The Monstrous Citadel

by Mirah Bolender

  She led them through the front door, which stood completely open with no one to guard it.

  The inside of Sweeper headquarters looked as bleak as the outside. No one made any attempt to liven up the stone walls or the scuffed floor, and the halls felt narrow due to the sheer amount of people moving inside. Light shone from intermittent bulbs in the ceiling, dull and yellowish. Windows let out more light than they took in, little more than a break from the monotony. Halls had low ceilings, and went in a myriad of different directions, up or down or left or right, with no signs or hint of a landmark to orient oneself, until it became a labyrinth. Laura was completely lost after they turned the second corner.

  Zelda had seemed short to Laura at first, but she quickly came to the conclusion that she wasn’t an exception. Sweeper after Sweeper marched by, numbers on their faces, heads shaved and identical uniforms pristine, almost all of them several inches shorter than her. She felt almost glad for it; she found it easier to look at the buzz cuts than their narrowed eyes, the otherwise blank faces. She tracked similarities, though, in the shape of the faces and individual features. They also had one unusual trait.

  “Their eyes are so bright,” Okane whispered, hitting the nail on the head as a particularly short woman with brilliant green eyes stalked past.

  “That’s one of our traits,” Zelda replied quietly. “Magi’s, I mean. I heard somewhere that we used to be called ‘jewel-eyes.’ Don’t make eye contact.”

  “Why not?”

  “They can see through my magic easier. Their magic cancels it out or something. Make eye contact and they’ll latch on. Some of them don’t even need that to see me, though.” She trailed off as a noise came from ahead.

  The sudden commotion proved to be a group of Sweepers wearing a heavier uniform, laden with darker clothing and an abundance of weapons and ammunition. Wherever they were going, they looked ready to do damage. Sheaths, guns, ammunition boxes, and more equipment out of sight clanked and jangled as they marched in time, led by a wiry man with small glasses who gestured madly with one hand as he read off of a slip of paper in the other. Maybe a pep talk, Laura supposed, but the man spat his words so it sounded more like an insult or a rant; none of his followers showed any emotion. Zelda slowed to a stop as the line traipsed by, and the other two halted close to her.

  “Where is your friend?” Laura spoke as quietly as she could manage, suddenly paranoid that these people could hear her.

  “He should be nearby. We’re cutting it close, but he’s more attentive than the rest of these degenerates. He might know something. Aha!” She raised one hand, flashing her teeth and singing, “Hey there, Ivo!”

  A strange movement started in the second line from the back. A Sweeper there paused. While not as tall as Okane, he rose head and shoulders above his fellows, his features a stark difference to the other Rexians despite the number tattoo. He looked more Wasureijin than Cherry had. Whatever the case, his dark eyes fixed on them and Laura knew at once that Zelda’s disappearing act had no effect on him. He glanced at the head of the line before stepping out and walking over to them.

  “What are - - - doing here?” he asked, his voice deep and almost deadpan.

  “We came to visit!” Zelda smiled. “These are my new friends. Say hi to Ivo!”

  Ivo looked severely unimpressed. “I don’t answer to that. - - - know my number. Use it.”

  “Hello, Mr.—” Okane squinted at the other’s face. “1100106.”

  Ivo (Laura would never remember the number, so she ignored it completely) stared at Okane as if puzzled by his presence, but Zelda butted in before he could ask any questions.

  “Look, Ivo”—“Number,” he muttered again—“we’ve got an itsy-bitsy problem. A group of Sweepers went and stole their stuff not too long ago, and they really need to get it back. Where would someone put stolen Gin in this place?”

  “Gin?” His brow furrowed. “Does that make these people Sweepers themselves? From another city?”

  Laura wanted to jump in and deny it, but no, Zelda nodded before she could get the words out.

  “These two are here courtesy of one Clae Sinclair, and they’re willing to do anything they need to do to recover what’s theirs.”

  “Isn’t Clae Sinclair dead?” Ivo scoffed.

  “Regardless.”

  Ivo’s shoulders sagged, and Laura came to the conclusion that he wasn’t naturally deadpan, just tired and not happy to be dealing with them. He looked at Okane, then at Laura, resignation drawing on his features, before sighing, “This Gin is the reason for the new offensive, isn’t it?”

  “That depends. What’s the new offensive?”

  “We’re crusading again.” He tilted his head at the ongoing line of Sweepers. “My squad is being sent out in one of the early stages, and others will follow in waves. The handlers say this will easily crush any resistance and ensure our victory this time, but—”

  He stopped. Clearly he wanted to say more, but he was reluctant to speak. Zelda frowned.

  “This is my little circle.” She gestured around them. “Nobody outside can hear if Mr. Sweeper has some autonomy. Go ahead and talk.”

  “I’d rather not fall into the habit.”

  Laura could draw her own conclusions. The crusaders come back when they’re sufficiently mauled, Clae had told her, but this sounded more like an all-out offensive. If Rex threw wave after wave of Sweepers into it, that meant a lot of people would die, but weren’t they supposed to be valuable breeding stock? Laura herself had no faith in the crusade idea, so she could only see terrible consequences ahead. How angry would the hive mind become? The backlash could mean hell for the rest of the cities, maybe even complete destruction.

  “Our Gin is held at the western point,” said Ivo, jolting her from her thoughts. “If stolen objects get incorporated into our kin production, it would be there. However, they had to remove something from there yesterday due to ‘an incident.’”

  “What kind?” Laura asked quickly.

  “I didn’t see much, but I believe it was some kind of magic gone haywire. Whatever the culprit, it caused considerable damage to the western structure and burned many of its carriers. Three of the carriers are in the medical wing, and a fourth proved flawed.”

  “Flawed?” Okane echoed.

  “Genetic deficiencies,” Zelda explained. “Some people don’t stop bleeding.”

  The dead Rexian from the armory came back to mind, bled to death when he shouldn’t have. So that’s what happened, a ticking time bomb he might not have even known about until the end?

  “The object is still active in the northern point,” Ivo reminded them.

  “Doesn’t sound like our target,” said Zelda. “How—”

  “Actually, it does,” Laura interrupted. “Part of the Gin exchange is meant to introduce it properly to the new owner, right? Otherwise it doesn’t work right and hurts you?” She looked at Okane as she spoke, and understanding dawned over his face.

  “Angry kin,” he whispered. “That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

  “Angry?” Zelda looked skeptical.

  “Do whatever, but do it fast. If they realize their trump card has gone missing, they might call us back.” Ivo gave a dismissive wave of the hand and trailed off after the line. As his eyes caught the light, his pupils flashed blue.

  “Don’t get killed!” Zelda cheered, waving after him.

  He grunted in acknowledgment, and the Sweeper in front of him turned to give him a strange look.

  “Northern point, then,” said Zelda, breaking into a fast walk. “Positive this is the Gin?”

  “Completely.”

  The trio moved faster now through the winding corridors. Luckily they’d been northward to begin with, so the northern point came into view quickly.

  As Laura understood it, the “points” were parts of the wall that jutted out like spurs, one for each direction, with four of the five towers rising from them. The entrance to the northern point w
as marked by a compass rose with a capital “N” set above a doorway. Inside, the halls were wider and branched off into large rooms. They passed a canteen filled with Sweepers as Zelda made a beeline for a stairway, then descended two floors, peeking out at every landing.

  “Not this one either,” said Zelda, shutting the door before the others could see a thing.

  “What’s in there?” Laura asked. She heard noises she couldn’t identify.

  Zelda’s expression matched the one she’d worn after seeing Okane’s scars. “Elite training. It’s not pretty.”

  “What kind of training does that involve?” said Laura. “Graduating to other weapons, or—”

  “Nothing that kind.” Zelda sighed, apparently resigned to her curiosity. “Weaponry training is ongoing with all levels. Elite training has to do with transporting infestations.”

  “With what?”

  “Are - - - really that surprised?” said Zelda.

  “I—Well, I knew it was possible,” Laura muttered. “If the mobs plant infestations, they need to carry them somehow. I just figured they went for hibernating amulets. You make it sound a little more specialized. And besides, Rex isn’t fighting rival mobs. The only rivals they’d have would be…”

  “Other cities,” Okane finished grimly.

  “Are they targeting a city?” said Laura.

  “Honestly? Yes. They’ve got their sights set on Fatum. Nothing’s been put into motion yet, though.”

  Without realizing it, they slowed to a stop, giving Zelda ample opportunity to lean against the railing as she continued, “Sometimes on crusades, handlers find things. Old cities, records, things like that. A few years ago, they convinced themselves that they’d found the secret to safely handling infestations.”

  “But that’s impossible,” said Okane. “Everyone knows that they ate their original masters. If they knew how to handle them—”

  Zelda shrugged. “This is just what I’ve observed. The way they see it, they need a hollow for the infestation to take root in, but then it needs to be covered in this … paint. I don’t know how to describe it. The stuff they’ve got looks like a giant pile of bird shit, I’m not going to lie. But they paint it on an amulet, and it forces hibernation. They’ve been developing a water-resistant variety for the assault on Fatum, and developing ways to convince little infestations to grow in glass floats.”

  “Oh.” Laura pressed a hand to her mouth. “That is such an underhanded move.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Okane. “They want to make infestation Eggs instead of kin?”

  “No, they’re going to float them out,” said Laura. “Glass floats hold up fishing nets. Infestations don’t cross water on their own, and no one would be suspicious about a fishing net. Fatum would reel it in, and once the paint flakes off…”

  “Good-bye, Fatum,” Zelda said dryly.

  “That’s sick,” said Okane.

  “That’s Rex.”

  Without warning the ground jolted beneath them and the lights flickered. Laura wobbled and grabbed the railing as dust shook loose from the ceiling. A growling, scraping sound echoed from below, and the tremor stopped just as suddenly as it had come.

  “Was that an earthquake?” said Laura.

  Zelda didn’t answer, but took off down the stairs. Luckily the few people they passed were too bewildered to notice their noise. Zelda stumbled to a stop in front of a metal door and groped for the handle.

  “What’s this place?” Laura demanded.

  “Testing room,” Zelda grunted. “Did they lock this stupid—aha!”

  The door swung open. The testing room stretched a long way, divided into sections by chain curtains that didn’t quite obscure the goings-on. The trio emerged on the second level of the room, a railed-in observation deck. A man and woman stood there, far too tall and wearing different uniforms than the Sweepers. They turned at the sound of the door, though their eyes skipped over the newcomers.

  The man scowled. “Hasn’t that door been fixed yet?”

  The woman made a noise that might’ve been irritation or acknowledgment as she walked over to shut the door. The man turned his attention back to the floor below, and Laura crept to the edge to see what had him so interested. In the closest section of the training ground a cluster of Sweepers circled around something that glowed bright yellow. A shimmering cloud hung in the air, obscuring any details.

  “What did they call this phenomenon in the newspapers?” the man mused. “The heavenly something?”

  “The Wrath of God,” said the woman.

  The man laughed. “The angry god of Amicae, then? No wonder that city stayed afloat so long. It certainly wasn’t due to other talents.”

  “By all means, it should’ve collapsed on itself a decade ago,” the woman agreed, pushing her glasses farther up on her nose. “We won’t have to worry about them anymore, of course. We have no further plans with their head Sweeper, correct?”

  The man sneered. “None. She should’ve known we had no interest in her, but the weak don’t pay attention to common sense. She groveled at our feet, begged for our strength, not that it would’ve done her any good. Her blood was subpar. A tool doesn’t change that. The weak don’t need much to undo them.” He looked back at the Sweepers below, and the satisfaction slipped from his face. “Come on, you wretches! You were supposed to put a lid on it yesterday!”

  One of the Sweepers looked up at them, expressionless. “There appears to be no way to safely subdue it.”

  “I didn’t ask for safety!”

  “If those are - - -r orders.”

  The Sweeper gestured to the others. Each of them held a long metal stick, but at the top rested a large chunk of white rock—Niveus?—so they looked more like absurd mallets than true tools. The Sweepers crept closer to the source of light, slow and cautious at first and then lunging, jabbing with the sticks like spears. Another noise rang out, a bizarre mix between a snarl and a shriek, and the gold light surged outward with force enough to knock the attackers off their feet. The ground shook again, harder this time. The chain curtains clattered and the balcony itself groaned. The Niveus pieces shattered before they hit the ground, what looked like lightning snaking between them as their wielders screamed. With the cloud cleared, Clae could be seen on the floor, crystal crackling with energy.

  “It’s proving quite troublesome,” said the woman. “Has a backup plan been cleared yet?”

  “Can’t you make kin out of it anyway with all this magic flying around?”

  “With all this heat, water keeps evaporating. There’s no chance to distill it into something usable.”

  The man snorted, folding his arms as the Sweepers below made another attempt to get closer. “There’s no other way to calm it?”

  “The former handler doesn’t appear to know of any.”

  Laura’s breath caught. A former handler was here? Hadn’t Lester gone missing?

  Meanwhile, the man looked less than pleased. “Could he be withholding information?”

  “Doubtful,” said the woman, expressionless as the Sweepers below writhed in pain. “We’ve exposed him to the crystal multiple times, but the energy rebounded on him just as easily as our stock. Lester MacDanel has been severely injured as a result. He has no interest in suicide, and no semblance of loyalty to his previous cities. He’s made no attempt at negotiations. I don’t believe he has any knowledge of how it works.”

  “Well, bring him in again!” the man snapped.

  “Further exposure could result in his death,” said the woman. “Unlike our Sweepers, MacDanel isn’t expendable. He’s the only Amicae handler we have. It would be wise to move cautiously in regard to him.”

  “Then maybe we should go back and get the other MacDanel. See if that bitch has a better idea.”

  Only then did the woman smile, and only slightly. “Didn’t you just say that the weak cling to power? If she’d known this existed she’d never have let it go.”

  A third tremor caused t
hem all to wobble precariously, and one of the Sweepers screamed as a bolt of energy hit his arm. The woman gave a disinterested hum.

  “Perhaps if we let it sit unprovoked for a while it might calm.”

  “We don’t have ‘a while.’ The offensive starts in three days and we need magic pumped out of this rock as soon as possible.”

  “Agitating it may be taking more time than it would otherwise. This avenue has proved fruitless. I propose we guard the area and otherwise let it be. We’ll check in on a regular basis but not approach. Is this acceptable?”

  “That is not Gin!” Zelda snapped, rounding on Laura. “That’s a crystal man! What kind of—”

  Laura winced. “You know how you said Clae Sinclair was dead? Well, he’s actually not. He just … had an accident.”

  “An accident? An accident? That’s a giant yellow rock that’s been killing and injuring anyone in a five-foot radius! A man doesn’t just accidentally turn into a rock!”

  “People like us can, actually,” said Okane.

  Zelda gaped, pointing down at Clae as she exclaimed, “I could end up like that?”

  “There’s a distinct possibility, yes.”

  “Oh, this has to be a joke.”

  19

  BAD ROAD

  “How long did you know it was Rex?”

  Laura lay on her back, looking up at the worn springs of a barracks bunk. A dust bunny stuck to her elbow and her position under the bed was hardly dignified, but she tried to keep some gravity in her tone anyway as she continued, “Because you did know, didn’t you?”

  Silence. Okane hid under the bed opposite hers, presumably cramped the same way. Their current position kept them hidden from any passersby who might open the barracks door. They’d been on top of the beds to sleep last night, but Zelda left after they woke, intending to scout around. She’d insisted that they’d slow her down, and that no one would look in here anyway. Laura and Okane hadn’t been so certain. Hence, hiding.

  “I know you can hear me,” she said. “We’re not that far away, and you can’t keep hiding this forever.”

  “I know,” said Okane.