Deathwatch (The Faded Earth Book 1)(2)

The head tilted again. Though the voice was the same identical, flat, electronically modified tone all of them used, she still heard a trace of confusion. “Pardon?”

“My name is Beck,” she said, more fiercely than she expected. “My mom has been calling me that since I was two. It’s...”

Mom. Dear god, she would never hear Mom call her name again.

Before the pressure within could reach critical mass, the armored figure did something that derailed her emotions. It was so out of place, so unexpected, that for a fleeting few seconds she completely forgot why she was sitting in the dusty wind and weeping.

It extended a metallic hand. In a voice as earnest as its electronics allowed it to be, the armored figure spoke.

“I’m Guard 5110,” it said as it gently shook Beck’s trembling hand and took in her bemused expression. “As you know, my role here is the containment of a potential bloom as the duly appointed representative of the Deathwatch.”

It hesitated for only a moment. “And for what it’s worth, ma’am, I truly am sorry.”

*

“They sent a Guard,” the girl—no, the young woman—said. “Should I be flattered?”

Inside the armor, Eshton sighed. This was not picked up by the suit’s public address system. Years of training kept him from accidentally transmitting. It helped that the powered armor had a reasonably complex AI to smooth over any potential errors caused by his all-too-human nature.

He had checked Beck’s profile on his way from the chapterhouse. She was a junior supervisor in the mine, impressive at her age, but hadn’t yet qualified for work outside the Rez. Like the average citizen, her experience with the Deathwatch was probably limited to the low-ranked Sentinels manning the wall. Interacting with a Guard or Warden just wasn’t something most people did unless there was an unusual situation.

And here we are, Eshton thought. He wanted to say more, but the timer on the upper right of his HUD ticked inexorably forward.

“We don’t leave blooms in the hands of Sentinels, Ms. Park,” Eshton said. “I would like you to stay here, please. My team will be arriving shortly. I will need to speak with you after.”

She nodded, looking away. She knew what the words meant. The moment was approaching quickly, now. Yet hearing them didn’t cause her to break down. That, he knew from experience, was rare. Possibly unhealthy, but there was no time to worry over it.

Knowing nothing he could say would bring her comfort, he turned toward the target. Those few yards felt like miles. He was in no danger, of course. The suit ran on its internal air supply instead of using the filtration system. That was standard any time a call came in about a bloom. And even if the worst happened and he opened the door to find three newly-turned Pales staring at him, well, his suit was built for exactly that scenario.

It wasn’t fear that constricted his throat and weighed down his belly with a chunk of ice the size of a fist, but regret. That plus aimless fury at the world for being this way, for forcing humanity to take these steps to protect itself.

Finding his way to the isolation chamber was simple enough; all family dwellings in the Rez were printed from the same template. He found them there, visible on the small monitor mounted on the wall outside. They huddled together, words of prayer crackling over the speaker.

Eshton shifted uncomfortably. Partially because religion, while not technically outlawed, was frowned upon. Practicing it openly was illegal, which created a taboo difficult to shake off. This was not his first containment order, however. Standing by while those about to die made peace with their creator was an uncomfortably common part of his job. Letting them finish was the least he could do, and judging by the appearance of the three loved ones holding each other, they had time.

When they were through—or possibly taking a break, he didn’t have the personal experience with the ritual to know for sure—he keyed the microphone.

“Deathwatch,” he said simply. Few people needed less introduction than one of his kind.

They flinched as a group. This too was a common reaction. No one liked to know the boogeyman was real, much less be certain he was coming to get you.

“Is it time?” asked the father, on file as Ben Park. His wife Elisa and son Aaron looked up at the camera, eyes wide with terror.

“You have a few minutes, if you need them,” Eshton said. “I heard you praying. If you need more time...”

He saw the familiar war being fought within the three of them. Of course they wanted more time. Human beings were built to survive. That was what the last century was about, after all. The coming of the Fade and those it turned into Pales nearly wiped out the species. Harsh, universal tenets of survival were the only thing which allowed humanity to endure long enough to begin to rebuild, and even then only in protected settlements. One of those Tenets was to choose death in the face of a bloom, the catastrophically virulent outcome of a type B event allowed to reach its conclusion.

“How long?” Elisa asked. He hated that question, especially in front of a child. It only ever made them panic. The war continued. Give me a second, now two. Or five. Just a little longer. How long? I need to know so I might make the most of it, sir.

Their survival instinct didn’t care that if the bloom was allowed to occur, it would spread their strain of the Fade in all directions in a cascading geometric progression that would functionally end all human life within the Rez—turning the population into something far worse. Their logic, however, existed within a frame of reference that included at least two Rez annihilations in the lifetimes of all three for that very reason. Seven or eight such events if you only considered the parents.