out the rest of the building.

A single, huge room made of crumbling brick walls. Rows and rows of pew-like seats stretched to an elevated area, where rested benches and high-backed tables, all of it falling apart where it stood.

Holt recognized the building immediately. A courthouse. A small one, probably in the middle of what remained of some little town.

The wall to his right had cracked and split, and through it he could see the remains of a street, the broken glass of store widows just on the other side.