Legacy Read online

  He followed Ruby inside.

  Lady Luck was anarchy. Men and women clustered around the gambling tables, shouting, smoking, and most of all, drinking. A bar ran along the wall to their left, where a handful of young woman served. A band played in the far corner, the jangle of acoustic guitars barely audible over the racket of the punters.

  This place would have been beautiful, once. There was little evidence of that now, but the signs were still there; faint marks on the walls where paintings had hung; boarded up archways leading to elevators that no longer worked; two balconies overlooked the hall from above, now empty and looking decidedly unstable. Yes, this would have once been the entrance hall to a wealthy establishment. No longer.

  Roman lead Ruby through the hall, weaving around the tables. No one paid him any attention, although more than a couple men looked away from their cards long enough to get a good look at Ruby. Roman gave each of them a glare that sent their gazes back to their tables.

  The stench of smoke caught in his throat. Rado-weed. Its barbed red leaves gave off a disgusting, bitter tang when burnt, but that never discouraged anyone from smoking it.

  Roman chose a vacant table in the corner of the hall and sat with his back to the wall. Ruby sat beside him. He looked over the crowd, examining each face, searching for—

  "Evening, Boss." Tan seemingly appeared from nowhere to sit across from Roman. He pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table. Roman recognized it as his own. "You're losing your touch — I swiped this within fifteen seconds of you walking in."

  Roman slipped the wallet back into his pocket, this time making sure it was secure. "It's good to see you too, Tan."

  To say Tan was a distinctive figure would have been an understatement. Slim, dark-skinned, with an afro of frizzy hair. He wore a white singlet, brown leather jacket, and a pair of slack jeans that barely clung to his waistline. His grin was so wide it threatened to tear the sides of his face. "I've missed your scowl," he said brightly. "It really brings out the anger in your eyes."

  “Where's the target?” Ruby asked.

  “Straight to business, love? Don’t even want to comment on how much you missed me and my well-defined arse?”

  Ruby responded with a glare. Tan shuffled his chair so that he was out of her reach. “Two o’clock, three tables down, burgundy jacket,” he said, giving the barest of gestures with his head.

  Without turning, Roman sought him out. Burrstone. Their target. He couldn’t be more than eighteen — old by Adrenalite standards. He was bald, with a protruding chin and crooked nose. A tattered scarf hung around his neck.

  “You sure it’s him?” Roman asked.

  “Ain’t no question about it, Boss. The folks here know him as Baldie, but I’m sure as hell it’s him. He appeared here at the right time, and the description fits. He’s renting a room upstairs, and as far as anyone knows he ain’t left the building since he arrived.”

  “I don’t know how he stands the place,” Roman said.

  “It’s not too bad. As long you ignore the company, the rooms, and the food.”

  A serving girl appeared with a smile so fake it practically frowned. “Anything I can get for you charming folk?”

  “Three beers,” Roman said.

  Tan waited for the girl to be out of earshot, then said, “You’re in for a treat. The beer here is something else.”

  “As in, something that’s not beer?”

  “More like horse piss.”

  Ruby rolled her eyes. “This is all very fascinating, but if I could draw your attention to slightly less trivial matters.”

  “Right you are, love,” Tan said. “You look naked without your bow, and as pleasant as that image is to me, I get the feeling you’ll murder someone if you don’t get it back soon.”

  “I have the feeling I would like to murder someone once I get it.”

  “I hope that someone would be our target, rather than a poor helpless teammate?”

  “Keep hoping.”

  “Ah. Well, if you must know, take the stairs over there. Second floor, fifth door on your left, behind the bookshelf.”

  Ruby’s eyes flicked to the stairs. Her impatience to get her bow back was obvious.

  “It wasn’t easy to get it in here,” Tan continued, “took more than a few risks. I reckon I deserve some kind of reward. A kiss perhaps?”

  “As I said, keep hoping.”

  “I shall.” Tan grinned. “Anyway, you’ll want to get up to that balcony for a vantage point. It’s pretty much always empty, except when the manager is around. Hoover’s a bit of a dimwit, believe me.”

  The serving girl returned with their drinks. Roman choked on his first sip, the liquid clung to his throat as if protesting being swallowed.

  “Fuckballs! Tan, you weren’t joking about this stuff.”

  “I never joke about alcohol.”

  “It tastes like—”

  “Like the oil used to grease the gates of hell?”

  “Something like that.” Roman took another sip. It wasn’t any better the second time.

  Roman thought it said a lot about humanity that their thirst for alcohol had survived an apocalypse. Production of everything had halted immediately after the Days of Fire, but the granaries were the first to restart, quickly followed by the breweries. Roman couldn’t blame the early survivors. Seeing your world destroyed would give anyone a strong thirst. Hell, a hundred years on and we’re still drinking away our regrets.

  He pushed his glass away. His regrets weren’t going away anytime soon. “There’s no point delaying the inevitable," he said. "Tan, have you got your prey picked out?”

  “Aye, Boss. See the big guy at the bar, with the ponytail? He looks suitably stupid and aggressive.”

  Roman raised an eyebrow. “He’s twice your size.”

  “Oh, you don't need to worry about me. It’s his pretty haircut that’s in danger. But, if he does get lucky, I trust you to avenge me. And to say something sentimental at my grave.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “It better be fucking poetic.”

  He and Ruby left their separate ways. Ruby disappeared up the stairs, while Tan moved to a spot at the bar next to one of the most hulking men Roman had ever seen. He was nearly Caleb sized.

  Roman watched as Tan struck up a conversation with the giant. The big man’s expression swiftly changed from annoyance to anger, then to rage.

  No doubt about it, Tan had a way with words.

  The giant swung a punch. Tan nimbly stepped aside and the blow connected with the punter behind him, who was thrown off his stool and onto the nearest table, scattering cards and dice. The players shouted curses, rising from their seats.

  The thing about bar fights is, Roman mused, once the punches start, no cares who they’re swinging at. In a moment a dozen bystanders had joined in, swearing and lunging at anyone within reach. Tan spun through them, fists flailing, igniting the frenzy further. His manic grin never left his face.

  The band stopped mid-song, and no one cared — more interesting entertainment was now being provided. The entire room stood, preparing to either join the fight or quickly leave. Roman pushed his way through the distracted crowd, his hand reaching into his jacket, fingers curling around the cold touch of metal.

  His seven-shot revolver was a relic of the Ancients. Its metal was worn and dented, its rubber grip long since peeled off. Still, it was a treasure. A working gun was worth a small fortune, and ammunition wasn’t much cheaper. Roman thought there was an ironic beauty to a gun: the Ancients were outlasted by the very weapons they had built to defend themselves.

  Burrstone was moving towards the staircase. Roman stepped behind and firmly grabbed him by the shoulder. His other hand jabbed the barrel of the revolver into Burrstone’s lower back.

  “Hello asshole,” Roman said.

  Burrstone’s head snapped around, jaw dropping in surprise. His eyes flicked predictably to the those around them. But the f
ight had escalated to include a quarter of the bar by now — even a band member had laid his guitar aside and joined in — and no one paid Burrstone any attention.

  “To the door. No stopping,” Roman ordered.

  Burrstone snarled.

  Roman gave him another jab with his pistol. Burrstone began to walk. They blended in with the dozens of others also rushing to leave. No one looked down to see Roman’s gun. Or, if they did, they were wise enough to keep their mouths shut.

  Roman glanced at the balcony above. Ruby watched him from over the railing, her eyes narrowed. No doubt she had her bow drawn, out of sight.

  The exit drew closer. Ten steps. Nine. Eight.

  Roman let out a slow breath.

  Seven steps.

  The lights flickered, then died, and the hall plunged into darkness.

  02

  Roman paused, just for a second. Should he shoot?

  Wasn’t much of a choice, really.

  He fired.

  The crack of gunfire rang through the hall, quickly followed by panicked screams. Someone crashed into Roman from behind, throwing him off-balance. Cursing, he regained his footing and reached for where Burrstone had been a moment before. But he was too late. Burrstone was gone.

  Roman cursed himself for hesitating. His mistake might have cost everyone here their lives.

  He moved to the left, nearly tripping over something or someone. A blind stampede would be on its way as everyone rushed for the door, and he had to get out of its path, fast. Pushing his way through the mass of bodies, he tried to keep some sense of direction. But there was no way he could find Burrstone in the dark.

  Focus. Think this out. Where would Burrstone have gone? Romans first assumption was outside. That would be the easiest escape. But no. A human would have wanted to escape, but Burrstone was an Adrenalite. He hadn’t been heading for the door when Roman had got to him; he had been rushing upstairs. He must have an adrenaline needle in his room and was planning to activate himself.

  Roman calculated his options. His plan was ruined, element of surprise gone, target loose and most likely on his way to inject himself with adrenaline. The logical move would be to get the hell out of here. But that meant leaving everyone here to the mercy of an Adrenalite. Which, in Roman’s experience, was no mercy at all.

  He spun towards the general direction of the stairs and redoubled his efforts to shove through the crowd. The hall was alive with shouts and screams, but Roman’s voice cut above the clamour.

  “Tan, the stairs!”

  He stubbed his toe on the first stair, then raced up them four at a time. His right hand held his revolver, the other reached for the needles hiding within his coat; one was filled with adrenaline, to activate, the other with defoxican, to deactivate.

  A set of footsteps approached, and Roman collided into their owner. A tangle of wavy hair brushed against him.

  “Ruby!”

  “Roman? What is going on down there? Where’s the target?”

  “Gone.”

  “Fuck.”

  More footsteps approached from behind. “Right here, Boss.”

  Roman breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized Tan’s rough accent. With Tan, they might stand a chance against Burrstone. If they found Caleb, the odds might be evened, but that meant Sparks would be there too. And Roman didn’t want to activate Sparks unless there was absolutely no other option.

  “Tan, do you know where Burrstone’s room is?” he asked.

  “Sixth floor. But it’s gonna be a bitch to find in the dark.”

  As if on cue, the lights burst into life. As Roman’s eyes adjusted, the hall below swam into focus. Overturned tables. Smashed bottles. Bodies strewn across the floor. The space in front of the door was a tangle of struggling forms, no one was able to dislodge themselves from the chaos enough to actually leave.

  No sign of Burrstone, Sparks or Caleb.

  That didn’t leave any easy choices. Ruby’s skills weren’t going to be useful in the tight corridors upstairs. Nor were Sparks and Caleb helpful in the chaos below, but Roman didn’t have time to wait for them. “Ruby, find Sparks and Caleb, they’ll be inside by now. Tell them to meet us upstairs,” Roman ordered. “Tan, follow me.”

  Tan grinned. “Always.”

  Somewhere below Tan had picked up a near-empty bottle of whiskey. As they sprinted up the next flight of stairs he downed the last of it with a single swig, then smashed its base against the wall, leaving him with a jagged glass shiv.

  Tan might have been a little too eccentric sometimes — darn near insane, some might say — but he was willing to follow Roman to a fight with an Adrenalite, and there were precious few people in Legacy who would do that. It was the kind of insane that Roman appreciated in his friends.

  They reached the fifth flight of stairs when Burrstone appeared at the top of the steps.

  Roman’s heart sunk. They were too late.

  Burrstone had stripped down to his tattered sackcloth trousers. The centre of his exposed chest glowed with a dark blue, pulsing brilliance. His second heart. Thin blue lines extended like roots from the light, growing fainter as they left the core.

  Roman raised his pistol, aimed directly into the blue glow, and fired twice.

  With inhuman speed, Burrstone threw himself to the side. Fast, but not fast enough. The second shot skimmed his left shoulder, spraying blood. He didn’t even flinch.

  Roman lined up a third shot, but Burrstone leapt backwards and out of sight. Roman chased, bounding up the steps. Ahead, Burrstone disappeared into an empty door frame further down the hallway.

  “Ah fuck . . .” Tan skidded to a halt. “That was the elevator shaft.”

  Was Burrstone trying to escape? No. He was trying to draw the fight downstairs, to the civilians. Roman had to get down there. Now. He sprinted to the half-open elevator doors.

  “Ready to follow him down?” he asked Tan.

  Tan’s grin vanished. “You know, I told you to bring rope.”

  “Actually, you told me to bring a barrel of rum.”

  “I still reckon it wouldn’t hurt. I would rather not be sober for when we corner this bastard.”

  “Is there anything you want to be sober for?”

  “Drinking. I’d like to experience that with a clear mind.”

  A discordant shriek of metal resonated up the elevator shaft. Burrstone was forcefully pulling open the doors at the bottom. Roman frowned, looking down as shouts of terror echoed up the four metal walls.

  “Hell of a long way to fall, Boss,” Tan muttered.

  “Hell’s at the end of a lot of falls.”

  Roman tucked his revolver into his belt and slotted himself through the steel doors. He reached for the ladder built into the side of the shaft, his fingers closing around one of the rusted metal rungs. Oh please, let this be the one thing in this whole damn city that isn’t about to fall apart.

  He took a long breath as he hung from the first rung, realizing that climbing down the ladder would take too long. So he took the faster option: he let go. Gravity sucked him down. He dropped into the shadows like a bullet, watching the rungs pass in front of him. One second. Two seconds. He reached out and re-grabbed the ladder, and his fall came to an abrupt halt. At the impact of his sudden weight, his shoulders threatened to tear out of their sockets. A curse slipped through his clenched teeth.

  He let go again. This time he waited for only one breath before stopping himself. His shoulders screamed — it felt like shards of glass were caught deep in his bones. Three falls. His hand slipped on the fourth fall and his body was thrown against the side of the shaft. White lights danced in blackness in front of him. Five falls.

  The sixth took him to the floor. Roman waited a moment at the bottom of the shaft, catching his breath. Then he stepped through the broken doors and back into the hall.

  Burrstone stood in the middle of the room, grinning at the chaos around him. With his scarf removed, Roman could read the black tattoo written bold
ly across his neck: BX77. His personal Adrenalite code — the Security Ministry would have given him the tattoo when they first discovered his . . . condition. Burrstone’s chest was alive with light. The blue veins extending from the centre glow throbbed rhythmically. Roman could see them getting slightly longer with each pulse. Currently, they reached his shoulders, but they would lengthen the longer he was activated — his strength constantly increasing — until they crawled over his entire body.

  Burrstone effortlessly picked up a table and threw it at a handful of civilians scrambling for the door. Most managed to dodge, but one girl — one of the waitresses — was too slow, and she crumbled, her limp body assisting the now broken table in blocking the exit. Most people had already escaped, but roughly three dozen were still scattered around the room, hiding in the corners behind upturned tables. Caleb stood behind the bar, carefully watching Burstone, but not making a move. Yet.

  “Truth be told, I’m not in the mood for a brawl today,” Roman said as he pulled his revolver from his belt. Burrstone turned to face him. “And my joints aren’t what they used to be. So I’m going to give you one chance to surrender. Or else I’m going to have to use your head as a battering ram.”

  “Go to hell. You fucking bounty hunter.”

  Roman tensed. Three yards separated them — it wouldn’t take an Adrenalite more than half a second to cross that. But Burrstone took a slow step forward, surprisingly cautious. Behind him, Caleb cleared the bar and charged, broken table leg in hand. The wood broke across the Burrstone’s skull, splinters flying. The Adrenalite barely stumbled. Burrstone spun around and swung a punch. Caleb ducked aside just in time.

  Firing was too dangerous with Caleb so close, so Roman swapped the revolver for the defoxican needle and leapt forward.

  Burrstone twisted to face him. His eyes focused on the needle in Roman’s hand. Caleb swung a chair into the Adrenalite’s back and Burrstone dropped to one knee, one arm swinging a blind punch behind him, the other raised to block Roman’s strike.