Nemesis: Book Six

She had seen death before, numerous times. Death caused by her and death caused by others. Beginnings always had endings, which was something she came to accept long ago—something all Vars must understand. Her own death would mean the passing of power, giving a generation unto the next ruler.

Death meant life, death meant things were born anew.

Except for this place. Morena looked down at a very different death, one she didn't accept, one that wouldn't bring life.

She saw her children's ashes. Both strands and Bynum's alike, mixed together by wind and weather as if no more than dust.

And that's what they are, Morena. It doesn't matter what was or could have been. They're no longer any of that. They're dead, and look further, Great Var, and you can see this stretching far into the distance. Indeed, you can't even see the end of this abomination.

The words mocked her with their truth. Beneath, she saw what the humans left behind, the markings from their machines on the asphalt roads. She saw how close they ventured to her children, how brazen they were about the murder they brought. They had stood mere feet away, as if her children weren't capable of wiping out their entire world—as if they weren't already doing it.

They're not. Not anymore.

The humans were brazen because they could be. She knew who did this, the one who created this gray ash she floated above—Kenneth Marks. And then he left, hiding after starting a plague on her species. She alone remained here with her dead children, holding the only vigil they would ever know.

She turned around, looking back across the land that she had considered conquered. No more. The gray death swept across this area like paint on canvas. Morena didn't know what it was that moved through her children, killing them so efficiently. She didn't even know if she could touch their remains, or if it would infect her as well. Unknowns everywhere she turned, yet everything still relied on her though she held no answers.

Morena slowly descended from the sky, landing on the road just outside of her dead children's reach. He—Kenneth Marks—had stood here, or near it; she felt certain. He stood here and watched the death he created spread through those she cared most about. And did he smile? Morena had seen it, that smile, witnessed it in the cage while in charge of Will. Yes, for sure, the
motherfucker
smiled as it started. He might still be smiling, wherever he went.

Morena dropped to one knee. If the death still lived in the ash, then all of this would be over momentarily. No more worries, no more struggle, just the end of her and Bynimian.

She reached forward and picked up the gray that had once been pure white. Her aura wrapped around it, searching as quickly as it could for danger.

It found nothing.

Just lifelessness.

She let the aura continue swirling, and watched as it swept out among the remaining dead—searching within them as well. Some clue. Some knowledge as to what happened and how she could stop it.

Nothing.

Morena closed her eyes and called her aura back. She wrapped her arms around her knee. Rage welled inside, rage that she had never known before—not during her attempted execution, not during any of Chilras' sermons. Rage against a universe that wouldn't let her live ... wouldn't let her children live.

She didn't scream, made no noise as she knelt alone on the asphalt. She let the rage rise like waves in a typhoon, slamming against whatever was in their way.

An hour passed, perhaps more, and then Morena rose to her feet.

The universe would bend.

The arc of fate would bend if that's what it took.

* * *

S
he wasn't a woman
, no more than Morena—yet the creature was clearly female.

Michael saw her though he didn't understand how that was possible. The landscape around him remained a bare desert, completely devoid of life, and he'd been in it for hours at this point, seeing nothing but the blackness of Bryan's mind.

There she stood, though. A mile away? Maybe more? Michael couldn't tell distance in here, and if it wasn't for the color wrapping around her, he probably wouldn't have seen her at all.

The white aura hung from her like Morena's green. This white, though, resembled the pure white of the ship that dropped from the sky in the field. It looked like the ship Morena traveled in. The white aura blew around the creature, revealing her body of the same nature—the same purity.

Am I dreaming?
Michael wondered. But
could
he dream, given the current state of his mind? He stood up from the sand, dusting himself off as he did.

The creature raised an arm, though she was too far away for him to understand the gesture. Was she waving? Beckoning? He didn't know what she wanted, but knew
he
didn't want to go to her. Despite the purity her white brought to mind, whatever she was, she
wasn't
human. That creature was of Morena's ilk and she shouldn't be in here. Not in Bryan's mind nor his. Neither had any contact with a creature like this, so why could he see her?

Could Bryan?

No, he wasn't here. The vastness of Bryan's mind amazed Michael, but his friend rarely came inside this place. Michael didn't ask why because he didn't need to: Bryan wouldn't find anything in here—just like Michael hadn't until now.

What do you want?
he said silently.
How are you even here?

The creature let her hand drop to her side, but didn't move in any other way.

Then, after a few seconds at least, she began crossing the desert sand—heading directly toward him.

* * *

I
f The Makers exist
, they created nothing greater than this.

The world before Junior stretched out in an endless array of flames and smoke.

He had done very little in this city, Los Angeles. No, his army, his brothers and sisters, they created this destruction. And it was good. He only watched, directed, and assessed.

Junior walked across the broken ground, moving lightly from jagged concrete to fractured pole, flying just a few inches above the devastation when necessary. Smoke brushed across his face, the smell of burning gasoline venturing with it.

Junior walked upwards, climbing the wrecked buildings, wanting to gain a higher vantage point to see what they had truly accomplished. The rocks and rubble tumbled around him as he climbed, his feet causing slight shifts in the way the new structures lay. He didn't stop though, didn't even pause, as the moment something crumbled, he would simply lift into the air or have his aura hold the structure together.

And finally he stood a hundred feet above the ground. He turned around, slowly, taking it all in, understanding just how much they had been able to do. How far they had pushed. How many lives they took. He saw Bynums still fighting, scattering the few remaining people that hadn't fled or died. Some looked at him and some at each other. Junior glanced up at the mountain backdrop to the city. When he first arrived here, those mountains had been an aside, something to look at once his eyes moved past the city.

Now, the mountains were the largest structures around for miles.

Now, Junior's eyes went to them first.

He brought himself back to the destruction, wanting to understand if he could have done anything differently—perhaps made the attack safer or more efficient. The ground glittered back up at him, glass twinkling in the dying sunlight.

The sun would rise again, though. Junior understood that. Tonight, it would fall, and tomorrow, the flames would be just a bit less and Bynimian's life just a bit stronger.

All over the west coast, this occurred.

Up and down the state humanity had called California. And where Junior started this? Texas existed now only in memory, as anything resembling the land that humans conquered had passed from existence. Perhaps on long stretches of highway, where no one ever lived, people would recognize their world. Even now, Junior felt confident whatever survivors lived in that state were trying to make it to those spared pieces of land. They would find somewhere to hide, which was fine at the moment. Junior's group, and the groups still being born, would find the rogue humans and end them.

He said nothing to those below him and they offered no words either. His brethren hungered for the next city. At this rate, the entire United States would lie under white strands or broken buildings within the week, and from there? Junior would take this army across the world.

Feed them, then
, Junior thought.
Give them the next city.

And he did.

Present Day

W
ill felt
the wind beating against his helmet. He kept one hand above his head, as if somehow that could protect him if something happened with the helicopter. Any slip from the chopper and Will would open his eyes next in the afterlife, or if nothing awaited, never open them again.

He watched the chopper slowly descend. The pilot obviously had his orders, understood that he couldn't simply put the machine down on the ground—doing that meant the chopper would never take off again.

"Christ," Will said as the helicopter floated a foot or so off the ground. He couldn't remember the last time he had to make a jump like this; the hard part was climbing aboard without tipping the thing too much in either direction. Nothing on the chopper could touch the ground, nothing.

He looked at the front of the helicopter and saw the pilot looking back at him. He gave Will a thumbs-up, clearly meaning that now was as good a time as any to climb aboard.

We put less thought into this whole operation than what moves through a dog's head over the course of its life.

Will stood in a suit much too heavy to jump with, unable to take it off, and a helicopter that couldn't tilt more than twelve inches in any direction without ending the whole damn thing. And if he somehow managed to leap into a floating machine without killing everyone involved? Well, then they would fly that same machine down to the alien's base and Will would attempt some more acrobatics.

"Christ," he said again.

He brought his hand down from above his head, his right at his side automatically flexing into a fist, prepping for what came next. He didn't know if the ice shooting from the bottom of his suit would move quick enough to protect him from the reaching strands—because they would be reaching, without doubt. No time to think about it, though. Only time to jump.

Will's legs flexed, his muscles firing at his command, doing their best to carry him to safety.

All of it happened in a split second, his body launched forward, one foot in front of the other as he pushed to gain enough speed to lift him and his spaceman suit off the ground. He didn't look down, didn't check to see if the strands were pushing past the slower moving cold his suit produced, but kept his eyes focused on the chopper's door.

And then he lifted, ascending into the air, trying to clear the helicopter's skid, then trying to clear the door itself.

He closed his eyes for a brief second as he made contact, opening them again immediately as he desperately tried to grab hold of something—because he had cleared the door, but if he didn't catch onto some piece of the helicopter, he would slide clear out the other side, landing sprawled on his back in the middle of the white cake.

Will's hand shot out and grabbed the lower half of the copilot's seat, his gloved fingers trying to turn into a fist. His shoulder pulled, a sharp pain moving up through the right side of his chest, and then he lay still. Breath poured in and out of his mouth, fogging up his helmet. He felt the helicopter's motion, and tried to understand if it tilted one way or the other. Nothing. The chopper floated level in the air.

Will sat up, slowly, letting the fog dissipate in his helmet, looking down at his body to understand what, if any, damage occurred. His eyes flashed up and down his suit, looking for signs of growth, evidence that the strands had reached out and touched him.

He saw nothing, though.

"You okay?" the pilot said.

Will turned around and looked at him, the pain in his shoulder still crying out. He had done something to it, though he didn't have time to diagnose anything. Will gave the pilot a thumbs up with his other hand.

"Right as rain," he said as he reached up and released his helmet.

"Where we headed?"

"South," Will said. "Into the belly."

* * *

"
I
t's working
," Trone said.

"Yes."

"Proud?"

Kenneth Marks sat across from the president, all of them back in the safety of the underground bunker's embrace. The rest of the crew was dispersed through the hallways, leaving Trone and Kenneth Marks to look at each other, alone. Kenneth Marks understood what the gesture in itself said, that Trone didn't fear him. There might be Secret Service outside this room, but none inside—no one and nothing to stop Kenneth Marks from snapping Trone's neck as he did the last president.

All of it, the entire gesture, was for nought, though. Kenneth Marks could no more kill this man than he could ascend to the presidency himself. Well, that might be pushing it a bit, but to kill Trone would be to kill himself. Kenneth Marks might be able to murder one president and be excused, but two? That would be a stretch for anyone.

"I wouldn't use the word proud," he said, the silence between the two of them having hung long enough.

"Then what would you use?"

"Right," Kenneth Marks said.

Trone smiled and stood up from his side of the desk. He walked across the room, moving behind Kenneth Marks. He listened as the president opened a cabinet, but didn't turn around. The president poured a drink and then closed the cabinet before venturing back into Kenneth Mark's view.

"I'll drink to it," Trone said, still smiling. He moved to the front of the desk, leaning against the edge. "So what's next?"

"Didn't feel the need to offer me one?"

Trone tilted his head toward the cabinet. "Go ahead, if you want."

"I'll pass." Kenneth Marks crossed his right leg over his left and then draped his hands over his knee. "I think in about four days time, this will all be over."

"Four days, huh? Over for who? You've seen the reports about the west coast, right?"

"It would appear they're running amok out there, no?"

"Yes, Marks, it would appear so. Will there be anything left in four days that we even want?"

Kenneth Marks finally smiled. "Perhaps the drink was a bit early?"

"Four days is how long it's going to take your magic to reach Grayson?"

"Give or a take a day, yes."

"And what do we do with the west until then?"

Kenneth Marks stood up and walked to the cabinet behind him. The alcohol was still out, though the doors closed. No ice, just a bottle of scotch. He tilted it up. Macallan. Thirty year. He took the top off and breathed in the liquor.

He closed his eyes as the smell connected to his brain. When he opened them, he took the second glass on the cabinet and poured a small shot.

His back still to the president, he said, "I'm not sure that's under my control, sir."

"Wasn't it your job to stop the invasion?"

"It was my job to stop the cake's spread," Kenneth Marks said, turning around with the shot in his hand. "It's your job to stop the invasion." Kenneth Marks took the drink without looking away from the president. Lowering it to his side, he said, "In four days, it's not going to matter what they're doing on the west coast, east coast, or China. And from the way I see it, there isn't much that can be done. So will a lot of the world be wrecked? Yeah, there's no doubt about that—but you're going to win."

The president said nothing for a few seconds before looking down to his glass, swirling the dark liquor around. "You don't really expect me to believe that's it, do you, Marks? That you killed my predecessor and then decided to give the world an undeserving gift? You can't expect me to think whatever you've done isn't playing into some plan of yours."

"What plan would that be, sir?"

"You sent that soldier in there. Will. Didn't you?"

"I did," Kenneth Marks said.

"And what was that about?"

"Gaining information."

The president smiled. "What information did you gain, Marks?"

"Well, we're going to win aren't we?" he said.

Trone laughed and looked back down to his drink. "I'm not going to pretend like I can read you, Marks, or really have any idea what's going on in your head. To be honest, I don't have any desire to. I'll tell you, though. The moment I think you're veering from what I want, I'll have you killed."

* * *

E
verything was going swimmingly
.

Even the walls seemed to sing that tune, the one saying over and over that all would be okay.

Knox wasn't in the room with Trone or Marks, nor did he want to be at this moment. The rest of the leaders, all the delegates from around the world, appeared like they could break into song and dance—so happy with the earlier results.

The war was over.

Even though California was about to fall off the map.

Even though the man who set everything into motion this morning had long ago passed from the realm of sanity.

None of those things mattered, because they all watched Marks kick some dust into the air.

Knox opened the door to his room and stood in the doorway for a few seconds. He looked at the made bed, the small faucet with the smaller mirror hanging over it. He lived like a rat, and had for how many years? Scurrying to and fro, always in the name of America. Always for
her
benefit. And now, in his fifties, he looked at his cage and felt all the miles his tiny rat legs had scurried.

As if those miles appeared from nowhere, finally laying out in front of him, all of them somehow mashed into this room.

He closed the door behind him, stepping a bit further in. His room, though he had only stayed here a week and wouldn't ever see it again after next week. So many of his rooms were like that—transient places to rest his rat legs.

"Shut up," he said. His voice died a small death against the walls surrounding him.

Self-pitying nonsense because the psycho outside has everyone walking on clouds. That's what these thoughts were about. Rat legs didn't hold the fucking world up, and that's what Knox was doing right now, even if no one else knew it. Trone may or may not be on board the crazy train Marks revved up, and if he was, then Knox stood alone in this.

He moved across the room to his bed, sitting down and pulling out the cell phone underneath his pillow. He knew any call would be monitored, but he had nothing to hide. The president knew about Will, and regardless of how much leeway he gave Marks, Knox didn't think the president would kill the line they had with Will. Knox understood what Marks wanted to do, even if he didn't understand how. Will arriving in Grayson was their best chance of stopping him.

He hit the redial button and put the phone to his ear, listening to it ring once before Will's voice came over the line.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?" Knox said.

"A hundred miles out," Will said.

"Are you seeing anything different than what the satellites have shown?"

"No, just white fields ... endless white fields."

"Won't be for long," Knox said. "It looks like whatever Marks created is working. The cake is dying up here, moving down toward you."

A pause came over the line. "What's it mean?"

"I don't know. It means that we're beating back those white fields."

"There's more. He's not done with her. This is the knife he's twisting in her side, trying to force her to do as he wants."

"A hundred miles?" Knox said.

"A little less now."