Meridian Six Part 1

MERIDIAN SIX.

By Jaye Wells.

A Letter to Readers.

This novella was originally a short story, t.i.tled "Red Life." In fact, it was the first story I ever got published and appeared in the Weirdly II: Eldritch anthology from Wild Child publis.h.i.+ng. The story was short-too short-and I always wanted to go back and explore more of this dark world.

Be warned: There are no snarky sidekicks or hilarious hijinks in this story. Instead, there are horrors and heartaches in Meridian Six's bleak world. But there is also hope. Something we can all use a little more of in our own world.

I wish you happy reading.

Jaye Wells.

May 2013.

One.

The frigid air sc.r.a.ped my lungs raw. I pumped my legs faster, praying for a second wind. Stopping wasn't an option. Their breath beat at my back, and if they caught me, I'd be dead.

I turned the corner, running down an alley. Footsteps echoed behind me. Faster. I wrenched two trashcans back into their path. A male cursed and grunted. Metal sc.r.a.ped against concrete. I focused on the mouth of the alley and prayed for a miracle.

A black sedan screeched to a stop in front of me. I didn't hesitate. My legs ached with the exertion, but I just managed to launch myself onto the hood. On the other side, the landing lurched every joint in my body.

Keep running. Find the light. Red means life.

Behind me, deep voices argued. I continued down the street, cursing the heels the Castor had forced me to wear for the Prime's birthday celebration. I couldn't spare the precious moments to rid myself of the torture devices.

Finally, a speck of red appeared in the distance. All thoughts of sore feet and desperation evaporated. The beckoning light glowed from the porch of a squat, run-down house that looked more like a prewar crack den than a haven for the lost.

I kicked up my pace and pushed through the pain. Salvation drew closer.

My pursuers' harsh breathing echoed off the burnt out sh.e.l.ls of buildings and trash- strewn streets. A weathered poster bearing my own face mocked me from the brick walls of an old induction center. In red ink along the bottom, the Troika's slogan, the hated words I'd repeated so often on radio broadcasts and in speeches to grim-faced prisoners: "Blood will make you free."

Not a soul lurked in the shadows. Most humans now slaved in work camps or blood camps. Rebels sought refuge in the burnt-out cities, but if any were watching me from the darkened windows, their survival instincts precluded them from interfering in Troika business. After all, my pursuers wore the telltale black uniforms of the secret police. The lightning symbol on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s had become a graphic promise of pain.

Not far now. If I could just-- Pain exploded on my scalp. My head whipped back with the force of the fist jerking back on the ponytail. My feet snapped out from under me. He used my hair to keep me from hitting the ground. The agony made me wish I'd hit concrete instead.

It was Sergei, one of the Prime's personal guards, who'd caught me. The one who always watched me while caressing his precious riding crop. "Got you, b.i.t.c.h." His eyes burned like hot coals. Fangs flashed as he panted for breath. "Now we can add evading arrest to your list of crimes."

His partner doubled over, trying to catch his breath. I didn't know his name, but he had the wild eyes of a male who enjoyed his job too much. He glanced up at the glowing red light on the front of the house, now only twenty feet away. "She almost made it."

"Almost doesn't count," Sergei said, tugging my hair harder. He leaned in at my grimace. "You like that?" he whispered. "There's more coming." I gritted my teeth and waited for my opportunity. "Call headquarters and have them send a rover to retrieve her."

With the partner distracted, I slapped his fist to my scalp, holding it in place and easing the pressure. I sc.r.a.ped my heel down his s.h.i.+n and stabbed the tip into his foot. With a yelp, he released me. I grabbed the crop from his slack hold and jerked it against his windpipe.

It happened so fast his friend didn't see it. He spoke into his radio, his back to me, "Repeat: Meridian Six has been subdued--" I grabbed the blade from my garter and made his last words dissolve into a wet gurgle. As he fell, I grabbed his gun from his hand and turned it on Sergei.

"You won't be allowed to live." His words the confidence of a man determined to deliver the deathblow. "You'd already be dead if Director Castor didn't want the pleasure for himself."

I put the gun to his head. Pulled the trigger. His body jerked. Wetness splashed my face. I dropped his body and hauled a.s.s toward the steps.

It happened as if in slow motion. I ran toward the door, my hand rose to pound. The roar and vibration of the Troika's arriving craft shook the building. The panel in front of me flew open. A female in red robes opened her mouth in shock, reaching for me. The blast ripped through the night. Fire exploded in my left shoulder. I fell in slow motion, the world a blur of pain--fell across the threshold and into the acolyte's arms. Blood filled my vision.

Red means life.

Two.

Whispers woke me. I peeled open one eye. Two females watched me from the doorway. I didn't move so as not to alert them to my newly conscious state. Not until I had a chance to take stock.

Drab-colored clothes were folded in a neat pile on the chair by the door. The stained and ripped green silk dress I'd been wearing hung from a hook and the high heels lay beneath them on the floor like two drunks. Across from the bed, a canvas hung depicting the beatified visage of some patron saint of the Sanguinarians, the religion to which the Order of the Sisters of Crimson belonged. On the table beneath the painting, lay the dagger I'd stolen off the guard when I'd made my escape. When I'd arrived it was b.l.o.o.d.y, but now it shone like pristine, polished silver.

A thin, coa.r.s.e blanket abraded my naked skin. The realization that I was totally at the mercy of these bloodthirsty holy women shocked my synapses into firing again.

They call me Meridian Six "She is awake." The voice was feminine with an undercurrent of steel.

I used to be a tool for the Troika. But now I am their prey.

Turning my head, I focused on the pair by the door. The acolyte who'd helped me inside earlier stood next to a statuesque woman in crimson and black robes. All Sisters of Crimson wore red robes, but only those who'd achieved exalted status wore the sacred black as well.

Chatelaine...smart not to leave an acolyte alone with me. Not after the way I arrived.

She dismissed the acolyte with a nod. The door closed, and she moved forward slowly, almost gliding. She wasn't afraid to be alone with me.

"Welcome. I am Sister Agrippa, Chatelaine of this rectory."

She shushed me and placed a hand on my arm when I tried to sit up. "You must rest. The bullet grazed your shoulder, but you lost blood from your other wounds."

I didn't meet her eyes and pulled the sheet higher. She'd seen the bite marks on my thighs and b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"What happened to your lower back?"

I looked up quickly, thankful she hadn't mentioned the other wounds. "Had to dig out the chip so they couldn't zap me."

She nodded but showed no emotion on her face. "You wouldn't have made it far if you hadn't." Something lit in her eyes--respect? "It's a miracle you made it out of the Fortress as it is, Miss Six."

I fell back onto the flat pillow. Even my bones felt exhausted. I wasn't surprised Sister Agrippa knew the name the vamps had given me. Everyone knew about Meridian Six, model Troika citizen. The instant I escaped I swore I'd never be called that name again, but I didn't want to offend the holy woman when the situation was still so fragile. "Thanks," I said instead.

She eyed me with frank curiosity. "I a.s.sume you are aware I am only able to offer you sanctuary for twenty-four hours. You slept twenty of those away, I'm afraid."

I cringed. Four hours wasn't much time. I needed to regroup and come up with a plan. "I understand, Sister. I appreciate your hospitality."

"I took the liberty of having my a.s.sistant bring a change of clothes." She nodded at a stack of garments on a chair next to the door. "I guessed at your size, but they'll be better than the filthy ones you wore when you arrived." Her face didn't betray any judgment but I found her choice of adjective telling. Had my harlot's clothes and the blood kiss marks on my inner thighs and chest betrayed my status as the Troika's blood wh.o.r.e?

I wasn't sure how to reply. Thanking her again would have felt too much like a confession.

"I'll leave you to your ablutions. The first ma.s.s of the evening begins in five minutes. Perhaps you'll join us? Spiritual renewal may offer you a modic.u.m of strength for your journey."

"I think I'll pa.s.s." I hesitated before adding, "No offense."

"None taken. I didn't think you'd agree anyway." She moved to the door again. "Go ahead and get dressed. I'll have my a.s.sistant retrieve you after ma.s.s, and we can discuss next steps."

"Sister?"

"Hmm?" She paused by the door. The brighter light from the hallways fell around her like a halo.

"Aren't you going to ask why the Troika are after me?"

She paused and smiled, her small, white fangs flas.h.i.+ng in the dim light. "Would you tell me the truth if I did?"

My lips quirked. I liked this woman's straightforward, no-bulls.h.i.+t att.i.tude. "Probably not."

She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. I sat in silence for a few more moments, trying to will myself out of the warm coc.o.o.n of the bed. My soul ached to stay in this quiet place. My body ached for stillness. But my mind wasn't having any of that. I needed a plan--and fast. I'd have a lot more than aches to worry about if the Troika's men caught me when I left the convent.

Twenty minutes later, I'd completed my fortieth lap of the small room in the foreign-feeling clothes. The coa.r.s.e woolen sweater and baggy denim weren't exactly the quality I was used to. I normally opted for simple garments of the highest caliber fabrics that wouldn't hamper movement or snag. Castor insisted that my clothes should also show off my form to its best advantage, which was why I didn't mind the shapeless garments the sisters provided. And the shoes! The soft leather moccasins hugged my feet like a dream. They'd be a h.e.l.l of a lot easier to run in than the heels the Director of Propaganda insisted I wear.

His face flashed in my mind's eye. The lascivious gleam when he'd presented me with the dress and shoes. "And don't forget the hairpiece," he'd said, waving the green silk ribbon. "All birthday gifts should be topped with a bow." He'd giggled and left muttering to himself about how clever he was for thinking of the perfect birthday gift for the Prime.

Me.

A soft knock on the door announced the acolyte's return. "The Chatelaine will see you now."

I nodded and followed her out into the corridor. I'd considered wandering around earlier while I waited, but I didn't want to be rude. The corridor's ceilings hung low over sconces lining the walls, giving off a warm glow. Funny, from the outside this building seemed condemned, but inside it was clean and peaceful.

"Are we below ground?" I asked, noting the lack of windows.

She nodded meekly over her shoulder.

I waited for more information, but she didn't offer any. The sisters, I guessed, probably built this sanctuary in abandoned tunnels dug during the Blood Wars. I'd heard how the humans and vampire rebels had dug warrens under the cities for quick escapes during skirmishes. Now, the dirt walls had been plastered over, but the echoes of old fear clung to the air like the musk of turned earth.

We reached a door, and the acolyte knocked. "The Chatelaine is waiting."

"Thank you, Sister--"I let the word hang there for her to fill in.

She avoided my eyes and scuttled off. Her red robes swirled around her ankles as she rounded the corner. I wondered briefly how she ended up living in abandoned tunnels below the city, offering succor to fugitives like me.

"Six?" The Chatelaine's voice pulled me out of my musings. I took a deep breath, raised my chin and marched into her inner sanctum.

She sat behind a battered wooden desk. A single low-watt bulb hung from the ceiling. The threadbare tapestries stretched across sections of the walls did nothing to dispel the chill. One depicted a unicorn bleeding in a cage and another a knight fighting a dragon.

"Nice," I said, more to get the conversation going than out of any real appreciation for the artistry.

"Functional," she countered. "They help insulate against the dankness."

I took the seat she offered. The ancient metal chair creaked in protest. I cringed as the sound echoed through the cave-like room.

The Chatelaine stared into a vid-screen, an alien bit of technology for such an ascetic setting, but, then, she was a vampire. And vampires loved their tech.

I couldn't see what she was looking at, but whatever it was, she found it d.a.m.ned interesting. Warning bells went off in my head. Noticing my sudden stiffness, she turned the screen toward me.

My own face stared back at me. My stomach fell as I read the ticker beneath the old photo. "Fugitive still at large. The Troika is offering a reward of ten thousand charns for her capture--dead or alive."

"Meridian Six, age twenty-three, daughter of rebel sympathizer, Alexis Sargosa," she read, her brows rising. "Wanted for violation of Troika code 439."

My stomach churned, and my hands grew damp. Given the conditions of the rectory, it was possible the Chatelaine was mentally tabulating the repairs she could make with that kind of reward.

I lifted my chin, waiting for her to make the next move.

"Code 439?" she said. "That's a.s.sault, correct?"

I gave a jerky nod to confirm that was, indeed, the crime a.s.signed to Code 439, but I didn't feel the need to confess my innocence. After all, if things had gone as planned the charge would have been murder instead.

The nun's eyes took on a speculative gleam. My fingers slid down my leg toward the shard of metal I'd strapped to my ankle using a bit of bandage the nuns had left in my room. They'd been smart not to leave me with any gla.s.s or cutlery, but the metal bracket had torn away from the bed frame easily and its sharp corners could inflict some pain.

"Keep your weapon where it is, child. The Sisters of Crimson are no friends of the Troika, no matter how well they pay."

I paused and looked at her. "Ten thousand Cs would buy a lot of food for your acolytes, sister."

"True, but then I would have a debt on my soul I'm not prepared to repay."

"If you knew all of this I'm surprised you let me in here to begin with. Some consider me quite dangerous."

Her lips lifted in a slight smile. "Especially the Troika."

"What makes you say that?"

"Ten thousand charns seems a bit steep for a.s.sault," she said, leaning back in her chair. "No, I think they want you for another reason."

I looked down. How much should I tell her? Even if I knew I could trust her, I'd be risking her life by sharing information she shouldn't know.

"Let's just say I have intimate knowledge of a few skeletons in the Troika's closet," I said.

"Oh, I bet you do." Her lips twitched. "So they made up the code violation then?"

"Not necessarily." I didn't elaborate. I crossed my arms to let her know that was all I had to say about the matter.

"Fair enough," she said. "I suppose you've already guessed that a crowd of Troika guards have gathered outside?"

"I figured as much."