The Last Sacrifice

I

Two hours into her latest attempt to hook herself a whale and things weren’t good. One-size-too-small heels pinched her feet, the hem of her gold-and-white striped uniform kept riding up towards her ass and her apron strings squeezed tighter than a cobra.

Her target was nowhere to be seen.

The ballroom on the fifteenth floor of Torrent Towers glittered beneath a starfield of chandeliers. Marble floor. Mahogany tables. Gold trim on everything. Flags from half a dozen nations hung behind banquet tables around which dozens of officials were gathered, while a string quartet droned on in a corner.

Gloria Vale drifted through it, balancing champagne flutes on a tray, smiling the hollow smile she’d perfected on day one of her arrival in the City of (Dimmed) Lights and (Hopeless) Dreams. Summit delegates, mostly men in suits and ties or robes and turbans, occupied the centremost tables, watched over by the security details of their respective governments.

Money. Power. Bullshit diplomacy circling self-serving deals designed to shut down a war neither party would take responsibility for starting.

But where was he? The one Maclean said would be here. Maclean, the balding octogenarian who caught her eye now, wiggling an empty glass and pursing prune-like lips. She smiled her fake smile, pushing intrusive thoughts of him atop her in a suite on the eighteenth floor out of her head. It was just a thing. A thing she’d been doing for years to get what she needed. Money, jobs, shelter and, later, names, numbers and information. Information that got her to those she could use or destroy.

Two years ago she’d been singing eighties covers in a half-empty bar outside Reno, drinking herself stupid to avoid thinking about the child she’d abandoned. Another intrusive thought she silenced. Now she was here, serving champagne to power-brokers discussing nuclear policy over canapes like they weren’t teetering on the brink of destruction. Looking for him. The one with the potential to…

She frowned. To what? Damn, what’s that buzzing, am I getting a migraine?

She lifted one hand to massage a temple and swayed. A champagne glass slid sideways. Then another. Her tray tilted and its contents hit the floor in a crash of crystal.

Heads turned, studied, dismissed and looked away.

Gloria in the centre of the ballroom, squatting as a security guard approached.

“Leave it,” he said, holding his ear. “You’ll cut yourself.”

“It’s fine,” Gloria said, placing broken shards upon the tray. “I’ll get a mop.”

The beard stepped back towards the wall, muttering into his jacket. Gloria stood, nodding shyly at bemused guests, then pirouetted towards the back of the room, making her way through a service door.

A short corridor, running left to a kitchenette, the clanking of dishes, the barking of chefs and porters. A fob-protected door took her into a stairwell when she swiped the badge secured to her dress.

No more tottering.

She kicked off her heels and let broken glass slide off the tray. Suddenly she knew where he was. The whispers from below just confirmed it.

Down cold, concrete steps in bare feet. Tray tucked under one arm. Fourteenth floor, thirteenth floor, twelfth. Enough.

Unthinking, she tossed the tray into the air, grabbed the metal handrail and vaulted over. Then she was dropping, feet-first into the well, past the eleventh floor landing, down to ten where she retook the railing. Sweat-slick hands, tight grip, swinging herself up and over. She landed, pit-pat, before two tuxedo-clad men, thrust an arm back to catch her weapon.

“Che Gahit?” one man gasped, colourful surprise on pale face, blur of motion producing gun from jacket.

“Sahveni!” his companion spat, watching the tray hammer into Che Gahit’s neck. If anything, Sahveni was quicker on the draw and that suited Gloria. His hand met the disc she arced down, splitting skin and breaking grip and bone.

Tray met face, cracked teeth.

She only needed to distract them. The door had been forced so she pushed through into a dimly lit office space. Monitors glowed in cubicles, servers hummed and clicked. Ahead…

Movement.

Three men in tactical gear, two with their backs to her, one kneeling. Fiddling with something. A box sprouting wires. He saw her and shouted a warning.

The others spun, raising submachine guns as Gloria flung the tray. It cut through the aisle, into the nearest man’s face, shattering the bridge of his nose, blinding him. He pulled his trigger as his arm came up, riddling his companion with fire.

Blood sprayed, corpse fell, door burst open. Beyond thought, pure instinct, she ran, dropped, slid, spun, coming up behind the third man. Arm around his neck, she clenched and pulled.

“Stop,” she said, squeezing harder. Before her, three terrorists, shouting words she didn’t understand. She’d grabbed the bomb as she moved, clutched it in her free hand. Its screen was dull, unarmed.

She’d done it. Found who she came for. Easy as pie.

The man in her grasp spat words she knew were instructions. Sacrificing himself.

“No,” she said. “That’s me.”

She shoved him and turned towards the windows as the men opened fire. Cannon blasts behind, deafening. Powerful javelins pounding into her back. Numbness flooding through her as hornets buzzed past her head and splatted on glass.

Gloria Vale had screwed her last sleaze. Conned her last sap. Blackmailed her last A-lister. She was never going to be a Star. Never a parent either. But as she threw herself at the window and it shattered, weakened by the bullets, at last she’d done something good.

Clinging to a weapon that would now do no harm, she squeezed her eyes shut and fell to her doom.

II

The applause erupting through the auditorium was Egan’s cue to depart, so he slipped from his seat at the back of the assembly and exited through French windows onto a balcony.

He left behind forty fresh-faced graduates, sponsored and prepared for service by active and retired Elites. Excited graduates. Proud. And oblivious to the inner workings of the organisation they’d been groomed to represent.

Egan rested his hands on the balcony railing and took in the silence of the city–alabaster bridges, open highways, towers of gleaming glass. He wondered if he’d made a mistake. Taking on a pledge. Filling his head with heroic ideals. Lamb had an inquisitive nature and a rebellious streak, much like Egan himself, but still…

Maybe he’d said too much.

Maybe, when Lamb adopted his figurehead role, he’d come to view his mentor as a traitor.

It was a gamble, but ever since he’d been forced to retire to protect his–and Fish’s–secret, he hadn’t had a single restful night. He couldn’t let it lie. He needed a successor, and he believed he’d finally found one.

“Avoiding me, huh?”

He wasn’t surprised to hear the sing-song voice. He had been surprised to see her when he arrived, wondered if she noticed him. Of course, she had. Noticing things was her speciality.

“No,” he replied, waiting for her to join him. “Just letting you decide whether you want me to read you again.”

“You never had to read me,” said Fish. “I told you everything. Too much. How have you been, L.?”

L. was the initial that appeared after EGAN on his namebadge. Nobody knew what it stood for and nobody called him that. Except her. He turned to regard her and felt sad.

“Committees. Boards and panels. Graduations. The twilight years of an Elite are incredibly dull. Retirement doesn’t suit me. And you?”

Her petite build and pinned-back auburn hair hadn’t changed, but her complexion and air of optimism had. She looked worn, weary. But then–so did he.

And he had the white hair to match it.

“Data-stream level 7 management. Doesn’t suit me either. I thought the promotion would give me more say on how things are done. Instead, I’m just Jessop’s puppet.”

Egan groaned at the mention of the name.

“Sorry. He’s here, you know?”

“I know. He was giving me the eye. Never got over me throwing myself on a sword before he could investigate. I’m sure he took it as confirmation of his suspicions. Especially after Jakarta.”

Fish shook her head.

“Fucking Jakarta. Still kick myself for letting you pry that out of me. Cost you your job. And nearly all your colour.”

“Worth it though. Level 7 management? That explains it. Hart brought you to field questions about the Department?”

“You got it. I always was the favourite of my Elites.”

Egan smirked as she playfully punched him.

“Hart’s a good one. Made a good show of cleaning up my ‘mess’.”

“Yeah. He stone-walled Oversight pretty good. Jessop hated him almost as much as you.. He’s retiring now, you know?”

“I do know.”

The way he said it put Fish on alert.

“What made you decide to put someone forward? After all these years? You said you’d never mentor a Junior or encourage one to follow in your steps.”

She stopped. Daring to wonder. He hesitated, but just for a second.

“His name’s Lamb. He’s different. Sees things the way we do. He’s on our side.”

Fish’s eyes lit up with a sliver of her old optimism.

“We still have one of those?”

Egan let the question linger. Fish was smart. A visionary. He’d always loved that about her. It’s what inspired him to step out of line, back when he was an over-privileged brat in a symbolic role. He’d never admit it. She already blamed herself for him sacrificing his post to waylay Jessop. Casting himself as an idiot, who overlooked data that would have shown things weren’t aligned.

Five plans. Five sabotages. Five self-inflicted wounds.

She’d blame herself for it all.

“So are you going to tell me?” he asked, as her cogs turned.

“Tell you what?”

“About what you’ve seen. You’ve got that look.”

Her jaw tightened and she turned away.

“Stop reading, L. Not your problem. And definitely not your Lamb’s.”

Egan glanced into the auditorium where junior and senior Elites were mingling, making and accepting offers. Hart was there, somewhere. Retiring, needing someone to take over. Like Egan when he chose him. Favours returned.

“Maybe Lamb can help,” Egan said. ”One day. I searched far and wide for someone like him. A believer. I’ll let you decide if and when the time is right to trust him. This one though…let me in. I know it’s important.”

She shook her head. She knew what it meant. He was putting her in a difficult position. He felt for her, but he’d been hoping for this. And something big was brewing.

When she finally spoke, her voice was lower than before.

“Income is way down, L. These last three cycles. Resources the lowest they’ve been. They need something big, to increase production. And I helped plan it.”

Egan’s expression hardened. He tried not to show his excitement.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“How big?”

“Bigger than Jakarta. The repercussions will…”

She didn’t finish. He licked dry lips. Side by side, unspeaking, both aware of where this was going, they stared out across the vast city.

Finally, once she accepted what he was asking, she sighed.

“Are you sure?”

“I am. But you have to be too. You’re management, you can get me in. Find me a Purple. Message when it’s set. If I hear from you, I’ll be ready. If not…I’ll be seeing you.”

His hand on her shoulder, coaxing a tear from her eye. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. It was all he needed.

He left her and returned to the auditorium, where Hart and Lamb were waiting with news.

III

Gloria in a lift going down.

No level selector, no descending numbers, just an illuminated arrow by the door. It didn’t look like the elevator in Torrent Towers, but where else could it be?

And where were her shoes?

The hint of a migraine was gone but her apron strings still cinched so she quickly undid them.

Had Maclean seen through her act and used her back? The fifty-year old champagne he’d forced her to sip... Fuck. Her mogul was never going to be there.

“Well, fuck you, Mister, let’s see how you like it when I share the shit I got off your…”

Padding barefoot down concrete steps, violence, gunshots, pain.

Fragments of a fading dream staggered her as the lift came to a halt.

“Follow your line,” a disembodied voice advised, and the elevator doors slid open.

If Hell was a place it would be an airport departure lounge like the one that materialised before her. Or maybe she had that back to front.

Throngs of anxious people formed a writhing mass that evolved into long, snaking queues, queues that led to a far off wall, which rose into a haze and housed five coloured tunnels. Far to her left was a white one, the one at the opposite end was black. In between them, violet, purple, grey. It didn’t make sense what she was seeing. What she was hearing–a deafening mixture of screams, cries and wails–still less.

“Follow your line,” the voice repeated, and she found herself obeying, stepping out of the lift onto a line that trailed from her feet into the crowd.

Those nearest were in various states of emotion. Some stood frozen on coloured lines. Others shuffled forward in acquiescence. Some argued, others sobbed and begged. This couldn’t be happening. They shouldn’t be here.

“This can’t be real,” Gloria said, but it was difficult to argue with the circles of light over everyone’s heads. Halos colour-coded the same as the lines on the floor. “There’s no way.”

Tall, halo-less wardens in white uniforms strode through the crowd. They carried batons and spoke calmly, instructing people to move, repeating what the elevator said. Follow. Your. Line. Gloria’s line was purple, her door in the centre of the wall. She knew what it meant. Not good, not bad, just shitty.

It wasn’t a dream, she thought as the horde pulsed and surged.

A woman in a business suit flailed as wardens dragged her along her grey thread.

I did that.

A dark-eyed figure with a twisted visage slunk past, following a line of black tar.

She started to follow her own line, her head a mess of confusion.

But why? How did I…

“Not that way,” she heard, and her hand was taken by a white-haired man in a charcoal suit. Tall, calm, and over his head, a white halo. She wasn’t sure if that was why, but she trusted him and let him take her.

“But…I’m purple.”

“Today’s your lucky day, you get an upgrade.”

He jerked his head as he spoke and she looked up to see her halo shade matched his.

“I don’t understand. Is this where I think it is?”

“It is.”

He guided her into the crowd, dodging and weaving through lumbering bodies on lines, mostly violet and white where they were going. The people were calmer than the ones at the opposite end. Confused, sure. Disappointed, maybe, but relieved. Unburdened. Halos glowing. They’d worked hard at life and passed with merits or distinctions.

“So I’m dead? No more hustling. No more running.”

“No more, Gloria, you can rest now.”

“I don’t get it,” she said, hastening to follow her guide as he wriggled between walkers. “How do you know my name? Why is my, ugh, halo white? Are you some kind of A-”

“Elite,” he corrected, before she said a word that made her cringe. “It’s a lot to explain. Maybe later, when we’re through. For now, just walk, don’t draw attention.”

He positioned her in front of him, hands on her shoulders, steered her through jostling bodies away from wardens. Now on his line, her purple disappeared into his white.

“It was you? The stairwell and…” She shuddered, remembering the fall.

“Yes. My essence was distilled into data and decanted into your soul. I’m sorry. Irreparable damage would have occurred. A war to end all wars. To wipe out humanity and shut down the Earth ahead of schedule. Some of us don’t agree with such measures.”

“Why me?” Gloria said, struggling to keep her balance physically and mentally, mingling now with white halos only and nearing the wall. “I’m a fuck up. I don’t deserve…”

“I know what you are,” the Elite behind her said. “You’re purple. Malleable soul, easily led. A product of your environment. Childhood. Society. Law. It all let you down. You just survived.”

“I left my child.”

She was crying now, thinking of Amanda. Not planned. Not wanted. Forced on her. In every way. But hers.

“I know,” the Elite said, nothing more. What more was needed? Choices were choices. Amanda didn’t know her, wouldn’t miss her. Amanda with her grandma would be fine. And maybe, when she entered the tunnel of dazzling white that awaited, Gloria would be too.

“What the fuck,” she said as they joined the queue, the shortest in this sorting house of souls. “Can’t be worse than where I came from.”

Egan didn’t respond and she said no more. They edged closer to the gaping white maw flanked by wardens. It was fine. They’d get past, their halos were white, a result of Archangel merging with human. Enhancing her essence, diminishing his, which was naturally gold but had been losing its lustre since he took on this role.

The role of courageous Earthly saviour.

He’d been lucky to get out after Jakarta. The faintest remnant of his colour convinced wardens he was what he claimed. This time, that wouldn’t work. He didn’t care. He could access the easiest route to the other side. It would let him remain him for longer than the other access points but eventually his persona would be absorbed into the purest form of energy powering Elysium.

It was fine.

Committees. Boards and panels. Graduations.

The twilight years of an Elite were incredibly dull.

But he'd found a retirement that suited.