Toffers, since they’d seen some only a day or so back; but he thought he’d investigate before he sounded the tap- tap alarm.
It was pitch dark. The tunnels were sporadically lit by dim odd and even lights overhead, where they hadn’t burned out. Dark is how he liked it. If he needed the spark and dazzle, he knew where the other fighters in the Nightcare hid glow sticks all over the place in tunnels and sewers.
But Conan knew the dark spots well. That way he could get in close, and see what he needed to see, or do what he needed to do-just peek and sneak or slash and trash and gone! And the dark spots always led up to the light ones, and that was good because that was where most invaders waited and watched and worried and blinked their eyes and peed their pants. It never took more than a second for Conan to fly out of the darkness and do his work-cut and scream and bye.
This section of tunnels was old maintenance ways and stairs for a giant factory on Zero long ago knocked down and built on. They’d left the tunnels though, and these linked up to the sewers that ran all under the City of Light, some new and some stinking old from the times before the Change. But these were perfect places to hide the Nightcare, and even better places to protect it.
Conan froze. Ahead of him in the dim light, he saw a man. The man was tall and pretty thin. He wore a long coat and some kind of weird high hat that had tattered bits hanging down the back. Conan could see him at the crossing of two tunnels and at the foot of a metal ladder that would lead up to a basement on Zero.
Conan ran ahead. The fist-kill swung back. He was out of the shadow and slashing. The long blades rang once, twice and a third time. Parried and turned by a metal stick held in the man’s hand. Conan did not wait or pause or think. He continued running, took two leaps up the rungs in the brick and flipped himself over backward, this time launched at the stranger’s head. The die-flower flashed again, this time almost catching the man’s bearded face, but ringing again once, twice and a third time on the metal stick.
Conan let himself fall into the shadow, rolled and then charged forward again hugging the edge of darkness until he could burst out murder-hand poised and whipping upward.
This time the blades were turned on the first slash, they slipped past the stick on the second, and chopped into the man’s calf on the third.
The stranger cried out, but whipped his metal stick around and fended off Conan’s new attack. All three sweeps of the fist-kill missed, and the stranger suddenly shouted strange words. The metal stick in his hand burst into white flames, and it was all Conan could do to avoid the eye-fire.
As it was, his peepers went covered in blazing lights and starry and blinded. He tumbled and then ran into the wall, head thumping. The man shouted something, but Conan scurried blindly toward the tunnel of shadows he knew so well, and was soon pelting away into the darkness.
He could barely contain a smile as his vision came blinking back and as he heard the man follow limping now and breathing harshly.
Conan would lead him a little farther. He knew where he wanted to catch the man. There was a very dark crossroads ahead where a sewer pipe hung over the tunnel. Conan would get up there and wait, and then slash the man’s face and throat with the die-flower and that would be that would be that.
Still the man followed-the big stupid-stupid. A quick glance back showed the light from the man’s stick. That was good too, because Conan knew the stranger’s eyes would lean on the light, and would go weak and wobbly in the shadow.
When he got to the crossroads, Conan easily shinnied up a broken pipe and rolled onto the top of the sewer. He laid flat and waited as the man’s footsteps approached ringing hollow on the iron slats.
But the grownup must have paused or stopped before entering the crossroads, because the light did not come further. Conan could not see the man directly, but he could tell the glowy eye-burn waited inside the tunnel and out of reach. And then the worst thing happened.
“Max?” the man asked the darkness. “I’m not like the others.”
And terror gripped Conan because the stranger had just used his mommy-only name and not his fighter name that he got from a movie. Nobody knew the mommy-only name but one or two in all the Nightcare and they knew better than to say it.
“Max?” the man continued. “Those men were evil. What they did to you in the Bad house was wrong.”
And a wild idea ran through Conan’s head. Did this stranger know his mommy? Was it possible that she sent him? He had not seen her since the Change, but Conan remembered her beautiful blue eyes and her big white smile and curly golden halo hair. She was lost with the old world. And the men in the Bad house caught him before he could help her.
“Max?” the man said softly. “I’m here to help you.”
Now Conan tensed his body. He noticed the man had stepped into the crossroads a pace or two. Just the way we like it, here we go…
“What those men did,” the stranger’s voice filled with emotion, “ they deserved death for it.”
Conan prepared himself. The man had taken another step. And his yakking was getting a lot of bad not- yakking going in the forever boy’s head.
“But not all men are evil,” the man whispered. “Not all. And it is not right to kill those who did you no wrong.” He kept talking. “You’ve killed too many. Their blood stains you.”
Conan leapt through the air. The man must have guessed his position because he quickly caught the death- petal blades on his stick and slid past. Conan landed on the ground panting.
The man turned to him. The metal stick in his hands glowed brightly. “Your mother loves you,” he said, his eyes wide and feeling.
Conan slashed the air with his lethal fist.
“And she will always love you,” the man suddenly spread his arms and the metal stick fell to the grating with a clang. “ I love you, Max.”
And Conan roared and ran at the stranger, the kill-flower open and slashing. He swung at the man who raised a hand defensively, and Conan saw streaks of blood appear.
But the man kept watching, tears in his eyes now. “You’re just a little boy!”
And Conan slashed again-eyes blurring-saw the blade rip the man’s uninjured leg. This time the stranger let out a shout of pain and dropped to his knees.
Conan stood in front of him. The man’s face was awash with sadness. He was weeping. But it was like he didn’t feel the cuts, like instead he saw the cuts in Conan-and they made him cry. He looked right at the deep down ones that the Bad house put in there. The stranger showed him Max in the shadows. And Conan felt his own eyes start to fill with tears.
“Your mother loves you, Max,” the man said, crying openly. “Please let me help you. You’re just a boy.” He spread his arms. “I’m so sorry that these things happened to you.”
And Conan ran at him, fist-kill ready but fell against the stranger’s breast and was awash with sorrow. He wept until his little spirit felt clean.
36 – Sacrifice
The Prime read the report. It was straightforward enough. His Operative, Vanguard, had compiled his preliminary findings and sent them up by armed courier. It was times like that the leader of the western world missed fax machines and Internet the most. A combination of persistent cloud cover and the strange anomalies that had affected electricity rendered the satellite system of the pre-Change world inoperative. Signals that were beamed through them were distorted beyond usefulness. Authority communications technicians had been troubleshooting the problem for almost a century. Nothing electrical worked worth a damn. Even phones on landlines had good days and bad.
The Prime blamed the extinction of real children for humanity’s inability to figure out the technical problems plaguing the world- real children in the sense that they were conceived and grew to maturity. Linked to that was the loss of childhood invention and problem solving, and creativity was dealt a blow from which it could not recover.
The Prime theorized that invention depended upon successive generations of scientists and technicians. Out
