Three’s fogged mind fought to catch up as the events unfolded before him at lightning speed. The short guard cried out in pain, and dropped Wren. As Three gained his feet, he saw the man clutching his arm, with crimson spots welling up in three separate locations. Wren crouched back, his tiny blade gripped tightly, gleaming wet in the fading light. Tears streaming down his face.
Three covered the distance to the guard in three steps and buried the sole of his boot in the man’s solar plexus. The guard buckled to the hard ground, and Three was on him the next moment, delivering a devastating fist crushing down into the man’s jaw. Three saw the guard’s eyes go blank under the impact, out cold.
Wren’s sobs suddenly caught Three’s hearing, and he turned to see the boy standing there, knife in hand, arms dangling at his sides, wailing in terror, and confusion, and who knew what other raw emotion. But there was a commotion near the gate, and Three knew that more guards were surely on their way.
“Run! This way!” Mr Carter yelled, and in the next instant, Three had Wren in his arms, and they were running, running again, away from Morningside, back into the open, back once more into the gathering night.
Twenty-Eight
Following Mr Carter’s lead, Three raced back through the outskirts cradling Wren tightly to his chest. Three was still lightheaded from the attack, and his lungs strained for air as they threaded their way through the eerily sterile urban remains. Through the alleys and side streets, they fled like thieves, like men with hounds at their heels. The night fell down around them, a heavy shroud upon weary shoulders. They ran long past the squatters, out through the crisp borders of Morningside’s reach, into the fuzzy border between the open and the looming township.
At last, Mr Carter slowed his pace, and then soon after ducked into a brick shell of a building. Mr Carter moved through the first room quickly, scanning the surroundings. Towards the back, a darkened corridor ran to a second, windowless room. Mr Carter stopped at the entrance of the corridor, and waved Three and Wren on through. Three pushed his way into the dusky room, immediately reminded of his small room back at the village. He set Wren on his feet, and dropped to a knee, sucking air into his burning lungs. His hands were clammy with sweat, shaking. Behind him, Mr Carter leaned against the doorframe, doubled over, hands on knees, panting as well. Wren stood as stone, staring blankly, his hair matted to his head by Three’s sweat. It was minutes before anyone spoke. When Three had recovered enough to know he wouldn’t pass out, he took Wren’s face in his hand, and sought out the boy’s eyes in the darkness.
“Are you hurt, boy?”
Wren made no sound, but Three felt the boy’s head shake slightly from side to side. Three dropped his hand onto Wren’s shoulder, squeezed it.
“What happened?” Mr Carter asked from the corridor.
“They tried to take Wren,” Three said. After a moment, he added, “and I almost let ’em. I let ’em get the jump on me. If you hadn’t come back…”
Three trailed off, suddenly reliving those near-final moments. Trapped. Blacking out. Wren struggling in the guard’s grasp. Three, powerless to prevent it.
“The child,” Mr Carter said. He paused, searching for words. “He… called.”
“Are they dead?”
“I don’t think so. The one that had you, the big one… maybe. It was not my intent…”
“My fault. Should’ve been more careful.” Three shook his head, then snorted a humorless chuckle. “Been on a bad run with guard-types lately.” He thought back to the attack, but much of it was a jumble in his head. Too many things happening at once. One guard grabbing Wren, the other hitting him with… what? “One of them shot something at me. Knocked me down. But not much more. Any idea what that was?”
Mr Carter thought for a moment, and shook his head slightly. “Many of them carry dislocators. But a shot from one of those would’ve done more than just knock you down.”
Dislocator. Made sense. Intended as a non-lethal weapon, a dislocator fired a semi-rigid projectile that caused massive overload of one’s datastream on impact, incapacitating the target without causing any significant physical trauma. But Three wasn’t wired. That would explain the surprised look on the guard’s face.
“Maybe it was a dud,” Three offered. He didn’t know if Mr Carter was aware of his disconnected status.
“Could be. Fortunate, if so.”
Three got to his feet and moved his hand from Wren’s shoulder to the top of the boy’s head, where he gently tousled Wren’s blond hair. Behind him, he heard Mr Carter stir, and moments later the soft glow of a chemlight spilled through the room. Mr Carter entered carrying his light held out slightly before him. He moved gingerly into the corner where he let his pack slide to the floor and then sat more heavily than Three expected. Weary. Wounded. Three wondered just how much pain the man was silently bearing.
“We gonna be safe here?” Three asked.
Mr Carter closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall. After a moment, he nodded, drew a deep but strained breath. “Far enough out, the guards won’t come searching. Not tonight, anyway.”
“And the Weir?”
Mr Carter shrugged weakly. “Close enough to Morningside. We hope.”
He was still and quiet just long enough for Three to think that was all he had to say, but he eventually stirred and added, “I’ll stand watch. I just need a few minutes’ rest.”
Three gently turned Wren and walked him over towards Mr Carter. It was only then that Three at last realized the lightness of his own harness. His hand shot reflexively to his holster, even as his mind made the connection.
His pistol. Gone.
He remembered now. The grip around his neck releasing; the impact of falling to his knees. The pistol skittering across the concrete. And Wren in trouble. He’d grabbed the boy, and left the weapon behind. A sort of quiet despair sank into Three’s heart then, like the death of a long-time friend, or loss of a beloved pet, or both. Its heft had been a comfort. And it had saved his life more than once. He cursed aloud, startling both Wren and Mr Carter.
“What’s wrong?” Mr Carter asked.
“My pistol. It’s gone.”
“The guards?”
Three nodded.
“I’m sorry. It was a rare and fine weapon.”
“Still is. Just someone else’s now.”
“Hard earned.”
“Not hard enough.”
Three smoldered at the thought of one of Morningside’s guards sporting his pistol, ignorant of its legacy and worse, its power. It was all too easy to imagine one of them squeezing off a round and blowing a hole through some unfortunate citizen’s home. He was roused by Wren’s quiet crying.
“It’s alright, kiddo,” he said, thinking the boy was blaming himself. “It wasn’t your fault.” But Wren just stood there, facing the wall, sobbing.
“Hey. Wren.” Three turned Wren around to face him, and took a knee, looking into the boy’s eyes. “Wren, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Wren didn’t speak, just wept. But he held his hand out for Three to see. It was dark and sticky with blood. Three took the hand and searched it for injury, until it clicked, and he then understood. Not Wren’s blood. The guard’s.
“Oh, Wren,” he said, and instinctively he pulled Wren close to him, and held the boy tight to his chest. “It’s alright. It’s OK, Wren. You did the right thing.”
For a time, he just held Wren, and Wren stood there crying, letting himself be held. Eventually Wren’s crying ebbed into a quiet sniffling. Three let go, eased back to look at him again.