Make Like Mountains

Excerpt

Make Like Mountains
BL Jones © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

Mia

I would like to believe every bad choice I’ve made was rooted in altruism, through the pursuit of discovery. Even if I was wrong more often than I was right. Even if my bad choices led to so much suffering. Even if my regret is endless and true and as raw now as it was over fifteen years ago.

In the beginning, all I wanted to do was help. A simple, if at times directionless, goal. When I started out, I didn’t know what I was capable of. I didn’t know what other people were capable of either.

I often think of my daughter and how, when she was a child, I would tell her everyone makes mistakes.

And everyone does. It’s a rare truth that parents tell their children.

What parents usually fail to say, though, is the hardest mistakes to live with are the ones we can do nothing about. The decisions we make that ripple out of our control and cause irreparable damage to other people. Those mistakes echo throughout the rest of our lives, twisting and shaping our futures and ourselves into something, someone, unrecognisable. Perhaps someone we told ourselves we would never become.

If asked to explain the worst of my choices, I could say many things. I could say I was swept up in the tidal wave of genius that was Dr Alexander Nova. I could say I didn’t think it would go as far as it did. I could say I was forced and manipulated by Obsidian Inc. to do things I would never have done otherwise.

I was tricked, I was hurt, I was forced.

I could lay claim to those justifications.

But it would be a lie. And I wouldn’t stoop to that. I abhor people who make excuses for the acts of evil they commit.

I was not conned into it. I was not abused in my past. I was not coerced or blackmailed.

I made every single one of my mistakes with my eyes wide open. It doesn’t make it any easier to forgive myself for those sins, but at least I can accept the depth of my corruption for what it is.

I have spent over a decade trying to correct the mistakes I made as a young woman. And for over a decade, I have been unsuccessful.

My continued failure has led me here, to the point I am at now. I tried to avoid these extreme measures. It is not what I wanted. But there comes a time when we must take the first step on the hardest path. There comes a time when we must do what pains us most. A time when we use the corruption inside us to reverse the corruption we inflicted on others. Or, in my case, the world.

I have failed to heal the festering wounds I once helped claw into the skin of our society.

Almost a month after my second attempt, I find myself sitting in my daughter’s flat with a cup of quickly cooling tea in my hands.

We’re scrunched up on her shaggy green sofa, both of us sans shoes. Usually, I would relish the opportunity to be here with Andy. I enjoy our simple, quiet moments together. I enjoy hearing Andy tell me stories about her life, her work, her friends, her latest spat with her girlfriend, Dru, over whose turn it was to take out the bins.

But today I cannot seem to get to grips with myself. It isn’t hard to think of the reason why.

We have lost many in the two failed attempts to begin our eradication of corrupted blood. Our mission was worth the loss. I still believe that. But after our second attempt, some are wavering.

It was inevitable. One failure can be chalked up to a lack of experience and bad luck. Two is the beginning of a pattern.

There is grief and resentment to contend with now. There are those who do not believe we are capable of the task set before us.

Some want to give up while they still have their freedom and their lives. I understand the urge, the fear. I’ve felt it myself.

But our work is not done.

I cannot allow us to spiral.

We have sacrificed too much. I have had to take from them to steady us, and they will not forget that.

After the disaster of the park concert, I tried to rectify what had been done in the name of our cause.

*

One month before

Failure.

It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling. One of the first things I learned as a biologist was that failure is inevitable, even essential. Sometimes you need to know what doesn’t work first in order to find out what does. To figure out how to get it right the next time around.

But this.

I never imagined that we would get it so very wrong. That I would.

Perhaps I should have known better. Perhaps I should have foreseen it. Perhaps I should have prepared myself for the worst. All I saw was the best possible outcome, and because of that, lives were lost. People died for nothing. Nothing.

My followers stand before me.

We have gathered in one of our safe places, a warehouse far away from Danger City. Our number is less than it once was. And it is about to become even fewer.

Four of my followers are not standing. They kneel at my feet.

My heart aches as I look at each of them in turn.

Harrison Mosely. Nina Leer. Tony Leer. Jessica Adams.

I see a mixture of emotions.

Harrison is furious. Nina and Tony are afraid. Jessica is dismayed.

Of those who are standing, most look calm and resolute. A few appear frightened. One or two are clearly indignant. Angry at or on behalf of those who kneel.

Well, I am angry too. That, we share.

I focus on Harrison, the first kneeling man. Harry. A husband. An uncle. A Mage. A man defined by those three things. He has such a fire in him. I thought myself capable of taming that fire. Clearly, I thought too much of my own influence.

I hold my hands up, red magic bursting to life between my fingers. My magic reaches out, wrapping invisible tendrils around Harrison’s head and neck.

I ask him the question that needs to be asked.

“Why?”

Harrison looks up at me, defiance etched into every line on his face. His green eyes blaze with it.

“I did,” he tells me, “what was necessary.”

I cut my hands violently to the sides, releasing my magic, throwing the curse at him. Harrison’s neck twists and snaps. His body sways for a moment, then collapses to his left.

Most of my followers remain silent. There are only a few gasps of shock.

Curse magic is a tricky thing, and this curse in particular is a difficult one to master. I doubt most of these Mages, a grand majority of them in their early twenties, would have the strength or the will to conduct it.

I look at Nina and Tony. They are siblings. Both brown eyed and thin faced and skinny. Tony is the little brother, the protected. Nina is the big sister, the protector. They are holding hands, clutching each other, both staring up at me with fearful eyes.

My hands light up red again. Invisible tendrils wrap around Tony, then Nina.

“Why?” I ask.

Tony looks to Nina. Nina looks to Tony.

Tony lets go of his sister’s hand and turns desperate eyes on me.

“She told me to do it, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I cut my hands to the side again. Tony’s neck snaps to the right. His body sways. It falls.

Nina stares down at her dead brother, an unreadable expression on her face. She looks small, dressed in baggy jeans and a large jumper that exaggerates her slightness.

There is silence.

Then.

A wail of grief explodes from Nina’s mouth. Fury and pain spill out of her in a torrent. She lunges at me.

I cut my hands to the side once more. Nina’s neck snaps. She sways, and her body slumps forward.

I turn, reluctantly, to Jessica. Blonde haired. Tall and strong. Freckles on her nose.

Jessica is one of my most loyal. More than that, she is the child of a friend. I expected more from her.

But then, I expected more from myself too. Can I really blame her for falling short of my estimation when I have fallen so much farther?

I wait until Jessica looks up. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Her shame is crystal clear.

When I speak to her, I can hear the graveness in my tone.

“Was I naive to think the sparing of innocent lives was something I needed to ask of you?”

Jessica doesn’t answer. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. She is nervous, obviously, yes, but there is more to it than that, I think.

I raise my hands. Red crackles around my fingers.

“Why?”

Jessica looks at me then. Truly looks at me. There are tears in her pale eyes. She is very young to me now.

“I failed.” She is quiet and remorseful. “I failed you. I failed you and our cause and the world.”

“Yes.” I am cold and brittle. “We all failed.”

This seems to spur something on inside Jessica.

A grisly determination enters Jessica’s voice.

“I’ve made so many mistakes.” She takes a shuddering breath. “All I want is to make it right.”

Mistakes.

I should.

So many mistakes.

I should not.

Make it right.

I should not give in to this, I know. It would be unfair. I killed all the others. Jessica has no better excuse than the rest did.

Jessica hurt innocent people. She killed them. She does not deserve a second chance. No more than I do.

But I was given a second chance. And a third. And now a fourth.

How can I deny Jessica the same?

I cannot decide if it makes me weak to spare her. I do not believe that mercy is inherently weak. But when it is as self-serving as this, is it truly mercy at all?

I drop my hands. The red magic fades away.

Jessica gasps, her hands flying to her throat. She stares at me with wide, surprised eyes.

I straighten my spine and fold my arms behind my back. When I speak, I speak to all my followers.

“We,” I remind them, “are not monsters in the night. We are not murderers. We are not depraved people who seek only to hurt others.”

I swallow, taking a moment to let that sink in before going on.

“We are strong and brave and righteous in our mission. We are doing what must be done to help and protect the future of the human race. We must not lose sight of that.”

My followers make gestures and sounds of agreement.

I offer my hand to Jessica. She still appears stunned. I take hold of her hand and pull her up to stand in front of me. She goes willingly, if a little stiff. Her broad frame is rigid with tension.

I grasp hold of Jessica’s shoulders and squeeze them. She finally meets my eyes.

“You will get your chance to atone,” I tell her emphatically. “Do not waste it.”

*

That is what I thought then. That we were unconquerable. We might have failed once, but we would not fail again.

Though it seems that perhaps the Mages who lost their lives during the concert and at the shopping centre will have died in vain after all.

That saddens me more than I can fully express. Death can be such a waste when it is without good reason.

“Mum, are you sure there’s nothin’ wrong?” Andy asks me, concern creasing her features.

My girl knows me too well. She knows when I’m distracted and uneasy.

I reach over and pat her hand in mindful reassurance.

“I’m all right, love.” I try to sound casual. “Just thinking.”

“Is it that project again?” Andy asks, a note of irritation in her voice. “You need to tell Mr Stone to stop pressuring you so much. You’ll get it done when you get it done.”

I have to stifle a laugh at that. Ian Stone has not been pressuring me. Stone’s idea of pressuring someone is very different from my daughter’s. Or most other people’s.

If Obsidian Inc. want a quicker result from you, then they’ll have you stripped and beaten half to death. Or chained to the floor of a cell and doused with ice-cold water until your heart feels like it’s frozen inside your chest.

If Ian Stone wants a quicker result, then he’ll take someone you love and throw them in a hole, where they’ll never be found unless he allows them to be.

I’ve long since accepted that my position at OI comes with a knife constantly held at my throat. I make a point out of not taking on projects that mean anything too important to OI, and specifically projects that are personal to Stone. Some of my colleagues think the right idea is to try to get in good with Stone, but I’ve seen too much to believe it’s worth the risk.

OI agents who are tasked with finding Stone’s runaway son go missing weekly. The man does not accept excuses. He’s a spider, and the rest of us are all just bugs waiting to be caught in his web. You have no one to blame but yourself if you fly right into the middle of it.

I’ve known Ian Stone for more than twenty years. I’ve known him since I was recruited by OI at age sixteen. I know the man better than most, which still isn’t saying much. He’s handsome and charming and very clever. He’s also a right bastard. A bastard who does terrible things across the board.

I’ve never blamed him for any of it. He can be cruel, but only insofar as it gets him what he needs from people. That’s just the kind of monster you need to be to head an organisation like Obsidian Inc.

I put my cup of tea down on the living room table and lean back on the sofa. Andy is still watching me with unconcealed worry. She doesn’t like it when I stress myself out over work. Of course, this time my stress has nothing to do with anything I’m currently working on for OI.

There have been times in the past when I discussed my work problems with Andy and she offered solutions or possible avenues of research. I hate that I’m not able to talk to her now. But I can’t involve Andy. I need her safe. I didn’t go through years of arguing and pulling in favours to make sure Andy didn’t join OI, just to let her get killed over my past mistakes.

Using both hands, I run my fingers through my hair, pulling it back as if to make it into a ponytail, then letting the strands slide free.

“I am struggling with something at the moment,” I admit to Andy. I can give her part of the truth.

“What’s the project?” Andy asks, shifting forward, eyes full of intent curiosity.

She’s a very curious girl, my Andy. She’s always loved experimentation and discovery, even as a young child. She was fearless in her pursuit of knowledge. The moment I found her dissecting a bird at age seven to, as she said, “See how it all works,” I knew she would want to follow in my footsteps.

Other than our shared pale skin, my daughter and I are nothing alike in terms of looks. I’m on the tall and broad side, with dark hair and eyes. Andy is short and petite. She has very light-blonde hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, when I look at her, all I can see is her father. She even pulls some of the same expressions as he did.

I used to hate how much she looked like him. But now, when I catch glimpses of the man I once loved in my daughter’s face, I just feel sad. I feel sad for all the things we lost, and for all the things we allowed ourselves to destroy. In those moments, I wish Andy could have known the man I thought her father to be.

But he died when she was ten. To Andy, her dad is a man who occasionally visited her and took her out for ice cream or to go swimming or numerous other fun things. Andy didn’t get the chance to know him as an adult.

Whatever anyone else might say, I believe that if he were alive, Andy’s father would have wanted to make things right as desperately as I do.

“Infected blood,” I tell her. “OI created a disease and now they need a way to combat it. I’ve tried killing it head-on, but the infection is too strong.”

Andy bites down on her bottom lip and tilts her head back, furrowing her brows in deep thought. She’s been pulling that exact same expression since she was five years old.

I’m bombarded by memories of going into my home lab to find her kneeling on a stool, messing around with chemicals and materials and multiple hijacked Bunsen burners. No matter how many times I told her to stay out, she never listened for more than a few weeks. In the end, I had to start bringing her with me and showing her how to use it all properly, just to save our house from being accidentally destroyed by an experiment gone wrong.

After a decent amount of time, Andy’s expression clears and she asks, “Have you considered introducing a secondary infection, one you can be more certain of manipulating, to burn out the first?”

A secondary infection? I take a minute to consider the idea.

I spent so much time trying to find a way of reversing the contamination. Trying to find a cure. For years and years, I tried. It was maddening. Sometimes I would even get close to success, only for it all to go wrong at the very last moment.

When I finally had to admit defeat in that arena, I turned my attention to cleansing through eradication. I knew it was the extreme option. I’d done everything I could to avoid it.

But then one of them had a child, and that child was born with the same black blood as his parent. What I’d feared had come to pass. The virus was spreading, growing in strength. It could not be allowed to go on. Sacrifices had to be made.

What I should have realised is there is a middle ground between creating a solution through experimentation and meeting the problem head-on.

I was so focused on purging the black blood that I never thought of using it. Using the infection to combat itself.

The more I think about it, the more ridiculous I feel for not having considered it before. A dozen new possibilities present themselves to me, ways to scourge the black-blooded from this world in one fell swoop. I could even take them all out from a distance, maybe, with no need to endanger my followers any more than necessary.

A renewed sense of purpose surges through me. I almost want to laugh, from relief if nothing else.

I lean forward, cup Andy’s face in my hands, and press a loud kiss to her forehead.

Andy does laugh. She looks at me like I’ve gone a bit mad.

I smile back at her.

“You’re bloody brilliant, you are.”

I know I’m acting strangely, but I can’t help it.

Despite my own adamant denial to myself, I was beginning to lose hope. But now… Now I think that it’s all going to be all right. Truly, I do.

We’re not giving up the fight yet.