2. CHAPTER 2 #2
This morning, Zayne keenly experienced the dual nature of PXI as a gift and a curse.
His veins still flowed with fire from taking it last night, and his muscles felt like someone had shredded them apart one fiber at a time.
The medicinal serum aided repair at the cellular level and significantly improved prognosis at the right dose.
But it also constricted blood vessels, inflamed nerves, and contracted muscles in spasms that occasionally broke bones.
Brock accused Zayne of taking high doses of PXI to punish himself when he just needed to heal fast. That was all.
Sharp pain zapped through various parts of his body every so often, a reminder to never grow comfortable with the PXI.
Whatever waited for him at the military base must have been important if his father did not allow a single day for him to rest in his condition.
And that twisted Zayne's stomach into a ball as hard as the Phaedra's heart.
Danger. He sensed it hanging in the air.
By the time he trudged through security to the conference room, sweat beaded his forehead.
Despite that, Zayne left his crutch against the wall and swiped his hand over the sensor to unlock the door.
The conference room boasted no decorations, only two desks, a large table with a dozen chairs, and an observatory window that looked down on a room below.
Very sensible, as his father preferred all rooms in the military base.
And there he was. The High General clasped the railing before the observatory window, broad and stiff as a statue.
White streaked his father's blond, slicked-back hair.
Every line carving into his forehead and creasing the edges of his eyes bore the story of sacrifice—not necessarily his, but millions of soldiers and civilians.
His black uniform never wrinkled, and the gold threading shone brighter on him than it did on anyone else.
Someone joked once that Zayne had the straightest shoulders in the empire. Well, they'd never met his dad.
The man did not turn to greet him.
“Hello, sir.” Zayne stood at attention and filled his lungs to ensure his voice sounded strong, not hollow.
The High General didn’t respond at first. “When I told your mother about what happened to your division, she said we were lucky. It could have been you who died. So, I asked myself… Why not him? Why were we the lucky ones?”
Zayne imagined the bullet tearing through his gut instead of Edwards’.
“Simple explanation.” His father’s voice lowered, as though he mumbled to himself.
“You're not stupid enough to hide behind a dumpster with a group and make yourself a target.” His father turned on his heel to face him, the lines in his forehead deeper than Zayne remembered.
Sometimes, he felt like he looked in a mirror when he met his father's eyes, one that aged him a few decades and prophesied how lifeless he'd become.
“The real question is why you allowed your men to be that stupid.”
The reek of smoke and garbage burned in Zayne’s nostrils. The most demanding gray eyes bore into him.
“I assume you were so focused on your friend Edwards that you sacrificed key seconds to save your squad.” His father walked up close. “Next time a friend is bleeding out, turn that fear to rage, and unleash it on the enemy. Let the medic tend to the injured.”
“Yes—”
“I put too much in you, boy.” The High General grabbed him by the back of his neck, expression hardening, though his voice sounded quiet and desperate.
After nearly a year without seeing his parents, Mom would run to him.
Not his father. He’d ensure that Zayne remedied every mistake that might have gotten him killed. “You cannot fail.”
“Yes, sir.” It didn't matter that the deadly ambush fooled his entire division. His father was right. He'd failed his squad, and now most of them were dead.
A heavy sigh loosened his father's tensed shoulders. He curled his fingers around a frosted glass of whiskey, pointing at a chair. “Sit. You're sweating.”
“My division is still on the field.” Zayne squared his jaw, almost too exhausted for even that. His squad may not have slept yet, and they'd spend a few more days traveling back, carrying the weight of their lost soldiers.
His father's hesitation said enough. Whether Zayne sat or stood made no difference to the survivors. But understanding, even agreement, passed over his face. “Don't worry, son. There's plenty of work to do while your division travels.”
“Is this about the letter?”
“Not entirely. It's the Followers.”
This was why he wished Mom would stay far away from those people. How close did this get to her? He helped the Followers several times over the years to protect Mom, but he doubted he'd get them out of this mess. The Phaedra hated them and loved any excuse to spend more money on hunting them down.
He justified his obsession with the complaint that they didn't register with the state, as all churches and organizations needed to do.
But it defied what the Followers stood for to register with a ruthless empire, especially when that ensured government surveillance.
They believed that just as the current of war ran from the beginning of humanity to now, so did justice, and they devoted themselves to that powerful energy.
Ciondo mastered surveillance. Every baby received a chip in their hand upon birth to identify them and track their location.
The government used these chips, as well as facial recognition and sensors, to monitor every person who entered or left a city anywhere in the country.
That did not touch their advanced system of drones.
The Followers fought to avoid detection at all costs. They'd never register.
What did the church do to earn this level of attention? They'd always been a non-violent force, more of a personal obsession of the Phaedra's than a military priority.
The High General sipped his whiskey. “Have you heard of Becka Rogers?”
Zayne intentionally loosened his muscles to keep from reacting to the name, remembering to relax his forehead and jaw. This wasn't the first stir the refugee caused. Her name came up multiple times over the years when Zayne helped the Followers.
“Sounds familiar,” Zayne said, satisfied at how convincing he appeared.
“She led Followers out in the territories to strike an official agreement with the United. Now they're working with underground churches here in Ciondo.”