Altered (The Last Assassin Series Book 2) Read online

  Altered

  by

  Jack Alden

  ©Copyright 2018 – Jack Alden

  Original Source – by Jack Alden

  Kindle Edition – Build 1/02/2018

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, brands, names, and events portrayed, referenced, or mentioned here are products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously.

  1

  Speeding over the mountainside is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My stomach hasn’t risen out of my knees since we shot off the ground on the outskirts of the Gutter. I’ve never been out of my sector before, so I try to pay attention. I try to take it in, but the other sectors fly by in seconds, the zoomer ripping through the air at an unreal pace. They become little more than sharp bursts of steel gray in a blurry sea of color.

  I can feel eyes on me, the tip of a gun hovering only a few feet from my face. I glance around and see curled lips, furrowed brows. Hard eyes. Looks of disgust, hatred, curiosity, and underlying it all: fear. They’d all heard my conversation with the president, a man who only deals when what’s on the table is undeniably dangerous or valuable. In this case, it’s both, so here I am, Viper still in hand and surrounded by men hungry for vengeance. The blood of their Captain, their comrade, is still splattered across my clothes, still staining the floor of my mother’s pristine kitchen.

  It seems strange now that the conversation ever took place. I hadn’t expected to speak with him directly, figuring at best I’d get the president’s secretary or some random government official. But then, there it was, the president’s voice winding through the air like a serpent slithering free; slow, calculated, deadly. The soldier who had only just had a gun on my little brother patched me right through to the Dome. He turned his headset out so everyone present could hear, and then it was just me. The room fell away as my name rolled off the president’s tongue and everything seemed to tremble its way into reality. My brother was dying. I’d killed a man. Two men. I was talking with the president himself, desperate for a deal. There was no going back.

  “Prudence Leary.”

  Something about the way he said it felt wrong. It felt dangerous, as if I was teetering on a cliff’s edge, feeling the ground shake and crumble beneath me. Any second, I would fall to my death and take everyone I had ever loved down with me.

  “Mr. President,” I’d said, “I’m ready to deal.”

  “I see,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, a jumble of words stuck in my throat, and tried to figure how best to work my way out of the mess Tempest and I had gotten ourselves into, but nothing came. No ideas. No solutions. So, I licked my lips, cleared my throat, and asked, “What do you want from me?”

  The chilled laugh that rippled out from the speaker still sits in my spine like an icy drip, working its way down. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it or what followed. The deal I made. I know, without doubt, that I’d make it again. To save Tempest’s life, I’d make worse deals. Still, the closer we draw to the Dome, the shallower Tempest’s breaths become and the more the fear rises in my throat like bile. The more I wish I could close my eyes and open them again only to realize it was all just a horrible dream. There is no blood on my hands. No horror in my baby brother’s eyes. No open air where Tempest’s arm used to be. There is nothing to be afraid of.

  Near the mountain’s peak, we come upon a massive, shimmering force field. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures before, read about it in textbooks. To see it in person is something else. It’s riveting, intimidating. The Dome. The giant, glimmering bubble stretches out in all directions, and from within, the capitol building rises out of the mountainside like an electric fist punching into the sky.

  The nose of the zoomer pierces the bubble like a needle, and I half-expect it to pop. It only ripples, just a wave of movement across its shimmering surface, and we’re inside. We don’t fly far before the zoomer suddenly lurches to a stop. It hovers, stationary, over the roof of a massive building. What looks like at least a hundred little black dots line the surface below. They must be soldiers. One of the Squad nudges my knee with his gun and motions to the back of the zoomer.

  “Time to go,” he says, but I don’t understand.

  “Wait,” I say, unable to tear my eyes from the dotted roof below, “aren’t we going any lower?”

  Is this the president’s plan? Make a deal then double-cross me by having me ejected from a zoomer at some-odd thousand feet? Blow it over as some sort of tragic accident or worse, my own fault? I can see the headlines now.

  CIVILIAN CRIMINAL, PRUDENCE LEARY, COMMITS SUICIDE IN THE DOME.

  FOUR HOURS SPENT SCRAPING HER REMAINS OFF THE PRESIDENT’S ROOF!

  The soldier nudges me again. “Move to the back, civilian,” he says, and I tighten my grip on the Viper. It takes everything I have not to whirl on him and put it to his throat.

  “But my brother,” I say as I move to stand inside a large red circle on the floor just opposite the blue one where I’d entered the zoomer back in the Gutter. “I can’t leav—”

  A buzzer sounds and I lose my breath. I find it a second later when the floor vanishes from beneath my feet and a scream rips from my throat. I slam shut my eyes, waiting for the sensation of falling, but it never comes. Instead of tumbling down into the open air, my feet slip from under me and my back hits a hard surface I can’t see. Suddenly, I’m sliding. Everywhere I look, there’s sky, but it’s as if there’s some sort of invisible tunnel surrounding me. The rush is intense, the entire world dwindling into nothing more than open sky that cradles but never touches me, and I wonder if anyone can see me. Can the soldiers below see me barreling through the air as if I’m a part of it or am I just as invisible as the slide against my back?

  The tunnel narrows around me, slowing my body as I find myself sliding into the gray-walled opening of a large hangar. Every facet of my current reality swims back into the forefront of my mind, stabbing me behind the eyes. The rush is gone. I glance out a window, and realize I’m still several hundred feet above the roof, the small soldier dots now slightly larger but still dots. How is that possible? There was nothing between the zoomer and the roof before. Then it dawns on me. The entire aerial port must be on top of the building I saw, and every inch of it is invisible. The South side would have a difficult time spying on our military operations if they can’t even see their operations building. Clever, Mr. President. Very clever.

  I follow the terminal’s tunnel wondering how they plan on getting Tempest into the building. It’s not like they can just toss him down the chute after me, stretcher and all. At the end of the tunnel, a soldier stands like a statue, waiting. She’s dressed in black, head to foot. She wears a beret with a gold insignia on it that looks like two rifles crossed atop each other to make an X. The only visible skin is that of her face and neck, brown like mine; like everyone’s. Everything else is covered and a silver plate pinned on her chest, just below her left shoulder, reads Lt. C. Warren. Thin gloves cover her hands, black like her jacket and hat, black like the cargo pants she wears high at the waist and secured by a weapons belt, tucked into tall, lace-up combat boots. She looks like a cut-out from the newspapers, something to find under a headline urging North-Side residents to “trust our troops.”

  She holds up a hand and I stop, unsure of what�
�s coming. Warren pulls a long, onyx-colored wand from her belt and runs it through the space in front of me, down the length of my body. It doesn’t touch me but I get the feeling it’s trying to uncover all my secrets in one fleeting swipe. The wand beeps and a thin, translucent screen extends from its bottom showing a rotating photograph of a clean, smiling, young woman with ebony hair and gray ey—oh, wait! That’s me!

  “How—”

  A robotic female voice flows from the screen and I freeze, captivated.

  “Prudence Dagger Leary,” she says, and I have to fight the ridiculous urge to answer. “Daughter of Caiman Osiris Leary, deceased, and Grace Analeigh Odair, widowed. Sibling of Tempest Osiris Leary, Juden Alva Leary, deceased, and Beckham Caiman Leary. Date of birth: October 27, 2223. Age: Seventeen. Residence: North Side Valley Sector. Employment: Stable. Criminal Record: Existing. Weapon Detection: Positive. Currently Armed.”

  And just like that, the voice is gone, my rotating face and the translucent screen vanishing with it. The lieutenant glances at the Viper clutched in my hand. I tighten my grip around it, prepared to refuse to hand it over, but she doesn’t ask for it or make any demands. Instead, she slides the wand into her belt again and marches forward, signaling for me to follow.

  The tunnel opens into a huge terminal of flight gates. With every step, my heart rate increases. My stomach flips. Reality somehow seems to get realer the farther we delve into the Dome. At the end of a long hallway, Warren turns and leads me into a cylinder elevator decked in gold. Large, ornate mirrors decorate the curved walls. Tingles erupt along my arms as I step over the threshold. I’ve never been on an elevator before, but then, I’d never been in a vehicle before today either. I’d never zipped through the air on an invisible slide. I’d never been arrested or attacked. I’d never killed a man. Not exactly an ideal day of firsts.

  My reflection is distracting, staring back at me from three different angles. The first thing I notice is that my armor is gone. I don’t know when it happened or how, but the chrome coating has dissolved, the brown of my skin visible again. Dust is crusted to my face. Dried blood coats my hands and arms, is splattered across the front of my shirt. It’s an alarming sight, so alarming it makes me queasy, but in one sense, I’m relieved. I was afraid I’d be trapped in the armor forever, something inhuman and intimidating. Markedly other. Would anyone even see me if I looked like that? See me?

  Buttons line one of the walls in the elevator, each marked with a number. Each one lights up as we descend, a ding sounding with each passing floor until it dings a final time, illuminating the number three. A woman’s voice, the same robotic woman from the detection wand, echoes around the elevator.

  “Floor Three.”

  The doors slide open and Warren steps out. She says nothing, and I stand watching her long enough that the doors start to close again. I panic and jump forward and they jolt, sliding open once more. I take a breath and hop over the threshold. That’s all it takes for me to decide I don’t like elevators.

  The third floor is something out of a dream. A plush red carpet springs under my feet. There are no windows, and I realize that we must be underground. The walls are stone and adorned with art. Large paintings and photographs of the first sector settlements post-war, of the Dome, and of course, of the president. He sits at a desk, staring straight ahead, imposing. He stands at attention in military wear despite having never served. He shakes hands with people I don’t recognize and don’t care to.

  At the end of the corridor stands an enormous set of crimson-painted doors, stretching floor to ceiling. Warren stops just outside the doors, and my stomach sinks. I remember. For all its luxury, this place is a prison. My prison.

  Warren raps on the door once and waits. It swings open a second later and another soldier in black motions us inside. I try to maintain some level of composure, try to carry myself in a way that exudes confidence, but it’s hopeless. The second we walk into the room, I gasp. I can’t help myself. Red, gold, and black swirl together across the smooth surface of a marble floor, and stone walls stretch up toward grand, vaulted ceilings. It’s like something from the Old World, an image description pulled right out of one of my history textbooks. At the far end of the room, a marble desk stands like a tomb. Behind it looms the great black chair from the portrait in the corridor and perched in its seat, leaning lazily against the arched leather back, is a man I’ve only ever known in terrible stories. A man whose voice still sits in my ears like a death knell. President Dogan.

  2

  I trace him like a map, taking in the bright white of his wispy hair, every line on his ancient face. There are many. Having lived in the time before the End War, he’s the oldest person on the mountain, older than any one man should be able to be. More science now than soul, his body is home to a record number of artificial organs and joints. His timeworn skin curls and folds about his neck and face, so light it’s startling. His veins are visible beneath the flesh, a deep blue tinged green in places.

  I’ve never seen a pale person before. The mountain’s sprawling population was born of breeding, enforced by the Dogan brothers shortly after they took power. People were treated like cattle, made to reproduce on demand. A way to rebuild, so it’s told. We’re hybrids now, all of us. No distinct races as there were in the Old World. No rich, enduring cultures. Just what we are told to be, who we are told to be. Where, when, and how. And so many, those living richly in the city sectors near the Dome, don’t even realize. They don’t even know we’re property.

  “My, my.” His voice is weathered but sharp. It digs under my skin, latches on like a parasite. A chill rolls down my spine. I bite the inside of my cheek, force myself not to shudder. I don’t want the president to see that he affects me, that I’m not just nervous but terrified. I can’t afford to give him any more leverage than he already has. “Prudence Leary.”

  I wait for more but nothing comes. My name dies in the air like a dissipating cloud of smoke, and the president simply stares at me. His eyes are small and ancient, penetrating. A shocking light blue that borders on white. One stare seems to last a lifetime, seems to sear through flesh and down to the meat, down to the soul.

  I grit my teeth to keep from rocking on my heels and hold my breath to keep from clearing my throat. I fight every instinct I have, every impulse to waver, and instead, stand my ground. Head up. Eyes open and locked on his. My arms stay at my sides, one hand curled tightly around the Viper, my only comfort, and I wait. I won’t cave.

  Another long moment passes, stretching into forever, then a change. A tick of movement. The president’s lips pull at one corner, an amused smile that makes my skin crawl. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Prudence,” he says, and I almost wish we could go back to the silence from before. Something about his sudden change in demeanor, the way his pleasantries feel more like threats, makes my stomach turn. It’s amazing how young he seems in presence, how capable, as if he’s only in costume. Hiding behind the mask of an old man, but no less able than me. No less strong and far deadlier.

  “Mr. President.”

  “You have caused quite a commotion, Prudence,” he says, and I wonder if the constant repetition of my name is a tactic. It feels like a brand when he says it, like something seared into my skin to mark me as property. It’s if he chose the name himself, like a stock number assigned at birth, and for the first time in my life, I feel protective of my given name. I feel defensive, desperate not to hear it slither across his tongue again. Maybe that’s the point. That’s the tactic. He knows what he’s doing. His eyes rake across my face, small tilt of a smile never wavering. “What to do?”

  A note of panic rings in my ears. He’s going to go back on our deal. “But you said—”

  He flicks his wrist to silence me, and I snap my mouth closed. I want to be defiant. I want to stand my ground, but he has all the power. Tempest’s life. Mine. Both are in his hands. I’ve pushed him further than I imagined I could. What happens if I hit his limit? The V
iper might protect me but for how long? And now that we’re separated, how can it protect Tempest?

  “I am aware of my promises, Prudence,” he says, “and I assure you, I am a man of my word.”

  “So, my brother?”

  “Is being prepared for surgery as we speak,” President Dogan says. “Should he survive the operation, I will, as agreed, pardon his crimes.”

  I force in a breath, trying not to think about the possibility of Tempest not surviving. That isn’t an option. It isn’t. He has to survive.

  “Additionally,” he continues, “I shall arrange a substantial monthly stipend for your family and offer your younger brother, Beckham, a lifetime pardon from the Draft.”

  His last words knock the wind out of me. My mouth goes dry. Is he serious? For a moment, I forget how much I loathe the man. I forget that Tempest is barely clinging to life because of him. I forget that, in order to save him, I had to sell myself. I forget the president owns me, and for one heart-stopping moment, I feel grateful. My eyes water, and the words tumble free without thought.

  “Th-thank you,” I splutter. “Thank you so much, Mr. President.”

  He inclines his head, a wordless acknowledgment.

  “I know that wasn’t part of our deal,” I say, “so for you to offer this means more than I can say, sir.”

  It does. It means so much I feel breathless. I feel full. The worry seeps out and away, and relief blooms in its place. I may not have anything solid to stand on. I may not know what’s going to happen to Tempest or to me, but Beck is safe. He’s going to be safe, and right now, in this moment, that’s enough.

  The urge to see Tempest strikes with renewed fervor. I’m desperate to tell him, to see his face when he realizes that Beck will never have to fight. He’ll never have to leave home. He’s safe from the horrors we’ve spent our lives preparing for.