Resonance - Erica O'Rourke Page 0,91
This is a declaration of war, and make no mistake: We shall defend ourselves and the Key World, as we have been called to do. The Tacet will continue. We will unravel world after world until we have dissolved your squalid little hiding places, all the weak spots that molder and threaten the Key World. We will silence every Echo in the multiverse before we allow you to continue this blasphemy. Every world you’ve ever passed through will be returned to dust.”
Rose’s breath came fast and shallow in the silence that followed his words.
“We will stop the Tacet when you have surrendered, and turned over your leaders, starting with Rosemont Armstrong and Delancey Sullivan.”
“Like hell,” Simon snarled. “This is a trap.”
“I’m not a leader,” I said. “Why does he want me?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “We’re not doing it.”
“Until you agree to our terms, we will continue to shear away every Echo attached to the Key World, and be the stronger for it. The Consort awaits your decision.”
Rose stood, unmoving, and the techs watched her openmouthed. Simon drew me into him.
There was a rustling sound, as if Lattimer was stepping away from the mic. And then distantly: “Let them fall. Every last one.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE NUMBERS RESUMED. FREQUENCY, LATITUDE, longitude. Frequency, latitude, longitude. Each one a death sentence, the matter-of-fact delivery magnifying the horror. So mundane, so routine and bloodless.
So much death.
“You can’t go,” Simon said. “You can’t turn yourself in.”
“Send the signal,” Rose said to one of the techs—the guy with the beard, whose face was ashen. To the other tech, she said, “Pack up. We move in fifteen.”
“Move where?” I asked, but nobody paid any attention.
Rose beckoned to us as she strode toward the front desk.
“You can’t turn yourself in,” Simon repeated. “You’re sure as hell not handing over Del.”
“Everything’s in place,” said Prescott, coming out of the front office. “We’re still on track.”
Then she caught sight of me and scowled. “This is your fault. Lattimer moved up the Tacet because of you.”
The words landed like a kick to the ribs. I struggled to respond, and Simon stepped in, saying, “Lattimer moved up the Tacet because you poked the hornet’s nest. You wanted Monty out of prison—how did you think they’d respond?”
“We weren’t going to spring him,” Prescott retorted. “But it was the only way to get the frequency.”
“You supplied Del with everything she needed to bust him out and you used me as leverage. You want someone to blame? Look in the mirror.”
“Enough,” Rose said. “Prescott, this is a minor change.”
The girl loosened her death grip on the clipboard, but the back of my neck prickled with alarm. I knew better than anyone how big an impact came from a ‘minor change.’
Rose said, “Continue the cauterizations as planned. With any luck, the Consort will believe that’s where the threat lies. You’ll head up the attack team, and I’ll get Simon to the meet-up at the safe house.”
“I should come with you,” Prescott said, eyes widening in alarm.
“We need to separate,” Rose said firmly. “If something should happen to me—”
“You mean if you turn yourself in,” she cut in.
“I mean that getting Simon to his security team is critical. I’ll take him now. The First Echo evacuation should be complete by tomorrow morning, but give them a good thirty-six hours to settle in and cover their tracks before beginning the attack. I want this building cleared out before it happens. Once CCM is secure, you proceed as planned. Am I clear?”
A message passed between the two of them, some wordless communication that had Prescott blinking back tears.
Rose gave a short, sharp nod and strode away.
We chased after her, leaving Prescott alone and stricken.
“You’re abandoning ship?” I asked.
“It’s not uncommon for the Consort to cleave our safe worlds. We likely would have moved in a week or so. We’re accustomed to it.”
“How often?”
“When I first fled, we moved nearly every day. Then, as the Consort grew complacent, we could stay in one place for months at a time. Recently it’s picked up again, for obvious reasons.”
I tried to estimate how many times they’d moved, but it seemed impossible. No wonder they weren’t sentimental. They never stayed still long enough to let an attachment build.
She stopped in front of her room, unlocked the door, and ushered us in.
Monty was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers sifting through the strings, brow creased in concentration. She touched his shoulder, and he tucked his hands behind him like a child caught misbehaving.
“Time to